For disclaimer, rating, notes etc. see Part 1.

You could have cut the atmosphere in the room with a knife.

It was a phrase that you often heard used, thought Hermione, but this was the first time that she truly understood it. The hostility between the various individuals was a tangible, almost living, thing. She half expected it to coalesce out of nowhere into something with claws and teeth and to begin laying about itself before it disappeared off into the Forbidden Forest to lurk only as a distant legend.

At the front of the Potions Room, Snape leant against the desk, arms folded, face creased into a familiar scowl. She forgave him the usurpation of her proper position. Under the circumstances, she supposed that he couldn't be blamed for trying to assert whatever authority he could.

On the other side of the room, close enough to make the point that they had a right to be there, yet far enough to away to register their utter distaste, stood Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, faces thunderous, body language emanating threat. In point of fact, Hermione had only owled Harry, but Ron had showed up as well, the two of them arriving together through the Headmaster's fireplace, staring her down, daring her to make comment or criticism.

Towards the back of the room, Rose Brunarde was perched on the edge of a bench, taking in the group dynamics with an interested, if wary, eye.

How much testosterone needed to accumulate in one place before the levels became toxic?

She had written to Harry Potter three days ago.

Snape had come up quietly behind her as she threw yet another draft of the letter into the corner in frustration.

"You're writing to him," he had said calmly. It had not been a question.

"I'm not going to stop," she had responded. It had not been an answer.

He had laid his hand on her shoulder then.

"I'm not asking you to," he said gently. "But I am going to ask you not to do it alone. And not to take unnecessary risks."

"That," she had said, "is why I'm writing to Harry."

Two days after the letter, Hedwig had returned with a terse acknowledgement.

And the following day, Harry and Ron had arrived at Hogwarts.

So far little had been achieved other than the exchange of some not-so-veiled insults between Snape and Ron. Harry had simply sat, waiting to hear what she had to say. Maybe the previous truce was holding.

Maybe.

She took a deep breath and began.

She told them about the Pensieves and their contents. She told them what Lucius Malfoy was doing with them. She told them that she and Rose and Snape had found a way of wiping the Pensieves. And she told them that she intended to destroy his collection.

And she told them that she needed their help.

There was silence when she ended.

"Let me get this right," said Ron after a pause. "Lucius Malfoy was using these things to blackmail Snape to make a cure for Draco Malfoy?"

Hermione nodded.

"And Snape's past being used against him bothers me because...?" Ron's tone dripped sarcasm.

She drew breath to speak, and Snape moved against the desk.

"It bothers you because he's also using it to hurt Hermione, and the last time I looked she was our friend. Isn't that why you insisted on coming along?"

The voice belonged to Harry Potter.

It appeared that Harry had been doing some fairly serious thinking since their last meeting. Ron looked a little disconcerted and fell silent. Snape relaxed fractionally. Hermione decided not to comment, but to just carry on.

"Right," she said, with more confidence that she felt, "what I'm going to do is this; find Malfoy's collection of Pensieves and wipe them so that he can't do this to us, or anyone else, again. But I want him stopped as well. Harry," she turned slightly towards him, "the reason that I owled you is that if we save some of the Pensieves, the Ministry can use them as evidence to bring Malfoy to justice."

There. It was said. Spoken in a firm and purposeful tone of voice it all sounded completely straightforward.

Simple

Achievable.

The room was silent again, everyone digesting the outline she had laid before them.

"Where exactly are the Pensieves?" asked Harry eventually.

"The Chateau Montnégre de Malfoi - the Malfoy family seat." This was Snape, from the desk. "He keeps them in a special library in the house."

"Right, I see." Ron again. "So we just stroll up to the front door, ring the bell, and ask to be shown to the secret Pensieve library, do we?"

Hermione was well aware that her own tendency was to do just that. That was largely what made her grit her teeth against snapping at Ron.

"I was hoping," she said grimly, "that someone here might have some helpful suggestions."

"I take it you've been to this chateau before, Snape?" It was the first words that Harry had spoken directly to Snape. The tone was not exactly warm, but the question was reasonable enough. Snape straightened a little against the desk.

He was hating this, she noted. For him, he was positively fidgety.

"Yes." No elaboration, but no sarcasm either.

"I presume that there are wards against simply apparating in."

"Yes." For a moment, she thought that was all he was going to say, but he continued with a visible effort. "The wards are not dissimilar to those on the school. No one can apparate into or out of or within the building unless they are disabled - which only usually happens when Lucius is expecting someone. There also used to be internal wards to detect movements, unexpected presences and the like. I would imagine that there still are."

Harry nodded slowly at this.

"Can they be removed?"

"If they can be identified, I imagine so. I have an idea of what they used to be. But I'm afraid that it's been a while since Lucius has discussed his security arrangements with me."

"It is also easier to disarm those sorts of wards from within than without," remarked Rose from the back. "External wards can be concealed by, or layered within, other spells. Unless one knows exactly what one is looking for the task can be very complex and time consuming."

"We don't have that much time," stated Hermione. "We need to disarm the wards to get inside, but we need to be inside to disarm the wards." She sighed. "We need another solution."

Snape stirred again, face unreadable.

"We don't get inside," he stated bluntly. "I do."

Everyone looked at him.

"You forget the reason that the Pensieve was sent in the first place. Lucius wants a cure for his son. I simply tell him that I have found one. He will let me into the chateau of his own accord. Once inside, I can find some way to lower the wards."

Harry was nodding again.

"That makes sense."

Hermione felt her insides clench at the thought of him going back in. She could still remember the state he had been in upon his return from the last visit. She bit her lip in an effort not to protest.

"Pardon, Severus," interjected Rose unexpectedly, "but it is not an easy task to identify and counter unknown charms of this type. I mean no disrespect, but you are not a Charms Master, I think."

"No, but Malfoy has no reason to let you in, and I doubt I can devise a convincing explanation for your presence."

"No," pointed out Hermione, "but he has a reason to let me in. You just tell him that you needed my help to find the solution."

Snape glared at her.

"Out of the question," he stated flatly. "Leaving aside the danger, if you recall Malfoy's other stated aim, your presence would hardly be believable."

She remembered with a cold sensation that Lucius Malfoy had threatened to break Snape; had threatened to destroy their relationship. And Snape needed a convincing pretext for his change of heart. That didn't involve Hermione paying house calls on the Malfoy residence - she was still supposed to be blissfully ignorant of these matters. The other three were looking slightly confused at this turn in the conversation. She wasn't about to enlighten them.

"Do I gather," began Rose carefully, "that the reason that Hermione shouldn't accompany you would also rule out the use of Polyjuice?"

"Yes," said Hermione and Snape together, and then to Hermione's astonishment Snape continued in a rather tight voice.

"It would be a highly dangerous course of action. Your presence rather than Hermione's would not make the risk any more acceptable."

Under other circumstances she might have had time to be pleased that Snape finally appeared to be making efforts to interact with the outside world, but now she was simply feeling frustrated at the apparent dead end.

"So we're stuck," she said. "Is that what you're telling me."

"I think," said Harry slowly, "that we're going to have to rely on Snape's efforts to lower the wards."

"Maybe not." This was Ron's first contribution to the discussion since his earlier digs at Snape. He had spent most of the intervening time examining the back of his hands. She hadn't minded that much; anything was better than running warfare, and she didn't have the time or the energy to negotiate another cease fire between the two halves of her life.

"Go on," she said, neutrally.

Ron took a deep breath.

