For disclaimers, rating, notes etc. see Part 1

Hermione sank to her knees, sucking in choking lungfuls of clean air, blinking in a vain attempt to clear the black spots that danced across her vision. Beside her, Ron was coughing painfully. She concentrated on forcing herself to breathe evenly and deeply, fighting the urge to hyperventilate, willing herself to think past the aching pain in her chest. Gradually, oxygen returned to her deprived system and the roaring in her ears and the darkness on the edge of her sight receded. Her breathing slowly returned to a reflex action from being one of conscious control. As her heart slowed to a more comfortable pace, she pushed herself back on to her heels, and lifted her head. She closed her eyes quickly, feeling momentarily faint as her blood pressure adjusted to the change in position.

The Portkeys had brought them back to a just about intact stone hut outside the grounds of the Malfoy residence, which had been adopted as the unofficial base of operations. The original use of the shelter was unclear. It could have been used by a woodsman or a gamekeeper or a shepherd for storage of food, care of animals or just as an escape from the weather. It was basic on any view; four walls, small windows, a simple fireplace, a door and a more or less intact roof. It did, however, make a handy point of reference for Ron's altered Portkeys.

The world came back into focus again, and Hermione was now aware of Rose on the floor next to her, her cries of pain now reduced to long, heavy exhalations as the other woman regained her control over breath and body. Ron's coughing also appeared to be subsiding although the sound of his breathing was still distinctly jerky. Wiping the Pensieves and the fight with Crabbe and Goyle had taken their toll on both of them and the effort of summoning Rose out immediately after their own transport had made severe inroads into their remaining energy reserves.

She crawled over to the Frenchwoman. The Portkey was still clutched in her hand, biting into her flesh.

"Rose?" she said experimentally and swallowed painfully, her throat raw and dry from smoke inhalation.

The woman took another audible breath.

"Hermione? What happened?"

Hermione sighed in relief. Rose was recovering.

"Crabbe and Goyle showed up. You got hit by Crucio and then the library caught fire," she said succinctly. There was no time for long explanations and her throat was protesting vigorously. She also didn't want to question too closely the fact that she and Ron had probably left two men to die. Mercifully, Rose just nodded. "How are you feeling?" she asked, knowing the question was banal.

"I hurt," replied the other woman, equally succinctly.

"Can you move?" Hermione didn't like having to push like this, but they were in a fairly precarious situation and Snape and Harry were still inside the Chateau.

Rose tentatively pushed herself up on to one elbow, shutting her eyes briefly as she did so.

"It hurts," she repeated, "but I can move if I have to."

"OK, stay there and rest whilst you can." Hermione was afraid that they would very quickly be at the point when they had to move, and she wanted Rose to be as well as was possible in the circumstances. She had no idea what sort of shape Harry and Snape would be when they got out.

When, she told herself firmly.

Don't even think of any other outcome.

Ron had made it to his feet now. He looked pale, and he was smudged with soot and sweat. He had his wand in his hand.

"Are you two OK?" he said to the air in general.

Well, let's see now. Rose has put been under Crucio and we left two men to be burned alive. And Severus and Harry are still in there, with one if not two madmen.

It was too much to deal with.

"I'm fine," she said.

Rose nodded next to her.

Hermione looked up at her childhood friend and partner in crime. His face was as unyielding as it had been inside.

"There was no choice," he said firmly, "it was them or us." But there was flicker of something in his eyes that betrayed his awareness of the decision that they had made, of the consequences.

Some distant part of her wanted to cry out against this; to claim that there was always a choice. That there was always an outcome that worked. But that was the younger Hermione; not the Hermione that had touched the face of darkness, that had seen it and more, understood it. Of course, there was always a choice. But the situation sometimes only made certain ones sustainable.

In the end the alternative, such as it was - save Crabbe and Goyle, possibly sacrificing Rose in the process - was unacceptable.

Hermione buried her head in her hands, letting the Portkey drop to the ground beside her.

Gods, I want my innocence back.

"How long do we give them?"

Ron's voice came from a long way away, intruding on her moment of self-knowledge, demanding that she return to the now and participate in it.

She forced herself to think. How long had the fight taken? Minutes? Hours? She had lost track of time. Analyse, girl, she told herself. The fire could still only be minutes old, but house must have been alerted. She looked up, wearily running her hand through her hair.

"We don't give them any longer," she decided. "We pull them out now."

"Now?" Ron sounded a little surprised.

"Yes, now." Resolution, strength, adrenaline - she didn't much care what it was that was flowing through her - but it was clearing her mind. "We've done what we came to do. And the longer that we're here the more chance there is of getting caught again. Let Lucius and Draco get on with it."

As she spoke, she reached to pick up the glass bottle from where it had fallen beside her - and froze at a sound from the fireplace behind her.

"Ron?" she said, carefully, without moving. "What was that?

"That, my dear Miss Granger," said the imperturbable voice, "would be me."

"Don't move." That was Ron. Hard and angry.

Lucius bloody Malfoy.

Hermione had gone through anger herself; that, and fear and horror and self-disgust. Now she was right back at anger. No - more than simple anger. The cold fury that had taken root after her first sight of the Pensieve grew and burst swiftly into full flower at the sight of the man who had decided to wreck her life for no better reason than that he could.

"Lucius," she said, pushing herself slowly to her feet and turning to face him. "Lucius Malfoy."

Even here, in a crofter's hut, hair in disarray and robes stained from the fireplace, Lucius Malfoy managed to project that sense of grace and presence that Hermione remembered from the Pensieve. He was standing, back to the fireplace, almost relaxed. It would only take a slight shift and he could be leaning against the mantelpiece, sipping a good cognac and entertaining his guests. He seemed completely unruffled by the fact that Ron was pointing a wand at him.

Hermione shook her sleeve slightly and released her own wand. She took aim, very pointedly.

Lucius looked amused.

