A/N: Start the countdown, folks. Two more chapters to go, plus the epilogue, and this story is DONE.
Colossal, mega-thanks to Tome Raider for being Jedi Master to me, the Padawan learner. She rocks with the force. ::grin::
Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter rating: R
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Chapter Thirty-eighth: Engage
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The taste of the potion washed away at the intensity of the kiss, and he felt amazingly empowered. That he could feel such wonderful emotion in a room filled with hatred was intoxicating. He didn't know how long he would have let himself drown in her kiss if she-well, if she hadn't bit him.
He pulled back with a quiet hiss, his wince slightly rebuking.
"Sorry," she whispered, with a soft penitent wail. "I-I'm injured… just happened..."
His heart wrenched, realizing that her need for blood, to heal and recover, had made her do it. He was about to murmur tender reassurances of her having done nothing wrong when his scar seared, shooting blinding pain through his head. He fell back with a surprised cry, cursing with audible outrage.
Voldemort's lip curled in impatience and disgust. "You've seen your Mudblood, now we get on with the ritual."
"I won't let her be held this way," Harry choked through his pain. "I won't-"
"You have no choice in the matter. She is a menace right now. I am sure you understand that much."
Harry never thought he would ever ask anything of the loathsome creature that was his worse enemy, but he found himself petitioning. He would do anything for her, even this, and he wouldn't begrudge her for it. He needed her to be alright. "At least remove the spikes."
"No. The Mudblood suffers. Her existence is an embarrassment to Wizards everywhere and I have treated her kindly enough as it is."
Harry tasted his blood on his lips and it pushed him to lose some degree of control. He advanced towards Voldemort, fists tight. He wasn't sure what he intended to do, but he hardly cared.
He must have moved quickly-certainly unexpectedly for everyone in the room, their Wizarding sensibilities more akin to magical reactions than physical ones-, but he was suddenly in front of Voldemort, the Dark Lord easily within his reach. He couldn't even remember exactly how it happened, because he seemed to be acting on instinct.
He threw a punch. It was probably stupid, and useless, but he jammed his fist right on Voldemort's jaw. He had been aiming for the nose, or what was left of it, but Voldemort must have turned away, because Harry's knuckle felt hard bone.
There were shouts of shock, and he felt arms pulling him away; dragging him back. Voldemort stumbled a bit to the side, blinking wide-eyed with surprise. His surprise didn't last long, anyway. Quickly enough, Voldemort whirled to face Harry, his gaze reflecting fury because Harry dared to attack him wandless.
Harry felt a surge of satisfaction satisfying, surprising Voldemort like that, and Harry cracked a sneer.
Voldemort's red eyes flashed, and with barely a flick of his wand, he had Harry writhing on the floor. The Crucio was excruciating. Every nerve of Harry's body was twisted with agonizing pain. Every pore was on fire. Every bone felt like it was being crushed to powder. He couldn't breathe, yet a scream was ripping from his throat.
An eternity passed before the effects of the curse waned, and as the pain ebbed in a horribly slow pace, he could hear Hermione's trembling voice.
"Stop it! Just stop it! He's here. He's going to give you his soul!" she cried with helpless rage. "You've taken everything, you bastard! What more do you want?"
Her voice cracked, but her anger was palpable. She wasn't going to let Voldemort break her, but she didn't want Voldemort to break Harry.
She shouldn't have seen that, he thought mournfully. She shouldn't have… she shouldn't have to see any of this.
He blinked several times to staunch the tears of pain, willing himself to recover from the debilitating torture. He was still gasping for air, but he was becoming slowly more aware of his surroundings.
"Wormtail, bring him here," said Voldemort, sweeping to the center of the dance floor where the potions were. "Now."
Harry felt the grip on his arm; of the strange Death Eater who had kept close to Severus Snape and of Peter, whose pointy nose wiggled in agitation.
Stifling his moans of pain, Harry, doubled his mental barriers against the portal that was his link to Voldemort's mind and summoned his Legilimens, whispering into Peter's head. He only had a few seconds to hold the barriers. It was difficult, having Voldemort so near. Even now, blocking his mind, Voldemort might know that Harry was trying to hide something.
You owe me, Peter, he said ruthlessly. You take those spikes from her, and I'll release you from your life debt. If you don't, I'll tell the Dark Lord what you owe me, and he'll kill you-
Peter dropped him with a cry of surprise, and if it weren't for the Death Eater on the other side of Harry, Harry would have crashed face down on the floor. Peter was staring at him in horror, hands to his ears. In his eyes was pure disbelief, that Harry had summoned magic without apparent access to a wand.
Voldemort looked hopeless irritated and Lucius, perhaps having been put too many times on the painful end of Voldemort's bad mood, stepped forward and shoved Peter aside.
"Idiot," Lucius muttered, grabbing Harry none too gently to finish Peter's task.
Harry craned his neck and caught Peter's gaze again. Do it, or I swear to you, Wormtail-
Peter scrambled to Hermione's casket, stumbling behind it. Harry could almost smell Peter's fear. He heard Peter's mental cry of promise floating between the link of their minds and that was enough. That was all Harry needed.
He let Lucius and the Death Eater drop him at Voldemort's feet and Harry caught the Death Eater's gaze.
The Death Eater nodded, his eyes darting to Snape and Hermione. Harry understood then that this was their spy.
Snape approached them as Lucius and the Death Eater stepped back. Lucius stood by Bellatrix and Rodolphus, the Death Eater by Hermione.
Harry heard Hermione's gasp of pain, and as he looked up, he saw Voldemort's eyes bearing down on him.
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She felt a thin film of magic envelope her from the neck down. It wasn't something particularly noticeable, especially in the magic-saturated room, but since it seemed to have been cast on her, she was quite sure it was there.
It was familiar tingle, something she might have been able to identify, if she hadn't been so wrought with pain.
"Distorqueo," came the whisper of Peter behind her. "Abreptum clavus."
And instantly, the spikes began to retract, twisting out of her thighs and wrists like corkscrews. She felt her blood flowing from the wounds, and Hermione felt an overwhelming feeling of vertigo as she gasped, the pain of the pikes being retracted instant and sharp.
It took another heartbeat for the pain to ebb, but she quickly realized that the removal of the spikes gave her great relief, and that even if her wounds were still there, at least now the pain was considerably lessened. Her blood vessels throbbed once, twice, and then lessened to a continuous trickle.
Relieved of the torturous pain, her mind began to regain focus.
Details. Think of the details…
No one had noticed the removal of the spikes, which was interesting enough. One would think that a room full of dastardly Death Eaters would notice something like that, but they didn't.
There were magical ways to accomplish such things, of course. There were disillusionment charms, misdirection charms, or a simple glamour. It would explain the alien tingling she felt just a few seconds earlier. Someone-likely Peter-could have cast any of these spells to take the attention away from her, and it was even easier for being redundant, since everyone seemed transfixed by Harry and Voldemort's ritual at the center of the room.
The fact that Peter had circumvented Voldemort's will was unexpected in the extreme, but something had apparently shaken him a while ago; frightened him enough to remove her spikes from her cuffs and braces.
Harry did it, she concluded. Hermione was sure of it. His will had always been amazingly strong, and she marveled at the fact that even now, when he was about to give up his soul to Voldemort, he was thinking of her. It was an overwhelming thought, that someone loved her that much, but it was empowering, too, because she wasn't going to stand around and watch Harry die. It wasn't going to happen that way.
