The room was illuminated by a single candle on the corner of the desk, many months' worth of wax drippings bled from the side. The figure at the desk was busy scratching in a book. The self-made quill etched the words on the page, the point being dipped into a small bowl every couple of words to continue at a feverish pace. The flow of written words mirrored the conversation in the room, jumbled and disjointed.
The figure could only be identified as a woman when the thin film of cloth covering her body fell open. At one time it had been an attractive gown, now it was simply threadbare rags that draped from her shoulders.
Her modesty long gone, the front of her ragged dress had been void of buttons for almost two years. It remained open to her waist, leaving her breasts exposed when she straightened up to stretch or lean forward, as she did when she wrote. The chair she sat on had no cushion, her bare bottom callused from the years spent sitting and writing. Her fingers, once long and graceful, now gnarled and bent around the end of a pen.
Traces of crimson leaked and stuck to the chair, evidence that hygienic practices had been abandoned along with her humanity. Her chestnut hair was matted and tied roughly out of her face. She had tried chopping it off at one time, only for it to grow back the next day. Her face hadn't seen daylight in the nearly ten years she had spent here writing; the streaks of filth had stained her once clear complexion. Only one other person had seen this face during these years, and the visits had become less frequent these last couple of years.
A mattress sans sheets or blanket lay in the corner near the desk. The far corner of the room held several months'worth of waste, vomit, and faeces. The stench in the room, now familiar to the occupant was occasionally masked when the week's rations were delivered. The walls of the cell were all lined with volumes; each title was a favourite of the creature that existed in this room, but each page of each volume remained blank.
She spent every moment filling the blank pages, but ink was no longer provided; she used her very blood to stain the sheets of the books. She had begun transcribing each story of each title; that effort abandoned years ago after she discovered each written page erased itself when she slept.
She now wrote the only story she could remember, the others also erased from her waking memory. She wrote her story in its entirety every day and read the story before she allowed sleep to claim her withering mind.
"Damn it, there's nothing in here. We're wasting our time," she said in a deep voice, dictating to herself as she wrote.
"Harry, I think we both need a break, we've gone through these books a dozen times and I know we're just missing some little detail. It's nearly one o'clock in the morning. I, for one, am quite tired."
"Then go on. I can't sleep thinking of this."
She suddenly sat up dropping her pen. "Accio Harry's cloak, Accio my cloak !" she called and waved her hand, even though it had been ten years since she held a wand. Her rotting dress fell open and again exposed her chest. The scar above her breast was raw and showed signs of deep infection. "Come on, let's get out of here," she called to herself. She stood and took an imaginary hand, and ran in circles around the room. She stood frozen as if staring out to a long forgotten horizon.
She reached to her shoulder and took a hand. She held it to her lips and kissed it gently. She slumped to the floor and nuzzled into a long missing companion. She resumed the deep voice again, "Hermione, there's something I want, tonight, from you. But I don't know how …"
"To ask me? Of course, Harry. I want to make love to you too, come, and take me," she said as she laid on the floor, her legs spread for him.
There was no one there.
Her moans of pleasure were from imagined moments of pleasure she never had. She closed her eyes briefly and stood, she began her escape. She brushed her hands down the periwinkle blue gown, and lightly touched the mascara that was freshly applied. She held her arms up, taking another in her arms holding a long dead partner as she waltzed around the room.
"Why, yes, Victor, I watched you in the World Cup, I thought you were absolutely brilliant."
She stopped her dance, and fell on the stained mattress. She embraced a lover she had never known and stoked her own matted hair. She lay her head down to the mattress and when her hands stopped, her breathing slowed. The rise and fall of her chest slowed as she drifted into sleep. She had forced herself to stay awake for the past three days and nights. She was able to measure time from the sun's warmth on the wooden sheets that covered the shattered glass of the windows. She had broken them many years ago, and hidden glass fragments throughout the room, to be used to refresh her ' ink'supply.
