Willow Tree Burning

Chapter 41

London was grey. It was often grey, particularly this time of year, but now the sheer weight of greyness bowed down every head. A thin silver drizzle fell from slate-colored clouds, lightly soaking streets littered with grubby, dirty debris.

Harry scrunched up his shoulders and roughly pulled his hat down further on his head. It was a Weasley creation—last year Molly had branched out from sweaters—and Harry was grateful for its warmth. The air wasn’t cold, but the wind was—and his soul. He turned his face towards the brightly colored, festive decorations in the shop windows and tried not to wince.

Just this once, he said to himself, I’ll be finished in no time. Sirius won’t even miss me.

It was a lie, he knew, that Sirius wouldn’t miss him. He just hoped that he’d be back soon enough that it wouldn’t really matter. Three days he’d been cooped up at home, and he was going mad. So when his godfather was called away to another eternal meeting to discuss events that the world had been too slow to stop, Harry took the time to scratch out a brief note and grabbed his rucksack on his way out the door.

Part of him had thought that getting out of the flat would help his mood. He hadn’t understood that the mood was everywhere. His eyes flicked again to the gaudy decorations, and his stomach turned. Facing out into the streets, he saw the police presence, the clean up crews, the increased security and bile rose up in his throat.

It was everywhere. They’d thought it was just the wizarding community that was hit, but any place that the worlds mingled had been smashed in some way, and everyone was hurting.

348.

348 people, wizards and Muggles alike, lay dead. Almost two hundred more in hospitals around the country. He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around it, even now as he crossed through Trafalgar Square, kicking pigeons out of his way. They fluttered around his head, flapping with muted anger. He clutched his bag closer and angled past the museum. There was shopping to be done, and the Tube was running again, so he came.

It was either that, or sit at home and feel guilty that Neville went home with Hermione instead of him. When the news had come, Harry was too numb to do anything, and Hermione, with a queer look on her face, said Neville should stay with her. He was too stunned to say no. Harry had helped pack his trunk and sent him on his way. Ron hadn’t said much either, but he had his own worries.

Percy was to be buried the day after tomorrow. Neville’s grandmother the day after that. And they were only two.

What about the others? Harry wondered. Will I go to their funerals too? Will the rest of my holiday be spent in black, creeping around with the rest of my friends, counting off the dead?

Even as he thought it, a small voice in the back of his mind said, At least it isn’t you. This time, it isn’t you.

And it made him furious. He didn’t want to be grateful, but he’d paid enough for one lifetime. That was enough. He mourned for Percy, Gran Longbotton, the Patil twins’ mother, Flitwick’s niece, and everyone else. Why shouldn’t he be grateful that it wasn’t Sirius? That it wasn’t Molly or Arthur?

Why shouldn’t I be relieved it was Percy and not Ron? Stopping still in the middle of the sidewalk, Harry shook his head, trying to stamp out the thought, but it was still there, the petty thankfulness that this time around death had given his loved ones a pass.

So he was out shopping, salvaging some holiday cheer. Something, anything, to get his mind away from tragedy, and the looming sense that things would get worse. Hermoine had said that something was coming, earlier that day after she’d talked to Willow in Hogsmeade. She hadn’t said what about the meeting had upset her, only that she couldn’t believe the willful blindness around her.

She’d pointed at the shoppers, the giggling children, the vacuous crowd of students and her voice had shaken as she said, “I don’t understand. All the signs are there. When will they finally see?”

Eerie, now that he thought about it, that Hermione’s prediction had come true that very night. Harry mused briefly on the possibility that the bushy-haired Gryffindor’s dislike of divination had been due to a spark of foresight herself. Shaking his head at the ridiculousness of that sentiment, Harry ducked into a shop.

The walls were lined with expensive bath soaps, oils and lotions. He picked up one with lavender and sniffed the open top. With a grimace, he put it back on the shelf, reaching instead for one scented with honey. It would do for Hermione, but he figured he’d have to get Neville something too as they were staying together.

What do you get someone whose only remaining family (with an intact mind, that is) had just died? Harry looked around the shop, eyes lingering on various frou-frou scrubs and poofy bath pillows. There was nothing here that said, Sorry you’re the only one left.

Ron’s gift had been purchased for over a month: a brand new broom, top of the line. It seemed so trite now, in light of everything, but Harry was at a loss of what else to do. Ron liked Quidditch. Ron liked flying. Therefore, Ron would like this gift. Maybe it’ll make things better for him.

Harry actually twitched at that. Nothing could make it better. He knew that, better than anyone. With a sigh, Harry paid the haunted-looking shopkeeper and trudged back out into the gloom.

There were very few people out and about. Too soon, he thought, though there hadn’t been much devastation in this area of the city. A scattered newspaper caught his eye, the blaring headlines screaming terrorism, and he burned with fury. If he could get his hands on one of those Death Eaters, he’d give them the what-for. Even glimpsing Malfoy at the gathering in the Main Hall before they were all floo’d out made him see red. It was only Hermione’s cautious, restraining hand that held him in place. She flicked Draco a glance that spoke volumes, but one that Harry couldn’t decipher. Then she turned her embrace to Ron and the look was gone.

Ron had just stood there, stonily silent, accepting Harry’s handshake, and said he’d see him in a few days. The redhead was almost puzzled, his hand quaking, as he said goodbye: the confusion of someone who wasn’t sure if he’d woken up, all too certain that he wished it was all a dream. He’d grasped Ginny’s hand and pulled them both home.

Harry turned down a street, headed towards a coffee shop that he liked, when he caught the barest glimpse of the back of a head and stopped still. Frozen in place, he broke out into a sweat.

That head. That hair. Dear Merlin, he knew it. Peter Pettigrew, weaving his way through the rain, headed to parts unknown.

Harry leapt back into motion, pushing his way forward, all thoughts of shopping gone. He kept the dark head in sight, a sight he’d not seen since the night Cedric had died. He’d dreamed of this moment, the time when he could finally take vengeance, and here it was.

Peter turned his head, looking into a window, and Harry exulted. That profile he’d seen nightly in dreams. He was so close…

The wizard turned into a narrow alley and Harry stumbled forward, hurried and excited. The way between buildings was dark, but he didn’t care. He was so close. If he could just get his wand out quickly, it would be over soon. He fished around in the pocket of his anorak and slid his fingers over the smooth wood. He was pulling it from the fabric when a firm hand gripped his elbow.

His blood chilled as he heard a low, cultured voice croon in his ear, “Ah, Mister Potter, we’ve been expecting you. So nice of you to join us.”

Before his brain had time to process the slimy feel that Lucius Malfoy’s voice left on his skin, Harry grunted. A Petrificus curse hit his chest squarely as the familiar yank of a portkey lurched him away from the alley.

It was dark where he landed, dark and cold and damp, and he fumed, struggling uselessly at the invisible bonds holding him. The shadows moving in the blackness tsk’d at him.

“Now, now, Potter, you don’t want to ruin the fun, do you? We’ve been planning this for so long, and I do enjoy a good drama. Be a good boy and settle down; you’ve got a bit of time yet until the final act. I promise you, it will be a fantastic one.”

In the dim wand light, Lucius’ face shone with a cruel satisfaction, the heartless gleam of a man well-pleased with himself. If Harry had control over his face he would have spat. Instead, he settled for gurgling noises. Lucius smiled slowly.

“See? You’re learning already. I would hate for you to miss the finale; after all, we’ve worked so hard to get you here. Not that I didn’t enjoy dispatching the Muggles and wizards who got in the way, but you, my dear boy, were quite the prize.”

Lucius leaned forward, breathing deeply. Harry tried not to breathe that air, fouled with the thick copper smell of old blood and damp mold. The elder Malfoy didn’t seem to notice as he negligently ruffled Harry’s hair. Harry’s scalp tried to crawl away involuntarily, and Harry desperately wished he could go with it.

“You have something my master wants, Potter, something he long ago lost. And you’re going to give it to him. I would have happily killed a few hundred more, but there you were, obliging to the end, wandering out in London away from the safety of friends. So delightfully…obliging.”

The elder wizard leaned forward suddenly, tapping his snake handled cane on Harry’s chest. He hissed, “See that you’re a little less on the ball next time, Potter. If there is a next time, that is. I don’t like being deprived of my fun.”

With that, he spun away, motioning for some unseen hands to wrap chains tightly around Harry’s wrists and ankles. The pain in his limbs began immediately, and Harry twitched.

Lucius turned back briefly and said, “Oh, I wouldn’t struggle too much if I were you Potter; the chains are enchanted. The more you move, the more pain you’re in. Aren’t they lovely?” With that, he released the Petrificus. A swirl of his black cloak, and Lucius started up the stairs, taking the feeble wand light with him.

At last, alone in the darkness, Harry began to tremble. It was all his fault. He thought he’d escaped, but in the end, they’d all died because of him. Again. Just like Cedric. Just like his parents. And in the dark, Harry began to weep. Exhausted, he sagged against his bonds, flinching at the needles of pain running up his arms. The last thing he felt before he lost consciousness were the smooth scales of a serpent wrapping itself around his legs, slithering its way across the floor.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

“So, Draco, you think the silk and the sage for this room?” Narcissa smoothed the patterned silk across the wall, palm flat. She tilted her head, eyes narrowed, and murmured, “Do you think she’d prefer something more neutral? What are her quarters like at school?”

“Blues and creams, actually.”

“Hmm, so perhaps the stone and taupe with accents in sage and sea foam?”

Draco looked at his mother, eyes wide. “Sea foam?”

Her own eyes twinkling, she dropped the sample to the pile with the others. “Dear, I thought you wanted to have this done before she joins us in a few days.”

“I do, but…” he trailed off, gesturing at the decorating ‘suggestions’ strewn all over the recently converted gardener’s cottage. Narcissa had been busy since tea that Sunday, organizing the elves and bringing in a wizarding contractor to begin redoing whatever she saw fit. This was fine with Draco, as it gave him a means to avoid his father at every turn, but it also meant expressing decorating opinions. Three days of this and he was ready to pitch it all in the moat and let the monster eat it.

Narcissa sighed and settled gracefully in a slip covered arm chair, ever mindful of dust. “You don’t have to help, Draco.”

“Or do what, see if Father needs anything? I thought it was best if we stayed out of each other’s way, until we had a chance to introduce the two of them in controlled circumstances.”

With an elegant wave of her hand, Narcissa sighed. “I am beginning to think there will never be controlled circumstances. Your father has been awfully busy with his little projects and you mentioned that Willow wasn’t…well.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “She seems to be suffering from guilt. For whatever reason, she’s nearly convinced herself that she’s responsible for this whole debacle. She flat out refuses to look at it as an excuse to get out of school and come to the manor sooner.” He pursed his lips up in a pout. “It’s getting old. And the rest of the teachers aren’t helping. I’m ready to have her here.”

A slow smile, and Narcissa said, “As am I, dear. Now, why don’t you see what Glacies is up to? He appears to have cornered all the garden gnomes by the satyr fountain and is making threatening fluffs with his ruffs.” Narcissa gave an elegant sigh. “Someone must have disturbed his nap. You know how cranky he gets when that happens.”

Sure enough, when Draco looked out the window, the Quetzalcoatl was lazily rounding up the gnomes, snapping at them with a mouth larger then their entire bodies, undulating in ripples almost thirty feet in length. The late afternoon light shone dully on silvery blue scales as the feathered serpent coiled, loop over loop.

“He’s not done this in years, not since the banshee took up above his morning sleeping couch.”

Six years to be exact, but the Malfoy crest and guardian was an unpredictable creature at best. Loyal to an extreme, Glacies was very much an independent member of the household. He guarded the heirs to the Manor and fortune with each breath, but he did it in his own, timeless way. Draco remembered all too many mornings when Glacies wrapped him in coils, slithered him to the bathroom and chucked him in the tub, deaf to furious shrieks. The Quetzalcoatl was amazing at ferreting potential misdeeds before they happened, thwarting a younger Draco left and right. And Crabbe had actually wet his pants the first time he’d come to ‘play’ when he realized that Draco’s nanny was in fact a half ton serpent.

With a sigh, Draco left his mother holding patterns up to the light, tilting them in circles and headed out to the garden. The gnomes began squeaking as soon as they saw him, perhaps figuring the cruelty of the youngest Malfoy was perhaps preferable to the certain doom of Glacies’ stomach when he got bored of playing round up.

The feathered serpent raised his great plumed head and regarded Draco, heaving himself up to eye level. The intelligence in the silver, bird-like eyes never failed to amaze Draco and he reached a hand out to scratch behind the ear holes, under the fine snowy ruff of feathers on the serpent’s crest.