Voldemort and Harry were speaking, Snape and the potions between them. Voldemort summoned Janus, and Janus approached.
Distorqueo. Abreptum clavus. That's what Peter said.
Distorqueo meant to twist apart, distort, and torture. Abreptum clavus meant to remove a nail, or a spike.
The words altogether made a little sense, but the first word wasn't a spell. Distorqueo was a password. Bellatrix had spoken it when she nailed Hermione into the coffin, and it was a password worthy of the Cruciatus specialist who loved her work.
"Distorqueo. Praepedio," Bellatrix had said earlier. The chains and shackles had wrapped around Hermione with frightening enthusiasm, pressing Hermione to the back of the coffin without the slightest room to move. And then Bellatrix said. "Distorqueo. Perfido." That was what caused the spikes to activate.
And now Peter had removed the spikes using the same formula: Password plus a spell, or maybe it was just an instruction. It could only be activated by a Death Eater, or someone with a Dark Mark. She hadn't been sure about it earlier, and she was in so much pain that she dared not risk making her situation worse by an incorrectly uttered word, but she could have told Viktor. She could have risked it anyway. He might have set her free, but it was true what she thought. If she told him the password then, she would have sucked his blood dry. If she told him the password then, Peter wouldn't bring her to Harry. If she told him the password then, she might get Harry killed by sheer lack of forethought.
Timing was important. Timing was everything. The odds were not in their favor. The only help she might find was Viktor and possibly Snape, but it wasn't enough. There were too many Death Eaters, and she couldn't vamp half as well in her weakened state. She needed Harry.
I have to trust him. He wants me safe. He will do something to ensure that, whether I approve of his methods or not.
She waited. She would have her chance. And when she was free; when she was unfettered, she would strike.
She eyed Bellatrix Lestrange as the lights of the ballroom withered to a dim gloom. Death would be too kind for her, Hermione realized. It was more satisfying in the end to make Bellatrix pay.
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Ron and Solomon found Tonks in one of the many Auror Department issue crafts the Order had commandeered from the Ministry. They were high-speed crafts powered by the same enchantments used on flying carpets.
The ferryman who had brought them into the mist looked immensely annoyed, especially after he figured there was a whole fleet of boats situated around Azkaban.
"You could've helped ferrying folks back and forth," said the ferryman to Tonks and her crew. "Saved us lots of trips."
Tonks had frowned, being in absolutely no mood to humor anyone. "It's not as if you're busy three hundred sixty-five days of the year, Jessar, so quit complaining."
Jessar scowled, but said nothing after that.
Tonks signaled to one of her crew and a chap who appeared to be an Auror told the ferryman to row him back to the main dock. Jessar left with him, grumbling as the mist swallowed them whole.
"Those two coots blab about everything," said Tonks. "We don't need them warning our enemies of our numbers, or our presence. Thurston will take care of their memories."
"Good idea," said Solomon. "He was the one who told us that Yasmin's in Azkaban."
Tonks looked properly astonished. So much so that Neville, who was listening from the side, began to look constipated. When Tonks was surprised, it was usually a bad thing, especially because Tonks looked exactly like the kind of person who didn't shock easily.
The vamps and werewolves listening to the conversation looked at one another with raised eyebrows. This was interesting news to them, too.
"You're serious," Tonks said after a quick examination of both Ron and Solomon. "She's been in there? All this time?"
"Apparently," said Ron. "And of course no one bothered to look there."
"No one entertained the possibility that she'd been kidnapped until two days ago," Solomon explained. "You don't just kidnap a five-hundred year old Master of the Coven of Isis. It's just not done… and now see what's happened? Lucien's been murdered by Janus, Hermione's been taken, the Blood-Kin of Ramses has betrayed us, vamps rising up against vamps… nothing is the way it should be."
"We're going to get her back, then," said Tonks, looking a bit flustered, like someone just hit her over the head with a Bludger.
"Hermione might be in there, too," said Ron. "And if she is, we have to find her."
Tonks expelled a big breath. "You chaps just love springing these bombs on me, don't you?"
Ron was about to apologize when Tonks waved his words away.
"Never mind," she said. "It doesn't matter. We'll do what we have to do. You and Solomon come with me. We have some last-minute plotting to do."
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Draco turned the knob on the Wizard Wireless and heard nothing but static. This was unusual, but Draco knew what was happening. The Ministry had been taken, and therefore there wasn't going to be a broadcast; not until the radio people found a new station.
He grumbled and contemplated going to the library, but he didn't feel like reading a book.
Nothing to do.
He looked at his ankle, saw that it was unfettered, and still couldn't believe it.
Earlier, before Harry left for the Riddle House, he had given Draco one of those infuriating looks of compassion. Why Harry felt sorry for him, Draco didn't know, but it prompted Draco to go with his signature utterance of "Piss off, Potter."
Harry hadn't looked the least bit bothered. It seemed to Draco that Harry had too many other things to bother about, anyway. The Mudblood had been kidnapped, the Dark Lord had picked a fight with him, the whole Wizarding World was waiting for an impending invasion, and Harry's life was on the gambling table. Draco couldn't entirely blame the bloke for being so unaffected by rude epithets. Compared to the rest of the shit in Harry's life, someone else's bad attitude was like a bowl of cherries.
But it was still a complete shock when Harry waved his wand and didn't hex him. Draco had somewhat expected to get turned into a ferret, but that hadn't happened. Harry had, instead, removed Draco's ankle-brace with a deactivation spell.
"You're free, Draco. It's probably stupid of me to take the restrictions off, but just until I get back from this battle… if I get back, you're free. You do what you want with that freedom. You decide what you think is best for you. And if I come back, whether or not you're here, I'll take into account what you've done, or didn't do. Agreed?"
Draco hadn't replied. He had been too baffled by the shocking turn of events. Harry wasn't prone to trickery, but for a brief moment, Draco was actually afraid that Harry was up to something. Maybe Harry had implanted a tracking device on Draco and he was expected to go running to his father, after which the Order would come barreling in, arresting Lucius and Draco Malfoy. Maybe they thought he would lead them to the Mudblood, after which the Order would come barreling in, arresting…
These were Draco's thoughts long after the entire household had left to fight the war.
The whole of England was in turmoil, and he sat there pondering his existence.
He was astonished to note that there was a fair amount of guilt. It was infuriating to realize that the sappy sods he'd lived with in the last five years had managed to infect him with this emotion.
He had no illusions, or desire, to become like the lot of them-stupid and naïve, fighting for some cause that they consider "good" and "right." They were a bunch of impractical morons who seemed to gain satisfaction just by knowing they were on Harry's side of things, and yes, it was difficult for Draco to comprehend.
With that non-conclusion, Draco rose from his seat and hauled out two trunks from one of the many storage closets of Grimmauld Place. Only one of the trunks was his, but he figured Weasley wouldn't mind so much if he took it. In any case, it wasn't like Draco cared if Ron minded or not.
Draco stuffed the trunks with what little belongings he had accumulated over the last five years. It was true what he told Harry, that Grimmauld Place had never really been his home, that it was some sort of halfway house, that his only reason for being there was to have a place to stay until he can find a place of his own where he could settle, and live.
