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The Rise of the Dark Age	By : witch Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 8643 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter 4

There were in all probability thousands – tens of thousands of door handles in both the Muggle and wizarding world of the exact same shape and golden colour. No elaborate design to attract a fascinated eye. In fact, the doors themselves were neither too ornate nor remarkable enough to be worthy of any particular attention either.

And yet, there she stood, transfixed. With a thudding heart, she remained perfectly still, eyes unblinking, as she stared at the doorway in front of her with a morbid mix of foreboding and fascination.

Engulfed in waves of conflicting emotions, Hermione barely paid any heed to the looming presence of the surrounding Death Eaters. Her escorts from earlier remained positioned firmly behind her, the prickling sensation at the base of her spine a constant reminder of their silent presence. The rational side of her consciousness did not permit her to forget about the other two black-cloaked wizards at the edge of her vision either, stationed as they were rigidly on either side of the double doors.

Nevertheless, it was exactly those cursed doors that pulled at the young witch's attention the most. So much, in fact, that the lethal men around her came across as being nothing but rather infuriating company she was forced to keep. The target of her obsession would have certainly come across as ridiculous in any other place or time. However, no such analysis managed to come to mind now as she gazed at the object in front of her.

Sanity dictated that it was nothing but a barrier at the entrance to a room. Nothing more, nothing less. Once upon a time, that statement would have gone unquestioned. Her mind and eyes, however, depicted something else entirely. At that moment in time, other synonyms jumped to the front of her mind.

So there she stood, staring at the portal that hid unimaginable possibilities of chasms beyond. She had once read, no longer remembering where and when – it seemed to be so long ago – that there was no greater mystery then the route towards the unknown. What she did clearly remember was that she had never fully reconciled with one definite opinion about that statement. Therefore, she now found herself facing an impasse... Dread held her heart shackled just as it made her blood pump faster. And yet, her imagination reeled for an altogether other reason; the aspect of uncovering the truth... Unveiling the reason why she was still permitted to breath and eat... To live. The possibility of finally finding out where she stood in the scheme of things was akin to turning the theory of the unknown on its axis.

And Hermione Granger had never before possessed such a desire for knowledge as she did now.

Her back straightening in silent resolve, the gentle curve of her bare shoulders equally drew back in solid determination. And not a moment too late.

Guided by an unseen power, the double doors drew open in eerie silence, the invitation to proceed unmistakable. All four Death Eaters remained stationed where they were, their combined tension rolling off them in palpable waves. Ignoring them, she nonetheless was unable to prevent an inner shiver of disgust. Fear was a wise sentiment that was meant to be kept to oneself, never permitted to be taken advantage of. But there they stood, four Death Eaters, the most feared elite of the wizarding world – filled with such a marrow-deep terror that it virtually had them on the brink of soiling themselves.

Pathetic.

With a hint of a grimace still lingering across her features, Hermione took a soothing breath and stepped into the room beyond.

At once, Death Eaters no longer occupied her thoughts.

However, it wasn't the new surrounding area that managed to steal her attention so swiftly and completely. In fact, practically every detail of the grand chamber managed to evade her. She had but a sketchy understanding of the wooden interior, the ancient smell of mahogany clinging to every corner of its perimetre. The massive table in the middle of the floor, undoubtedly the most prominent feature of all, was given but a scant glance. The same could be said about the bountiful selection of foods splayed upon its gleaming surface that registered as no more than a varied collection of colours in Hermione's perception.

There was but one sole target that commanded every ounce of her awareness.

Seated at the head of the table, his features in continual blackness, was none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Her dinner host for the evening.

The imposing presence of his cloaked figure drew her attention before she even became conscious of it in the first place. Hermione scarcely paid attention to the third person occupying the room, sitting silently at Voldemort's right-hand side. Though taking note of it, she did not judge the newfound company to be of any great importance yet.

