Chapter Text
CHAPTER LXXXIV:
Hermione's POV:
Hermione couldn't sleep after her meeting with Cailleach, though she didn't think anyone would blame her. The fey queen's words haunted her and she tossed about restlessly in her too-empty bed before eventually slinking into the room that had been given to Luna.
The younger girl was also awake and she turned in her bed, towards the sound of the creaking door. Her large, silvery eyes were surprised as she blinked up at Hermione, but there was no hesitation in how she pulled back the bedding of heavy woollen blankets and thick furs so Hermione could slide in next to her. "Are you okay?" Luna asked solemnly, and Hermione hesitated for a moment, before deciding to allow herself a moment of honesty.
"No," she admitted. Luna gave her a thoughtful look before she carefully wrapped her small, thin arms around her and Hermione sighed quietly, a smothering weight lifted from her at the feel of a warm body pressed tight to her own. There was nothing even remotely sensual about the embrace, just an offering of comfort and companionship that she gladly accepted.
She almost wasn't surprised when Blaise slunk into Luna's room, not long after. His own brief startlement at seeing her was quickly overcome by understanding. They'd all been through an ordeal that night, one that had shaken them. It was natural that they'd seek out comfort. Blaise had brought with him an armful of blankets and furs but when he tried to set them up on the floor to sleep on, Luna simply fixed him with a shockingly stern look.
"We both trust that you'll be perfectly proper," the younger girl said, almost primly. "Sleep on top of our blankets, if you must, but you will notbe sleeping on the stone floor!"
"Luna–" Blaise tried to protest, but Luna's stern look increased tenfold and Blaise gave in at once, though he did insist on laying on top of Luna's blankets in order to create a degree of separation and 'correctness', as he called it. It was still hardly proper at all and if the circumstances were any different Hermione would be shocked at a traditionally raised Pureblood making such a breach in etiquette, but strange circumstances made for strange bedfellows. Still, she decided that Tom didn't need to hear about this little sleepover when she returned to Gamp Hall.
...she supposed she could add it to the list of things she wasn't telling him.
"I couldn't sleep," Blaise confessed to them quietly, once he was settled at Luna's left, Hermione on her right, leaving the tiny blonde curled between them.
"Neither could I," Hermione admitted.
"Nor I," Luna said softly. "But that's fairly normal for me."
"Do you think they were telling us the truth?" Hermione asked, half-hoping that Cailleach's words had all just been some terrible game the fey Queen was playing, despite what a reach she knew it would be.
"The fey can't lie," Luna reminded her, with a heavy solemnity that ill-suited the small girl. "They can twist the truth, they can omit, they can play clever word games, but they cannot outright lie."
"I know," Hermione sighed, laying back and looking up at the dark ceiling. "I know. But I hoped."
She had her ambitions in life, she'd never deny that; Tom's sly little comments about her one day being Minister of Magic had lit a fire in her blood, had made her heart pound with excitement and a hungry want, but she'd never intended to be anything but loyal to Voldemort after she and Harry had sworn their allegiances to him. She wasn't always happy with Voldemort's decisions, she couldn't and wouldn't deny it, but that didn't mean she'd ever even entertained any ideas about betraying Tom and attempting to usurp him.
'Voldemort is the god of his own world, and the magical world is his world now; he'd never agree for his people to 'worship' anything but himself.'
'Little star, did I say 'Voldemort' would be the one to restore the relationship between our people? Did I call him the lynchpin?'
No. Just... no. She'd given her loyalty to Voldemort and she wore Tom's mark on her skin, and on her soul; the fey might not have been lying, but they were wrong. Cailleach was wrong. She refused to even entertain any notions otherwise.
As if he'd read her mind, Blaise spoke up. "Ignore them," he said, bright eyes stormy with resolve. "This isn't their world anymore. It's ours. Whatever they said, whatever they want, it doesn't matter. Only we do, only our people."
Hermione took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting her tension ease out of her body with the air. "You're right," she murmured. "You're right. Thank you, Blaise."
Blaise smiled, his teeth flashing in the dark room. "Anytime, Hermione."
Luna's hand found hers, under the blankets, and Hermione gently squeezed the younger girl's fingers, finally relaxed enough to seek out sleep once more.
