Authors: furiosity and imadra_blue

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Violence, dark themes, gore.

Summary: Every hero, self-styled or otherwise, must undertake a quest, and Harry Potter's quest has already been set for him by those older and wiser than he. Where there is prophecy, there is also destiny, but there are forks in the dark path that Harry and his friends now walk. There are allies they know not, and enemies they'd know but for their smiles. There are lessons in the past that Harry would do well to learn, and guidance in the present from unexpected sources.

Notes: We are indebted to our beta-readers — alittlewhisper, goneril, lexique, mishty, pikacharma, tamsin_h, and therealw — who provided insight, Britpicking and hilarious MST notes throughout January. Thank you all so much for everything.




A man with nothing left to lose has two choices. One is to send all caution into the sky and go out in a ferocious blaze. The other is to wait and hope for fortune's wheel to turn in his favour once more. The final decision depends on the man: the Gryffindor will often do the former. The Slytherin is likeliest to do the latter.

Snape released his hold on Draco, who immediately stepped aside and began brushing off his robes, quite unnecessarily. They were on a grassy bank in a tide-washed estuary between southwest Scotland and northwest Cumbria, a part of what the Muggles called the Solway Coast. To their right was the Rockcliffe Marsh, to their left, the sea. It was still dark; the only light illuminating the stretch of coast was that of the waxing moon, but there was a grey cast to everything, suggesting that dawn was not far off.

Their final destination was further to the north. Snape cursed inwardly. He'd miscalculated the effort required for Side-Along Apparition and they would need to make the rest of their way on foot. A chill breeze carried by the sea was gathering strength; Snape gazed up at the sky and saw the menacing shapes of storm clouds moving in from the west.

Snape's arm ached where the Hippogriff had attacked him during his flight from Hogwarts. He muttered a quick healing spell and turned to Draco. The boy was staring at the water foaming by his feet, his head bowed. Snape couldn't see the expression on his face.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

"I'm fine," said Draco, lifting his head to look at Snape. "I'm to be killed, aren't I?" Snape stepped towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Draco flinched, but held his gaze. "I failed," he said, his voice hollow.

"You did not fail," said Snape, steering him away towards the uphill path that ran across thick growths of silver thyme. "It was wise not to commit murder in front of so many witnesses."

Draco gave a harsh, barking laugh, sounding rather like a very different descendant of the Black family.

"What's funny?" Snape asked as they reached the top of the bank. It continued to rise upwards, patches of sleeping harebells dotting the dark grass, but Snape and Draco's path ran around the sloping hill and to the north.

"Nothing, it's just ironic that you call what I did 'wise'. Does that mean you are calling yourself unwise?"

Snape smiled, though the expression was at odds with his inner state. This boy, however foolish and hasty, had a mind like a whip—much like his mother. "No. However, I had no choice but to act unwisely, and you—"

Draco interrupted him. "Why did you agree to make the Unbreakable Vow, Professor?"

"That isn't important," murmured Snape, shooting the boy a quelling look. It wasn't his story to tell. "This way," he added, motioning forward as they reached a fork in the road.

They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps lost in the sea's discontented murmur. The grey shadows were slowly growing lighter—somewhere beyond the clouds, the sun was rising. The road veered off to the east and their way now stretched across an expanse of grassland that led to a small river visible up ahead. The marsh was uncomfortably near now; Snape could feel the ground turn almost viscous, even beneath the thick soles of his boots.

A skylark rose into the air from a thicket of bushes on Snape's left, its high-pitched twitter heralding the morning's arrival. It hovered in the air for a moment and then flew swiftly southeast. Snape saw a peacock butterfly rise from a carpet of stinging nettles at the edge of Queerditch Marsh. The morning had come.

A quarter of an hour later, they forded the river, heading away from the marshland. Draco was quiet—too quiet. Snape realised he'd never answered Draco's question about his impending death—the truth was, he didn't have an answer for the boy. The Dark Lord had a number of faults, but predictability had never been one of them.

"It's here," he called to Draco, who jumped a little at the sound of his voice.

Snape waved his wand, causing a section of the grass-covered earth to lift away from the ground and hover at a height of about six feet. "Go on, you've been here before," he said to Draco. "I shall follow you."

With a frown, he watched Draco climb down the sturdy wooden ladder. The boy had a surprisingly resigned expression on his face, looking for all the world like he was climbing willingly down into his own grave.

::

Draco concentrated on the smooth, polished wood of the ladder under his palms as he descended. He heard a low thump above his head and looked up, immediately receiving a faceful of soft, earthy dust—he managed to shut his eyes before any of the dust got in them. The way back was shut, and Draco heard the sound of Snape's heavy boots on the rungs of the ladder up above. There was no way but down, now.

With a heavy heart, Draco resumed his climb, trying not to think about what waited for him in the next hour. He didn't care what Snape said; he had failed. He hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore. He didn't know what would happen now, but Snape's silence had heartened him. If it were certain that Draco was to be killed, Snape would have told him that, maybe even helped him escape. The man had only ever wanted to help him; Draco could see that now, as clearly as he could see that he had acted too rashly in accepting the Dark Mark.

That night atop the Astronomy tower, Draco had asked himself for the first time if his family had chosen the winning side. Dumbledore hadn't mocked Draco like the Dark Lord had, he hadn't laughed at his fear and uncertainty—he'd simply talked to him, like they had been equals. There had been a quiet strength and assurance about Albus Dumbledore that the Dark Lord lacked. The Dark Lord was purely terrifying—the lower Draco climbed, the tighter his insides seemed to twist at the thought of facing him again. As the descent continued, Snape's reluctance to speak plainly began to lose significance, and Draco grew more and more afraid. There was nothing for him here, only death. He knew this as indubitably as he knew his name, but he could not run, not now. It would only delay the inevitable and he'd end up like Igor Karkaroff, dead in some grimy shack without glory or a proper burial.

Whatever else happened, Draco Malfoy would not die like a rat.

His foot hit a flat surface instead of the rounded rungs of the ladder—he'd reached the bottom. Draco stepped aside, waiting for Snape to descend. When he did, they set off down the long corridor towards a square of soft, yellow light in the distance. The smells of earth and rotting moss were everywhere, and Draco wondered if this would be the last thing he remembered.

They walked into a low, arched room with wooden boards lining the walls and a well-packed dirt floor. The Dark Lord was sitting at the head of a long table, resting his elbows on the tabletop. He was speaking Parseltongue to a dark shape at his feet—that horrid snake of his, no doubt. Upon Snape and Draco's arrival, the Dark Lord turned towards them, his red eyes narrowing.

"Is it done, boy?" he asked, focussing on Draco, who immediately felt as though his very soul was being yanked out of his body bit by bit, and examined under that gaze, so that every shameful secret was laid bare.

"Albus Dumbledore is dead, my lord," Snape answered for Draco, and the Dark Lord swivelled his head to look at him.

"You are quite certain—"

There was a scuffling sound behind them. Draco turned around and saw Amycus—he knew everything was lost as soon as he noticed the vicious, gleeful smile on the pockmarked face.

"Dumbledore's dead, all right," wheezed Amycus. "Only it wasn't the boy that did him in, my lord. Snape killed him. Saw it with my own eyes, I did."

The Dark Lord's gaunt face betrayed nothing as he turned to Snape. "Is that true, Severus?"

Snape inclined his head without hesitation. "Yes, my lord. The old fool had tried to trick Draco, who is still quite young and—"

"Silence," hissed the Dark Lord. "I'm not interested in excuses, Severus."

Nagini lifted her head from her resting place and gave a low, menacing hiss as though to emphasise her master's words. The Dark Lord turned to Draco, who pressed his lips together tightly, waiting for the black wand to be drawn, for the flash of green light. He stuck his chin out and looked into the Dark Lord's eyes—a moment later, his impudence would no longer matter...

"I knew he wouldn't be able to do it," said the Dark Lord in his horrible, cold voice. "Just as ineffectual as his father."

Draco willed his body not to tremble, not to betray the fear that was spreading icy tentacles out from the pit of his belly, down into his legs. If I survive this, he thought desperately, I will not fail again, I promise. Please don't hurt my parents, please—

"It's your luck, boy, that I've got one more use for you," said the Dark Lord after an eternal pause. "Take him out of my sight, Severus, and return immediately. Now that the only one who could have been a real threat to me is dead, we need to discuss the next stage of my plan."

Draco felt himself being turned around—Snape's arm was around his shoulders. He was alive, he would—he would live. The thought was enough to keep him from hexing the beastly, lopsided leer off Amycus's face.

::

The air wafting in through the open window brought with it scents of rubbish and riverbed filth. Patches of light from dingy streetlamps dotted the narrow street of Spinner's End, stopping just before the banks of a dirty river. The sour wind turned cold, too cold for this time of year. Peter Pettigrew shivered and leant out to close the window, just in time to hear a loud popping noise in the nearby alleyway.

Peter shut the window, drew the curtains and spun to face the front door. Snape was home—he had to be, no others in this godforsaken hole were capable of making that sort of noise. Peter didn't want to contemplate the possibility of any other wizards finding him, yet contemplate it he did. He couldn't help himself. What if the Aurors had finally learned he was alive and were coming to drag him off to Azkaban? What if a member of the Order of the Phoenix had found him? What if Remus would burst through that door, intending on finishing what he'd started in the Shrieking Shack three years ago?

Three years. Peter shuddered. Had it really been three years? They had been the worst three years of his life, living in mortal dread of tomorrow, day in and day out. He'd gone to the Dark Lord to find safety, only to realise that there was none. He was treated worse than a house elf: beaten, mocked, threatened, forced to serve the Dark Lord's every wish—he'd even lost a hand. At least he'd known that Sirius would have killed him quickly and quietly; there was no such assurance with the Dark Lord.

Peter's gut twisted in guilt when he thought of Sirius. Last year, when he'd found out that Sirius had died, his whole world had come crashing down around his ears. He'd been able to live for fourteen years without guilt, knowing he was only doing what he had to in order to survive. When he'd learned that yet another friend had fallen, Peter's guilt had finally crept in like a disease, a cancer in his gut that would not leave no matter how much he wished it. Sometime during the three years he'd spent scrabbling to satisfy the Dark Lord's whims, he'd started to wish that he had made another decision. A better decision, one that didn't leave him a snivelling coward serving a madman. One that reunited him with his friends. One that saw him reclaim his dignity.

These were dangerous thoughts, Peter knew. Thoughts that could get him killed, but he couldn't stop them, not anymore.

The door opened and Peter's shoulders slumped as he saw Snape's stick-like figure silhouetted in the frame. Snape strode inside, looking just as he always did—displeased and restless. Behind him trailed a morose blond youth with a pale, pointed face. It took Peter a moment to recognise the youth as Draco Malfoy. What was he doing here? Peter hoped it wasn't because Snape fancied young boys. He wanted no part of that.

"Wormtail," greeted Snape as he motioned Draco to the threadbare sofa. Draco shuffled over to it, barely sparing Peter a glance.

"Snape," returned Peter. He stroked distractedly at his silver hand, wishing it was still term time at Hogwarts and Snape was gone.

Living here had been so much more tolerable without Snape looming over him, beady eyes gleaming in delight every time he had a chance to belittle Peter. Gone were the days when James and Sirius could come to Peter's defence...A wrenching, sick feeling unravelled in Peter's stomach at the thought of his former friends. He missed them. He couldn't tell when he had finally started missing them. It was just there, along with the cancerous guilt. A little voice in the back of his mind called him a treacherous, pathetic coward. It sounded eerily like his mother.

Snape moved to one of the cluttered tables, shoving aside a few thick tomes to find some spare parchment and a quill. "Draco will be staying here for a while. Make sure he is fed and watered. I'll expect supper for myself by midnight."

He began to scribble something down on the parchment. Peter edged a little closer to see if he could catch a glimpse. Snape snapped his head up, sallow face pinched in displeasure, and Peter backed away.

"I'm not here to serve your little toy," said Peter, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He couldn't shake the feeling that something very bad had happened.

Draco twitched at Peter's words and Snape snorted, casting a glance at the boy. "We've had this conversation far too many times before, Wormtail. When I return from attending the Dark Lord, I expect food to be ready. In the meantime, you might as well make yourself useful and ensure that Draco eats properly. If I were you, I wouldn't want his mother finding out that he'd skipped a meal."

Sealed parchment in hand, Snape swept past Peter and out of the house. A moment later, there was a muffled crack as he Disapparated.