And decorate. Something a bit more modern than all this… 18th century furniture that makes me want to hang myself.
His first stop would be Gringotts. The Ministry had frozen his accounts with regard to his Malfoy fortune, but his mother would have left him her Black accounts, and he was half-certain the Ministry hadn't frozen those.
When his closets were emptied and he had packed all he could, he shrunk his trunks and headed out of his room, out of the house, and finally Apparating into the deserted streets of Diagon Alley.
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Harry stared at the first vial of potion he was being forced to drink. It was a bright, alluring orange glowing in the dim light of the ballroom. It looked like one of the many alcoholic beverages he had drowned in during those five years he'd spent searching for Hermione in the dark alleys of London.
He doubted, however, that this potion brought any sort of pleasant promise the way those Apricot Brandies, Blueberry Martinis, and Tequila Roses had, so many times in his past. He had liked his cocktail drinks, almost as much as he liked hard drinks, though the hard drinks won out most of the time.
He wasn't sure why he was thinking such thoughts now, when everything was so dire. Maybe it was because he remembered that his failures had always been marked by drinking something, and that fact was making him apprehensive, because he couldn't fail anymore. Not right now, at least. There were too many things hanging in the balance.
He looked over his shoulder, at Hermione and his unlikely ally, the unknown Death Eater by her side. He looked at Snape, a traitor so many times that his loyalties would always be in question. He looked at his enemies; and he looked at the evil that was Voldemort. Was he destined to be the Ruler anointed by the Ancients?
"Drink it," Voldemort said impatiently. "Or I will see that your Mudblood suffers. I'm sure you know that a vampire's tongue-taken alive-makes for very powerful elixirs, Potter. I'd like one in my supply cupboards-"
Harry shot him a potent glare and swiped the potion from the table, tossing it in his mouth. The taste was not pleasant at all and Harry had to breathe deeply not to gag.
Voldemort chuckled softly, drinking his half of the same potion. The taste did not seem to bother him.
Snape waved his wand at them both. "Devicio."
Something began to stir in Harry's scar and chest, building pressure and causing him to black out in short intervals. He thought for certain that his head and chest were going to explode and kill him. He tried to resist but the force was too strong.
There was a burst, and something ripped open from inside him. He yelled out, but in the next moment he realized he wasn't dead, that he was very much alive, and that there were threads of phantasmal green mist snaking from his scar and his chest, reaching for Voldemort.
Harry stood there in disbelief. He had a vague idea of what to expect. Snape had, after all, written a bit about it.
The first potion opens the trappings of your soul and the Horcrux. It makes both entities accessible, though not necessarily removable.
He moved his hand and he saw a faint glow of green shadowing it. He looked up at the impenetrable gaze of Snape.
Snape handed him the second potion.
The second potion severs the souls from your body. It will be painful-be prepared.
Harry took it and drank. It tasted incredibly sour and oily. It was horrendous.
Snape stepped back, snapped his wand like a whip and cried, "Dissertio!"
Harry actually heard the snap, just before a gust of wind rose from beneath his feet. It was like a tornado, wrapping him in its suffocating embrace. He felt himself being torn in two inside. His soul and Voldemort's soul fragments being ripped from his body, and he screamed from the agony. It was worse than Crucio. Worst than anything he had ever experienced in his life; like he was being severed limb from limb. He was dying; he had to be, because if there was a God, there was absolutely no way He could be so cruel as to let Harry suffer this agony.
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It was frightening. It just was. There was just something so hideously powerful in seeing a man like Harry Potter scream with horrendous pain. For all the Death Eaters' disdain for the Boy Who Lived, it was unmistakable that Harry had been a huge threat to Voldemort these past five years; that something in Harry incited a twinge of fear in the Death Eaters' black hearts, no matter how much they denied it. Harry could kill vampires with his bare hands. Harry could fight werewolves, three at a time, and survive unscathed. Harry had defied the Dark Lord, perhaps by sheer luck, but still more times than any of them had ever dreamed of.
The only other person who could frighten them was Voldemort, and that was saying something. It told them, in the deepest recesses of their minds, that Harry was their Dark Lord's equal in some awful way.
And yet here was the great Harry Potter, screaming with unspeakable pain as the potion and spell buffeted him. He was luminescent in the darkness, and they could see through him. They could see the potion spreading through his system, wrapping around his nerves and bones, piercing his heart, mind and belly. They could see the spell encasing him in a deadly cocoon, twisting his soul to rip it away.
Voldemort pulled back the sleeve of his robe, offering his wrist to Janus, and it only made the scene more ghastly. Janus bared his fangs, sinking his teeth into Voldemort's flesh and drinking of Voldemort's blood. Janus didn't drink much, and when he pulled away, he broke the skin on his wrist, pouring a small stream of it into the third potion set on the table. The potion, a golden liquid with floating bubbles of green, turned a dark, crimson red when Janus's blood was introduced to it.
Death Eaters stood transfixed, their faces grown pale with terror. One would think this was the sort of thing they lived for, but it seemed the horror of stealing a soul, of mutilating it, was a universal nightmare.
The whistle of wind rang in Hermione's ears like a bullet train; she barely even realized she was screaming. She was screaming her throat hoarse. She might have been hysterical, like her heart was being ripped out and she was watching it happen. She sobbed. She screamed for Harry. She didn't know if her sanity would survive it.
And then Viktor was there before her, the wind whipping his hair. His face was so unfamiliar, yet when she looked into his eyes, she saw him lurking beneath the disguise.
"Molya te," he said in an imploring tone as he held her face tenderly in his hands. "Ne. Ne pravi taka, Her-my-own. Molya te!"
Please. Don't. Don't do that, Hermione. Please!
For a moment that felt like forever, she refused to listen. She wanted to rage and scream. She was helpless. She couldn't protect them. Crying and screaming was all she could do.
I couldn't protect them!
"Ne plachi. Ne plachi, Molya te…" Don't cry. Please, don't cry… "It is Harry. His strength is your faith!"
The words, suddenly spoken in English with Viktor's quaint penchant for poetry, hit her with its intensity. Her screaming stopped, and she looked at Viktor as the chaos of magic swirled all around them. Her eyes widened with growing realization, guilt for doubting Harry mixing with her renewed conviction. And then words began to escape her lips.
"Distorqueo," she said. "Distorqueo. Liberatio."
For a moment, Viktor looked at her in great confusion.
"Say it," she hissed. "Say it, and stand back."
He knew then, and he stepped away. "Distorqueo. Liberatio."
The effect was frighteningly instantaneous.
Chains slithered away, braces snapped off, and Hermione felt absolutely unfettered.
Peter's screams were drowned out by the howl of the enchanted winds.
Bellatrix didn't even know what hit her when Hermione sent her crashing back and zipping through the curtained walls, tearing the cloth from their rungs. Hermione's teeth sank into Bellatrix's neck, orange and gold silk drowning them both as the gush of Bellatrix's nourishing, healthy blood warmed Hermione's tongue.
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Harry saw himself leaving his body.
He saw his body drop to the floor like he was dead, eyes and mouth wide open. Another entity, alien and dark, hovered above him. They were Voldemort's soul fragments, and Voldemort was calling those soul-fragments back, just as Harry felt Voldemort summoning him, too.