She dreamt that night of Cailleach's sharp-toothed, frozen smile and a crown of sharp, twisted ice, and despite the heat of two other bodies and the mountain of blankets and furs, she woke up ice-cold and shivering, frost clinging to her eyelashes.
-
Five days after they'd performed the ritual, Hermione bid Čachtice Castle farewell before returning to Gamp Hall– and, more importantly, to Tom.
She wasn't sure how she felt about leaving Slovakia. Čachtice Castle was a dark, eerie place, but its cold, ancient beauty drew her in, even with the memory of Erzsébet Bathóry's secret torture chamber hidden deep within its old, stone walls, and the knowledge of the terrible violence she knew had been committed there. She was used to overlooking dungeons and the horrific tortures inflicted within them, she supposed– Riddle Manor had numbed her to such atrocities.
Lady Somlyó was waiting at the castle's entrance hall as she, Blaise and Luna gathered around the portkeys that would return them to Britain. Hermione had scarcely seen the elderly witch in the days following the ritual, though more than once she could have sworn she'd felt the old woman's cold eyes following her around. Lady Somlyó was dressed in white again; a sweeping velvet gown with draping sleeves and a sleek fur collar. She looked almost as glacial as she had when they were arrived, except for a slight softening of her pale lips.
"You vill come and visit again, yes?" she said, more a demand then a question.
"We will, Lady Somlyó," Hermione promised, before shivering as she felt the weight of the ancient castle's magic settle over her, turning her words into something far more binding then she'd intended. The corners of Lady Somlyó's mouth curved up, a flash of teeth briefly visible as her eyes glittered.
"Yes, you vill," she agreed, satisfied. "And vhen you do, I vish for you to call me Zsófia."
Hermione blinked, surprised but oddly touched. "Thank you," she said, and Lady Somlyó– Zsófia– nodded graciously.
Blaise and Luna were taking a portkey to Blaise's house– or manor, rather– where Luna would be staying with him and his mother as her deadbeat father was still who knew where. Hermione's portkey was taking her back to Gamp Hall, so she said goodbye to her friends, even hugging them both, a somewhat uncharacteristic action from her, but considering the experience they'd shared and the fact they'd spent the last five nights sharing Luna's bed, it didn't feel odd and uncomfortable the way contact with people who weren't Harry and Tom usually did.
It was that, more than anything, that really revealed to Hermione she'd accepted Blaise and Luna as hers now. More than just Housemates, more than allies, more than friends; they were hers, her people, the way Sting had been hers, the way Harry and Tom were. Hers to protect, to treasure, to care for and care about. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about the fundamental shift in their relationship, in how she perceived them, but she didn't regret it. They'd proven themselves, proven their worth and their loyalty, and she would now repay that the best way she knew how.
"We'll see each other again before returning to Hogwarts," she said, without any room for argument.
"We will," Blaise agreed, and Luna beamed.
Nodding at them both one last time, Hermione picked up the portkey– shaped, very unimaginatively, as a key– and disappeared from Čachtice Castle in a dizzying whirl.
Tom was waiting for her as she appeared in the official Portkey Room of the Minister of Magic's residence, managing to land on her feet unlike poor Portkey-challenged Harry who more often than not ended up on the floor. Despite the fact it had only been a week since she'd last seen him, it felt like it had been much longer, and her heart warmed at the sight of him. Still, despite the warmth, Hermione also felt an edge of unease as she greeted her lover; keeping secrets from Tom felt like she was betraying him, and Cailleach's words kept echoing around her head.
She tried to silence the unease, to drown out the thoughts, by leaning up and kissing her lover. It was almost a soft thing, no teeth or tongue or fight, but for how Tom's hands roamed over her body, as he pinned her to one of the walls, like a conqueror assessing his spoils. She didn't mind being conquered by Tom; he was one of two in the world she would ever allow such a thing.
"I've missed you," she breathed between traded kisses, and Tom's mouth curved into a smirk under hers.
"You shouldn't have left then," he said, and Hermione huffed softly, more amused then annoyed.
"And how have things been here, since I left?" she asked. "Anything exciting happen?"
