Chapter 62

Dawn was still some hours away when thirteen students exited the school. With Dumbledore still motionless in the infirmary, and Dolores Umbridge missing and unaccounted for (officially, that is; Harry and his friends knew that at very moment the poor women was being subjected to horrors that were both unspeakable and richly deserved), it was somewhat easier for students to engage in illicit activities without fear of detection. The squib Mr. Filch was long gone, and his animagus mother was dead, thus depriving the school of two of its more effectual (and annoying) guardians. Then there was the simple fact that the acting Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, knew perfectly well that some students would be slipping out of the castle that evening and had not the slightest intention of stopping them. Instead, she had only placed a Trace on Harry's broom so that she would be able to find the boy when it was time for the entire Order to render assistance. It was unfortunate that Dumbledore either through ignorance or habitual secrecy had not told Minerva exactly where the final battle was to take place. But at least she knew that a momentous event was at hand, and so there were no impediments in the school, magical or otherwise, preventing the students from leaving.

Snape was on night patrol, standing still in the darkness across from the allegedly secret passageway that he was sure the students would use to exit the school. He was too old to hazard a serious dose of the Asturias potion, but dressed completely in black, his face mostly hidden by his cloak, standing in shadows unreached by the hallway's torch light, he was confident that none of the students would see him, provided he remain motionless. And as usual, he was right. He heard, but could not see, the students moving close to him in an almost parody of stealth. Stumbles, urgently whispered reproaches, the odd giggle and even an outright laugh could be heard as the teens cheerfully made their way to the exit.

Harry and his friends, Snape knew, were heading to an encounter with Voldemort and his gang. It was perfectly obvious that some might die, and perhaps all of them. Yet the students came, cheerfully and even mirthfully. Was this the Gryffindor spirit, Snape wondered, or was it simply youth? They were, after all, teenagers, and therefore immortal; serious injury, illness and even death were all things that happened to old people, not to them. Or if such a fate befell a teen, it was always of course someone else, never them. Death was acknowledged merely as a theoretical possibility, a thing that must exist, yet for them, it was an event beyond the horizon, a horizon had never advanced or retreated but remained the same distance from them as they advanced through life. But Snape was only too aware of his own mortality. He felt the Dark Mark burn into him yet again, as Voldemort summoned his followers to join him.

Is it for me alone that the mark now burns? I must be the only one who has failed to heed the call

Snape had always known that there would be a time when his dissembling would have to come to an end. He was sick to the soul of his life as a double agent. The praise and accolades he received from his fellow Death Eaters were to him every bit as painful as the contempt and fear of the decent wizards. Many a time Snape had wished that he could close his mind to the others around him and banish their thoughts from entering his head. But duty if not self-interest prevented this; he could hardly function in his role unless he diligently maintained his discreet observation of the thoughts of those around him. For fifteen years, Snape had maintained an uneasy existence. And now he must wait, and hope that Harry and his friends, mere children, would do what he and the other adults had failed to do, to bring an end to Voldemort once and for all. He waited until the exit closed behind the students, and then made his way to the the headmaster's office.

The students' brooms were waiting for them in the underground passageway, placed there earlier in the day by Ron, who had made numerous trips under Harry's invisibility cloak. Only eleven brooms were required, for neither Imogen nor Hermione would be riding one alone. Imogen, so skillful in all other arts demanded of a witch, was strangely incompetent when it came to riding a broom, and there was never any question of her attempting a long ride to London on her own. She would ride with Harry. Ron would take Hermione on his broom. No one would say Herimione was a bad broom handler, at least not to her face. But the girl had never had the slightest interest in Quidditch, a sport which greatly helped a young magical person acquire broom-riding ability. There was no doubt that everyone would be a lot better off that night if they knew Hermione was in capable hands.

Deep underneath the castle Harry and his friends waited in darkness for the last of their group to reach the bottom of the ladder. Imogen took in the dank atmosphere of the underground corridor.

"It hardly seems any different than in January," she observed. "You think it would be warmer."