The pages of the books on the desk flipped wildly, the ink faded from each page as it fanned through. The now blank book returned itself to the shelf of its origin.
She slept.
She would repeat her ritual again.
She would slice a fresh wound, allowing the last ones to scab over.
She would remember the girl that had been her sister.
She would remember the other boy that loved her into death.
She would remember her love.
She slept.
Hermione woke up the next morning; she'd had a disturbing dream that she was isolated and alone. She felt uneasy and rolled over to see Harry sleeping next to her. She smiled at him, even though he still slept.
"I love you, Harry Potter," she whispered as softly as she could. She scooted as close to him as she could get and as lightly as she could, first kissed a cheek, then his nose, and then his forehead. She was about to kiss his lips, as soft as a butterfly's touch when the corner of his mouth curled upward. Before she snuggled closer, his free hand snuck behind her and pulled her to his lips. The unexpected sneak attack landed him a quick bite on his lower lip, just enough to force him to drop his faux sleep.
"You're a sneaky one, Mr. Potter," she grinned while still biting on his lip.
"Wet wo wove my wip and wou'll fee how fneeky," he teased back.
His hand slipped from the back of her head down her side, and rested on her hip, the other still cradled her head.
"And exactly what do you have in mind?" she teased back pushing his hand off.
He held his hand out and motioned her back, "I can't put my finger on it, but lately you seem different, too sexy for me to share with the other blokes here."
"Oh, please, you'll say anything for a quickie in the morning, I'm sure the others are up by now," she slipped out of bed, throwing her legs over the opposite side. He reached over and held her around the waist, but she again pushed him off and shook her head.
"No, I'm …" She stood, grabbed a dressing robe, and ran out. She turned down the hall and slammed the door to the toilet shut, and clicked the lock.
He had just enough time to hear the lock click, and gave up his morning pursuit. He grabbed his clothes and passed a cleansing charm as these were the only things he had, his other clothes had been left with Ginny in the past adventure, she had promised to have them properly washed, but the were forced to leave before he recovered them. Hermione was luckier; some of Ginny's things did fit, except the skirts were a bit snug around the middle since Ginny was a bit thinner the Hermione in those days.
Harry had tried some of Ron's old things, but nothing fit, Ron had been much taller, Better to have one of the twins purchase some things later.
He had finished lacing his shoes when she finally returned, looking quite pale.
"Touch of the flu, I think. Strange though, I had a touch of nausea last night as well."
"Then I'd like you to stay here for the day, I'm going to find out what I can about this prison the other you is in."
She actually felt relief at his suggestion to stay, and instead of dressing, fell headfirst into the now empty bed. "Then be off, I'm going back to sleep."
He smiled, and blew her a kiss before closing the door. The others had been up a while; no one would dare disturb them. Even though it was clear these two weren't the two from this world, no one wanted to take the risk. He found George reading in the lounge, and Fred at the table facing him.
"Morning, gents," he said as he plopped down at the table. A teapot sat on the table, filled with freshly brewed tea. He poured a cup and added a splash of milk.
"Morning, si … Harry. Is Hermione joining us?" Fred asked.
"She's decided to sleep in, but I need your help. I've been thinking about the other Hermione, you said she's held as a prisoner, but no one's seen her in years."
"That's right, hidden from the world. But nearly everyone that knew her knows she's in Grimmauld Place ."
"And what of the other ' me'? Where does he live?" Harry asked, as he stood and walked to the kitchen counter.
"Mostly spends his time in the old Hogwarts Castle , calls himself the Headmaster as well." George added.
"Should be easy to avoid him then, I have to see how she's faring." He pulled a plate from the cupboard and took several bits of sausage from the still warm skillet.
"You're not thinking of bringing her here?" Fred asked with a slight snarl in his voice.