"No, nothing at all," Tom said smoothly, before suddenly reaching down and taking a firm grip of her thighs. Hermione let out a sound of surprise as he lifted her up, looking at him wide-eyed.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, and he smirked at all, looking so devastatingly handsome it almost hurt.
"Showing you how much I missed you too," he said, and Hermione couldn't help her delighted laugh as he actually carried her to their wing of Gamp Hall, slightly flustered but still delighted by the shockingly romantic gesture.
In no time at all she found herself flat on her back on their bed underneath him, their clothes vanished. Tom's mouth trailed down to her neck and Hermione moaned under the scrape of teeth and hot glide of tongue. He caught her hands as she tried to touch him, pulling them over her head and binding them there with a word murmured against the small of her throat, so she lifted her legs instead, wrapping them around his waist to grind against him.
"Greedy," he teased her, lifting his hips just out of reach. She growled in response, arching her back and managing to hook one of her legs around one of his, yanking him back down. He laughed, letting her pull him down and press her hips flush against his. He tangled his hands in her curls as he pushed into her and she arched into the welcome press of him, curling her legs tightly around his waist. He fisted his hands in her curls, used the grip to tilt her head back and catch her mouth with his, trading biting kisses as he thrust into her. His nails bit into her scalp with each thrust and it made her hiss against his lips.
He came first, breathing hard, pupils blown, before shifting off her and moving his hand down between their sweat-slick bodies to finish her off, sliding two fingers inside her and pressing his thumb against her clit as he pressed more hot, slick kisses against the skin of her neck. Hermione was close enough that when he bit her throat, right beneath her collarbones, teeth sinking in until blood welled, her mind whited out and her spine arched as she shuddered her way through her own orgasm, clenching tight around on his fingers.
She blanked out a little, still aware but happy to drift along, Tom plastered against her back as her bare legs tangled with his, sated.
"With me, darling girl?" he murmured, eventually.
"Mm," she hummed. "That was a nice welcome home."
Tom laughed softly into her sweat-damp curls, pressing a kiss to the back of her head. "I thought so too," he agreed, one of his hands trailing down her skin, to curl possessively over her hip. "So, I have a question for you," he said.
"Oh?" she asked.
"Mm," Tom agreed, "I have a mission, right now. There's been a touch of... insubordination within the werewolf ranks, following Greyback's death."
Hermione immediately hissed, rather like her animagus form, old anger flickering through her at the name of the man who'd assaulted her and attempted to rape her.
"Yes, quite," Tom agreed darkly, his own rage simmering in the dangerous quiet tones of his voice. "He was never going to live, not after he dared to lay a hand on you. But still... he had a reputation that kept the other mutts in line. With him gone, some of the others got cocky. One even got cocky enough to try and turn Greyback's old Pack against Voldemort's ideals, and nearly a third of the Pack followed his lead."
Tom paused to smile; a dark, deadly curve, dangerous as a blade's sharpened edge. "Their mistake, of course," he practically purred. "Voldemort would never let such an insult slide. I've been hunting down the traitor and making a messageout of them, of what happens to those who betray the Dark Lord."
The sick feeling from earlier returned with a frenzy, and Hermione had to swallow against the roll of nausea. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked, wondering if it was some kind of warning from Tom, if he'd somehow figured out... figured out what? She had to remind herself that she'd done nothing wrong, Cailleach's words be damned.
Tom's next words cleared everything up for her.
It wasn't what she'd been expecting at all.
"I was wondering if you wanted to join me," he said, and Hermione rolled around so she was facing him, surprised.
"What?" she asked.
"I was wondering if you wanted to join me next time, to aid me in teaching the lesson," Tom repeated, his dark eyes intense as they met hers.
Did she? Hermione wasn't sure. She knew Harry would refuse in an instant and she usually tried to let his moral compass guide her own needle North, but still– she couldn't deny that being asked by Tom to help, being treated by him as an equal, it was enticing. As was the prospect of the adrenaline of a fight.
"I don't want to torture anyone," she decided to set a boundary.
"That's fine," Tom said, amused. "You can leave that to those who enjoy it. But you'll come? You'll fight beside me?"
Hermione shivered, unable to deny to herself the excitement she felt at the prospect of a fight ahead, one with the highest stakes of all– life and death. "Yes," she told Tom, "yes, I will."