"Come now, Miss Granger, Mr - it is Weasley, isn't it? Do I look in any position to put up a fight? If it makes you feel in any better I've just surrendered to your friend Mr Potter and your - well, I'm not entirely certain how to describe Severus, now."

"Surrendered?" Ron sounded suspicious -as well he might, she thought.

"Indeed." He laughed again and spread his hands in front of him in an almost comically helpless gesture. She noted that his right hand was bent at an improbable angle; she thought that the wrist might be broken although he was showing no apparent signs of discomfort. "I don't even have a wand. Your friends have it." He spread his arms higher in a parody of yielding. The sleeves of his robes fell back to reveal bare forearms, the shadow of the Dark Mark still visible on the left one. The right one was markedly swollen. "You can even search me if you like."

His attitude of easy superiority nearly deprived her of the power of speech. It was everything that she had experienced at the hands of Snape's relatives, concentrated into one person. The casual assumptions from this man who had tortured and killed because it amused him and because he could - all that appalled her - but also his unswerving sense of entitlement, his utter failure to understand that his view was not the only one possible.

That lack of comprehension was almost worse than the brutality.

At that moment she wanted to kill him with every ounce of feeling that she possessed. Not to be forced into it, but to make that choice knowingly, rationally; to rid the world of something inhuman.

She could see herself doing it; breathing in, forming the syllables, pronouncing the words. And she was back in a room above a bar in rural Suffolk, power playing around the periphery of her senses, calling her, tempting her.

And she was also being held. Someone had stopped her from falling then. Someone was doing it now.

Throughout, her eyes had not wavered from Malfoy's face. His insouciance had given way to something like delight.

"You want to kill me, Miss Granger." His eyes shone with something uncomfortably like approval - passion even. "I can see it in your face, feel it in your body." He moistened his lips. "Do it," he said caressingly. "It's a simple enough thing done like this. Two words and it's over."

The details of the room registered in her consciousness in too-sharp relief. Lucius lounging at the fireplace; Ron, motionless but tense, poised for something; watching her with as much intensity as he was watching Malfoy; Rose on the floor - moving? She was aware and unaware, mind focussed solely on the obscenity of the man in front of her urging her to kill him.

Kill him because he wanted her to? Kill him to see whether or not she would? Kill him to use his last action to turn her into him?

She made herself breathe evenly for the second time in half an hour. As time stretched out she could sense Ron shifting his balance, as if he wanted to move for her.

Kill him because he was inhuman and the world would be a better place without him? The same justification that had led to deaths of hundreds of Muggle-borns; that had led to deaths of Harry's parents.

Keep breathing.

She could see Lucius' tongue touching his lower lip, wet and eager.

"I don't think I'll do that," she said coldly.

You lose, Malfoy. I'm not you.

A look of profound disappointment settled over the beautifully sculptured features.

"Ah, what a pity. I was just beginning to understand what Severus sees in you." He turned to Ron who was still drawn in for action. "How about you, Mr Weasley? Care to do the honours? Grasp your rightful share of the glory for once, instead of playing the faithful assistant to Harry Potter? Act as befits your blood?"

Ron's grip tightened on his wand.

"Shut up, Malfoy," he said curtly.

"Ah yes, you are a true son of your father. The Weasleys always were Mudblood lovers. Are they good lovers, Mr Weasley? Skilled? Sensitive? Passionate?

Ron flushed and his knuckles went white on his wand. Hermione didn't move an inch.

"Ignore him, Ron," she said with more calmness than she felt. "He's just trying to provoke you."

"Why ever would I want to do that?" Lucius sounded amused, relaxed even. "There are three of you and I don't even have a wand. What threat could I possibly pose?"

Hermione couldn't immediately answer that one, but she was in no doubt that Lucius was planning something.

"Well, Mr Weasley?" Lucius returned his attention to Ron, who was now obviously restraining himself with difficulty, his whole body tilting towards Malfoy, betraying his desire to rush for the man.

Don't, Ron, he's up to something. I know he is.

"Although," continued Lucius easily, "I suppose that you can't really comment on Miss Granger, here, given that she seems to prefer to have pureblood of sorts inside her." Ron made a noise between his teeth. "Is that a problem for you, Mr Weasley. The thought of Severus with her... his hands... his tongue... his...?"

Ron moved, lunging forwards at exactly the same moment that Hermione shouted out to stop him, drowning her protest with a snarl of his own.

"You bastard. If you had a wand I would...." His words were cut off.

His furious movement had brought him to within arms reach of Lucius. Moving more swiftly that Hermione could have thought possible, given that he had an injured hand, Malfoy grabbed Ron and deftly unbalanced him, using Ron's own furious momentum against him. Ron, hampered by a combination of innate hesitation at attacking an unarmed man and sheer blind unthinking rage, was off balance and in Malfoy's grip before he could react in any effective way. Seemingly oblivious to any pain in his wrist, Malfoy held him in place with his right forearm across Ron's throat. He had Ron's wand in his left hand, held to Ron's chest.

Without lowering her wand even a fraction Hermione took a pace back, mentally cursing Ron's volatile temper for the second time that day. She wondered whether Rose was up to participating in the fight yet, but didn't dare take her eyes from Malfoy long enough to risk a glance in the other woman's direction.

"You can't get away," she said, striving for authority in her tone. "We'll just stay like this until Harry and Severus get here and then I'll hand you over to the authorities to be dealt with as you deserve."

Lucius gave a funny smile, one that she couldn't interpret.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear, but I'm not going to Azkaban, or wherever it is that your little Gryffindor heart is set on sending me."

He looked at her, grey eyes shot with melancholy.