Peter turned to Draco. He had a faint memory of him being something of a braggart, always taunting Ron and Harry. Thinking of the two boys put a queer twinge in Peter's chest, but he pushed it aside. He didn't have time to think about them now.

Draco didn't look like he was in the mood to pick a fight with so much as a Puffskein. His eyes were bloodshot and his face pale. He didn't move, just stared blankly at the book-covered wall. If the boy had to hide out here, then the Malfoys must have fallen into greater disgrace than Peter had ever thought possible. The thought filled him with a strange sort of glee. He still remembered the teenage Narcissa Black's unpleasant sneer that used to appear whenever Peter had been around. He doubted she'd ever even known his full name.

Draco finally spoke after a moment, his voice faint but dissatisfied. "It's dirty here."

"If you don't like it, clean it yourself," said Peter, annoyed.

He walked through the hidden door that led to the kitchen, reflecting that he might as well feed the boy. There was no telling what Snape might tell the Dark Lord if he didn't. Peter shuddered, grateful that at least he didn't have to be in the Dark Lord's presence any longer. Even Dementors were less stifling.

With a great wave of his wand, Peter filled a tray with dishes and glasses without chipping them much. Three flourishes later, two fat bacon sandwiches sat on plates, onions dripping with mustard hanging off the sides, hot chips surrounding them. The cupboards banging open and shut as the spell worked caused Peter's ears to ring. He waited for it to stop and then filled the glasses with pumpkin juice. There were a few things Peter was good at, and one of them was preparing food by magic, even if the crockery was sometimes worse for the wear.

He carried the tray out into the sitting room. Draco was still where he had left him; he didn't appear to have so much as fidgeted in the meantime. Peter sat down on the sofa beside him and placed the food tray between them. He picked up a sandwich, noticing Draco's nose twitch. Peter chewed the sandwich, staring at the boy. At least Draco was more interesting than the rather dry dissertations on the Dark Arts that comprised most of Snape's library. He'd only found one useful spell in all those books, and the non-academic books held no more entertainment for Peter. One could only read Lady Chatterley's Lover so many times.

Draco glanced down at the plate nearest to him after a moment and wrinkled his nose. "What is that?" he asked.

"Food." Peter shoved chips into his mouth, pleased that they had come out as salty as he liked them. "You don't like bacon?" he asked between mouthfuls.

"Not really."

Draco seemed to come more alive with every passing second; his gaze kept darting around the room, as though he expected someone to leap out and attack him.

"Oh well, more for me." Peter reached out to take Draco's sandwich, but the boy snatched it off the plate. He ripped a bite off with his teeth, glaring at Peter as though to challenge him, looking oddly rodent-like for an instant. Peter shrugged and returned to his own meal.

"Why are you here?" asked Peter. "Has school broken up already? Bit early, isn't it?"

Draco froze and set down his sandwich, hands trembling. "School's broken up forever," he said in a soft voice, staring at the floor.

Peter paused, a chip dangling between his greasy fingers. "What do you mean?"

"Dumbledore," said Draco, shuddering. "Snape—h-he killed him. Hogwarts is finished."

The chip fell out of Peter's hand, and a cold trickle crawled up his spine. He found his appetite suddenly gone—and that hadn't happened since he'd found out that Sirius had escaped Azkaban. Thinking of Sirius made the cold trickle worse. It seemed like every summer, more bad news was delivered to Peter. He couldn't explain why, but what little security he'd felt since moving into this sorry little house vanished as he gazed at Draco's pale face.

"What about Harry?" asked Peter, his voice cracking.

Draco's jaw tightened. "Potter's not dead yet."

There was still hope, then.

Peter wondered when he'd started attaching hope to Harry. It had probably happened sometime when the guilt had come to stay. Peter had done so many bad things, things he knew had been wrong even as he had gone about doing them. Somehow, Peter knew Harry could fix things. The boy had been merciful to him in the Shrieking Shack, though Peter hadn't deserved it. The enormity of Peter's bad decisions crashed down on him with the dawning of the thought that he had ruined that boy's life many times over.

He swallowed and looked at his chips, but their smell now only turned his stomach.

"I—I used to be a good friend of his parents'. There were five of us in the end." He was babbling, but he couldn't stop it. Dumbledore—the greatest wizard of their time, the only one the Dark Lord had ever feared—was dead. That it had been Snape who'd killed him made the thought even more chilling. "We used to have great fun. Just me, Remus, Sirius, James and Lily."

"Lily?"

"Harry's mother."

"The Mudblood?"

Peter's cheeks felt hot and he narrowed his eyes. He may have been the reason James and Lily were dead, but he wouldn't allow their memory to be insulted by some cheeky, disgraced child. "Don't you ever call her that again."

Draco swallowed and stared at him, his grey eyes a bit wide—for a moment, it seemed that he would bite out a nasty retort, but then he looked like a lost little boy, nothing more. Peter felt sick to his stomach. What kind of world was it where little boys were full of hate, hate for things other people couldn't even help?

It was a world he'd helped create, because he'd always been more concerned with his own well-being than anyone else's. In the back of his mind, his mother's stern voice informed him that he'd been raised to be better than that.

Peter left the room without glancing at Draco, stomach still churning.

::

The tightly rolled parchment fluttered down onto the table, startling Narcissa Malfoy. She had been sitting motionlessly in the garden, the scones untouched, the tea cold. All she could think about was Draco; she was sure something awful had happened to him. The morning's Daily Prophet lay open in front of her, the words DARK MARK OVER HOGWARTS stark and mocking, like an imprecation scrawled across some common bathroom wall. The letter that had fallen from the sky now lay on top of the newspaper, obscuring part of the article that Narcissa still couldn't bring herself to read.

She sat up straighter and glanced down at the parchment, then looked up to see what had delivered it, but the owl was gone. Narcissa recognised the thin, spidery writing across the top. She picked the letter up and then paused, hesitating. She hadn't even been able to check if Draco's name was mentioned amongst the injured—or worse, dead—in the paper. What if this letter brought bad news?

Narcissa's heart began beating faster as she realised that Severus would not be sending letters if Draco had been hurt. Severus had made the Unbreakable Vow. Whatever this letter contained, it could not be bad news. With deft fingers, she unrolled the parchment.

Narcissa,

It has been done. Draco is safe. I urge you to leave the country to save yourself as well. I am bound by the Vow still and I shall attempt to keep Draco out of harm's way, to get him to you if the opportunity presents itself. Your family has not yet paid its dues in full, I fear. You are only a mother: I believe that with some persuasion, you may be pardoned for your flight, but you must leave now. Open war is upon us, and soon, this will be no place for you.

—SS

Narcissa let the letter drop to the table. Relief was too weak a word to describe what she felt inside; she wanted to dance around the garden like a little girl, to embrace the next human being who would cross her path, to sing. Draco is safe. What relief three simple words could bring.

Severus had advised her to leave, but how could she? She couldn't leave without her son. She would not need to save herself—what from? There had never been any threat to her life, only to Draco's, and Draco had succeeded in his task. If nothing else, the Dark Lord had always been a man of his word. Still, a shadow of a doubt lingered in her mind.

The letter said that Draco was safe, but it didn't mention his physical condition. Perhaps Draco was gravely injured and Severus did not want her to find out? Was that why he was urging her to leave the country alone—because Draco could not go with her? She needed to find Draco, to see him, to make sure he was all right. She knew exactly where to look for him, too.

Narcissa rose from the wicker chair and gulped down the cold tea; the vile taste made her instantly more alert. She rang the bell for a house-elf to come and take away the untouched food and hurried inside to change into her travelling clothes. She told two other house-elves to pack her and Draco's things—enough for a long, comfortable stay abroad—and Apparated to Spinner's End.

She chose a nearer Apparition point this time—Bellatrix had distracted her when Narcissa was here last. As she made her way towards Severus's house, she recalled the last time she walked along this sad, sorry Muggle street, with Bellatrix like a bloodhound at her heels. Nearly a year had passed since that frantic evening, nearly a year since Narcissa had first taken Draco to that awful place underground.

She knocked on the door, holding her breath. A peculiar feeling overcame her, as though she'd done this exact thing before—and there was that rat-like little fellow, Wormtail. He'd been here before and opened the door just like that...Narcissa's sense of déja vu subsided and there was Draco, asleep on a ratty, sorry-looking sofa, nothing but a nasty, grimy blanket covering his thin frame. Narcissa murmured a greeting to Wormtail and swept past him, practically running towards Draco, anxious to embrace him, to make sure his heart was still beating, like it had on the first day of his life.

Narcissa sank to her knees in front of her son and placed her hands on his shoulders, ran them down his arms. She could hear him breathing quietly, and her panic ebbed away. Draco made a soft noise that made her want to clutch him to her chest and never let go. She looked up at his face—his eyes were open, and he wore a displeased look that made him appear seven years old. Narcissa felt tears welling up in her eyes—he was all right.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she said, trying to keep her voice from breaking. He didn't like seeing her cry. "I am just so relieved you're—"

A realisation flashed into her consciousness, sharp and bright as a knife-blade. Her son, her Draco—he wasn't a boy anymore. He was...he had killed someone. She let go of him and gazed at his darling face, but he didn't look any different. He was still the same boy she'd watched grow up, with the same pale face, signature Black bone structure, his father's eyes...

"Hello, Mother," said Draco, his voice a little hoarse.

He sat up, his shoulders seeming somewhat stiff. Narcissa felt a flash of anger deep beneath the numbness in her chest. Why didn't he have a more comfortable place to sleep?

"Draco, my darling boy, we have to leave now. I know you must be tired, but you can sleep when we get to Madrid, you can sleep the whole day away if you like—"

"Madrid? Mother, I'm not going anywhere." His voice was clear and steady. Inside, Narcissa crumpled. Was this a flight of fancy, something she might talk him out of? Or had his success made him so elated that he did not see the dangers?

"Draco, I know you must be proud of what you've done, but—"

"Proud, Mother? What could I possibly be proud of?" His mouth twitched as though in pain, and he shut his eyes.

Narcissa rose to her feet, frowning. "You've fulfilled your task, haven't you?"

Draco laughed, like a dog barking—it was unnerving, how similar he was sometimes to that brat Sirius—and looked up at her. "I've barely managed to escape with my life, Mother."

Your family has not yet paid its dues in full, I fear.

"Oh," breathed Narcissa, finally understanding. So Severus had done it for Draco. Of course he wouldn't have written that in a letter that might be intercepted, of course. "Well, that's all the more reason for us to—"

There was a muffled cough, and Narcissa turned towards the source of it. The little rat-man was still in the room, standing by the open front door. That would not do at all. "Please leave us, Mr...Wormtail?"

The man appeared shocked, as though he was not used to being treated so politely, and backed out onto the empty street beyond the door. Narcissa cast an Imperturbable Charm upon the door for good measure and turned back to Draco.

::

Peter stared at the door in front of him, trying to will the Imperturbable Charm off with the power of his mind. It would probably be somewhat more effective than his charms, which had failed to remove it. He was dying to know what Narcissa Malfoy and her son were talking about. What had been Draco's task? Why had he failed at it?

Something was happening. Something was going to happen. Peter paced in front of the door, alternating between nervously stroking his silver hand and making sure his wand was still in his pocket. He needed to know, before he could do anything on his own. He couldn't just blindly act. He'd never been the type to make a move without a plan of action. Peter knew that his time was coming again. He had less information than when he'd betrayed James and Lily, but more motivation—the right sort of motivation.

The Dark Lord had to be brought down, and the only way to do that was to weaken him first. He'd grown powerful far more quickly than Peter had anticipated, but it didn't matter. The Dark Lord was lucky that Dumbledore had died, but he could still be weakened. Harry had to be able to destroy him; prophecies didn't lie. Peter was going to do everything in his power to help the boy. He didn't quite know when he had made this decision, but it was there in his mind—a firm and steady goal fuelled by something Peter didn't dare name. He wasn't a bad person; he knew that as unshakably as he knew that the Dark Lord was. The Dark Lord wasn't even a person, strictly speaking.

Peter had been weak before. He'd been afraid for his life, his sanity and his mother. His fear saw him betray his friends, his family and his father's memory. He'd killed thirteen innocent people and framed a good friend, just to protect himself. He'd cracked when the Dark Lord had tortured him. He'd told him everything, and the guilt still burned through Peter's conscience, even sixteen years later. Before, he had only been fighting for survival, but he could be strong now, because he knew his survival would not matter in whatever demented new world the Dark Lord was envisioning.