"Well, I've been working on something at the Ministry. It's a type of Portkey, only as well as it being keyed to take you to a certain place, it can also be linked to another Portkey - so activating it will take you to the other Portkey."

Hermione thought about this.

"You mean that if I have one of these and you have one of these, then I can use it to get to you and vice versa?"

"Yeah, that's about it. It's designed to operate to a series of commands - a general travel command, a particular travel command and a summoning command. So the holder of Portkey A can either travel to point A as normal or travel to the holder of Portkey B or summon the holder of Portkey B to them. It's also designed to work using a very contained magical field, so that it can't be easily disrupted by anti-apparition wards."

When he was speaking about his work, Ron forgot to be sulky, and his face lightened back into the man that Hermione had loved for so long. She felt a pang, as she realized how much she'd missed his enthusiasm for gadgetry.

"Which means," he was now gesturing with his hands, "that if Snape can get in to this chateau carrying one of these, he should then be able to summon us all to him when he gets to wherever he needs to be. Unless Malfoy has protected against them very specifically, we should bypass his wards."

Ron subsided, looking a little sheepish at his sudden burst of animation.

"Would Malfoy have any reason to know about these Portkeys?" Hermione asked cautiously.

Ron shrugged.

"I would say not. They're highly experimental, and only a few people know of their existence. Malfoy might have spies within the team, but the keys are certainly not in general field use."

"No," confirmed Harry. "In fact, this is the first I've heard of them." He shot a glare at Snape. "And before you say anything about The Famous Harry Potter, I am included in a lot of the high level discussion on experimental equipment and field techniques. I believe the Minister regards me as quite good at my job."

Snape shrugged and Hermione thought that she could almost see a hint of a smile. She must be imagining things.

"I didn't say a word, Mr Potter," he murmured blandly. "You're too sensitive."

"I think," she put in, anxious to avoid anything that might rock an extremely fragile working relationship, "that Ron's Portkeys might be our best bet."

"In that case, it might be a good idea to run some tests here before we go." There was an edge of professionalism in Ron's voice that Hermione couldn't recall hearing before. She supposed that was because she only ever really saw him off duty as it were; in his role as the trio's comic relief.

But she wasn't certain that they had the time for this.

"We don't doubt you, Ron...," she began.

"Ron, they'll be fine...," came from Harry, sounding conciliatory.

Ron cut across them, his voice annoyed.

"Look, just stop will you. I know you all think that I'm some kind of idiot, and maybe I am most of the time, but like Harry here, I am quite good at my job. Which is designing and constructing things like these Portkeys. And one of the things that I like to know is whether or not my ideas actually work." He took a step forward. "Now, at the moment we're in a place that has anti-apparition wards all over it. If we can use these things on Hogwarts' grounds, that doesn't prove that they'll get us into Malfoy's castle, but it makes the prospects much better. If they fail here, then chances are they'll fail there. And I, for one, would prefer to find that out now, rather than when this little enterprise suddenly goes tits up in the field."

He took a deep breath.

"I do have some sense of responsibility to the people that get sent out with the stuff that I dream up. I don't release things until I've done as many tests as I can. These Portkeys are no different. I want to run the tests. Actually, scratch that. You don't get them until the tests are done."

Hermione blinked.

"A very praiseworthy attitude, Mr Weasley," came Snape's voice from the front of the room. Hermione couldn't stop the swift look in his direction; even she suspected some underlying sarcasm, although his tone was unchallenging. But there was no sign of mockery. "Speaking personally, I do not relish the prospect of being trapped inside the Chateau Montnégre with a defective experimental magical object, if there are sensible ways of avoiding it. I think that tests are an excellent idea."

Ron looked as if he had just come face to face with Aragog and been offered a comfortable chair and a Cornish Cream Tea. He was quite clearly examining the remarks closely for any hidden meaning.

"Well, let's assume that Ron's Portkeys work fine, and we get in," interjected Hermione, wanting to move things on whilst the going was good, "what then?"

Time wore on, and the five of them continued planning.

The next day they assembled behind the Herbology greenhouses, wrapped in cloaks against the biting wind. Whilst they had all agreed that the bad weather was a good thing in that it severely limited the chances of being discovered by curious students, privately Hermione could have lived with something a little more clement.

The object of the exercise was to ensure that the Portkeys worked and that everyone was fully aware of how to use them To Hermione's relief, both parts had been accomplished with the minimum of bickering. There seemed to have been an unspoken pact that everyone would keep this on a strictly professional level. In fact, Ron had been completely immersed in his tests and adjustments, muttering under his breath to himself. Even his occasional tart comments to Snape seemed to arise out the work and not out of any particular malice. Whatever the motivation, Snape simply worked past them and an uneasy peace settled over the group.

It might, she thought, just be a case of The Emperor's New Clothes; everyone choosing to participate in a convenient fiction. But she wasn't going to be the first to point anything out to anybody.

Now, she was holding in one hand a small glass potions bottle. It was a good choice for an unobtrusive Portkey; most witches and wizards carried something of the sort with them and it was unlikely to draw attention or comment. About 50 yards away from her she could see the bundled figure of Ron. She squinted, the wind in her face making her eyes water uncomfortably. She wondered how long he would be. Just as she was beginning to think that he had already tried to summon her and it had failed, there was a familiar jerk at her midriff and the wind against her face became unbearable. Seconds later reality came back into focus, and she was standing next to Ron, who was looking very pleased with himself.

"Brilliant," he said. "We're as ready as we'll ever be."

**********

The Chateau rose from within the formal gardens, all light stone and many-paned French windows. Low towers rose from the building, edged with delicate, tasteful, decorative stonework. Snape's eye traced the geometry of the gravel paths outlining lawns and flower beds. Now, in mid-February all was covered with a light dusting of snow, but by June the beds would be magnificent with roses, ordered by colour, the gradations leading the eye from planting to planting; each new view resplendent against the backdrop of an impeccably manicured lawn, each bush perfectly tended by Lucius himself.

It was always his bloody roses. Snape hated roses.

He surveyed the finest attributes of classical French design, moulded expertly into a place to stroll, to discuss art and literature and politics, to escort a beautiful woman.

He hated the garden as well. And he hated Lucius and his delusions of being the new Louis XIV.

That being said, it was nice, just for once, to arrive at the Malfoy place of residence under his own control, rather than on the receiving end of the wizarding equivalent of a cosh on the back of the head.

The door behind him opened at last, and he was ushered in by a venerable looking house elf, no doubt enchanted to the correct air of grave respectability.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," it intoned. "The Master awaits you in the Great Library, if you would be kind enough to follow me."

Not only the appearance had been charmed evidently. Somehow Snape doubted that Lucius Malfoy had become a late convert to the cause of Further Education for House-Elves. A stray imagining of the sleek, pale wizard wearing one of Hermione's old S.P.E.W. badges came to him. He pushed it down ruthlessly. This was the wrong moment to develop a taste for whimsy.

He obediently followed the house-elf to the Library, although he was perfectly familiar with the layout of this part of the Chateau and he had ceased to be impressed by the marble floor many years ago. The elf pushed the main doors open and stood aside for Snape to enter.

The room was exactly as before. The same roaring fire in the hearth. The same leather chairs giving off their heavy sweet scent. The same midnight blue carpet; the same draperies, darkened to indigo as the weak winter light filtered in. The same chandeliers dispensing their respectful illumination. The walnut desk was clear of papers, the silver inkwell stoppered, the quills neatly trimmed and arranged. Even the family photographs maintained an air of appropriate reserve, holding themselves so stiffly that they could have been Muggles.