"Do you like roses, Miss Granger?" She was taken aback by the sudden change of subject, but he didn't seem to require an answer from her. "It is of no matter, I suppose." He appeared to gather his thoughts. "To grow a really good rose," he continued after a moment, "takes time and patience and skill. It is a meditation, almost an exercise of the soul. The seed is planted, the bush grows. It buds and flowers, and is cut back, excising the dead wood, removing that which mars it, which impedes its progress, which causes it to waste its energies. And in the end, one achieves a bloom of such perfection, of such exquisite beauty and perfume, that the heavens weep to see it."

He sighed. Hermione was barely breathing. Lucius Malfoy was quite clearly utterly insane.

"The wizarding world should be such as this, Miss Granger - the embodiment of all that is finest in man. Yet to achieve this, the inferior stock must be cut away and destroyed. There can be no other way. And to reduce it to a petty power struggle is to desecrate that sacred evolution." He sighed again. "Voldemort had some interesting ideas, but in the end he was hopelessly petit bourgeois." He seemed almost wistful. "The Dark Lord, indeed."

Ron shifted uncomfortably under Malfoy's arm, bringing the older man's attention back to the room.

"Please do stop fidgeting, Mr Weasley." He refocused on Hermione. "Now, I am perfectly aware that I cannot escape. Even if I were to persuade you to put your wands down, even if I were to kill Mr Weasley, I would be unable to cover a significant distance before you pursued and caught me again." He paused. "I cannot go to Azkaban, you see. I am not a commonplace person and I will not end my existence that way - in filth and banality." His cold grey eyes met Hermione's directly, and there was nothing in them now but calm self-possession and overwhelming self-belief. "I am a Malfoy, Miss Granger. I have lived as one and I will die as one, not as some mewling subterranean creature."

Abruptly, he pushed Ron away from him towards Hermione, sending the younger man sprawling across the floor. She instinctively moved to avoid losing her own balance and in that moment Malfoy had brought Ron's wand up to his own throat.

"Avada Kedavra," he said quietly.

Hermione was too stunned to move. Ron's wand sparked and then glowed and then light arced into the exposed throat. Within moments his body was bathed with green fire and Lucius Malfoy fell to the ground.

There was utter silence.

"Is he dead?" asked Ron eventually.

Hermione wished she could dismiss that as a stupid question.

"I don't know," she said eventually. She pointed her wand at the apparently lifeless form. "Stupefy," she said, and then added "Petrificus Totalis."

Nobody suggested that she might be overreacting.

Suddenly she felt very, very tired.

"Let's get Severus and Harry and get out of here," she said.

**********

Draco had power and a wand and intermittent flashes of coherence, but he lacked the ability to bring any of them together in any kind of focus. This made him on the one hand less dangerous - the Avada Kedavra had missed them both and ricocheted off the ceiling, bringing down a large chunk of decorative plasterwork - and on the other hand more dangerous on the grounds of sheer unpredictability.

He was casting spells at random, calling out remembered words, performing movements long since trained into the muscle memory, but with no purpose or direction. Accio followed Crucio followed Reparo followed Tarantallegra followed Imperio. None found their mark - if, indeed, Draco was actually aiming at anything - but the succession of unanticipated spells and consequential damage were causing the other two wizards more problems than either of them were comfortable about admitting.

If they could just get a few moments respite, thought Snape distractedly, they could grab the Portkeys and simply leave. Lucius has gone and Draco would probably exhaust himself in time. There were more pressing concerns. In any event, leaving by means other than magical would be difficult. An Accio spell, of all things, had pulled an entire book case and its contents down, blocking the handsome double doors leading to the entrance hall. He supposed that he could just use the Portkey himself, but some part of him was reluctant to leave Harry on his own facing Draco.

Gryffindor-ism must be contagious, he thought wryly, conveniently forgetting Hermione's frequent exasperation with what she described as his sense of honour.

Just then a hand pulled at his robes, overbalancing him. He landed on the floor somewhat awkwardly, as another section of plaster moulding crashed into the ground where he had had been standing.

Crouched next to him was Harry, face sheened with sweat, hair even more dishevelled than usual, scattered cuts and scratches evidence of the fight. Snape gathered himself and shifted a little further along the floor; there was a section of the ceiling still hanging loose and he didn't like the look of it.

He caught Harry's eye and nodded fractionally. The younger man acknowledged the thanks briefly. Snape had to admit that his annoying former pupil had matured into a useful man to have beside one in a fire fight. The reckless streak was still there, but had been tempered by experience and caution. Unlike Mr Weasley, whose headlong intervention had resulted in him being stupefied and precipitated the flight of Draco. Although, Snape had to accept that the family talent for putting objects to uses other than the usual had proved very helpful.

None of which excused their behaviour towards Hermione in the slightest.

"We need to get out of here." A low voice sounded in his ear.

"Agreed," he murmured. "If Mr Malfoy will pause for long enough to allow us to concentrate."

"It occurred to me that his target appears to be you."

"Very possibly." Snape waited. Somehow they had got beyond jibing at each other. Harry would, no doubt, have a point to the remark.

"I thought that you could distract him and I could stun him."

It was something they'd been trying to do for some little while, Snape reflected, but had never been close enough together to be able to co-ordinate the attack. Their timing had always been slightly off.

It was straightforward, direct, very Gryffindor, and frankly, Snape couldn't think of anything better.

"Very well, Mr Potter." He paused. "Did you have any suggestions for a particular distraction?"

"Well, 'Oy You' always worked well for Ron." Snape could have sworn he heard a hint of humour.

Clearly, the boy's sense of timing hadn't improved.

"Yes, I can imagine it would have," he responded, aiming for a repressive tone, but astonished at the lack of heat that finally came out.

He risked a glance at Harry's face. The younger man's skin was flushed and his eyes were sparkling with a mixture of adrenaline and excitement. Snape realised that Harry was actually enjoying this.

Gryffindors.

He felt very old.

"On my count?" he suggested. He was the target after all.

Harry nodded.

Snape readied himself and counted. One, two....

On three both men stood up.