“What are you up to? Mother will be most cross if you cause the gnomes to soil her rose bed like last time.”

Glacies flicked his tongue out to lightly taste Draco’s nose.

Draco sighed. “Okay, so you wanted attention. What for?”

Almost seeming to smile, the Quetzalcoatl sank back to the damp grass and slithered towards the Manor proper. Bemused, but willing to play the game, Draco followed behind. They came in through the kitchen, startling house elves into popping out of the way. Glacies almost never ate the elves, but rumors made them cautious. The serpent undulated through the formal dining room, pausing to sniff at Lucius’ retreating back as they crossed the foyer with its ever-changing swirls of light and shadow, and hissed as they approached the door to the dungeons.

Draco arched an eyebrow at the destination. “Are you sure about this? You know how Father doesn’t like anyone messing with his toys. Remember what happened when I was seven?”

Glacies gave him an impenetrable serpent stare and Draco repressed a shudder. His father might have beaten him severely, but Glacies had impressed on the elder Malfoy the importance of not laying a hand on his son. But still the serpent opened his mouth, showing six inch fangs, and shook his head at the doorway. Though Glacies was put out, it was likely that whatever was bothering him wasn’t dangerous, merely a nuisance that drove Glacies from his chosen bed. It was clear that his old nanny expected Draco to do something about it so the world could continue to move on in proper serpenty fashion.

Glancing back to where Lucius had disappeared out to the carriage drive, Draco whispered the unlocking charms, pushing the door open silently. He never did understand how Glacies navigated the locked portions of the house, but the serpent never seemed to have a problem getting through closed doors. With a sigh, he called a spell light with his wand and descended the stairs.

At the foot of the staircase, a pile of boxes and bottles, new since the last time Draco had been down here, tumbled over each other. Draco shook his head, ignoring the metal implements on the walls, spotted and grim, and took a few steps forward, increasing the intensity of the light. What he saw, however, stopped him in his tracks.

Harry-Fucking-Potter was chained to his dungeon wall.

Draco took another tentative step forward, frowning when Potter groaned. Just what I need, a pathetic Gryffindor, he thought with a mental sneer. Not having the faintest clue why Potter was down there, or what had happened to drive Glacies from his nook behind one of the ornate ‘special’ tables, the younger Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair.

“Potter, wake up.” Kneeling, Draco slapped the other seeker’s cheek. When that didn’t work, he tried it again, harder. That got Harry’s attention, and dull green eyes slowly opened.

“Malfoy?”

“Potter. You were expecting someone else?”

“So, you’ve come to taunt me too? Get in your laughs before your lord gets here,” Harry croaked weakly.

Draco arched an eyebrow and brought his wand between them. “Tempting, Potter, tempting.”

Harry struggled to sit, moaning as his wrists rubbed against the cuffs. “Then get it over with, Malfoy. I’ve had a shit day. Just get it over with.”

Looking in Potter’s eyes, Draco saw something that surprised him: despair. The golden hero was giving up. Interesting. He sat back on his heels, rubbing his chin. “I think not today.”

“You hate me.”

“I do, but I hate some things more. You are a waste of space, for all that the entire world seems to revolve around you and your pathetic inability to follow rules. They all love you, let you do whatever you fucking want, when the rest of us…” He twisted his lip up nastily and glared at Harry with furious silver eyes. “You’re nothing. It’s not worth getting worked up over you anymore, Potter, because there are bigger fish to fry. So shut up and let me get on with this.”

Eyes widening in comprehension, Harry could only stare as Draco began working on the spells that sealed the metal cuffs around his hands. “What…?”

“Don’t get any ideas, Potter. I can’t let them have you, but I’m no hero. She seems to think I could be, but we both know different, don’t we?” He stopped in his efforts long enough to see the answering assent in the brunet’s eyes. “I don’t want him to win, you see, and whatever they want you for would be too much. You do understand that I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you live or die?”

Harry flinched at the word ‘rat’, but nodded. There was nothing but complete agreement in his face. He heaved a great sigh, flexing his shoulders.

“That said, if you do die, that will make him happy. And I don’t think I particularly want to make him happy.” Draco frowned when the cuff sparked, burning small holes in Harry’s coat. He twitched the wand and tried again.

“Voldemort?”

Draco chuckled. “It’s always about him, isn’t it? No, you stupid clod, my father.”

The Slytherin worked in silence for a few minutes, mentally running through the spells that his father preferred to use. It was an interesting exercise, and it gave him a bit of space to wonder what in hell he thought he was doing. It was apparent to all involved, namely Draco and Harry, that Draco wasn’t thinking rationally. For all that he was happy to see what Glacies wanted of him, he was pretty sure that unlocking prisoners wasn’t it, even if that prisoner had interrupted whatever Glacies had been doing down here in the first place. He’d never understood his nanny’s fascination with the dungeons. Draco took a deep breath, concentrated on the warm bond deep inside connecting him to his Firestarter, and kept working. She wasn’t so upset now, murmuring softly about forgiveness and other claptrap, and Draco couldn’t help smiling.

Harry suddenly sat up straighter, looking over Draco’s shoulder. A sinking feeling started in the pit of Draco’s stomach as he heard the scrape of boot on stone, the rustle of cloaks with dreadful clarity.

“Well, Lucius, it seems your pup is getting a bit long in tooth.” The voice was dry, raspy, inhuman, and Draco knew his fate was sealed. He stood, turning to face his father and company. They stood clustered at the entrance to the room, various degrees of distaste, shock, and glee on each face. Lord Voldemort stood beside Malfoy senior, a sadistically amused expression contorting the visage. Lucius himself looked furious.

Draco inclined his head, drawing his wand in front of his body slowly. Lucius turned a fascinating shade of red, and Draco wondered idly if his father was going to have an aneurism right there in the dungeons.

“My lord, I had no idea that my son,” Lucius spat, “was capable of such perfidy.”

“Ah.” Voldemort waved a hand in Draco’s direction, what remained of his eyebrow arched in unstated question.

Draco watched with detached curiosity as his father raised his own wand, directed it at Draco’s chest, and spoke with deadly precision.

“Crucio.”

Chapter 42

Brushing the blood from her fingertips, Willow frowned. A lingering reddish tinge collected under her fingernails and despite wiping more thoroughly on her cloak, the blood wouldn’t budge. With an only mildly maudlin sigh, Willow wondered how long it would take for the red to turn brownish black, oxidizing on her skin. It was never long enough for the blood to fade.

A firm hand on her shoulder brought her attention back to the here and now and she shook her head.

“Sorry, Minerva. I was just, well--“

“Feeling guilty again?”

Willow turned her head away, throwing another piece of raw pork shoulder out for Squidward to catch. She huffed out a sigh. “Of course I am. Wouldn’t you, if you were me?” She nodded as the giant squid caught the meat neatly and sucked it under the chilly surface of the lake.

Holding herself rigid, the Transfiguration teacher took a deep breath, irritation flashing across her face. “No, Willow, I wouldn’t.”

Eyes narrowed, Willow refused to turn and look at her friend. “Well, I should be,” she snapped. “If I’d been looking at what I was supposed to see, then all those people would be alive. I might not have known them, but 348 people are dead because I was too wrapped up in myself to really take a look around me.”

“Dear, you are only human. You had a lot to deal with, what with your relocation here, adjusting to this new world, and your … entanglements with young Malfoy.” Minerva swallowed sourly on the last name, but continued on. “It is merely human nature to focus on self first.”

Willow whirled around, fists clenched at her side. “Well, not me. I should have known better.”

“Oh?” The older witch arched an eyebrow. “What makes you so special?”

Trembling, Willow just glared. For the last few days she’d been running mostly on self-righteous rage. Only Dumbledore, Draco, and the three teachers would have known she was at fault for not figuring things out first, but public blame had been handed out liberally, mostly to the Ministry and Aurors. It was all she could do not to stand up and say, ‘Me! It was me! I should have known!’ but even in her self-pity, Willow knew that wouldn’t do any good. And as far as she was concerned, there weren’t enough cookies in the world to bring back 348 people.

With that attitude firmly in place, she’d skulked around the castle, snapping at everyone and everything. She and Snape had kept far away from each other since the disastrous faculty meeting, and she wasn’t sure she didn’t agree with his desire to hex her.

Draco had first tried cajoling to cheer Willow out of her funk, then bribery, and finally he’d just thrown his hands up in disgust. She knew he thought she’d get over it before her visit to Malfoy Manor, but wasn’t sure; the Powers had given her a task, and she’d failed. How was she supposed to get on the redemption kick if she kept screwing up?

This guilt over the deaths, she had to admit, was a pretty strange attitude for a witch who wouldn’t have thought twice a mere few months ago about destroying the world. A little voice deep down inside insisted that this was different. She felt as if she’d been given a task, a homework assignment if you will, and had gotten a failing grade because she’d been out partying the night before.

Maybe it wasn’t the deaths, but the sense of failure, and there was nothing that galled Willow more than failure. She had always been the smart one, the gifted one, even the ‘big gun’.

She wasn’t allowed to fail.

This revelation took Willow a bit aback, but the sick, guilty rage began to unravel in her gut and instead of feeling impotent, she suddenly felt like showing the Powers just what she was capable of. She opened her mouth to speak before a splash from behind them ended the stare-off.

Still stiff, McGonagall reached into the bucket and heaved out a beef knuckle joint, flinging it far. Willow noticed that the other witch could have used her wand, but instead had kept it in her pocket.

Curious, she said, “Why not with magic?”

“Hmm?” Minerva frowned, tortoise shell glasses sliding down her nose.

“The meat. Why not levitate and throw it?”

“Because this is harder,” she replied softly, the Scottish burr becoming more apparent. “And every once in a while, it’s nice to do something the hard way.” With a sigh, she brushed the sleeves of her robes up to her elbows before rinsing her hands in the cold lake water. Without looking at her companion, she continued.

“Willow, you are young, but you have seen so much already. Surely in your time, you’ve seen and understood that forgiveness of one’s self is sometimes the greatest gift you can give, and one necessary to continue living.”

Willow nodded, thinking of the guilt that Buffy carried for too long over Jenny’s death. “I know; I’ve seen it first hand. And I understand, really I do, but if I weren’t supposed to stop the attack, then why am I here? I really don’t think I got dropped over there,” she waved at the piles of triangular stones she and Squidward had built at the spot where she’d first appeared, “for my own edification.”

“No, perhaps not, but who knows what’s to come?” Smiling wearily, McGonagall rubbed her hands over her arms to warm herself up. “And if our exercise in penitence in the cold is over, let’s head back inside. There are still so many things that must be done to rebuild, and I know Albus needs some help. We could use you here, you know.”

Willow looked up, curious. “I feel like I’m in the way here, most of the time. I don’t really do anything. At the Malfoys’ I’ll have several projects…Narcissa’s offered to teach me about the family business, what she’s familiar with, anyway, as well as introduce me more into Wizarding society.”

“This is probably years of prejudice speaking, but I don’t see how you’ll be doing any more good there than you could here.” Though she was obviously trying to adjust, Minerva was having a hard time understanding her adopted charge’s desire to live with one of the most notorious of wizarding families. “I noticed the tension between you and Professor Snape. I’ll not presume to understand the cause, but if you feel awkward in the castle, you are welcome to stay in my family’s cottage in the village. All you need to do is ask.”

Despite feeling moved by her friend’s concern, Willow shook her head. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine there. I guess it does seem a little weird, but Narcissa was lovely when I met her, and I think it will turn out fine.”

Frowning, the teacher sighed. “Just remember you can always come home to us whenever you need to.” She grasped Willow’s hand firmly in her own and gave a gentle squeeze.

More relaxed then she had been in days, Willow picked up the bucket to walk back to the castle. It was cold and she was shivering inside the warm robes. But she’d missed Squidward recently, and McGonagall had volunteered to go with her to give the squid some extras from the kitchen. There were entirely too many since the students had gone home.

Thinking of the missing students, she sent a tendril of thought Draco’s way and caught a feeling of surprise and confusion, however indistinct. She paused, intrigued. There was something strange happening at Malfoy Manor but before she had time to puzzle it out, her body arched up, toes and hands curling in agony, and then she dropped the bucket with an anguished scream. Fire ran through her veins, unbelievable fire, and she could hear Draco’s fury echoing around inside her skin. She felt empty, drawn, yet full of knives.

Willow held on to consciousness as long as she could, only dimly hearing McGonagall’s panicked questions, something about Crutacius and out-of-body experiences, but then it was too much. With a last sigh, she gave in to the blaze consuming her flesh.

Empty darkness.

It was soft. So soft.

Nothingness.