It was just as she stood there, staring upon the darkest wizard of all, that the stillness overtook her fervent mind once more. Finding herself once again in full reign of her emotions, Hermione unconsciously allowed her head to tilt up in an act of silent defiance.

'Good evening, Miss Granger.'

Hermione suppressed an involuntary shiver as the voice washed effortlessly over her. Seven days she had gone without hearing it, and its cold-pitch timbre managed to raise every fine hair it encountered on its path along her exposed skin.

'Do take a seat,' he intoned, indicating the only other available chair at the table to his left. 'I have invited you to dine, and that's precisely what you shall do. Feel free to...indulge yourself.'

Eyes wary, Hermione swayed slightly once in indecision. Rapidly weighing all available options, it quickly became apparent that she had no other choice but to comply with the request. Feeling more or less like herself since leaving her chambers, she steeled herself once more for a good measure and took her place at the table as cautiously as possible.

With her back rigidly straight and eyes averted solely to the food in front of her, Hermione uselessly attempted to block out the existence of the wizard beside her. Whilst she had no difficulty in fully disregarding whoever sat on the opposite side of the table from her, the same could not be said about Voldemort. An impossible task by itself. He was like a mass of condensed, dark vapor, a caricature of a storm cloud at the edge of her peripheral vision, silent and unpredictable. It was as if she could see but not feel him, she dimly realised.

'Are the rooms to your liking?'

Hermione swallowed reflexively though her mouth was devoid of any beverage or food. 'Yes.'

'What are you reading now?' was his next question, his voice bland in its expressionlessness.

'A book.'

There was a short pause, during which his cloaked outline remained motionless, his hands upon the padded armrests perfectly still. And though she would not dare to look directly at him, she knew that he observed her. Studied. Contemplated.

'How many subjects did you to take at Hogwarts?'

And thus the mundane inquiry proceeded, Hermione's answers remaining as short and clipped as possible, giving nothing of importance away. Continuing to chew attentively, she resolved to remain indifferent. To keep her emotions in check. Nonetheless, soon enough, the sheer simplicity and uselessness of the questions began to steadily grate on her nerves. Upon what might have been the twentieth question of the evening, she was no longer able to relish the taste of olive bread upon her tongue.

If there was truly anything she absolutely abhorred in this world, it was to be treated like a fool, a mindless female who couldn't possibly have anything of importance to say. Her pride in her intelligence and capabilities had always been far too strong to allow her to suffer through such degrading treatment. Somewhere back in her mind she was aware of being blatantly manipulated... but she was almost too far gone to avoid that bait. It just served as a proverbial fuel to her rising ire.

Grinding her teeth, Hermione simultaneously allowed the nails of her left hand to dig painfully into her palm, the slight pain serving as a means of desperate distraction. She had to find out the truth behind her survival. Rage held no possible capability of bringing her the answer she needed. Pain and subsequent punishment, more like it.

However, before she had the chance to fully collect herself, Voldemort spoke up once more, his voice a flowing hiss.

'And what about your diversions? Anything I have not yet been made aware of, 'Cissa?'

The very essence of time seemed to halt in its path. Frozen as she was, Hermione momentarily lost all capability of moving. All she could do was sit still and hold her breath. Unbeknownst to her, the fingers of her hand squeezed further into her skin until they finally managed to draw blood.

'No, My Lord.'

The soft-spoken words finally caused Hermione to whip her head up, her eyes wide in distress as she found herself staring at the one person she would have least expected.

Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione could have counted on one hand the total number of times she had seen the older witch up close and personal. And yet, all things considered, she was certain that the woman sitting in front of her now was not the same person she had had the chance to encounter.

At first cursory glance, the average ignorant individual would have assumed Narcissa Malfoy held the same obnoxious bearing all high-class purebloods tended to possess. Her straight, blonde hair was pulled back into an elaborate coiffeur that would have never been able to be styled single-handedly. The cut of her dress-robes – most certainly dictated by the latest wizarding couture – framed the unblemished skin of her cleavage exquisitely. She should have been the image of ice-cold perfection... An ideal depiction of disdain towards anything inferior and unworthy.