"Mr Malfoy," roared Snape in his best making-himself-heard-across-the-Quidditch-pitch voice.

Draco spun to face him with a shrill, high scream, mouthing pleading nonsense. He raised his father's wand and said something.

Snape never really knew whether it was a Severing Charm or a twisted attempt to say his name. Harry cast the stunning spell and it hit Draco just as Draco's own spell left the wand. It missed Snape and flew off at a tangent to strike against one of the glittering enchanted crystal chandeliers that had so far escaped miraculously unscathed.

Draco crumpled to the floor, Harry moving forward to check that he was fully unconscious.

Snape could see the light from the glass shiver, hear the incongruously melodious chimes, as the chain by which it was suspended sheared and then broke. He launched himself forward at the two men directly in its path, catching Harry by the arm and pulling him back, but slowly, too slowly.

A cascade of shimmering, razor edged glass landed squarely on top of Draco. A delicately chased branch caught Harry a glancing blow on the back of the shoulder and head. He lurched forward into Snape's arms and it was only Snape's reflex in holding on that prevented the other man from sliding on to the floor.

As it was, he carefully let Harry down, aware from the movements of the body that he was, at least, still breathing.

He stood and moved cautiously towards the wreckage of the chandelier, the enchantments still giving off a misty light. That light, he noted, was also now shot through with faintly pinky hues.

Draco had been directly underneath. Knife like shards of glass were embedded in his body, pinning him to the floor, drawing attention to each and every wound, shining through sliced skin and flesh, eerily softening and colouring the light. One piece in particular; buried deep between the third and fourth ribs, pulsed gently as if it were drawing the heartbeat out of him. Other than the shifting iridescent patterns of light, the body was utterly still.

Snape tried to feel grief for the boy he had known, but somehow couldn't. That boy had effectively died in a cottage in Suffolk over a year ago. This dead thing was something else. It hadn't been Draco for a long time.

Impassively, he turned away to concentrate on the living; on Harry Potter.

Harry was unconscious, but his breathing was deep and even. A quick examination suggested that there were no fractures, but that he had suffered a number of deep lacerations. Nothing life threatening, but still needing immediate attention.

Annoying as the boy was, he had proved himself competent and professional in this little operation. Not to mention the fact that Hermione would be devastated if anything happened to him. And, he added, as a slightly self-deprecating afterthought, what passed for his own conscience would not allow him to leave him here to his fate.

Snape sat back on his heels and reached into the depths of his robes for the Portkey. Carefully he placed it into Harry's hand, curling the fingers round it to hold it in place. Then he searched through Harry's own robes to find Harry's little bottle. Mercifully, he found it fairly easily; he hadn't wanted to take the chance of one Portkey taking them both out.

Holding on to one of the Portkeys in his left hand and wrapping his hand around Harry's to keep the other one still, he spoke the words of transport.

**********

"Let's get Severus and Harry and get out of here."

The words had just left Hermione's mouth when a rushing sound echoed round the enclosed space.

Gods, what now, she thought in something like despair. She didn't think that any of them were up to another hostile encounter. Tightening her grip on her wand, she readied herself.

An outline was forming in the centre of the room, blurry and indistinct. It was lumpy and squat, spread across the floor. She wondered what new product of Lucius Malfoy's perverted imagination this was, willing herself not to speculate, but just to relax and react.

The outline gained definition, and gradually resolved into two figures; one lying motionless and the other crouched by it.

Snape and Harry.

Her heart lurched as she took in the fact that one of them was not moving.

It took Hermione a moment to identify which was which, and a shorter moment to quash the guilty relief that it was Snape who was upright. That hasty relief gave way to renewed fear as she registered the blood oozing from Harry's head and left shoulder, his robe already soaking with it.

No. This was not going to happen.

In an instant she had her wand up and was kneeling by Harry's side. Closer to, she could see the movement of his chest, reassuring her that he was still breathing.

"What happened?" she asked shakily.

The equally still form of Lucius Malfoy had been completely forgotten.

Ron had also put his wand away and was crouching next to Snape, with no apparent animosity.

"Harry," he said, "can you hear me?"

"A chandelier fell on him," Snape answered Hermione in a slightly closed tone.

She spared a brief look at him. He was impassive, the lines more deeply etched than usual. He had a forbidding, shuttered look about him.

Issues for later, she surmised.

"It was only a glancing blow," he amplified, catching her look. "His shoulder took the worst of it. I checked his skull and detected no fractures, although I hardly claim to be the last word in medi-wizards. His injuries appear to be simple lacerations."

Hermione nodded, as she took this in.

"I'll need to stop the bleeding before we try to get him out of here," she said briskly, grateful for having a defined activity to prevent her dwelling on the events of the afternoon. And she really didn't want to inflict another burst of magical tansport on him until she was certain of his injuries.

Carefully, she buried her fingers in Harry's blood-matted hair, feeling the back of the skull, pressing gently, praying that she wouldn't encounter the telltale spongy softness that spoke of broken bone and damaged tissue. The area was warm and sticky, but her tentative probing confirmed Snape's opinion; Harry's skull was intact.

She let out a small breath of relief.

Next to her Ron was speaking to Snape.

"Did you find, Draco?"

The part of her mind that was not concentrating on using light cutting charms to clear the shredded robes away from Harry's shoulder heard the pause before the response.

"Yes."

"And?" prompted Ron, when no further information appeared to be forthcoming.

"He died."

At that Hermione stopped briefly, the question how popping unbidden into her mind.

She very much doubted that Snape would use an Unforgivable to save his own life, but in defence of others? Even Harry?

"What happened?" she asked softly.

"He was directly under the chandelier when it fell."

Hermione returned to working on Harry.

"You're sure he's dead?" That was Ron.

"There was a ten inch piece of glass buried between his third and fourth left ribs, Mr Weasley. Whilst I admit to being no medi-wizard, even I can recognise that as a reasonably fatal injury."