All too soon, the comfortable blankness faded away into indistinct dreamscape, leaving Willow curled up on someone’s lap. Her surroundings were a dim approximation of the glade in which she usually met Tara during these Higher Power interludes. She felt safe, at home, and was only somewhat surprised to feel a delicate female hand caressing her cheek.

“Shh, now, Willow. It’ll be alright.”

“Will it?” Willow mumbled, squeezing her eyes tightly shut against the fluttering dream light. “Things seem so strange right now.”

“I know. We’re holding you here for a moment until your body is ready to have you back.”

Gently, Willow rolled over to gaze up at Tara’s face. Though there were circles under Tara’s eyes and lines creased the corners, she was still radiant with beauty. Willow reached up a hand to run the blonde locks through her fingers, smiling at the silky smoothness.

“I don’t want to go. I like it here. With you.”

Tara smiled sadly. “I know, honey, I know, but your place isn’t with me anymore.”

“Draco would understand if you came back with me.”

A soft giggle. “I bet he would. But I can’t. Willow, it’s time.”

Pouting, Willow curled up on herself again. “No. I like it here. And you never tell me what I’m supposed to do. It’s all foggy prophesy stuff, nothing I can use.”

Tara sighed, a tinge of frustration in her tone. “You know the rules. No direct help one way or the other. We can’t have imbalance.”

“Fine. Then give me your cryptic hints and send me back out there to inadvertently kill more people.”

“That’s not fair. We regret the deaths that occurred, but some things were necessary.”

“You keep saying ‘we’. What’s that all about?”

“You didn’t think I was all alone in arranging these little get-togethers, did you? I’m not nearly that powerful.” Gently, Tara pulled her former lover into a sitting position, facing her. “You need to listen to me. It’s time.”

Willow ground her teeth. “You keep saying that, but time for what? How can I know what to do if you don’t tell me?!” Anger bubbled up, even as Willow regretted snapping at Tara.

“I have told you. You have all the pieces, Willow, all the fragments you need. You’re a bright girl, the brightest I ever knew, and all you have to do is put them together in the right order.”

Willow nearly gave into her irritation again, but one look at the faint fear in Tara’s eyes made her hold her tongue. There was more going on here than Willow understood, that much she knew, but if Tara said she knew everything, she just had to figure out what. And, how to put it to good use and do whatever it was the Powers wanted.

Failure twice was unacceptable.

“When you say I have all the pieces, what do you mean?” Watching Tara’s face closely, Willow rested her hand gently on the blonde’s thigh.

“In each timeline, there’s a moment when the world can crack in two, giving in to one side or the other. In some worlds the Powers hold things together. In others, The First takes control. In those worlds, it’s only a matter of time until existence unravels completely.”

A flash of sadness in Tara’s eyes, and Willow gasped. “That nearly happened in our world, didn’t it?”

Gently, the other witch nodded, “Yes, Willow, but it didn’t.”

“And now it’s my turn to change the outcome. Gotta love cosmic irony.” She took a deep breath. “So, I have all the pieces. I have them all…in me? That’s it, isn’t it? I’m the pieces this world needs!” Her smile was blinding, but it faded as Tara squeezed her hand.

“Good girl. But you have to hurry.” A haunted glance over her shoulder at a gathering darkness in the fuzzy dream trees, and Tara shook her head. “Whatever happens, remember I love you.”

“Oh, baby, I do remember. Every day.”

Tara pushed herself backwards, standing gracefully. Willow frowned. “What are you doing?”

“You have to wake up now, Willow.” Tara’s voice trembled slightly.

“Why? I don’t want to leave you.” Willow stood, reaching forward to Tara, but the other witch had already turned to face an inky spill of darkness growing in the mental gloom.

“Willow! Go! I can’t hold it off forever!”

Stumbling away, Willow took another look at Tara bravely standing strong as the fog reached for her, sending tendrils curling around her ankles. A sad smile, and Tara waved her hand brusquely.

Willow was abruptly forced back into her own skin, her own very uncomfortable skin. She slowly cracked her eyes open, wincing at the light, and croaked out, “Water.”

A rustle to the side of her bed brought a concerned Poppy Pomfrey holding a glass of something that Willow decided distinctly wasn’t water as she gagged it down. The mediwitch brushed a sticky goo on her chest as well, and soon enough, Willow began to feel considerably better. After a moment or two wherein the pale witch counted fingers, toes, and number of ways she was going to dissect, flay, or otherwise maim the person who had inflicted that curse on Draco, she sat up. Low voices sounded closer and closer, and soon the curtains were pushed back to reveal Dumbledore, Minerva and Remus peering down, anxiety tightening their faces.

“Willow, I realize you’re just recovering, but do you have any idea what happened?”

Willow took a deep breath, smiling faintly as Minerva cupped her cheek tenderly. “Yes, I know what happened.”

When a further explanation wasn’t forthcoming, Dumbledore pushed his glasses up his nose and coughed.

“And I can’t tell you what it was,” she continued impatiently. “You’ll have to trust me when I say it was the wakeup call I needed.”

“But I know the effects of Crutacius when I see it, Willow, and that’s impossible—“

“Impossible is such an inflexible word.” Willow’s eyes glittered and she schooled her features into the famed ‘resolve face’. “I have something I need to do. And I need some help to get it done.” She took a deep breath. “Could someone find me Severus Snape? He and I need to have a little talk about foxes in the henhouse.”

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

It was conceivable that today was one of the worst days in his short existence, or so thought Lucius Malfoy with no small amount of ire. It was supposed to be a day of glory for his master, the time when Voldemort finally got his grubby reptilian fingers on the prize and he, the lord of Malfoy Manor, would ascend to lord of so much more.

But instead, he was answering all too many uncomfortable questions about familial loyalty. If his worthless waste of a son hadn’t bumbled his way down into the dungeons when he did, then this whole situation could have been avoided. Draco would have even benefited from the elevation of status; after all it had been Lucius who had arranged for the successful capture of Potter. To find Draco releasing the very object they’d sought for so long…Lucius thought it possible he’d suffered from a stroke and now suffered from unpleasant delusions.

From what he’d remembered, the brat had always hated the Potter boy, and for the life of him, he just couldn’t understand what Draco was doing. Sons of Malfoy didn’t release prisoners from dungeons. Ever. The resulting rage that overtook him had probably been a little too obvious; Lucius preferred subtlety, but his master was there in person and his loyalty had to be proven. And so, as his world shattered into disordered fragments, and with the vicious snickers of his cronies ringing in his ears, Lucius Malfoy let loose his desperate fury on his son.

Crucio was an amusing enough curse, and very effective, but for some reason, Draco hadn’t responded like most recipients. A brief paternal pride, instantly suppressed, erupted when Draco refused to scream, only sinking to his knees, his glare promising a lingering death. Intrigued, Lucius offered another bout of the curse and he was surprised to see Draco breathing deeply, as if centering himself, but still no screaming.

His son had ended up on his hands and knees, head hanging down, when Voldemort had given the order to have him chained next to the woozy-looking Potter and left there while more preparations were made.

They had until moonrise the next night, and so they were in no hurry, but his Lord wanted everything to be perfect. It wasn’t enough that Potter was to die; he had to give up what he had taken in the first place. All those lingering powers, powers he’d stolen from his Lord the moment he’d reflected the Killing Curse as an infant, had to be regained in order for Voldemort to return to full strength.

There was no point in having all the Death Eaters herding around in his dungeon and laughing at his fall from grace, so Lucius had sent all but Pettigrew away with icy words, leaving the rat man alone to tend to his Lord’s needs. It wasn’t acceptable for Lucius to do it himself, despite only hanging onto his life by a thread.

Voldemort was currently sitting in a heavy oak chair on the far side of the dungeon, sipping some foul concoction from a chalice, his eyes glimmering red in the faint light. He seemed to be fixated on Potter, to no one’s surprise, but the way Draco kept wiggling around, Lucius wouldn’t be surprised if Voldemort finished him off personally to silence the noise. It would be inconvenient, to be sure, but a new heir to the Malfoy fortune could be created eventually. As far as Lucius was concerned, Draco was no longer the heir to anything but a very sticky end.

Sighing, Lucius considered the problem of his son’s motivations again. A few months ago, Bulstrode had mentioned that his daughter was acting strange, but given that no one thought she had two brain cells to rub together, it was dismissed. Other than asking a few questions about her role as a wife and non-working mother, Millicent had been quiet. It was probably nothing, but in hindsight, perhaps they should have brought her in for questioning. It seemed now that his son might have been cooking up a plan of his own.

Naturally, it was a colossal failure, like all Draco’s attempts, but Lucius was intrigued that he’d been able to pull off anything. Finding Potter in the basement had to have been an accident, but how Draco knew something was to be found down there was a mystery. It was one of the few off-limit places in the Manor that Lucius could go for amusement and not receive nasty comments from his wife about getting blood on the upholstery.

Thinking of his wife brought an uncomfortable twinge to Lucius’ stomach. It simply wouldn’t do for her to find out about her baby boy’s treatment, though it was her coddling that had likely allowed for his pathetic lack of discipline in the first place, and steps would probably have to be taken. Narcissa was entirely too resourceful to be allowed to retaliate. While not the most magically talented witch he knew, she had a flare for the dramatically effective. Lucius sighed, rubbing the snake handle on his cane pensively, trying to corral his thoughts into some order. His carefully-arranged world was coming apart at the seams, and he was damned if he would let it disintegrate totally.

Then again, he was already damned, so what difference would anything else make? His failure to adequately secure the Potter boy already had the possibility of forfeiting his life, or perhaps just his pinky fingers and maybe an ear for his Lord’s amusement. Voldemort had a whimsical streak when handing out punishments and didn’t tolerate insubordination. He’d been coldly furious after his corporeal return to find that he had no explicit transgressions to pin on Lucius. This misstep would provide the dark wizard the target he coveted. Draco, in one fell swoop, managed to effectively render Lucius nothing more than a well groomed object lesson—At least if anything went wrong. If everything went smoothly from then on maybe he’d escape with his skin mostly intact.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The bond between mother and child is one that no science can adequately explain. There are numerous tales of the maternal instinct kicking in at the strangest times, prodding an absent mother to scurry home to check on a beloved infant, only to find said infant a breath away from disaster. There are feats of strength that no human should be able to do, with mothers lifting refrigerators or grandmothers heaving cars off trapped tots. What of the mothers who sense something amiss in the nursery, only to find a snake coiling up a cradle or the dreaded cat sitting on a child’s chest? Whatever the case, mothers are uniquely attuned to the fate of their children throughout the world.

Narcissa Malfoy was no exception. From her spot in the newly renovated cottage, she suddenly paused, hand inches away from the smooth wood surface of the desk, and tilted her head as if listening. For some time now, a growing feeling of unease had settled around her like an entirely unfashionable cloak. She’d ignored it until the itchy feeling between her shoulder blades became too much to bear. The slim folds of sample fabric fell from her fingers, unnoticed as she stood and turned in a small circle. She had no real reason to feel such a heavy weight of distress settling in her stomach, no call for the shiver that ran down her delicate forearms to make her fingers clench in fists.

But that mattered not. As far as the granddame extraordinaire Narcissa Malfoy knew, there was something going seriously wrong in her world. Given that her world consisted almost exclusively of her darling boy and his future, with a small sidelight devoted to her husband and his enterprises, and a growing section wrapped up in the well-being of the mother of her future grandchildren, Narcissa headed out of the cottage to find out exactly what was taking Draco so long.

Unsurprising, Glacies was no longer rounding up garden gnomes. Rather surprising was the speed in which the usually sleepy Quetzalcoatl was undulating across the winter-brown garden. He’d abandoned the warm spot on the stone patio, and from what Narcissa could tell, was rather distraught. The feathers of his ruff and ridge were erect, stiff, and tripled the size of his flattened head. Slate-silver eyes were wide, as was his mouth, long fangs bared.

This only worsened the shivers and general feeling of ‘bad things happening’, and she fished her wand out of her robes, clenching it tightly. She ignored the looks of the servants and house elves as she dashed through the house, ignored the raised eyebrows and gasps of surprise that their Mistress was actually *running*, an unheard-of activity. She didn’t care that her hair was mussed, or that Glacies had knocked a priceless vase off of the credenza in the east sitting room. Narcissa was oblivious to the calls of the staff to see whether she needed assistance, and heeded nothing but Glacies as he slithered his bulk to the very door of the dungeons.

With a near-panic settling in her heart, she shoved the giant serpent out of the way and worked the locking charms on the door. Only breaths later, the door swung open and Narcissa nearly slid down the stairs; her hand held loosely on the banister was the only thing the kept her from tumbling head-over-heels. She could hear Glacies’ furious hissing behind her, each explosion of air urging her to move faster and faster, but she couldn’t seem to make her feet work properly.

