Resistance
Chapter Five: Recovery
Hermione watched the horrifying tableau, transfixed, her mind spinning as uselessly as traction-less tires in mud. She watched as Harry cradled the grotesque corpse of her doppelganger, her wild brown her cascading over his arm. She watched him, her forehead knit with pain and her eyes shiny with tears, as he cried soundlessly, tears dripping down on to the dirty, torn blue sweater that the dead girl was wearing. So softly that it was almost a caress, he brushed some of her hair out of her still face, the pallor of which contrasted markedly with the grisly collar given her by Voldemort.
And then the body moved. Hermione stiffened, and Harry jumped initially, but then stopped, watching the occurrence with almost clinical detachment. The body was not moving under its own power; her skin was rippling, muscles moving underneath, in an effect that they had both seen before. Hermione saw the relief dawn upon his face.
In death, she was reverting back to natural form. Even bruised, with fright permanently impressed upon her features, it was obvious that she was young and attractive. Her hair was black and straight, eyes wide and almond-shaped, still blank with death, evenly set into a pale, pretty face. Harry looked at the unknown girl almost dispassionately for a moment before he threw up again.
Hermione sank to the ground beneath the window connecting the rooms, her back against the wall, thinking furiously. She could not get into the room through the door; she didn't have the time it would take to get through the wards, keyed as they had obviously been to certain wands. The Silencio charm would prevent any sound from leaving Harry's cell, but would not preclude her efforts to break through being heard and halted. Maybe she could cast her own as well, and … her thoughts were all muddled. She wound her fingers around each other, twisting them together tightly, pleading with herself to remain focused. Please, Hermione, please. Don't think about…her. You can't afford to think about anything but getting Harry - and yourself - out alive.
Absent-mindedly, she ran a hand through her hair, which had tangled up quite impressively during her cloak-and-dagger act up to and into the Riddle house. As they threaded down the back of her head, her fingers lightly grazed the wall behind her and skidded into a groove. Fine powdery silt slid up underneath her fingernails.
There was an expression on her face that Ron and Harry would have recognized, a look that usually just preceded a view of Hermione's flying curls and billowing robes as she suddenly hurtled toward the library. Slowly, she turned, looking at the gloomy gray expanse of the wall, marred by the presence of a single, crooked crack running diagonally through the one-way window, from ceiling to floor. Her eyes followed its tortuous path, her mind churning at a ferocious rate of speed.
With painstaking deliberation, Hermione stood up, and cast a Silencio charm, hoping somehow that the two adjacent - perhaps overlapping - silencing charms would work with each other, insuring that no untoward noise escaped when she did what she was planning. Without even looking at the door, she pointed her wand at it, and said,
"Colloportus." The resulting squelch was soft, but Hermione flinched as if she'd slammed the door while sealing it. She remained absolutely silent for what seemed like an eternity, but there was no subsequent clamor, no clatter of feet or flinging of hexes. She wanted to add some more wards to the door, but was afraid that they would be detected somehow. She squatted down, on eye level with the portion of the crack beneath the window, and regarded it as solemnly as if it were a dueling opponent. She brushed a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes, and left a smear of dirt across her forehead. Almost reverently, she ran her finger down the deep crevice.
Then she took a deep breath, pointed her wand at the fissure, and for a brief instant, seemed to be steeling herself for what was to come - especially since she didn't know exactly what was going to happen.
"Engorgio!" she whispered fiercely, and, with a low rumble and sifting of dust, the crack widened. She bit her lips together, and rolled her eyes with terrified anxiety toward the door. Her wand trembled in her hand, as she kept it fixated on the widening crack, which yawned further. Dust rained down on the floor with a continuous hiss, and Hermione was frantically certain that an entire complement of Death Eaters would be storming this room soon with Avada Kedavra in their eyes.
She lowered her wand, afraid of making the crack larger and bringing down the entire wall and ceiling with it. Even as she stepped toward the new opening she'd created, the ward detector on her wand turned blue. Damn! But it appeared to be just a light detection ward, one that would ascertain that Harry was where he was supposed to be perhaps, and she dismantled it easily.
Even sucking in her breath and sliding through the opening legs first beneath the window, it was still a tight fit. But then she was suddenly in the green-tinged cell, standing in front of a completely befuddled Harry Potter. She watched as his eyes grew wary, flickering from her to the dead body on the floor, and he struggled to stand again, backing away from her until he came in contact with the stone wall of the cell and could go no further. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just run a sprint. Her eyes watered as the pungent metallic combination of blood and vomit stung her nose.
She tucked her wand into her robes, and held up both hands, in her best "I'm not going to hurt you" manner.
"Harry," she said, struggling to keep her voice level and business-like. He's alive! Something inside her sang, he's alive and standing right in front of me, in this very room! "You've got to come with me. We - we don't have much time."
