Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching By Quillusion Anti-Litigation Charm: JKR owns all. I borrow… and embellish. Rating: R A/N: Any confusion engendered by the last few paragraphs of the last chapter will be explained in the first few paragraphs of this one. The confusion was induced intentionally- sorry for any vertigo it may have caused. I hope this chapter will make up for any unpleasantness you may have experienced. Also, thanks to corbaegirl for crowning Neville as Saviour of the World ™. He enjoyed that immensely! Thanks eternally to all my reviewers who have n men me input and encouragement. You're the reason I type, and your comments are so helpful. I read them over several times, and your input really does affect the outcome of the story. Ladies and gentlemen (are there any of those hardy fellows reading this?), we have now been cleared for landing at Hogwarts International Airport. Please keep your seatbelts securely fastened at all times. Please return all seats and tray tables to their secure and upright positions. We will be on the ground shortly. Flight attendants, please prepare for arrival and crosscheck.     Chapter 22   Ohhhh. I blink again and stare upward.   The view does not change. Red eyes, lipless mouth. It's like falling suddenly into a movie you thought you were watching safe at home.   This is most definitely Not Good.   Now I know how Severus felt when the claws currently digging into my arms were clenched around his.   Not good at all.   The Dark Lord is staring down at me as if he cannot believe his good fortune- but he is not wasting time either. He has wrenched me around to face Dumbledore, using my body as a shield- though, given that he is surrounded on all sides by bristling wands, this seems rather pointless.   Unless Avada Kedavra can go through him to hit me. It's a question I've never really considered before, and at the moment I've got other problems that demand my attention.   "I'd hold off a bit if I were you, Albus," says Voldemort in a satisfied drawl. He shakes me a bit, and the movement jars the locket free from where it has imbedded one of its points in my hand. The blood runs down my palm, tickling me, and I glance down.   All in an instant, I understand. The locket is now open, and the glint of torchlight on the locket's engraved inner surface catches my eye.   Open, child, be not afraid; This locket shall become your aid. Think of safety, hearth, and home- While you wear this, you're not alone. Hold on, think hard of something glad, I'll take you back to Mum and Dad.   If I weren't in mortal danger, this would fascinate me. The locket is really more properly called a Klocket; the name is short for 'Portkey locket'. I've read about them. With magical properties similar to a Portkey, a Klocket is used to help lost, frightened magical children get back to their parents. All a lost child has to do is open the locket and think very hard about wanting to get back to their parents, and off they are whisked, back to their relieved parent's side. Quite useful, from a parent's perspective- and very likely annoying to a Head of House. No doubt Snape confiscated this one from a homesick first year who thought to sneak home for visits.   But this knowledge doesn't change my situation. In my anxiety over the drama unfolding before me in the crystal ball, I must have wrenched the clasp hard enough to break it open. And then I wished I could be with my friends as they faced down the Dark Lord- which resulted in my instant transportation and off-course landing right in Voldemort's lap, metaphorically speaking.   Bloody brilliant, Hermione.   So here I sit, having played right into Voldemort's hands, suddenly being used as a pawn in a game which I was only watching a moment ago. The fact that this is through no fault of my own is not much comfort- I remember only too well what happened to the hapless pawns on the enchanted chess board as we raced to find the Philosopher's Stone.   This is not good at all.   In the time it has taken me to think all of these thoughts, I have blinked once and breathed about twice. That's less time elapsed than one might think- my heart is racing and my breathing is twice its normal rate. Voldemort laughs once, another short burst of noise, and then he wrenches the locket from my hand and drops it to the floor, swiftly smashing it under his heel and grinding the twisted metal into the gravel at our feet.   "Let her go, Voldemort," says Harry in a brittle voice. "She has nothing to do with this."   "Oh, but she has everything to do with it, Potter," says Voldemort in a patronizing tone. "She's a Mudblood. Or did you think to fool me? Do you think I don't know who all of your friends are? Miss Granger, I believe."   