"What's going to happen to Harry?" Ginny said in a ghostly voice. She did not look up as she spoke. She was cradling Hermione's hand in her palm, rubbing it gently. Hermione was still as death. Did not Ginny feel the faint, quietly rhythmic pulse in the hand she held, she would not have known that the woman lying in bed before her was alive at all.
Ron, sitting in a chair on the other side of Hermione's bed, shook his head heavily. "He's not right in the head. They wouldn't...I mean...you don't reckon they'd actually send him to Azkaban?"
"He killed someone, Ron," Ginny said tonelessly, her eyes never leaving Hermione.
"He killed Malfoy," Ron said acidly. "They should give him the ruddy Order of Merlin."
"You don't mean that," Ginny said in a voice more hopeful than certain.
"He was a Death Eater! He had the ruddy Dark Mark on his arm, same as his dad. The world's better off without that -- that -- " Ron couldn't seem to find a blasphemy foul enough to express his disgust, so he settled for a dismissive toss of his head. "If I'd been in Harry's place, I'd have done the same thing."
"Would you?" Ginny said quietly.
Ron was staring intently at Hermione. His feelings toward his best friend's wife were an open secret to those who knew him. He steadfastly kept them under lock and key, out of love for both of them. But they were no less real and powerful for that.
"If it were you lying here," Ron said in an attempt at subterfuge which deceived neither of them, "I'd have torn Malfoy's head off with my bare hands and fed it to Buckbeak."
Ron leaned in, brushing away a strand of chestnut hair which the cross-ventilation had trailed across Hermione's unresponsive face. His throat tightened as he looked down on her. Her once rosy cheeks were the color of marble. Tiny marks were visible on her face and arms, reminders that, even in the wizarding world, potions and healing spells had only so much power at their command. In the final equation, humanity could inflict suffering and death to a far greater degree than even the most skilled Healers could alleviate it.
"You should have owled me," Ron said. It was not a reproach so much as a lament. "I should have been here sooner."
"The tomb that you and Bill were de-cursing isn't on any map," Ginny said. "And the Gringotts goblins wouldn't reveal its location."
"Pig would've found me," Ron persisted. "The feathery little git loves to annoy me. He'd find me in a class six hurricane just for the pleasure of driving me nutters."
"You know as well as I do," Ginny returned gently, "that the first spell a Gringotts curse-breaker learns is the Concealment Charm. Nothing can get through it."
"As soon as I got back," Ron said sickly, "the first thing I saw was a banner headline in the Daily Prophet screaming, 'The Boy Who Killed,' with Harry's face underneath. I Apparated straight to the Ministry. Dumbledore got me in to see Harry straightaway. Signed the visitation order himself. But he wouldn't tell me a bleedin' thing. Didn't he know how important -- "
As Ron's words choked off, Ginny said, "That's why he didn't tell you. You'd find out soon enough. And I don't think he could bear to see the pain in your eyes when you learned the truth."
Hot tears streamed down Ron's face as he took Hermione's other hand and caressed it. "If Harry goes to Azkaban, someone will have to take care of Hermione."
"Her parents can do that," Ginny said, reading her brother's thoughts as if they were branded on his forehead in the pattern of his freckles.
"They're Muggles," Ron said weakly.
"Hermione isn't suffering from a magical malady," Ginny said patiently.
Ron's tears burned his face. Since leaving Harry, he'd pieced the entire story together from various sources. The details were seared upon his soul as if by an Incendio spell.
In the years following the final destruction of Voldemort, the Dark Lord's innermost circle of Death Eaters determined to keep the flame of their fallen master's dream of purification and conquest alive. In a recondite struggle for power, one finally emerged as his master's acknowledged successor. If certain lesser rivals remained unconvinced of his qualifications, he himself harbored no doubts in the matter. With his dark knowledge and fanatical devotion to the cause, and fueled by an ambition second to none, Lucius Malfoy saw himself as the one and only true heir to Lord Voldemort.
The Ministry of Magic likewise recognized Lucius as Voldemort's ultimate successor, largely on the strength of information gleaned by the Order of the Phoenix (which was now a clandestine arm of the Aurors, the result of a secret directive from the office of newly-appointed Minister Albus Dumbledore). It was the latter organization, in a raid led by Dumbledore himself, which ultimately cornered Lucius in a dark castle in Eastern Europe and extinguished his dreams of power and conquest forever. Choosing to stand rather than flee, Lucius was cut down, by all accounts, by Dumbledore, whose advancing years had in no wise diminished the power of his magic. But when Lucius' body was returned to Malfoy Manor for burial, Draco blamed one person alone for his father's "murder"; one who, though indisputably a member of the attacking squad, was in the rear guard and had not cast so much as a single spell ere the last Death Eater fell: Harry Potter.