Peter swore he wouldn't break this time. He'd make his father—bless his soul—proud of him this time. The deaths of James, Lily, Sirius and Dumbledore wouldn't be for nothing. Peter would make it up to them, to everyone. He would be strong and brave, just like William Pettigrew had been—a real Gryffindor. He had no idea where this new strength had come from. Maybe like his hope, it had come with his guilt. He was still terrified, but he was tired of being treated like something nasty clinging to the bottom of Snape's boot. He couldn't stand to live like this anymore; he had to help Harry. After all, he did owe the boy his life, and a wizard's debt was something not even Peter could—or would—ever ignore.

Peter knew just how to do it, too. He wasn't stupid, after all, and even if he wasn't very good with hexes and charms, he wasn't terrible, either. He hadn't been sent to Spinner's End so he could 'assist' Snape; the Dark Lord had entrusted him to Snape for guarding, and Peter had guessed why. One of the spells in Snape's many boring books had proven very useful in confirming his suspicions. Remembering the events in the Riddle graveyard made Peter shudder in residual fear, but it was all so clear, so simple. Peter had a secret weapon now, and he intended to use it.

He just didn't understand why he'd been given this weapon. Did the Dark Lord think him too stupid to put two and two together? Was he not aware that for three years, Peter had listened to him mutter in his sleep? Perhaps not, but Peter knew that the Dark Lord thought him too timid, too weak to even think of using it. But Peter would prove him wrong. He'd prove them all wrong.

Peter heard footsteps and turned around to see Snape stalking down the street towards the house, looking preoccupied. His movements were jerky, like those of a child's toy wound too tightly. Peter hesitated, licking his lips as he remembered that this was the man who'd killed Dumbledore. He closed his eyes and sucked in his breath, remembering his father, his friends, his failures and his churning guilt. He had to do what he had to do. Like the Dark Lord, Snape thought Peter despicable and weak. Ironically, that was Peter's only strength now, the trump card in his sleeve. As long as he appeared properly cowed, no one would suspect him of treachery. He looked up at Snape, who seemed to not have noticed Peter at all.

"Narcissa is here," said Peter, letting his shoulders slump as he edged away from the door.

"What?" snapped Snape, swinging on him, greasy hair sliding across his ugly face.

Peter drew himself up now. "Narcissa Malfoy. She's here."

"You already said that, you imbecile. Why?"

"She's talking to her son. I assume it's some sort of private family business. She cast an Imperturbable on the door."

Snape eyed him, his beetle-like eyes glittering. He pushed Peter aside and pounded on the door. "Narcissa! Please let me in!" he demanded.

Peter reached for his wand, transformed into Scabbers and crept closer. Snape paid him no mind, continuing to knock loudly. After a few moments, the door swung open. Narcissa stood in the doorframe, her pale hair shining. The expression on her face was stormy. Peter heaved himself over the threshold, trying to scrabble along as quietly as possible.

"Why are you here?" asked Snape.

Instead of answering, she retreated from the door, and Snape walked inside. Peter crept in after him before Narcissa flung the door closed. The dim lighting and deep shadows of the house would ensure Peter would remain unseen in his corner, but he would hear everything.

"I told you that you should leave, Narcissa." As always when dealing with Lucius Malfoy's wife, Snape's tone softened a bit. "It's not safe for you here."

Narcissa crossed her arms, tossing her hair back. "I am leaving, Severus. And I'm taking my son with me."

"I'm not going—" Draco began, but one look from his mother silenced him.

"You misunderstood my message, Narcissa," said Snape. "It's not safe for you here, but it would spell both your death and Draco's if you attempted to take him with you."

"What do you mean?" Narcissa's voice was sharp, and Draco turned even paler than usual all of a sudden, so pale that even Peter's colour-blind rat eyes registered the change. He wondered where the boy kept all his blood, since it didn't seem to ever be in his face.

"I mean that the Dark Lord will allow you safe passage out of here, but he wants Draco to stay," said Snape.

Narcissa's mouth fell open. "What?"

Draco bowed his head with a resigned look, muttering something under his breath. Peter thought it sounded like "...been telling you all along".

Snape moved a little closer to Narcissa. Peter hung back in the shadows, but he thought he saw a touch of concern on the man's haggard features. "He's not telling me why, Narcissa, but the Dark Lord made it very clear that if Draco doesn't co-operate, there could be dire consequences for Lucius. I don't want your family affected by this war any more than it already has been—you know that—but Draco has to stay here. It is you who must leave. Things are about to get very ugly, to be disgustingly colloquial."

Narcissa started wringing her hands, tears threatening to spill down her pretty face as she looked between Draco and Snape. Draco sat down on the sofa, gripping one of the armrests with a trembling hand.

"Severus, he's just a boy. He can't stay here. Tell the Dark Lord he's useless, tell him that Draco will only make a mess of things again!" pleaded Narcissa.

Snape touched her on the shoulder, shaking his head. "It's no use, Narcissa. I've done all I can, but the Dark Lord refuses to be moved. He has a plan, one for which he needs Draco, and we must trust in him. You, however—"

"I can't abandon my child!" Her voice was shaky and brittle as she turned to her son.

"I'm not a child," Draco finally said, sounding and looking as petulant as a five-year-old.

"Narcissa, the Ministry is going to be looking at everyone with connections to the Dark Lord, even indirect ones," said Snape, drawing Narcissa's attention back to him. "The attack on Hogwarts will make the Auror pit bulls more vicious than ever. They'll be after everyone who is not a blood traitor. However, Dumbledore's funeral will be held shortly. You should leave while that is going on. They won't notice. They'll be too busy mourning the old fool."

Narcissa wrung her hands again, tears slipping down her cheeks. She flung herself on Draco, smoothing his hair like one might pet a cat. The boy looked justifiably annoyed and worked his way out of his mother's arms.

"My treasure," Narcissa whispered, letting her arms drop to her sides. "Severus will take care of you. Trust him in everything, won't you? He'll help you—" she whimpered and choked on her words, turning away to cover her face with her hands.

Both Snape and Draco looked uncomfortable for a moment, and then Narcissa turned back to them. Her white cheeks were glistening with tears but her voice was firm. Her entire bearing changed; Peter could practically feel the temperature drop around her.

"I will go to my uncle's old house in Madrid. I trust that you remember your obligations, Severus," said Narcissa.

Snape's smile was thin as a razor. "How could I forget?"

Narcissa turned from him, cast one last tear-filled look at her son, and then fled the room. Deciding that this was the best time to escape without notice, Peter slipped out behind her, using the shadows for protection. He would walk through the door in a few minutes and appear none the wiser. Sometimes it was good to be a rat.

::

Draco sank back down onto the rickety, uncomfortable sofa, wishing he could go to sleep and stay that way until it was all over. Snape was staring at the door, his face a mask of indifference except for a pulsing vein in his left temple. Draco bowed his head, pressing the heels of his palms tightly against his eyes, willing the image of his mother's tear-streaked face away. His seventeenth birthday was less than a week away, but he'd become an adult already, hadn't he? A child would have clung to his mother's robes and refused to leave her side, but Draco only wanted his mother to be safe. He'd worked to keep her safe all last year, without ever letting on that the Dark Lord had threatened their family. He'd put family before himself—surely that counted as another rung on the ladder to adulthood?

Draco took a deep breath and lowered his hands. His mother was wrong. He wasn't just a boy anymore. Maybe he was not a killer, maybe he was not as ready for the war as he'd thought he was, but he was no child. He'd prove it to her—and to the rest of them. He looked up at Snape, who was now gazing at him with an inscrutable expression.

"You've done well, Draco," said Snape after a moment. "I trust that you'll prove yourself admirably in the new task the Dark Lord has set for you."

::

"I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good."

Harry stared at the Marauder's map, uncertain of what he meant to find there. Dumbledore would never pace his office again. Malfoy would never disappear into the Room of Requirement again. The year was over, the train was leaving in less than an hour, and the war had finally come to Hogwarts. Harry studied the dots labelled "Ronald Weasley" and "Hermione Granger"—they were just downstairs, in the Gryffindor common room, but it felt like they were on another planet.

Harry was preparing to leave Hogwarts for the last time in his life. He didn't think there was anyone in the world who would understand what that meant—this place had been the only real home he'd known for six years, and now even that was being taken from him. He had chosen not to go back to school for his seventh year, but he wouldn't have made that choice had the circumstances been different. Had it not been for the war, maybe Harry would have stayed here forever.

"Mischief managed," he muttered, and stowed the map in his trunk. It would be useless to him after today. Maybe he should give it to someone who could use it—Ginny, maybe? His heart lurched at the thought of her and he shook his head firmly. He needed to make a clean break from Ginny; he couldn't afford to feel sorry for himself, it wasn't fair to her. Somehow, Harry knew that they would never be together again, not in this lifetime. For all his resolve, for all his courage, Harry knew that his own personal war against Voldemort would claim his life. It had never been an equally matched fight—Harry lacked power, experience and now even guidance. All he possessed was information Voldemort wasn't aware he had—information on the Horcruxes—and the firm knowledge that he would not back down; he would fight, as long as he could.

He stuffed a balled-up pair of socks into the corner of his trunk and looked around. He was done. He stared at the cracked spine of his Transfiguration textbook and frowned. He wasn't quite done, was he? There was another book he'd meant to take with him, a book that now lay behind a cage in the Room of Requirement. Snape. His Potions textbook could prove useful against that bastard, and Harry would not leave without it. He lowered the lid on his trunk and got to his feet. There was still time before the carriages began loading. He'd just grab his Invisibility Cloak and use that to get through the common room, past Ron and Hermione. He didn't want to hear another lecture about Snape's book from Hermione, and—

Shit.

His Invisibility Cloak wasn't there. He'd thrown it aside in his mad rush to get to Dumbledore that night atop the Astronomy tower, and never bothered to retrieve it. Harry tore out of the dormitory and down the steps, pausing long enough to tell Ron and Hermione that he had to talk to McGonagall. They didn't even have time to react before he disappeared through the portrait hole.

He made his way up to the Astronomy Tower, heart hammering. It just wasn't possible that his father's Invisibility Cloak was lost. What if the Ministry people had found it and seized it? Harry didn't want to think about that; he'd never get it back in that case. He kicked at a tapestry bitterly. He was never going to see his Firebolt again; the Ministry representative had been very firm about that. It was "evidence", whatever that was supposed to mean. Like Harry's eyewitness testimony wouldn't be evidence enough.

Once he reached the Astronomy Tower, Harry walked up the spiral staircase to the ramparts. Everything looked just the same as ever; there were no signs of the recent fighting, except for one thing. A small, square plaque hung above what looked like a bloodstain. Site of the thirty-seventh battle for Hogwarts, it read. Harry walked past it, but made a note to tell Hermione about it. She'd love it; she probably knew all the details of the other thirty-six battles.

As if to counter Harry's bleak thoughts, the ramparts were bathed in sunlight and a small, twittering bird sat atop one of the jutting stones. Harry tried not to look at the corner where Dumbledore had stood, but his eyes were drawn to it regardless. Even weakened and ill, Dumbledore had been dignified and kind—to Malfoy, of all people. Furious anger bubbled up inside Harry as he remembered Malfoy's wand arm dropping to his side. Even a bully like Malfoy couldn't murder a defenceless old man, but Snape...Harry clenched his teeth. He would make Snape pay for what he'd done, even if it was the last thing he did.

He pushed the thought away for now, looking around for the place where he had stood, immobilised. It was not far from a statue of a tall, thin woman who vaguely reminded him of McGonagall. Harry walked closer and examined the inscription at the bottom of the pedestal—it was Rowena Ravenclaw. Her robes were old-fashioned and she held a thick book in one hand and a miniature telescope in the other. A small herb dagger hung at her belt, the Ravenclaw emblem carved into its hilt with intricate stonework. Harry looked behind the statue and there it was—his Invisibility Cloak. It had fallen between the statue and the wall, and seemed to have landed in a place that was always in shadow. That was probably why the Ministry grunts had missed it.

Harry sighed with relief as he picked up the Cloak and shook it out. It was only big enough to hide him alone, now—gone were the days when he, Ron and Hermione could all fit under it. Harry wondered what his dad had used the Cloak for, where he'd got it. Had it been a Christmas present, too? Harry tried to picture his dad unwrapping it, seated beside a fragrant, lavishly decorated tree—but all he could think of were the words "Godric's Hollow".

