Chapter Twenty-Two

A/N: All fully italicized text is from DH. Some of Voldemort's dialogue with Bellatrix was inspired by his words in The Dark Lord Ascending. Endless thank yous to my lovely beta, Shellsnapeluver.

It was a chilly night. Snape circled high over Surrey on his broomstick, followed by the other cloaked and hooded Death Eaters. Though he could not see them, he knew that all their eyes were trained on a single house below. The nondescript building was identical to all its neighbors. It had the same roofline, the same matchbox yard. The only difference was a cluster of petunias planted along the walk. It would be impossible to know by looking at it that, at this moment, it contained fourteen witches and wizards about to enact a desperate plan. His desperate plan.

He'd been circling on and off all week. He told himself that this was not because he did not trust Hermione, but because she might not trust him. There was still the chance that she'd given him the wrong date. But tonight, they had seen Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle come and escort the Muggles away. They had watched, Disillusioned, from the clouds as the Order members had arrived. Snape knew that she had kept her word. He dove lower for a moment. There was no sign of what was happening inside.

Snape was nervous. He knew the plan was the right one; he had been able to think of no other way to move Potter safely, but there was enormous risk in this for all of them. He would have no more idea than the other Death Eaters which one was the real Harry--no way to identify and protect him. And no way to protect Hermione. He had no doubt but that his Gryffindor had volunteered to impersonate Harry. In a way, it was probably for the best, he thought. If he knew which Harry she was, he would want to be the Death Eater going after her, and he was at great risk of blowing his cover tonight even without the added incentive of protecting his wife.

He was sweeping around the rear of the house when the back door burst open, and seven Harry Potters and their escorts tumbled forth into the night. He looked hard at their modes of transport, though it was difficult to concentrate when so many Death Eaters had begun to yell and swoop at once. He could feel their back wind buffeting him through the air.

"Seven of them!"

"Which one is the real one?"

"The one with Moody! We heard he'd be with Moody!"

"It's a trick! Snape! Which one do we follow?"

If he had to guess, he'd say that Potter was on one of the broomsticks, with Hermione on a thestral or in the flying bike. He knew she detested broom flying. But then, that could just be a false trail....

There was no time to think. Suddenly, they were off and soaring upward. The Death Eaters shot toward them, dropping their Disillusionment Charms. At first it was all confusion--Snape could make out nothing but black cloaks and green light... and screaming. So much screaming.

"Enough!" Snape bellowed. "Back off, choose a pair and pursue! If you are certain you have the right Potter, summon the Dark Lord. But NOT BEFORE! Kill the escort if you can, but save Potter for our master!"

As the Death Eaters began to fall back, Snape chose the Potter escorted by Lupin, for no better reason than that he was nearest, and took off after him. He could see Dolohov beside him out the corner of his eye. Lupin dipped his broomstick sharply downward, just as Dolohov sped up, leaving Lupin almost directly beneath the Death Eater. Snape fell back once more. He wanted a clear view of the all the players before he began firing.

***

Hermione clung to Kingsley's back as they pushed off the ground, the thestral rising with alarming speed and power toward the clouds. Before the ride had even begun to smooth out, the air was thick with Death Eaters, melting into existence all around them. She ducked instinctively and, using Kingsley as a shield, began firing off Stunning Spells into the black, faceless crowd. Hermione didn't know what a Stunner would do to someone on a broomstick, but, in the hailstorm of curses flying around her, she found she didn't much care.

The green lights flashing through the air were nearly blinding. She watched as one streaked by, mere inches from her left ankle. She heard confused screaming from the other Order members, and she could distinctly hear Harry begging for Hagrid to go back. The hood of one of the nearest Death Eaters blew back to reveal the big blond man she had seen at Hogwarts the night that Dumbledore had died. Somehow to suddenly see a face where there had been nothing but blackness brought home to her that there were people under these robes. Snape could be out there. She stopped firing, looking around her frantically. Kingsley tugged the reins sharply to the left, and the thestral, who was breathing in great frothing gasps, took a hard turn. Hermione leaned into it, her fists--Harry's fists--white-knuckled from clutching Kingsley's robes.