He addresses this last to me, leaning over my shoulder to kiss my cheek, and I'm too horrified to say a word. I never thought Voldemort would behave like this, especially toward a Muggle-born woman. I lunge forward sharply, trying to break his hold on me, but even in his weakened condition he is far stronger than I am physically, after what I've been through lately. He hauls me back against his body, and his arms go around me in a parody of a lover's embrace. It takes all my concentration not to gag.   "Ah, ah, ah," he cautions in a gravelly voice. "Not so fast, little birdie. I have uses for you, you know- even if you are a Mudblood." He reaches clear around my neck to cup the angle of my jaw in one clammy hand, and I know he could kill me with a single quick wrenching movement. It's a dreadfully uncomfortable position, sharp and tight, and I can barely draw breath- but that's not the worst thing I'm feeling right now.   I feel guilty. They almost had him- it almost worked- and I botched it for them all. Somehow, I manage to look over at Severus, trying to tell him with my eyes that I'm sorry for ruining this.   His gaze is carefully blank, but I cannot sense any sort of disappointment or resentment in his face. If anything, he looks… resigned. His fists tell another story as they clench tightly in impotent rage, wand trembling, but there is nothing he can do just now. Harry and Ron look angry, but it is clear that the emotion is directed at Voldemort rather than me. There is a gleam of desperation in Harry's eye that I have only seen once before- the night Cedric Diggory died.   And I realize: No one knows that I did this to myself. They think Voldemort is getting his powers back and that he's gotten me here through some machination of his own. That he's very well able to kill me and potentially escape from all of them. He can't Apparate, of course- that'e ree result of his own anti-apparition wards- but they must think that if he's left alone long enough, he could remove them and escape. And that's why Voldemort crushed the Klocket- so that no one would recognize it and realize that he had not done magic to summon me.   Oh, this one needs fixing in the worst way. But first… some air would be good.   Voldemort is laughing now, hysterical peals of genuine mirth falling from his lips like drifts of ash from a funeral pyre.   "What a perfect ending," he says at last, wiping at his eyes in a residually human gesture with no point- for there are no tears. "Potter's best friend, Weasley's former crush, Dumbledore's prize student, and-" He pauses, eyes locked on Snape's rigid form.   "Oh, my," he murmurs then, still chuckling. "Ah, yes- as I had suspected. My goodness. I think this may be the best part. Look, my dear." He turns me to face Severus, and now I can see what I missed in my anxiety, when I glanced his way the first time.   Severus Snape's expression is tightly controlled- but to those who know him, his face contains rage. Anger, fury, absolute hate.   "I do believe that charming expression first appeared when I did… this."   He grinds up against my backside again, holding my neck tighter, and I whimper softly at the disgust my teeth can barely restrain.   "Tread carefully, Voldemort. I am not well-known for my sense of fair play." Severus's voice is scarcely more than a growl now, smooth and lethal like the purring of a wildcat before the spring to attack. I know he will do something rash if I can't let him know he's being intentionally provoked, deceived into risking something that is needless.   Voldemort does not appear overly concerned. "Miss Granger, I do believe you are the object of a crush. This… thing appears to have- for lack of a better word- feelings for you. I don't believe I've ever seen such a case of utterly hopeless passion. It's just too amusing." He turns to look down at me.   Without warning, he licks the side of my face, and it's all I can do not to retch. He decides to interpret that as my reaction to the idea of Severus's affections, and he giggles.   Somehow, Voldemort giggling is the most frightening thing I've heard yet. He still has his wand- how on earth did that manage to escape them all?- and he points it at my throat now. I feel faint with the pressure on my throat and the difficulty of taking each successive breath.   "I suggest you step aside, Severus, and let me pass- or your little fantasy girl here won't look like much anymore."   