Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I'm only playing.
A/N: First of all, thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed the Prologue to this, as well as my other stories. And danielerin and victoria_tonks, I don't know how to thank you; not only have you left such lovely reviews, you've been talking about the stories on PK boards and your own LJ's as well. I'm still not convinced I deserve that much attention.
And of course, hugs to miconic for the absolutely thorough beta-work and for holding my hand when I have my panic attacks.
So, here goes Chapter 1, hope it's up to expectations. If not, I hope you'll tell me. And just a reminder that I've taken liberties with a certain Hogwarts 'fact' as you'll soon find out, so bear with me.
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Chapter One
She has been voiceless for a month and half. One morning towards the end of the summer holidays at the Burrow, they all woke up to find Hermione missing. The night before she had dozed off in an armchair with a dusty book on her lap until she was shooed away to bed by Mrs. Weasley. No one had seen her after that. Ginny straggled downstairs halfway through breakfast next morning and everyone looked at her expectantly. She stared blankly back.
Hermione's bed hadn't been slept in and her pillow was missing.
The Order was alerted at once and the Ministry express-owled. Dumbledore and Remus visited her parents; her mother clutched an embroidered table cloth tight enough to leave a rent and her father threatened that as soon as his daughter was found, she would be removed from Hogwarts, severed from the world of magic and kept safe in her own home, finishing off her education in a normal, respectable muggle college.
She was gone for two whole days. For two whole days Harry didn't have a single meal, and only went to bed when Remus threatened to cast a potent sleeping charm. Once in bed he lay unmoving on his back, clutching his belly where the constant gnawing in his stomach wrangled with the rising salty scream just above it.
An army of wizards mobilized by Dumbledore scoured the wizarding neighbourhood. Hermione's muggle haunts, of which there weren't that many, were raked through. Many were questioned; muggle and wizard alike, and scores of memories searched with or without the consent of the person. Even Hogwarts was searched thoroughly. Mrs. Weasley's protests about Harry and Ron joining the search died upon seeing the look on Harry's face.
Harry's nerves coiled tighter and tighter as the hours passed by. There were moments when he could feel the frenzied motion of blood in his own veins, bearing down on a point in his chest.
Useless you are, Harry, damn useless.
You can fight dragons and duel with evil wizards but what are you doing now?
Then, on the night of the third day, there was a knock on the door. They were all vegetating in various states of anguish in the living room, a fire roaring to pelt the sudden chill that descended with the heavy downpour outside, waiting for members of the Order to come straggling in with the results of the day's activities. Hearing the knock, Fred, who was lounging on the floor closest to the door, strode towards it. When the door swung open, his mouth dropped open. He turned around, gesturing convulsively, unable to speak. The fire burning in the grate seemed to suddenly grow still, its flames paralysed, the shadows it cast on the walls arrested midway in their ghostly billowing.
Hermione stood on the doorstep, untouched by the summer downpour except for the muddied hem of her blue pyjamas. Her hair was still in the braids she wore to bed. Her feet were bare. Caught between the light from the doorway and the wet darkness outside, she looked wraith-like, pale and insubstantial.
Once movement and speech were regained, everyone pounced on her at the same time. Hands grabbed her and pulled her inside, questions flinging at her from all quarters, fingers digging into her flesh, insistent eyes peering into hers, and voices, voices, voices.
She stood in the midst of it all, hands pressed tightly over her ears, her face contorted while strangled, hollow sounds like those of a broken wind instrument tore from her throat. They were more the shape of a sound than a sound itself, the hollow shell of expression.
Finally, Harry managed to untangle her from the frantic knot and pushed her into the couch, dropping down next to her. Her pale face lifted to his for a moment, vertical blue veins standing out on her forehead. Then she twisted herself into his side, her hands trapped between her body and her drawn up legs, and pushed her face into his shoulder.
Barely aware of what he was doing, he encircled her with his body, hiding his own tears in the back of her neck.