"It's probably because we're so far underground," said Hermione. "Maybe once you're this far below the surface the climate doesn't change very much."

A stage whisper 'ssshhh' echoed in the darkness, and Hermione and Imogen were silent. It was difficult to wait in the complete darkness, the only sound the breathing of one's neighbor and the occasional boot heel scuffing against the hard stone floor. It was a blackness deeper than any moonless, starless night could ever achieve, total and uncompromising.

"Lumos."

The students turned to the source of the sound. George Weasley's face, normally so cheerful and animated, looked ghastly in the weak Lumos light. George's self-revelation was the signal for which they had all been waiting, for George was the last of their group to descend the ladder and his arrival was the signal that it was time for them all to proceed. The light lasted for only the briefest moment, its life span hardly more than that of a flash bulb. Everyone heard Harry's voice come from the front of the line.

"Let's count off before we head out. One."

The teens in turn each stated their assigned number ending with Luna's cheerful "thirteen!" trailing faintly down the passageway. Luna had asked to be assigned the number, explaining to everyone that it was unlucky only if assigned by chance; if chosen voluntarily, it was the harbinger of the best of luck.

Assured that the entire group had made it down the ladder, Harry led them all through the underground passageway, heading for the exit that would take them into the cellar of The Three Broomsticks. The wand of each student now glowed weakly, providing barely enough light to guide the way and to prevent the students from bumping into one another.

The teens shuffled through the darkness still half asleep and some of them already hungry. Each of them carried the small breakfast prepared for them by Dobby and which the house elf had left in common room of their respective houses, each bag labeled with the student's name. It seemed that spelling was not one of Dobby's strong points. 'Harry' was easy enough; Dobby worshipped the boy, and over the years had clipped out of the Daily Prophet every article that mentioned the name. 'Ron' also posed no problem. But other names were much more difficult. On the Gryffindor table there had been a breakfast bag for 'Jinie' and another for 'Imijan'. One bag had a name written several times each in a different way and each attempt crossed out, Dobby finally settling on 'Harry and Ron's frend'. Evidently Hermione's name was simply too much for the house elf.

Hermione's breakfast went into the backpack that she, like all the other students, was carrying. In each student's backpack, in addition to breakfast, were small vials of the Asturias potion, various magical weapons created by Fred and George and some useful medical supplies taken from Madame Pomfrey's infirmary: charmed tourniquets that when placed on a bleeding victim, applied themselves automatically with the appropriate degree of tension. Each teen also had a Fake Suicide pill, a Neville creation for the evening's activity. It was a light version of the Draught of the Living Death, condensed and reduced to pill form. If taken, the subject would fall into a deep, death-like coma that would last approximately twenty-four hours. Neville's original idea had been to make everyone of them a real suicide pill, but Harry thought it might send the wrong message and asked Neville to work on something as useful but but not deadly. Thus the Fake Suicide pill was born, and any of Harry's friends captured by the Death Eaters would, it was hoped, have the chance to take the pill, thus convincing their captors that the victim was dead and thus useless as a potential hostage.

Some of the backpacks carried extra items. In Harry's was his invisibility cloak, rendered almost superfluous by the ample supply of Asturias in his bag. But the cloak had been part of him since first year. This, and the dagger given to him for Christmas by Hermione (which he wore on his belt) were the only extra items he had on him that evening.

Neville's bag contained three small vials of Felix Felicis. There ought to have been five, and Neville had been devastated to return to the common room, to find that the cascade had been destroyed by unknown hands, the last two doses squandered. There had been a discussion — almost an argument — in the Gryffindor common room shortly before departure about who would have the benefit of the doses, an argument that would still be raging had it not been interrupted by the need to depart.

As Hermione walked through the underground passageway, she noted again how much heavier than reasonable her bag seemed to be. She ought to lighten it with the Levitation charm once they emerged in Hogsmeade. One of the straps was digging into Hermione's shoulder, and she attempted awkwardly to shift the bag's weight as she walked. There was an odd, high pitched yell which she recognized immediately. Placing her illuminated wand between her teeth, she pulled the bag from her back and opened the strap. A cat's head poked out, the creature staring at her reproachfully.