She heard a voice--it seemed like Snape's, but in her confusion and with the rushing of the wind, it was impossible to know--ordering the Death Eaters to split up. "Choose a pair and pursue!" the voice ordered. Hermione turned around as far as she dared and watched as Hagrid and Harry broke off to the west. As she watched, the bike shot forward, and a solid brick wall seemed to materialize out the exhaust pipe. Several Death Eaters dropped suddenly to avoid it. She could still see Lupin and George slightly off to her right, but Bill and Fleur were gone, and she hadn't seen Moody and Mundungus since the fight began. The two of them had been swarmed immediately. Perhaps this was because Moody had been originally scheduled to take Harry from the Dursleys; perhaps the Death Eaters still believed that only Moody would be entrusted with Harry's safety. In any case, she assumed they'd gone back or headed off to the east, beyond where she could see.

Five Death Eaters had chosen Kingsley and herself. She didn't want to curse any of them until she could make a positive identification, but in a moment, she would have no choice, as the three of them were firing red and green blasts of light unceasingly at Kingsley. No one fired at her. At first she thought that Snape might be holding them back, until she realized that she was being spared because there was a chance that she was the real Potter, and the Dark Lord himself wanted to finish Potter. This sent a shiver of pure terror through her. She hoped that Hagrid and Harry were far away by now.

The wind seemed to bite through her now that their speed had increased, and she was grateful, as it helped to clear her mind. The Death Eaters behind her picked up speed as they gave chase. One pulled up alongside them and took aim at Kingsley.

"Stupefy!" she screamed, and her Stunner hit the hooded Death Eater squarely in the chest. He fell from his broom, and one of his cohorts dropped out of the race to dive after him.

The remaining three Death Eaters fell back for a moment, perhaps to regroup. She whipped her head from side to side, and in the distance, she could see Lupin and George still hurtling to the east with several Death Eaters on their tail. A hood whipped back, and she saw Snape, his black hair flying in the wind, his long hooked nose bent nearly to his broomstick, looking for all the world like some monstrous bird of prey. He raised his wand--

Her attention was immediately redirected to the Death Eaters around her, who had not, perhaps, been regrouping after all, but hoping for her inattention. They were surrounded.

Kingsley was screaming to her. "If I am hit, you must stay on the thestral! Do not try to save me! Get to a safe house!"

She drew her wand in sweeping arcs, firing off silent Stunners as quickly as she could. The Death Eaters bobbed and swerved, avoiding them easily. Kingsley was doing all he could to control the spooked thestral that was now trying desperately to return to the ground. Her knees clutched painfully at its heaving sides. Fortunately, the jerky, uncontrolled motions of the beast were making them harder to hit. "Sectumsempra!" she screeched in desperation and heard the answering scream of one of the Death Eaters. Her eyes squeezed shut. Had she just killed someone?

They were losing altitude fast. Hermione's heart was beating a furious tattoo against her ribs. The remaining two Death Eaters were flanking something now, something that looked like a gigantic bat, a bat with a snake's face, flying at them with enormous speed, and clutched in one cadaverous hand, it held a wand pointed directly at her.

"Kingsley!" she screamed. Voldemort. It was Voldemort. Her mind screamed and gibbered. How was he doing that? It wasn't possible. He was flying.

"Hold on, Hermione! We're almost there!"

Suddenly Voldemort retreated.

"The Mudblood," she heard him hiss. "Do with her what you will." And he flew off into the star strewn sky. The two Death Eaters resumed the chase. They were falling--falling so fast now--but the Death Eaters were catching up. Their hoods were blown back; she could see their faces, twisted and lit with hunger--

She was frozen, watching them approach, knowing they were coming for her now, that they would care nothing for Kingsley anymore. Her wand trembled in her hand. Kingsley turned suddenly, and shot a Stunner over his shoulder, barely missing one of the Death Eaters. Hermione looked down and saw the ground approaching much too quickly.

"Kingsley!" she screeched again, just as the thestral crashed gracelessly in a heap into someone's garden.

Hermione screamed, certain the Death Eaters were upon them. She was scrambling to her feet, backing toward the house they'd landed beside, her wand drawn. When Kingsley rose, she nearly hexed him.

"It's all right, Hermione. We've made it."

"Where are we?"

"My back garden. It's all right. Lower your wand. They can't follow us here."

"You think--you think the enchantments will hold?"

"They must have done. Otherwise, they'd be here already. Quick--the Portkey!" He held up a bent and rusty coat hanger that he had just retrieved from the shrubbery.

"But the thestral!"

"We'll send Hagrid back for it. Come on! We've got to go!"

Her fingers touched the wire just as it began to glow, and she felt as if someone had taken hold of her stomach and was trying to draw it out of her through her throat. It ended almost as quickly as it had begun, and she was stumbling into the Weasleys' front lawn. Harry was coming toward her, and she collapsed into his arms.