***
She refused to raise her head or move from his side all night. Dumbledore arrived within minutes. For twenty minutes they coaxed, wheedled and questioned, and offered sweetened impatience and true concern, but she made no sound. Finally, Harry ignored everyone in the room and took matters into his own hands. He lowered his mouth into her ear, one hand stroking the back of her clammy neck. Her fear clung to his lips.
Soon he realised the reason she wouldn't speak was because she couldn't.
As dawn broke damply over a mother-of-pearl sky, they whisked her away to St. Mungo's. Her nails left red crescents on his arm. He paced outside the door they had her cloistered in performing all sorts of tests and charms. All he could think of was that if it hurt, she couldn't even scream. Once during the interminable wait, Ron gripped him by the elbow and pushed him into a chair, shoving a green and white hospital blanket into his arms, towering over him with his hands at his hips.
Two hours later, Dumbledore emerged from the room.
"Harry, Ron, I'm relieved to tell you that Hermione hasn't been harmed physically in anyway. The Healers have examined her quite thoroughly."
He cleared his throat.
"But I'm afraid she still cannot…speak".
"Why?" Harry spat.
"Sit down Harry, you must stay calm."
Ron pulled him back into the straight-backed chair.
"We cannot say for certain at this time, but it would seem she has been silenced with a powerful curse or a magical binding cast to stop her from revealing something."
"I want to see her."
"You and Ron can see her in half hour, Harry. We are still in the middle of some probing charms to make sure she is not… in any prolonged danger." His glasses ducked imperceptibly.
Harry wasn't fooled. He knew they were making sure that she wasn't imbued with any magical devices that could endanger those around her, especially him.
He wondered why they insisted on getting it wrong every time.
He, Harry, was the danger; he was the curse waiting to be thrown, the dagger poised to be twisted in the guts of those he loved. Always.
***
That week at the Burrow passed in a swirl of strange faces sent by Dumbledore to try to uncover the splinter lodged in her mind. Inside Harry, the two heavily armoured urges of seeing her returned to normal and of yelling at them to leave her alone raged an endless, embittered battle. Hermione went through the sessions obediently but responded to nothing. Her condition didn't change. For the most part, she sat between Harry and Ron and stared at her hands. Her responses to the occasional questions posed alternated between a nod and shake of her head, or a barely perceptible shrug.
But it wasn't just her silence that unnerved Harry; it was the blank expression she wore for much of the day. He searched obsessively for expressions and gestures that he could read easily and instantly: the quirk of her mouth when she disapproved of something he did but didn't want to say it, the faint lines in her forehead when she was stressed, and the upward slant of her eyes when she was frightened. He found nothing. It was as if she'd changed the rules of grammar to a language only the two of them spoke and forgotten to tell him.
A language spoken for years and years but noted only in its silence.
And endlessly, he wondered why. What did they do to her? What did she see? Why was she let go? When would she get her voice back?
***
One afternoon they sat on the kitchen doorstep, her bent head barely touching his shoulder. They were pretending to watch the Weasleys, out on their broomsticks over the meadow behind the house, trying to infuse some sort of normality into the summer.
Harry stared unseeingly at the figures swooping and hovering in the sky, aware only of Hermione's stillness next to him. Is she in pain? Is she tired? Does she hate me? Does she want to go home to her parents? What will I do if she does? What is she thinking?
Hermione was trying to blot out of her vision the row of zinnias that lined the inside of the fence. They were too bright. They intruded upon the shadowy world she'd prescribed for herself, laid wall to wall with grey, motionless things. The fence with the brambles straggling over it, the old flower pots holding an assortment of herbs, the bird-bath, the clothes-line, the garden-gnome inching along the shadow of a spade - those were all bearable. In their bland colours they fit in very well with her insipid world. But the zinnias, a blinding scarlet blob pushed around by the wind, throbbed at the corner of her left eye. They upset her carefully maintained stillness.
The way Hermione saw it, being still was her only choice.
If she moved she might collide with what had been.
Why won't you cry, mudblood, is it not painful enough for you?
Or she might topple over what would be.
You think I can't touch you, you silly girl, but I'll touch you where you'll never be rid of me…
So, Hermione thought, keeping absolutely still was the only way. If she just sat here, looking no further than past her own feet and leaning into Harry like this, maybe life will just dribble out and away, without her having to do a thing.