"Crookshanks! You silly git!"

Unabashed and more comfortable now, Crookshanks turned around inside the bag and resumed her attempts to open up Hermione's breakfast. Hermione would have none of that. She removed her wand from her mouth.

"Petrificus Totalus."

Hermione put the backpack over her shoulders once more and took a few quick steps to catch up with the student in front of her. She did not want to take her cat with her to the Ministry, but she could not leave Crookshanks in the underground passage, for even un-paralyzed, Crookshanks would be trapped until Hermione returned. She did not relish releasing the creature in Hogsmeade, either; she might never find her cat again. What to do? She would think about that during the broom ride to London. Right now she was too busy trying to avoid stepping on the heels of the student in front of her.

For Harry, Ron, Hermione and Imogen, the early morning trip through the halls of Hogwarts, exiting through the secret passageway, marching in almost complete darkness underground and then into the streets of Hogsmeade via The Three Broomsticks was old hat. Fred and George too were not unfamiliar with the route. But many of the other students loved the newness of the experience and were exhilarated by it.

The students assembled in an alley a few doors down from the pub, and after another count to make sure all were present, they mounted their brooms. Before joining Ron on his broom, Hermione walked from student to student, casting the same Shield Charm that she'd used months earlier when she'd joined Harry, Ron and Imogen on the trip to Gaunt's shack. The charm was not as necessary, the night being warm, but it would still make the long night trip more pleasant. She then took a place on Ron's broom, cast the Shield Charm over the two of them and then the students were off, soaring into the deep black mist of the night sky.

Imogen awoke with a start. At the beginning of the flight, she had wrapped her arms around Harry. He bound them with the flick of his wand, securing her. She had fallen into a deep sleep almost instantly and had not stirred for almost three hours. But the descent had awakened her.

"You can untie me now," she said, rubbing her wrists after Harry obliged her.

"You were talking in your sleep."

"I had another one of my dreams. At first it was great; I was back home, wherever that is, but then this woman showed up, the witch I've told you about."

"The Witch of the Letters?"

"Yeah. And the same thing happened like in all my other dreams of her. She paralyzed me and then proceeded to criticize me for hours. She was more angry this time that I've ever seen her before."

"Do you have any idea of who she is, or what she represents?"

"Nope. But in my dreams it feels as if I know her. And when her image comes to me at night, it's like she's trying to get into my head and I have to fight to keep her out."

"I wonder if she's got a connection to you of some kind. Not like the one I had with Voldemort, but a connection nonetheless."

Harry's 'connection' to Voldemort was that a piece of the Dark Lord's soul was deposited within Harry. The boy was a living Horcrux, and in the final duel with Voldemort, it would be necessary for Harry to allow him Voldemort to 'kill' him. If all went according to plan, the only part of Harry that would die was the part that was Voldemort, allowing Harry to rise again in triumph. In the 'books', Dumbledore mercifully had arranged things so that this knowledge was kept from Harry until the very last minute. But Imogen, with her perfect recollection of 'the books', revealed everything to Harry over the Christmas holidays, and so Harry knew that his duel with Voldemort would, initially at least, cause his death, or something very close to it. But Harry was stronger than even Dumbledore had believed, and the knowledge that he could survive the Avada Kedavra curse a second time had given him an upsurge of confidence and power that has sustained him in the months that followed.

"Do you think the Witch of the Letters is real?" asked Harry.

"I hope not, but I think she might be. In my dreams she's always associated with images of a place I know to be home. And home, wherever that is, must be real. And I think she's real, too."

"Do you think she's a dark witch?"

"No. And that makes it even worse, somehow. The anger that she directs at me is, so far as I can tell, righteous anger, and I don't know if it's the anger that paralyzes me, or a spell that she uses. But whatever is going on, in my dreams it's impossible for me to fight her. I don't even know whatever it is we would be fighting about. I just have this vague sense that I've wronged her in some way. Taken something from her, not an object, but a right of some kind. And in my dreams she wants it back." She grasped Harry more tightly as the angle of descent steepened, their destination rushing up at them now.