"You're all right," she whispered.

Kingsley turned his wand on Lupin and then Harry, demanding that they identify themselves. "Someone betrayed us! They knew, they knew it was tonight!"

Hermione's face burned hot in the darkness.

"So it seems," replied Lupin, 'but apparently they did not realize that there would be seven Harrys."

"Small comfort," snarled Kingsley, though to Hermione it was large comfort indeed. "Who else is back?"

"Only Harry, Hagrid, George and me," Lupin replied.

Hermione's ring began to burn, though she could not pull it off in front of Harry and the others. The warmth spread through her hand, biting and sharp, but it soothed her nonetheless. Snape had survived the battle.

She cast a wordless Impervius Charm on her hand.

"Are you hurt?" Harry asked.

"No, no. Just a bit of a brush burn from where we touched down. You?"

"I'm fine. But George lost an ear."

"Lost an--?" repeated Hermione in a high voice.

"Snape's work" said Lupin.

Hermione did not stay to hear Harry's outraged reply. "Excuse me," she mumbled, hurrying toward the house. Fleetingly, she greeted Mrs Weasley as she ran for the loo. As soon as the door was closed, she ripped the ring from her finger.

Accident, it read. Was it you?

George, she sent back. Severed ear. All right.

Thank God, was all she got in response.

She pressed the ring to her chest and closed her eyes. She didn't know how long she stood there, offering prayers of thanks and supplication to whatever gods there might be. Thank you for letting me live. Thank you for keeping him safe. Please send Ron and the others home in one piece. Please hurry. Please give us word. Thank you for Harry. Thank you.

Then Ginny was pounding on the door. "Hermione! Are you all right? Dad's home and Fred!"

Thank you, she thought one last time and opened the door. Hermione looked into the family room where the Weasleys were clustered around George, who was lying on the couch. The scene felt too intimate to intrude upon, so she headed back out to the lawn, where she waited with Harry and the others.

Hermione looked at the stars, twinkling on, impervious to their fear and suffering. Was there something out there? Something watching over them? Something beyond their own skill, their own magic? When she begged for help, who sent it? A tingle ran down her spine, seeming to chill and warm her skin simultaneously. She felt for a moment that something was out there, something dark and warm and benevolent. She meant to pray, but her feelings were tangled and confused, and it seemed to be Snape she prayed to. Please, let it be all right.

When Ron appeared, something tight and painful in her chest let go. She would not know how to explain it later, but in the moment, she felt she had been answered. She pulled Ron into a fierce hug, reaching out blindly to pull Harry into the mix.

"We survived," she whispered. "We survived." Ron squeezed back tightly, but Harry fought free.

"But where are the others?" he hissed, his face once again turned toward the night sky. "Where are Bill and Fleur? Mad-Eye and Mundungus?"

As if in answer, a thestral glided into view and landed, taking a galloping circle around the house as it slowed and finally stopped. Bill and Fleur slid to the ground.

Mrs Weasley ran toward the last of her children to return. "Bill!" she cried, seizing him.

Hermione stepped toward Fleur and embraced her. She had not forgotten the other night.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Fleur did not answer, but looked at Bill, who said, "Mad-Eye's dead," in a flat and toneless voice. "Voldemort went straight for them. Dung panicked. Mad-Eye tried to stop him but he Disapparated. Voldemort's curse hit Mad-Eye full in the face, he fell backward off his broom and--there was nothing we could do, nothing, we had half a dozen of them on our own tail--" He looked away.

Hermione stood, stunned, and the feelings of safety and rightness and protection she'd had drifted away like so much smoke on the wind. She felt abandoned by that presence she had sensed in the sky. Mad-Eye dead? She knew the others were exclaiming, making plans to retrieve his body, beginning to pay tribute to their friend and protector, a man who had seemed indestructible. But she could not pay attention to them. All she knew in those moments was that she was completely alone. There was no one to help her anymore, no one who shared her secret, no one to know how to comfort her. The wind blew leaves in circles and eddies on the ground. She looked at them, both seeing and not seeing them. She was all alone.

"Hermione, are you all right?" Ron asked. He turned to Harry. "I think we'd better get her inside."

She felt their hands on her arms, but it no longer meant anything. They had been lucky; that was all. They were three teenagers pretending at bravery, but slowly, all their protectors would be killed, and they would be revealed for the helpless children they truly were.

The warmth of the house stung her skin, but she sat obediently at the kitchen table and took the glass of firewhisky that soared toward her.