However, that reality no longer existed. At least, not in such simple terms.

What Hermione saw before her was a woman encompassed in an emanation of hopelessness. While physical imperfection had the possibility of being masked by an array of glamour spells and potions, nothing could ever be done to disguise the discolouration of the soul. No such enchantments existed. For all it was worth, the older witch's beauty was an alluring illusion hiding the true, gaunt features of the woman beyond it. And even though her eyes never lifted, either towards Voldemort or herself, Hermione already knew of the demons residing within them.

Once upon a time, in a past not so long ago, Narcissa Malfoy née Black might have truly been as vain as her namesake. Looking upon her now, however, no trace of that infamous pride could be detected. Self-love had been stripped away from her in one painful, merciless move. Did that mean that her road no longer lead towards the same path of death as it had Narcissus? That, Hermione did not know. Perhaps it was just a shortcut.

Hermione would have genuinely been stumped at how long she sat there, staring at the woman in front of her. The elegant witch became the sole point of her concentration to the point where she was on the verge of forgetting where and with whom she was currently visiting. Nothing mattered beyond the essence of watching her, feeling all that pain and anguish pumping vividly within her veins.

Entranced as she was, Hermione did not pay attention to the appearance of a Death Eater who silently entered the chamber. The full-garbed servant of the Dark hastily bent on one knee upon reaching his Lord before whispering something to his master.

'Miss Granger.'

Upon hearing her name, the witch in question unintentionally jerked. Without her having noticed him doing so, Voldemort was already on his feet, his cloaked form overshadowing her body.

'To my displeasure, I find myself obliged to cut my dinner short with you this evening. But do enjoy the rest of your meal. I shall be seeing both you and dear 'Cissa later on tonight,' he stated with deceptive amiability, his hooded head not once shifting from her direction.

Fortunately, either not expecting or uncaring of whatever comeback she might have made, the dark wizard smoothly whirled around in a pool of dark robes and departed from the chamber with no further words.

The silence within the room reigned, becoming more impenetrable than ever before. Unaccountable minutes passed by, and Hermione once again – inadvertently – found her gaze being pulled towards the only other presence with her at the massive table. The other woman, however, seemed oblivious to anything else around her. The flickering flames from the silver candelabra just barely managed to extend their meager glow towards the older witch to make her hair seem to shine in its golden perfection and her glowing skin to highlight the aristocratic lines of her face. It was a beautiful sight... A beautiful illusion.

And then, Hermione broke the engulfing silence. Words formed upon her tongue without her being aware of their intention to fall from her lips in the first place.

'I'm sorry.'

The strangled words provoked the woman's eyes to finally tilt upwards. For an instant, Hermione appeared to have lost the ability to breathe. The bone structure might have been different. The colouring was off. However, all that was but a mere triviality.

For, despite appearances and purposes, she was staring at the same image she scrutinized daily in the privacy of her bathroom.

Powerless to look away, Hermione continued to stare, just as the unbearable grief filled her to the point of pain. It tore at her insides, accelerating the beating of her heart until she no longer remembered the meaning of peace. Just as the sensations were threatening to overwhelm her sanity, she became aware of something else: a compulsion – so deep and yearning it was that she found it pointless to fight against it.

'I'm sorry for your pain,' she rasped, her voice stumbling upon uneven tones. 'For your sorrow. Anger. I'm sorry that you weren't granted the chance to stop the inevitable when it mattered most. I'm sorry that the life you chose didn't lead you where you envisioned it would go. I'm sorry that you watched your loved one dying... and for the fact that you would have done anything to be in his place instead.'