Harry folded the Cloak and slung it over his shoulder, heading back down the spiral staircase into the castle. He would get Snape's book and hide it inside the Cloak; that way Hermione wouldn't be suspicious. He wasn't sure how he could use the book, but his gut was telling him that he needed it, and Harry had learned to trust his gut instinct a long time ago. He arrived on the seventh floor and thought, "I need to find the book I've hidden." After he paced for a minute or so, a door materialised in front of him. Harry cast a quick glance around him to make sure no one was watching, and walked inside.

He was back in the cathedral-sized room filled with damaged furniture, books, clothes, toys and dusty bottles. It took him a moment to adjust his eyes to the harsh light streaming in through the high windows. Harry looked around, trying to remember which alleyway he'd taken on his previous trip here. A glowing red arrow appeared at once on the grime-encrusted floor further ahead. Of course—the Room would help him find the book. Harry followed the arrow, which glided slowly ahead of him, past the enormous stuffed troll and Malfoy's Vanishing Cabinet. He arrived at the acid-blistered cupboard and flung it open: there was Snape's Potions textbook, wedged in between the cupboard wall and the rusting cage.

Harry wrapped the book in his Invisibility Cloak and hurried back outside. He paused beside the Vanishing Cabinet, thinking back to the night Dumbledore had died. Malfoy had managed to repair the thing by himself, who would have thought? Harry had a grudging realisation that he'd underestimated Malfoy, underestimated his intelligence and his motivation. Bizarrely, Harry could relate to Malfoy now that he knew that Malfoy had been trying to save his parents. He had a fleeting thought that everything could have been so different, had Malfoy only been on the right side of the war...He clamped down on the thought, his jaw tightening. It was ridiculous. The likes of the Malfoys would never hobnob with the Muggle-borns; the best anyone could hope for was for bigoted pure-bloods who weren't yet Death Eaters to stay out of the conflict altogether.

Harry took out his wand, aimed and threw a Blasting Curse at the Vanishing Cabinet. He couldn't believe the Ministry hadn't taken the damned thing away from there. They were too busy trying to save face, now that Dumbledore was dead and things looked ever more terrible for the wizarding world. To whom would they turn now that the only wizard strong enough to openly oppose Voldemort was dead? To whom could Harry turn? He let the door to the Room of Requirement close behind him and then the thought hit him.

Dumbledore had left a portrait behind.

Last year, when Sirius had died, Harry had hoped desperately to find a way to talk to him, any way at all—but Sirius Black had left behind no portraits. Buoyed by a surge of reckless hope, Harry sprinted through the castle towards the Headmaster's office—Headmistress's, now—sure that he would be able to ask Dumbledore's advice. He'd seen him in the portrait, and if Phineas Nigellus Black was any indication, the portraits could be quite sharp. Just the thought of hearing Dumbledore's voice again was enough to lift Harry's spirits to a point he wouldn't have thought possible just two hours ago.

The stone gargoyle was silent and unmoving when Harry arrived outside Dumbledore's old office.

"Sherbet lemon?" he ventured. The gargoyle ignored him. "Is the Headmistress inside?" asked Harry. "I'd like to see her."

The gargoyle remained motionless. Harry expelled a frustrated breath and leant against the door, trying to listen in.

"May I ask what you think you're doing, Mr Potter?" came McGonagall's voice from above him. She was glaring from over her spectacles; her face had a worn, sour look, like she was upset about something.

"I only just— I hoped I could talk to Professor Dumbledore's portrait, Headmistress," said Harry with a pleading look.

McGonagall's features softened—it was barely noticeable, but Harry saw it. He hadn't spent six years under her tutelage not to know her a little, at least.

"What for?" asked McGonagall after a brief pause.

"I'm not coming back to Hogwarts next year, Professor, and—"

"Of course you aren't. Hogwarts will not re-open in September," interrupted McGonagall.

Harry's eyes widened. "What? Why?"

She suddenly looked older and more tired. With a sigh, she looked down and said, "The school governors have decided that it would be best to not let the school re-open during wartime."

Harry felt a hot prickle between his shoulder blades. "But they can't do that! That's letting the Death Eaters win!"

The corners of McGonagall's thin mouth curved downwards. "There is nothing I can do, Mr Potter. I suggest you bring your argument before the school governors, if it is so important. As for your request, since you are unlikely to see Professor Dumbledore's portrait again for a long time, I do think it would be wise to allow you to speak with him. I fear that you will be disappointed, however."

"Why?" asked Harry, but McGonagall moved past him and murmured a password to the stone gargoyle.

The door swung open and she motioned for Harry to follow her. He did, feeling more frustrated than ever—not only would he never see Hogwarts again, but the school would close and stand empty until Voldemort was destroyed. The staircase creaked and groaned as it moved them up to the office; something it had never done in Dumbledore's time. Did the castle know it would be abandoned? Was it dying already?

There were no more whirring instruments on spindly-legged tables in the office, though the sword of Gryffindor was still in its glass case behind the large redwood desk, and the Sorting Hat still snoozed upon its stool in the corner. Most of the former headmasters were not in their portraits—were they abandoning the school, too? Retreating to their portraits in other, more interesting places?

"You've got fifteen minutes, Mr Potter. There isn't much time until the carriages leave for Hogsmeade," said McGonagall, and disappeared through a door on the right.

"Oh look, Albus, it's your little boy hero," said a snide voice on his left.

Harry didn't need to look to know who had spoken—it was Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-grandfather. Harry ignored him, turning to look at Dumbledore's portrait. Dumbledore was leaning against the side of the portrait's frame, looking down at Harry with a bemused expression.

"Good afternoon, Harry," he said, his voice clearer than Harry remembered.

"Hello, sir," said Harry, grinning despite himself. "It's— it's good to see you."

"I daresay!" said Dumbledore. "I am, after all, very handsome."

Phineas Nigellus snorted. Harry blinked, remembering McGonagall's words about being disappointed. "Er— yeah. I was wondering if I could talk to you about—" he looked around and lowered his voice—"Voldemort's Horcruxes."

"Quiet, Harry," said Dumbledore, his face stern all of a sudden. "Do not speak of such things where someone might overhear."

"But I've got no choice, sir, I need your help—"

"I have already given you all the help I could," said Dumbledore. "You know that."

"But sir, the thing we found in the cave, it's fake! It's been replaced," argued Harry. "I don't know where to start looking."

"Of course you do," said Dumbledore. "You've known it ever since you were born, Harry. As for the rest—you have got all the information I could ever have given you, according to Phineas here."

Harry whirled on the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, glaring. "I have not got all the information! Why are you telling him anything?"

"You're an impertinent brat, Potter," said Phineas Nigellus in a languid voice. "Didn't you bother to find out how the portraits work, before you showed up here demanding answers of a weary old man?"

"Please, Phineas," Dumbledore cut in. "The boy's a Gryffindor, not a Ravenclaw, and he's not yet reached a point when the distinction loses its importance."

"If everyone keeps mollycoddling him, he never will!" Phineas Nigellus shot back, his painted eyebrows drawing together.

Harry had had enough of them talking about him as though he wasn't even there. "Please, sir," he said to Dumbledore. "I just need to know if I'm doing the right thing by going to my parents' house in Godric's Hollow."

"You see, Phineas?" said Dumbledore, and turned to Harry. "Are you looking for orders or reassurance, Harry? You will find neither, here. In your place, I would suffer orders from no one. As for reassurance, seek it from those who stand beside you, not an old spectre."

Tears stung Harry's eyes at the sight of Dumbledore's sad old face, and suddenly the canvas didn't seem harmless anymore. It was an impenetrable barrier that separated the living from the dead, and Harry understood—he would never really be speaking to Dumbledore when he talked to this portrait. He didn't need books to explain it to him; he just felt it. There was no twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes anymore.

"It's not the same without you, sir, it's—"

"Mourning will not further your cause," interrupted Dumbledore. "It is, perhaps, unfair, but you have had your entire life to mourn. Now is the time to fight. I believe that I have told you once that there is no overcoming darkness, no conquering it completely. You can only keep it at bay, but there is no denying it, no preventing the night from blotting out the light of the sun. But as long as there is love in your heart, that little bit of light can shine despite the darkest sky. You've got a chance to strike back against darkness, Harry Potter. Use it."

"Yes, sir," said Harry—absurd, childish pride was filling his chest and the tears in his eyes were no longer those of sorrow. Dumbledore gave him a benign smile and shuffled to the armchair in his portrait, where he promptly dozed off.

Harry turned to leave, but Phineas Nigellus's voice stopped him. "Potter."

Harry turned around, eyeing the portrait suspiciously. "Yeah?"

"You will do well not to attempt to visit your house," said Phineas, his voice soft. "The Fidelius Charm no longer protects it, and I doubt you'll find yourself in good company should you choose to venture there."

Harry frowned. "Has Grimmauld Place been taken over by the Death Eaters, then?"

"No subtlety," said Phineas with a sigh. "Yes, you stubborn boy, that is correct."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Phineas rolled his eyes. "As much as I dislike you, I can't say I'd like to see the wizarding world run by that jumped-up half-blood, Slytherin blood or not. You might still grow up to be less of an embarrassment to wizardkind—he, on the other hand, has no more room to grow."

"Uh, thanks. I think," muttered Harry.

"Come, Potter," said McGonagall's sharp voice.

Harry looked up and saw her, travelling cloak slung over her arm, a tartan-draped trunk floating beside her. His heart sank like a stone—so this was it. He was leaving forever. He didn't look back at Dumbledore as he walked away.

McGonagall escorted him up to Gryffindor Tower, where Ron and Hermione were sitting on top of their trunks outside the portrait hole, their faces anxious. Harry rushed up to the dormitory, stuffed Snape's Potions textbook and the Invisibility Cloak into his trunk, and levitated it out. He wouldn't even have time to properly say goodbye to Hogwarts.

Hagrid came to see them off. His great hulking shape loomed above the throng of students getting into the carriages. Noticing Harry, he turned and gave a feeble wave. As Harry got closer, he saw that Hagrid's eyes were still red-rimmed and puffy. Harry's insides lurched; he wanted to tell Hagrid to go and talk to Dumbledore's portrait, but he knew that it would probably upset Hagrid even more.

Hagrid looked down at him. "All righ', Harry?"

"Fine," said Harry. "What are you going to do now?" he asked, nodding vaguely in the direction of Hagrid's hut.

Hagrid grunted as he heaved Harry's trunk into the waiting carriage. "Goin' to take Grawpy trainin'."

"Training?" asked Hermione.

Hagrid nodded, bending down to pick up Ron's trunk. "Kingsley's got a friend from Russia that works with giants, see. He's goin' ter teach Grawpy how ter blend in better."

"Good luck with that," Ron muttered under his breath. Hermione gave him a look.

Hagrid, who had in the meantime finished loading their trunks into the carriage, straightened up, puffing. "Yeh'd better be goin'," he said, looking dejected.

Harry didn't know what to say, so he just held out his hand. Hagrid pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. "Take care of yerself, Harry. I'll see yeh soon."

The carriages rolled down the dusty path through the gates, towards Hogsmeade. Harry could already hear the whistle of the Hogwarts Express. Somehow it sounded sad and mournful, as though it, too, knew that it was not going to come back any time soon. Maybe it would never come back. Leaning out to look ahead at the long line of carriages in front of theirs, Harry thought it looked like a funeral procession.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were silent for most of the train trip back to London. Harry decided he wouldn't talk about his conversation with Dumbledore to anyone, not even Ron and Hermione. He didn't think they'd understand. He stared out of the window, trying desperately to memorise everything he could—every passing tree, every distant town and every flicker in the still air.

London greeted them with grey skies and a nasty drizzle.

When Ron told his parents that he was going to stay at the Dursleys' with Harry, Mrs Weasley wouldn't hear of it. Her normally kind face was forbidding as she and Ron shouted at each other, and she refused to look at Harry. Hermione, whose parents had accepted the news with some grudging and left the station after taking most of Hermione's things with them, stood beside Harry, looking helpless. Harry wondered if she'd told her parents the real reason why she was going to the Dursleys'. Somehow, he doubted it.

"I'm not a child!" yelled Ron, his face beet-red. "You can't keep me fastened to your robes all your life, Mum, and you've got no right to stop me! I'm seventeen!"

Mrs Weasley burst into tears, burying her face in her husband's shoulder. "I don't understand what I've done to make my sons hate me! First Percy and now Ron!" she sobbed.

Mr Weasley looked as lost as Harry felt; he patted his wife on the back awkwardly, exchanging glances with Ron, who had gone pale. He was shaking. Harry was about to pull him aside and tell him to go with his parents; he could come to the Dursleys' later...