The sarcasm in his tone was painful in the surroundings.

He's upset about this, noted Hermione distantly.

"I just don't want him popping up through the fireplace as well," muttered Ron in what sounded like a rather mutinous tone.

"As well?" Snape's question was sharp.

Hermione was trying to concentrate on Harry's injuries and had little or no patience for allowing the two men to recommence hostilities.

She looked up.

"Just after we got back here from the library, Lucius came through the fireplace."

"What happened?" It was Snape's turn to ask, urgently.

"He committed suicide as far as we can tell." That was Ron again.

Hermione pointed over to the body of Malfoy by the fireplace.

Snape was quiet for a moment. Then he straightened slowly and moved away from Harry. Hermione felt a flash of concern for the bleak look in his eyes, but Harry's condition was more pressing.

Later, love. I promise.

By now she had peeled away the remnants of Harry's robes and could see the damage wrought by the falling glass. The whole of the left side is his shoulder, from the collar bone, across the shoulder blade and into his upper back was marked with cuts, many of them bleeding afresh from the removal of what was left of the covering cloth. To Hermione's untrained eye most of them looked superficial but messy. In a couple of places, however, the glass had cut deeper, slicing into the muscle and towards the bone, She checked these ones carefully and then spoke the words of a simple healing spell.

All she needed to do was halt the bleeding long enough for them to get back to Hogwarts and Poppy Pomfrey, she told herself. This was not life or death. Not this time.

Carefully, she healed the worst of the cuts and then muttered some brief words over the scalp wounds.

She straightened, wiping her hands on the back of her hips, staining her own robes with Harry's blood. She had been so intent on what she was doing that she hadn't noticed the silence in the room.

Rose was sitting now, propped up against a wall. Ron had obviously helped her over there whilst she had been concentrating on Harry. Her colour was better and her body appeared to be back under her control. Ron, himself, was leaning against the wall near her, with an air of someone keeping his distance - both from Snape and from her, she realised with a slight pang.

The necessity of working together had clearly only brought about a superficial softening in Ron's attitude. She also suspected that he could still hear Malfoy's taunts ringing in his ears.

Snape himself was also standing, but he was by the fireplace, propped against it on one arm. She couldn't immediately tell from his body language whether he was leaning against the wall, or using it for support. His gaze was fixed intently on something on the ground.

Lucius.

She studied him as her hands absently patted down her robes. He could have been carved in stone; face rigid, expressionless, diamond hard. It was impossible to get any clue to what he was thinking; even for her. It could have been grief or disgust or even pleasure, although she somehow didn't think it was the last of them. Relief, perhaps, but not pleasure.

There was something absent about him, she thought. As if he had retreated into some deep place within; somewhere she doubted that he would ever let her go; somewhere that maybe should be left to him alone.

Involuntarily she took a step closer to him, and the movement seemed to shatter something. She was aware of Ron's eyes on her, appraising her. She took another step.

Sod your feelings, Ron. I'm too tired to deal with them.

She knew she would regret that harshness of the thought, would make an extra effort just to atone for it. But that would be when they got back to Hogwarts and she could stop this.

She made her way across the room to Snape's side. Deliberately scuffing her feet to give him some warning of her approach, she laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"I've stopped the worst of the bleeding," she said quietly. "I think we can take him back to the school now."

For a moment she thought that he hadn't heard her, so fixed was his attention on the lifeless body in front of him. If Malfoy had faked his own death he had done a damned good job of it, she thought distantly. His skin had a slack waxy look to it, nothing like the luminous porcelain of his living flesh.

"What are we going to do about him," she asked, more in the hope of eliciting some response, than out of any real interest.

"Leave him here," came the eventual reply. "The building can be warded sufficiently to secure it until Albus can arrange for someone to deal with him."

It sounded as if speaking were an effort for him; as if he had to physically drag himself back from the place that he had been. He didn't seem about to say anything else, but he made no move to dislodge her hand from his arm.

Definitely upset.

She squeezed briefly, an unspoken promise, and then let go.

Turning, she met Ron's eyes again. For a second she thought there was a trace of understanding behind the hurt, and then he looked away.

"Rose," she said, as if the contact with Ron hadn't happened, "do you feel well enough to apparate."

The other woman nodded.

"If it gets me out of this place," she confirmed.

"Fine," responded Hermione. "Ron, can you help me with Harry." It was not a request. She could have asked Snape, she supposed, but the politics of it were too complicated, and she sensed that Snape still needed to keep his distance.

Ron simply took up a position on one side of Harry, then began to unbutton his robes.

"He should be kept warm," he said in answer to the unspoken question.

Hermione took the robes from him and wrapped them round Harry, as Ron, now down to his sweater, carefully lifted him up from his uninjured side.

On a count of three, they apparated.

The fire burned brightly in Snape's room, but the man opposite it still wore an air of chill, huddled into himself almost protectively.

The return to Hogwarts had been almost laughably easy. One simple apparition to the bounds of the castle, one slightly slow progress inside, by which time Harry had begun to regain a woozy consciousness. Rose and Harry were left in the care of Poppy Pomfrey; Ron, Hermione and Snape related the gist of the situation to Dumbledore, who bustled off to arrange for Malfoy and his estate to be dealt with, which just left the main players to be dispatched to their respective accommodations for rest and recuperation.

Ron had bid them a curt goodnight, once it had become clear that Hermione was heading down to the dungeons with Snape. She wondered tiredly whether he would ever come to terms with her decision. And then, utterly unexpectedly, she had felt a hand tucked through the crook of her arm, pulling her very gently away; Snape, in an almost public display of affection. She had laid her free hand lightly over his for a moment, and then they had returned to his rooms together.

He had not removed his hand from her arm.