Severus does not move, but I can see that he wants to. His eyes are on me, and Voldemort moves a step closer to him, shoving me before him. I manage to twist myself slightly out of the evil wizard's grip, and he doesn't notice- he's too keenly intent on the scent of freedom. Oh, please, I think fervently to whatever might be listening. I suck in a deep breath of air, feeling the light-headedness recede as oxygen floods my brain. Then I wedge one hand under Voldemort's fingers to keep my airway open, knowing that he will tighten his grip as soon as I speak.   "Don't do it," I manage to croak. "Don't move! It was a Klocket in your office chair that brought me, Severus, not Voldemort! He's still weak!"   Severus's face is burning with sudden intensity at my words, and his mouth compresses again in a rather cruel line. I've only seen a shadow of that smile before, and it never boded well for the recipient. I have no doubt that the sight of it is giving Neville shivers, wherever he is in the cavern.   My prediction, I find, was quite accurate. No sooner has speech passed my lips than the stranglehold is tightened. I struggle hard as Voldemort's hand closes once again on my throat, his wand pressing into my temple. I'm still too drained from using the henge to fight any longer- and then an idea comes to me. I go totally limp.   "Shut up!" Voldemort hisses at me, and with another long lick of my face, he mutters something. Harry and Ron are shouting, but I cannot pay attention to anything but Voldemort's wand.   It takes all the energy I have, but the contact of my skin against his wand lets me use it, too- and even if I am not thed's d's true owner, I am far more magically powerful than he is at the moment.   "Expelliarmus!" I bellow, and with that, Voldemort's wand rockets out of his hand.   Ron reacts before anyone else- including Voldemort.   "Accio wand!" he cries, and before the Dark Lord can even gather his wits to reach out, his wand flies to Ron's hand, smacking satisfyingly into the younger wizard's outstretched palm. With great deliberation, Ron hands his own wand tory ary and grips the confiscated one in both hands, his injured arm still resting in its sling across his chest. One powerful flexing of his biceps later, the wand falls to the floor in shattered pieces, and Fawkes's tail feather sparks gleaming gold as it falls from the core. I have never told Harry I knew about his wand's core- but after what happened at the Triwizard tournament, it was not hard for me to figure out. It looks like Ron might have known as well, because he scuffs gently through the dust and retrieves the feather, tucking it safely inside his robes.   His grin is feral as he stares at the now disarmed wizard.   "Well done, Hermione," says Albus, moving closer to the Dark Lord. "Well done, Ron. I see, Tom, that your magical powers are even weaker than they were when we arrived. You nearly had us fooled- although you should be e the that we would only have attacked harder with the knowledge that our foe is at his best." His tone is conversational, and his words send a shimmer of reviving resolution through the others present. The fact that the last word of his sentence was pronounced with mocking sarcasm is not lost on us either; it lifts our hearts and gives us all courage. He is not one to mock; to hear Dumbledore speak so is to make us believe that this is in deadly earnest.   Voldemort studies everyone coldly for a long moment, his fury escaping only in the form of his harshly expelled breaths, which burn in foul trails down the side of my neck. He holds me tighter than ever now, aware that his possession of a hostage is now his only weapon. It would seem that the loss of his wand has promoted me from pawn to rook, and he is thinking fast as he lays his plans. His fingers are spasmodically working against the skin of my jaw, and I know that, if I survive this, I will have rather odd-looking bruises to show for it.   With a suddenness that startles me, Voldemort goes absolutely still.   "You all seriously think you can win, don't you?" he asks then, simply and calmly. "You think that I am powerless now. You are wrong. Even without my wand, I am a far more powerful wizard than all of you combined. You cannot have the faintest inkling of the magnitude of my power. You are as infants, ignorant and puling in the filth of your own unworthiness." His voice drips scorn as he says this, and he looses his hold on my throat subtly, just enough for me to breathe freely again. The lapse in concentration is not lost on me- he's stalling for time, trying harder than ever to think of something. But what?   "Your opinion notwithstanding," says Minerva with her usual asperity, "you are trapped. You are outnumbered, and most definitely outclassed. You have no wand, and you cannot Apparate. Your supporters are even now being rounded up by a competent force of Aurors under the command of Arthur Weasley."   Ah, I think to myself. That's where the rest of the crowd got to. I suppose it would be rather poor luck to have all of the Death Eaters arriving like Satan's cavalry to save their leader.   "In short," says Sirius grimly, "you may as well let Miss Granger go. This is all but over." "All but over, indeed," says Voldemort with a sneer. "You have yet to kill me, and you may find that harder than you think."   "Touch one hair on her head, Riddle, and you'll wish we'd kill you faster."   I almost don't recognize Severus's voice when he speaks, and Voldemort starts a little. It must unnerve him, to see such powerfefiaefiance in a figure whom he has always regarded as retiring, acquiescent, appeasing.   But he can't resist hiding his unease behind a cloak of spite.   "What- you want to kiss her goodbye, scarecrow? As if any woman would allow you to touch her." The sneer in his voice is transparent, though, and it's clear to everyone that he's beginning to panic. I am beginning to think he will not dare to kill me; I am all that stands between him and death. He seems to know it too, and it is eroding his control.   His self-assurance takes another hit when he hears Snape laughing at him.   "If I'm the kettle, you're the pot, my boy," says the Potions master. With one disdainful glance from head to foot, he gestures at the Dark wizard's robes, now stained and covered with flakes of dead skin- for as I have struggled with him, Voldemort has begun to shed, like a snake. Great sloughs of white papery film are hanging from his face, his hands, and it's at once revolting and funny.   "Lord Voldemolt," says Snape softly in amusement, his tone as mocking as a Slytherin schoolboy's can be.   He takes a deliberate step closer, as if studying Voldemort's features, and he looks right into the red eyes for a long, cool moment. Then the corner of his mouth lifts in a cruel smile.   "I think there are men worse favored than me," he says flatly, then pauses with a gleam in his eyFor For example… I think even a Dementor would hesitate to kiss you."   Oh, my. That was avokivoking remark, especially to a man born as well-favored as Tom Riddle was, before Harry Potter happened to him.   I'm suddenly released as Voldemort flings himself bodily at Severus. Only too late do I see the knife he has had concealed in his sleeve. It is wet with blood, and a sudden stinging sensation on my neck tells me just whose blood it is.   This whole time, he has been holding a knife to my throat. That, and not the strength of his hold, is what has been causing that sharp pain. I could have cut my own throat with my struggles. No wonder no one moved in to physically challenge the bastard after I disarmed him. They still feared for my life.   I put my hand to my throat, and more blood comes away on my fingertips. I wipe it away, suddenly and heavily aware of the tingle of magic on my neck and hand. The unwelcome sensation tells me that there was something on that wickedly sharp blade; I have no idea what it might have been, but odds are good it was not a healing potion. I hardly thought I could go from bad to worse, but I'm sure I just passed a sign that said "Welcome to Worse, Population 1."   There is a great deal of shouting going on, and I know the potion- whatever it was- is already affecting me if I did not notice the commotion before now. I back up hastily to the wall, propping myself up on it and watching the sudden duel that has erupted on the ancient throne room floor.   Voldemort has a wand. I don't know whose it is- a quick count of wizards in the room, and a quick rummage in my own pocket, confirm that he has not disarmed anyone else. He must have had a spare- it would only make sense after he experienced Priori incantatem that he would want a wand unrelated to Harry Potter's. He must have figured it out the same way I did.   Damn. I hate it when the bad guys are clever, too.   All of my friends have formed a ring around Voldemort, wands out and pointed, and there is more shouting as he rages about something I can't understand. His voice sounds as if he's speaking underwater, and I can't see him very well either; he's a madly whirling red blur.   I feel my legs give out, and I slide bonelessly down the wall to sit on the ground with a loud thump.   