"Once we polish off Voldemort, I'm sure we'll be able to take on your witch."

"I am telling you, we simply don't have time to argue," said Harry, vexed at the delay. "We only have three doses of Felix Felicis, and if we all keep insisting that someone else gets the dose, we'll be here all night."

The thirteen Hogwarts students were huddled in an alley not far from the phone box through which they would soon make their entrance into the Ministry. But an argument had broken out, the participants lashing at each other in harsh, whispered tones over which of them would get one of the three vials.

"I am not drinking it. No way," said Imogen. "My usefulness is pretty well over. I can't predict anything about the future anymore, and anyways all of you know pretty well everything that I do about what was 'supposed' to happen in an unaltered future. Harry should have a dose, and Fred and George as well. Surely our three best duelists should have the lucky potion. After all, if we can keep Harry, Fred and George alive, that improves all of our chances."

But Imogen's reasoned argument was immediately rejected by the Weasley twins and Harry, all of whom wanted Ginny to receive a dose. And in their minds, Hermione had the next claim. The young wizards and witches debated the issue, getting nowhere, until Harry put a stop to everything.

"That's it. We are going to draw lots." Harry asked Hermione for her backpack.

"We'll put everyone's wand in Hermione's backpack, and I'll draw three at random. Those three will get the Felix Felicis. We all agree that there'll be no arguments?"

"None from me," replied Ernie, "provided that you let me refuse to participate. You all know why I want it that way."

A troubled look passed over Harry's face before he found a way to express what he felt.

"And I'll leave your wand out of the draw, provided we all agree that your difficulties with Voldemort earlier this year are a thing of the past, not to be mentioned again."

Hermione opened her bag, and then closed it hastily.

"Not enough room in my bag, Harry. Crookshanks the stowaway takes up too much room." Hermione undid the petrificus curse, receiving Crookshanks' angry glare by way of a reward.

"I'll use my own," said Harry, removing his backpack and opening it. Eleven wands dropped inside, and then Harry added his own. He closed the bag, shook it, and then opened it once more. He thrust in a hand and clutched a wand, and then removed it and examined it closely. It was not his. The wand was passed around from student to student until it reached Ginny.

"It's mine," she said, and from her tone it was obvious that she wished that the wand was not hers.

Harry pulled another wand from the bag, and this one proved to be Marietta's. She acknowledged the fact reluctantly. Marietta was not brave enough to have been placed in Gryffindor, but she was certainly intelligent enough to be in Ravenclaw, and she knew instantly that the privilege of taking the potion would mark her with special responsibility. Everyone would expect her to take the lead in fighting the Death Eaters. In exchange for at the most hour's worth of luck, she might be exposed to hours and hours of danger.

Harry brought a third wand out of the bag, and this wand he knew instantly; he had seen it almost daily in his friend's possession since third year. He passed the wand to Ron.

"Damn," was what Ron thought, but what came out of his mouth was a different four-letter word that better expressed his true feelings.

Neville reached into his bag and pulled out the three small vials of Felix Felicis, giving one each to Ginny, Ron and Marietta.

"Whatever you do, don't drink it until just before the fighting starts. It's good at the most for only an hour, and for Ron, less than that, given your size." The three lucky students each accepted the potion, handling the small bottles with the utmost care.

The business of the Felix Felicis having been sorted out, the preliminaries were over; all that remained was to act. For the Gryffindors in Harry's group this was their natural inclination., but it was scarcely different for those from the other houses; long association with Harry and his friends had allowed some of the Gryffindor character to rub off onto them. After a final count to make sure everyone was present, Harry led them to the phone box which had served as the secret entrance to the Ministry since Grindelwald's defeat in 1945.

The first students to enter the box were Harry, Ron and Fred, the most formidable trio that could be composed from the thirteen.