The house elves had left food for them, and they had eaten, in Hermione's case more out of a sense of duty than hunger. Snape, too, had appeared to be eating mechanically, lost in his own thoughts, Only the fact that he had led her back gave her any indication that he even desired her presence.

Now he was sitting in an armchair, facing the fire staring absently into the flames, arms wrapped around himself defensively. She had offered to get him something - whisky, brandy - but he had refused with a faint flinch that she didn't fully understand. Now, they had been sitting in silence for nearly an hour. She found neither his presence nor the absence of conversation disturbing. On the contrary, it gave her a chance to examine some of her own feelings about what had happened; about Crabbe and Goyle, to be specific.

She regretted their deaths; assuming that no one had managed to get them out of the inferno that had been the Pensieve library. But Ron had been right - there had been no other acceptable choice. And she knew that faced with the same situation she would have made the same decision. She felt bone weary and curiously empty, as if the experience had drained something from her permanently. She also noted, with an almost academic detachment, that didn't feel anything like the crushing guilt that she had expected to.

She wondered if that was a good or a bad thing.

She also wondered what Snape was going through. Leaving her own thoughts for a while, she decided that she had left him to brood for long enough.

"Love?" Her voice was very gentle. "Tell me what happened."

She was not asking for a factual account.

A shift in his breathing told her that he had heard her. She waited patiently for him to order his thoughts.

"The end," he said after a while. "The end happened."

She let him explain it in his own way.

"With Lucius and Draco gone, and the Pensieves, it was the end of their... control... over me, if you like. Even if they never used it, it was still there. I knew and they knew it. The decision not to wield power is still an exercise of that power." A pause. "I have been a hostage to the past for so long that I have forgotten what it feels like to be otherwise."

He stopped again for a moment.

"And I feel... nothing. I watched Draco Malfoy die. I saw the body of Lucius Malfoy lying at my feet - a sight that I will admit to having dreamed about often enough over the years - and I felt nothing. Not grief, not jubilation, not regret - nothing. I find this anti-climax... not what I expected."

Hermione shifted in her seat.

"Maybe you've changed," she suggested. "Over the years you found other things, things that became more important to you without you realising it."

He looked at her with a strange look, something that was comprised of equal parts awe and love and profound irritation.

"You really do have no idea, do you?"

She almost flinched, wondering if he was about to attack her for something; it was true, she still had very little idea about what drove some parts of his thoughts.

"You just say I will not accept this, and you go out and change it."

She felt uncertain, insecure at his tone.

"You have always been like this - from the house elves to the Pensieves. You tell the world to change and it meekly obeys you."

What was this?

She couldn't decide whether that was praise or criticism.

"Um - not often," she said carefully. "I didn't get very far with the house elves as I recall."

He just looked at her.

"You walked into my life, and you said this must be different, and it was, and you don't even know that you've done it, do you?"

She was almost scared.

"Do you have any idea how frightening that is? How annoying? How completely incredible?"

"I'm sorry," she began hesitantly, not certain what it was he was wanting of her.

"No," he cut across her, "don't be sorry. Don't ever be sorry. Just... don't ever lose that. Please. Whatever else changes; not that."

She opened her mouth, but she couldn't find the words to speak, stunned as she was by the intensity in his face, the power in his voice. The irony of his words could have choked her.

"I think that part of me is already gone," she said, almost inaudibly.

But he was shaking his head.

"No. Not gone. It's too much a part of you for that. You've just lost your balance for a moment, that's all. It will return." There was a quiet confidence to his voice, an intensity that made her breath catch.

He unwrapped his arms from around himself and pushed himself up from the chair. For a moment she thought that he was going to come over to her, but he moved towards the back of the room.

Perhaps he is going to get a drink after all, she thought, obscurely disappointed after the charged tone of his earlier words.

Then he did come back across the room to her, holding something in one hand, but not a drink. He held out his right hand to her.

"I thought you might like this," he said diffidently, almost curtly.

On his outstretched palm sat a small box, covered in green velvet.

Curiously, she took it; Snape wasn't looking at her, she noticed. She opened it, and was robbed of the power of speech for the second time in as many minutes.

It was a ring.

Three emerald cut diamonds set on a plain white gold band.

It was exquisite.

"If you don't like it," he said carelessly, "I expect that Minerva can transfigure it into something better."

She felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes and her throat tightened.

"It's wonderful," she said sounding slightly husky to her own ears. "Perfect. Don't even think about changing it."

He looked at her then and she could see the fear in his eyes; the fear that he had turned away to hide from her.

"Truly?" he asked in a low voice. She suspected that he was asking about more then just the ring.

"Truly," she confirmed softly, sincerely.

She took it out of the box and slipped it on to the ring finger of her left hand. It went on slightly loosely, but as she settled it at the base of her finger, it shrunk until it was a neat, comfortable fit.

"Perfect," she repeated.

He crossed the room and pulled her fiercely into his arms.

**********

Snape had dismissed his last Defence Against the Dark Arts class of the day and was busying himself with some of his private projects in the Potions Room when there was a light tap on the door and the sound of someone coming in.

He waited for that someone to speak and, when they didn't, he let out a very pointed sigh without turning round. It was usually sufficient to discourage the hardiest of students.

"Professor Granger is not here at present, as should be perfectly obvious to anyone endowed with even semi-normal vision. I suggest you return during the Professor's scheduled consultation hours."

"Actually, Professor, it was you that I wanted to speak to."

The voice was calm, even sounding faintly amused.

Snape fought not to freeze defensively. He took a step back from the cauldron that he had been preparing to work on, and slowly turned round.

Harry Potter was standing inside the room, with a carefully neutral look on his face. He was still pale from his brush with Lucius Malfoy's chandelier. Snape and Hermione's assessments had been correct; Harry had suffered some deep lacerations, blood loss and a concussion from the blow to the head. Poppy Pomfrey had insisted that he remain in the hospital wing for a couple of days "for observation", as she sternly put it. Privately, Snape thought that she just wanted the opportunity to fuss over Potter as she had in his school days. Although he given the expected scowl when she had informed him of this, it didn't touch him as deeply as it once might have.