Maniacal laughter swirls through the air, tickling my eardrums with its shrillness, and I smile to myself. I think there must be a class villains have to take, to learn how to laugh properly; that explains why Snape was never really a villain. He doesn't have the laugh for it. A sudden horrid tightness swims across me, and my brain obligingly sends a jolt of neurotransmitters down my spine to work the diaphragm. Oh, yes. Breathing. Terribly annoying thing, having to remember to do that all the time. Wait- I don't usually have to think about it. Better breathe again… that's it.   More shouting, and I vaguely recognize Neville's face above me.   "Hermione!" he cries, shaking me slightly. "Hermione, what's wrong? You've got to wake up- we need your help. Voldemort's gone completely mad, he's hexed Harry twice and Dumbledore is hurt. Ron and Sirius have him cornered, but we need one more person… Hermione?"   I smile at him reassuringly. It's all right, it's just a dream. I'll wake up soon, and you'll still be clumsy and I'll still be stuck with a neurotic roommate at SCAI, and Dumbledore will still be ofng eng everyone lemon drops and changing his passwords to yet another sweet every week. It'll all be…   "No, Hermione, it's not fine! Get up, please!" Neville sounds hysterical now, and I frown. Struggling to sit up, I suddenly feel horror push the potion back from my brain and flicker down my spinal cord to wrap icy fingers around my heart.   Dumbledore is down, his head still up but his body apparently frozen. Harry is bleeding from only God knows where, and Ron and Sirius are both panting as they back Voldemort into a corner. Minerva is holding her wand arm up with her other hand, and Severus is kneeling by Dumbledore, casting some sort of healing spell as quickly as he can while Remus stands guard.   Why did Albus send them all away? I think dumbly, wishing for Bill and Charlie Weasley. What if we need backup?   Some small part of my mind gives me an answer I do not want to hear.   If we cannot defeat him alone, we who have the best chance… someone must lead a resistance until someone else can try again.   "Like hell," I say aloud, and Neville's nervous eyes flick to my face.   "Hermione…" he says timidly, and I smile at him. He's already done more today than anyone could ever have asked him to do.   " S'all right, Neville," I slur. "Poisoned knife."   He stares at me in horror. Potions klutz or not, he knows perfectly well that a poisoned knife makes things far from all right.   I motion for him to help me up, and he reaches down to lift me with strong arms. Funny- I never thought of Neville as strong in any way, but he's holding me up as if I weighed nothing.   I larouaround, my heart sinking. It's worse than I thought. Dumbledore's wound is an electrical type burn, and it looks as though his heart has not taken well to the literal shock. Harry's had two doses of Cruciatus and a shock himself, to judge from his trembling. I can't tell what's happened to the others, though Ron and Sirius both look positively white with rage and relatively unharmed otherwise- excepting Ron's broken arm, of course.   My eyes find Severus again, and I can tell that he's exhausted both from the ordeal of last night and the effort of keeping Dumbledore alive. The Headmaster is speaking to him urgently, and I can hear the conversation as if in a dream.   "Severus… you can't save me and kill him both. You haven't the strength, no matter what Hermione did for you last night. You must kill him. It's the only way to do what must be done."   "But Albus- if this doesn't work-"   "Then I shall have worse problems, and nothing will be any different. Go!"   Severus looks up, stares at Remus for a long, hopeless minute, and the werewolf nods and kneels down to take the Potions master's place at Dumbledore's side. Softly, he begins the incantation anew, turning from Severus and ignoring him in his concentration on the healing spell.   This is all the reassurance poor Severus is going to get. He turns to study Voldemort again, where the mad wizard is battling with Ron and Sirius. Sparks are flying, hexes cast and blocked, and the fury with which the Dark wizard fights is astonishing. I know it must be the sort of rage that one faces when death is all but inevitable, a last burst of strength to go out in a blaze of glory- but it is also the sort of rage that has carried warriors through battle, victorious in the face of overwhelming odds.   This cannot be allowed.   The poison takes me over once again, and as the world turns a funny shade of yellow-green before my eyes, I find myself watching Voldemort's wand carefully. And that's when I see it.   He's not the one controlling this massive burst of magical power.   The wand is. It must be keyed to something, some sort of last-ditch magical defense that was laid long ago in the event of a final showdown of this sort.   