"We'll be going first in case they're waiting for us in the Ministry," Harry had explained to them all some weeks earlier. "After that, two more groups of three (whom Harry named). The last group will be a group of four: Luna, Ginny, Marietta and Cho. Last not because you are least, but because I don't think there is any other group of four of us that can all fit into the booth at one time."

Fred and George squeezed themselves in the phone box behind Harry, pushing him tightly up against the phone so that he could scarcely move. After some shuffling and contortions, Harry was able to bring a hand up to the old fashioned rotary dial, and enter the code. The Ministry clerk was well trained, and expressed not the slightest surprise when she heard that the young voice on the other end of the line belonged to Harry Potter.

"And the purpose of your visit?" asked the clerk.

"We're here to kill Voldemort."

An instant later three visitor's passes came out of the phone's change slot. Harry picked up one of the silver badges, and read, 'Harry Potter: suicide mission'. He gave Fred and George their passes, and then the box began to descend. A minute later the three were inside the Ministry. Next were Ron, Hermione and Angelina Johnson, the trio that Harry believed was, next to him, Fred and George, most capable of defending themselves. Imogen, Ernie and Neville followed, and then lastly Ginny and the three Ravenclaw girls joined the rest.

The students reached the depths of the Department of Mysteries without incident of any kind, not even a wrong turn, Imogen's detailed account of the place having removed any doubts about how they were to proceed. After a brief delay caused by a discussion between Marietta and George, all were ready, and the Hall of Prophecy stood open before them.

The students entered the room in pairs, but for Harry. They all moved through the room silently and with great care, and all invisible after having drank a dose of the Asturius potion, but again with Harry being the sole exception. Undisguised and in plain view, Harry walked down the main aisle of the hall, making enough noise to cover up any inadvertent sound his invisible friends might make. His wand out, Harry moved down the racks of prophecies, searching for Row 97. On this shelf was the prophecy uttered by Sybill Trelwaney. None but a prophecy's subject could remove it from its place of rest. Knowing this, Voldemort had sent his followers to lie in wait for Harry until the boy had removed the prophecy from the shelf with his own hands. Voldemort's knowledge of the prophecy was but imperfect, and he hoped that by gaining possession of it, he would learn why Harry was the Boy who Lived.

Harry reached Row 97.

"What's this?" he said.

His words were a signal, an indication from Harry to his invisible friends that he had found the prophecy, and that it was time for them to take their pre-arranged positions. As Harry paused at Row 97, three pairs of students moved past him and took up positions in the rows of shelves beyond Harry. The three other pairs of students entered the rows preceding Harry's position. With his flanks covered by six friends on either side, Harry had as much cover as he was going to get. Harry's hand reached out and grasped the prophecy.

"Finally," said Harry, as if to no one in particular, as he removed the glass orb from its shelf. He turned as if to go.

"It was very brave of you to come on your own, Potter. We had been told to expect you would have your friends with you. Don't tell me that they all let you down."

The masked figure of a Death Eater appeared out of nowhere in the rows of shelves on the other side of aisle. The man was disguised by a mask, but Harry recognized the voice immediately, and exactly as Imogen had predicted: Lucius Malfoy. At his side, poised as if to strike, was Nagini. The snake rose and hissed, staring at Harry intently. The boy rejoiced at seeing the snake, for it (aside from Harry himself) was the last of the Horcruxes. The snake's death would help ensure a truly final defeat of Voldemort.

"Don't you worry, my friends are here," said Harry, his voice filled with a bravado that rang false. "All I have to do is call out to them. Hermione! Ron!" Harry had drilled into his friends the importance of their remaining silent and invisible unless and until Harry gave the agreed-upon signal. Harry knew there was no danger his friends would respond, and he called their names again.

"They're coming now," said Harry, "and they have others with them as well."

Lucius laughed.