"No, just curious to see how she's doing, and I want find out how much she remembers. There's bound to be something we've missed. I want as many details as I can pull together, we're here for a reason and I don't want to make things here worse."
"You know the 'other one' would just barge in and do what he wants. It's refreshing to see the difference," Fred said over his tea.
"Actually, if it wasn't for Hermione, I might have turned that way myself. We've had a number of difficult times together, but we always had each other." Harry sat back in his spot with his breakfast.
"You're really gone over the top for her, haven't you?"
Harry smiled and simply nodded while he chewed and swallowed. "Guys, I need some fresh clothes, these won't last much longer, either of you interested in a shopping trip? I can't be seen in public yet, not until I know what's really happened."
"Sure thing, Harry. Just leave me a list of what you need and size, I was planning to head to Diagon Alley today anyway." Fred offered.
George folded the newspaper and laid it on the side table; something was on his mind, "So your plan is to just talk to her and then what?"
"And then nothing, I have to see what options present themselves. If she's as insane as you say, there may not be anything I can do. Maybe there was a reason things happened then, at the very least, you'll have a full account tonight."
"How are you planning to get in? No one's been there since, well, since the battle," Fred asked.
"Shouldn't be that difficult, my face seems to open a few doors around here, I guess I just have to act like a right royal bastard and no one will notice."
Fred's face began to twist into a wide grin, at the humour Harry poked at himself. Harry finished his meal and walked back to the kitchen counter. He set his plate in the sink and ran some water over it, and then pulled a fresh one from the cupboard. He piled several fresh pieces of sausage on it and poured a cup of tea.
"Hey, mate, didn't you just finish breakfast?" Fred asked.
"It's for Hermione, she's sleeping in, thought I'd save her a bit before you lot finish it all." He placed the plate and cup on a small tray, turned in the direction of the stairs. There were a few of his things he needed for his journey, and to bring a bite of breakfast for her might save his other lip. He paused and looked at the stark tray. A quick snap of his fingers and a single rose in a vase appeared on the tray.
"That's a nice touch, Harry," Fred joked.
Harry shrugged his shoulders and returned upstairs, yet another abnormal event in Fred and George's eyes.
He pushed the door open and saw her fast asleep, and placed her breakfast on the nightstand. Quietly, he retrieved his Firebolt and Invisibility Cloak from his rucksack. He closed the rucksack then slung it over his shoulders and started to leave.
"Harry?" she called hardly opening her eyes.
"Yes, I'm just heading out …."
"To find her? Be careful," she called back.
He stopped and came back to her side, "I will, just get over this flu, you're the Healer in the family," he grinned.
"I love you, Harry, please come back?"
"Always," he replied as he stroked her hair from her face, "Feel better when I get back, ok?"
She nodded and smiled her special smile for him as he left before she buried her face deep into the pillow.
Harry left the Burrow and his wife to find answers. He could find his way to Grimmauld Place in his sleep, but he took a few extra precautions by pulling his cloak tight around himself and went out of his way to avoid any populated area. Flying there seemed safer, in case there were anti-Apparation wards in place, he decided to fly within a couple miles of the ancient Black residence and walk the rest of the way. His father's cloak would ensure he wouldn't be spotted.
Over the heart of downtown London , he spotted a dark alley some distance away, about midway between number 12 and Diagon Alley. The area was clear of people as he lightly touched the ground, and pulled the cloak tighter around his body, carefully avoiding the many people outside the alley. This particular alley was in a fairly busy business district filled with small shops in the Muggle part of the city, a safe location to avoid being spotted by wizards in this reality. He uttered the simple charm, and his prized Firebolt returned to a compact size, small enough to fit in his rucksack.
Everything seemed perfectly normal when he left the alley. The activity that progressed around him seemed totally oblivious to his presence. The brisk walk alone served an additional purpose, this time was spent in personal reflection. Memories of how his life turned from an imprisoned child under his uncle's domination, to the boy wizard, to the hunted youth, to the hero of the world.