Wow, he really is paranoid.   I try to open my mouth to tell Severus this, but my voice is too weak. Neville hears me, though, and bends close so that I can croak a few words to him.   He grasps the implications of what I'm saying immediately. "His wand, Professor," he hollers, struggling to be heard over the din. "His wand is controlling this- not him. There's a ward involved!"   My mind trips lazily back to the words that hung in the air as Bill inspected the wards, characters suspended like fire in ancient languages I do not recognize, magic I do not possess.   Or do I?   The crackle and sizzle of power arcs around me, and I know on a level I've never before sensed that Voldemort is utterly out of control, using the last desperate measure of his indomitable will to force something else to his bidding. A silent shriek of protest sounds in my psyche as he savages something with his mind, making it provide the magnitude of magic he needs for his purposes.   That is what the wand is doing.   It's evil, and it needs to be destroyed.   When I crack my eyes open, I am on the floor again. Neville has laid me down and gone to do what he can to help. He is kneeling by Remus, adding his magic to the werewolf's, trying to sustain Dumbledore's life in an effort whose flagging reward I can see in my delirium. The blue flicker that is Dumbledore's life is at its lowest ever, and I can barely see it. To the plain eye, he must look entirely dead.   My gaze drags across space to settle on Severus, straight and tall, dueling with Voldemort in a wizarding contest the likes of which the world will probably never see again.   They are magnificent.   Voldemort is casting faster than I think I could ever speand and Severus is blocking almost effortlessly. He has put everything he has on the line, knowing that there is nothing left if he loses, and he fights as if he has no weaknesses.   Nothing I ever saw in dueling classes prepared me for this. I remember the look of utter disdain he wore when he blasted Gildeory Lockhart off the stage in our second year. No wonder; that Lockhart had chosen him to act as 'assistant' to his idiot peacock self, when he was capable of… this… must have been as laughable as it was degrading.   I watch closely, aware that the speed of Voldemort's attacks is not letting Severus cast anything but defensive spells. He will not be able to go on forever. And I know perfectly well that neither Minerva, Ron, Harry, Sirius, or Remus can duel that well. They form a circle around the two combatants, unable to come close enough to cast any spells of their own because of the aura of power radiating from Voldemort and Snape. Harry tries one spell, but it is merely absorbed and fizzles to nothing. He shouts with frustration, but can do nothing more.   I dig my hands into the gravel beneath me, clenching my fingers as I struggle to think through the potion-induced haze. Something important is hovering just outside the reach of my addled brain. Malevolence and resentment swirl around me in smoke-like rings, and I clench my hands harder, feeling the small rocks bite into my palms with a stinging pain that grounds me and anchors me and suddenly I know-   My fingertips touch stone beneath the gravel, and then it connects.   Silly girl, I think giddily as the energy surges through me.   There are more stones than the ones on Salisbury plain.   Help me, I think frantically as I burrow hastily through the stone to touch my entire palm to the ground. Power arcs from the wall to my back, and as if bidden I scramble blindly to my feet and reach for the wall, pressing myself to it in supplication. Help us.   The stones feel me through the bond, recognition dawning like awareness from sleep, and a soft note echoes through my mind- it is the name the stones have given me. I hear my heart beat, so very slowly, as the stone of the wall cradles me as the rocks on Salisbury plain did. I lean into it, craving the strength and the sense of protection, and for a moment I forget that any others are in peril.   But I cannot forget for long; the sound of Severus crying out in pain breaks through my isolation, and I turn my back to the roughness of the wall, palms stretched across the surface, asking the stones for help with every fiber of my being.   As if my much-maligned Inner Eye were suddenly opened, I am blinded with my sudden view of the ley lines that trace the land. All in an instant, I can feel the bones of the earth coursing with energy and magic. I feel Salisbury resonate in the distance, feel its stones send me the warmth of safety, and then everything begins to awaken.   