-
-
Neville's POV:
Neville held his mother's cold, frail hand in his own. Alice was asleep in her hospital bed, the quilted blanket he'd given her one Yule adding a splash of colour against the starch white of the sheets. She'd fallen sick again, pneumonia, and her primary caretaker, Healer Maisie Briggs, had quietly told him that she didn't think Alice would survive another bout of the illness. Neville thought he'd feel devastated but instead he just felt hollow, like his chest had been carved open and his heart torn out. His gran had pressed her lips together in a tight, thin line at hearing the news, but at least she hadn't argued about Neville spending his time at Alice's bedside.
He couldn't help the flush of rage that washed through him as he thought of his gran. She had always been overbearing but this summer, especially after Viktor's funeral, she had been so much worse than usual. She constantly wanted to know what he was doing and who he was writing to. She didn't approve at all of his friendship with 'that French tart' as she called Fleur, no matter how well-received the photographs of the pair of them at the Yule Ball published in the Daily Prophet had been by Britain's high society.
She also didn't approve of his friendship with any of the Slytherins and had forbidden him to write to them, not even Harry who she claimed was 'tainted' by being Sorted into the House of green-and-silver. She even insisted on reading the letters he sent to Luna, the only friend he could write to, just to be certain he wasn't trying anything 'duplicitous', considering the influence all the Slytherins he'd been spending his time with must have had, and confiscated all the letters he received from them. The most Neville had heard about his friends was through Luna's letters and hearing his gran complaining about Hermione after the Wizengamot session where his friend had been introduced as the British Youth Representative.
Neville felt stifled in his own house, which had never felt less like a home. The only time he felt like he could breathe was when he could spent time out in the greenhouse and even then his gran demanded that he be accompanied by Phlox, one of their family house elves. It was almost a relief to be able to escape to St Mungo's, which made him feel awful because the only reason he was able to escape to the hospital was because his mother was so unwell, but St Mungo's had still become a haven to him that summer.
Haven or not, he still always felt an odd twist in his stomach when he walked through the foyer of the hospital. It was the same foyer he'd walked through, the day he and Harry had killed Ron and it still felt surreal to him that they'd gotten away with it, that they'd murdered his Housemate in the middle of a crowded hospital and no one had ever realised. He wasn't sure if that odd feeling was guilt or a thrill. Maybe it was a combination of both. He couldn't lie and say he wasn't happy that Ron was gone– the boy had bullied him for years, why wouldn't he be happy?
He would have rather Ron have been expelled or moved away, of course, but he'd had months to work through how he felt about the murder. Ron was the one who'd chosen to attack him the night of the Yule Ball, he had started it, Neville had just... finished it. And he just couldn't find it in himself to regret how much closer it had brought him to Harry and Hermione and the other Slytherins. How it had helped him finally, truly make friends.
He missed his friends. After fourteen years of loneliness, he finally, finally had friends and he missed them. He'd explained to Luna in his letters that he wasn't allowed to write to the others and that he hadn't been able to read their letters and she'd promised to pass it on so they wouldn't think he was ignoring them, but he still couldn't help the anxious, clawing feeling in his stomach that they wouldn't believe her, that they would think he didn't care enough about their friendship to bother to keep in touch and that he didn't want to be friends with them anymore, when the very opposite was true.
Maybe he should mention it to Luna again, just to make sure she had let them know? Or would that be bothering her? He just wasn't sure and the anxiety of it made him feel sick.
"Neville, poppet," Maisie said gently, and Neville looked up from his mother's thin face, slack from sleep, to the kindly Healer. "I'm afraid visiting hours are over," she said and Neville gave her a tired smile.
"Thanks, Maisie," he said softly, before turning back to his mother. He brushed her wispy hair away from her forehead before leaning down to kiss the cold, papery skin there. Alice Longbottom didn't stir.
Maisie escorted him to the locked door of the Janus Thickey ward, tapping it with her wand to let him out. "I'll see you tomorrow," Neville said and Maisie gave him a poorly concealed look of worry.
"You take care of yourself, poppet," she ordered, and Neville smiled weakly at her.
