Mercy || Hermione Granger (Temporarily Discontinued)

Chapter 4

Warning - Long Chapter

1491 Words 

The world had ended, so why had the battle not ceased, the castle fallen silent in horror, and every combatant laid down their arms? Harry's mind was in free fall, spinning out of control, unable to grasp the impossibility, because Fred Weasley could not be dead, the evidence of all his senses must be lying —

And then a body fell past the hole blown into the side of the school, and curses flew in at them from the darkness, hitting the wall behind their heads. 

A few minutes in silence, they extract Fred's body from under the rumble and take him somewhere safe. 

As Harry wipes his brow, grazing his scar, trying to dispel the pain he feels -- Regulus studies him intently. 

"Look inside him Harry" says Regulus. 

"You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he'll have the snake with him, won't he? Do it, Harry — look inside him!"  adds Hermione

Why was it so easy? Because his scar had been burning for hours, yearning to show him Voldemort's thoughts? He closed his eyes on her command, and at once, the screams and the bangs and all the discordant sounds of the battle were drowned until they became distant, as though he stood far, far away from them. . . . 

He was standing in the middle of a desolate but strangely familiar room, with peeling paper on the walls and all the windows boarded except for one. The sounds of the assault on the castle were muffled and distant. The single unblocked window revealed distant bursts of light where the castle stood, but inside the room it was dark except for a solitary oil lamp. 

He was rolling his wand between his fingers, watching it, his thoughts on the room in the castle, the secret room only he had ever found, the room, like the Chamber, that you had to be clever and cunning and inquisitive to discover. . . . He was confident that the boy would not find the diadem . . . although Dumbledore's puppet had come much farther than he had ever expected . . . too far. . . .

"My Lord," said a voice, desperate and cracked. He turned: There was Lucius Malfoy sitting in the darkest corner, ragged and still bearing the marks of the punishment he had received after the boy's last escape. One of his eyes remained closed and puffy. "My Lord . . .please . . . my son . . ." 

"If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault. He did not come and join me, like the rest of the Slytherins. Perhaps he has decided to befriend Harry Potter?"

"No — never," whispered Malfoy. 

"You must hope not." 

"Aren't — aren't you afraid, my Lord, that Potter might die at another hand but yours?" asked Malfoy, his voice shaking. "Wouldn't it be . . . forgive me . . . more prudent to call off this battle, enter the castle, and seek him y-yourself?" 

"Do not pretend, Lucius. You wish the battle to cease so that you can discover what has happened to your son. And I do not need to seek Potter. Before the night is out, Potter will have come to find me. "Voldemort dropped his gaze once more to the wand in his fingers. 

It troubled him . . . and those things that troubled Lord Voldemort needed to be rearranged. . . . 

"Go and fetch Snape." 

"Snape, m-my Lord?" 

"Snape. Now. I need him. There is a — service — I require from him. Go."