She stumbled out of the stairwell into the dungeon proper, and nearly fainted. Chained to the dungeon wall was her beloved son, eyes glaring balefully across the room, but she had no time to see at what. Letting out a cry full of broken things, she all but flew across the room to collapse on her knees at Draco’s side.

His eyes were bleary, heavy, and he shook his head briefly as if to clear it. She laid a hand on his cheek oh-so-softly. “Oh, my dear, what has happened to you?”

“Mother,” he wheezed, “Mother, go!”

“What? No!” Narcissa gripped the enchanted steel manacle with and gave it a yank. Her hair slipped further out of its complicated knot of braids and fell in front of her eyes, but she paid it no mind. Behind her, Glacies coiled into a furious ball, scales rasping on the floor. He placed himself between Draco and the dim far side of the dungeon, carefully watching an unseen something. A twitch of movement of two and he was still, poised to strike.

It finally began to process in Narcissa’s mind that she should perhaps turn around and see what had fascinated Glacies so much when the blow came. It knocked her off balance, smashing her perfect face onto the stone of the dungeon wall. She staggered backwards, staring in confusion at the smear of blood on the dark stone. She’d just lifted her fingers to touch the growing lump on her cheekbone when she was lifted by her throat and held off the floor.

Her wand forgotten, she met her husband’s eyes across the expanse of black leather gloves.

“Narcissa. How wonderful for you to join us,” he ground out, and the lady of the house was shocked at the scattered, shattered man in front of her. Gone was the cool reserve he was so famous for; instead, Lucius trembled with barely-suppressed rage.

In that one moment, she had no doubt as to who had injured her son. “Let go of me, you bastard,” she hissed.

He shook her again, looking down his nose at her. “No, I rather think not. It seems you and the boy have a proclivity for wandering where you’re not invited.” He gave her throat a firm squeeze. “That just won’t do.”

With an audible whoosh, Glacies struck, throwing Lucius to one side, inserting himself between his master and his charge. The elder Malfoy stood, pointing his wand arrogantly at the Quetzalcoatl. Narcissa gasped for air and collapsed on the floor. Draco struggled against the bonds, pushing even as the metal bit into his skin. He kicked Harry hard in the leg to get his attention.

“Potter, get them to leave.”

“What? Are you mad? This is our chance to escape!” The teen looked around with wide eyes, inching his fingers towards Narcissa’s dropped wand.

From across the dungeon, the dark shape moved from his throne and uttered a nearly-inaudible curse. The sickly greenish light sprung from his wand and struck the side of the great serpent just as he was about to lunge at Lucius with his fangs.

Draco cried out harshly, hands reaching for his mother’s broken body, ignoring his fallen nanny. Voldemort made his way cautiously out of the shadows, Pettigrew scurrying along behind him.

“Fascinating entertainment, Lucius, and I see your immortal protector lives up to his name.” Glacies hissed and rippled his injured side away from the offending wizard. A great gaping hole, charred around the edges, was burned into a good seven feet of his length. The dark wizard chuckled to himself. “Who’d have thought he’d survive an Avada? Remarkable creature. This is a shame, really.”

At that he raised his wand and cursed the Quetzalcoatl again. Wounded, Glacies was unable to escape, taking the curse full on his spine. He shrieked, and gathered himself to strike, defender till the end. Narcissa struggled to raise herself up onto her elbows as Lucius ran an agitated hand through his hair.

“Why, Narcissa? Why couldn’t you have stayed away? Must you make this so difficult for me?” He loomed over her, wand held negligently and voice clear as he said, “Crucio.”

Draco had had enough. He crawled to the end of his chains, even as his mother screamed in agony, and grabbed Harry’s leg, shaking hard. “Give up getting the wand, fuckwit, just tell Glacies to get my mother out of here.”

Harry blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “But, rescue…”

“Is outside. Get Glacies and my mother outside.” Draco’s eyes had taken on a peculiar inky glow, as if shadows spilled from inside out. “Convince him.”

Still confused, Harry hissed at Glacies in parseltongue, “Take his mother and go outside.”

“Mussst not. Mussst protect.” The feathered serpent turned pain-filled silver eyes to Harry in surprise.

“Now, Potter.” Draco’s voice sounded strained, stretched, as if echoing from far away.

Harry tried gain, more firmly this time. “He says the protection is outside.”

The serpent looked to Draco for confirmation and whapped Lucius away from his fallen wife with a swipe of his tail, curling himself protectively around Narcissa’s inert form. Lucius’s head struck the end of one of his special tables as he fell, momentarily dazed. Voldemort looked at Glacies with a mixture of admiration and regret even as he lazily sent another curse to frizzle the magical beast’s hide. But Narcissa, wrapped tightly in impervious scales, felt nothing. In a matter of seconds, Glacies disappeared into the shadows, taking his own preferred route away from the chaos of the dungeons.

Harry looked to Draco, and muttered, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Draco merely smiled, eyes shining with dreadful hate as he watched his father struggle to stand.

Chapter 43

The art of teaching pre-teens and teenagers is a dangerous one. There are pitfalls everywhere, traps teachers can fall into, be waylaid by, or generally be just swamped in. Of particular dread is the habit of the children to question ‘why me?’ when all they really wanted was to be the center of attention to begin with. They twist and turn inside their skins, trying simultaneously to fit in and be unique, and rarely manage to escape unscarred. As such, so many of them find despair in the rejection they all too often set themselves up for, resorting to the plaintive cry of ‘why me?’, the bastion of self pity everywhere.

Severus hated the ‘why me?’ mentality. There was nothing more infuriating than the whine of a distraught thirteen year old who’d backed himself into a corner and wanted some adult to come in and save him—when it was getting away from the adults in the first place that stuffed him into the corner, or toilet, or rubbish bin.

So it was with no small amount of shock that he heard those very same words pass his own lips.

He was shocked enough not to really listen when the response came, silently berating himself for not only letting her turn his hormones into those of a raging teen, but his diction as well. After a moment of self-pity in which he tried not to notice the curve of her cheek or remember the taste of her lips, he shook his head rapidly and cleared his throat.

The ‘her’ in question took this to mean he wanted clarification, so she began her explanation again. “Because the prophecy says so. Or I think it does, anyway.”

Severus wasn’t particularly thrilled with that answer and said so. “The prophecy? When exactly did a prophecy come into things? Did Sybil come down from on high and offer her little insights about who’s going to die this time?”

Willow looked annoyed and snapped out, “No, not Sybil. The one about the coyote and the fox. You’re supposed to come put him back together again.”

Severus knew the open mouth wasn’t a good look for him. It didn’t go well with the hooked nose and lanky hair, but at the moment, he wasn’t sure he cared. “That thing? It’s a Native American creation myth! It’s not a prophecy!”

“It is if I say it is.” She sighed, turning to look at him full on for a moment. The skin around her eyes was drawn, dark, and she looked pained. From what he’d overheard, Minerva was convinced she’d suffered some sort of remote crucio, but he wasn’t sure he believed that…though she was almost vibrating with excess energy.

There was a queer look in her eye, the tenseness of imminent action reined in. It reminded him uncomfortably of what he had seen during that awful trip through her memories, feeling that tension from the inside out, and it made him very nervous.

When she’d asked for him initially, he’d responded out of habit, before remembering he wanted nothing to do with her. He walked down the path to Hogsmeade, then, out of duty, the honor in fulfilling his obligations: he said she could always ask him for help, whatever the reason. Apparently she’d decided to accept.

She continued on, oblivious to his growing unease. “Where I come from, prophesies aren’t handed out by people you may have taken Divination from. Prophesies are written by crazy people millennia ago and are disguised as everything from the dreams of kings to a Mesopotamian grocery list. This one time, Giles found one that was written out in Flemish as a recipe for—Look, just believe me. I was mean to find it when I did, and it was meant to refer to you and Draco, your fox to his coyote.”

Severus glared. “Awfully convenient.”

“No, it’s really not. Do you think I want you to come?” Willow clamped her jaw shut after that, face flushed, and looked down at the gravel path that led from Hogwarts to the front gates. Softly, she said, “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

Severus wanted to tell her it was, but he didn’t have the heart. After all, he’d done his best to drive her away every moment from the time she walked away. Each breath in her presence was like a thousand knives on his soul, slicing him open, naked and bleeding, and he hated it. The vulnerability was exhausting. It was so much easier to take the opportunity of the attacks to focus his frustration on her, pushing and sniping. If she would just leave him alone…

…He would be as lonely as he had been before. But now he knew it. That was the kicker. Every time he looked at her he saw loneliness crawling closer. That brief brush with companionship, so rudely yanked away, left him bare to the bone. It was easier not to have something when you didn’t miss it. When you knew exactly what you could have had, that was a different story altogether.

So he focused his energies on getting her to hate him. It was the least he could do. Except now he was treading away from the sanctuary of the school heading towards an uncertain fate. He didn’t know exactly what she planned, but the dreadful fierceness in the lines of her body didn’t leave him completely in the dark.

“So what are we doing?”

“We’re going to go save the day. Scooby style.”

“I beg your pardon? Scooby?”

A thin sliver of a smile crossed her lips, cold and hard. “It means we pull out the big guns.”

Hefting the potions kit in his left hand, Snape muttered, “So why this, then?”

“Because I don’t know what we’ll find.” The hunch of her shoulders clued him in that she wasn’t saying something.

“How do you mean?”

“He’s not sure. And, oh god, I hope he’s wrong.” Willow shook her head sharply as if to shake the bad thoughts right out.

The dark haired wizard grabbed her arm, stopping her dead. Speaking with precision, he said, “What. Do. You. Mean.”

Willow spun around to look up at him, green eyes growing darker with each second. “He said Narcissa…Narcissa might be hurt. Badly.”

Blood running cold, Snape released her arm in shock. Narcissa wanted to start over. Family had wanted to start over, rebuild, and now she might be hurt. “Badly enough that I’m supposed to bring every restorative I know?”

“Exactly. Draco is a bit fuzzy still, but he does know Harry got Glacies to leave with Narcissa while she was still alive.”

“Harry? What’s he doing there?” He stared down at Willow, black eyes intense. “What’s going on at the manor, and why did you tell Dumbledore and the others that this was nothing serious?”

She sighed, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “Because if they knew what we were doing they may try to stop us.”

“What are we doing?”

“I told you—“

“We’re going to save the day. I understood you the first time, Ms. Rosenberg.” Grinding his teeth, he tried again. “When you asked for my help, you said it was a matter of utmost personal importance at the Malfoy Manor. You did not mention injured Narcissa, Harry being there, or anything else. Given your current entanglement with young Malfoy, I assumed there was a magical mishap. Now, I repeat, what is going on?”

“Voldemort,” she said simply.

Severus blinked. Then he swallowed. And lastly he laughed. “We’re doing to invade Malfoy Manor to deal with his dark and mighty self, Lord Voldemort, armed with a potions master’s healing kit and the creation myth of a people that aren’t even found on this continent?”

She looked at him, chin jutting out, and said, “No, we’re going in there armed with me.”

For once, Severus had nothing to say.

There were no words to express the sheer lunacy of this situation, but when Willow moved forward down the path, he followed. After all, it was just so ridiculous it might work. A small part of him said he had to have known what was going on when she asked for his help. She’d avoided him so assiduously recently that her request made no sense unless his presence was absolutely necessary. And he heard what she didn’t say, the symmetry inherent in all prophesies that said that Snape sent Draco to find Willow, now Willow sent Snape to help find Draco.

Besides, he’d seen the inside of her mind, the way she worked, how she reacted to her loved one being injured. If her reaction this time was even remotely like the last time, the entire human race would be lucky to see the sunrise. And the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to go out with a bang. If the last thing he saw was Voldemort’s face when he waltzed in, then he’d die happy.

Willow had turned, striding away from him purposefully, and he had to hurry to catch up. She moved rapidly, precisely, more like a hunter than he’d ever seen her. Most of the time she projected the aura of helplessness, something to protect, but not now. Now, the air around her shimmered, and when he got too close, he felt faint. She noticed him reaching toward her and she shook her head.

“I don’t recommend you get too close. I don’t think you’d like it.”

“Oh?”

She frowned, biting her lip. “We’ve had our differences, and I am truly sorry for any pain I’ve caused you; I wish you no ill will. If things were different, another world, another time, I think we’d have done well together.” She looked at him shyly, eyes bright. “I just thought you should know, in case this is the end.” Holding out one delicate, pale hand, she said, “Come on, we’re almost ready.”