The stones of the castle, the rock of its foundations, is brittle with rage. It is their ancient magic which Voldemort has corrupted, enslaved and stolen. It has lain asleep too long to fight back- but I have awakened it, somehow.   Wow. It's really pissed. The energy I feel brewing here is ten times stronger than what coursed through me at Stonehenge to help me make the Cleve Potion. It's overwhelming, so utterly powerful that I'm pretty much left on the periphery to gawk at the leviathan I have unwittingly tickled to waking life, to watch as it turns its gaze on the creature who has angered it.   Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titilandus. Unless you really, really mean it.   I smile, knowing it is a cruel smile- but who can kill an enemy with mercy in their heart?   The ancient tongue's sibilant tones are reborn in my mind as the stones begin again to sing, and my voice joins them, the magic of the earth crumbling the chains that bind Voldemort's wards to their ancient power. In the depths of my being I can see again the letters that had gleamed in the misty air as Bill had outlined them, and now I know why he left those even as he broke the others.   Bill must hear the stones, too. Because he left their wards, left their mark on this place. But he didn't know enough to trace out the chains Voldemort had put on those ancient spells. I recognize those time-worn spells now, see them as the syllables and echoes of the tongue whose sounds roll from my lips in unthinking waves. The stones around us respond to it, indignation coloring the song, their overwhelming need to protect seeping up from the very nature of the sheltering rock to surround me in a cocoon of what feels almost like invincibility. I can see the faint traces of Voldemort's meddling wards glimmering on the surface of the old wards like wounds; they are shimmering, sparkling as if they are about to crumble, like the other wards did beneath Bill's expert hands. And then they fall.   The ground begins to shake, and there is an unholy shriek. I open my eyes, and my attention is instinctively drawn to the bright red blur of Voldemort's robes. He has paused in his attack on Severus, and is staring with horror at his wand. It almost looks as though he is wrestling with it; it is writhing in his hands, a thing alive. His preoccupation gives me the courage to quickly look for my friends.   Severus is still standing, but he's clearly been hurt. He's shaking, rather badly in fact, and there's blood on the floor from the soaked edge of his robe. He's panting for breath, but his eyes are still gleaming with determination. The cessation of mad cursing has made it possible for the others to approach now, and Harry runs to stand beside Professor Snape, raising his own wand to point it at Voldemort. In a rush, the others follow, until Voldemort is trapped between them and the stone wall. Bleeding, batteredey aey are still determined to bring him down, or die trying. All of them but one.   Dumbledore's still form lies on the ground, swathed gently in the folds of Neville's robes, and my eyes glance sorrowfully at him for a moment before I turn my attention back to the battle at hand. There is still the faintest trace of blue about him, but it is all but gone.   That fires me to anger once more, and I pin Voldemort with a glance. The line of wizards and witches facing him begins to advance, and he backs up to what he thinks is the relative safety of the wall.   Mistake number one.   He lifts his wand, face contorted in absolute hatred, and points it straight at Harry's heart.   "Avada Kedavra!" he cries.   That's number two.   The angry cry of the stones is audible to everyone this time, I am sure. Ron jumps, Minerva gasps, and Remus grows pale. Severus claps his hands over his ears, though for him, nothing physical can shut out the rage in that petrous scream. I can see his eyes squint shut, and I beg the rocks to be gentle on him. They relent, their howl ebbing to a ferocious rumble as they suddenly focus.   The green light that had begun to erupt from the tip of Voldemort's spare wand slows, like sap frozen on the branch by a late freeze. Then, without warning, it fractionates, scattering like the lights from a Muggle disco ball into the far corners of the cavern for a long, eerie moment. Then, as if drawn by some sort of magnet, it begins to turn, sucked into a cyclone of magical energy. My eyes are drawn downward by the twisting funnel, and that's when I see the crevasse that has opened up at Voldemort's feet.   