The Writing on the Wall

A/N: This story is finally picking up some readers. Good work with the pimping, pleople! Keep it going!

Chapter 10 – The Writing on the Wall

The days trickled by as Easter approached. Hermione spent her time researching for the most part; her impromptu host had handed over everything he had received from Dumbledore, and she was slowly making her way through the heap of information. Many times, she marvelled at the amount of detail she found in the documents. Little bits and pieces she was certain no one else knew, about Harry and about Ron and herself. There were detailed accounts of the work of the Order of the Phoenix, both during Voldemort's last rise and during the current one. There were outlines of plans...many plans...each one more intricate than the next. Plans that had failed and others which had succeeded, each and every one commented in the margins as to what had gone wrong and what had gone easier than suspected. Her heart clenched as she read Dumbledore's notes from the previous year, outlining his lessons with Harry, his orders for Snape and his notes on what needed to be done once he was gone. It was frightening to read...the man had planned for his death in such meticulous detail, going through every scenario, every possibility, to make sure that his death would be instrumental in the continued war. The man had been dying from the curse in his hand, but had nevertheless found the strength to go out with a bang, in a way that would push Harry out of his shadow and unto his own two feet. Dumbledore had not wanted to wither away, had not wanted to fall quietly, like a last, dry leaf on a shrivelled tree. She felt a pang of sympathy for Snape as she read the plans for the "murder." To kill a man he'd known for almost all of his life, even on his own request, seemed unfeasible. She wondered briefly if she would have been able to do it, had she been in his shoes.

Snape stepped into the room just as she replaced the document on the top of the pile. He looked tired, she noted, tired and worn. She could only imagine what it must be like, running a school where most members of staff despised him, where almost everyone thought him a cold-blooded killer. Softly, she put her feet down on the carpet and approached him. He exhaled deeply as her hands fell on his chest and pushed outward to remove his cloak, and she could feel the muscles in his back begin to relax under her fingers. They made love on his desk, the smell of parchment and ink heavy in her nostrils as she wrapped her legs around his back and pulled him deeper into her. At least she could give him this, she thought, placing little kisses along his collar bone while he caught back up with his breathing. At least she could be of use. They never talked about what was happening between them, and she figured it was just as well. This was a stolen moment, a short window of opportunity where they could enjoy each other without repercussions. She refused to think about what would come afterwards, because most likely, nothing would. She smiled at him as she returned to her work, turning to a new section of the assembled notes.

"Dumbledore's tomb has been breached," he said, coming up beside her and searching through a pile on her left. "The Dark Lord has taken the bait; it's time to move into position for the last act." He often did that, she thought...referred to their lives as part of a play. In a way, he was right...she had her own script right in front of her on the table. He didn't come straight out and say it of course, but she sensed a bitterness inside him whenever Dumbledore or his plans were discussed. She couldn't really blame him; he had been part of this play for longer than she had been alive, and in spite of Dumbledore's good intentions, he did tend to see people as chess pieces rather than human when he plotted against Voldemort. Some of the plans she had read through were downright flawed, and others far too risky. It seemed Dumbledore and Voldemort had a very dangerous trait in common: both liked to weave majestically intricate plots, and both had a weakness for drama. Despite it all, however, Snape had acted his part flawlessly...for both his masters...and his patience for servitude was wearing thin. Perhaps this was why he had accepted her into his space so freely; perhaps she was his reward for good services rendered. She wondered if somewhere, beneath the piles of parchment, there was a letter from Dumbledore, suggesting the very thing. At this point, there was very little she wouldn't put past the man.

"Should I talk to Harry?" she asked. "Tell him about the wand at least?"

"No, he cannot know what it means," Snape replied. "The boy's mind is not nearly sufficiently protected. The Dark Lord must not know, which means Potter must not know."

"I understand," she said. "It's only...It feels a bit harsh to send him into battle this way, without knowing that there is a chance..."

"If he had listened and applied himself at Occlumency, we could have given him more," Snape interrupted. "Albus could have given him more, not just a few memories of the Dark Lord's childhood and a few veiled clues about the state of his soul. I could have helped him directly, and not from the shadows through one of his friends. He chose not to learn, however, and we must adapt to his choices, no matter how inconvenient."