Harry passed a small park, children played while their parents watched. He paused and watched the simplicity of life, the pure magic of love. Thoughts of how empty his life had been as a child, but not knowing the difference crept into his mind. That emptiness wasn't as bleak as it could have been when he learned his true identity. Ron and Hermione's friendships were the beginning of that new life, the point he felt re-born. They had been as much a part of his life as and as vital to him as breathing. Life without either would have driven him to a brink he couldn't imagine.
The thought of the time he almost lost them both to his childhood ignorance raged into consciousness. It was Ginny that saved him and Hermione that healed him. A smile grew on his lips at the thought, she was a Healer even then and never realised the power she held in his life. He reminisced of the wonderful times and the troubled times the three shared, the good times seemed more wondrous and warming with the contrasting hard times they had faced.
Ron and Hermione were the true joys of his life and loved them both. He loved them as much as his own life, and tried to imagine his counterpart's emotional trauma when he thought she died. When he remembered that day, that feeling of loss was one he could never forget. And if he had lost either, he was certain his mind and his ability for rational thought would have been shattered.
Ron and Ginny were both gone in this reality, and it was Hermione's doing. But, he also knew if he had remained with her body, even for a few moments longer, he would have been the one she reached for and this world might have been different. He was stronger then either Ron or Ginny and this one detail was proof that he was far more powerful.
Harry found himself sitting on one of the benches, mesmerised and lost in his thoughts. Here sat hidden under his father's cloak, one of the most powerful wizards that lived and yet these simple people wielded a special power. He felt his chest tighten, and renewed his promise to find a child that needed that magic of love.
Hermione would be a perfect mother; she had so much she wanted to give. Her capacity for caring, evident early on when she tried to free the house-elves, to her inability to abandon a friend, needed to be shared. He had felt guilty that he was the sole recipient of her affections, and angry at the cause of her anguish.
Grimmauld Place was still distant, still a fair walk from here. He tried to imagine what he would find. He sighed deeply and watched the children play in blissful ignorance of this other world.
Hermione slept, the thin and mildewed mattress under her was the only comfort in the room. The various stains revealed more then just the loss of personal hygiene. Darkened streaks and stains had been left in the mattress from nearly every portion of her form. It had been only a few weeks since her one human visitor had been there, the most recent stains had dried, and the most recent scabs nearly healed.
The latest writings sat on the desk, waiting for her to view the mockery of her work, she know the pages would be as clean as she is wretched. She had a severe stomach cramp compounded with nausea, pity she had nothing to retch. The abdominal pains ebbed and returned in first increasing intensity, but lying still helped them pass and fade.
She kept her eyes shut, no reason to open them. The light that shone into the room from smoke coloured skylights in the ceiling gave the room its eerie haze. Kreacher was busying himself in the hall and she could hear him so very near to her prison cell as he performed his daily duties. The last meal she ate was four days ago, she pushed her hunger as far aside as she could. It will be more three days before he would deliver another half loaf of bread and quarter pound of stale cheese with her one bucket of clean water. That was her only concept of the passing weeks.
In the first weeks she had been held here, she used the water to wash daily and drink; the conditions were very different. There were clean things to wear and a real bed with sheets and quilts. As they were used and soiled, Kreacher took them but replacements never arrived. The lesson she quickly learned was once something was taken it was gone forever and one bucket of water was all she would have for the week. That one bucket of water became rationed as best she could, but hunger forced her to devour the meagre provisions that same day. Lucky days occurred when a stray rodent passed into the room; it was the only meat in her diet.
She had only one method to count the months. Her own body's clock continued to tick, as time passed her. The visits from him always seemed to be separated by many months. She relaxed knowing she had some time of isolation and relative peace.
That morning a familiar gait of footfalls signaled his approach.