The echo of the last words hung unnaturally long in the hushed room. Surrounded once again in silence, Hermione's mind whirled with a diversity of emotions of which confusion and relief were the most prominent ones. As soon as she had stopped talking, what felt like a great weight had suddenly been lifted from her consciousness. Breathing more easily now, she was nonetheless reeling on the inside from what had just occurred. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

All the while, Narcissa Malfoy's eyes never once strayed away from hers. Hermione managed to detect every flicker of emotion as clearly as if it was written across parchment. Where once she had seen only dried-out despair, the blue depths now displayed confusion and relief, as well as a myriad of other feelings in quick succession, chief among them, shock.

At long last, the older witch managed to tear her gaze away, an action which appeared to pain her on its own. The knuckles upon her elegant hand stood out stark-white against her skin as her grasp upon the wine goblet subconsciously tightened.

'No mother should live to witness the death of her child... Especially by the hand of the very man who fathered him,' she said at last, her voice a near whisper.

There were no tears. The time for them had long come and gone. And yet, with that palpable sense of sadness came a shadow of acceptance. Where it appeared from was another question altogether.

With the silence descending once again, Hermione was at a loss to think of what to do. Speaking was out of the question, eating was not much of an option either. In her present state, she had the surreal assurance that if any beverage or food chanced to touch her tongue now, all would turn to ash. The possibility of simply leaving did not even cross her mind.

Therefore, when a Death Eater slipped into the room some half- an- hour later, Hermione experienced a perverse sense of relief.

'The Dark Lord wishes the two of you to join him in the Shadow Chamber. Please proceed Madame Malfoy... Mudblood.'

Turning a deaf ear upon her moniker, Hermione found herself more preoccupied by the response of the blond witch, who noticeably winced. Among everything the wizard had said, only one name could have had the power to cause such an effect. And it had nothing to do with Voldemort.

It was mere moments later, when she was on the verge of exiting the chamber, that Hermione was abruptly stopped in her tracks by a gentle hand upon her forearm. Looking up, she again found herself peering into the eyes of the once regal witch.

'Miss Granger,' she said, 'I'm well aware that you and I could hardly be called acquaintances but I... well... how can I put it?' A soft sigh. 'Whatever you have done, I just want to say thank you and that I – I forgive you... Whatever in the world that might mean.'

For all of her intelligence, Hermione was lost in the explanation as well. However, that did not stop her from comprehending that something had passed between the two of them that evening. The origin of which she was determined to find out sooner or later, but for now she simply allowed herself to feel...content.

Reaching a decision, Hermione slowly nodded back in consent. 'Thank you for your words...' she hesitated slightly before softly adding, 'Miss Black.'

The grateful squeeze upon her arm was fleeting but clearly detectable before the hand was gone and the older witch walked through the doorway.

Gazing after the retreating form of Narcissa Black, Hermione gradually became aware of another feeling beginning to flourish within her consciousness. Something she believed to have been long lost to her.

It was hope.

~*~

If that's what déjà vu always feels like, I will gladly forego experiencing it again.

Granted, the vast room she was herded into was not the same one she had had the privilege to visit all those days ago. Everything around her, from the stone columns to the looming ceiling high above her, came across as being more massive, one could say intimidating. Be that as it may, the emblem of danger did not come from the floor beneath her feet or even the emerald illumination that gleamed eerily through the cracks of the ground onto the walls above.

There was possibly nothing that could have been more threatening than the sight of the Death Eaters filling that chamber. Though their presence was foreseeable, even expected, the scene before her would have made any lesser witch or wizard weep in sheer despair.

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, as far as the eye could see, were hundreds of black-cloaked figures. Even if one had had a sudden, unexplainable desire to count each and every one of them, the number would have still remained immeasurable. They certainly managed to raise each and every hair on her nape to attention.

Thus Hermione found herself, once more, walking amongst them, for all appearance like a lamb lead to the slaughter. She had no doubt that it was what they all saw. An amusement amid a pack of carnivores... leashed hyenas awaiting their master's command for the chance to nip upon her heels. Curiosity, disdain, and fear. Everything came upon her like a tidal wave. Cynical emotions of every possible magnitude suddenly assailed her senses to the point where she found herself once more upon the brink of being overwhelmed.