"Professor Snape is here, Monsieur de Malfoi."

Snape blinked. Monsieur de Malfoi is it now? He suppressed the uncharitable thought that Voldemort would not have countenanced that sort of presumption for a heartbeat.

He wondered if Malfoy was finally beginning to lose what little was left of his, admittedly always tenuous, grasp on reality.

"Severus, my dear friend." The voice issued from the depths of one of the wing chairs facing the fire. "Come forward, have a seat."

Lucius Malfoy didn't bother to get up and Snape made his way down the length of the room. Somewhere behind him he assumed that the house-elf had closed the library doors and he struggled against a sense of claustrophobia. He also fought the desire to finger the glass bottle in his pocket; the latest Weasley creation. His safety, if not his life, currently rested on the fabled Weasley ability to create magical gimcrackery; an ability that he had spent a good deal of his teaching career trying to discourage in various family members.

He strove not to dwell too deeply on the irony.

"I was so delighted to get your note," Lucius continued, as Snape cautiously took a seat opposite him. "I was quite certain you'd reconsider once you'd had some time to think about it. Can I get you a brandy?"

"No." Alcohol was absolutely the last thing that he needed right now.

"As you wish." Lucius sounded unperturbed by Snape's curtness. "How is the lovely Miss Granger?"

"Well." Not giving any more information than he needed to.

"Did she enjoy her gift?"

They had reached the point of no return.

"She never saw it."

"Really?" Lucius took another sip of brandy, his tone one of polite enquiry.

"Really."

Lucius nodded.

"Sensible of you not to take the risk. I grant you, with Gryffindors there is always the possibility that they will turn out to be tiresomely noble about things, but they have such a blind spot when it comes to selective elimination of the weak. I think you acted for the best." He paused, a small frown creasing his brow. "Are you sure that I can't get you anything. I feel rather guilty sitting here, with you empty handed."

"I don't want anything to drink."

Lucius shrugged. Snape wanted to hurry this along, but he was walking a fine line. He had to move Lucius to where he wanted him to be, without alerting the man that something was going on. That would not be an easy task. Malfoy's level of paranoia would be apt to make him suspicious even had his visit been perfectly genuine. By taking the initiative, he had necessarily taken some of the control from Malfoy. And Lucius Malfoy deprived of control - even to the smallest degree - was a dangerous creature.

He gritted his teeth and hunched into the chair, hoping that, if he even noticed, Lucius would take the gesture as one of defeat. Certainly, there was a strong air of graciousness in victory about the other man that set Snape's nerves on edge.

Malfoy gazed serenely into his glass, swirling the liquid and sniffing as the aroma was released. Snape rode out the silence, willing his body to calm.

"So," Lucius said meditatively. "Tell me about this impossible cure for my son."

Snape swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Maybe he should have had that brandy, he thought wryly.

"It isn't a replication of the cure. That would have been impossible as I said. But it is an alternative."

"Which will work."

"Which stands a high chance of working."

Malfoy smiled.

"Ah, Severus, ever the scientist. Never one to deal in certainties, only probabilities and likelihoods. Always adding the caveats."

Snape didn't feel flattered by the comment.

"I like to be exact," he said coldly.

"I remember." The fond smile of reminiscence made Snape slightly queasy. "Whereas I am seduced by the few broad brush strokes that define the whole picture - forging ahead, content to leave others to deal in the details." He smiled at Snape with something like affection. "I always thought of you as the Architectural Drawing to my Impressionist Masterpiece."

And I always thought of you as completely fucking insane. What's more, I still do.

Snape's nausea rose even higher.

"The cure," he said harshly. Malfoy blinked, disturbed out of whatever memory he was reliving.

"Of course. You were saying."

"I was saying that it isn't guaranteed to work, but the probability is that it will mimic the effects of the original potion." He moistened his lips. "The basic premise is straightforward. The active ingredients in the potion act on the para-sagittal of the brain to increase the responses of the medial temporal lobes...."

Lucius held up a hand.

"Enough. I want it to work, not to create it myself. That's what I've got you for. Draftsmen and Impressionists, remember."

Snape scowled, but was privately relieved. He had been counting on Lucius intervening after about five words, before it became clear that he was talking utter nonsense.

"Very well," he said, making his tone as grudging as possible. "In a nutshell, I have a potion that should activate his declarative memory. Once he's taken that, some very strong stimulus should make his mind begin to work again."

"Stimulus?" Snape knew that he had lost Malfoy, even in the simpler version. It wasn't that the man was stupid. He just couldn't be bothered to think if he could pay, or threaten, other people to do it for him. Lucius was simply not paying attention.

"Yes. Such as a Pensieve."

Now, that had got his attention.

"A Pensieve?"

"Yes." Snape shrugged, forcing himself to look disinterested. "It doesn't particularly matter what's in it. Something that involves him might be best." Lucius was looking at him with an embryonic flicker of mistrust. Snape began to improvise. "I started thinking along these lines when you little gift arrived. So, in fact, I owe the idea to you." He inclined his head in a mocking salute.

Lucius' face cleared and he began to chuckle.

"The brush strokes of the master at work yet again, Severus," he said cheerfully.

Snape carefully let his breath out again, grateful that the man's obsessive self-glorification allowed to believe that an act of his could be the inspiration of others.

"So," Lucius continued, expansive good humour restored, "how shall we proceed?"

Snape noted that the "cure" had now become joint property as a result of his last remark. So much the better.

"Well, once a suitable Pensieve has been selected, I need to examine Draco and then administer the Potion to him."

Lucius nodded, losing interest again at the mention of his son.

"A Pensieve," he said with a distant air, "I know just the one. We'll go to the Minor Library now and I'll get it for you."

Lucius swept to his feet, rapt in the thought of his collection, placing his brandy glass carelessly on the desk as he went past. Wordlessly, Snape followed.

On this trip through the Chateau, Snape had an idea of where he was going, and was not - or at least not seriously - harbouring any ideas that he was going to be tortured at the end of the trip. Which meant it gave him a chance to pay close attention to the route. For himself, he would have been content to rely on his memory of the last trip, even allowing for the more stressful aspects of it; his time as a spy had made the registering of details such as location and exits second nature. But this time he had others relying on him; she was relying on him. He wasn't going to take chances.

He noted the twists and turns that Lucius took, ignoring the paintings and the furnishings, making only monosyllabic responses to the other man's comments about the antiquity of this escritoire or the rarity of that statuette. Then they got to the less familiar places; a turn and a turn had them heading towards the dead end and the plain, polished door that he had been shown on his first visit.

Again the touch of the hand on the door, and the murmured word. This time Snape was concentrating, but Malfoy spoke too softly for him to hear.

Damn.

He hoped that Rose Brunarde was as good as she said she was.

The door swung open.

Again, all was as before. A room lined with shelves; lined with the tangible reminders of Malfoy's life - and of his life, he reminded himself coldly.

He made himself focus on the details of the room. A large fireplace. Chairs in front of the hearth. A table, about the size of the one in the Great Library, but made of a different substance - rosewood, he thought. Floor to ceiling windows, polished wood floor not carpet, although covered with opulent looking rugs - probably Chinese, his mind supplied irrelevantly.

Enough room for five people to work in. Up to five potential ways out. Which meant up to five potential ways in - and any other hidden entrances known only to the Chateau's owner. Hardly the most defensible position. They would need to be fast; this was not a place in which to be besieged.

Lucius, meanwhile, had made his choice. He turned to Snape with an absurdly proud look on his face.

"The night that Draco took the Mark. It was one of the happiest moments of my life." He sighed. "Would you like to see?"