Something nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. When she gripped his palm tightly and took a deep breath, he was utterly surprised to find himself blinking out of existence in a way so unlike apparating, he nearly threw up. His skin felt sparkly, fizzy, and when he popped out wherever it was she sent them, he collapsed to his knees.

“Oh, did that hurt?” She ran her fingers over his head, gently, though she kept her body out of reach. He shook his head and stood, shakily.

“Where are we?”

“Outside of the manor grounds.”

It came to him then, as he gasped out, “We can’t just walk through! Do you have any idea of the wards that Narcissa installed to keep out unwanted witches and wizards? It’ll rip your skin right off!”

With a wild giggle, just this side of madness, Willow murmured, “How appropriate. But it won’t be a problem. Just follow what the old Indian said, as un-pc as that is. You know, I think Spike might have had a point, even if we didn’t want to hear it. Buffy really shouldn’t have made a bear.”

Snape looked at her as if she’d finally lost her mind. When she just smiled sadly, he sighed. “So what did the old Indian say?”

“This is your work to do. I give you powers to kill these monsters. I have given your twin, Fox, power to help you, to restore you to life should you be killed. Your bones may be scattered; but if there is one hair left on your body, Fox can bring you back to life.” A slight tilt of her lips. “So, Fox, are you ready to go save my Coyote?”

With that, she shimmered into a dainty red fox. Snape blinked for a moment, shrunk and stored his bag, then followed her into the form of a black fox. Together they trotted across the barrier to the manor grounds. The wards pulled at their skin, testing, tasting, but despite a momentary frizzle of indecision, the magic gave them leave. Finally through, the pair took of towards the manor house, running full tilt.

The sun had set by now, and the lawn was soaked in dark. Snape nudged Willow’s shoulder, directing her towards the side entrance, through the garden. There was a cottage there that would make a good staging point, unless they’d gotten a new gardener. He doubted though, given that the last one had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, mysterious enough that no one wanted the position.

They crept through the bushes, slinking like true beasts, letting their noses guide them. A few birds startled, flapping from their roosts, but other than that, the manor was quiet. Too quiet. The cottage was just around the bend when Snape stopped, sitting back on his haunches. There was movement there, a soft, slick hissing, the sound of blood on stone. Willow crouched lower, eyes closed. With a soft yip, she darted forward, ignoring Snape’s growl of warning.

She dashed into the cottage, the black fox right on her heels, but what they saw gave them pause. First Snape, then Willow reverted to human form.

A soft cry of surprise and anguish, and Snape was cradling his cousin’s body in his lap. He’d pulled her from the unresisting coils of a massive silver Quetzalcoatl, though Glacies hadn’t objected. Some of this could have been due to the massive hemorrhage along his side, but Snape hoped the guardian remembered him from his previous visits, and his role as Draco’s pseudo-godfather.

Willow had one hand outstretched, tears building in her eyes. “Can you help her?”

Severus fished the satchel from his cloak and returned it to its original size. He pulled several potions from the side racks, pouring a bit from each in a small cup. When it was mixed to his satisfaction, he held it to the blonde’s lips. She drank it weakly, almost by instinct.

“I believe so. See the way her fingers are clenched? That’s a symptom of the unforgivables, probably crucio. The cut on her face is more or less superficial.” He dabbed the gash with a soft rag soaked in a vile chartreuse liquid. It hissed, but the bleeding stopped. The pain appeared to rouse the lady of the house, and she cracked her eyes open.

“Cousin Severus? Am I dreaming?”

“No, Narcissa, I’m really here.” With a wry grin over his shoulder, he gestured to Willow. “We’re here to save the day.”

She relaxed fractionally, then whispered, “They have him.”

“Who?”

“My son.” The pain in her voice shattered on the stone floor, ricocheting around the trio.

Glacies hissed weakly, turning to ineffectually lick his side. The forked tongue did little to ease the agony, and the serpent hissed again. Severus laid Narcissa’s head on a balled up roll of material he found on the floor. He approached the guardian carefully, hands out. “This will help with the pain. I don’t know what to do for you otherwise, mystical creatures were never my forte, but it works for humans.”

Tentatively, he held out a lumpy capsule full of herbs and other ingredients. Slate eyes cautious, the snake curled the pill from Severus’ hand with his tongue. The potions master shook his head. “I really don’t know if that will help. Now, Narcissa, we need to know what’s going on.”

It was only then that Narcissa saw Willow standing near the doorway. The young witch had her eyes closed now, breathing deeply. When Narcissa gasped, Willow opened her eyes. They were nothing more than pools of night, glittering with open rage. Her hair was no longer red, instead dusky with power.

“I know enough, Severus. Draco’s expecting us.” Her voice was hollow, empty of emotion.

“This isn’t how I wanted to welcome you home, dear.” Ever the gracious hostess, Narcissa struggled to sit. When Severus helped her up, she waved a bit. “This is for you, you know. What do you think of the color scheme?”

Smiling slightly, Willow looked around. “It’s lovely.”

Severus couldn’t believe the exchange, but something told him that it was very important for both women. He cradled Narcissa close and stroked her hair. Willow blinked, and just like that, the black was gone from her eyes and hair. She shook her whole body, loosening her muscles.

When Narcissa had caught her breath from the display, she took her cousin’s hand. “I want to go with you.”

He wanted to refuse, but her eyes held such betrayal that he couldn’t. “Narcissa…”

“He did this, Lucius. I want him to understand just exactly what he’s done, what he’s let into our home.” The fury in her voice matched the trembling in her shoulders. “Some things are not meant to be forgiven.”

“Some things are meant for vengeance.” In a moment of perfect understanding, Willow and Narcissa smiled at each other. “Help her up, Severus. She needs to come with us.”

Inwardly sighing at the increasing levels of absurdity in this outing, Snape jiggered up a concoction of Pepper Up potion with some interesting additives that would leave Narcissa aching for days, though for now she’d be almost as good as new.

He helped her stand then, with one last look at the wounded serpent, the trio left the cottage. Severus followed the two women across the dark garden, into the quiet house, through the empty corridors, down the silent halls. Narcissa stopped in front of a heavy oaken door studded with magical iron bolts.

Seeing the door brought a chill down his spine. How many times had he descended those stairs to partake in revels, dark evenings full of pain and depravity? It was with a sick sense of déjà vu that he closed the door quietly behind him. He helped Narcissa down the stairs, but as they neared the bottom, he motioned both women behind him, with a nod reminiscent of gentility at its highest. If anyone were going to get blasted for walking down into the dungeon first, it might as well be him.

Surprisingly enough, no one hexed him. He thought he might have a heart attack for good measure, but decided against it. He took a deep breath, still no hexing, and looked across the dim dungeon to meet Lucius’ startled eyes. The Malfoy patriarch looked uncharacteristically frazzled, kneeling in desperate supplication at the dark lord’s feet. Lucius had twisted to look over his shoulder in shocked irritation and for a heartbeat no one said a word. Severus looked to Lucius’ favorite spot to find the great Lord Voldemort lounging in the throne with a smile on his face.

“Ah, Severus, you’ve come back to me. How dreadfully amusing.”

Snape could see how utterly unamusing Voldemort found the situation, but the dark lord would waste no opportunity to inflict misery on followers and strangers alike. That he thought Snape was no threat was obvious in the negligent way he held his wand. Lucius stood, stroking the side of his head as if it hurt, a befuddled expression on his face, as if he couldn’t possibly believe more people were wandering into his dungeon unannounced. Surprisingly, Peter Pettigrew knelt on the floor to Voldemort’s right.

Taking a deep breath, Snape said as lightly as possible, “It seemed like such a party, I thought I’d come join you.” He stepped away from the opening to the stairs. “And I brought friends.”

At that, Willow and Narcissa moved to stand on either side. Severus curled a protective arm around his cousin’s shoulders. She leaned into him slightly, but only had eyes for her husband. Lucius choked out a laugh, pointing at his wife with a trembling finger.

“Well, I have to say I’m impressed. You’ve come back for more.”

Narcissa narrowed her eyes and nodded. “You have no idea, dear.”

He scoffed at that, cutting his gaze over his cousin-by-marriage to rest on the woman standing slightly to his right. Lucius turned an interesting shade of red, eyes boggling at Willow, and sputtered, “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

Willow just smiled, demurely. Out of the corner of her eye, she winked at Draco, still chained to the wall. He looked at his wife with hooded eyes, the hint of a self-satisfied smirk playing at his lips.

“You’re the woman from Hogsmeade, aren’t you? The one that banished my servants to that dreadful American shopping place.” Voldemort cocked his head, fondling his wand. He laid one hand on Lucius’ arm to prevent him from hexing the witch merely on principle. Severus was surprised to note that Voldemort was actually interested in something besides himself for the first time in years.

Narcissa, still shaky, sent a longing glance at her son. Severus curled his fingers on her arm in case she decided to do something unpredictable, but it was unnecessary. One look from her son quelled any dramatic urges. Draco watched the exchange between Willow and Voldemort with amused eyes, strikingly out of place on his stressed face. Harry, for once, kept his mouth shut, too agog at the utter weirdness of the situation to make it worse.

Levering himself to his feet using Pettigrew’s bent shoulder, Voldemort rasped out, “They never did discover who you were, not really. Since you’ve decided to join this impromptu soiree, would you care to enlighten us?”

“If you wish,” she said negligently. “I guess it’s a more complicated answer than I thought it would be, if you’d asked me six months ago, anyway.”

Severus marveled at how calm she seemed, responding to Voldemort’s question as if they were meeting for coffee in a park somewhere, not facing each other down in a dreary dungeon with loved ones battered, bruised and chained to walls. Voldemort waved his hand, indicating she should continue.

Subtly at first, Willow’s image began to shift, the red hair blunt cut and straight, clothes soft and geeky, completely Muggle. “I guess I was a nerd first, a hacker.” The pink pants became a blousy skirt. “And then I was the research girl.” Hair shorter, curled over her shoulders.

“The band groupie next.” A faint image of a guitar playing boy shimmered to her side. She spared him a soft glance. “The vampire.” Willow morphed into a leather-corset-wearing woman, sharply pointed teeth, yellow eyes, and brow ridges. Severus wasn’t sure what made him shiver, but the look on that face was utterly devoid of humanity. It, the creature that was Willow, giggled, running her tongue on her teeth before morphing back the way she was before.

“The college girl, the wicca, the girlfriend.” The boy was replaced by a curvy blonde with a sweet face. Willow barely spared her a glance, however, as her hair got even shorter, curly, and her eyes bled black. “The big gun, the bad ass.” The blonde suddenly sprouted a wash of blood on her shirt, falling to the floor to disappear in a shimmering cloud. “The wicked witch of the west.” Willow’s hair became completely black, veins in her face standing out.

The building pressure in the room was nearly unbearable. Those used to dark magic still felt the heavy sticky feeling as it permeated the room, but poor Harry passed out cold. Willow gradually relaxed her posture, as if letting out the magic made breathing easier. Voldemort leaned back, steepling his fingers. Willow curled up her lips in a coy smile as Lucius took an involuntary step forward. He slid out his wand again, pointing it her direction.

“What are you?”

Now Narcissa spoke, her voice lazy and content. “Haven’t you guessed, my dear? I’m happy to introduce you to your daughter-in-law.”

This was the last straw for poor Lucius. He snapped his head around to Draco’s direction. “You what?”

“Married her.” Draco was smug. He smiled as Willow took the few steps to stand at his side, reaching down to stroke his head protectively. He leaned into the caress, much as a canine would have, eyes half closed. Willow stroked his cheek indulgently before snapping her fingers. The chains around both Harry and Draco’s limbs dissolved in an instant.

“And I’m not happy when my loved ones get hurt.” She turned feral, empty eyes towards Lucius. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Draco stood stiffly with obviously aching muscles, curling an arm around Willow’s shoulders. She preened a bit, running her hand over his chest, lingering for a moment on the place where Severus knew the Anima Conligato mark rested.

“Well, well, my dark witch, it seems we both have a Malfoy at our disposal.” Voldemort cackled with amusement, not even the least bit perturbed by this new revelation. Severus could almost see the machinations beginning. Poor Lucius had actually begun to shake, the full import of what had happened sinking in. “I am so very disappointed in you, Lucius, failing to bring such a prize to my attention. One married to your son, no less.” He narrowed his red eyes with irritation.

Willow nodded subtly to Snape, who cautiously moved behind them to check on the unconscious Harry. He moved as surreptitiously as possible, keeping an eye not only on Lucius’ breakdown but also Pettigrew’s quiet creeping as Voldemort cracked his lips in a chilling approximation of a smile.