Ron spoke in a low voice that Harry hadn't heard him used since they'd had their big row in fourth year. "Percy? Did you just compare me to Percy? I'm going with Harry because he's my friend, because I'd rather die for him than sit at home, knowing that he's out there somewhere, fighting. I'm not leaving because of you. I'm leaving because of me."

He pulled his trunk up from the trolley and stalked past Harry and Hermione, bumping Harry's shoulder and muttering, "C'mon." Harry cast a glance at the Weasleys and saw that Mrs Weasley was no longer crying. She was staring after her son, her eyes wide and fearful, her cheeks wet.

"You won't let anything happen to him, will you, Harry?" she asked in a quavering voice.

"I would die first," said Harry, his own voice firm and grave.

Mrs Weasley began to sob into her husband's shoulder again, waving her hand feebly in Harry and Hermione's direction. Mr Weasley nodded at Harry, slipping an arm around Ginny's shoulders and pulling her closer. She looked upset but determined, and Harry desperately wanted to hold her tightly one last time, but he knew he couldn't. Shouldn't. Too many people could see them. He held Ginny's gaze for a moment, gave Mr Weasley a nod in return, and set off after Ron, pulling Hermione with him.

Ron must have still looked dangerous enough to fear when the three of them approached the waiting Dursleys, because Uncle Vernon merely turned a violent shade of purple when Harry blithely informed him that Ron and Hermione were coming to stay. Aunt Petunia looked like she was about to protest, but Harry looked her in the eye and whispered, "I'm not going back if you don't let my friends come, too. Albus Dumbledore is dead. You don't want to find out what will happen to you if you break your promise to a dead wizard, trust me. " He was bluffing, of course, but she didn't need to know that.

The trip back to Privet Drive was uneventful, if one didn't count Dudley being stupid enough to try and feel up Hermione, who was squeezed between him and Ron in the back seat. Harry was smiling to himself the rest of the way; it would be a long time before Dudley forgot the feeling of two wands pressed to his throat by full-grown wizards. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had noticed nothing, and Harry thought he'd heard Ron mutter out of the side of his mouth, "Speak and you're dead, fat boy."

Once they reached the house, Harry and his friends took their things upstairs. Hermione regarded Harry's bed for a few moments, and then transfigured it into a three-tiered bunk bed with a ladder running up the side. Harry began to climb up to the top level, but Ron pulled him down by his ankles; both boys ended up in a heap on the floor, much to Hermione's amusement. They settled the argument over a game of Exploding Snap, with Harry earning the right to the top bunk fair and square.

Whatever came in two months' time, Harry knew this would be the best summer he'd ever spent at Dursleys'.

::

"You're not eating."

"I'm not hungry," said Draco, pushing his plate away.

Wormtail wasn't too bad a cook, but his creations were usually so loaded with fat that Draco would be full after a few bites. Shrugging, Wormtail pulled Draco's plate towards himself and began gobbling up the remaining chips, his chin slick with grease. Draco wrinkled his nose and turned away, revolted. He couldn't wait to get out of here. Snape had told him to stay put; Draco wasn't to risk capture.

Draco was used to spending time alone in the summer, so he wasn't particularly fussed. After his comment about Potter's dead Mudblood mother, Wormtail had stayed out of his way for the most part, which suited Draco just fine. The memories of the past year were slowly ebbing away as the empty days of boredom and waiting blurred together. Sometimes Draco felt like it had all been a bad dream—that none of it—using the Imperius Curse on Rosmerta, the cursed necklace, the poisoned mead, the Vanishing Cabinet—had actually happened to him.

Then he would wake up, sweating and panting, after yet again watching that flash of green light slam into Dumbledore's chest and extinguish his blue eyes. Dumbledore's last words in Draco's dreams were always "You are not a killer", but he knew that he was. If it hadn't been for him, Dumbledore would still be alive. There was just no getting away from that, no pretending that it had no significance. It had all happened to him, all of it. There was no dream to wake up from, only a darker nightmare that waited around the corner.

Worst of all, Draco knew that had he and his family been on the 'right' side, as Dumbledore had called it, none of it would have happened to them. His father would not be in Azkaban. His mother would not have been forced to flee to Madrid. Draco would be enjoying another lazy summer at Malfoy Manor. He would go on long walks through the grounds with his father, talking of the future. He would indulge his mother by dancing with her in her magnolia grove, to no music but the rustling of leaves in the wind. He would be looking forward to his final year at Hogwarts, after which he would—

There was a sharp knocking sound on the window; Draco looked up, startled. The curtains were drawn, so he got up from the sofa and walked to the window. Pulling the curtains aside, he saw a post owl balancing precariously on the narrow windowsill outside. Its round, yellow eyes were expectant as it stared up at Draco.

"Were you expecting any post?" he asked Wormtail, turning around.

Wormtail, whose mouth was still full of food, shook his head mutely. Draco opened the window, frowning—surely his mother wouldn't be sending owl post? He untied a letter from the owl's leg—it was addressed to him, and Draco knew this handwriting. He watched the owl fly away as he shut the window, pulling the curtains back into place.

Dear Draco,

I'm beginning to get really worried about you. I've tried going to the Manor to look for you, but it's empty and the house-elves told me that your mother has gone away—is everything all right? That night, after you left, we heard shouting and spells. All the girls were so scared. And then Dumbledore was dead and everyone was saying that Snape had done it. Hogwarts is not reopening in September; McGonagall announced it before we got on the train. Where are you? You haven't contacted anyone, not even me. Blaise, of all people, sent an owl yesterday asking if I'd heard from you. Please at least write to let me know you're okay.

Pansy

Draco crushed the parchment in his fist, trying not to curse out loud. How fucking stupid did she have to be? She knew he would be on the run; he'd told her he would not come back when he'd left the common room on the night of Dumbledore's death. Couldn't the twit put two and two together? Blaise had had the presence of mind to write to someone else, why couldn't she—?

Of course Blaise was far more worldly than Pansy. It was why Draco preferred him to Pansy, wasn't it? He bit his lip. Blaise was concerned about him? All through the year, he'd said nothing to Draco about his mission, asked nothing about it during the time they spent together. Of course, they had rarely ever done any talking during that time, but...

Draco clutched the parchment tighter in his fist, digging his nails into his palm to keep the entirely inappropriate thoughts that flooded his mind from overwhelming him. He hadn't even said goodbye to Blaise, because of Pansy—she'd been demanding they talk, and he'd had a job to do, but she had been his girlfriend. Draco closed his eyes and turned back to the window, pretending to peer through the curtains.

"There's a war on, and you're worried about the amount of time you and I spend together? I told you I was doing something for the Dark Lord."

"You won't even tell me what that is! It's like I'm not even here most days, and you don't even try to kiss me and—"

"We've been through this, haven't we? I don't like doing that in front of your stupid friends, and you're never without them!" He'd never told her that he didn't like doing it, full stop, that he'd much rather be kissing Blaise Zabini, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

"I wouldn't be with my friends all the time if you'd make time for me!"

"Look, this is getting ridiculous. I can't spend time with you, I've got a job to do."

"But we're going out!"

"Maybe we shouldn't be going out."

"What?" Her eyes had narrowed, and she was breathing heavily through her nose. "You don't mean that."

"You're right, I don't," he lied. The clock on the wall struck, and Draco panicked. He had to go. "Pansy...my work for the Dark Lord, it's almost done. I'm leaving Hogwarts tonight but I'll find you when I can. I'll be back. I promise."

"Draco—"

"I have to go."

"Bad news?" asked Wormtail, snapping Draco out of his thoughts.

"No," he said.

He turned around, stuffing the parchment in his pocket. He had to find a way to send word to Pansy, to keep her from writing to him again. Someone would know that they were going out, clearly someone was bound to be watching her owls. If he was found before he could complete his task...Draco didn't want to think about that. The Dark Mark on his arm alone would ensure that he would be thrown in Azkaban along with his father, and they would both be dead not long after that, he knew.

"I need to send an owl, is there one about?"

Wormtail stared at him. "Not without Snape's permission," he said after a long pause.

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

Wormtail shrugged, got up from the sofa and began collecting the empty dishes onto a tray. "I don't know. I don't even know where he went."

"That's because you have no business knowing," said a voice from the door.

Draco turned to see Snape standing there with a...covered basket that, judging by the smell, held fresh-baked pastry. Draco blinked slowly as Snape strode further into the room and set the basket down on the table. Wormtail's expression matched Draco's surprise as he stood there gaping, tray tilting dangerously in his hand.

"I noticed you weren't eating properly," said Snape, turning to Draco. "As your mother would have my head if I let you starve to death, I thought I could remedy the situation." He gestured towards the basket, his face a study in dispassion. "Why were you asking about me?"

"My utter cow of a girlfriend had the bright idea to send me an owl, Professor," said Draco.

Wormtail sniggered, and both Draco and Snape turned to glare at him. Wormtail ducked his head down a little, lifted the tray in his hands a bit further, and shuffled out of the room, looking sheepish.

"Now, now, Draco. Don't talk that way about Miss Parkinson. I'm sure she is simply worried."

"Yeah, but they could track me through her owls, couldn't they? I mean—"

"Yes, that is a very good point," murmured Snape. "Write the letter, and I will make sure it is delivered tonight."

Draco nodded and walked to the table. Whatever was in the basket smelled delicious, and Draco felt his mouth water. "Where are these from, sir? Hamfast's?"

Snape smiled lazily. "No, these are compliments of the esteemed house of Prince," he said. "My family," he added after a moment.

Draco only nodded. Snape was descended from the Princes? But they were rich! The Prince family was even older and more well-to-do than the Malfoy family—though not nearly as old as the Black family, of course—Draco had had no idea Snape was a descendant. He knew of the Snapes, of course. They had a Muggle town named after them in Suffolk but Aloysius Snape had lost his fortune in a risky foreign venture eighty years ago, which Draco had always assumed was the reason for Snape's poverty...

Draco smiled inwardly—the mild excitement he felt at recalling all these details warmed him. Wizarding genealogy had always been something he enjoyed. He was so curious now, about the story behind Snape's lot. The man was clearly on good enough terms with his mother's side of the family, judging by the basket. He shook his head and dug around for some spare parchment. There would be time to think about this later.

He couldn't find any parchment, so he smoothed out Pansy's letter again and wrote on the back of it.

Pansy,

Do not write to me again unless your wish is to see me imprisoned or killed. I'll be in touch when it's safe.

Draco thought of Blaise, picturing him bent over a desk in the upstairs office of his mother's mansion, his own brand of concern across his handsome brow as he wrote to Pansy. Draco ran the tail end of his quill absent-mindedly down his neck and wrote,

Give Zabini my regards.

DM

He folded the parchment into his signature triangle shape, addressed it and handed it to Snape. Snape pocketed the parchment and swept out of the house without another word. Draco lay down on the lumpy sofa and closed his eyes. The smell of pastry made him feel safe, like he was six again, back at home and playing with his toy broomstick beneath the kitchen windows.

Safe.

His mother was safe, and his father would be, too, as soon as Draco completed his task. After what he'd had to do last year, this would be a piece of cake.

::

Harry hadn't been wrong when he'd determined that this summer with the Dursleys would be his best one. His aunt and uncle were so terrified of having not one but three magic users in the house—two of them considered adults in the wizarding world—that they had taken to going out in the evenings when Uncle Vernon would return from work. During the day, Aunt Petunia spent most of her time at various neighbours'. Dudley barely showed his face at home, often sleeping over at this or that friend's.

Harry did not leave the house, not even to go out in the garden. He knew that the walls of the house were the best protection he could ever get, and he was determined to heed Dumbledore's warnings—all of them—from now on.

On the fourth evening of their stay, Hermione practically dragged Ron to the Burrow to talk to his mother; when they came back, Ron seemed much more relaxed. Hermione told Harry later that they had argued for a while, but then all was well again. Harry was glad; he hated the idea of anyone in the Weasley family rowing because of him. He thought of Ginny often, wondering how she was doing, but he was too proud to ask Ron about her. Ron knew that Harry had broken up with her, so it would just make Harry look stupid.

Hermione seemed to have made it a personal goal to read every book on the Dark Arts that had ever been published; owls were delivering more books every week. Harry's room looked like a cross between a really small library and a bomb shelter. The latter was because Hermione was also busy stocking up on supplies for when they went to Godric's Hollow. Every time she brought a new batch of tinned baked beans, condensed milk or packet soups, she would examine each item, shrink it to the smallest size she could, and add to the rapidly growing stack by the window, near Hedwig's cage, organised and colour-coded according to expiry date.