Draco determined that the only equitable punishment for Harry was the destruction of the person he loved most, even as Draco had loved his father above all others. As Harry clearly loved no one in the world more than his wife, Draco's path of vengeance was equally clear. Spiriting her away from Hogsmeade via a cleverly disguised portkey, Draco, emulating both his father and the master whom they had both served with unquestioning fealty, savagely exacted his revenge in the manner described to Ron by Harry in the Ministry dungeons.
Hermione was found the following day, the portkey having returned her to the very spot from which she'd been taken. She was unconscious, naked, bruised and bleeding from scores of cruel wounds. Discovered by a wizard shopkeeper who was just opening his store, Hermione was hurriedly wrapped in a cloak and taken inside while Hogsmeade's resident Healer was summoned. But upon being revived by the medi-witch, Hermione immediately exploded into hysterical screams so intense that nothing short of a Stunning Spell could arrest her frenzy. She was quickly transferred to St. Mungo's, whose director summoned Harry without delay.
All this Ron learned from sources including The Daily Prophet, certain junior Aurors whose professional baggage did not yet include the sagacity of discretion, and patrons of the Three Broomsticks and the Hogs' Head, to whom discretion was as extraneous as a Muggle-born in Slytherin House.
The final, grimmest piece of the puzzle came directly from the resident Healers at the hospital:
"Your wife is suffering from a deep emotional trauma," the hospital director told Harry, who was himself
nearly hysterical. "The moment she is Ennervated, she reverts to a wild hysteria which nothing short of total
unconsciousness can suspend. Obviously, we cannot treat her properly under such conditions. Twice we have had to awaken
her to give her small doses of healing potions. But to Ennervate her even for the briefest of periods plunges her
deeper into the pit of her terrors. I fear that a prolongation of such efforts will result in irreversible insanity.
What she experienced was evidently so horrific that her mind's only defense is utter denial. A war is raging inside
her, more terrible than any fought with wands and Dark Curses. It is a conflict which must ultimately destroy her. I
regret to say, Mr. Potter, that your wife may be faced with the prospect of spending the remainder of her life in such
condition as you see her now."
"Can't you perform a Memory Charm?" Harry asked desperately. Looking down on his wife, Harry experienced a piercing of his heart he'd not felt since they day he'd seen her lying in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, petrified by the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets in their second year. Then, at least, there had been hope to cling to. The Mandrake draught would ultimately retore her to full healthfulness, with no lasting harm done. But now, Harry found himself reaching out desperately, only to find his hands grasping hopelessly at empty air.
"Our Probing Spells reveal that such a Charm has been performed, to erase the identity of her attacker," the director said. "We may never know who did this unspeakable thing to her."
Harry knew. Deep in his gut, he knew only one person could do so heinous a thing. But that was not the issue of the moment. "So perform another Memory Charm," he demanded.
"We cannot," the director said. "Her mind is tilting too close to the edge. Even the slightest nudge could send her into a realm from which there is no returning. Total insanity. In that eventuality, our options would be reduced to one alone: the Complete Obliviate."
"But that," Harry said with a shudder, "would completely erase her mind."
"Yes," the administrator said gravely. "But there is still room for hope. St. Mungo's is not the only wizarding facility of its kind in the world. I have sent owls to every expert in the field. If there is an alternative I have overlooked..."
His face streaked with tears of helpless frustration, Harry bolted from the hospital.
He was discovered three days later, in the Shrieking Shack. He was sitting against the basement wall, his robes peppered with blood, beside the mutilated body of Draco Malfoy. The villagers had scrupulously avoided the terrible screams emanating from the old house on the edge of town throughout the preceding 72 hours. But a new and, in its way, even more terrible sound had drawn them at the last: The sound of wild, insane laughter.
Ginny had left her chair and now stood beside Ron, her hands on his shoulders, as if seeking comfort from his
touch.
"What's going to happen to them?" she sobbed piteously, her hands trembling as their grip tightened claw-like on her brother's robes. "Th-they're both in a prison. C-can't someone help them?"
Ron released Hermione's hand, took his sister's wrists and drew her onto his lap. As he enveloped her in a fierce hug, her head cradled on his shoulder, he said hollowly, "I dunno. But if you've ever prayed in your life, do it now. It may be the only chance they've got."
Author's Note: Wow! If I'd known I'd get this kind of response, I'd have moved this story up even sooner. Darkfics, huh? Who knew?
As you have now seen (and befitting the category), the skies just keep getting darker over Harry. Will the sun ever come out (shut up, Annie, go shave Daddy Warbucks' head, why don'cha)? I can't give anything away, of course. But there may be a few readers who, like reviewer Enter Name, sense that events are moving in a straight (and predictable) line. To them and everyone else, I say: Don't look now, but there is a curve or two waiting on the road ahead. I hope I can surprise a few people before the tale is told.
Again, thanks to everyone who jumped on board last time. I hope you'll stay all the way to the end of the line. It's a short trip...and it's free. Look for Chapter 3 next week. I hope to see you then.