No. She had come way too far to fall prey to losing her mind. Whatever was wrong with her could well wait to claim her sanity.

And then she saw him, sitting imperiously upon his throne. The moment she focused upon his cloaked form, Hermione was blessed with composure once more. That was all that mattered now. Even Severus Snape's presence upon his right-hand side, standing with his hands behind his back, did not steer her attention away. Her former professor was another problem she was unwilling to deal with yet.

When she was at last brought to a stop, Hermione found herself standing to the side, her back towards the wall, with an ideal viewpoint to see everything in front of her. The gathering seemingly complete, her gaze strayed once again towards the crowd of expectant Death Eaters. However, beginning to feel unbalanced once more, she unconsciously focused back upon Voldemort like on some sort of depraved anchor. But all that mattered was the cease-fire of her emotions. Nothing more.

Whatever noise there was dissolved in the same instant the gloved hand rose into the air. For a number of moments Lord Voldemort simply sat there, silent, inspecting all those standing before him.

'Each and every one of you,' he said at last, his voice carrying into every corner of the room, 'is wondering what shall come to pass tonight... and rightfully so, my servants.' He reclined back against his throne, an image of power and repose. 'For today will mark the rise of an old and a new law, something which has been long overdue from the start of my regime. Many among you served long and steadfast by my side through all those years of peril and careful planning. But then, there are those of you who joined my cause once the victory was inevitable. And all for the thirst of grasping your chance at survival... power... pressstige.'

The inhuman hiss carried along the air of the chamber, akin to a caress, forcing involuntarily shudders out of those whom it happened to affect the most.

'However,' continued Voldemort, and everything became still once more, 'I have never much cared for the reasons why one choses to serve me as long as he does so faithfully and well. In the end, there are only those who are loyal to me until their last drawn breath, as they have sworn to do in return for receiving the honour of my Mark. And then there are the fallen ones... fools who lose the sense of their fear as they start imagining themselves higher than the ones above them. A disgrace to everything a Death Eater stands for!'

The words were akin to a whip upon the black-clad figures, who shuddered in response where they stood. Some went so far as to hastily drop on one knee in a meek show of submissiveness and fear.

Hermione simply continued to gaze at the enraged Dark Lord in silent expectation, curious to see what was about to happen next.

'Treason was, and will forever be judged mercilessly. Whether that is against me or your fellow brothers and sisters. Unfortunately, too many of you have disappointed me lately. I am the ultimate hand of law here, and I believe it's time the lot of you faced the cost of your actions. Bring in the accused!'

All eyes trained upon the two hulking Death Eaters who emerged from a barely noticeable doorway beside the dais. Their cloaked figures proceeded to walk straight to the empty space directly opposite the raised throne with someone held firmly in between them. Not truly believing her eyes at first, Hermione blinked once. Twice. She had stumbled upon moments of fantasy such as this before without once believing that something similar could ever happen in harsh reality. How wrong she was, it seemed.

With a hard shove upon his shoulders, the prisoner's legs folded beneath him, bringing his knees against the stone floor with an audible thud. Matted white-blond hair hid any sign of pain the man would have deigned to show. With any luck, it was a lot.

'Lucius Abraxas Malfoy,' hissed the Dark Lord, leaning eagerly towards the direction of the kneeling wizard. 'You stand here accused of one of the most punishable offences in accordance with Pure-blood Lore: the murder of blood kin. Or will you perhaps plead innocent to the murder of your son, Draco Lucien Malfoy?'

Slowly, as if in a dream, the prisoner's head lifted up. Every line of the revealed profile was etched in a hatred so deep that it was practically nauseating.

'Innocent?' he spat. 'Hardly. Yes, I killed that worthless pup but out of sheer necessity. He dared to defy me, my own flesh and blood! At the end, he was no son of mine. Nothing but a traitor to you, My Lord!'