The last remaining soul fragments that had been held in Harry's scar flared and speared its way back to Voldemort's body, as if the souls were eager to find their way back home, but Harry found that he could resist Voldemort's summons with a considerable bit of effort.
Voldemort took the third potion and drank it dry.
Harry felt the pull begin to gain strength, and Harry saw the phantasmal talons emerging for Voldemort's body; screams of murder, suffering, and grief following at their wake as the spindly fingers roared his way.
Harry could only watch in horror as they came for him, but just before they could ensnare him in its claws, he was yanked back. He was fleeing, and suddenly he was back in his body, breath rushing back into his lungs.
He gasped, the air like knives through his chest. The ghostly hands dissipated like mist against his solid form, unable to take what they had come for.
It worked! thought Harry frantically. The potion worked!
Voldemort, wrapped helplessly in the magic, gave a wail of rage. The enchantments flailed around him in confusion, tangling him in their chaos, and Voldemort's angry voice mingled with the screams of terror emanating from Peter.
Curtains were drifting to the floor from their hooks and the lights had completely gone out, adding to the general disorder. The only thing illuminating the ballroom now were the rays of the moon slicing through the overhead and side windows. The stained-glass made for darker, eerier lighting, the red tints of the glass marking the floor like the spill of blood.
Harry's gaze darted from one thing to another as he struggled to push himself off the ground. Hermione was gone from her coffin, Snape and his Death Eater had run for cover in different directions, Bellatrix and Peter had disappeared, and spells were being fired everywhere. Janus and Greyback pushed through the milieu, fangs and claws bared for fighting while Rodolphus was somehow trying to order them to "Find Bella!"
Voldemort's shout of fury echoed through the ballroom, and with an awesome burst of magic, he released himself from his enchanted bindings and threw a powerful Reducto in the process.
Harry scrambled to get to his feet and jumped just in time to avoid it.
The curse connected with the casket in a metallic explosion that sent splinters of iron and silver alloy in all directions. Rodolphus and one of the Death Eaters collapsed, the first with a rod pierced through his leg, the other taking an iron shard in his eye.
Everyone else had successfully ducked, even as Greyback gave a howl of outrage. His anger was understandable. A stray sliver of silver-alloy could have killed him instantly.
Voldemort's gone insane, Harry thought.
He looked wildly around, searching for Hermione in the chaos and darkness. One thing he could take comfort in was how Hermione could see in the dark.
But so can Janus…
Voldemort gave off another string of curses that blew bits of ballroom into debris. Harry had to duck and keep still, hiding.
"Harry Potter!" Voldemort cried. "You will not get away!"
The way things were looking now, Harry was fairly confident that his chances of surviving had gone up exponentially. However, that was if he only had himself to worry about.
He felt his forehead and almost gasped when he realized that he couldn't feel his scar. That lightning-shaped aberration; the bane of his existence, was gone. That thought was immensely empowering. No more link. No more connection.
No more Horcrux inside me…
"Bella!" Rodolphus cried as he thrashed ungracefully about the floor. "Bell-"
His cry was cut off by his own strangled scream and Harry felt a distinct knot in his belly.
"She's picking you off," said Janus, pure amusement and pride evident in his voice. "One by one…" That he didn't consider himself among one of the Death Eaters was telling, and judging by the look on Voldemort's face, the detail hadn't gone unnoticed, but there were more important things to attend to at the moment, and Harry was willing to bet Voldemort understood this more than Harry did.
"Find her, now," Voldemort said, "I want her dead. I want her destroyed."
Harry summoned his senses, steadying his rattled nerves, and with his hands barely trembling, he grasped the pendant around his neck and snapped it free of its chain.
The sound of steel whispering against steel sliced through the air and Harry could see one of Janus's two swords swiveling into the light.
"Here, my pet," Janus sang. "Come to daddy…"
Harry's anxiety for Hermione tripled, and he remembered that horrible dream; of darkness and helplessness as Hermione fell into Janus's embrace while Janus took her life. It was a nightmare that would never leave him, and only Hermione's voice, her touch, could ever begin to alleviate it.
He felt the shimmer of magic aching to help him right at his fingertips, and so he reached, yanking away the fabric that stood between Wizards and the powers that aided them. He sought the threads and grids of magic laid throughout the room, his eyes seeing through the darkness and complicated emotions. He saw that the entire ballroom was warded, so that no sound could escape it, which explained why there weren't more Death Eaters beating down the doors. The Apparition and Portkey wards were up, but some Portkeys were evidently allowed, and the Portkey wards for leaving were easier to break. He saw Peter's Animagus form hiding in the rubble as he skittered off to the safety of some escape hole. He saw Snape, making his own escape stealthily through a broken window, beyond anyone's sight.
Harry was wrapped in a golden light, tendrils of it reaching for Voldemort even as Harry crouched in his hiding place, though he felt none of the effects of the earlier ritual. It was troubling, that his soul still seemed connected to Voldemort somehow.
It'll pass, he told himself. At any rate, I can't worry about that now…
Harry looked at the pendant glowing in his hands, a tight cocoon of power around it. It was the shrinking spell binding the object from expanding to its original size. He severed the threads binding it and the magical seams burst open. The pendant began to expand, lengthening to almost half his height. And when it could grow no more, he peeled back the Transfiguration spells that so assuredly transformed, or rather disguised, the object from what it actually was.
The Oracle's pendant, the real one, had been left in his armoire at Grimmauld Place, unworn since the day he unraveled the message within it. The fanged angel, copied from the original, was some of McGonagall's best work, the face on the silver work of the copy giving him the same sense of odd familiarity he had gotten from the real pendant.
Harry let the threads of power go for the meantime, and as his eyes regained normal vision, he saw Gryffindor's staff in his hand as it thrummed impatiently to be used.
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Hermione felt the rush of Rodolphus's blood replenishing her strength as he stared up at her, wide-eyed and dead with equal parts terror and ecstasy. The expression would be a permanent fixture on his face and Hermione's memories.
She looked over her shoulder at Bellatrix, breathing and pale on the floor; too weak to move; bound by the magic of her own wand when Hermione had used it. Bellatrix was too weak to do any kind of magic, anyway, but there was no room for ill-placed assumptions. Hermione had snapped Bellatrix's wand in two and tossed it aside after using it. The bindings stayed, and unless someone else released her, she would be bound tight.
Painfully tight, Hermione thought with vampiric satisfaction.
Hermione had barely left her alive, but still alive, nonetheless, because death wouldn't account for all of Bellatrix's atrocities. Bellatrix had to answer for many, many things, and Hermione wanted Bellatrix to pay.
I'd nail her to a coffin if I had any say in it…
Hermione shook such thoughts back deliberately. Her bloodlust had dampened, but she wasn't quite satisfied. She would need more blood, and there was one more Death Eater for the picking.
Janus had already brought out his sword, calling to her. He would be able to see her in the dark, of course, and if she stayed still long enough, he would find her, but right now, in the chaos, she had the slightest advantage. Not much if she came out to attack him directly, but she could definitely skulk around, "picking" Death Eaters off, as Janus put it, without Janus actually falling upon her to slice off her head.
Malfoy was being himself, standing close to Voldemort as he held out his wand. It was almost laughable, the way she knew Lucius because she knew Draco, and while she knew that Draco's perceptions had taken on a drastic change living five years in Grimmauld place, it was fascinating to realize that Draco's core values was very much Lucius-bred. She would leave Lucius alone for now; handle him later-if he didn't go his usual coward's way and make some sort of retreat.