"Harry? Hermione? Oh, there you are!"
Harry turned his head towards Mrs Weasley's voice; Hermione appeared to not have heard. Mrs Weasley came through the kitchen, holding out several bulky envelopes.
"These just came through for all of you; they must be your new booklists." She shuffled the envelopes and held two out to him. Harry took both and handed Hermione hers. He ripped his open, glanced at the contents and tossed it aside. When he looked up, a series of red-heads were straggling across the meadow towards the house, broomsticks slung over their shoulders. Mrs Weasley caught his eye over Hermione's head and inclined her head; Harry shrugged.
Hermione just stared at her envelope, making no move to open it. Her thumb moved methodically over a raised spot on the thick brown paper.
Ron came up and dropped down next to Harry.
"Booklists!" he snorted. "Bloody exciting!" He glanced surreptitiously at Hermione but she remained silent. She smoothed her palms over the unopened envelope and laid it on the ground beside her.
"Are you and Ron taking the same classes again, Harry dear?"
"Yes, except for Advanced Potions, Mrs Weasley."
"Very well then, I'll take both your lists, I can buy all these at Diagon Alley tomorrow."
"What? Am I getting new books this year?"
"Well, seeing as the twins' copies of what you need are hardly in a state to be used for a whole year, and Percy's are--well. So yes, I need to buy you new books. Ginny, what about you? Have you got your list?"
"Well, Ginny can have some of my books Mum, most of them are almost brand new; I've been taking good care of them."
"Oh sure Ron, you only use them occasionally as pillows!"
"I do not!"
"That's enough, you two! Hermione dear, what about you? If you give me your list, I'll bring your books as well. "
Hermione shook her head. Ron shuffled his feet and Mrs Weasley wrung her hands over Hermione's head. The twins, who had come up to them after stashing their brooms away, lifted their eyebrows at Ginny.
Harry stared at Hermione, stunned by a sudden thought.
During the weeks since Hermione returned, Harry hadn't looked further than each day before him, past each of her sessions with the Healers. No thoughts beyond her recovery entered his mind - not school, not Quidditch, not the prophecy, not even Sirius. But now, with just a few days to go before the term began, what were the chances of Hermione making a full recovery?
Harry sat up.
How could Hermione go back to school without her voice? How could she do her prefect duties, answer in class, cast spells, nag him and Ron to do their homework, carry out her SPEW work, cheer herself hoarse for him at Quidditch, when she couldn't speak?
How can Hermione be Hermione without her voice?
Harry felt the blood surging in his ears. He felt enraged at her, sitting there serenely while her--his world splintered around them, doing nothing, not being the Hermione she was, the Hermione he was used to, the Hermione who would never let him down.
He wanted to seize her by the shoulders and shake her.
Barely aware of what he was doing, Harry reached over her lap for the envelope that lay at her side. Hermione glanced up at him, surprise shooting her eyes with an intensity that had been absent for weeks. Her hand shot up and gripped his arm. He pulled it out of her grasp.
"Harry, what are you doing?" stammered Ron.
Harry ripped open the envelope and pulled the contents out. Hermione stared at him, eyes bright, face pale. Harry was about to turn around and hand Mrs Weasley the booklist when Ginny gasped, her hand over her mouth.
"Oh, Hermione!"
She was staring at a point near Hermione's feet, where something small and round lay glittering in the speckled sunlight.
"Merlin!" said one of the twins, Harry wasn't sure which one; he'd suddenly lost the capacity to think. His stomach dropped right down to his heels.
On the ground near Hermione's feet lay the Head Girl badge, shinier than a newly minted coin.
"Oh my! How wonderful - of course we all knew you'd be the one to get it," Mrs Weasley blubbered on in a high-pitched voice, but no one was listening. Four pairs of eyes, round and anxious, were turned on Harry and Hermione.
Harry opened and closed his mouth convulsively. She knew; she knew when she held that envelope, that's why she didn't want to open it. But you, you daft, heartless, selfish git, you had to go and stuff it up, as if things weren't already bad enough.