"I'll try," he promised, before turning to start making his way to St Mungo's floo room. He'd just reached the foyer when a hand suddenly closed over his shoulder, making him jump. He spun around, heart pounding and sucked in a shocked breath. "Professor Dumbledore!" he gasped and Dumbledore smiled down at him, his blue eyes twinkling down at Neville over his half-moon spectacles.
"Hello Neville, my boy," he greeted Neville, as if there was nothing unusual about the situation, and that this was a corridor in Hogwarts that they'd bumped into each other in, not the foyer of St Mungo's. "I was wondering if I could borrow a moment of your time?"
Neville swallowed nervously. "O-Of course, P-Professor," he stammered and Dumbledore's smiled widened.
"Wonderful!" he said, shifting his grip so his arm was draped over Neville's shoulders and Neville almost tripped over his own feet as Dumbledore started steering them towards the front exit of the hospital.
"S-Sir," he stammered, "my gran, she's expecting me–"
"I spoke to your grandmother," Dumbledore said, "I told her I have an important job I need your help with. She assured me that you would be glad to assist me."
"Important job?" Neville practically squeaked, his stomach sinking. He didn't want to help Dumbledore. He didn't want to be anywhere near Dumbledore. He knew Dumbledore was supposed to be a paragon of the Light, but it was Dumbledore who'd sent Harry to abusive muggles, it was Dumbledore who was so awful to Hermione, who had hired that maniac Moody and who had gotten Viktor, Neville's friend, who could have maybe one day been something more, horribly killed. While Neville didn't think he was brave enough to stand against Dumbledore himself, he had no intention of doing anything except standing back and watching the Headmaster burn in a fire of his own making– not helping him!
"Yes, a very important job," Dumbledore confirmed, "one that only you can help me with, Neville."
Neville swallowed. "What sort of job?" he asked as they approached the doors.
"Well," Dumbledore said, dropping his voice, "there's a prophecy, you see, in the Department of Mysteries, and only those mentioned in the prophecy may remove the record of it from the Hall of Prophecies. I need your help to retrieve it, Neville."
Neville felt the blood drain from his face. "Th-there's a prophecy about me?" he stammered. Dumbledore made a humming sort of noise.
"Magic is a splendid thing, young Neville," he said. "The magic of prophecy even more so. It leaves quite a bit open to... interpretation."
Neville didn't understand, but Dumbledore didn't seem like he was going to explain it in more detail, so he asked his next question instead. "But... why do you want to take the prophecy out of the Hall of Prophecies?" he asked somewhat desperately. "Shouldn't it be safe there, if only those mentioned in the prophecy can remove it?"
"Not if one of those mentioned is a dark wizard who may try to steal it," Dumbledore said grimly and Neville froze, almost falling over when Dumbledore kept moving, almost pulling him off his feet.
"Do you mean– You-Know-Who?" he whispered. Dumbledore hesitated for a moment before nodding.
"You see why this is so important," he said gravely and Neville nodded faintly, letting Dumbledore pull him forwards again and out the front exit. The cool, early evening air hit his face as Dumbledore immediately steered them left, towards a nearby alley. Neville's mind was racing and he felt sick and conflicted. He also had the awful, creeping feeling that Dumbledore was not going to let him remember any of this and that just increased the panic he felt.
The moment they turned down the side alley, Dumbledore twisted on the spot, apparating them to the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. It was filled with employees heading off home for the day. As Dumbledore 'guided' him into one of the elevators with its golden grilles, Neville fiddled nervously with the cuffs of his sleeves. The edge of his nail caught on the thin skin of his wrist, giving him an idea. Carefully, making sure to keep his movements as subtle as possible, he slid his thumb up under the opposite sleeve, making it look like he was still fiddling with the cuff, and tried to scratch a 'D' into his skin. He wasn't sure how it would turn out, but he needed to do something.
The lift halted suddenly and a cool female voice said, "Department of Mysteries," and the golden grilles of the lift slid open. Dumbledore's arm was back over his shoulders and Neville let the headmaster steer him out of the elevator and into a corridor, towards a plain black door. There was a witch lounging by the door who straightened and nodded at Dumbledore as they passed by her. The door swung open at the touch of Dumbledore's wand, revealing a large circular room. Everything in the room was black, including the floor and ceiling; identical unmarked, handleless black doors were set at intervals all around the black walls, interspersed with branches of candles whose flames burned blue.