'Regardless of that, my faithful servant,' allowed the wizard in question, his tone mocking, 'you have still broken the law of your precious ancestors. Or do you wish to say that what flows oh so purely within your veins matters so little to you, in fact? Will you have the nerve to defy the rules of your forebears? Mock every witch and wizard in here by ignoring the importance of family values and lineage?'

Harsh whispers broke out around the chamber. The tension escalated as every Death Eater contemplated the implication of what had just been said. For his part, Malfoy seemed to regain most of his poise, looking much calmer than he had moments earlier. Too calm.

The blond wizard waited for the murmurs to tone down before answering, 'With all due respect, under the present circumstances, that rule cannot possibly be applied to me. The same lore dictates that I, as the last male descendent of the Malfoy line, cannot be subjected to death. I find myself without an heir, and no matter what felony I'm accused of, the continuation of my pure-blood name stands as priority. That's what the law states as well... My Lord.'

Hermione's mind protested fiercely at the new development. Despite Voldemort's ingenious plan to introduce a wizarding trial, no matter how biased, Lucius Malfoy's cunning mind would once again pull him out of the jaws of retribution. So certain was he of that fact that he dared to smile, his sneer showcasing the hidden insanity within. Inbreeding at its finest.

Voldemort did not react as she would have expected him to. In fact, the young witch could have sworn she heard his smile when he spoke next. 'Priority, you say? I'm afraid your darling wife would disagree with you on the matter of what the priority actually is. She's most likely to slit your lily-white throat before allowing you the chance to breed her again. He was her son too, you know. How absolutely crass of you, Lucius.'

Malfoy's face flushed as hushed taunts and cackling filled the room around him. 'She won't have a choice,' he retorted darkly.

'Ah,' sighed Voldemort. 'Lucius, Lucius, Lucius... my rich, gullible servant. Once again you envision yourself possessing intelligence far greater than mine. Do you think me unaware of your laws? I truly tried to give you an easy way out of this shameful trial. Very well. I'm afraid you have given me no other choice but to retaliate against your pathetic excuse for prolonging the inevitable. In response to your appeal, I, Lord Voldemort, hereby invoke the Rite of Judgment.'

You gotta be kidding me.

Whilst the majority of the wizards and witches remained perplexed, Hermione's mind reeled in unadulterated shock. No, that was impossible. The mere implications of what that might hold were unthinkable. And yet, she almost choked on an involuntary gasp as the magic swirled wildly around the chamber, a clear indication that what she had just heard was no child's play at words and empty promises. It was far, far too serious for anything of that kind. And if she remembered well, if one considered the nature of all those gathered here, there would be only one outcome to this.

Lucius Malfoy was about to walk free – guiltless. Untouched.

The young witch closed her eyes in despair as the noise around her soared to unavoidable heights. Those who knew what had just been called upon passed it along to those who stood closest to them, and those people, in turn, whispered it to the others until the knowledge swiftly surged through the whole parametre of the vast chamber. Bewilderment and shock was abandoned. And though every eye was trained upon their Lord in silent bafflement, no one dared come forward to question him.

No one would.

There was no one desperate enough. No one with a wish so great that they were willing to reap revenge using such a perilous method. In her mind's eye she once again saw the form of Malfoy's wife as she had stood but moments ago, shoulders straight, her delicate chin raised in blatant denial... and her features contorted in razor-sharp pain as hopelessness once again reigned supreme.

'Isn't there anyone...' Voldemort's hand swept elegantly across the air, 'who is willing to come forward and claim the entitlement? Anyone ready to gamble for the sake of righteous justice? Or perhaps to prove that there's no difference amongst us once we are forced to confront the true face of fate?'

Difference... difference... difference.