He felt her eyes on him like a rush of ice.
"Hermione, I-" he began, but Hermione jumped to her feet. She clamped a hand over her mouth and fled inside.
***
The cupboard under the stairs, Harry mused, had its uses. It used to be big enough just for him, so no matter how infuriated with him Aunt Petunia was or how evil Dudley was feeling, they couldn't barge in and drag him out. In a way, it was a safe place to be; once he crawled inside, they had to leave him alone. And huddled inside the tiny space, with only the shadows of cobwebs for company, he could hide for days despite whoever came calling.
Harry, Harry, come on mate, Mum says dinner's ready; Harry - Where the hell are you?
He could hide there for days, even from himself.
He rocked against the wall of the Weasleys' broom-shed, arms around knees, shivering in the night air. Maybe if I make myself so unhappy, as unhappy as anyone could ever be, perhaps then I'd be safe, and happy, because there'd be no room to be unhappier.
Once you hit the bottom, you can't fall any further.
He decided to ignore Ron's voice and swatted away an insect crawling up his arm. He stared at the ground between his feet, trying not to look up at the darkened window of the room where Ginny and Hermione slept.
***
Five long nails topping five snake-like fingers tap the wooden arm of the chair that faces the empty fireplace. Apart from that, there's absolute silence. Ten hooded figures stand in a semi-circle behind the chair, breaths withheld. The room is dominated by the wine-coloured, decaying brocade curtains that hang at the tightly shut windows and the chandelier hanging low in the centre of the ceiling. The latter's tasselled with teardrop-shaped crystals. Ten hooded figures stare at the hand on the wooden arm of the chair, teeth gritted, silently willing for the tapping to stop. But the hand continues its steady rhythm, its knotted white flesh translucent like the skin of a house lizard.
Tap tap tap.
Tappety tap.
Then it stops.
Ten Death Eaters snap their eyes to the back of the chair.
"Well. My faithful Death Eaters have failed me again."
Shuffle, swallow, silence.
"Lucius?"
"Master, the mudblood and the Weasley boy are the people closest to him. We were--I was certain one of them would know."
"But you were wrong, Lucius."
Lucius Malfoy wishes he was back in Azkaban.
"Not only were you wrong, Lucius, your carelessness nearly cost us our secrecy."
The Dark Lord reaches for the goblet on the table next to the chair and takes a long sip. He relishes this languid feeling that comes with prolonging agony; Lucius Malfoy had always been a blundering fool despite his slick appearance.
Bellatrix Lestrange, glancing sideways, takes pity on Malfoy. The man can be useful at times.
"My Lord, none of us expected it. I cannot explain it myself. The girl must have been charmed in some way. Might it be that Dumbledore expected this and took precautions?"
"If she was protected with a spell, I would have detected it, Bella."
"My Lord, may I ask--are you quite certain that you're right about Potter?"
The pause drags on for longer than Bellatrix is comfortable with. When he finally answers, his voice is low, almost as if he's talking to himself.
"Potter knows what was in that Prophecy. Dumbledore would have told him."
Silence falls.
Then suddenly, the hand strikes out; the goblet on the table flies in a perfect arc and lands with a clatter near the Death Eaters' feet. They stumble and jump back.
The hand returns to the arm of the chair.
Small red flames shoot up where the liquid from the goblet has spilled. Bellatrix swallows back a cough; the flames are putrid.
"Are you ready to make amends, Lucius?"
Malfoy swallows hard, fingering an old scab on his thumb over and over.
"Of--Of course, My Lord"
Hatred without strategy, Voldemort knows, only hastens failure. But right now, he craves to inflict pain. Fast.
"Very well then, bring me your son."
Malfoy clamps down on his teeth.
"Draco? But--My Lord, Dumbledore--"
"--Will know nothing, Lucius."
Cold sweat beading his forehead, Malfoy shuffles his feet. His voice is barely audible.
"Master, what do you propose to do-to do with him?"
A low chuckle issues from the direction of the chair.
"I will grant him his greatest honour, Lucius. Bring him to me."
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