Harry had no idea what he would have done without Hermione, because his plan had simply been to take his most important things—his wand, some clothes, his Invisibility Cloak and Sneakoscope; Hedwig was going to live at the Burrow—but he understood that if they were going to set off in search of Horcruxes, they would need to be thoroughly prepared. During meals, Hermione would ply Ron and Harry with information on proper anti-Muggle security. They were going to use magic as often as they could during their quest, after all.

The date of Bill and Fleur's wedding was fast approaching—Harry would have preferred not to have to leave the house, but he supposed that even Dumbledore wouldn't have minded if he left Privet Drive to go to an event that would be attended by the entire Order of the Phoenix. The wedding was originally supposed to take place in France, but Mrs Weasley had insisted that it be held at the Burrow instead; she wanted her son to get married at home, not in some strange country. She had proved rather unshakeable on the matter. Ever since Fenrir Greyback had bitten Bill, Molly had become even more protective of her son.

On the day of the wedding, Hermione fussed over Ron and Harry in a way that would have put Mrs Weasley to shame had she been there to witness it. Fred and George bought Ron new burgundy robes—the ones they'd bought last year were too small already. Hermione had picked up new dress robes for Harry on the previous week; they didn't look any different from Harry's old ones, though. At noon, just when Hermione had managed to get Harry's hair to lie flat, Tonks showed up with a Portkey that the four of them took to the Burrow.

The wedding was to take place in the garden, which was decorated with large white and purple blossoms for the occasion; Harry felt a bit like walking through a perfume shop as he made his way towards one of the deck chairs near the front. Various Weasleys occupied the first three rows on the left—Harry didn't think he'd ever seen so much red hair in one place. Relatives from all over Britain were at the Burrow that day, and even a few from Canada, or so Ron had told him. On the right sat Fleur's family—there were much fewer of them, and Harry thought they looked somewhat intimidated.

Bill, who still had a slight limp, looked very handsome in the traditional plum-coloured wedding robes; Fleur wore a matching set of robes and a dazzling smile—she always looked beautiful, but even Harry thought she looked better than ever. Ron spent the entire ceremony looking down at his shoes rather than at Fleur, which Hermione seemed to appreciate.

Fleur and Bill were married by a representative from the Ministry's Marriage Office. He was a short, stocky little man with an impressive moustache and a shiny bald patch. He spoke so quietly that Harry doubted anyone but Bill and Fleur could hear him. At Bill's insistence and to Mrs Weasley's horror, he made an Unbreakable Vow to Fleur—Harry watched the circles of fire around their clasped hands and remembered that Snape had made that same vow to Draco Malfoy's mother. He willed the thought away for now; this was not the time for wondering about Snape. When Fleur made the same Vow to Bill, there wasn't a dry eye amongst the women present. Well, almost all women. Hagrid was sobbing into Madame Maxime's shoulder; Madame Maxime just looked terribly amused.

After the ceremony, the celebrations began—Mrs Weasley had outdone herself, cooking not only traditional British dishes but also various French specialities and delicacies; Harry was a bit lost amidst all the food. Eventually he didn't even bother checking what he was eating—it was all quite good, and he hadn't come for the food, anyway. He watched Ginny out of the corner of his eye, and even noticed her looking at him a few times, but he had promised himself to be strong—if they were seen apart at the wedding of her brother, their break-up would be obvious, which was what Harry wanted.

Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be found. Harry assumed they'd run off for some private time. He didn't mind. They'd just been going out a short while and they couldn't exactly have any privacy in Harry's bedroom. The festive atmosphere of the wedding disturbed him a little—he found it difficult to be truly joyous. At times, glimpsing things like Mrs Weasley and her husband dancing, Tonks punching Lupin in the shoulder as she laughed at a joke he'd made, Hagrid attempting to serenade Madame Maxime to general applause and laughter, made Harry feel resentment on Dumbledore's behalf—he'd only been dead a few weeks and already everyone seemed to have forgotten him.

Butterbeer in hand, Harry wandered over to Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was standing alone near the fence, watching the celebrations with a look of distaste that seemed to mirror how Harry was feeling.

"Hello, Harry," said Kingsley in his deep, rumbling voice.

"'Lo, Kingsley," returned Harry, glancing at the crowd and then back again. "Wild party."

"I see you approve as much as I do," said Kingsley, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Feels a bit like feasting during the Plague, doesn't it?"

Harry took a sip of his drink, frowning. "Like what?"

"Celebrating at a time that's inappropriate," said Kingsley. "It's a saying I've picked up somewhere during my work in the Muggle world. Never mind. How are you holding up?"

"As well as I could be, I suppose," said Harry. "The Prophet's been silent on the war—do you know what's been going on? I don't leave the house—"

"Good," said Kingsley quickly. "Sorry, go on."

"No, I just want to know what's going on. What's really going on."

Kingsley sighed and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one, inhaled deeply, then blew out the smoke with a look of contentment. "In the past week, it's been quiet, too quiet. I don't like it. Before that, there was a rash of disappearances—don't know if Hermione's told you, but Horace Slughorn is missing again."

"Somehow I think he arranged for that himself," said Harry, smirking.

Kingsley laughed—a deep belly laugh—and took another pull on his cigarette. "Yeah, I don't disagree with you. Lots of shop owners have been dragged off—I'm thinking Voldemort is trying to undermine the economy so we won't have the resources to deal with him when he makes that first strike."

"Strike? He's got a few dozen Death Eaters, maybe less," scoffed Harry.

Kingsley sighed and squinted into the distance, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. "Rumour has it that Voldemort's amassed an army of Dark creatures—giants, werewolves, vampires, hags—to name a few. Dementors, too, of course."

Harry shuddered involuntarily. "What do you think he's going to do?"

"He might start harassing the Muggles again—though that's pretty much guaranteed either way—and, of course, he's after you."

"Yeah. He can't touch me until I'm seventeen. After that, me 'n Ron 'n Hermione are leaving."

"Don't tell me where you're going. Tell your friends not to tell anyone, either. If anyone you tell is captured, you could be found. If you need assistance, of any kind, you know how to send messages by Patronus. By the way, we've made you Unreachable."

Harry was going to ask what that meant, and explain that he actually didn't know how to send messages by Patronus, but there was a crack of Apparition, then another, and a whole series of them that sounded like machine gun fire, all around the garden.

Then a voice Harry knew, mocking and venomous: "A blood traitor's wedding is no cause for celebration!"

Bellatrix Lestrange.

A table flew into the air, disappearing behind the fence, and Harry saw that a dozen or so masked Death Eaters stood in a semicircle at the very end of the garden; he had no doubt that there was a similar semicircle in front of the house.

"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. We're second cousins, twice removed, and you don't even send me an invitation?" Bellatrix threw her head back and laughed; Harry couldn't see her face but he knew what it must have looked like. "Bless you for inviting the entire Order of the Phoenix, though, now we can kill two birds with one stone!" She laughed again. The rest of the guests appeared frozen, but Harry noticed that Madame Maxime stood alone; Hagrid was nowhere to be seen.

Harry glanced at Kingsley, but he was gone, his half-smoked cigarette smouldering in the grass. In his place was Lupin, who forced Harry's head down and began to pull him away. "Come on," he said. "You need to get out of here."

"No," protested Harry, keeping his voice as low as he could. "I can't leave! I have to fight!"

"You have to fight Voldemort, not his lackeys. Come on." Lupin sounded like he meant business. "Have you got your Cloak, by any chance?"

Harry shook his head—he hadn't thought he'd need the Cloak. He should have known better. "I'm not leaving without Ron and Hermione," he said. "You can't make me."

They were at the side of the house now, in a narrow passageway between the fence and the wall, and Lupin whirled him around, his normally kind eyes flashing with fury. "You would rather your parents, Dumbledore and S-Sirius died in vain?"

In the garden, Bellatrix was still laughing.

In your place, I would suffer orders from no one.

Harry met Lupin's gaze squarely. "No. But they will have died in vain just as much if I turn out to be the type of person to leave my best friends in danger and run away. I don't care about the stupid prophecy now, Professor. I care about my friends, and I will not leave without them."

Lupin pulled back, looking at Harry as though he had just seen him for the first time.

"Harry! Pssst!" came a whisper from his left.

He turned and saw Hermione, crouched low, peeking around the edge of the house. Ron's head appeared under Hermione's. "Harry, come on! Hagrid says we have to leave, says you wouldn't go without us. I think you should stop being a prat, but come on!"

"Looks like Hagrid knows you far better than I do," murmured Lupin, releasing him. "Go on, Harry. Go with Hagrid."

Without hesitation, Harry ran to his friends. Behind him, he heard shouted hexes and curses—the fighting had begun, and he was running away. Lupin was right; he did have to fight Voldemort. He just wouldn't do it without his friends.

Hagrid, Ron and Hermione were waiting in a small enclosure—from the outside, it looked like a corner, but the wall had a dent in it. There used to be a shed there, which had got taken out.

"C'mon," said Hagrid, stepping aside to reveal a gleaming black machine—Sirius's flying motorbike!

"It was meant ter be a gift, fer yer journey, but it looks like yeh're gonna have ter use it righ' away. Get on, then, all three of yeh. I'll take yeh away from the fightin'."

They piled onto the motorbike—which expanded in length to allow enough room for everyone—and Hagrid started the engine. It wasn't nearly as loud as the Muggle motorbikes Harry was used to; it was almost quiet compared to the racket in the garden.

They rose into the air, slowly at first until they cleared the Burrow's roof, and then faster and faster—up towards the clouds.

"I say, look at that motorbike! Potter is getting away! Shoot him down! Amycus! Draco! Shoot that bike down!"

Harry couldn't tell who was screaming, but he guessed it was Bellatrix. Snape hadn't been there; Harry was sure. Too afraid to face his former fellow Order members, no doubt. Bloody coward. Even Malfoy was there. Harry wondered if Malfoy would kill this time around. Probably. Malfoy would do anything Voldemort told him, especially after having failed once. Harry's heart clenched as he thought of Ginny. He could only hope that she would escape unscathed, that was most important. But what would she think of Harry's flight?

A hot jet of red light whizzed past Harry's ear and he ducked down. A moment later, they were above the clouds. It was freezing, but Hermione had her wand out. She waved it and a pocket of warm summer air formed around them. Harry no longer had difficulty gulping the air rushing towards him. He could breathe normally, which made the rest of the journey bearable.

Hagrid brought the bike down behind a small wood and they made the rest of the way to Little Whinging using the motorway. Once they reached the Dursleys' house, Ron and Hermione ran inside after a quick good-bye to Hagrid, who peeled away from the front of the house as though a host of Dementors were on his tail. Harry stared after him for a few moments, wishing despite everything to be going back to the Burrow. He followed Ron and Hermione inside, noticing that the curtains in the neighbours' kitchen window billowed down like someone had just been looking out. Probably Aunt Petunia.

They sat in silence on the floor in Harry's room for a long time. Eventually, Harry spoke. "I had to leave," he said. "If I'm killed, he'll win."

"We know," said Ron. "That's why I didn't stay, even though they attacked my family's home." His freckled face coloured slightly and he frowned. "I was going to stay, but Hagrid reminded me of who you were, and why you had to leave, and that you wouldn't leave if I didn't."

"I wasn't going to leave without you. Lupin tried to throw the deaths of my parents, Sirius and Dumbledore in my face, the bastard—"

"You two are absolutely insufferable," said Hermione. "You think you could have helped? You would have been in the way, like all those other guests. The entire Order was there, don't you think that counts for something?"

Harry didn't want to agree with Hermione, but she was right. He just hoped Ginny would see it the same way, and wouldn't think him a coward.

::

Potter had got away, and Draco was dead.

Well, he wasn't dead yet, but it had been his task to bring Potter before the Dark Lord. He'd gone in with so many Death Eaters to clear the way for him, and he'd failed. They'd cut the broom shed off when they Apparated, and the first spell they cast as soon as they were there was a powerful Anti-Disapparition jinx—but nobody had expected Potter to have a flying motorbike!

Draco was so dead. Unless...

He watched the fighting, noticing how many red-haired, freckled people there were. It had been a Weasley wedding up until that moment, and if Draco played his cards right...Yes, that was it. Wasting no time, he turned to face the fence near which he'd Apparated. He ripped off his mask and charmed some freckles onto his cheeks and nose, then changed his hair colour to match the Weasleys'. He tore off his hood so that he was wearing nothing but standard black robes—now he just needed to find a dead body to transfigure and a place where he could wait out the fighting. He saw a suitable dead body—a Weasley of some sort lying face-up on the grass near one of the overturned tables.