She spied one of the Death Eaters, unprotected and isolated. The man didn't even have a name, but she could regret slaying him later. She needed blood, and she needed to protect Harry. One-less Death Eater would increase Harry's chances of survival by immeasurable degrees.
Bracing herself, she summoned her vamp-powers and shot off, sinking her fangs into the Death Eater's neck as she dragged him into the darker recesses of the room and strangling his screams with the press of her hand.
Janus and Greyback whirled in response to her silent attack, and as she drank of her victim's blood, she heard Malfoy's shaking, but haughty voice.
"She'll kill us all," Malfoy hissed. "She's a monster! She's-"
"One among many in this room," Janus said, chuckling as he brandished his sword. From the sound of his voice, he didn't just mean the vampires and the werewolf.
The Death Eater's blood filled her, and as the throb of his heart slowed in her ears, she felt her wounds healing completely, her strength doubling, and her mind clearing of most of her bloodlust. She'd had enough blood, and complete recovery could only be gotten from a good day's sleep. Sleep was obviously not an option, so her present state of improvement would have to do.
She licked the last of the Death Eater's blood off his neck and stared a moment into his horror-drawn eyes.
Monster, she thought, recalling Malfoy's words, and she was almost shocked to find herself unaffected by this dark truth.
She had, in the last five years, embraced her vampirism with emotionless acceptance. In the service of the Coven, she thought, "I am what I am," simply because it was what she surrounded herself with; the culture, the vampires, the lifestyle. Since finding her way back to Harry, she had insisted on the great wall dividing their existence, only to realize that Harry would scale that wall over and over again, just so they could be together.
"I'm still here," Harry had said, and that summed it up quite beautifully. He was still there, and he wasn't going anywhere, so long as she, Hermione Granger, loved him enough to be who she really was underneath all the Coven-ruthless vamping.
She saw Greyback sniffing the air, and he bounded off to one of the alcoves of the ballroom.
Hermione felt a brief moment of panic. Who was it that Greyback found? Was it Harry? Viktor? There was little time to lose. She amped her vamp, and just when she was about to take off, a curse flew and blood sprayed everywhere.
Janus screamed in rage as his sword clattered to the ground and a stump that used to be his hand bled gruesomely.
There was Harry, a staff in his hand as he jumped from behind one of the Grecian columns and ran in Greyback's direction.
Another shout penetrated the air. It was filled with pain, and it was followed by a Bulgarian oath.
From there, Hermione felt like she was seeing things happen in slow-motion.
Harry exploded debris around him, causing a smoke-screen to swallow all of them whole.
Hermione shot out of her hiding place and felt the hilt of Janus's sword slip into her grip as she scooped it from the ground.
She saw Janus through the dust, speeding towards Harry with his fangs and claws drawn to kill, his severed hand re-growing as quickly as it was blown off. That show of power-the fact that Janus was at least four hundred years older than her, shook her for an instant, but she willed herself to be brave. Harry had walked with barely a hint of hesitation into the dragon's mouth, armed with little but his great convictions. She could do the same.
Bloodied sword drawn and with the determination to see Harry through, she jumped in Janus's path, aiming for his neck. He dodged gracefully, but he skidded to face her, slashing at her as he turned and drew the second sword at his hip.
Janus didn't miss a beat. Just as her sword blocked his, he had gone for a second strike, and a third. He was fast; he was amazing. And if she didn't back away now, he would have her head.
She jumped away from Janus just as the dust settled around them.
Greyback lay on the floor, a silver rod poking through his throat and the back of his head. His tongue hung limply from the side of his open jaws. Just beyond him was Harry, crouching low and panting for breath as he stared at Greyback, almost in disbelief.
Hermione took account: Bellatrix was incapacitated, Rodolphus and the nameless Death Eater was dead by her bloodlust, the other Death Eater lackey had been taken out by Voldemort's wrath, and Peter and Snape were nowhere to be found. Voldemort, Lucius, and Janus were really all that were left standing, but that was alarming in itself. They were formidable enemies. Voldemort and Janus alone was enough to kill them all.
Hermione glanced briefly to the side of her, seeing both Harry and Viktor.
Viktor's shoulder was bleeding profusely from what looked like claws slashed down upon them. He was crouched on the ground, too, his face screwed in pain as he tried to staunch the flow of blood with his hand. The hand holding his wand trembled, and the damning realization of what happened to him was clear in his gaze.
She could smell it-the infection. It was spreading through his blood, and no potion could stop it.
Oh, Viktor no…
"It's between you and me, Tom," said Harry. "Let them be and we'll settle the fight-"
"Do you think the ritual has been disrupted completely, Potter?" said Voldemort. "Do you think that I can no longer call your soul? Because I can."
Hermione's gaze darted to Harry, watching for signs that Voldemort spoke the truth.
Harry's face remained impassive. "Not as easy for you as it would've been, though. It's going to take some doing to get your immortality from me now, Tom."
Voldemort's eyes flashed with fury. No one, since Dumbledore, had anyone called him Tom. That Harry dared was infuriating. That Harry could say it so casually was unforgivable. His gaze darted to Janus sharply, as if to signal Janus of something.
Hermione saw it coming before Janus attacked. She took off, springing from the ground with her sword raised to block Janus's weapon.
She might have heard Harry's shout of warning, but she was so focused on protecting him that she completely missed the fact that the cage they had brought her there was heading straight toward them with the grinding groan of steel.
The mouth of the cage swallowed them both as it arced in the air, and Hermione heard the metallic crash of a closing gate. The bars glowed; the Portkey activated, and the last sound she heard before they were wooshed away was Harry shouting her name and the echoing laughter of Voldemort.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry tried to fight the effects of the Portkey; tried to keep them from disappearing to Merlin-knew-where, but Portkeying was a force in itself, fast and powerful. He could not stop it.
But I could go with them.
And there it was: The choice.
Draco Malfoy's voice, of all people, came to his memory. "Are you going to sacrifice the rest of the Wizarding World for your One True Love, Potter?" he had asked.
I can come back, thought Harry desperately. I could come back and finish Voldemort once and for all.
And what if he isn't here when you come back? asked another in Hermione's bossy lilt. And so maybe you'll kill him then, but how many lives would have already been lost-how many more will die, because you decided to put this confrontation off? Things have already gone your way more than you expected, tonight. All things considered, your chances of survival are at least even if not in your favor…
He cried out her name as she disappeared, but he stayed firmly in place. He wasn't going to follow. He wasn't going to go after them. He let the cage disappear in a flash of gold and blue.
When the wind settled, Harry had to duck to dodge Lucius's curses, but Lucius had been too long seeing to Voldemort's less-combative pursuits. He lacked practice, and Harry caught him with a powerful Stupefy that sent him flying back against ballroom debris.
Voldemort seemed only the tiniest bit annoyed and cast an Enervate at Lucius before he hit the ground. Lucius did not wake up, and that seemed to annoy Voldemort even further.
Harry swiped a stray piece of debris from the floor. He looked at the Death Eater who helped them, the wound evidence of Greyback's malice. The Death Eater won't be much help, soon. He wasn't going to turn for another day or two, but he was going to grow very, very weak. The man needed treatment.