He surprised her by swearing violently. "So, who are you? Is this the game where he lets me think I've escaped?" He had spoken with great effort, but he arched his eyebrows at her coolly, and she was stunned at the depth and clarity of the hatred that flashed from his brilliant eyes, while the rest of him looked so beaten and near defeat. "Because we've done that one already."
Hermione shook her head spastically, a low trembling inarticulate sound all she could utter without breaking down completely. Dear God, what has he been through? It's only been four days, she thought, even though she knew too well what Voldemort and his minions were capable of. Mirrored loathing flooded Hermione's face suddenly, tempered with compassion for him, and it must have been clearly readable in shine of her eyes, the flare of her nostrils, and the set of her lips, because he was looking at her with a little more attention now.
"Why don't you ask me what you asked her?" she said evenly, while her inner voice was screaming at her, Hurry up for the love of all that is decent! The suspicion had not completely died from Harry's eyes, but had been banked.
"I asked - I asked why you - why Hermione - came into our compartment on the train first year," Harry said, in a raspy voice that had probably been driven hoarse from screaming. Somewhat closer to him now, Hermione noticed with her damned eye for detail that one of his eyes had burst blood vessels in it, turning part of the iris a lurid red. His glasses had been all but smashed, but were still perched crookedly and pathetically upon his nose. Part of her wanted to recoil from all of it - the physical evidence of such pointless cruelty repulsed her - but she was careful not to break eye contact with him.
"I was helping Neville look for Trevor," she said clearly and without hesitation. "Ron was trying to cast that fake spell the twins taught him on Scabbers." Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow… She pushed outwardly with her mind, inexpertly, not trying to communicate anything, but simply trying to get him to feel the essence that he knew, the very being that was Hermione.
The effect her words - and maybe the Legilimency as well - had on Harry was instantaneous, as his knees buckled beneath him, and she hurried to keep him from falling. Her arms were underneath his elbows, as she struggled to hold him up, and finally settled on helping him sit on the floor. She sat next to him, and noticed that his entire body was trembling.
He was touching her, softly, his filthy fingers running over the planes of her face, skimming into her hair. At one point, they lightly brushed through the wetness that was spilling out of her eyes. Hurry, hurry, hurry! Her pulse roared in her ears, even as her skin burned under his touch.
"Are you really you?" he asked plaintively, in the voice of a boy who'd been hurt so many times that he didn't believe kindness could exist. "I felt you - I thought…maybe I was going mad - and then he brought her in, and - and I thought it really was you this time." This time? Some detached part of her brain puzzled over the words.
"It's me, Harry," she said softly, her chin wobbling, as she stopped his hand with hers, and wound her fingers around his. "I promise. Can you stand up? Do you know where they put your wand?" He looked at her again then, his eyes bleak with bitterness and despair, and wordlessly pointed in the direction of the door.
Hermione turned, her heart in her mouth, uncertain of what he indicated, but figuring she was going to meet the business end of somebody's wand. However, it was his wand he'd been pointing out to her, fastened just above the doorway with a sticking charm. She looked back toward Harry, and watched his jaw clench with broken pride.
Those horrible, heartless bastards! Hermione thought fiercely, and she once again was racked with sympathy and pain for what he'd been through, not only physical torture, but mental and emotional abuse as well. They had put him through prolonged exposure to that dampening field, knowing what it would do to him, and then left his wand in his sight as a jeering reminder of what he was not capable of.
"Solvare!" she said, loosing the sticking charm, and then Accio'd the wand. Her wand felt leaden and unwieldy, and the incantations seemed to stick in her mouth. Harry's wand fell heavily, clattering across the room, lurching unevenly toward her. It did not fly into her hand, and she looked at it with bewilderment. She turned to regard Harry curiously and somewhat fearfully. He looked at her from under heavily lidded eyes. She picked up the wand and held it out to him, and he took it, turning it over and over in his hand, as if he weren't quite sure what it was exactly.
"It's the dampening field," he answered her unspoken question haltingly. "It's already affecting you. I - I don't know why it doesn't affect them. You need to get out of here." She winced with the knowledge of the kind of magic "they" had probably performed on him and in front of him.
"I'm not leaving you," she said in her customary tone that brooked no argument. He looked lost and defeated and ashamed. He looked at his wand again.
"I can't - " he faltered. "I won't be able to -" He tried to hand it back to her.
"I know, Harry," she said hoarsely. "Just hold onto it, okay?" He neither acquiesced nor disagreed, and his eyes drifted listlessly over to the unknown girl lying in the pool of her own now congealing blood.
"She was the fourth one," he said tonelessly, the distance in his voice contrasting with his prior grief.