She bit back the retort that had been on the tip of her tongue. He was right, she realised that. She remembered how Harry had behaved during their fifth year all too well, and to pair him with Snape during that time had not been one of Dumbledore's brighter ideas. Still, she knew how frustrating he found it to be left in the dark, how easily he fell into traps at the smallest temptation. To know all that she knew now and tell him nothing seemed... cruel. Especially now that she knew what he would have to face. She had been speechless when she'd found out, certain that she must have misunderstood. Harry couldn't die. Dumbledore could not have decided on a plan where Harry had to die. She lost a small part of herself that day, and when she woke up the next morning, she felt decidedly older. She'd taken to watching him on Dumbledore's map for a little while every day since then, wanting to be close to him, even though he was geographically very far away. She missed him.

Walking over to a chair by the fireplace, she took the map into her hands and touched it gently with her wand. Ink started to spread into lines and curves on the parchment, drawing a beautiful map of Cornwall. The dot labelled 'Harry' appeared, seemingly suspended in thin air due to the Fidelius Charm on the Shell Cottage. Letters appeared next, telling her what he did, how he felt, when he'd last slept. There were other symbols as well, links to more information, she suspected, available with a specific password. She had not managed to break through yet, and quite frankly, she didn't know if she wanted to know what those sections contained. She let the index finger of her right hand trace the name softly. Harry's dot was pulsating with a steady, spring-green glow, which according to Snape meant that he was at rest and feeling well. The small black dot labelled 'Ronald Weasley' was almost in the same space, and she felt a sting of jealousy touch her. They were in love; it was plain to see, even through the interface of an enchanted piece of parchment. If the desperate gambit Dumbledore had thrown together at the last minute, involving his own wand, didn't turn out the way they hoped, Harry would at least have had this. He would know love before he died. She wondered if she should be so lucky. Her eye wandered over to Severus...she had started to call him that now...where he stood, leaning over what he named the 'war table.' What they had was not love, even her eighteen-year-old mind understood that. They had passion and they had a rather well-functioning sort of companionship, forged from necessity and...she suspected...loneliness. Sometimes...during the pre-dawn hours mainly, when she woke up from a dream and had the chance to watch him in the light of the fire...she wondered what it would be like to love him, how a man like him would respond to such an emotion. She didn't have to hear it to know that he was a man not used to kindness. It often shocked her how big an impact little things of random niceness had on him.

"If you want to do something useful today," Severus interrupted her thoughts, "I would suggest that you get started on the volumes from Flourish and Blotts that just arrived."

Obligingly, she closed the charmed map and walked over to the indicated parcel. Inside were two thick, old-looking books: The Four Founders of Hogwarts by Arthur Scott and Life and Death of Rowena Ravenclaw by Cecilia Clearwater. Picking up the first one, she sat back down in her chair, quill and parchment beside her, ready to work.

"Bill, can I talk to you?"

Bill turned away from the cupboard he'd been raiding for things that might pass for breakfast and looked at Harry. He was barefoot, wrapped in a maroon bathrobe and looked very much as though he'd left bed in a great hurry. The expression on his face bothered him...there was determination there, and courage, but there was also an underlying emotion he couldn't place. The boy looked almost haunted. Frowning, he gestured to the table. "Do you want to sit down?"

Harry hesitated and then shook his head slightly. "No, I'm fine. It will only take a second."

"I'm sorry, but you look nowhere near fine," Bill replied, taking two teacups from a shelf and putting them on the table. "I don't have to be at work for another fifteen minutes, and I can Apparate there. Sit. Have some tea."

Harry complied, sliding into a chair and taking the teacup in both hands, moving a finger in gentle circles over the rim. Bill poured the tea and sat down across from him, biting into a chocolate-chip cookie. "Here, have one. They're great with the tea. Makes them all soft and gooey inside." A quick smile crossed Harry's face. "This is breakfast?"

"It is when I'm the one making it. Fleur usually summons croissants from a nearby bakery." Harry snorted.

"Your mum would keel over and die if she knew."

"Probably, yes," he agreed, smiling back. "So, how can I help?"

The smile immediately fell from Harry's face, and he turned his attention back to the teacup. Bill took another bite of his cookie, waiting for him to start.

"It's nothing much, just... you still work at Gringotts, right?"

"I do."