Not in the slightest.

"I was there, Lucius. I remember it perfectly well."

"It brought back all the memories of my own call." Lucius actually appeared to be getting tearful.

Mine as well.

Snape suppressed a shudder, both at the memory and the gross sentimentality of the man opposite him.

"It will do," he said curtly. "Shall we get on." This was taking too long.

"Always in such a rush, Severus." The fond tone was back. "You never did take time to savour the moment. I recommend rose growing. I really do."

His urge to growl fled when he saw that Lucius was moving towards the door, still carrying the Pensieve. He searched his mind for inspiration.

"Leave the Pensieve here," he said shortly.

Malfoy looked surprised.

"I would have thought that it was easier to bring the Pensieve to Draco than the other way around."

That depends on what you're trying to achieve.

"The memory reactivation is likely to be more effective if it takes place away from familiar surroundings. The mind will have less comforting objects behind which to shelter. It will be better if he is brought here."

Snape wondered if that sounded as wildly implausible to Malfoy as it did to him.

"Very well."

Lucius placed the Pensieve on the table. Apparently the hint of technical explanation had caused him to stop listening again. Snape concentrated on keeping his breathing even and not worrying about how much time he was losing in this pointless conversation.

"Shall we go," he suggested.

Stepping back, he allowed Lucius to precede him out of the Small Library, and tried not to look too impatient at the process of re-warding the door. The clock was ticking.

Slowly, too slowly, they made their past priceless examples of good taste and inspired design until they paused by a door, decorated with some kind of woodland scene. Several deer were grazing in the foreground and a passing stag eyed them suspiciously. Lucius placed his hand on the door and the movement caused the animals to scatter. Snape tried not to let his lip curl. He would have been fractionally more comfortable with scenes of torture then with this pastoral delicacy.

It would at least have had the merit of honesty.

The door opened soundlessly and for a moment Snape thought that he was in the woody glade itself. The room was entirely decorated in shades of leafy green. Dark green carpet, lighter curtains, the palest of green moiré silk on the walls and the bed, the centrepiece of the room, a creation in forest green.

The inarticulate sound from the bed brought him back into focus.

"My son and heir," remarked Lucius with a tone of distaste.

Cautiously, Snape moved towards the figure, half concealed behind the rich hangings. It was curled up, occasionally flinching as if from some unseen blow, muttering things that could only be interpreted by the equally mad.

"I need to examine him," Snape said brusquely, recoiling inwardly at the thought of touching the thing in front of him. "Then we can take him back to the... other... library." It was necessary to convince Lucius that at least some of this charade has a legitimate purpose.

Lucius did not move. Snape wondered briefly how hard it would be to manage Draco on his own, He doubted that Lucius would help - given that he was currently keeping as much distance between himself and the fruit of his loins as he could and still remain in the room. And the last thing that he wanted to have to deal with was the helpful input from Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle.

Trying not to flinch himself, he moved forward. Draco had a sour, unwashed smell about him, although the linen was clean enough. But, no matter how high the standards of hygiene, there was still that lingering acrid odour that spoke of lack of conscious control over bodily functions. He swallowed, giving thanks once again that his early training had given him a strong stomach. Leaning forward, he placed a hand on what he judged to be Draco's shoulder.

A shudder ran through the body and it gave out a small whimper.

"Draco," he said experimentally, "can you hear me?"

There was a moment's eerie stillness, when Snape almost thought that he was going to get a reply, and then the whimpering started again.

There was a noise of disgust behind him.

"Do we really have to listen to this, Severus?"

No, he supposed not.

He tightened his grip on Draco's shoulder, and pulled him over so that he was lying on his back. The pale skin, once so pale and delicate, was now sallow and papery. Snape felt a memory rise; one of the man hunched and weeping in the corner of a whitewashed stone cottage. And an unconscious woman at his feet, blood slowly pooling in her hair. He swallowed again and shook firmly.

"Wake up, Draco," he snapped harshly, all Hogwarts professor.

Draco's eyelids flickered briefly, and then drifted shut again. Snape shook a second time, hard. This time the man on the bed moved his head painfully and his eyelids crept open. The once clear grey eyes were muddy and expressionless. They met Snape's for a moment and paused. Snape thought he saw something like confusion, and then fleeting recognition, cross Draco's face, but then everything relaxed, and Snape thought that it must just have been a muscle spasm.

He sighed and fished in his robes for the bottle, as one of the ormolu clocks in the bedroom began to chime the hour.

Damn. This had taken far too long. Well, there was no help for it now.

Resolutely, he unstoppered the bottle and prised the slack jaws apart. Wedging the edge of the bottle between Draco's teeth he poured the contents into his mouth. Yellow liquid bubbled out and ran down Draco's chin. Snape pocketed the bottle and began to rub Draco's throat with his free hand.

"Come on, Draco, swallow," he muttered, conscious that Lucius was only a few feet away.

Mentally cursing Draco and Lucius, he reached for the edge of the sheet to wipe the stringy combination of potion and saliva from Draco's chin and neck.

"Severus," came the faint reproach from the other side of the room, "those sheets are antique linen, you know."

Then all Hell broke loose.

Snape was about to retort when a series of loud bangs echoed around the room. Draco gave a high screech and retreated into a foetal position. Lucius scowled, uncharacteristically marring his perfectly schooled features. It sounded as if the Chateau was under some form of heavy artillery fire.

Snape felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

"What in Hell is that," snapped Lucius, clearly annoyed by the disruption to his plans. "No one should be able to get near the Chateau."

Snape shrugged.

"I have no idea what it is," he said, infusing the remark with as much acid boredom as he could. "I suggest that you go and investigate, Unless, of course, you're confident that your pet gargoyles can manage without a directing brain."

That should be enough to get Malfoy out of the room...

The elder Malfoy glared at him.

"And what about you, my dear friend?"

"The potion has some after effects that I want to monitor," he lied smoothly. "I expect I shall be safe enough baby-sitting. In fact, I can take him to the library and get started on the main part of the cure."

He hoped Malfoy would accept the suggestion.

"Ever the hero, I see, Severus."

"I like to stay with what I know."

Just hurry up and get out.

Lucius looked as if he wanted to object, but another bang, from what appeared to be another location, coupled with the sound of breaking porcelain pulled at his attention.

Lucius hesitated and then made a decision. "Just get on with it," he said curtly, "I'll meet you back in the Small Library. The password is Serenity." With a flourish of his robes, the master of the Chateau swept out of the room.

Serenity. How very Lucius.

Although he was beginning to have some serious reservations about the stability of the man. More than usual, that was.

As the door slammed, Snape let out a sigh, and began to count under his breath at a careful and measured pace, trying to ignore the animal sounds coming from the bed. When he reached one hundred he pulled the now empty bottle from his robes again and spoke the words of summoning.

**********

Hermione felt a pull at her midriff, and then that peculiar feeling of the world rushing by very fast. The fact that the world also contained walls and people, and she seemed to be flying through them, did not make the sensation any more agreeable.

Then the world did an emergency stop in front of her eyes and she was assailed by green.

Green and a high pitched wailing. And a nasty feeling of being trapped underwater.

"We don't have time to sightsee, Professor Granger."

She blinked. The familiar sneering tones abruptly recalled her to herself and where she was.

Chateau Montnégre de Malfoi.

She glanced round and the green showed itself to be a bedroom, rather too perfectly matched for her taste. Beside her Rose Brunarde was blinking as well. Hermione looked round for Snape.