Willow laughed, the sound sliding around the room like an oil slick on water. “Puppy likes to play. What do you say about a contest, a bit of fun, my Malfoy against yours?”

Chapter 44

As the words left her mouth, Willow felt a sense of detached completion. There was no sense of guilt, no wariness that it was perhaps not the best idea to send her weakened husband off to face his father. Just a niggling sense of glittery satisfaction that she'd see a bit of excitement. Those facets of her personality that became the Vampire Willow in the other world had always been there, waiting for her to acknowledge them. Now that she had, they skittered to life in the most astonishing ways.

It was the same with the rest of her transformations, the slideshow of her life. She could actually feel the shattered pieces of her self falling into place. The neglected, abhorred, forgotten bits that made her what she was that day as she stood in the dungeon, flowed into her, rounding out the sharp edges, the dark areas. It felt…right. She felt whole for the first time in her life, complete within her self, her skin, and if the situation hadn't been as dire she might have wept. All the darkness left over from the rampage after Tara's death, too long denied, welled up. It flickered under her skin, giving her the courage she needed to complete her role in this little drama. Accepting those bits of herself made the task so much easier.

As soon as she'd woken up, she'd contacted Draco through the bond, nearly hysterical. He'd calmed her down, told her just what had happened, as far as he'd seen, and had even begun to formulate a
plan. That's what Slytherins did, after all, plan. Plot, scheme, connive. She needed that. The perfectionist in her had always been disappointed that Warren's two buddies had gotten away. She was too governed by her emotions, driven to react rather than to plan. If she'd had a plan they'd be skinless wonders too, not hiding in whatever hole they'd found. So she'd allowed Draco to calm her down long enough to listen to him, and throughout her walk away from Hogwarts, they'd planned their revenge.

After all, this current situation couldn't go unpunished. Not any longer. So now she smiled up at Draco as he took a wobbly step away from her to face his father. He knew what he was doing, he assured
her, and so she let him go.

Voldemort prodded Lucius forward with his wand. "Now, now, Lucius, we don't want to disappoint the lady."

The Malfoy patriarch shot his master a look full of venom, but he moved forward, switching his attention to his son. "Do you really think you have a chance of defeating me? You, the pathetic boy who couldn't even accio his baby bottle?"

Draco stood, straightening his shoulders, and just smiled.

"You don't even have your wand! What can you possibly expect?" Lucius pulled Draco's wand from his pocket, running his gloved fingers over the length. "Ah, yes, not so brave now are you? Poor Draco, without his wand. So naked and alone. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Voldemort wheezed behind him and Lucius jumped slightly. "My servant does not question my orders. You will provide us amusement." He tilted his head, examining Willow. She looked back, sending out
tendrils of magic to stroke him, curling them around his aura with gentle nudges. He smiled, tongue flickering from between his lips to taste the air. With a tap of his wand, he broadened the throne seat
to accommodate two and held out his hand. In a brief moment of shock, during which Willow couldn't believe her luck, she laid her hand in his. He stepped her up the dais, seating her next to him. She settled gracefully, black hair tumbling loose over her shoulder down the throne arm. Withdrawing her hand from his, she smiled to herself as he shook his fingers and rubbed them together with a frown. He turned his attention back to Lucius with a glare.

"It can hardly be amusement if he has no way to fight," Lucius sneered, voice tinged with desperation. To defeat his son would only delay the inevitable.

Narrowing his red eyes, the Dark Lord hissed back. "The boy doesn't seem frightened. Yet you do. I wonder why that is?"

"Because he is weak." Draco spoke for the first time, his voice raspy and raw. Narcissa let out a soft sob, but said nothing. The son stepped forward, until he was mere inches from the father.

"He is past his prime, unable to stand on his own any longer. A servant, yes. My father, the boot-scraper." Voldemort narrowed his eyes at this, but said nothing. Draco continued, "You had such grand plans, Father. What happened to bring you to this?"

"You, you ungrateful brat." With that, he snapped Draco's wand into several pieces. "I should have taken care of you years ago, drowned you like an unwanted dog."

"But the dog kept coming back," Draco whispered, drawing back his arm. Before Lucius had a chance to situate his own wand between them, Draco hauled off and punched his father in the nose. Lucius
stumbled backward, holding his broken nose. Blood ran freely down his black robe front and hate glistened in his eyes. "You'b dun it now, boy. Der's no way-"

"Petrificus." Narcissa had scooped up her discarded wand from the unconscious Harry's feet. She fingered it lightly. "Do shut up, Lucius."

Mother and son knelt by Lucius' petrified form. Voldemort leaned forward, hands pressed eagerly together. He looked hungry. Narcissa looked distressed. She flitted her hands in the air, as if she
couldn't decide where to put them now that the world had been yanked out from under her. A lifetime of emotions crossed her face until cold fury in her body stilled all movement, removed all trace of
affection from her visage. She took a deep breath, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm tired of this, Lucius. I tolerated your dalliances with grace, because I wished to. You treated me as I was accustomed to, and I was pleased. I even loved you, my husband." Her delicate features
contorted with fury, she cupped his chin with her hand and ground her nails into his cheeks. "But you broke the one rule: you hurt my son."

Lowering her voice, she pressed close to the fallen man. Draco gripped her shoulder to prevent her from toppling over, but she had no real need for help: her rage kept her steady. "And for that Lucius, I summon your end."

From the darkness beyond the special tables with their hooks and their bindings came that soft hiss of scale on stone, muted somewhat by slick blood. Undulating much slower than his usual speed, Glacies coiled his way forward. The hole in his side, while still present, was almost healed. Pettigrew gave a startled squeak, scurrying to a far corner near Snape and Harry. Voldemort gave a grunt, as if appreciating the strength of an adversary, but made no move to intercede.

Lucius rolled his eyes as much as he was able, trying to fix the serpent with a commanding gaze, but it didn't work. Glacies merely slithered over, his heavy head looking down over his former master, former charge. Willow was startled to realize that at one time, Glacies had been Lucius' nanny, keeping him safe from harm. And now, without a touch of regret, the Quetzalcoatl would deliver his death.

"Any last words, Father?" Draco smiled peacefully down at the prone form. "No? That's a shame. I have a few. Always remember that you brought yourself to this. Whatever hell you suffer for an eternity, take with you the memory of my face, watching you die."

There was a strangled squall from Lucius as Glacies lowered his jaw, mouth open. The forked tongue flickered out, gently, touching the pale cheek, and then the five inch fangs descended. Long and sharp, they glistened in the torch light.

"My dear, I am sorry it had to come to this." Narcissa laid her palm on Lucius' cheek. "Go ahead, Glacies."

Willow watched as the serpent lunged then, piercing her father-in-law through the chest. The man arched against his petrificus bindings, scream of anguish dying behind frozen lips. And in a moment, all was still. Glacies removed his fangs, ruffled his feathers, and curled up in a content ball at Lucius's side, his head draped lazily over the dead man's chest. Narcissa gazed down at them, swaying slightly. Snape was instantly at her side, offering her his arm despite the look of nausea on his face.

The silence was broken by the sound of clapping. All eyes turned to Voldemort. "That was well done. I particularly enjoyed your contribution, Narcissa."

The witch inclined her head, standing with Snape's aid. He directed her next to her son and stepped to the side. The pair of remaining Malfoys faced the duo on the throne with heads held high.

"And, you, young Master Malfoy, where did you learn to punch like that? It's not a trait I imagine is encouraged at Hogwarts, unless it's changed very much from my days." Voldemort's voice had gone thin and angry.

Draco paid it no mind, however, as he said, "A Muggle taught me. It seems we've both been learning things from them."

"Ah yes, you liked my little display? So satisfying to use their own ends to destroy them. I do enjoy having fun with Muggles. They can be so gratifying when they scream." He leaned back, crossing his arms, obviously still feeling in control of the situation.

Willow cooed out, pouting, "No one ever asked me to come play. All they want me to do is read all the time. Bored now." She flicked her hand out, sending a shine of sparkles toward Draco and Narcissa.His mother stepped back, but Draco stood and let them cascade over his chest with a smirk. Willow spared Severus a glance, but he was watching Voldemort, body ramrod tense.

Voldemort's lips cracked into a smile. He swiveled to face her more completely. "And where have you been hiding?"

"Hogwarts." Willow gave a little moue and eyed Pettigrew creeping behind the throne.

"They couldn't see that wonderful darkness for what it was?"

"They chose not to look. People see what they want to see: a harmless, somewhat incompetent witch who just needed a place to hide for a while."

"Ah, so short-sighted of them. But Master Malfoy found you." Voldemort cast a questioning glance at Draco. Willow smirked as Draco just arched an eyebrow in response. The Dark wizard rubbed his fingertips together contemplatively. "He has been a busy boy, has he not? He's lucky he brought you to me, or he'd be joining his father."

Willow ignored the last comment, instead turning to smile at Draco. "He looked beneath and called me out, the real me." She smiled fondly at her husband, head tilted slightly. A breath later,she turned back to the demanding wizard at her side.

Red eyes glimmering, Voldemort hissed out, "I would be honored if you would like to join me for some amusements. I think you might find them very much to your liking."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Snape stiffen, arms rigid at his sides. She wished she'd had time to explain everything before they'd arrived, but she would do what she could now to avert disaster. She whispered, "Trust me," softly in his mind, inwardly cringing as he flinched away, knowing how hard it was to trust those who broke your heart. Resolutely putting the problem of Snape and his horrified reaction to Lucius' death out of her mind, she gathered herself together and looked up at the wizard next to her through her lashes.

"Oh, I'd like that, to feel the power running through me again, unchecked." She reached out her hand towards Voldemort's face, but he stopped her, gripping her hand tightly in his own. She pouted a bit. "Don't you trust me?"

"I trust no one."

"But we're just alike, you and I." She tightened her fingers around his, smiling lazily as he squawked softly, staring at his hand in horror as the gentle tingles and twinges turned into outright pain, desperate burning pain, as his magic fled his flesh, swallowed up in Willow's pale skin. "I just learned to hide it better."

Draco laughed low and sinister, and Willow felt his dark satisfaction deep within her. Narcissa turned to look at her son, questions in her eyes, but it was Snape who stepped forward, startled, a cautionary hand raised. Willow ignored them all, concentrating on the feel of magic connecting Voldemort to her, the slow sucking of energy through his skin. It was as exhilarating as she remembered, her mind's eye seeing the lettering of the books flow over her arms, her torso, right into her mind. Instead of words, now she relished the feel of lifetimes of magic, the reservoir of timeless gathering of dark knowledge, the spells and magics that kept Voldemort alive and bound to his followers. It was intoxicating.

She shuddered, little frizzles of electricity dancing across her skin. Voldemort tried yanking his hand away, but all he could manage was a weak tug. Eyes wide, he hissed in anger, but Willow just tut- tutted and gave a melodramatic sigh.

"All this time you think you're so special, the big scary snake man. Let me tell you what, buster. My old mayor turned into a sixty foot demon snake that ate people whole. Your pathetic little attempt is,well, cute, really. I know all about you and your fetish with the serpentine. Honestly, couldn't you be more creative? Maybe be the Evil Lord of Lemmings or something. After all, you're so fond of mindless followers." Voldemort was obviously in distress, but he still fought against her, trying in vain to reach for his wand. Belated as the attempt was, Willow wasn't about to let him succeed. She increased the drain, arching her back and groaning as he sagged in the seat.

She leaned forward after a few breaths, placing her palm on the now- incapacitated wizard's cheek. Holding her lips just above the leathery skin, she whispered, "As for the rest of it, you're a parasite. Just like me. You suck the lives of others; I suck the magic from those around me. A great big magic-sucking battery. That's what makes me so special; that's why it had to be me." She licked her lips. "You taste like licorice and brimstone. Not the tastiest treat I ever had, that would have to be Giles- springtime and life. No, you're not that good at all, but satisfying? Yes, oh, yes."

The magic around her swirled and burned the air, sparking at the ends of her hair, searing tiny chars in the seat. There was no sense of doom and depression this time, however, only the swelling feeling of invincibility. All that this wizard had ever been was now hers, all his gifts and boons, all his rites and spells, the knowledge, the power—hers. She started laughing as Voldemort's eyes closed, slack, and released his hand to lay both palms on his cheeks.

"You've really been such a good sport about this all." She pushed him back so he slumped over the arm of the chair. "But I gotta say, your follow through was pathetic. So much for legendary Voldemort stamina. All you can manage is a little post-trauma coma? Come on, come back and play some more, that can't be all."