"Get out of here and get help for your wounds."
The Death Eater started to protest. "I'm not-"
"Go." Harry picked up a piece of debris, cast a wordless Portus on it, and tossed it at the Death Eater. Just as Harry thought, the Death Eater caught it-expertly, and was immediately swept away in a Portkey that would drop him off at the Little Hangleton playground.
Voldemort's eyebrow arched, and if Harry wasn't mistaken, he looked impressed.
He ought to be, thought Harry sourly, the Portkey wards in this place are no joke…
Agitated, Harry barred the doors of the ballroom with stronger wards; his wards, so that Voldemort couldn't just break them.
"And do you think this is a good thing? Being trapped alone in here with me?" Voldemort asked.
"We finish this now. No matter what happens, I'm going to make sure I finish you off tonight."
Voldemort smirked. "And your Mudblood? Are you not worried about her?"
"Every second," Harry said, a slightly weary smile crinkling the corner of his lips. "But I believe in her, because if I didn't, all her sacrifices will mean nothing, and I don't want that to happen. Besides, she'll be disappointed in me if I let my worry of her get in the way of kicking your arse."
"You're a cocky one, aren't you? You are nothing to me. You are a sprite of a boy-"
"Big words from someone who got beat by a one year old once upon a time."
Voldemort's lips pursed, but only for a second. He raised his wand, as if to warn Harry, and Harry braced himself for an attack.
Harry saw it coming, an Expelliarmus, and he felt sure he could deflect it, but the charm went right through his shielding spells, knocking Gryffindor's staff right from his hands and flinging him back against the rubble. Harry felt stone and debris bite painfully on his back as he crashed. His breath got knocked from him and one side of his glasses cracked. The glasses stayed on, with its sticking charm so well-cast, but one eye's vision was slightly impeded now.
Harry swore an oath under his breath as he gasped, scrambling to get to his feet.
Voldemort had walked calmly to the staff and kicked it away. "Do you honestly think you've grown better than me, boy? And you truly believe that on that fateful All Hallows night, it was your magic that saved you? It was your mother's magic that got you out of that fix, boy, and guess what, she died by my wand. You were lucky. You will not be lucky again."
Harry stood tensely, prepared to bolt or dodge if Voldemort threw a curse his way. He eyed the staff distractedly, but looked up to meet Voldemort's gaze. "I think maybe you were the one that got lucky that night, lucky enough for one of your experiments to work. That would have sucked, if you made seven of them, not counting the dozens of experiments before that, and none of them had done you any good. I suppose it works the same way it does in a shooting gallery at the pier. You shoot enough rounds and you're bound to knock a duck off its shelf."
Another hex came Harry's way, but this time Harry dodged it, rolling skillfully away and preparing for any follow-throughs. There was none, but Harry saw the hex marking a smoking path in the marble. The displaced stone had been reduced to powder. Harry could've been sliced in half.
"Wow, good one," Harry said. He didn't mean it as a compliment in the least, and Voldemort saw right through him.
Voldemort's ruby eyes narrowed, as if to peer into Harry's very soul, and Harry stared back, absolutely unafraid. It was then Harry realized, to his total amazement, that while the thought of facing his death was understandably unnerving, the possibility of confronting Voldemort hadn't really frightened him for-well, quite some time now.
Had I been fighting this war for so long that I'd somehow… toughened up, or something?
No. It hadn't been the war that toughened him up. He hadn't been frightened of Voldemort since-
Since sixth year.
Dumbledore had taught many, many things to him that year, the least of which was the secret of the Horcruxes. Dumbledore taught him how to face his responsibilities; taught him to understand the importance of friendship, and trust; to know the difference between what was right, and what was easy. But most of all, Dumbledore showed Harry that Voldemort was-in spite of the Horcruxes-human. Voldemort was Tom Marvolo Riddle: Little Orphan Boy, shunned by his father, abandoned by his family, borne by his scorned mother. He had been a child making the easy choices. He had been an adult who aspired for power and immortality.
But there are no more Horcruxes left. And that means…
"You're mortal," Harry said all of a sudden, and not without a bit of awe. "You're mortal and you can die just like the rest of us."
For the first time since Voldemort gazed upon Albus Dumbledore, Harry saw true fear in Voldemort's eyes. That fear was unmistakable for a solid second, and then it was gone; banished. The lines on Voldemort's reptilian face hardened, and he threw an Sectusempra so powerful that Harry was half-certain it would get him, no matter what.
But Harry's vision flashed, and he saw the lines; the ley-magic; the intricate spells and enchantments that crisscrossed the entire room. He saw the curse coming, but he saw the gaps between the Apparition wards, too, the way he did in the Krum courtyard.
He pushed the wards aside, his body assuming the colors and appearance of the magic surrounding him. It let him through, catapulting him to the proximity of Gryffindor's staff.
The staff crackled to life, just as Harry Apparated beside it.
Harry scooped up the staff, aimed it at Voldemort and cast a hex.
Voldemort's mouth opened in sheer surprise, raising his wand to deflect Harry's spell. The spell hit. Voldemort stumbled, but he did not fall unconscious.
Harry's lips pursed, disappointed that his Reducto had failed, though not entirely.
Voldemort looked visibly shocked. Harry wasn't sure why, but the Dark Lord had been surprised of something. His red eyes suddenly glowed with fury, and he raised his wand again.
It was then that Harry saw it. There was a cut on Voldemort's hand, and it was bleeding.
Harry had never seen Voldemort bleed before.
And why not? Mortal men bleed.
Harry smirked.
Voldemort struck and Harry countered it with a curse of his own. Their curses clashed in midair, sending both of them flying at the explosion.
Harry crashed against the doors, knocking the wind out of him, but he didn't waste time dwelling on the thought, rasping to gain back the even pattern of his breathing, Harry scrambled to his feet, throwing a follow-up hex that had Voldemort scrambling to protect himself.
Voldemort cast a counter-curse. Harry saw that it was a simple but powerful Expelliarmus.
Harry didn't even bother to put up a protection spell. He jumped from harm's way behind a pile of rubble.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Voldemort jump behind a column.
Oddly enough, seeing Voldemort run for cover was immensely satisfying. Since Harry last met Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries, the man had been so self-assured about besting Harry in magic. He had seemed invincible until Dumbledore came, and Harry had just been so distracted by so much power contained between two men that he hadn't bothered to see how Voldemort had struggled to stay afloat in the fight.
Now Harry was seeing, and he was thinking that if he could just calculate it perfectly, he just might be able to take that wand from Voldemort's hands.
A curse flew above Harry's head, and just as it passed him by, Harry rolled to the side, seeing Voldemort through the magical lines. He ended in a low crouch and threw a hex. It caught Voldemort's hand, sending his wand flying, but just at that moment, something bit at Harry's back painfully. His insides felt leaden and he fell to the ground, his legs helpless.
For a moment, Harry was filled with confusion. Where had that jellylegs hex come from?
He held on to Gryffindor's staff, but Voldemort threw another hex, and it collided with his wrist, shooting pain up his arm.
The hex-probably a magnified Expelliarmus-was so powerful that it traveled up Harry's arm and broke it. He gave a shout, as Gryffindor's staff stumbled out of his waning grip, just out of reach.