He was standing by the bed. His face was grim, but his eyes held the shade of an apology. She sketched a smile and a nod, knowing that he had used the remnants of his old terror and her professional title to shake her back into awareness. And to distance himself from his own fears.

The unearthly wailing seemed to be coming from beside him.

"This is not the library." It was half a question, half a statement from the other woman.

If it was, thought Hermione, the damned Pensieves were well hidden.

"No, Professor Brunarde. It is a bedroom. I would have thought that that was obvious." Snape's voice was taut. "Now, we can either discuss interior design or we can get out of here and to the actual library."

There was another loud crash, this time apparently coming from outside. Hermione checked her watch.

"I promised Harry and Ron another couple of minutes."

"What are they doing?"

"It's another gadget of Ron's. He calls it a Bouncing Bomb. It appears, lets off a charge of magical energy and then disappears again. The cycle of appearances is random. Apparently, it's a variant on something that Fred and George came up with. It'll carry on pretty much indefinitely, according to Ron, but they want to seed as may as they can." She paused. "Right, that should do them."

She pulled out a small bottle of her own and spoke some words.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley appeared in the room.

"I thought this was supposed to be a library," muttered Harry, with an edge of suspicion in his voice.

Hermione drew breath to intervene before Snape could, but Rose got there first.

"Clearly it is not," she said briskly. "Shall we go to the library?"

"An excellent suggestion, Professor Brunarde. Mobilicorpus." The last was directed at the bed.

A pale figure floated out from behind the hangings, and took on an almost upright posture. Ron was looking at the apparition in something like horror. It was still keening softly.

"Tell me that's not Draco," he breathed in a sick voice.

Harry meanwhile had simply gone over to the bed and was hauling on one side of Draco to manoeuvre him towards the door. As Harry pulled on him awkwardly Hermione got her first good look at Draco since the encounter in Hester Allworthy's cottage.

Dull grey eyes met brown. And something sparked. Deep within the emptiness of Draco's features she saw a faint flicker of awareness; someone struggling with something. He made a sound.

Involuntarily, she took a step back.

"He recognized me."

"I doubt it," responded Snape.

Draco's body twitched.

"He's moving," she pointed out, trying not to betray her nervousness. "What did you give him?"

Trying to clamp down a wholly irrational fear that he might, indeed, have devised a cure.

"A simple Enervating Potion. It's stimulating what residual gross motor function that he possesses. I had to give him something that would convince Lucius that something was happening. The movements are a simple muscle reflex. Nothing more."

She hoped so. But yet, that sense that something within had woken didn't leave her.

"Remind me again why we need to bring him along?" muttered Ron as the two other men manhandled the semi-dead weight to the door. "Seeing as we don't now need him as an excuse to get into the library."

"Because, Mr Weasley," Snape informed him coldly, "Lucius Malfoy is expecting to meet me with Draco in the library. He might be a little suspicious if he comes back here to find me gone and Draco still here. In addition Draco is a legitimate occupant of this building. His presence may prevent the activation of some of the internal wards."

And given what she had just seen - or what she had thought she had seen - she certainly wasn't happy about just leaving him.

"He comes with us," she said firmly. "I want him where I can see him."

If anyone had a comment on that statement they wisely didn't voice it.

With Draco bobbing along in front of them, they made their way as swiftly as possible to the room where Lucius Malfoy kept his Pensieves. The only sound in the corridors was the random explosions of mock-ordnance generated by Ron's Bouncing Bombs. Harry had curtly cast Silencio on Draco, none of them able to bear the high pitched whining sound that he had made ever since they had left his bedroom.

To distract herself from the charged silence, and the occasional jerkings of the floating body, Hermione concentrated on observing the interior of the Chateau. It was an eerie sensation, rather like sneaking through a site of national historic importance. She felt that Lucius Malfoy's home ought to be all gloomy corridors and draping spiders' webs. To find it arranged like a antiques showroom was more than a little disconcerting.

Then she recalled the Pensieve; Malfoy cutting, as skilfully as a surgeon and as lacking in emotion. The décor was the same. All technique and no depth.

Snape seemed know where he was going, she thought gratefully. And if any internal wards had been activated, they had heard nothing about it. The atmosphere was sufficiently tense for her to begin imagining that spears would shoot out of the walls or poisonous gases would seep through the floor.

Perhaps Snape was right. Draco's presence was acting as a kind of shield.

She certainly hoped so.

After what seemed to be an interminably long time, they came to a passageway that ended in a plain wooden door.

Snape placed his hand on it and muttered Serenity. The irony of the password was not lost on Hermione.

Then he gave one push, and the six of them were inside the Small Library.

It was much as Snape had described it, she thought. Airy, almost cosy. And full of the most concentrated misery that you could hope to find. Floor to ceiling pain. Torture in big and small sizes; take home atrocities, packaged in the elaborate or the austere. Something for everyone, just take your pick.

Her determination to destroy these things returned hot and fierce. She pulled out her wand, registering in a corner of her mind that Snape had dumped Draco in one of the chairs by the fire.

That's more kindness that he deserves, she thought bitterly. She noticed that both Harry and Ron were avoiding looking at or even approaching the slumped figure. Instead, they were prowling the room, wary, alert.

Hermione drew her wand, and noticed that Rose was doing the same thing.

She moved over to stand in front of one of the shelves. She pointed at one on the top shelf.

"Accio, Pensieve," she said softly. In obedience to the charm, it floated into her hand. It was a thing of beauty, this container. Carved, jewelled, almost filigreed stonework. She felt sick. Laying her wand over the contents, she spoke the Erasing Charm. The bowl glowed and then shone silver at her.

Cautiously she looked in, and felt no pull.

Whatever had been in there was now gone.

One down - and an indeterminate number to go.

Grimly, she summoned the next one.

**********

Snape stood by the fireplace, still, observing the other occupants of the room. Weasley had lit a fire in the hearth, claiming that it would cheer the room up. He had wanted to snort. This room was beyond cheering up.

But he didn't restrain the action. Lucius would have expected him to light the fire.

Potter and Weasley pacing like animals, clearly wanting to work off their excess frustration in some way - perhaps by a fight. They might yet get their wish. He knew that they were working on heavily borrowed time. Sooner or later Lucius, or some Malfoy underling, would be alerted to their presence. He was under no illusions that they would just get out with a severe warning.

And Hermione and Rose, working methodically, intently, through the hideous collection. Summoning and erasing almost mechanically. He wished he could help them, but Rose had been perfectly clear that it would take too long to teach the charms to someone who was not a Charms Master. He suspected that Hermione might have met her match in Rose Brunarde, at least when it came to academic self-confidence.

He looked over at Draco, sprawled in one of his father's club armchairs, mouthing silently - nobody had suggested removing Potter's Silencio charm. The jerky movements were getting more pronounced; did that mean he had given too strong a dose of the Enervating Potion? He had thought that a good half of it had gone down the man's chin.

Draco's head had begun to toss back and forth, mouth open as if sighing. His hands were clutching spasmodically at the arms of the chair, back arching. It made Snape think, very uncomfortably, of a woman in orgasm. Bile rose in his throat and he moved away from the hearth, so the thrashing man was out of his line of sight.

Covering the move, he walked towards one of the shelves; one not yet visited by Hermione or Rose. He drew his wand and reduced four or five bowls at random.

"What do you think you're doing, Snape?" came the accusatory question.

He sighed.

"Evidence, Mr Potter?" he said tiredly. "Part of the object of this exercise was for you to obtain evidence upon which the Ministry could prosecute."