She had these dreams before, where he'd come and sweep her away, as if she were a maiden trapped in a castle's tower by a wicked stepmother. Her knight in shining armour would force the door and take her from her misery. The past would be completely forgotten as if it was a horrible nightmare, but unfortunately, the cycle continued.
That morning it burst open, Harry stood in the threshold, the gleam in his eye flashed through her soul when their eyes met.
"M'lord? You're early?" she asked, the quiver of fear evident in her voice.
"No, he's not, mind your place, you filthy Mudblood," a deeper voice commanded from within her own body. "He'll have you at his leisure."
The man standing in the doorway enjoyed these scenes when she put herself in her place. His dress was in complete contrast to the miserable life that existed in this room. His trousers sharply pressed, his shirts were always laundered and starched. His cloak hung from his shoulders, and flowed around him as if he were surrounded in a mist. The corner of his mouth turned up as he watched her literally crawl to his feet.
"I'm here for our ' little visit', bitch." He looked at her and grimaced, she had digressed even more than he expected.
"Thank you for visiting me," she bowed low out of fear and respect. "Please, Harry, have you forgiven me?"
His simple reply was forceful enough to make his point. "How dare you call me by my name?" he hissed as she tumbled across the room. The impact of his boot to her side caused her to fall into the waste heap, stirring the vile mix and adding to the stench. She coughed sharply, from the stench of her own wastes and from the fresh pain in her side.
"You worthless bitch, look what you did, there's a scuff on my boot, clean it, lick it off my boot," he commanded, She managed to pull herself to a kneeling position, supported with one hand on the floor, the other holding her side.
"But," was all he allowed her to say before he repeated the blow. She sprawled back, landing on the mattress, her frock slipped from her shoulders leaving half her torso exposed. She now coughed sharply and the sharp metallic taste of her blood flooded her mouth. A stream of red cracked from the corner of her mouth.
"I said clean my boot," he repeated. She cowered away from a third blow. "Afraid? And so soon into my visit, I thought we could have a more enjoyable time this visit." He goaded.
"P-p-please, no more," she pleaded.
His widening grin sent a new fear through her as he unbuckled his belt, and pulled it free of his trousers. He held the buckle and made a single loop, now holding the two ends in one hand. His first blow cut sharply across her face, leaving a raised welt across her cheek. His next blows across her back no longer needed to cut through the flimsy clothing she wore, the welts burned deep into her back with each blow.
She screamed with each fresh cut from his belt, he stopped as the sweat on his brow was matched to the blood on his belt. The gleam of raw animal desire burned from his gaze, he rolled her over with a blow from his boot. Her tears now mixed with the blood from first injuries, her back raw and bloodied. She knew what was next and barely managed to come to her knees. She slipped the remaining scraps of the dress from her shoulders to fall around her waist. He let his trousers drop to the floor, his boxers quickly followed.
He stood before her and forced her to lay on the floor as he knelt between her legs and forced her knees apart, ready for his first violation. To his dismay, the stench from her own wastes struck him, and pushed her away.
"How vile and disgusting, even by your low standards." He stood and pulled his trousers back into place.
"Next time, make sure you clean yourself. You disgusting piece of mudboold trash." He planted his boot in her side one last time, satisfied at the sound of bone on bone, and stormed from the room.
The door slammed behind him, all she heard was his laughter as he walked down the hall. She crawled to her mattress, and began to lick her wounds; she dare not waste her precious water supply, saliva would have to suffice. She chewed a less filthy patch of her once beautiful gown until it was moist, to wipe the oozing from the fresh wounds. She wished for a miracle to end her suffering, knowing he'd only let her go in death.
She closed her eyes and tried to push the pain aside, she needed to force herself to sleep and let the wounds begin to heal. She painted a calming picture of a park in her mind, with happy children playing with loving parents.