Draco ran along the fence, crouching, and transfigured the body into his own—there. Draco Malfoy lay dead. No one would bother trying to find out if that was the real Draco Malfoy or not—a dead Death Eater was a good Death Eater, and Draco had even remembered to put his Dark Mark on the body, for added emphasis.

Goodbye, Draco Malfoy. Hello, J. Random Weasley.

Now, to find a suitable hiding spot. Draco turned and immediately collided with someone, sending them both flying to the ground. Then he saw a jet of horrible green light sail overhead. He really needed to find a place where there were no stray Killing Curses, damn it. He began to struggle up, the person underneath him also trying to push him off, but he heard Amycus's voice and froze. Amycus wouldn't recognise him, would he? Please, please let him not recognise Draco.

"Why, yer a regular Weasley hero, ain'tcha, boy? An' I was goin' to take her pretty corpse with me, have some fun. For that, you'll be deader'n my friend Draco over there in jussa second..."

Draco processed two different things at once, mind reeling. Amycus had seen the dead Draco. That was good. Amycus was also now ticked off at the living Draco. That was bad. Very bad.

As soon as Amycus raised his wand, whispering a spell, and Draco saw the beginnings of something dark and unpleasant rush out of the wand tip, he raised his own wand with "Impedimenta!" and Amycus stumbled back.

Almost immediately, Aunt Bellatrix's voice yelled, "RETREAT!" and cracks of Disapparition filled the air. As Draco stumbled up, shaking out his—embarrassingly red—hair and brushing off his robes, he was instantly tackled back to the ground by a large, round madwoman, who was sobbing, dripping blood and tears all over him.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she whimpered. There was a huge diagonal gash across her face that was gushing blood; Draco almost was sick when he saw the shining, red flesh inside the wound. He recognised her despite his horror—it was Molly Weasley. Why was she crying, and what was she thanking him for?

He looked to his side and got his answer. Ginny Weasley—the person he'd inadvertently saved from Amycus's Killing Curse—was sitting there, rubbing her forehead. He'd just saved Potter's girlfriend's life—whether he'd known it at the time or not was irrelevant—and Potter owed him one.

Mrs Weasley was dragged off him by a pair of other Weasleys—the twins, Draco saw. He wanted to rub his forehead, like Ginny—all that red hair was making him terribly confused. Draco got up, feeling suddenly light-headed. He blinked a few times and the feeling passed.

"Who are you?" asked Ginny, peering up at him suspiciously.

"I don't care who you are, dear, thank you for saving my daughter. God, I couldn't stand it, I wouldn't be able to stand it!" sobbed Mrs Weasley. "Thank you," she choked.

"You're most welcome, but I—er—I need to be going now," said Draco in his most polite voice. He took a step forward and felt the world tilt again. What was wrong with him?

"Wait a second, I know that voice," said Ginny. "Finite Incantatem!" she said, before Draco had a chance to draw his wand to prevent it.

They all blinked at each other for a few moments; Draco was having difficulty blinking because his eyelids felt so heavy all of a sudden—oh, fuck, he knew what was happening, he knew, he was dead anyway—

Mrs Weasley grabbed his hands in hers and squeezed them so strongly Draco thought they would fall off. "I don't care what made you do it, I don't care what you've done before, but you've saved my daughter's life and—"

Draco felt pain explode in his mind and felt his knees buckle. "Don't— tell— anyone," he croaked. His next-to-last thought was Necrovixi because that was, indeed, what had just killed him. Amycus had hit him with a delayed-action curse that first paralysed, and then subjected the body to rapid decomposition, while the person was still alive. Lovely.

And then Draco passed out, surprised a little because that wasn't one of the curse's effects. The point of the curse was to make a person suffer through the process of decomposition, make them feel their insides turn to liquid...

It's so much easier to see when everything is black.

The first thing Draco saw when he awoke was a Chudley Cannons poster. There had to be a law against being subjected to Chudley Cannons posters upon awakening. How in the world he was alive after being hit with Necrovixi, Draco didn't know. Amycus had probably been trying to show off and ended up miscasting the curse. That had to be it.

Unfortunately, being alive did Draco no favours, as he discovered the moment he attempted to sit up. He was paralysed from the waist down.

There were voices outside, and Draco strained his ears to listen.

"...Arthur arranged it, they both passed, thank goodness. They're leaving that place today, with Hermione..."

Even when Draco was on his deathbed, everyone was talking about Potter. Typical.

By the sounds of it, it was Mrs Weasley talking. "Kingsley had a right job of sorting the motorbike incident with the Muggles. They have something called a ray-dur at the airport and they detected the bike—"

Draco had had enough. "Somebody?" he called, his voice pathetically squeaky. "Hello?"

The door opened a crack, and Ginny Weasley's head popped in. "He's awake," she called into the corridor.

Molly Weasley bustled in, pressing her hands to her chest when she saw Draco. "Oh, thank goodness. Are you hungry, dear? Do you want anything to drink?"

Draco blinked. She no longer had a horrible gash across her face but there was a large white scar that made her look rather horrifying. He closed his eyes, thinking. Was he hungry?

Mrs Weasley continued gushing. If she didn't have red hair, freckles and the last name Weasley, Draco might have thought she was his mother. "Are you cold, dear? Do you want another blanket? How are you feeling?"

That was a lot of questions at once. Draco decided to settle on the most all-encompassing answer. "Yes," he said.

Mrs Weasley disappeared, but Ginny stayed behind. She sat down on the bed across from Draco's and narrowed her eyes at him. "All right, Malfoy. What's your deal?"

"What do you mean?" asked Draco. He wanted to sit up so he could talk to her without having to crane his neck horribly. Apparently, there was only so much you could ask for in the Weasley household.

"I want to know what you're playing at. You can't expect me to believe that you've switched sides, so don't even try that."

Draco regarded her for a long moment. She wasn't stupid, obviously, but she was a girl. In Draco's experience, girls were far easier to fool than boys, unless one counted Granger. Though she wasn't really a girl, but rather a walking encyclopaedia.

"What if it was the truth?" said Draco, keeping his tone even. "Wouldn't you switch sides if your side repeatedly threatened your family with permanent extinction?"

Ginny's eyes remained narrowed, but something in her expression softened.

"It gets tiresome after a while. 'Draco, do this, or I'll kill your mother!' 'Draco, do this or I'll kill your father!' 'And when you're done with it all, you will lick my boots, or I'll kill you!' You know?"

She didn't reply, but Draco thought he saw a small nod. Inspired, he continued. "And besides, the plans the Dark Lord has? Ridiculous. I'm rather fond of the wizarding world as it is," he said, realising that he wasn't even lying—in fact, the only lie was that he'd actually switched sides. He was going to run away, that didn't really count as switching sides. "I mean, there are Ministry policies I disagree with, but I've realised it's slightly unrealistic to expect the government to always make one happy."

"Only slightly," said Ginny, almost smirking now.

Yes! She'd bought it—or at least would, with enough persistence. All he had to do was keep up the act until he was healed, and then he'd hightail it to Madrid—which was switching sides, in a way. Sides of the Channel.

"Who knows I'm here?" he asked, rubbing his forehead. He may have escaped from the Dark Lord, but that wouldn't last very long if too many people knew where—and with whom—he was.

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Just our family, Harry and Hermione," she said. "Mum made us all swear to keep quiet because of something you said before you passed out. Kingsley found a dead body that looked exactly like you. Who did you kill, Malfoy?"

"No one," said Draco, grateful that he didn't have to lie. "I transfigured a corpse. I don't know who it was, but it was a Weasley." He bowed his head, thinking that he'd need to create just the right impression with these people. "I'm sorry," he said, looking back up at Ginny.

She drew herself up, squaring her shoulders. "You do realise that you can't run away, don't you?"

Draco met her gaze, forcing himself to stay calm. "Who said anything about running away?"

Mrs Weasley rushed back inside with a tray full of food, and Ginny left the room without a backwards glance.

::

"Draco Malfoy is dead, my lord," said Amycus, who was sporting a red welt on his right cheek that was already turning purple.

Snape stared at him, forcing his face to remain expressionless.

Draco Malfoy could not be dead. If he were dead, Snape would be dead, too. He'd allowed himself to be sloppy last year, when he'd made the Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa. The terms of the Vow specified that Snape was to protect Draco whilst he carried out the Dark Lord's wishes. The problem with that was that as long as Draco bore the Mark and as long as the Dark Lord survived, Snape was bound to protect the boy. Draco's death would mean Snape's death. The Dark Mark bound one to forever serve the Dark Lord—the Mark's bearer was, essentially, a slave to the Dark Lord who was not supposed to have a mind of his own and do as he wished. Thus, as long as Draco Malfoy lived, he was technically still carrying out the Dark Lord's wishes, and Snape was obligated to protect him under pain of death.

Wherever Draco Malfoy was, he lived.

Snape took the thought of Draco's fate and hid it far, hid it safe where the Dark Lord could not reach it. Not a moment later, the Dark Lord was rummaging through Snape's mind, searching.

When confronted with the choice between loyalty and survival, no sensible man should choose loyalty.

"I knew he would fail me again; he's lucky he managed to get himself killed. However, my rendezvous with Harry Potter has been merely postponed, not cancelled," said the Dark Lord. "As for Draco Malfoy, good riddance to bad rubbish."

Snape made a note to let Narcissa know that her son was alive, in case she somehow caught wind of this. The thoughtless boy probably wouldn't think to write to her.

::

James and Lily were dead. Sirius was dead. Dumbledore was dead.

Now, Draco Malfoy was dead, too.

Peter's hands shook as he tried to eat the onion soup he'd made; it kept spilling out of his spoon. He gave up after a moment, dropping the spoon back into the bowl with a soft clink. It sank out of sight within a second. It didn't matter; Peter had lost his appetite again. If things continued as they had been going, he'd never eat.

The shadows of the house at Spinner's End seemed to draw together, making the place seem even darker. It wasn't that Peter was particularly upset about Draco's death. He simply knew that this was his chance, his only chance. There was no one watching him now, except Snape, but Snape was frequently away. In fact, he was away right now. Fear clawed at his belly, making his stomach churn. He could finally make up for his crimes, but he was afraid.

Peter stared down at his silver hand, flexing it so he could watch the candlelight reflecting off its flawless surface. He often asked himself how others could be so brave, how they could do what was necessary without hesitation. Even those he'd thought weak were stronger than he was. Even quiet, bookish Remus Lupin, who would stand near Fenrir Greyback at Voldemort's meetings. Fenrir Greyback, the same werewolf who had bitten Remus as a child, for no other reason than that he could. Peter remembered all too well Remus's recurring nightmares, even as a teenager at Hogwarts. How Remus, who feared his own lycanthropy more than anything else in the world, could work with the monster who had transformed him baffled Peter to no end.

Peter hadn't turned Remus in. It was painfully obvious that Remus was spying on the Death Eaters, that he was only working with the werewolves to feed information to the Order of the Phoenix. The closer Voldemort came to reaching his goal, the less security he employed. The werewolves were not allowed the luxury of a hood and mask, neither was Peter. Voldemort wanted everyone to know who they were, to humiliate them all. Peter knew Remus well enough to know that he was doing what he felt was necessary. But they were on the same side now, and Peter wasn't going to betray any more of his old friends. Remus didn't even have to know that Peter was on his side; for now, it was enough that Peter knew.

Remus had seen him, too. Peter remembered how he'd started, how his normally calm and unreadable expression had contorted with surprise and anger. He'd watched Peter with wide eyes even after composing himself, obviously waiting for the axe to drop. But the blow had never come. Peter had kept his old friend's secret. After all, Remus had been his best friend once—the only one of the Marauders who had never mocked Peter or made him feel like an idiot.

Peter wondered what Remus thought now that months had passed and Peter had never told. Did Remus live in fear, as Peter had during the first war? Maybe Remus thought Peter had something up his sleeve, or maybe he didn't care. Peter knew it didn't really matter, not now, but he couldn't help thinking about it.

A section of a map hanging out of one of Snape's books caught Peter's eye. He walked over and tugged it out, by some miracle not tearing it. It was a map of England. There was Euxton, where his mother still lived. Peter swallowed, forcing his mind off her. He saw Ottery St Catchpole, remembering the twelve years he'd spent living with the Weasleys. They'd been good years, too. Percy and Ron no doubt hated him as much as everyone else did now, so Peter tore his gaze off the village.