Harry Potter had the grace to look slightly sheepish. But only slightly.

He nodded and held out his hand. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Evidence, Professor Snape?" The tone was mocking, but not overly so. "For me to give to the Ministry so that they can prosecute."

Snape decided to let it go.

He stood back and gestured to the shelves.

"Help yourself. I can assure you I have no desire to retain any of them."

Both Potter and Weasley looked at him suspiciously, and then also reduced several of the Pensieves to the size of thimbles. With an air of forced unconcern, they stowed them away in the depths of their robes.

More for the act of movement than anything else, Snape tucked his wand away and moved across the rugs towards the rosewood table. Sitting on it in lone glory was one, rather opulent, bowl. Papa's Graduation Pictures, he thought sourly.

"You might be interested to take this one," he said idly. "Lucius told me that it shows the night that Draco took the Mark."

Potter - the embryonic bureaucrat, it occurred to him, with not a little irony - came over, followed by his friend. They both looked at it with mingled horror and - he was almost amused to note - a faint guilty interest.

"Aren't you... aren't you tempted to... well... look?" This was from Weasley. He looked at the red-headed man sharply, but there was only a sort of shame on his face. He was astonished to find that the question - neither the content nor the source - didn't rankle nearly as much as he would have expected it to.

Which didn't mean that this was a prelude to soul-baring followed by a session of male bonding.

"No." he said repressively. "In any case, I was there and saw it first hand."

Weasley visibly jumped back.

"Yes, I suppose you would have been," he said, and some of the hostility was back in his voice.

What Snape might or might not have said to that remark was lost in a sudden cry from Rose.

"Hermione, behind you!"

Snape whirled and barely stopped himself from swearing viciously. In their game playing they had forgotten to pay attention to what was going on.

Beside him, Potter and Weasley weren't bothering to even try to restrain their language.

Draco had somehow pulled himself to his feet and was lurching towards Hermione with an intent look on his face. It was one that Snape recognised; the mingled avarice and lust that he had seen in Hester's cottage. Draco reached for the woman, trying to touch, to possess; Hermione retreated, but shock had dulled her reaction speed, Snape could see that.

Draco was clumsy and uncoordinated, but still moving faster than anyone would have expected. Recollection grabbed at Snape as he forced his mind to analyse the situation in front of him, to segregate that part of his mind that wanted to cry out in fear for Hermione.

He watched as she dodged Draco's lunge, trying to move backwards, to get enough space to use her wand. But she was hampered by being too close to the shelves and had to slide sideways to avoid being backed up against the wood. Rose also had her wand at the ready and was moving to get a clear shot at Draco without risking Hermione.

It might all have gone well, he thought, but for the inevitable Gryffindor element added by - in this case - Ron Weasley. The part of his mind that was able to observe noted that Harry Potter had had the sense to hang back, to leave the field clear for Rose. Not so Weasley. With a shout he pitched himself forward, managing in several swift, impulsive strides, to get between Rose and Draco just as Rose cast Stupefy.

Ron hit the floor.

Behind him, Harry Potter swore again and moved. The boy's vocabulary had clearly widened somewhat since school.

Draco's head swung round at sound of both the spell and the body hitting the floor and his muddy, lecherous look turned into confusion, and then abruptly into sheer terror as he caught sight of Snape. He backed away, shaking his head, mouth working soundlessly. A thin line of saliva trickled from his mouth, as he stumbled slightly, his gaze transfixed on Snape's face, blindly moving towards Ron's collapsed form.

"Finite Incantatem." A dual voice sounded.

Harry Potter and Hermione; Potter, confident and controlled, and Hermione, in a slightly shaky voice, both aiming towards Weasley. Hermione's spell was only a little wide of the mark, or maybe just not quite focussed enough; shock still affecting her. But instead of Ron, it hit Draco.

And the odd quietness gave way to screams. Earsplitting screams. And they were no longer wordless.

"You no please no more keep away from me don't hurt me not again I'm sorry please no...FATHER...."

Oh Gods and seven Hells.

He pulled out his wand but before he - or anyone else could cast anything - some newly awakened survival instinct had made Draco duck behind the chair, cut round the edge of the room behind Harry and bolt for the door.

Harry spun round and cast a hex after Draco, but it missed him by a whisker. Rose moved to fire past Harry and, indeed, himself, but she was wide and Draco was out and away.

Snape gathered himself. Rose and Hermione had to finish here and Draco had to be stopped. Harry clearly had the same idea. They paused briefly, bristling at each other like angry dogs.

Not now, you stupid boy. Fight with me any time you want, but not now.

"Ron," said Harry without taking his eyes off Snape. "Stay here and make sure that Rose and Hermione get out safely. Snape and I will go after Draco."

That tone was not one that you would argue with without good reason, Snape noted. It was professional and dangerous. The annoying brat had grown up.

Said brat was still looking at him.

"Shall we?"

Harry's eyes were hard and determined and unforgiving.

Don't fuck this up, they seemed to say.

It seemed as if he and Harry currently shared the same unwilling agenda.

**********

Hermione fought the urge to slap someone. Preferably Ron.

What possessed you, she wanted to cry. What on earth possessed you to try and get in the way of a field Auror and a Charms Mistress? She took a deep breath. Now was not the time.

"We'd better get moving," she said shortly. "Draco's gone, so between our unwanted presence and his shouting someone will be here any minute."

"I'm nearly done here," confirmed Rose.

Hermione turned back to the shelves.

"Can I do anything?" This was Ron, sounding a little groggy.

I think you've done enough somehow. If either of them get hurt because of this, Ron....

This was no good at all. Snape and Harry were both perfectly able to take care of themselves. Of course they were. She needed to get on with this and then worry about what to do.

"Just watch the door," she said tightly. "And kill the fire. We don't want half the house flooing in."

To Ron's credit, he obeyed her without making a murmur, simply extinguishing the flames and then taking up position where he could watch both door and hearth.

As swiftly as she could, Hermione concentrated on getting through the last few Pensieves.

"Done," she announced, as Rose stood back and nodded her agreement.

"Right," said Ron, "now we get out."

Hermione shook her head. With her own part of the plan finished, her fears had nothing to restrain them.

"You and Rose get out," she corrected. "I'm going after Harry and Severus."

She headed purposefully towards the door, only dimly aware of the movement of Rose and Ron behind her.

Ron put his hand on her arm to restrain her before she could leave.

"Don't be stupid, Hermione."

She glared back, rational thought driven out by her concern for two people that she loved.

"I'm not being stupid. They have no idea what's out there, what other things Draco might have alerted."

"Neither do you, Hermione." That was Rose coming up on her other side. "You don't know where they are or which way they've gone. Think for a moment, chérie."

That made Hermione pause.

"Yeah," added Ron, obviously spotting a chance, "do you really want to think about the reaction if they get out and find out that you're stuck in there? Snape will petition the Ministry until I get sent back to Hogwarts so I can spend eternity in detention."

The sudden reversion to the Ron of her school days made her smile involuntarily, even as she recognised the manipulation that lay behind it.

"Both Severus and Harry are very powerful and Severus knows the Chateau well," Rose pointed out. "And I do not think that either will allow the other to be hurt if they can avoid it. If only out of pride."

That was true enough, she conceded wryly. Both had more pride and honour than was sometimes healthy, albeit in very different ways.

The combined efforts of Ron and Rose had brought her common sense back into play. They were right. They would be of far more use outside the Chateau, leaving those inside with one less thing to worry about. Definitely sensible. That didn't mean she had to like it.