"Mad-Eye," Bill said.

"Mad-Eye," she repeated dully and drank. Mad-Eye. The war had begun.

***

They reconvened in Malfoy Manor, bearing their dead and the body of Mad-Eye Moody. The Death Eaters were hooded once more, as if they sought to hide themselves from Voldemort, as if their punishment would be less if they bore it as a single, faceless unit. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed that Runcorn carried Moody's body, depositing it before the Dark Lord. Snape nearly flinched as the old wizard hit the stone floor like so much meaty baggage.

"Correct me if I am mistaken," Voldemort began, his sibilant voice deathly quiet, but still echoing around the silent ballroom, "but I believe I sent thirty of you, thirty of my most trusted followers to take out fourteen wizards."

No one dared to answer. There was manic light in the Dark Lord's unblinking eyes. Snape thought that he had rarely seen him in such a temper.

"One. You bring me one."

Goyle, always a pitiful excuse for a wizard, dared to speak. "My Lord, we didn't know--Snape didn't tell us there would be seven of 'em. We didn't--"

"Crucio!" Voldemort bellowed. Goyle collapsed, twitching, to the floor. "Snape gave you the date--the correct date. What else could you have needed? I have armed you with magic so far beyond what those fools could imagine, and still, you fail me!"

"My Lord," Goyle gasped.

"Silence! I am beginning to believe that there is no one here who wishes to see me rise to power."

Bellatrix Lestrange stepped forward, dropping her hood. "I wish you to see you in power, my Lord. I wish to see you revered beyond all others, to rule our world with the strength of a thousand wizards."

"So you say, Bella. So you say. Where, then, are the bodies of the rest of the Order members? You could not even bring me that oaf, Hagrid?"

Bellatrix's eyes filled with tears. "I am sorry, my Lord. I have failed you."

"Your niece and her husband, the werewolf--were you not to sever her from your family tree? To prune that which has become diseased? Was that not what we discussed?"

"My Lord." Bellatrix sank, pleading, to her knees.

"Would you have me believe that she is more powerful than you are, Bellatrix?"

Bella lowered her head the floor until her nose was nearly pressed against it.

"Or is it that you cannot bear to part with her? Would you prefer to leave me, to join up with freaks and children?"

"No, my Lord!" Her voice was anguished.

"Children!" he bellowed. "Five of their number were barely of age! And yet you wish me to believe that they have outmatched you!"

The Dark Lord's attention was removed from the now-sobbing Bellatrix by the idiot Travers. "My Lord, we were afraid to kill the children. Your orders were clear that Potter was to be kept for you. They all looked like Potter!"

"Did I hear you correctly, Travers? Did you tell me that you were AFRAID to kill children? For I promise you, I will give you something to be afraid of. And Lord Voldemort keeps his promises."

"I--my Lord..." Travers stammered.

"Approach me," Voldemort said coldly.

Travers trembled as he left the throng of Death Eaters and fell to his knees at the Dark Lord's feet.

"Remove your cloak."

Travers undid the clasp of his cloak, shrugging out of it gracelessly. Snape had the sudden thought that he looked very small, though Travers was quite a broad man, indeed. Voldemort twitched his wand, and Travers's shirt flew wide open, exposing the man's chest. The Dark Lord pressed his wand against his flesh, and Travers gasped. The sound seemed deafening, as every person in the room seemed to have ceased breathing.

The Dark Lord traced his wand over Travers's skin, as if he were some perverse living parchment. Withdrawing, he spun Travers around with his wand until he was facing the crowd and levitated him into the air so that he was in perfect view. The word 'COWARD' had been carved into his chest. Snape looked at him steadily.

"I have other matters to attend to," Voldemort said coldly. "Severus, see what you can do for our friend here. If he dies, leave him with the others. You are all dismissed."

Snape expected to see the lot of them hurrying from the manor and was surprised at how many Death Eaters lingered, seeming to feel that there was some way to worm their way back into the Dark Lord's graces yet. Snape sealed Travers's wounds quickly with his wand, but he had nothing with him to ease the pain, as he had given it all to Hermione.

"Keep those clean and consider yourself lucky," he hissed in the injured wizard's ear and strode off toward the door.

"Snape! Wait!" cried Bellatrix. She remained kneeling on the floor where the Dark Lord had left her. What did she want? Lessons?

"Didn't you hear our Lord?" he asked coldly. "You're dismissed." And with that, he headed out into the night.