The stones know exactly what to do with him, it would seem. The green light spirals wide as the funnel cloud sinks into the gaping crack in the floor, and the malevolent energy of the killing curse touches everyone faintly as the eerie hue descends to slide across their skin; it is more than Minerva can stand, and she sinks to the floor in a faint. Severus doubles over and retches a bit, and Sirius drops his wand- but then the light passes, vanishes down into the crevasse to fill it like a thick mist. It swirls and eddies along the jagged edges of the rock, a maelstrom of ill intent that waits like a trap for its caster.   Harry stands straight, raises his wand.   "In," he says harshly, and everyone knows what he means.   Severus straightens, brings his wand to bear as well. He does not speak; there is no need. Minerva, Remus, Sirius, and Ron all follow suit, and as Neville joins the line, they move around to form a semicircle.   Voldemort stares at them in uncomprehending horror. They are all smiling at him, a grim smile that says nothing of joy, nothing of hope- and everything of finality.   "No," he says, and crosses his arms in stubborn resistance.   And then lurches suddenly forward, pitching headfirst over the edge and vanishing into the crevasse, arms windmilling madly, a long wail of despair following him for what seems like an eternity before cutting suddenly off. A cloud of green smoke wafts up in the wake of his passage to drift across the ground, blanketing their ankles in coldness. An intense chartreuse flame erupts from the cleft an instant later, and all is quiet for a long moment.   Then, as if even the earth wants nothing to do with Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort, a massive jet of steam erupts upward, and with a massive clatter, dozens and dozens of bones- and a single serpentine skull- rain to the ground.   They're petrified.   A scant five seconds later, the earth heaves mightily, and everyone scrambles for support.   "Looks like Voldemort gives even the planet indigestion," Ron observes grimly. He watches as Harry bends over to collect the bones of his defeated enemy; they are oddly altered, clearly warped from their human beginnings to something unspeakable. I am sure that, as he stares at these bones, Harry is horrified to think that they came to be with the help of his own blood.   "This cavern may not be around much longer," Sirius says in a matter-of-fact tone, gently lifting Minerva in his arms. "We should go now."   When he steps away from the edge of the crevasse, however, all movement ceases, and seven pairs of eyes turn to stare at the stone of the cavern wall.   From the wall behind where Voldemort had stood, pressing forward, is what could almost be a carving of a human arm and hand, poised in the aftermath of a very satisfying shove.   The ground shakes again, breaking the odd reverie into which everyone had briefly fallen, and Sirius repeats his suggestion that it is well past time to leave.   Severus is paying him no mind, however. He is looking anxiously around the cavern.   "Hermione!" he cries suddenly. "Where is Hermione?"   The silence is deafening as no one answers him.     A/N: Oh, dear, I've gone and done it again, haven't I? I've long known that my writing style fosters the development of cliffhangers, most of which have been pleasant torture to those of you who have reviewed- although no one, myself included, likes them to hang on indefinitely. So I wanted to pass on one bit of info tho those who would accuse me of stringing everyone along: anyone who thinks that this is a cliffhanger should ask The White Knight what this chapter's ending was like before the final edit. It was two paragraphs longer- and the cliff was a mile higher. I had to talk my poor dedicated beta reader down, and then agreed to back up two paragraphs to prevent apoplexy in my readers, and to avoid a misunderstanding which might have arisen if I'd given everyone long enough to think about it. (I don't think it was a big danger, but after the experience I had just apparently given The White Knight, I could hardly refuse such hfeltfelt advice.) So just think- it could have been worse. As it is, you have the satisfaction of knowing that Chapter 23 is done and just being polished up, and will be posted within a day or so. ;-)                                                   A/N: For those questioning whether the locket's powers would have worked on Hogwarts grounds, we know Portkeys work at Hogwarts- in GoF, that was how Barty Crouch got Harry to Voldemort. By turning the Cup into a Portkey. They were on the Quidditch field, which is still Hogwarts grounds. Besides- House Elves seem to pop in and out, so there must be some kinds of magic that let you move around Hogwarts without walking.