"OK," she nodded. "I take your point." She noticed the other two visibly relax. "Shall we go then?"

Ron nodded and fished in the pocket of his robes, half pulling something out.

"Crucio."

And Rose fell to the ground screaming.

Hermione fell to her knees feeling as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She doubled over, gasping for breath, pain searing through muscles clenching hard against the unknown adversary.

"Well, look, if it isn't the Weasel. Just like old times." There was a laugh, dimly heard over the sobbing and the roaring in her own ears. "Except that this time Potty isn't here to save you. Or your precious Dumbledore."

She fought to think. The voices were familiar. Unexpected but familiar.

Crabbe, some distant part of her analytical capacity informed her. The pain in her abdomen was beginning to recede, which suggested that she hadn't been the one hit by Crucio. Two spells, two casters.

The house was now taking bets on the presence of Goyle, she thought in a moment of surreal humour.

They must have come through the fireplace somehow whilst she and Ron and Rose had been at the door. Clearly they had some way of getting through that didn't require the fire to be lit.

Damn!

Slowly, she raised her head and shifted so that she could see.

"And now the Mudblood is back with us. Isn't that nice?" Definitely Goyle. "Tell me Mudblood, is it true you're fucking our dear old Head of House? Got the taste for Snakes have you?" He laughed and rubbed his crotch suggestively. "Although," he added, "you're a bit too living for my taste at the moment. Maybe later, eh darling?"

Hermione swallowed bile.

"I see your sense of humour is as arrested as the rest of your development," spat Ron.

Rose was still twitching on the floor.

Hermione pushed herself carefully up to her feet, using the door handle to help her, making rather more of a show of being in pain that was strictly necessary.

Crabbe and Goyle. Vicious. Ruthless. And slow and stupid without Draco Malfoy or someone else to do the thinking for them. She wondered how many other people had been alerted. Maybe they would be just tell her.

"How did you know we were here?" she croaked, trying to sound as pathetic as possible.

They both laughed.

"We heard Draco doing all that screaming for his daddy," said Crabbe.

"So we thought we'd come and have a look. See if we could prepare a surprise for them," added Goyle.

Astonishing. It actually worked. They were stupid enough to want to gloat.

She had really only thought that happened in bad books and films.

She tried to think whilst keeping a defeated look on her face. She and Ron could simply Portkey out, but Rose couldn't whilst the Unforgivable was still on her. Summoning her out would work, but they couldn't risk leaving Crabbe and Goyle free to raise the alarm. Not whilst Harry and Snape were still somewhere in the Chateau.

She shifted, striving for an air of nervousness, trying to get the butt of her wand into the palm of her hand.

"What are you going to do with us?" asked Ron with a hint of defiance.

Hermione almost blinked in surprise. Then she recalled that Ron had, of course, read his way through her father's entire collection of James Bond novels. He knew the correct protocols for dealing with the Arch-Villain's Evil Minions and he had caught up with what she was trying to do.

If the stakes weren't so high it would be farcical.

Get a grip, Hermione, my girl. Preferably on your wand.

"I don't know. Maybe some more Crucio, maybe some other games. What do you think, Crabbe?"

She fidgeted again, trying to block out the conversation. Then she felt her wand shift into her palm.

In one movement, she flicked it forward and cast Stupefy at Crabbe. He must have been the one that had cast the curse on Rose, for as he hit the floor, her keening stopped. That was one down.

Goyle, however, had moved faster than she would have given him credit for. He dived behind one of the chairs, casting as he did so. Ron moved out the way, and the curse hit the wall harmlessly.

Hermione dropped to her knees and started to move over to Rose, who was still pale and twitching a little. Something flew over her head, embedded itself into the wall and began to smoulder. One of the burning hexes. She tucked her wand away and began to sort through Rose's pockets. If she could find the Portkey then they could all get out of here.

"Incendio," she heard Ron say, and wondered for a moment if he was planning to use the fireplace for something.

Then there was a shriek, and the sound of movement.

Ron had set fire to the chair that Goyle was using for cover. The overstuffed filling caught quickly and began to burn merrily with a bright orange flame.

Ron cast another Stupefy, which only narrowly missed and Hermione turned her frantic attention back to the Frenchwoman's robes.

Damn it, Rose. Where the Hell is it?

Rose was beginning to stir now and push weakly at Hermione.

"It's OK, Rose, it's Hermione. I'm just trying to find the Portkey."

She wasn't certain that the other woman could hear her. The chair was making unearthly spitting and cracking noises, and the smell of charred fabric reached Hermione bringing goosebumps up on her face and neck.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered that Ron was pressing forward, towards the bonfire, which was now beginning to give off smoke as well as flame. Fire had run down the legs of the chair and ignited in the rug. The odour of burning silk joined the mix of hot wood and polish and leather.

She remembered seeing a demonstration once, where the local Muggle fire brigade had shown a fire gut a room in minutes.

They were running out of time. She shook Rose hard.

"Rose," she said sharply. "Where is the Portkey."

The other woman muttered, obviously disorientated.

Another crack and a waft of burning leather told Hermione that the other chair had caught alight. The fumes were now beginning to catch in the back of her throat, and she forced herself to breathe shallowly and keep her head down, fighting against the reflexive urge to gasp.

She risked a sideways glance at the rest of the room.

Both the chairs were ablaze, and tendrils of red-orange were working their way up the curtains, paths edged in back as the material charred first before exploding in points of heat. And from the curtains it could slither, like a living thing along the shelves, to the next window and along again from shelf to window to shelf.

Hermione's heart was pounding again and not just through the increasing heat and lack of oxygen.

Goyle was now trapped between Ron and running fire.

She watched as he froze, looked over his shoulder and then broke towards Ron, towards the door and his only way out.

And Ron raised his wand at the oncoming target, and cast Stupefy.

Goyle hit the floor, stunned.

In an instant, Ron was beside her.

"Never mind. We can summon her out. The whole room will go up in a minute."

As he finished there was a sound like a loud whipcrack. Hermione jumped.

The heat was beginning to crack the stone bowls of some of the Pensieves at the far end of the room.

She sought for her own Portkey, and Ron brandished his own.

For a moment she paused.

"What about Crabbe and Goyle," she asked quietly.

"What about them?" asked Ron.

Their eyes met briefly. His were hard and determined.

She swallowed and nodded.

After all, someone might be alerted by the fire and get them out before....

They might.

Together they spoke the words of transport.

**********

Harry Potter set off down the corridor at a run guided by Draco's semi-coherent screaming. Snape followed him, matching his pace.

How ironic, he thought again. The concept of using some event from his past to stimulate his memory had actually worked. Although it had been the sight of Hermione and himself that had been the catalyst, not the Pensieve.

Draco had obviously seen the other; that creature from shadowy realms that had worn his body for such a short time. The memory still made his skin crawl.

Not to mention the thought of what he might have done to Hermione; he recalled the creature had promised her to Draco, had desired her for its own.

The boy had to be stopped. For all their sakes.

Suddenly Harry came to a standstill. They had come to a T junction and the sound of pleading and wailing had halted.

"Which way?" he asked curtly.

Snape struggled to orientate himself. They were in the main part of the Chateau; nowhere near any of the regions where Lucius recreated himself as the New Sun King. One way led past various suites of rooms to the back stairs to the kitchens and the servants' areas, as he recalled. The other way led, eventually, to the main staircase down to the entrance hall and the Great Library, The Music Room, the Crystal Ballroom and several other sumptuous public rooms.

Under ordinary circumstances no Malfoy would even begin to entertain the thought of sheltering among the house elves.