He saw Voldemort, grinning as he waved his recovered wand triumphantly.
The Dark Lord emerged from his hiding place. "I wager you didn't know that trick? My spell had a rebounding charm attached to it. A simple Jellylegs charmed to find its target at least twice. And see, after all that, you've lost-to a Jellylegs curse no less. Well, isn't that funny?"
Harry bit his lip to stifle his pain and stamp away his despair.
This isn't the time. Don't lose hope. Not now. I can't fail. I just can't.
Voldemort's wand whirled in the air as he uttered an incantation, and immediately, Harry felt that soul-wrenching pull. Harry fought, his will endured, even if his magic looked as if it wouldn't.
Sensing Harry's resistance, Voldemort pulled harder, and Harry began to feel how painful it was to fight.
He cried out at the agony, but he held on. Voldemort was not going to get his soul. He had to resist. He had to hold on.
But for how long? How long, Harry?
Unmentionable pain assaulted him and Harry twisted and writhed on the ground.
HOW LONG?
Probably not long enough…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The cage came crashing down on the cobbled ground, spinning and skidding out of control. It came to a jolting halt as it smashed against moss-covered parapets, throwing the door open and rattling the cage all over.
Hermione slammed into the bars, the ring of steel reverberating through her with bone-crushing intensity. Her sword clattered to a corner, just out of her reach.
Janus bounced no more gracefully than she did, spilling beside her at the bottom of the cage, his own sword flying out of the cage door.
Janus lunged for the sword in the cage and Hermione cursed, scrambling outside to retrieve the one that got away.
They went into stance at about the same time, swords in hand.
Janus didn't even make small talk. He attacked, and Hermione recalled everything Yasmin taught her.
"He's fast, but he leaves his left open to attack. If you take advantage of that, you might not hurt him, but you can surprise him. So… take the chance. Give him a surprise," Yasmin had said.
Hermione blocked his strikes, saw the opening, and swung to Janus's left.
Just as Yasmin said, it distracted him for a precious second. Hermione threw a kick, landing it in his midsection.
He stumbled back, a displeased frown on his face. "Learned a few tricks from the bitch, did you?"
Hermione didn't reply. Tricks, Yasmin did teach her, but she had learned a few more on her own. She had fought dozens of vampires in the last five years, and one couldn't help but pick up a few things, but every moment she'd spent fighting-every block, strike, and deflection-had been for the sole purpose of preparing for this moment when she would meet Janus again and make him pay for what he'd done.
Janus had turned her, had massacred her parents, had taken Lucien away from her, and had brought a scourge upon Harry's soul. There was nothing for him but death. She would make Janus suffer if she could, but he was too strong. He had to die, or he would merely rise back from the pain and strike back even harder.
And he would kill everyone and everything that meant something to her.
But it wasn't always like that, was it?
"What changed, Janus?" she asked, poised in a defensive stance. "What changed between creating me and Voldemort's orders to take me head?"
Janus was in a stance of his own. He sniffed audibly in what appeared to be disdain. He never had to explain himself to anyone, least of all to his vampire-get.
"You take orders from no one," she continued. "Not Yasmin, not anyone, least of all a human. Why do you want to kill me? You wanted to create me then. What changed?"
His eyebrow arched. "I do take orders from someone, you know. I have a master just like the rest of you."
"And this master told you to turn me, and then kill me?"
"Essentially, yes."
"Why turn me at all, then?"
"Because you needed to be turned. Because without you, the prophecy couldn't be set into motion."
"And so after I was turned, I became useless?"
Janus smiled apologetically. "Not useless, but a liability. You refused to be one of us, and then Yasmin got to you first. You were going to be strong, and you would use that strength to make sure Harry survived, and Voldemort is killed. With Harry and Voldemort bound, either of them could wield the sword that would sever the vampire's curse. We preferred the one that was more likely to fall under the master's control."
Hermione frowned. "And you think you can control Voldemort? Are you daft? He's no more willing to be controlled than Harry is! You can't control people! You'd think your master would know this, living so long."
Janus seemed surprised that she had assumed-probably correctly-that his master was long-lived, possibly ancient, but Hermione thought it was an absolutely natural deduction. Who else could command an old vampire but an ancient one?
"Of course he can be controlled," said Janus. "He willingly drank my blood…"
Hermione remembered the last potion Voldemort drank and she frowned. "That's a vampire myth-"
"Is it?" asked Janus quietly. "Is it a myth? Of the three of us… the children of the Fang-who do you think drank of the turning-blood willingly?"
"I didn't. You forced it down my throat, remember?"
"Yasmin didn't drink it willingly, either. I was the only one. And see? I take the Fang's commands, whether I want to or not. I am under the turning-blood's power."
"You're the Puppet."
Janus shrugged. "Roles must be fulfilled. Twice I've bled for the prophecy; once for you, the other for Voldemort. I've served and bled, I turned you because it is what I was told to do. I gave Voldemort my blood, because he needed it. I've fulfilled all that I was meant to fulfill."
Hermione scoffed a heartbeat later. "Anybody could assume whatever role they want in that message. It's what the Oracle wants! It wants us all to scramble for a foothold; to take the role that would fit our interests. It doesn't matter what the message means; it only matters what the Oracle wants you to think it means, and we all do the work. Don't you see? What you think and what I think doesn't matter. It's what we all do about it that's so damning!"
Janus shook his head, looking-of all things-a bit saddened. "Our roles have been defined, but only the outcome will tell who between Harry and Voldemort is the Wielder and Catalyst. They're bound. Either one can be the other, and only they can decide that."
"If that's true, I'm the one meant to nurture destiny's seed. I nurtured Harry, didn't I? It means he holds the key to vampire destiny. It means he's the Weilder."
"That's what it possibly means, but it doesn't mean Harry has to live, does it?"
Hermione felt her heart wrench, her deepest fears reflected in Janus's words.
"There is a chance yet for you to live," said Janus softly. "I do not want to kill you. My master does, but if you wish to reconsider your loyalties, I could possibly convince her to-"
"No," she said before he could finish. It surprised her that she felt no indignation for his proposal. Maybe she understood, in more ways than she would admit, that Janus had his perceptions, and she had hers, the way Yasmin had a perception all her own. "I won't ever swear my loyalties over to someone if it means giving up my loyalties to Harry. Never."
She was even more surprised when she saw disappointment in Janus's gaze.
"Then you leave me no choice," he said.
He came at her like lightning with an overhead strike so quick that if Hermione hadn't anticipated it, she would have been cleaved right down the center. The clash of swords was shrill in the whistling wind. Janus's skill had rivaled Yasmin's, and Hermione felt he hadn't gone rusty in the least. Hit after hit was a fight for her life, and she struggled to keep up.
Yasmin always said she had amazing footwork, and perhaps Hermione was better, or at least equal to Janus in that, but Janus moved with almost five hundred years of experience behind him. He was better. She parried and deflected, but his skill did not afford her a strike.
She couldn't believe that she ever thought she was prepared for him. She couldn't believe she was stupid enough to think she was ready. She wasn't; he was better, but she had no choice but to fight. She had to live. She had to make it. But right now, she didn't know how.
He pushed her back, her turns and kicks never landing properly. She couldn't get through his defenses, and each time her sword struck his, the jarring blow traveled up her arms, rattling her bones.