When the decidedly limp Dark Lord made no move to revive, Willow shoved up from the seat, face fixed in a sneer. "That was fun; I want more." She turned her gaze towards Wormtail, creeping towards the stairwell. "Oh! Ratty! I love rats. I had one at home, she used to go to high school with me." She stepped down from the raised platform, ignoring Snape as he called her name softly.

If she could just get to the traitor, she could have even more. Sniffing the air, she stalked around the others, not even registering her mother-in-law crouching by a groggy yet awakening Harry. Willow could smell mold and mildew, dark dank things, but also the delicious smell of magic, bright and hot, calling to her. She closed her eyes and let it flow in. It was right there for the taking, only one frail human body standing in the way. She could take down Voldemort; she could take down Giles and Rack and Warren. Surely little Peter Pettigrew would be no problem. The thrill of power was invigorating; she couldn't believe she'd let this go, given it up. She didn't need, no, not need it, but if she could just—

Seemingly out of nowhere, Snape grabbed her arm roughly. "Willow, stop. Right now. Stop."

Willow turned to him with a snarl. "No." Her eyes blazed black, hair back to inky. The frizzles of magic still swirled across her skin, lighting her from within with shadows. She lowered her eyelashes, slitting her gaze towards the hapless wizard.

Pettigrew squeaked, shrinking down to his rat form instantly. Willow huffed. "Like that'll help, little rodent man." She flicked her fingers and the rat screamed, jerked up and suspended in the air. She wiggled her hand and the creature floated over, little black beady eyes terrified. She spun him round and round, laughing as he tried to lurch drunkenly through the air away from her.

"I wonder what secrets you could tell me, what wonders your tiny brain holds." She puffed some air in his face and his whiskers trembled. "Not much, I wager. Useless. All you're good for is betrayal."

Draco joined Snape at Willow's side, grasping the other arm. She looked up at him, confused at the look of alarm on his face. He even felt alarmed, trying to sooth her through the bond between them. She brushed away his efforts abruptly. It didn't make sense; after all, this was his plan. To let her inner self out, the dark bits only he knew were there. They would be strong enough, clever enough to take down the man that threatened everything. After all, there was nothing that Willow couldn't do, no barrier she couldn't cross. She could give life or take it, all on a whim.

Annoyed, she turned away from Draco, only to find herself face to face with Snape. He glowered down at her and she flinched. "What, Mr. Broody? Did I ask for your intervention? I don't think so."

Snape gripped her shoulder firmly, pushing her back against Draco's chest. "Listen to me, you silly little girl. You think you can just play with anyone's life that comes your way? Pettigrew should be brought to justice."

"You don't think he deserves this? Ask Harry, I'm sure he'd agree. Nasty man did in his parents; Harry would want this just as much as I would."

The wizard in question was being gently shaken away by Narcissa, groaning slightly and shaking. Snape looked sad as he gestured to Harry before saying, "But that would be his choice, not yours."

Willow's eyes blazed and she grabbed his forearm tightly. "I don't have to listen to this. You are nothing to me." Her lips twisted upinto a grimace, and she chuckled nastily. "Poor Snapey, all alone."

He said nothing, face slack with unexpected hurt. A small part of Willow winced at his reaction, but she went to yank away anyway. Her fingers came into contact with Snape's bare skin. A jolt went through them both, and before Willow could calm her magic, tone it down and re-erect barriers between herself and others, it was too late. There was burning in her fingers where they rested on Snape's exposed forearm, the feeling of great heat searing her fingers, his flesh. With a small cry of distress, she sank to the floor, pulling Draco and Snape down with her.

The three of them were frozen as the magic trembling around Willow flowed into Snape, backlashing into Draco. The blond wizard gasped, reflexively clutching her closer, bringing Snape within arms reach. The older man slumped forward, his face in a rictus of pain as Willow cried out, tears washing down her cheeks, tasting the bitter tang of salt on her tongue.

Her hair flickered, red to black and back again, as she wept. Her face softened, the rage and arrogance slipping away as Snape's forehead came to rest on her neck. She relaxed her hold on his arm, peeling away her fingers to see any damage she might have inadvertently done, more damage than she had meant, anyway.

In the place of the Death Eater tattoo, instead of the skull and snake, all that remained was the faint imprint of a willow tree. His eyes were closed, face scrunched in anguish, but he allowed her to hold him close and run her hands over his hair.

Cradling the exhausted witch to his chest, Draco mimicked Willow's motion on her own locks, the whites of his eyes showing as he listened to his wife whisper, "I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I am
so sorry."

Chapter 45

Taking a shuddering breath, Snape opened his eyes. Willow looked down at him, face pale and lips trembling. She blinked the remnants of tears from her eyes, knowing without seeing that the black was gone leaving only the pale green she was born with. The mask that hid what she could become. Before she could utter the words, “I’m so sorry,” again, he pushed away, laying a finger across her lips.

“Don’t.”

“But—“

At the devastation spreading across Severus’ face, Willow trailed off. How could she continue, how could she say anything? She reached out with all the warmth she could managed, but he thrust himself backwards, out of her embrace.

“Witch,” he hissed. “You weave your magic around everything you touch. Did it ever occur to you that maybe some of us want to be left alone?”

“Severus…”

He cringed, pressing his hands to his temples. “You’re in here; I feel you.” He snapped his head up, eyes wide. “Willow, what have you done?”

“She’s let you in,” Draco snarled softly. His face was stony, but the hand stroking Willow’s now naturally-colored hair shook slightly.

“One master for another, never free. Is that it? You can’t choose, so you keep us both?” His hair hung lankly across his face, dark eyes burning brightly. Willow wondered if he would burn up from the inside, kindling the life remaining in his form until nothing was left but ashes.

Behind her, she felt Draco’s heartbeat through her back. It fluttered sporadically; a bird in panicked flight. Startled, Willow realized what this meant, not only for Snape and herself, but also the boy-man bound to her very soul. Not one, not two--

“I feel you, feel you both.” Snape glared at Draco over Willow’s head. “You hate me. You hate me for what I tried to do, tried to take away from you.” He blinked, startled, “But you’d die for me as well.”

He looked down at his forearm, poking the altered tattoo with a thin finger, hissing in pain as the burn bit further into his skin. The leaves shone with faint green opalescence, a peculiar interpretation of the willow tree branding Draco’s chest, though not nearly as bright. “What magic is this? How is this possible?”

Thinking for a moment what exactly she had done to the Dark Lord when she incapacitated him, Willow murmured, “I have it all, everything that he had. Those marks, all of them, I can touch them, call them.” She shook her head, seeming to collapse into herself. “All that hate and rage, spiderwebbing out. I want it gone, but it’s there, a part of me now.”

“Willow,” Draco said, voice breaking.

“I did this, did it to all of us. But you, Severus, I never intended that.” Her fingers trembled as she grasped the edge of his sleeve, plucking at the black fabric.

“What, to make me yours even when you pushed me away?” He lurched roughly into a crouch. “I want to hate you for that, but I can’t.” His dark eyes welled up with tears and he clenched his hands into fists. “I can’t because I finally believe I’m not alone. You’re there, warm, and you care.”

They remained frozen there, letting the new bond flow through them all. Willow could feel Draco like he was under her skin. He was familiar now- long gone were the days of alien invasion of her psyche. She remembered the first panic, the first rage when she realized what he’d done. Now she clung to that bond with every fiber of her being. It kept her grounded, sane; it imbued her with safety. How Draco felt, she had no idea. She hoped it was the same.

Snape was more distant, and she was sure he’d be able to block her easily enough if he wished. He was very much there, too distracted by events to try to shield himself from her as he had been doing with Voldemort for so much time. Touching him now was like stroking lava, and that was only physical. Mentally, despite wanting to reach out, she kept her distance. She was desperately afraid of making it worse. Willow didn’t even know what the mark meant for them in the long run, how to use it, how to control it. If this was happening to anyone else, the academic in her would have found it fascinating.

“Severus,” Narcissa said softly from behind them, “I think Harry needs you.” Her voice was steady, but weak, and it was apparent that the potion Snape had dosed her with was wearing off.

Blinking, the potion’s master started, muttering to himself, “I am no longer alone.”

When he stood, Willow let him go, hand falling limply to her lap. She twisted around in time to see Harry vomit roughly on the harsh stone. Fetid and sharp, the smell curdled her nostrils. He was shivering badly, hissing strangled breaths, almost like words.

She shook her head, confused. “What happened to Harry?” He was fine until her magic took over; was this something she’d done?

“You ignorant little child, what did you think would happen?” Snape growled low, pushing Harry’s forelock up, revealing the scar. “You stole Voldemort’s magic, his connections. He’s not just bound to us through ink and pain, but also to Harry. Remember? Essence of dark wizard infused into infant. Any of this ringing a bell?”

Willow’s eyes went wide. She started trembling, nausea rising up. Draco stroked her arms soothingly, murmuring in her hair. What he said, she had no idea. She heard syllables, noises, but nothing real. Vision narrowed to only Harry’s face, she began to weep again.

Unforeseen.

Unthought-of, these consequences. It seemed so simple, when she was filled with rage. Steal what Voldemort valued most, his power over others. He didn’t deserve it. The tiny voice so oft ignored asked whether she did, either.

Harry had been an innocent, always innocent-more or less. A bit wicked, a bit wild, but fundamentally good. And once again, the bystander was shot. Tara.

When she began closing in on herself, shutting the world away, Willow felt the strong arms of Draco holding her tight, crushing the pain away. She relished the sharp edge, the twist of pain that reminded her she was real. That it wouldn’t go away.

“Firestarter. It’s over. Come back to me.”

“Harry…”

“Willow, look.”

She shook herself from her panicked stupor to see Severus cradling Harry gently in his arms. The boy’s eyes were cracked open, slitted with pain, but aware. He gave a shudder, like the world was shaking around him, and he gagged again.

But nothing came up, and he opened his eyes fully, looking at Willow directly for the first time. “What happened?” he muttered hoarsely, vowels soft and indistinguishable.

“They came for us,” Draco answered for her. He managed to keep most of the usual Harry-induced disgust out of his voice, though perhaps this was due to exhaustion as much as maturity. “Voldemort attacked you, but when he tried to kill you, the power did something, broke something. It twisted back on him, blasting the magic away.”

Willow stiffened, twisting to look at her other half. His face was guileless, flawless, and he squeezed her shoulder slightly. She heard as clearly as vocal speech, Let it lie. The truth would only make things worse. Do you trust me to say the right thing? Willow had to admit she did. Sneaky wasn’t her thing. She would just keep quiet and see what Draco had up his sleeve.

Snape caught on a bit quicker than she had, continuing the cover-up. “Quite, Mr. Potter. You’re rather lucky you missed it. Voldemort appears to be unconscious, in a coma perhaps. Whatever it is, I have to say I’m delighted he’s incapacitated.”

“Er,” said Harry.

Narcissa stood hesitantly, plucking Pettigrew from the air, where he was still rotating in frothy panic. The rat rolled his eyes back, as if considering a bite, but at the gleam in her eye, thought considerably better of it. “What do we do with him? I think there’s a cage around somewhere. Lucius has so many eccentric toys down here; the devil himself could find anything he wanted.” She hesitated on her husband’s name, but her face showed no emotion.

Her son didn’t react at all, aside from a momentary tightening of fingers on Willow’s arm. A breath went by and Draco leaned forward, eyes glittering silver. “I think Harry should say.”

Severus looked at him closely, dark brows knitted. Then his face cleared. Willow understood- Pettigrew was the only one who could speak the truth. What happened to him was vital in keeping the solution to the Voldemort problem as simple as possible. So why was Draco leaving it up to Harry?

Snape helped Harry to his feet, holding his elbow firmly. Draco stood first, holding Willow close to his side when he lifted her to her feet. She was glad for the support. With the roiling emotions coming from Draco, her own indecision and guilt complicated with magical overload, and the distant smoldering fury tinged with relief from Snape, she was in no position to negotiate much of anything-- much less her own motor skills.

Harry held out his hand, grasping the rat tightly. It squeaked, but he ignored it. “He killed my parents, you know.” Harry’s voice was hollow, whitewashed off all emotion. “I searched for him for years. He was always just around the next corner, hiding down the next alley. And then there he was, walking away from me. If I’d just gotten help, not followed him, then I wouldn’t have been captured.”

Narcissa gave a small cluck in the back of her throat. “They would have taken you anyway. Voldemort needed you. In the end, you could have run, and they still would have taken you.”

Harry squeezed a bit harder; Willow saw Pettigrew’s hair poking out from between his fingers. The rat squirmed in desperation. Harry tilted his head, squinting. “So fragile, so soft. I wonder if this is what I looked like to Voldemort. Tiny baby, nothing protecting me but a mother’s love. How fragile a thing.”

