Lord Voldemort was still staring at him, waiting for him to show allegiance. Not daring to speak, Belfry bowed his head in deference. What else could he do? Despite Barrett's words, he knew that the Dark Lord did not trust him.

Luckily, Voldemort had other things on his mind. Momentarily satisfied by Belfry's bowed head, he turned to the body of the werewolf on the ground.

"Ennervate," he said slowly, as though enjoying every syllable. Belfry was surprised to see the young man's eyes slowly open. He had written him off as dead several minutes ago.

"Hello, Kirill," Voldemort said, almost gleefully. He was leaning over the young man, putting his horrible face directly in the dying man's line of sight.

"I have bad news and, well, more bad news for you, I'm afraid," the Dark Lord said, in mock apology. He held up one finger.

"First, you're dying."

He held up a second finger.

"Second, everyone you care about will be joining you soon. And I promise you – their deaths won't be as painless as yours."

Voldemort bent even closer to the werewolf's face, baring his teeth menacingly.

"You failed, wolf. All of your plotting and running and fighting amounted to nothing. I have won."

The dying man did not respond. How could he? He could barely keep his own heart beating.

Finished with his taunting, the Dark Lord straightened, and finally conjured robes to cover his pale body. He turned to Barrett, who was cradling his truncated left arm to his chest. Despite his fanatical zeal, the leader of HAWE was looking a bit worse for wear.

Cocking his head in thought, Voldemort raised his wand again and conjured a shimmering swirl of silver. Shaping it in midair, he fashioned a solid silver hand.

"A present, for my most faithful servant," Voldemort said, bringing the hand down to Barrett. The man's eyes widened, and he held out the cauterized stump where his real hand used to be. Silver met flesh, and as the hand bound itself to him, he wiggled the fingers experimentally.

"Thank you, my lord," he said, awestruck.

Voldemort turned back to the werewolf, nudging the limp body with his foot.

"Take him to Hogwarts. Make sure he's dead, then leave him outside the gates and cast the Mark. That will send the dottering old fool a message he won't forget."

"My Lord, I thought you wanted to remain in hiding for a while longer," Barrett said uncertainly. "That will alert the whole world to your presence."

Voldemort waved his concerns away.

"I have a new strategy now. Take that one," he gestured to Belfry, "and go. I have a date with the Azkaban dementors tonight."

"As you wish, my lord."

For the first time since they had arrived in the graveyard, Barrett met Belfry's eyes. He gestured to the werewolf. Feeling numb, Marcus followed Barrett's unspoken order. He knelt down and grabbed a fistful of the werewolf's shirt. Barrett grasped his shoulder, and Apparated all three of them to the familiar wrought iron gate outside the Hogwarts grounds.

Barrett immediately stepped away, raising his wand arm to cast the Dark Mark. Belfry was left kneeling next to the werewolf, and he gave a start when he realized that the man was still alive – and staring at him. His lips were moving.

"What?" Belfry leaned closer, trying to catch the man's words.

"He hasn't won yet. FIGHT."

Marcus pulled back, gaping at the werewolf. As he watched, the amber eyes lost focus, and grew dim. The face went still, and Belfry put his fingers to the man's cheek. It was already cold.

It took a moment for Belfry to realize that Barrett was yelling at him.

"The Mark is cast, we have to get out of here! Is he dead yet?"

Belfry just sat there, staring down at the young man. Defiant, to the last.

"Oy, Belfry!"

Marcus jerked from his stupor, and remembered just how much trouble he was in. He looked over at Barrett and nodded.

"Yeah, he's dead."

"Good, let's get out of here before old Dumblesnore sees us. Meet me back at the Dragon."

Belfry stood, wiping clammy palms on his trousers. He heard the crack of Apparition, and knew that Barrett was gone. He looked up, preparing to Apparate himself – and froze.

His daughter was staring at him from the other side of the Hogwarts gate.

For a moment, Clara just stood there, dumbstruck. There was a Dark Mark in the sky. The green snake slithered through the mouth of the spectral skull, and she almost retched. Though she had never seen a Dark Mark in person, she had seen a lot of pictures – and she knew exactly what it meant. Fear twisted in the pit of her stomach.

What am I going to do?

If she ran back to the castle and called for help, whoever had cast the Mark would get away. They might be hurting or killing even more people right now. She had to at least try to do something. But Dumbledore and the other professors had to know. Chances are, she would need help with whatever awaited her under that Mark.

With a monstrous effort, Clara wrenched her thoughts away from the skull in the sky, and concentrated on her happiest memory.

She and her mother were in Brighton, wandering along the pier. It was hot – a rare event, even during summer in England. The sun was shining, and the two women were eating ice cream cones. They looked at each other and smiled. For a moment, they forgot that anything existed outside of that moment.

"Expecto Patronum!" Clara yelled. She had only succeeded twice in conjuring her Patronus, so she was pleasantly surprised when the blue-grey hawk burst from the tip of her wand.