The view at the park mesmerised Harry as he watched the love between parent and child. 'Soon, we'll have someone to share this with,' he thought to himself. He quietly pulled himself to his feet, and brushed off his trousers. He glanced at the wrinkles in them, 'that's a bad first impression,' he thought and passed a hand over his trousers and shirt, the creases in the legs now crisp and his shirt had a fresh laundered appearance.
He left the park and walked the few blocks until he had to turn down the street leading to Grimmauld Place . His brisk pace now felt more urgent, he felt a disturbance in his thoughts. He pushed that feeling to the back of his mind, and let his training rise to the surface. The house was now visible to him, and still held the unkempt appearance as in the days of the Order. From the corner of his eye, he thought he noticed a streak circle overhead.
"Nerves, must be my nerves playing on me," he mumbled to himself. He slipped his rucksack from his shoulders and carefully pulled out his black cloak. He hid behind a stand of bushes to slip the invisibility cloak into the pack. He took a deep breath, and stepped up to the front door.
Hermione lay on the bed, the nausea had passed and she could smell the now cool sausages and tea her loving husband had brought her. She rolled over to the side table and hungrily devoured the plate of food. She still had a queasy feeling and now a slight twinge in her back.
"Bugger, that lumpy mattress has given me cramp," she mumbled.
She stretched on the bed, and tried to work out the cramps in her back. A simple thought entered her mind as she grabbed a dressing robe and towel from the bedroom, and left for a soothing bath. She turned on the water, letting the heat fill the room. The robe fell from her shoulders as she stood and looked into the mirror on the other side of the door. She looked carefully over her body, and could see the signs of wear from the past ten years. The scars were still visible, but no longer a focal point. She turned to see her profile, and sucked in her tummy, sighing at the view. "Looks like I may have to start avoiding chocolates for a while," she muttered. "Either he doesn't notice or it doesn't bother him." She shook her head and slipped into the warm tub, forgetting for the moment her paunchy profile. The truth was he always noticed the little changes in her, but he also knew the years will change ones appearance.
Hermione closed her eyes and forgot the sharp pain from the bleeding welts on her back, she cleaned them as best she could. The memories of past infected wounds plagued her sub-conscious thoughts. Her bigger concern was the sharp pain in her side from his kicks. She knew a rib was badly bruised if not broken. Time will heal it. It had in the past. And would again, but only if she had the time.
Time was all she had left, he was gone, he never returned after a ' visit'for several months, this visit was totally unexpected. Relief from the tension and anxiety of his visit eased her into a fitful rest. The blood oozed into the mattress adding to the stains. She surrendered her attempts to sleep and lay there with her eyes fixed to a small spot on the wall as it walked across the surface.
"You stand a fair chance to escape, I'll die here one day," she calmly told the cockroach. "I can only hope that day comes soon."
Her muscles had begun to ease, her side still ached. The bleeding inside also stopped as she no longer coughed up blood. She watched the insect continue its journey across the room when the door, again, burst open.
He stood in the threshold, a look of total disgust clearly displayed. That look sent new waves of terror into her relaxing and battered body. A single scream burst from her lungs at the unexpected appearance less then an hour later, tensed her body with the same sudden pain as the Cruciatus Curse. She rolled onto her uninjured side away from him and curled into as tight a ball as she could, hoping he wouldn't be able to hurt her too much more.
Harry stood in the door; the stench hit him as soundly as a rugby player's tackle. He surveyed the room, and was struck by the piles of waste; however, the waste that he was most concerned about was the waste of a human life that cowered in the corner. She was still mostly naked, not having the strength to simply pull the dress over her shoulders.
"Hermione?" he managed to choke out.
She tried to force her body to shrink into the cracks in the wall.
"Hermione, how did things get like this?" the man in the doorway said. It took him only a couple of long steps to close the distance to her, she refused to look up.
"I-I-I'm s-s-orry, Lord. Please don't …" she paused and forced a lungful of air, past the sting in her side. "Please … don't hit …" her voice trembled and finally broke.
