Professor Quirrell was on the defensive, now. He had held off Baba Yaga and Perenelle before, but even he had his limits.

Riddle was more powerful than he had been before. David Monroe had spent his decade alone in space planning new spells and rituals, consolidating his grasp of power, and now Riddle had somehow surpassed him despite having been conscious and sane for under a minute.

He really should have thought of this.

He'd recognised, of course, that this plan would be absurdly risky.

But "risk" meant very little to David Monroe, what with his Horcruxes and certain other special measures he'd taken.

This had obviously all been set up in advance in some manner. He didn't have time to think who the mastermind might have been.

Possessing Granger probably hadn't been part of the plan, so Riddle must have a backup body... and yes, Baba Yaga had drawn something from a hidden pocket and cast it to the ground, and a too-tall man's form lay still on the ground, glowing faintly blue. Breaking the possession would be pointless.

There was an Anti-Apparition Jinx up now, which he could trivially break if he weren't, in fact, fighting for his life.

Riddle ran beneath him, inhuman speed more than making up for his lack of broomstick bones, and David barely deflected a wave of wrongness that turned space in on itself and sucked the magic out of the air.

Even Dumbledore wasn't this powerful.

And he made the obvious connection. Riddle had somehow gone to the Flamels and arranged this, and the price he'd asked for, in exchange for retrieving their Stone, was all their hoarded lore...

David's wand was almost knocked out of his hand by the next wave of magic. He was tiring, fast.

Harry was under his Cloak, and if he had something up his sleeve, it wasn't helping David now.

He had no allies yet living who could meaningfully aid him.

Harry was wearing the True Cloak of Invisibility. He had broomsticks and emergency Portkeys. If all else failed, he was connected to the Horcruxes. The boy could look after himself.

Winning this battle was not on the table, but he'd planned for this eventuality, just in case, because there was no "too paranoid" when it came to Voldemort. He might be able to defeat the Dark Lord, if it came to a Second Wizarding War, so long as he still held the Philosopher's Stone.

Lose.

Without warning, David shot up into the sky like a bullet from a gun, weaving airtight shields around himself, inclining to the side and out of the range of the Jinx, and finally vanished with a soft pop of Apparition.

OoOoO

The Dark Lord has returned. Professor Quirrell cannot stop him. He will take the Philosopher's Stone and tear apart everything you know. He has Hermione's body and the magic of a troll and unicorn. He has over a hundred Horcruxes.

Solve.

... Harry couldn't think of anything Professor Quirrell wouldn't already have thought of.

What can I do that he can't? What can I do that he wouldn't?

Tom Riddle has a severe known bias: systematically failing to properly consider other people.

Harry looked at his Patronus.

He closed his eyes and willed it to listen to him: go to Professor Dumbledore and tell him this: the Dark Lord has returned. Come quickly, with help.

The Patronus vanished.

Sirius seemed to have fallen to magical exhaustion, and Quirrell was fighting alone.

Harry looked up and saw Professor Quirrell fly high, high into the sky and Disapparate, and his stomach sank. No, no, no...

Albus Dumbledore burned into existence in all the fury of his wizardry, Snape, McGonagall, Bones and Moody about him.

And the Dark Lord turned and blasted him with a curse that broke Dumbledore's rapid counterspell with a mighty crack, and Dumbledore stumbled back with his face showing raw shock.

THINK! Harry screamed at his brain. Quirrell had taken the Stone and fled, but if Harry left now, he would leave four people to die - and maybe Dumbledore too, if Voldemort and Baba Yaga and Perenelle combined could overcome the wielder of the Elder Wand.

The Order of the Phoenix fanned out, setting themselves behind Dumbledore, raising their wands.

The Dark Lord held his wand casually in Hermione's hand, smirking.

"It was foolish of you to come here tonight, Albus," said Tom Riddle with Hermione Granger's voice, in an entirely uncaring tone that Hermione herself had never once used.

Dumbledore might have been mistaken for a statue.

Hermione's lips curled into a smile, and Voldemort gestured to the two at his side. "Your friends the Flamels were very forthcoming with their secrets, you know."