"Find Dumbledore!" she cried. "Tell him there's a Dark Mark outside the gate!"

Her Patronus swept away towards the castle, and Clara turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. Her wet shoes squelched in the grass, but she ignored the unpleasant feeling of water soaking her socks. She was nearing the gate, she was almost there…

She stood, gasping for breath, holding out a hand to grip one of the iron posts. The sight before her refused to register in her mind. The ragged, bloodstained form of a man lay on the ground not ten feet from her. She couldn't tell if he was alive or dead. Standing over him, looking directly at her, was her father.

The two Belfrys stared at each other for a long moment. Clara's eyes bore ruthlessly into her father, who seemed uncharacteristically shaken. He blinked once, twice, looked down at the man at his feet, then back up at her.

"I'm sorry, baby," he said, his voice trembling. "I'm so sorry."

With a crack, he was gone. Clara stared uncomprehendingly at the space he had left behind. Her father hadn't called her baby in a decade.

Shaking herself free from her momentary stupor, Clara realized that the man on the ground was not moving. She cursed, grabbed the huge iron ring in the middle of the gate, and heaved.

The gate didn't move an inch. She cursed again, more loudly this time. How the hell were you supposed to open this thing?

"Let me out!" she cried, throwing her body weight against the wrought iron. Maybe it was a push door, not a pull door.

There should be signs, she thought darkly as the gate still refused to move. She pulled on the iron ring again, letting loose a string of curses when an imperfection in the metal sliced the skin of her palm, leaving behind a small trail of blood.

Still, the man did not move. Clara was getting desperate. The gates were high, there was no way she could climb them. Walls to either side of them were huge, smooth, and unfriendly-looking. She was sure that it was more than just stone and metal keeping people from leaving or entering Hogwarts. Enchantments kept the young wizards inside the castle safe at all times.

Those same enchantments were less useful when someone outside the castle needed help from within, though.

"Come on!" Clara yelled in frustration. "Can't you see he's in trouble?"

She heaved on the iron ring again, and fell backwards with surprise when it suddenly gave under the pressure. The huge gate was swinging open. There was no time to wonder why it had granted her passage. Clara scrambled to her feet, and raced toward the man, falling to her knees at his side.

She wasn't surprised to see the face of Professor Lupin staring out at her from behind thick stubble and bloodstained hair. His eyes were wide and fixed, and her stomach lurched.

He was dead.

"No," she said defiantly. "No, no, no, no, no. You are not going to prove yourself right like this."

She ran her palm along his cheek, and then along his chest. His extremities were cold, but his core was still warm. He hadn't been dead long.

He's not GOING to be dead for long, either, she thought grimly. Not if I can help it.

She overlapped her hands, laced her fingers, straightened her elbows, and pressed down hard on her former professor's chest. Again. Again.

"You win, Lupin," she growled in between compressions. Taking a deep breath, she tilted his head back and placed her mouth over his. Pushing air into his lungs, she tried to ignore the fact that she was essentially making out with a dead werewolf.

"You hear me? You win. I believe you."

More compressions. Another breath.

"You were right, my father is a murdering asshole. I am not him. I don't ever want to be him."

Compressions. Breath. This was exhausting.

"I get it. Your point is made. Now wake the fuck up!"

The man showed no sign of life. His eyes were still wide open and staring. She checked his pulse. Nothing.

"Goddammit."

She kept at it. Long minutes passed. This was tiring work, and she was losing hope. A distant part of her brain found it ironic that it was her father who had taught her Muggle CPR.

The sound of shouts and pounding feet announced the arrival of help. She didn't even look up.

"He needs Madam Pomfrey!" she cried, panting. To her relief, the voice of the woman herself answered her.

"I'm right here, my dear."

The plump matron already had her wand out, and Clara felt strong arms pull her away from Professor Lupin as Madam Pomfrey flicked her wand expertly and sent a pulse of electricity lacing through the young man's body. His chest jerked, then fell still again.

Clara fought instinctively against the arms that held her.

"It's alright, Clara, it's alright," Dumbledore soothed in her ear. But it wasn't alright. Lupin was dead, and something very strange was happening in Clara's head.

Everything seemed… sharper, somehow. Smells and sounds were stronger. Her senses were overwhelming. Her whole body was shaking. What was wrong with her?

Through eyes that were somehow finding brilliant colors in the dark, Clara saw her hands trembling. They were dark red – covered in Professor Lupin's blood. Turning them over, she held her palms to the moonlight. She had forgotten about the cut from the iron gate.

She had forgotten about an open wound. And she had just ground it into a werewolf's bloody chest, again and again.

Whether it was from the shock of finding her father standing under a Dark Mark, the exertion and stress of trying to save Lupin, or the horrible sensation of lycanthropy spreading through her veins, Clara didn't know. All she knew was that the world was going black, and Dumbledore's concerned voice was fading to silence.

A/N: See? Told you it wouldn't take long! Hope you enjoyed, please don't hurt me...