Then he saw Godric's Hollow, almost as if it glowed.

Peter knew where he had to go now. It had all begun there sixteen years ago and it would have to end there, too. He slipped the map back into the book as best he could, and then transformed into Scabbers. Truth be told, it felt more natural than his human form now. It filled him with the simple, base desires of a rat—so unlike those of a man. His emotions weren't as complicated, and things weren't quite as frightening.

He slipped through a small hole in the kitchen wall, out into the foul-smelling alley behind the house, wondering how long it would take for Snape to notice he was gone.

Once a traitor, always a traitor.

::

When Harry and his friends arrived in the village of Godric's Hollow, it was bathed in sunlight. Harry had expected the place to be dark and dreary, considering that all he'd ever connected to the name had been tales of death, darkness and sorrow. Seeing the friendly little shops and old stone houses gave him a start.

The village itself was tiny—six streets, a post office, a Spar, a few miscellaneous shops, a pub and a parish church. Most of the businesses were concentrated around the village green on the High Street. The local Muggles were all either in farming or fishing, Hermione had said. Harry wondered what his parents had told the locals about what they had done for a living.

The three friends had just finished breakfast at the pub—The Bowman Arms—when Harry remembered that he wanted to visit his parents' graves. He wasn't sure if they would be buried somewhere near their ruined house; the Potters had lived in a cottage on the edge of the village, but there hadn't been a cemetery nearby, at least not on his map.

They walked up to the bar and signalled to the plump barmaid who'd served them. Hermione dug in her shoulder bag for money—she'd gone into Gringotts on the previous day with Harry's vault key, so they were all set with Muggle money. Hermione handed the cash to the barmaid with a smile.

"I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Potter house," she said just as the barmaid began to turn away.

The woman turned back with an inquisitive look on her round face. "The Potter house? That's a sad story. They were such a nice young family. Sixteen years ago, it was—a big explosion; they said it was a gas leak. The damnedest thing is—ever since the funeral, no one's been able to get near the house. It's on the hill by the woods yonder," she said, waving her hand at the pub's doors.

"Where were they buried?" blurted Harry, his heart in his throat.

The barmaid glanced at him with a frown. "Well, in the graveyard behind the church, of course, where else? They never did find the little one—such an adorable boy he was, little Harry Potter. Folk say that his wee blanket was buried in his stead."

There was a dull ache in Harry's chest as he nodded. The barmaid regarded him for a moment, and he was afraid that she'd say something about him looking like his father, but she merely shrugged. "You lot better not be thinking about going near the Potter house. Dangerous, that place. Haunted, they say. You wouldn't be able to get up on the hill, anyway."

"Well, we're actually more interested in the woods to the west of the house," Hermione cut in quickly. "We're birdwatchers, you see."

"Oh! All right, then," said the barmaid. "You lot are a bit late, aren't you? The other groups have all gone already."

"Yeah," said Hermione. "We were held back, but we're here now!"

The barmaid gave her a kindly smile and left. She seemed to have lost interest as soon as she realised they weren't really interested in the Potters.

After they walked out of The Bowman Arms, Harry said he wanted to visit his parents' graves before they went to look at the house. The three of them made their way up the High Street to the parish church. The sun was out in earnest now, beating down on their backs, and Harry's rucksack felt far heavier than it had earlier in the morning, when they'd Apparated in the woods further east. He and Ron had just received their Apparition licences yesterday; one day after Harry had turned seventeen.

The graveyard entrance was next to the church proper, but they had to pass through a narrow little alley to get to the actual graves. Ron and Hermione said they would wait for him. Harry took off his rucksack and placed it beside the wooden fence next to them. The graveyard was tiny and very old. It didn't look like there was much room for any more graves. Some of the gravestones were tinged green with centuries-old moss; the writing upon them was fanciful, illegible.

Harry walked around until he saw two identical grey stones near the very back of the graveyard. He just knew, somehow, that these were his parents'—there was a smaller grey stone next to the other two. Engraved on the stone was the name "Harry James Potter". Harry forgot how to breathe for an instant. It was eerie and surreal, looking at his own grave. If he could see inside the casket, would he recognise the blanket the barmaid had mentioned?

He knelt on the grass between his mother and father's graves and stared at the cold slabs of stone. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when he came here.

"Well, here I am," whispered Harry to the grass. "Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad. I'm going to go and see our house now, and then I'm going to start looking for Voldemort's Horcruxes. He made six, you know, before he tried to kill me. Now I have to destroy them all and then fight him myself."

Above him, a bird concealed by the branches of a tall oak tree began to twitter. Harry sighed, turning to his mother's gravestone.

"I had a girlfriend at school—Ginny Weasley, my best friend's sister. You'd have liked her, Mum."

He remembered what Ron had told him a few days ago, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Malfoy had saved Ginny's life during the Death Eater attack on the wedding. Malfoy, who had come with the Death Eaters and—apparently—switched sides. He was supposedly out cold in Ron's bedroom, between life and death. Harry's chest tightened. He owed Malfoy now.

He owed everyone, really, which was ridiculous but there it was. It had been a bad idea to come here. He couldn't run from his fate. No matter what—or who—he thought about, no matter how far his thoughts strayed, everything would always come back to this. Harry stood up. Dumbledore's portrait had been right. He couldn't afford to mourn any longer. He turned around, walked up to where his friends were waiting, and hoisted his rucksack up without looking at them. "Let's go," he said.

They walked back across the village green, headed west to where a low hill rose from the ground just before a small wood. On the hill stood the remains of what must have been a quaint cottage once. That had been his parents' house—his house. The three friends trudged uphill along the dusty path that led to the ruined house; they found that they didn't have any problems getting near it. Harry guessed that it was protected by some means of anti-Muggle security.

The cottage did look like it had exploded. The roof was gone, and the single surviving wall was overgrown with thick vines that resembled dark green, patterned wallpaper from afar. There was nothing inside the house, just the bare outlines of where doorframes used to be, clumps of grass growing haphazardly around them. The wooden floors had mostly rotted away. Harry was grateful that the intact wall faced the village; at least no one would see them walking around inside. This was even more of a disappointment than his parents' graves—there was just nothing—nothing Harry could remember, nothing he could pick up and look at. The house was dead. His parents were dead. Even Harry was dead, buried in the tiny church graveyard along with his mum and dad.

"Harry, look!" exclaimed Hermione.

He turned to her and saw that she was pointing at his feet. He looked down and saw a faint outline of light, growing brighter and brighter beneath him.

"It looks like a concealed trapdoor," said Ron, walking closer. "What happens if you step off it?"

Harry did and the outline disappeared, but he found that he could see the trapdoor now. "What the—" he began, but Hermione interrupted him.

"It must have been hidden by blood magic. Some forms of it weren't considered Dark back when your parents were alive. It's your house, your blood, so it's reacting to you!"

Harry stared at the dark wooden trapdoor, frowning. "Should we go down there?"

"I don't see why not," said Ron. "Can't be any worse than what's up here, can it?"

There was a heavy brass ring in the middle of the trapdoor. Harry lifted it and pulled. With a great creak and a snapping sound, the door came up. Harry lit his wand and shone it down into the cellar. He could see vague, grey outlines of dark shapes below and a wooden staircase leading down. It looked unstable and rotten.

"Reparo," he muttered after extinguishing his wand-light. The staircase now shone as though new. He re-lit his wand, dropped his rucksack on the floor, and climbed down into the darkness. He looked around for a light-switch on the walls, but there wasn't one.

Harry took a step forward and tripped over something; he threw out his arm for balance and his fingers closed around a string, which he seized in an attempt to right himself. As he pulled the string, there was a click and the room was bathed in dim white light from a single light bulb near the ceiling. The electricity down here must have been running off a generator of some kind, he guessed—sure enough, there it was in the corner, a thick layer of dust covering it. Harry had no doubt that it was magically enhanced—any mundane generator would have run out of fuel years ago.

Harry looked down at his feet to see what he had tripped over—it was a tree root. There were several similar bumps in the dirt floor; the nearby forest seemed to be claiming the cellar for its own. Harry adjusted his glasses and looked around, squinting. It was a work-room of some kind, with narrow tables lining the walls—they were piled high with notebooks and old parchment. The whole place smelled like the Hogwarts library, with just a hint of earth and moss. The air was dry but breathable, and there were no sounds except for the low hum of the generator in the corner. A massive table covered by a large sheet of canvas occupied most of the floor space. Harry heard a noise behind him and jumped, turning to look at the source. Ron and Hermione had come down the stairs, their faces anxious as they stared around at the room.

"It looks like some kind of an abandoned laboratory out of a film," remarked Hermione, swiping her finger atop the generator and then examining it critically, as though the dust could be a clue of some sort.

"Looks like no one's been down here since— you know," she said, colouring slightly. "What's under there?" she asked, gesturing at the largest table, clearly anxious to change the subject.

"Dunno," said Harry. "Should we look?"

Hermione nodded. Ron walked around to the other edge of the table; he and Harry picked up the canvas and lifted it, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

"Oh, for crying out loud," said Hermione, and pointed her wand in front of herself. All the dust in the room began swirling in eddies towards it, as though it was a really small Hoover. A moment later, the air was considerably more breathable, but Harry hardly noticed. He was staring at the table, dumbstruck.

It was a large model of wizarding Britain—a map with raised surfaces where there were mountains or cliffs and pools of water where there were lakes. Rivers and streams ran through forests, rolling green hills and fields. Treetops swung in miniature woods, roads and train tracks cut through cities and towns. There was Hogwarts up north, with Hogsmeade right next to it, and Diagon Alley in London. Harry leant in for a closer look and immediately the section with Diagon Alley rose upwards from the map, as though on a small platform. It expanded in front of Harry's eyes, showing shops and the streets of surrounding Muggle London.

But all that was nothing compared to the thousands of tiny dots that moved all around on the map. They were all labelled with names, just like on the Marauder's Map. Harry watched two dots labelled "Fred Weasley" and "George Weasley" glide across the street in Diagon Alley and walk inside an unlabelled building. As Harry looked on, the building shimmered and shifted, as though shaking something off, and a moment later, it was labelled "Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes". Harry's jaw dropped. He was witnessing life in Diagon Alley while standing in the cellar of his parents' old house.

"Oh my God," breathed Hermione. Harry looked up, but she wasn't even looking at the map. Her nose was buried in a black leather-bound notebook she'd grabbed from one of the tables that lined the walls.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Ron, leaning down to look over Harry's shoulder. "Is that—?"

Hermione sounded like she was on the verge of hysteria. "Harry, your parents...your parents, they built this! It works exactly like your map of Hogwarts except this is the vastly improved version!" she babbled as she waved the notebook. "This is your mother's logbook. She was the one who designed the way it would look, I just—I can't believe this!"

She burst into tears. Ron and Harry looked at each other in alarm.

"Uh, Hermione?" offered Ron. "D'you want some water or—"

Hermione looked up, but she wasn't crying. She was laughing. "This is absolutely genius! Don't you realise? Don't you see?"

Harry straightened. As he did, the Diagon Alley section of the map moved back down to the main level and compacted to look like a smaller model of itself. "I think I do," he said. "My parents built this?"

Hermione held up the notebook. "This is the main log book. Your parents were Aurors, Harry, but they weren't just any Aurors. They worked closely with the Department of Mysteries on research and development of magical devices that would aid the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in its work." She opened the book and started reading, looking as if it were her first time in the Hogwarts library.

"And they did their work here," said Ron. "Bloody brilliant. They'd hidden this here, in a backwater little Muggle village, right under everyone's noses."

"It's not just a map, either," said Hermione, her eyes not leaving the notebook page she was looking at. "Oh. My. God."

Harry could only stare as she rushed past them and pulled open a drawer that rested underneath the table. Something was rattling inside. Hermione pulled out three bitty wooden dolls. One looked exactly like Harry, one looked somewhat like Ginny, except with different facial features, and the third one was a baby boy in jeans and a blue jumper.

"This map is a portal," said Hermione, sounding breathless. "These dolls are conduits."

"Who?" asked Ron, staring at her with round eyes.

"Conduits. They're not by themselves magical, but a spell Harry's father developed makes them transport the person they correspond to—anywhere on this map."

"Why would anyone want to go inside a map?" asked Harry.

Hermione shook her head impatiently. "The map is the second part of the conduit. Don't you see? You place a doll anywhere on the map, say the spell, and you end up in that place, except not on the map, but in re