The curly-haired witch winced involuntarily as an unexpected pain sliced sharply through her palm. Looking down, she reflexively allowed her fist to unclench. There they were: four half-moon marks upon her skin, so deep that the blood flooding the surface of her skin made them virtually undetectable. Already partially crusted in certain places, the ruby liquid nonetheless remained true and fresh as it created thick rivulets along her skin, collecting into tiny droplets at the edge of her palm – from which they proceeded to plummet to the cold stone with an inaudible splash.

Difference.

And then, she allowed herself to remember.

~*~

The night was alive with fire.

Flames erupted into the blackness above with an intensity born of magic and rage. They were everywhere, destroying everything in their path, whether stone, fabric or something else entirely. Even the dewy grass beneath was on fire, patches of mini infernos stretching across the field and away to the looming trees blazing on the horizon. Piles of smoking debris drifted agonizingly slowly towards the starless sky from countless scattered piles lying upon the scarred ground. The surrounding stench of burning flesh was too authentically nauseating and frightening for there to be any doubt as to what those piles of cloaks and robes really were.

In the midst of all that hell, she stumbled around, flinging curses right and left at every dark shape she encountered. Whether they were her enemies or simple tricks of light and shadow scarcely mattered anymore. Nothing did.

All of a sudden, her foot caught upon something unseen, and she promptly tumbled towards the ground. There was only a dull pain as she managed to catch herself upon her elbows in time to prevent herself from colliding face-first with the familiar ground. For a moment there, lying motionlessly upon the blood-soaked grass, she considered whether it was not simpler to just remain where she was. That was where she belonged now, her place beside her friends. How easy it would be to close her eyes and fall into the hovering abyss and think no more.

But before she could reach a decision, she felt a pair of hands grab hold of her forearms as she was forcefully yanked upwards.

Though drained both emotionally and physically, she instantly began to fight for all she was worth, flailing her elbows and knees in hopes of inflicting as much damage as possible. She was just about to use her teeth when a pale hand managed to lock her jaws together and the voice of her attacker finally registered within her fervent mind.

'Stop it! For fuck's sake, I'm trying to help you!'

No. It couldn't be.

And yet, there she was, staring dumbfounded into Draco Malfoy's contorted features hovering above her. His face was uncharacteristically dirty, covered in soot and splashes of dirt and his hair in complete disarray. But it was his eyes that arrested her attention the most – as clear a gray as ever, there was enough despair and torment within them to make her wish to cry anew.

'There's no time. Run directly to the Apparition point, and don't turn back,' he ordered. But there must have been something in her face that he did not like. Grabbing her shoulders once more, the blond wizard shook her hard enough to make her teeth rattle. 'It's over, Granger! Over! Get out of here – get out while you still can!'

It was perhaps the first time words had ever failed her as she weakly stammered, 'B-but... aren't you supposed... I don't understand... why?'

'Guilt's a funny thing. In time you learn to see that not everything is bloody black and white. I'm just doing what I believe is right. Now go.'

When she still hesitated, Malfoy gave her a violent push, making her stumble and almost sprawl back onto the ground.

'GO!' he roared.

Shuddering in indecisiveness and confusion, she took one shaking step back. A second. She was about to turn around and do just as she had been advised when her eyes fell upon a point beyong her former classmate's shoulder. The sight that met her froze the blood within her veins in an instant, rooting her in place.

Upon the path, in all of his usual, pristine glory stood Lucius Malfoy, his Death Eater robes silhouetted ominously against the backdrop of the burning castle. Every strand of his white-blond hair lay in its perfect place, as if mocking the disarray of the chaos around him. Even from where she stood, with several feet separating them, she saw the glint of fire reflecting in his unblinking eyes. And in that same instant, she knew that Azkaban had chewed him up and spit him out not completely intact. The man was mad.

'What are you up to, Draco?' he asked in a gentle tone, raising the hairs upon her neck. 'Ah, no matter. Step away from her now. I believe the little Mudblood deserves a more proper... farewell.'