"I've never... what I mean is..." Harry looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "I never took the time to learn how everything works in this world. Administration-wise, I mean."

"I see... Is there something specific you need from the bank?"

"Yes. No, not really. It's just..." He winced and looked down again. Bill pushed the cookies across the table, bribing him to go on.

"I want Ron to have everything," he blurted suddenly. "If I..." He swallowed hard. "If I die, I want him to have it. Grimmauld Place, whatever's in my vault, anything else that I have." He swallowed again, looking up at Bill, entreatingly. "Can you help me?"

It was a very reasonable train of thought, and very practical. But they were still the words of a seventeen year old man preparing for things he shouldn't have to think about for at least another century. He closed his eyes and sipped the hot liquid in his cup, willing his hands to keep from shaking and spilling the tea all over the front of his robes. Harry Potter, the acclaimed future saviour of the Wizarding World, sat before him, asking for help to prepare for his death. It was unbearable.

"Of course," he said, having to clear his throat to get the words out. "I'll run a check on your accounts this morning and bring the paperwork with me when I get back tonight."

"Thank you, Bill," Harry replied, so quietly he felt the words rather than heard them. Taking another sip of his tea, he watched as the hope of the Wizarding World got to his feet and walked out of the kitchen to rejoin the man he loved...his youngest brother...in bed upstairs. His heart clenched, and he put down the cup, rising swiftly from his chair and moving down the hallway.

***

The morning light was slipping in through the blinds of their bedroom, turning his wife's hair to shimmering gold where it flowed over the pillows. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to lose her now...to even contemplate such a thing...so soon after their love had begun. He'd known her for less than three years and known what it was like to love her for a little more than two. It wasn't nearly enough. From what he'd seen in the last month or so, and known for far longer than that, Ron loved Harry every bit as much as he himself loved the beautiful woman lying before him. Perhaps even more...Ron and Harry had lived through so much together and had known each other so thoroughly long before romance entered the picture. If Harry didn't make it...he forced himself to let the thought pass through his mind...if he died, then he truly feared for his brother. He didn't want to think about what he would do if Fleur was suddenly no longer in his life. Pressing back the thought, he sat down on the side of the bed and stroked her softly across the hair and face, leaning in to press a loving kiss on the soft, rosy lips.

"Mmm... bonjour," she whispered, smiling against his lips as she woke up under his ministrations. He deepened the kiss, pressing her into the pillows, proving to himself that she was there, alive, just as she should be. A kick to his side broke them apart, and she followed him up to a half-sitting position.

"Ah, le bébé s'est reveillé," she commented, putting a hand on her swollen stomach. "Vaut mieux que..." She broke off, eyes widening, and reached for him. "Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" she demanded worriedly, and he suddenly realised that there was something on his face, making it feel wet and slightly drawn out. He wiped his cheeks quickly with the back of his hand, blinking to clear his vision.

"No, nothing's wrong," he said, wrapping his arms around her as she caressed his face and placed tiny kisses all over. "Just happy you're here, that's all." She smiled. "I'm 'appy too," she said, nuzzling his ear a little before falling back against the pillows. Another kick made her whole midsection point right, and she groaned softly. "And ze bébé is 'appy also," she confirmed wryly. Laughing, he bent and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

"I'm off to work," he said. "I'll see you tonight."

"A ce soir," she confirmed, waving a small hand from behind the belly. "'Ave fun."

Fun. He thought back on Harry's request, letting the weight of it crash back down on his shoulders. No, he very much doubted fun would be part of this day.

She left on Good Friday. Somehow, the significance of the day, in Muggle terms, really stood out to her. She hesitated as she pocketed her small bag and prepared to Apparate. Would she ever be back here, in these chambers, or would all things come to an end? Severus had left early in the morning, without saying goodbye. Part of her was grateful for that, while another wondered if she would see him again. Sensing that she most likely would, she wondered, instead, if she would see him alive.

Phineas Nigellus was in his painting as she departed, nodding briefly in greeting as she spun on her heel. He would meet her at the cottage as decided, moving through space in a different way than she. The wind pressed her hair into her face as she landed, and she watched grey, frothy waves hit the rock of the coastline as she moved towards the house. Somehow the elements seemed to know that something was coming. Tonight, they would all make a stand.

A/N: And for those who don't speak French:

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