She never saw what he did; she was so terrified she kept her face hidden. He knelt to her side and pulled her drinking water closer. She felt the cool water rinse the wounds in her back and a gentle dabbing along the cuts. Had she looked, she would have seen he had a backpack, something foreign to her tiny world. He opened it and pulled out a clean shirt.
"Here, let's get this on you." She heard him speak, but was unable to register the words, his tone was foreign to her. He had cleaned the drying and caked blood from her back, and managed one arm into a sleeve. He pulled her to a sitting position, and pulled the shirt around her body. It was his wife's shirt, it was the same woman, but in her condition, she was dwarfed as it hung on her massively undernourished frame.
Kindness, he showed kindness after beating her nearly to death, again.
Harry gently pulled her face to his, but she held her eyes tightly closed, afraid this was a cruel joke, some new torture he devised. Her tears were mixed from pain and now sheer terror. He could feel her body tremble, she flinched at his touch.
"No one will hurt you, who did this to you?" he asked in a kind voice, one she remembered from her long dead childhood.
"Y-y-ou," she stammered. "Have y-y-you forgotten?"
"Hermione, please, forgive me." He knew it was the ' other him', but still needed her to hear his apology. "I'm taking you out of here."
"I-I can't leave. You know that." Her ragged voice had now becoming defensive. "You did this, and now you're mocking my pain? I didn't think even you could sink so low," she now hissed, her voice clear and no longer ragged.
"Hermione, please believe me, I'll get you out."
"No, he won't, don't listen to him," she now said in a deeper masculine voice. "Ron, shut up," she snapped, this time a third voice broke out, this one sterner and younger. She pushed him back, with a strength and force he didn't believe she still possessed. Defiantly an obvious change broke through and he now faced a different woman. She looked like Hermione, but her voice shifted, sounding different but still quite familiar.
Stunned, Harry backed away as she sat in the corner, now having a three-way argument with herself, and losing.
"What has he done to you? Hermione, you were so brilliant and caring, and now," he fell back and sat on the floor, watching her shift from personality to personality. "Is this how you managed to cope? By losing your mind?" He had hoped to find answers to this world, be there were only new questions.
"Do your worst, Potter. Even after all you have done to Granger, for some unknown reason she still loves you," a second distinctive masculine voice said.
"No, I won't hurt you, I'm here to help."
"H-H-Harry?" her own voice replied. He could see her begin to tremble again, once the others receded back into her mind.
Encouraged, he moved closer, he could now see her condition. She was malnourished and had open sores in addition to the recent whipping she suffered. The shirt he used to cover her had already begun to stain from the open and oozing skin lesions. He reached into his pack and found an apple. Her eyes locked on the orb he now held. Hungrily, she leaned closer, and a single hand cautiously reached for the fruit. He placed it on the floor between them and slid a bit away,
She watched his eyes every second, as her hand reached for the apple. He nodded once and she snatched it faster then he used to snatch a Golden Snitch from the sky. She bit into the apple, nearly taking half in one bite.
She continued to watch him.
He reached into the pack again and this time removed a thin and shiny object. He held the mirror fragment in his hand and called into it. "Spirit, this is Stag. Can you hear me?" He paused for a moment
Nothing.
He called again.
"Spirit, this is Stag. I found her, and I'm afraid she needs your help."
Still nothing.
Hermione continued to nibble on the apple; the half she consumed was more then her abused digestive system could handle.
Harry called into the mirror again; a distant muffled sound broke through, but only for an instant. "Spirit, I'm waiting."
"Sorry, love, I was in the bath," she now called back. "How is she?"
"Fred and George were right; she's gone round the bend, no surprise at that, she's left to live like an animal. It's difficult to believe anyone could treat another this way." His voice cracked as he tried to relay the details. He paused long enough to regain his composure.
"Spirit, she needs a Healer or she'll die," he said.
Hermione heard the message and a tear broke from her now swollen eyes.