The younger Malfoy's arms were raised in the air, palms facing slightly up. The same gesture was used to placate dangerous criminals... or rabid animals.

But she saw the way those hands of his shook slightly as he faced the wizard in front of him. The young wizard was clearly terrified out of his wits. But still he persisted.

'Father, please...hear me out. We've won. There's nothing else to be done now. With Potter gone, she's of no more use to us. Just let her go. There – there have been too many deaths already. Please,' begged Draco in a near-whisper.

And all the while he spoke, his slow, careful steps brought him inconspicuously closer to her until his tall, cloaked body shielded her from the lunatic that was his flesh and blood.

In a flash, all pretense of amiability was gone. 'I said, get out of the way, you useless twit!' bellowed the elder Malfoy, spittle flying in all directions. 'She's a Mudblood, a vermin fit for extermination! Yet you dare stand there, protecting her with your pure-blooded body?! Do you think that will stop me, boy? You are weak!' he spat. 'A worthless offspring from a doormat of a bitch! I'm telling you one last time...get out of my way!'

Seconds ticked past as silence remained undisturbed, only the last remnants of faraway screams of despair and agony resonating faintly across the carrying wind.

'No, father,' whispered Draco at last.

She had no time to ponder the sudden resigned tone in his voice...for in the next moment, the thick air was cut by a swishing sound, closely followed by another one, resonating much more dully and sickeningly wet the second time around.

For an instant, everything stood still.

Then, there came a faint gurgling sound. Agonizingly slow, like in some kind of twisted memory or dream, Draco fell to his knees. There he continued to kneel for what seemed like countless moments before his limp body began to tilt to the side. She didn't remember moving. But when she became conscious once more, she found herself upon the grass beside him, gently holding his head on her knees between her shaking hands.

She had no need to look down his mangled body to know that the injuries there were well beyond her power to repair. Her blurry vision detected a tangle of lumps spilling away from the vicinity of his slashed stomach. Things that were never meant to see either the light of day or the stillness of night. But she did not cry. She ruthlessly stomped upon the rising hysteria that clawed desperately from within her. He deserved at least that much.

And as Draco Malfoy lay dying in the arms of the very girl he had been taught to detest with all his heart, he did not cry or whimper. Instead, with a strength that opposed his condition, he managed to snatch one of her hands from above him. Bringing it closer to his face for inspection, his eyes squinted as if in deep concentration.

Numbly following his line of sight, she dimly wondered what held him so fascinated. Long, elegant fingers held her hand where her own minor cuts were clearly visible and were still steadily bleeding. Tilting it slightly to the side, he brought his hand above hers. In a trance, she watched the rivulets of his blood travel down his fingers and onto her palm, whereupon his blood and hers mixed together. Red on red.

Another gurgling sound forced her eyes to shift back to his face where she found his already staring back at her. Upon meeting her gaze, his infamous smirk once more appeared upon his features. If not for the steady trickle of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth or the noises his ruined ribcage forced out of his throat, he would have been the Malfoy of old she had met all those distant years ago. Children, they were. Innocent. Untried. And burning with joy for life.

Giving one last glance towards their joined hands, he looked back at her and managed to wheeze out, 'Knew... there was... no... difference.'

She didn't question him. There was no need.

Gray eyes stared unblinking into the smoke-filled sky, a half-smile forever etched upon his face.

~*~

Lord Voldemort allowed his body to relax languidly back against his throne as he basked in the whirling emotions around him. While the taste of expectancy hovered steadily around his right-hand side, it was the magnitude of reactions from the rest of his servants that brought him ultimate pleasure. Fear, hesitancy and confusion throbbed in unison with each other, creating a cocktail of a potency that brought the measure of his delight to new levels.

But he would have been lying to himself if he dismissed his own heady expectancy.

Finally, after what seemed like an age of silence and hushed whispers, two clear words were announced for all to hear, 'I am.'

And thus, it begins.
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The Rise of the Dark Age