"Mr Potter," he managed, with a slight acknowledgement of his head. "What can I do for you?"

He hadn't been to see Harry in the hospital wing; he and Potter had never been on the best of terms and he hadn't thought that a visit from him would be particularly welcome. Hermione had kept him informed as to Harry's condition - and if she hadn't, the general conversation in the Staff Room would have done the job adequately enough.

Harry looked a little uncomfortable.

"I wanted to thank you, Professor." That had not been what Snape had been expecting to hear. "I certainly remember you pulling me out of the way of the chandelier, and I gather that you also got me out of the library."

Snape wasn't entirely certain how to answer. Think nothing of it? Don't mention it? Habit suggested an offhand, sneering response; instinct told him that here was an opportunity that might allow a bridge to be built between Hermione and her old friends.

"You're welcome, Mr Potter."

The hastily concealed twitch of Harry's face indicated that he had been expecting a less accommodating response. Snape felt a small surge of pleasure; it was nice to think that he could still wrongfoot the Gryffindor.

Then a smile began to play across the features of the other man.

"Professor," he said with a hint of mischief in his eyes, "I would have thought that you could call me Harry by now. I'm told that we came out of the castle holding hands."

Snape realised with a shock that Harry was actually teasing him.

He also realised - not that he didn't mind - he wasn't certain that he would ever be comfortable with being teased by anyone other than Hermione - but that somewhere along the line he had lost the need to replay the battles of his past with the avatars of this generation.

He glared at Harry.

"That is information that I would prefer not to enter the public domain." Harry was watching him a little warily. "I also note," he said pointedly, "that you have yet to lose your Gryffindor desire to find fresh and exciting ways to die."

He watched with some amusement of his own as the younger man played the words through his mind, obviously trying to decide whether they were intended to be taken as a joke or not. The eventual, cautious smile, told him that the balance had tipped in favour of humour, but there remained a substantial uncertainty.

Good, he thought with satisfaction.

The mischief had faded from Harry's face though, and he ran his hand through his untidy hair, as if he had something else to say, and was searching for a way to do it. Snape waited for him.

"Hermione told me that you plan to get married," he said eventually, flat out.

Snape felt himself stiffen. Whatever professional respect he had found for Harry during their fight in Malfoy's chateau, whatever latitude he was prepared to give in order to help Hermione re-establish her friendship, he was not prepared to let Harry interfere with this.

"Have you come to give us your blessing?" he asked, the sneer creeping back in.

A look of annoyance passed over the other man's face.

"Would it make a difference?" he snapped, and then shifted uncomfortably. "Look," he continued, speaking with an obvious effort, "I really didn't come to pick a fight about anything." He paused. "Hermione's my friend, whatever you may think, and I don't want to see her get hurt."

Snape thought about this, considering his response.

"Astonishing as it may seem to you," he said carefully, "neither do I. And what I think is that both you and Mr Weasley have behaved very badly towards her over the last year."

The younger man flushed at that, but stood his ground.

"Maybe," he conceded, eventually. "Hell knows that both Ron and I can behave like idiots at times."

"Yes," agreed Snape blandly, "I've always thought so."

Harry glared at him.

"You are determined to make this as hard as possible for me, aren't you?" he said a little resentfully.

I held her whilst she cried, Potter. She was in pain and she didn't want me to see it. Give me one good reason why I should make it easy.

"I wasn't aware that this conversation was about you, Mr Potter."

Harry flushed more deeply, and dug his toe into the ground.

"You really are a bastard, Snape, you know that?"

"Yes," agreed Snape, again. "I do."

"I don't know what she sees in you."

"I confess that that eludes me as well."

Harry shook his head at that, and suddenly shrugged.

"I suppose that if she's happy then that's all that matters." His tone was not exactly pleased, but the hostility, the vitriol of their encounter earlier in the year, seemed to have drained out of him. "Just... look after her, Snape."

It was as if that phrase released something between them, Snape thought. It wasn't a joyous reconciliation, but it was a tacit acknowledgement, an acceptance of a situation that wasn't going to change and, therefore, simply had to be lived with.

He had won, he supposed, although he hadn't been seeking a victory.

"I will," he said simply.

Harry nodded, and turned away, as if to leave. However, Snape reflected, there was something that, in all conscience, remained to be said between them.

"Mr Potter."

Harry paused and looked towards him, with a faintly defensive air.

"I believe that I also owe you my thanks for your part in what took place at the Chateau."

Harry shrugged again, this time looking a little embarrassed.

"Hermione didn't really give me much choice."

Snape chose to overlook the slightly graceless answer.

"I seem to recall that she didn't give any of us much choice," he remarked with a hint of irony that he wasn't really expecting to be there.

"No," said Harry ruefully, "she can be a bit like that sometimes."

I know.

"Nevertheless, I am grateful that you assisted her... and me... in that way," he added stiffly.

He was finding this - not easy, never that - but less difficult that he might have anticipated. He didn't want to do it, certainly, but it all mattered so much less now.

The younger man was now looking at him with a measuring expression.

"We're never going to be friends, are we?" he said.

Snape almost blinked. There was no aggression behind the remark, just a simple statement of the truth of the situation.

"I doubt it very much," he replied, striving for the same detached tone, wondering where this was leading.

"I don't want to make this difficult for Hermione in any way." The same dispassionate voice.

"Neither do I."

Harry nodded, as if something had been settled within himself.

Then he astonished Snape once more, by extending his hand.

"Truce," he said seriously.

There was something so totally Gryffindor House about the gesture, that Snape very nearly laughed out loud. And something so very Harry Potter about his conviction that his calling a truce would be significant in the grand scheme of things.