"Assuming that Draco is applying the slightest amount of rational thought to his actions, I would expect him to head for the public rooms. It's where Lucius is most likely to be."

Assuming Lucius hadn't discovered his son gone from the bedroom. Assuming Lucius wasn't, even now, on his way to the Small Library. Assuming he wasn't already there.

It seemed to be enough for Harry. He nodded to his right.

"After you." He cocked an eyebrow, "You do know where you're going after all."

Aware that all sound had ceased, for reasons currently unknown, Snape led the way, at a rather more cautious pace. Several time he paused at corners, listening, checking. Harry Potter never once protested and for the first time that he could ever remember, obeyed his instructions without a murmur.

The boy has grown up, he thought. They both have, him and Weasley.

He wondered why that should surprise him so much.

The paintings glared at him as they passed, but apparently gave no sign of unease or distress. He supposed that to be a Malfoy family portrait required a degree of discretion. And they had certainly seen him before in the company of Lucius. The situation was unusual but they obviously weren't about to take the risk of raising an unnecessary alarm.

He was sure that eventually he would be able to savour the full irony of his current circumstances. But perhaps not today.

Moving more slowly, they finally reached the gallery surrounding the entrance hall. Snape paused again and risked a quick glance into the expanse of stone.

And ducked back again, closing his eyes briefly and willing his stomach to subside.

He opened them again to see Harry Potter looking at him quizzically. He nodded his head towards the hall, and the younger man edged forward to take a look.

He was back just as quickly, a tinge of pallor to his face.

"Gods," he muttered, his voice laced with disgust.

"I think," Snape murmured softly, "that we no longer need to hide. Lucius appears to be expecting us."

Summoning every ounce of self-possession he had ever possessed he moved away from the wall, straightened his robes, and stepped out onto the gallery, making his way down the sweep of the main staircase with as much dignity as a host at a formal gathering. Harry Potter matched him stride for stride, down the stairs and across the marble floor, not glancing down, not even seeming to notice the illusion of movement in the ground under his feet.

His attention was fixed on the figure by the door to the Great Library.

It was rigidly upright, nightclothes hanging limply off it. Its feet were several inches above the floor, allowing it to drift a very little. The skin was waxy and yellow and dead looking. One arm was outstretched from the shoulder, pointing at the open door and the wash of indigo beyond.

As Snape and Harry approached the figure bowed awkwardly from the waist; parody of a butler ushering them in.

And the eyes. They were open and alert and conscious, reflecting horror, although whether it was at the sight of himself or its current predicament, Snape wouldn't have wanted to say.

Draco had obviously found his father.

Snape moistened his lips, and without breaking step, entered the Great Library. Harry Potter and the ghostlike Draco followed him.

It was almost a shock to realise that it was under an hour since he had last been in the room. Lucius' brandy glass was still on the desk, still with a trace of liquid in the bottom. Snape almost thought that he could see the smear where Lucius' lips had been, the outline of his fingerprints smudged on the crystal.

"Severus, my friend, do come in." Lucius' voice from in front of the fire. "And Harry Potter as well." He stood now and moved towards them.

Snape saw that he was holding a tumbler in one hand. The liquid was a pale, caramel colour. He wondered if it was his imagination that he could smell the peat of Lucius' favourite whisky.

His preferred drink for the dungeons.

But he was smiling now, all gracious welcome.

"Mr Potter, such an honour. I don't think I've seen you since you had that most unfortunate contretemps with my previous employer. I hope you won't think that I'm too dreadfully late when I offer you my congratulations." He turned his attention to Snape. "I must say, you are moving in exalted circles these days, Severus. Maybe there are advantages to disaffiliation after all."

Harry was looking somewhere between bemused and suspicious at this greeting.

"Can I offer you a glass of anything?" Lucius continued.

"Get to the point, Malfoy," he snarled.

"The point," mused the other man, "young people are always the same. Get to the point. Hurry up. They just don't take the time to enjoy the pleasures of life as they pass." He shifted his glass to the other hand and then sipped again. "Tell me, Mr Potter, do you like roses?"

Harry blinked.

"What?" he spat, in tones of utter incredulity.

"I thought not." He looked mournfully at Snape, "You see what I mean, Severus. No patience. No instinct to let things just unfold."

His right wrist twisted like a cobra.

"Petrificus Totalis."

Snape had been watching for the move from the moment that he had seen Malfoy change his drinking hand.

"Expelliarmus."

The curses hit in mid air. The petrifying curse missed Harry. Malfoy managed to keep hold of his wand but his wrist was jerked back and twisted with considerable force.

There was an audible crack, and pain shot across the flawless porcelain face to be replaced by sheer fury.

Dropping his glass, he moved his wand into his left hand.

Harry Potter had his wand out and was casting Stupefy, but Malfoy blocked it with surprising dexterity, and then, pointed his wand at Draco.

"Finite Incantatem."

The figure of Draco crumpled to the floor.

Snape didn't have time to speculate on the action, because he was too busy blocking a curse heading in his direction. He recovered fairly easily and was about to take a clear shot at Malfoy, who was aiming at Harry at this stage, when a heavy object hit him in the back of the head and he crumpled to his knees, head ringing.

"No please no kill it don't let it hurt me make it stop father no help please...."

Draco.

Shaking his head to clear it, he decided to leave Harry to deal with Malfoy for the time being and to immobilise Draco. As he straightened, he saw Draco behind Harry, holding one of the larger family photographs.

Heavy silver frame. Thick. Sharp, he thought in surreal clarity.

"Potter," he shouted over the noise of Draco's ravings, "behind you!"

Harry whirled and ducked in enough time to avoid the descending blow, as Snape cast a blocking charm across Malfoy's latest attack.

It was clear that the pain and the effort of casting with his non-dominant hand was slowing Lucius down.

Not that he'd be much of a match for Harry and myself anyway, he thought with a certain satisfaction. Hence the addition of random confusion in the shape of Draco. Nevertheless, Lucius was still fast enough to be dangerous.

Curse and counter-curse flew through the air, punctuated by Draco's unfocussed pleading - part litany, part tirade - and the succession of distinctly non-magical missiles. Snape noted, with satisfaction, that every one of Lucius' attacks was diverted by one or other of them. He also noted, with rather less satisfaction, that they could never quite get enough of a break to immobilise either of their attackers.

But eventually, slowly, it seemed to him that they were gaining the upper hand; driving Lucius Malfoy back even with the added distractions.

It appeared that Malfoy thought that as well, for he gradually began to move back towards the hearth.

No, thought Snape. Don't let him get to the fireplace.

Lucius was still casting, but he was shifting closer to Harry Potter.

Then he suddenly stood up, hands above his head. The right one looked swollen and useless and the left one held his wand horizontal in full view.

"I surrender," he called over the wailing of his son.

Snape didn't believe a word of it, and immediately straightened to cast a full body bind.

"Don't, Snape," came the voice of Harry Potter. "Let's hear what he's got to say."

"Let's not," he growled, with an edge of his former snap. "It's a trap."

"Severus, cousin, how could you think that?" Lucius sounded hurt.

Experience, mostly.

But he had paused a moment too long.

With a flick of his uninjured wrist Lucius sent his wand spiralling through the air over their heads. As both men instinctively turned to follow the flight path, Lucius broke for the fireplace. Before either Snape or Harry could turn to stop him, he had grabbed something from the top, tossed it in and then dived into the flames.

"Avada Kedavra," came the scream from behind them.

Draco Malfoy had caught his father's wand.

**********

END OF PART 9