Dumbledore appeared to know exactly which door to open, leading them through into a beautiful room; starlight-bright and diamond-sparkling. Neville barely got time to take in the sight of clocks gleaming from every surface before he was being pulled through the room and into the next. He knew immediately by how Dumbledore's shoulders seemed to relax that this was the Hall of Prophecies. It was filled with towering shelves covered in small, dusty glass orbs that glimmered dully.
"Come along, Neville," Dumbledore said, lighting up his wand and steering him along one of the shadowy aisles between two rows of shelves– row ninety-seven. It seemed to stretch on forever as they walked in near-total darkness, despite the light of Dumbledore's wand. Finally, Dumbledore stopped. "Here it is," he said softly. Neville followed the headmaster's gaze over to one of the prophecies. It was small and very dusty, glowing with a dull inner light. There was a yellowish label affixed beneath it and Neville's breath caught in his throat.
S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.
Dark Lord
And (?) Harry Potter
"My– my name isn't on there," was the only thing he could think to say.
"But it could have been," Dumbledore said gravely and Neville's insides felt like ice. "That is why there is a question mark before Harry's name. That is why Bellatrix Lestrange went after your parents that day. Born as the seventh month dies, born to those who thrice defied the Dark Lord... your name may not be written in ink, but it is written in magic, Neville Longbottom. If you don't believe me, try picking it up."
Neville's hand trembled as he reached forwards. His fingers brushed against the glass of the glowing orb and he sucked in a breath as it warmed under his touch. The dusty sphere slid easily into his hand as he lifted it from the shelf and he trembled harder.
"Well done, Neville," Dumbledore said quietly, holding out his hand. Neville reached out to hand it to him, but he was trembling so badly it slipped from his fingers, tumbling to the stone floor below where it shattered. Instantly, the form of Professor Trelawney unfurled from the fragments of broken glass, pearly-white as a ghost and fluid as smoke. But when she spoke, it wasn't in her usual ethereal, mystic voice, but in harsh, hoarse tones.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives..."
Neville gasped, stumbling back, his back colliding with the shelf of prophecies with a thud, his heart thundering in his chest.
"That was unfortunate," Dumbledore said, frowning down at the fragments of the orb and vanishing them with a flick of his wand. Neville's chest heaved as panic clawed at his throat, making it hard to breathe. "Come, Neville," he said, and Neville tried to move, but his body wasn't cooperating. Dumbledore sighed, reaching out to pull him forwards. Neville almost fell over but his feet stumbled into action before he could.
Neville spent the journey back to the elevator in a daze. He knew, without a doubt, that Dumbledore wouldn't risk leaving his memory intact, but he didn't know how he was supposed to stop the most powerful wizard in the world from obliviating him– and he had to warn Harry about the prophecy. Neville's stomach sunk as the elevator rose, bringing him closer to the atrium. The moment Dumbledore apparated them away from the Ministry he just knew that was it. He would be obliviated.
As the golden grilles opened, Neville stumbled after Dumbledore, his mind racing. The atrium was still filled with people; witches and wizards milled about, talking to friends or colleagues or making their way to fireplaces or designated apparition points. As he looked desperately around, Neville almost sobbed in relief when he spotted Draco's father, Lucius Malfoy. He knew that Harry and Hermione spent a lot of time with the Malfoys and Mr Malfoy was close enough to him that it looked plausible for Neville to trip into the older wizard, grabbing onto Mr Malfoy's robes as if to hold himself upright.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He babbled, straightening up and backing away from Mr Malfoy, shrinking towards Dumbledore. Mr Malfoy nodded sharply, a slight sneer curling his mouth as he turned away. But Neville saw how Mr Malfoy's hand brushed against the pocket of his robes and he knew that his message had been received. He could only hope that Mr Malfoy would let Hermione or Harry know. Even if Dumbledore obliviated him, he knew from the... incident with Ron that erased memories could be recovered by an experienced enough legilimens. All he could do now, as Dumbledore led him to the designated apparition point, was hope.