Dumbledore did break, then, and his gaze flicked between Baba Yaga and Perenelle with a terrible comprehension, and the Dark Lord laughed.

Harry was reminded horribly of the feeling when he'd finally put two and two together and guessed that Professor Quirrell was Lord Voldemort.

"Nihil supernum," said Dumbledore, and nothing more.

OoOoO

Minerva stood beneath the moonlight, keeping steady control over her breathing.

Riddle did have a flair for the dramatic - unless that's another mask - but that wasn't the only reason for this delay.

Most offensive magic made some sort of sign, some sound or light or tangible sense of magic that might actually be significant in a duel this close. There might be other subtleties to consider, with the sort of Interdicted magic Albus used.

It seemed hopeless. Minerva didn't understand what was happening, but if the Flamels had joined Voldemort she doubted even Albus could triumph.

I see you still look to others to save you.

David Monroe had said those words to her, and after the useless indignation had faded, she'd mulled them over.

What can I do, personally, to make a difference?

Transfiguration, came the obvious answer.

Minerva hesitated. Using Transfiguration in combat was, was...

Was significantly less dangerous than letting Lord Voldemort live.

She couldn't match Albus in skill, but perhaps there was something even he wouldn't think of...

She could not afford - no, the entire world could not afford for her to be squeamish.

She looked hard at the enemy, and tried to think like Harry Potter, look for some Hufflepuff bones to sharpen.

Voldemort was shielded already, naturally, nothing outside the shield. That wouldn't stop anything Dumbledore cast, but it would slow down lesser magic and mundane forces. Albus Dumbledore was no pureblood supremacist - he had heard of such things as sniper rifles, and Voldemort had adapted accordingly.

The Flamels, then. Albus had told her they were not accustomed to interference, knowledgeable but lacking the insight that was essential for a powerful wizard or witch to make best use of eldritch lore. They were certainly not used to combat, if Albus had ever known them truly.

And that was no lie. Perenelle Flamel was fidgeting ever-so-slightly, hadn't even removed her cloak yet, the sweeping fabric trailing far away from her.

She was powerful and deadly. But she was not a Battle Mage.

Minerva considered the form and substance of Perenelle's cloak, the interwoven cloth fibres that composed it.

She could theoretically take one of those threads and pull it out.

One couldn't Transfigure part of an object - at least, she couldn't - but one could Transfigure an object that so happened to be touching another.

Like, say, one of the threads of a cloak.

Minerva extended her magic, steadily, subtly, whilst Voldemort taunted Dumbledore.

The Dark Lord would certainly notice such an... unusual attack, sense the trace of magic. But a witch who hadn't duelled in half a millennium?

The time taken to Transfigure something into a target is a function of its volume and that of the target form.

Minerva Transfigured a thread of the cloak into a loop of razor wire.

Beneath the moonlight glints a tiny fragment of silver, a fraction of a line...

And Minerva Transfigured the loop into another, identical one, one hundredth of an inch across.

(black robes, falling)

Blood spills out in litres

Minerva cried Finite and ended the magic, even as Dumbledore and Voldemort clashed together in a burst of red and green light, and somewhere in the background a too-adult child's voice incanted Frigideiro, and Baba Yaga bellowed and turned her staff on Minerva McGonagall.

Harry had seen the blonde witch fall, and only hesitated the barest fraction of a second before casting the Cooling Charm.

Killing Curses streamed from Baba Yaga's staff towards Professor McGonagall, but they burst into nothingness against Harry's Patronus.

Dumbledore's wand was a blur of grey, and he was flying low over the ground, held up by Fawkes. He was throwing everything he had at the Dark Lord, but he was too busy trying to shield the others from Voldemort, Harry could see.

Moody was already stumbling, and Bones didn't look much better.

Voldemort gestured, and a burst of balls of fire hissed at all four Order members. Dumbledore evoked a wall of purple light that sustained the impacts, but was sent staggering away by the bolt of sickly yellow that drilled through it. Dumbledore began to say something, but the infant spell shattered under a beam from Voldemort's wand.

Baba Yaga was holding off all four of Dumbledore's allies together. Battlefield control, Professor Quirrell had once said, was a Battle Magic speciality, and Voldemort exemplified it.