The eyes that sought out Willow’s from across the stone expanse were not those of a teenager; they were those of a young man who’d lived too much. Willow wondered if her eyes showed the same things. She didn’t know how they could otherwise. This wasn’t the same carefree Harry Potter, Quidditch seeker extraordinaire, she’d met at the beginning of the year. This Harry Potter had something broken deep inside. He’d seen too many things, had finally reached that breaking point. Willow looked into his eyes and mourned the loss of his innocence.

Harry looked at Draco directly, green eyes meeting silver. “I want him dead. Erased as completely as my parents.”

“Are you sure? The aurors will be here eventually and they’ll take him in for justice,” Snape didn’t sound angry, merely exhausted. Willow heard his words echoing in her head, “But that would be his choice, not yours.” She was almost sad that they wanted the same thing.

Softly, Harry hissed a complex series of words, similar to the sounds he made as he first awoke. Startled, Glacies unwound from atop Lucius’ stiffening corpse. He slithered closer, unsure whether he should answer. When Draco made no move to stop him, the serpent hissed back, feather ruff rippling in surprise. Harry laughed, sharp sounds cutting into Willow’s skin. She wished she could cringe when Harry tossed a shrieking Pettigrew towards the Quetzalcoatl.

Quick as the silvery lightening Glacies resembled, the feathered serpent snapped his jaw shut around the struggling creature. As a connoisseur of House Elf sized creatures, the serpent wasted no time cracking the bones and swallowing Pettigrew’s pathetically mewling form with alacrity.

Harry stood there, hands limp at his side. He stared down at Glacies’ happily coiling loops. The gaping hole was already reduced to a slightly charred dent. Snape made a soft noise, but Harry shook his head. “Here I stand, surrounded by people who hate me—“ he looked a Willow, “Well, mostly. In the end, I was saved by my enemies.”

“Ain’t life grand,” Willow muttered, lips twisted up in a wry smile when Harry glanced at her.

He turned back to the Quetzalcoatl’s undulating form. “My nemesis- how pathetic is it that an eighteen year old boy has a nemesis, has had him since birth, even- lies broken. I fed my parent’s murderer to a giant snake who offered to suffocate him painfully for me first, to make sure I had the vengeance I wanted.”

Willow thought of Anya, how she would have loved this situation. It made her a bit wistful for home, but surprisingly, she felt no desire to see the Scoobies. She had her own gang now, as ragtag and at least as convolutedly inter-involved as the originals. Narcissa stood elegantly to one side despite flagging strength. Severus glowered mere feet away, body tense but alert. Draco stood at her back, holding her close, filling her with love and security.

Harry looked at the four of them again, this time seeking out Draco and Narcissa in turn. “Does it get better? The rage? He’s dead and all I want is to kill him again.”

It was Narcissa who answered, one formerly perfectly-manicured finger pushing her straggled hair behind her ear. “It never gets better, if you hold on to the past. It just gets easier to mask. But for you, I think you can heal if you wish. It all depends on motivation.”

“Motivation,” Harry mused. His shoulders slumped. “I just want it all to be over.” He wobbled his way over to Voldemort’s prone body. Poking it with his toe, Harry started shaking. Snape stepped forward and grasped the teen’s elbow, guiding him towards the stairway from the dungeon. He sent one last look over his shoulder at his cousin, who tilted a still-regal head. The aurors may come, but he would wait for her explanation. In Malfoy Manor, Narcissa Black Malfoy ruled with an iron fist.

Draco and Willow turned to his mother, watching with concern as she waved away their offer of help. “I will walk from this dungeon on my own two feet, the way I came in. Glacies will stay here and make sure nothing happens to our dearly departed Dark Lord and my fine specimen of a husband until the aurors get here.”

“What will happen to us?” Willow’s voice was quiet, but she was not hesitant. This was the cleanup, the part the Scoobies always hated. The bodies to bury, the police and medical files to alter. Here, they had the law on their side, no holes to dig in any vacant lots, no computers to fix. It was refreshing.

“We’ll tell the version you created, Draco, and leave out Harry’s final drama. He doesn’t need that guilt in public. After all, who could blame a serpent for eating a rat?” Narcissa chuckled, silk over razor blades.

“Lucius was killed when he attacked Glacies’ charge. I think there’s even an arcane law on the books relating to protectorate creatures. There is no doubt that Draco and Harry were misused horribly. Harry was injured by Voldemort who then was incapacitated by his own magics. Pettigrew tried to flee in animagus form and Glacies responded as any good serpent would.”

She smiled, all pearly white teeth. “A very neat knot. Fudge will be persuaded to leave it at that. After all, I know what he likes for dinner.”

Draco answered with a smirk of his own, nodding in agreement. Bruised, battered, and frazzled, this was the most comfortable Willow had felt in years. She was what she could be, and if she fell, someone would catch her. She wasn’t perfect; she wasn’t a saint. Tara’s death was still a scar on her soul, but she was learning to heal. Her issues with the darker magics were ever present, but with the support of her new family, she knew she could be a force to reckon with. There were still Death Eaters at large; she could feel them there, lurking in the web of spells Tom Riddle had created when he became Voldemort. The wizarding world she now belonged to had much to sort out. But it hardly mattered to her, standing there in a dank dungeon, surrounded by death and tragedy.

Willow Rosenberg Malfoy had truly come home.

Epilogue

The year Voldemort fell for the second time, the annual Hogwarts Yule Ball was held in the Ministry Atrium. The street entry was repaired, and special arrangements were made so that any witch or wizard could enter through the phone booth should they so desire. The center statue fountain was burnished within an inch if its existence. Great fir trees graced each corner, decorated with so many ornaments it took nearly as many charms to allow them to remain standing. The air was filled with constantly falling snowflakes in bursting mother-of-pearl and shimmering silver. By all accounts it was splendid- the picture perfect celebration of freedom.

All were invited, a sign of unity and rebuilding, and those who could go did. How happy and genial the party goers’ mood was debatable. Some revelers were ecstatic. Voldemort was fallen, a physical body trapped under lock and key in Azkaban. There was no floating form to fret about. A not-corpse was there for all to malign, prosecuted by the Wizegamot in absentia. Death Eaters were being flushed from whatever rocks they’d hidden under, courtesy of a startling new Ministry technique for locating them, kept well under wraps from the public.

But others, those that had lost now and in the past, were less enthusiastic. The Weasley clan was there, what remained of it anyway. Molly made all the right movements, but her eyes were hollow. Arthur bobbed his head, but the cheer that usually infused his countenance was missing. The children were just as shattered, if in a less visible way. Ron stood, hands at his sides, not looking at his girlfriend.

Dressed in her finest scarlet and gold robes, a sign of school solidarity, Hermione made one more attempt by the punch bowl to catch his attention. When he shook her off, face blank, she turned away, seeking comfort at the side of Neville Longbottom. He seemed to have grown rather than shrunk since Gran Longbottom’s death. Now truly alone, the once tentative and tremulous boy had resolved to become a man.

On Neville’s far side, Harry Potter watched the goings on with haunted eyes. He had said very little since his rescue from the Malfoy dungeons. His friends worried, but were not overly concerned. They could not fathom what it was to be Harry so they did not try. He did not tell them. But when Ginny insinuated herself beneath his arm, wrapping slender arms around his chest, he almost smiled.

He stiffened, however, when the far entry way disgorged a new party. He wasn’t the only one to notice the rather dramatic entrance of the quartet that was on the lips of every witch and wizard. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy. Severus Snape. And the unknown: Willow Rosenberg.

They stood grouped in pairs, Narcissa, sleekly elegant on the arm of her cousin, stark and severe in unrelieved black. The Malfoy granddame was in silver, sewn all over with tiny sparkles so she looked resplendently like a swirling snowstorm as she waltzed into the hall. Snape looked merely annoyed, scowling at all and sundry.

Behind them came the immaculately groomed Draco with the young Miss Rosenberg on his arm. She wore gold, trimmed in cream, sweeping the floor with a graceful train. Her hair was bound up in a circlet set with rubies. Her face was flushed, as if unaccustomed to the attention, and she kept close to Draco. A peculiar necklace graced her décolletage, a liquid metal dragon that seemed to be breathing, a magic trick that earned an appreciative rumor even as the spectators recognized the claim.

They moved through the crowd, a grouping apart, but Harry shivered. He didn’t see a shy young woman, he saw darkness and power. It made his skin prickle, but when Ginny and Hermoine both sent him questioning looks, he merely gave a watery smile.

“Post-traumatic stress,” he murmured, and they looked away. There were too many people who could say that these days.

There was dancing, as there usually is at events like these, and though there wasn’t the levity of the Halloween dance at Hogwarts, there was great enthusiasm. The dancers waltzed and gigged and sarabanded with abandon, trying to erase the last few weeks, months, years. They all knew it wouldn’t work, but they danced anyway.

Included in the dancers were Draco and his lovely young witch. They turned and twisted weaving through the crowd with grace. For the most part, other dancers cleared a path, but after one twirl, Albus Dumbledore cut in. Willow smiled and Draco stepped aside with only a modicum of sulking.

“Miss Rosenberg, how lovely to see you.” Albus spun her under his arm.

“It’s nice to be here,” Willow said, straining only a little to be heard over the crowd.

“I trust your meeting with the Ministry wasn’t very traumatic? They can be rather insufferable at times.”

Willow gripped his hand a bit harder, not looking up. “It went as well as could be expected. Lots of questions, but they seem satisfied.”

“I’m sure they are. They like to believe in the simple answers.” He titled her chin up with one hand, blue eyes penetrating. “But I do not believe that the defeat of such a person could ever be simple.”

“No,” Willow whispered, dragging to a stop.

“But the public likes a pretty story where the hero is stalwart and true, a handsome face and Quidditch star. They like to see the bad man punished, the good boy rewarded.”

“And we gave them that,” Willow answered, her voice a tinge defiant.

The old wizard’s face softened a bit. “That you did. I think you will do well at Malfoy Manor, but I would ask you to come and visit this elderly gentleman sometimes, just to see how everything was going, to make sure there are no unpleasant ramifications of your triumph over the dark.”

Despite the kind tone of the invitation, both dancers were aware it was no request, but an order. Willow, her face even paler than usual, merely nodded. After a few steps, she found her voice to speak again, “I would love to come back and see Hogwarts. Does once a month sound okay?”

Dumbledore nodded, the twinkle back in his eyes, “That will do. And I expect to be invited to the spring nuptials, of course.”

Now Willow flushed, a small smile on her lips. She was wearing the official engagement ring that Draco had given her in Sunnydale out in the open now, since whatever secrecy they had hoped for had been blown by the Ministry’s investigation into He-Who-Could-Finally-Be-Named.

A few more turns around the dance floor, and the pair was stopped by Severus Snape. He gave a curt nod to the Headmaster and pulled Willow away, head dipped close to hers, whispering something in her ear.

Dumbledore came to rest at the punchbowl. He tied his beard into a bow, tucking it up as he sampled the snowball-like beverage. Minerva appeared at his side, her raven’s feather hat slightly askew.

“Everything alright, Albus?”

“Hmm?” White hair glinting with magical snowflakes, he turned. He waved with one hand to the dancers. Snape now handed off Willow to Draco again in a series of complex moves that looked impossible to coordinate without shouted directions and a floor map. Regardless, the two men moved in unison as they directed the slender redhead. She looked from one to the other, her head cocked to one side. When the moves were completed, and she was held gently in Draco’s arms, she smiled, nodding at the Potions Master.

“It’s remarkable.”

“What is remarkable?”

“Those three. I can’t presume to understand, but I believe she’s been good for both of them.”

Minerva, who watched Snape stalk off to Narcissa Malfoy’s side, merely frowned. “He seems to be definitively Snape-like to me, Albus.”

“Hmm.”

They watched Draco and Willow weave through the dancers, watched as they nodded to friends and enemies alike. They seemed to be moving in a bubble of their own creation, a magical barrier where they were a little brighter than the rest, filled with a bit more light.

Albus sighed. “They’re going to rule this world one day, Minerva. I don’t know when, but we’re at a crossroads. Those two young people have the whole magical world in the palms of their hands, and they don’t even know it yet.”

Minerva McGonagall raised her eyebrow and straightened her hat. “They’re an unlikely pair.”

“Not as unlikely as some. What a day this is, Minerva, what a day.” He smiled at her, shaking his head. “Shall we dance, my old friend, to a new world rising?”

She grasped his hand and they joined the waltz. The music played on, revelers reveled, dancers danced, and the wizarding world breathed a little freer. After all, who knew what the new day would bring?

~Fin~