Why he hadn't killed her yet, Hermione could only guess. She could feel him pulling his strikes, even as his hits brought pain through her body.
She flicked her wrist, seeing an opening towards his neck, and when she swung, she was sure she was going to connect, only to have Janus meet her steel, twist it, and have her sword flung over the parapet and down in the mist.
She was weaponless, and the inevitability of her failure struck her.
I promised him I'd be alright, she thought with dwindling hope. I promised Harry…
Janus stepped back, as if to watch her horror. "It doesn't have to end in your death, child."
She stared at him, trying to steel herself from the emotional onslaught of the inevitable end.
"I can let you live," said Janus. His final offer.
Hermione would never take it. "I'd rather die than serve you and your master."
He nodded, expelling what appeared to be a sigh. It didn't take long after that. He attacked, sword poised to take off her head. He had come at her a millisecond slower than she expected, perhaps taking it for granted that she was completely helpless in her state.
Chance.
Take your chance.
She ducked and swept beneath his arms, bracing herself to heave upwards. She slammed against him, connecting with his midsection, and she sprung from her knees, angling herself so she could deflect him whole-bodied and tip him over the edge of the tower.
For a moment, she thought she succeeded, but then he shifted in midair, and he twisted himself out of harm's way. Amazingly, he landed on his feet. Her confusion came in a whirl, and she was filled with dread when she felt his arms around her. He seemed to exploit the momentum she had been using earlier and turned her own attack against her. With hardly any effort, he hoisted her over the edge of the parapet to follow her sword.
She arched over the wall. She was going to fall. It was too high up from the ground for her to land on her feet. She was too young to withstand the impact from their height.
Hermione cried out as she fell off the tower. She reached out for a handhold, but she had been flung too far.
Janus jumped off the tower on his own, following after her in a more graceful arc.
Her mind, amazingly, began to process.
When she reached the ground, shattered and broken, Janus would be there, alive and whole. Unlike her, Janus was hundreds of years older; hundreds of years stronger. He would land on his feet, graceful and healthy.
Even if Janus managed to injure himself in the fall, who knew how fast Janus could heal? She had seen him regenerate a hand in seconds. He would heal faster than she would, and he could kill her while she lay healing and helpless on the ground.
It's time, Hermione. Embrace what you are. Be what you are.
She closed her eyes, feeling her vampire magic build just as the pain of ripping muscle and flesh emanated from her back.
Her scream pierced the night air as black feathery wings burst from her skin. Her wings spread around her and she flapped once.
She kept falling.
She flapped a second time, caught the wind and felt herself rise as Janus continued to sink into the fog, his face a picture of pure shock.
Hermione gained altitude quickly, rising high above in seconds. She turned and swooped down through the fog, just in time to see Janus land gracefully into the loose earth. The weight of him impacted the ground and sent bits of soil into the air.
The wind from her wings pushed the debris back, and she saw him bare his fangs at her, like a cat; eyes filled with defiance.
It was a challenge she was willing to meet. Surprise was her only weapon now, and she would take it. She dodged his sword and slammed right into him, grabbing him by the arms as she made a sharp turn upward. She heard his gasps of shock as he rose back up with her.
She flew high above Azkaban, remembering that the craggiest rocks jutted at Azkaban island's western shore.
The crags reached for the dark skies above.
Hermione saw Janus move, no doubt ready to swing into action even so high up in the air. She saw that he still held his sword, and she couldn't help but be amazed at his strength. He was going to take a swing at her, and given the chance, he would connect with her neck.
She bunched her muscles, slicing through the wind faster than she ever thought possible.
There was no way she was going to beat him on a one on one fight, and so when the tallest, sharpest crag was right below them, she simply let him go.
He dropped like a rock, and he screamed in outraged surprise. All it took was a second and Janus was impaled upon the sharp rock, through his chest, his heart ripped right from his body.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
NO!
It was that voice in Harry's head again. That voice that made him listen to reason when he was being unreasonable; that voice that reminded him why he did things, even if he didn't like doing them; the voice that made him stronger when his resolve began to weaken.
The choice is always yours.
Harry looked right into Voldemort's eyes, even through the pain of his soul being forced from him. He saw the flicker of surprise in the ruby gaze, and Harry reached within himself for that magic Hermione taught him to harness.
The lines became clear and he saw the magic for what it was. He saw the complicated tangle that bound the jelly legs hex to him; saw the way the room was warded; saw the magic Voldemort was using to pull on his soul.
Snape's spell, whatever it was, wove a complicated web of enchantments. It wasn't something Harry could break. It was too intricate; too new. Harry had no knowledge of it. Fighting it would be useless.
But Voldemort did have a weakness. It had been his weakness all along.
Voldemort's soul wasn't whole. Voldemort had torn his soul so many times that what remained of it was so much less than what Harry had.
"You're not stronger than me," Harry whispered through grit teeth.
This seemed to take Voldemort by surprise.
"You're not stronger than me," Harry repeated. "You're nothing but a torn soul. And I can destroy you."
Voldemort was not pleased. He gave a mighty pull, stretching Harry's soul to snapping.
Harry heard himself scream. Saw himself twist grotesquely to cope with the pain. But he knew what he said, and he believed it to the very core of his soul.
Pushing through the agony; willing himself to survive, his phantasmal hands punched through the magic of Snape's spell and grasped Voldemort's withering soul.
A scream of surprise and pain escaped Voldemort's lips.
I am going to live, Harry's mind's voice whispered. Not because I'm afraid to die, but because I have good reason to stay alive.
Voldemort gasped as Harry's grip on his soul tightened. Whether Voldemort heard Harry's words or not, Harry couldn't tell, but he kept on, remembering why he had to get through this in one piece.
I want to take care of Hermione. I want to be with her for as long as my mortality lets me.
A burst of anxiety for Hermione made him waver, and for a moment, Voldemort was able to resist him.
But Harry shook his head, pushing his anxiety away.
She won't let herself die. She'll live, if not for herself, she'll live for me, because she knows I want her to.
Voldemort's eyes widened with fear.
I want to see Ron find happiness, and I want to meet Tonks and Remus's kids. I want to teach in Hogwarts and I want to see my students learning valuable things. I want to see the children live without having to worry about being half-blood, or pureblood, or Muggle-born.
And when my time comes-when my REAL time comes, I can look back and think that I've lived well; that I have nothing to be ashamed about. Hermione would remember me the way she'd want to remember me, and maybe she'd find happiness again…
Those I love are more important to me than life itself.
I am not afraid to die.
A scream ripped out of Voldemort's throat when a black, bottomless void began to blossom where Harry's soul touched Voldemort's.
Harry watched it with frightened fascination as his soul glowed redder just while Voldemort's soul grew murkier in his grip.
Snape's spell began to slide off Voldemort like a loosened net, creeping slowly over Harry's body through the conduit of magic connecting them.
For a moment, Harry panicked, wanting to shake the spell off, but he saw that his magic was actually pulling Snape's spell towards him, its intricate braids alighting upon the crimson shades of his soul and easing him from Voldemort's grasp.
"…the magic still needs something to work with before it could let you do those amazing spells…" he remembered Hermione saying.
Harry felt a surge of power run through him, exploding at his fingertips and drowning Voldemort in its iridescent light.
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A/N: Next chapter, coming soon. ^_^