"You are not much of an actor, Potter. We got here long before you did, and you came in alone. We know you've no one with you. Now why don't you save us a lot of fuss and bother, and hand over the prophecy? Or do I need to ask Nagini to help me take it from you?" The Dark Lord had insisted that Lucius take the snake with him, assuring Lucius that snakes held special terrors for Potter.

"Is that what this is?" said Harry, staring at the glass object in mock wonderment. "Is it as fragile as it looks?" Harry made as if to throw the prophecy to the ground.

"No!" shouted Lucius, raising his wand. "You don't want to do that. Acc-

Harry gripped the prophecy with all the strength he could muster and cast a silent shield charm just in time.

"-io Prophecy!"

Harry felt the prophecy fighting him, struggling to get out of his grip to obey the magical summons of Lucius Malfoy. Harry only barely managed to maintain his grip.

"If it is so important to you, why don't you come and take it from me?" Harry raised his wand, as if preparing himself to duel.

"If you insist!" shouted Bellatrix Lestrange, popping into view behind Lucius. More Death Eaters joined them, and still more, and soon there are more than a dozen robed, hooded and masked Death Eaters filling the aisles.

"It's a pity Greyback couldn't join you," said Harry. Bellatrix ripped off her mask.

"What have you done with him?" she demanded.

"I didn't do anything to him. I just watched him die. But we gave him a decent burial, just outside of the town where the Voldemort's Muggle dad lived."

Warned by Bellatrix's shriek of rage, Lucius grabbed her wand.

"No! The Dark Lord was very clear; none of us has the right to kill him. He belongs to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

The argument between Harry and Lucius Malfoy resumed, but Harry could not allow it to go on too much longer. The Asturias potion would keep his friends hidden only so long, and it was time for Harry to allow himself to be persuaded to hand over the prophecy.

"If I give it to you, you have to promise me one thing in exchange."

Lucius struggled not to laugh at the boy's naivety.

"What is that you want? I am only the Dark Lord's servant and there is only so much I can promise on his behalf."

"I want my friends left alone from this point on. My friends, and their families as well."

Lucius gave the appearance of thinking this over for a minute, and then said, "I can say yes to that, provided your friends and their families stay out of the Dark Lord's way. So as long as He is not provoked, He is quite content to leave others alone."

"Alright then. Here's the prophecy."

Lucius extended a trembling hand, a surge of joy running through him. After the recent disaster where the Death Eaters had lost half their number in Castle Stalker, things had looked very bad. They had lost Maude, Malkin and Snape, three of the best of them, along with a number of other formidable friends. Forewarned that Harry was going to be bringing reinforcements, Lucius had wanted every possible ally to assist in taking the prophecy from Potter. But, in the end, everything had worked out very well. Potter had come alone, and Lucius Malfoy's fears had been groundless. In a few minutes he would be at Castle Stalker, handing the prophecy over to Voldemort himself. Lucius watched as the boy extended his hand, and then felt the weight of the object as the prophecy dropped into Lucius' grasp.

Lucius felt the strength leave his legs, and he fell heavily to the floor, unable to rise. He tried to keep his grasp on the prophecy, but he had not sufficient strength even for that, and against his will his hand opened, the object rolling away from him. He was aware of flashes of green light and the sound of a furious fight. To this was added screams, and breaking glass as dozens of prophecies were knocked from the shelves. But he could not even attempt to rise, and then the blackness overcame him.

"Gweithredu!" This double curse was shrieked by both Bellatrix and Goyle.

"Never heard of that one," thought George as twin jets of scarlet light streaked towards him. "Prote -"

But before George could finish the shield charm, he slipped on one of the loose, rolling prophecies that littered the floor. He went down heavily on his back, his face blushing red in the light of the double curse as it streaked above him. Marietta, standing directly behind George, took the full force of the curse. A pair of great, glowing red hands seized Marietta by the upper arms, preventing her escape or indeed any kind of resistance.

"Help me, George! I can't move!"

But George's fall had, for the moment, stunned him and he could not rise. Marietta was between two rows of shelves holding prophecies, and was visible to none but Bellatrix and Goyle. There would be no rescue.