And yet... it would be significant to Hermione, and that, when it came down to it, was what mattered. If the schoolboy ritual saved her any more distress then he would do it willingly. He wondered if he should spit on his hand, and then decided that Potter would regard it as mockery.

Which, of course, it would be.

He extended his own hand and grasped the other man's hand for the second time in his life.

"Truce," he said.

**********

The March winds were blowing their way around the turrets and outside spaces of the castle. The early flowers of spring - snowdrops, and some especially hardy crocuses - were pushing their way through the iron-hard earth of the flowerbeds, and Professor Sprout could be heard muttering about the behaviour of some of the more rowdy specimens of this year's crop of Mandrakes.

Above, the sky had managed to produce neither rain nor sleet for the better part of the day, but it was still grey and heavy, promising storms to come.

Hermione wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body as she walked along, but the chill air still seemed to manage to find chinks to creep through. It was fortunate, she thought wryly, that none of them were particularly given to tearful partings. It was definitely not the weather for it.

Slightly in front of her Rose Brunarde - now fully recovered from the effects of the Cruciatus curse, much to Hermione's relief - was hunched against the weather in a similar way. Striding along next to her, to her enormous surprise, was Snape. They were all going to the bounds of the castle to say goodbye to Harry and Ron - both of whom had finally milked as much as even they could out of the need for rest and recuperation, thoroughly enjoying the attention and the excellent food provided by the school. She more than suspected that Snape had come along simply to make sure that the two men actually left.

On her left hand, the diamond ring sparkled. Rose had been suitably complimentary upon being shown it.

"A man of true taste," she had remarked with approval. "You have made a good choice there, chérie."

To her surprise Professor Sprout, Poppy Pomfrey, and even Minerva McGonagall had been equally appreciative.

It's amazing how the possession of an expensive ring turns a sordid little affair into an epic saga of true love against the odds in people's minds, she thought with not a little irony. Snape had smiled at her, one of his rare, true smiles, when she had shared that thought with him, touching her face softly.

"Never underestimate the power of people to rewrite history when they need to. It takes a rare person to see what is actually there."

She supposed that that was right.

The events at the chateau were receding in her mind now; Draco and the death of Lucius - even these were taking on an air of unreality as the tension under which they had lived for so long was lifted. Snape had assured her that Lucius was dead; that there had been no trap behind his apparent suicide. She believed him, but she would have been infinitely happier about the whole thing if she had been able to see Lucius Malfoy's body burned as Darius Snape's had been. Even Crabbe and Goyle had faded for her; not forgotten and still the subject of nightmares, but actions forgiven, understood by those she loved.

Somehow, she had noted, Snape and Harry had managed to come to some agreement. Whether it was spoken or unspoken she didn't know and didn't ask. All she knew was that the atmosphere between them had become one of careful courtesy; a detente that she wasn't about to disturb with questions.

So the walk to the bounds of Hogwarts was proceeding in a more or less amicable fashion. There was little conversation amongst the five of them, but that was due more to the wind and the need to cover all extremities.

Eventually, they reached the point from which it was possible to apparate and there was the awkward silence common to a group of people who need to part but are not quite certain how to actually go about it.

"Well," said Harry after a moment, "I suppose we should be off."

"I suppose," she responded, feeling at that moment acutely aware of how much she would miss them, even if they did spend half their time behaving like idiots. "Take care of yourselves."

Her throat tightened as she spoke. To her surprise, she felt a hand rest between her shoulder blades and stay there. The gesture was probably masked by layer of robes and cloaks, but it was a comfort to her anyway.

"And you," said Harry a little self-consciously. "And, you know, good luck and congratulations and I hope the wedding goes well."

Beside him, Ron muttered something inaudible, and shifted uncomfortably.

"It'll only be small," she said hoping desperately that they could avoid a confrontation at this time of all times.

"Do I gather from that that you would refuse an invitation if extended?" came a voice from over her shoulder, startling her almost as much as it plainly startled the other two men. Only Rose seemed to take the remark in her stride.

"Are you inviting us?" That was Ron, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his tone.

"Of course, I want you there," she said, half answering the question, too innately honest to claim the we.

"Well, that's settled then," cut in Rose briskly. "Everyone is coming to the wedding. Now can we please get out of the cold? I'm beginning to lose the feeling in my feet."

Hermione fought the urge the laugh out loud at the Frenchwoman's pragmatic tone and her heartfelt complaint. It also saved a lot of embarrassed skirting round the subject. She suspected an ulterior motive, and resolved to tackle her about it later. Inside. In the warm. Preferably over a bottle of something nice.

"That's settled," she confirmed, suppressing a grin. "Now go, before we have to explain to Poppy why we all have hypothermia."

Ron gave a snort.

"Come on Harry, we know where we're not wanted."

Her heart rejoiced. It was her old friend speaking; all mock hurt and injured pride.

For the first time in over a year she felt a surge of confidence that this would work out after all; that she wouldn't be forced to make another choice.

"See you soon," she called as they disappeared, with a genuine smile, and a genuine hope that it might actually be true.

Beside them Rose was obviously stamping her feet.

"I like those two," she remarked. "They are very young of course, but no doubt they will mature into acceptable young men."

Snape's snort was a tangible thing.

"I fear your expectations may be rather high in that regard."

"Perhaps," was all the Charms teacher would say.

They began the trip back up to the castle. As they followed the path across the grounds, Hermione edged nearer to Snape, near enough that their robes brushed against each other as they walked. Under cover of the tangling material she sneaked her hand into his pocket to entwine her fingers in his.

"Thank you," she said softly. "I don't know what you did, but thank you for it anyway."

He didn't say anything, didn't even look at her, but she knew from the pressure of the hand in hers, the caress of his fingers across her palm that he had heard and understood.

And the wind swirled around them, pushing them up the path towards the school and towards the rest of their lives.

**********

END