What deadly powers can I access? What force multiplier can I use?

Voldemort didn't have his broomstick bones. If he didn't have the Order to protect, the mobility afforded to Dumbledore by Fawkes could help... but it probably wasn't enough...

...And if the Order left, Voldemort and Baba Yaga could both concentrate force on Dumbledore. Defeated in detail.

Harry had recognised its dark side for what it was, and he was employing every last instinct of Riddle's to find some weapon to bring to bear on his progenitor.

With Voldemort's aid, Baba Yaga had cut off Snape and McGonagall from Bones and Moody.

Harry realised with a jolt of panic what was going to happen an instant before it did.

A curse from Baba Yaga winged towards Professor McGonagall, passed cleanly through Harry's Patronus.

Snape was already there in front of her, a Shield Charm on his lips.

And Voldemort leapt up, five metres or more, over Dumbledore's head, and ripped away Snape's shielding.

The Potions Master made no noise as he fell, a hole punched cleanly through his chest.

Harry raised his wand and formed once more the words of the Cooling Charm-

And Voldemort blasted Snape's body to ash and dust, because as far as Albus Dumbledore knew, a dead body wasn't worth worrying about.

OoOoO

It should have had more gravity, that moment. Severus Snape was dark and brooding, complicated and mysterious. He wasn't supposed to just die like that. It just wasn't appropriate. His death, if it happened at all, should be poignant and dramatic. He should have leapt in front of Professor McGonagall and pushed her to safety, not sort of awkwardly ended up in the path of the curse meant for her.

He should have looked finally at peace in death, maybe whispered Lily Evans' name one last time, not collapsed in an undignified heap and then been cremated by Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was not stupid. He had seen what Harry had done when Perenelle died, and spared a curse to stop Harry from playing the party Cleric.

Harry could see it all unfolding. Perhaps the Order could still flee, but he didn't see how. Even if they could, Voldemort wasn't playing games any more. Magical Britain might not have hours this time, let alone years.

Harry had never known Snape well, but he had given his life and his happiness in service against Voldemort, stood for decades against the darkness, for all his flaws.

Intent to kill.

In the cold light of Tom Riddle's dark intelligence, the battlefield faded into a series of possible weapons, the emotional shock of Snape's death muted.

What is unusual about this place? What won't he anticipate? What can kill Lord Voldemort?

Professor Quirrell's voice in his head replied: some sort of truly greater, insurmountable magical effect, such that the world would be forever without the Dark Lord...

What is lost to Dark Rituals cannot be regained.

Harry Potter froze in horror.

Why, yes, yes there was something here that could kill the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord who was in Hermione Granger's body.

Please, no...

Overruled, spoke the voice in his mind of... of Albus Dumbledore and Professor Quirrell and Mad-Eye Moody and Draco Malfoy and Slytherin and Gryffindor and Ravenclaw and even Hufflepuff and Hermione Granger herself.

But they weren't voices in his mind, they were all just him, just different ways he could think, and there was just... simply no way that Harry could think that gave him a different answer.

Harry reached down and touched his wand to the sacrificial circle Quirrell had drawn. The Philosopher's Stone had left it not just permanent but nonmagical. Breaking the shape of the circle wouldn't break the magic, because there was no magic.

He was empty and sick and he thought he might be crying, but he wasn't trembling, and his mind was still clear.

Hermione had been his best friend from the very beginning. His first friend, in fact. He had gone to extreme lengths to protect her. He had looked at Lucius Malfoy and the Dementors of Azkaban and Death itself, and refused to let any of them touch Hermione Granger.

But he was not the only person who felt like that about someone else. How many people would die, if it came to a Second Wizarding War? How many would feel exactly how Harry had?

That's not an apt comparison, protested some final part of him, weakly. Those people might still be retrievable, they aren't going to be SACRIFICED TO DARK RITUALS-

Shut up and multiply.

Harry Potter knelt beneath the moonlight, tears streaming down his face, and began to Transfigure the sacrificial circle around Hermione Granger.

OoOoO

Author's Note: If you have any ideas for how Harry could get Hermione out of this, I would very much like to hear them.