***

Snape got no sleep that night. He sat in the cramped and mouldy sitting room of Spinner's End, swirling the same firewhisky around in a dusty glass. He stared into the amber liquid as if it would help him make sense of what he had seen and who he had become. There, in Malfoy Manor, he had felt nothing. Once he had ascertained that Hermione had survived the skirmish, he simply felt blank. As he stood with the other Death Eaters, he felt no fear that the Dark Lord would single him out or punish him. Had he been called, he would have stepped forward calmly. Pain would not have touched him. He would have welcomed death. When the Dark Lord had spun Travers before them, no horror touched his mind at the sight of the man's bloody, ravaged chest. He simply took it in.

He received word in the small hours of the morning that Voldemort wished him to be ready to relocate to Hogwarts at a moment's notice. It mattered little. He had left most of what he owned at the school, but for the sake of something physical to do, he gathered a few robes, several phials of potions ingredients, and books and tucked them into his charmed rucksack. He hesitated at a bookshelf and pulled down a heavy, unmarked tome. He tapped the cover with his wand in three places, and it sprang open, revealing itself as a sparsely populated box. He had made it in his first year at Hogwarts, inspired by the hiding places of the Muggle children he had seen in his neighborhood. He had never kept much in it; there was not much he had wished to save or remember from his childhood before Hogwarts. For years, it had held nothing but his mother's few letters and the first potions essay on which he had received an O.

As he had grown older, the book had become ever more ornate and the wards on it equally more complex. Its contents had grown to include his OWL scores, a rock Lily had found by the lake and admired, and a small silver Snake pin that Lucius Malfoy had given him on one of his return visits to Hogwarts. Remembering, it seemed to Snape that Malfoy had burst into the Slytherin common room each time like a conquering hero, and he winced to remember how slavishly he had admired the blond, arrogant boy. Finally, he had added his NEWT scores and his cloak clasp, which had been replaced by Lord Voldemort when he had joined the Death Eaters. He had added nothing to the box since leaving the Death Eaters. Nothing until this summer.

Now, atop it all, there rested the picture of Hermione that he had retrieved from her parents' luggage. In it, she stood in Slughorn's office, glaring at the boy (what was his name? McCormack? McLaggen? Something like that) beside her. As he watched the photo, she stood up straight, gave her pale green gown a flounce to straighten it, and smiled broadly for the camera. Snape's lips twisted into what he supposed could pass for a smile. It felt foreign on his face. But there was something so amusing about the way she rolled her eyes, heaving a gusty sigh and looking up as if she expected help to arrive from the heavens and remove her from this idiot's company. Then, just as quickly, the look would disappear, and she would smile brightly, her head held high, her hair swept off her long, graceful neck. It was the perfect summation of the girl he had known. As she slumped, nearly tapping her foot in annoyance and peering at her companion with a look of disdain, a funny, strangled bark escaped Snape. She rose up, brushed a curl from her forehead and smiled winningly.

He laughed. He laughed until his sides ached, until he was barely standing. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks and he was gasping for breath. He laughed until he was no longer laughing; he was sobbing, and he collapsed to the floor beside the bookshelf, clutching her picture, heedless of the tears that soiled her image as she pursed her lips and shook her head in disgust. He was nearly retching with grief.

This girl, the girl in the picture--she was not the girl he had seen at her parents' home. The girl in the picture was gone, replaced by a thin, determined-looking warrior who had no use for fancy dresses, nor irritating dates, nor parties. He had taken her and honed her razor sharp. He had taught her to lie, to act, to shield, to strike. He had taught her to live on nearly nothing, to hide what she cared for, to focus everything onto a single point. He had taught her to be cautious, to be sneaky, to obey. He had taught her to hit fast, to hit hard, to hit first. He had turned her into himself.

As he lay there, spent and broken on the floor, he thought seriously of turning his wand on himself. What he had been unable to tell her that day at her parents' was that it was not simply that he did not expect to live through the war; it was that he did not want to live through the war. He could not tell her that she had given her life to save a man who no longer wished to be saved. For what kind of life could he offer her, should the unthinkable happen and they both survive? He could not bear to try to start again; he had made too many starts already. He simply had nothing left for her. He could only free her by dying.

He held the picture in one hand and his wand in the other, frozen with indecision. She glared fiercely, and for a moment, he imagined that look was meant for him. Then her face broke open, so bright and lovely, and he replaced the picture in the box and warded it shut once more. He tucked it into his bag and laid his wand down.

There were things yet to be done.

Not tonight.