-
-
Severus's POV:
When Lucius apparated into his house, Severus was already on his feet before the blond could even get a word out, a familiar adrenaline pulsing through his body. "Harry or Hermione?" he demanded, reaching for his wand. "No, it can't be Harry– he's with the Order; what happened to Hermione?"
"Actually," Lucius said with a frown, "it has nothing to do with Hermione– or Harry. Or any of your Slytherins, for that matter."
Severus paused. "I'm afraid I've grown accustomed to your visits having a sense of urgency to them." He admitted.
"I'm not sure this one doesn't," Lucius confessed. "I had the strangest encounter at the Ministry. The Longbottom boy– he's friends with Harry, yes?"
"He's friends with the entire group– he's been taken under their wing," Severus corrected, puzzled. "Why?" Lucius's frown deepened.
"He was at the Ministry, this evening. Dumbledore was accompanying him."
"Dumbledore?" Severus repeated, incredulous. Lucius nodded.
"Though when I say 'accompanying', it looked more like he was half-dragging the child," he said. "The Longbottom boy looked terrified– and then the strangest thing happened. The boy spotted me and he looked relieved, of all things! Then he tripped into me, which I assumed was clumsiness up until the point I realised that when he'd been pawing at my robes for balance, he'd slipped this into my pocket!"
Severus stared as much to his shock Lucius drew from his pocket a long, slender wand– Neville Longbottom's wand, to be precise.
"I didn't think him capable of such duplicity," he had to admit. "The boy is certainly sending a clear message."
"It does," Lucius agreed. "I'm just not sure what the message is."
"Do you know where Dumbledore took him?" Severus asked but Lucius shook his head.
"No, and my contacts haven't been able to tell me either. Despite our Lord taking his rightful place as Minister of Magic, Dumbledore's influence within the Ministry is not insignificant. Whatever it was he planned for this evening, he must have planned it well in advance. But what did he need the boy for?"
What would Dumbledore have possibly needed Neville Longbottom's assistance for?
The answer struck Severus rather suddenly.
Dumbledore didn't trust Harry, that much was clear. And if he didn't trust Harry... could it be possible that he sought to test the other child born as the seventh month died, the other child born of parents who thrice defied the Dark Lord?
"Lucius," he said quietly, finding he had to sit down, "what is the situation with the Hall of Prophecies?"
Lucius stilled. "Complicated," he said and Severus could see the dawning realisation in his eyes. "It is well-guarded and the Minister of Magic cannot simply walk in and take one of the prophecies, not without being noticed, and Dumbledore's people are watching for our Lord, that much is clear. Seeing as Harry has proven not to be a threat to our Lord, however, the prophecy has been low on our list of priorities; our Lord has been prepared to wait for the time in which he is prepared to move openly to retrieve it. But you think Dumbledore has placed a higher priority on the prophecy."
"I do," he said heavily.
"But why?" Lucius pressed. "It doesn't make sense– he already knows the wording of the prophecy. Did he want to destroy it, to ensure our Lord would not?"
"If that was all he wanted," Severus said grimly, "he wouldn't have needed the Longbottom boy."
Lucius's eyes widened. "Only those mentioned in a prophecy may remove it," he said, hushed. "Do you think... the Longbottom boy?"
"I think Dumbledore is more aware of Harry's true leanings then we'd hoped," Severus said darkly. "I think he realised he needed a back-up plan– and that in order to see if that plan was viable, he tested if the Longbottom boy was capable of picking up the prophecy."
"I'll have one of our people in the Department of Mysteries search the Hall of Prophecies at once," Lucius said, before glancing down at the wand in his hand. "Severus, if what you're saying is true..."
"Then Neville Longbottom is in grave danger," Severus said quietly. "From both sides of this war."
"He reached out to me for help," Lucius said, just as quiet. "It feels ill of me to repay him for such trust by marking him for death."
"Dumbledore will protect him better than that," Severus assured him and Lucius sighed, holding out Longbottom's wand to Severus, who accepted it.
"This is grave news, Severus," he said heavily and Severus nodded.
"I could not agree with you more."
Because if he knew anything, it was that Harry and Hermione wouldn't take the death of one of theirs lying down; they would fight for Neville Longbottom and that would do the one thing Severus feared above all else– it would pit them against Lord Voldemort.