Hermione had been in the processing of squatting down beside him, attempting to throw his arm around her shoulders, so that she could bear most of his weight. She wasn't sure she could manage it. I can't levitate him through that crack, she was thinking desperately, but at Harry's words, she stopped and looked at him, horrified.
"What?" she bleated, almost without comprehension.
"The fourth. She was… the fourth one he brought in here….probably a Muggle too… like - like the others." She could see it clearly, still residing in his beaten, blood-encrusted face…guilt. He was already assigning the fault as his, that these girls were dead. He looked into her face, mere centimeters from his, as she tried to hoist him to his feet. "All you," he said softly, and one tear freed itself from his stubborn eyes, wending its smudging way down his dirty face. "I've watched you … die - four times, and he laughed. He - he knew that - that - "
She took one step toward the crack, then another, trying to process what Harry had told her. She could hear the soles of his trainers scuffing loudly along the grimy floor, as he tried vainly to lift his feet and walk.
"What, Harry?" she said, trying to sound nonchalant. Another two staggering steps were made toward the crack. They were almost there; the cell was not very big.
"He knew that there was nothing worse that he could do to me," Harry said suddenly, and his voice carried clearly into the tiny room. Hermione bowed her head, as she took another shuffling step toward the crack, the tears flowing unchecked down her face.
Her attention was suddenly arrested by her wand, which began to vibrate in her hand, the ward detector blinking on and off sporadically. Someone had erected a new ward down here, and there was no way that that was good. She redoubled her efforts to make it to the far wall, raggedly cleft by her spell.
"Hermione!" he cried out suddenly in a grunt of pain and protest. He was shaking violently again, and she wondered how many times they had used the Cruciatus curse on him, to make his muscles so weak and unresponsive, thoroughly fatigued from constantly clenching in pain. He was starting to fall again, and she could barely hold on to him.
"Harry, I'm sorry!" she said, and thick tears clogged her voice. "We can't stop - we have to get out of - "
The door to Harry's cell swung open.
Hermione blanched as Death Eaters spilled into the room, but she instinctively pushed Harry behind her, even as they disarmed her. There was a high-pitched malevolent cackle, and then she saw the magic-ravaged, soulless, red-eyed visage of Lord Voldemort framed in the doorway.
Harry was trying to get out from behind her, but he was so weak that the effort was a feeble one. Voldemort's mouth split unpleasantly and his laughter echoed around the room. She fought the reflex to cringe.
"So, here we have the real Miss Granger, am I right?" he asked, as smoothly as if he were carrying on a polite conversation over tea.
"I am Hermione Granger," Hermione said, her voice ringing out clearly and decisively, lifting her chin and sweeping all of them with a challenging gaze. She felt Harry sag against her, and she struggled to stay upright, thrusting one hand behind her and intertwining her fingers with his.
"Take her jewelry," Voldemort snapped, and one Death Eater lunged forward, tearing her robes open and grasping roughly for the chain that gleamed at her neckline, ripping it from her. He also tore more of her shirt than would have been required, and Hermione tried to hold the pieces together with her other hand, while the other Death Eaters hooted derisively, making lewd comments. The loud scratchy sound of tearing fabric had fallen heavily in the cell. She felt the color rise in her face, wondering how Voldemort had known her medallion was magical, or if it had been a lucky guess. She had been hoping to use it, once they had gotten away from the possibly interfering effects of the dampening field, knowing that it had been specifically keyed to go through wards.
Voldemort held the medallion up in front of him, swinging it from the chain, as he examined it. He snapped his gaze up at Hermione, and must have seen the fearful, expectant expression on her face, for he threw the medallion to the stone floor and incinerated it into a puff of silvery ash with one quickly muttered spell. Hermione paled, and the Dark Lord sneered,
"Standing in front of him is only going to get you killed first, Miss Granger. And I will have had the distinct pleasure of watching you die more than once today," he said, with a mirthless grin. Harry made some kind of noise of protest behind her. The Death Eaters parted from in front of him, and he raised his wand. She looked down at the hand that rested on her chest, holding her tattered shirt together, and a glint of shattered crystal twinkled at her greenly in the sick glow.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said in a defiant voice, holding onto Harry's hand behind her as if her life depended on it. Merlin, please let this work! She smiled brilliantly at Voldemort, and sang, "Twinkle, twinkle little star."
~~**~~
The next thing Hermione was cognizant of was Harry's not outrageous, but not inconsiderable bulk slamming into hers and knocking her into the ground. She landed with a noisy gasp, sliding along the ground, as all of the air was driven from her lungs. Her eyes watered fiercely as the top of her head cracked noisily against something, and for a moment she saw stars. Then she looked up, and saw that the structure with which her head had collided was, in fact, a Quidditch goal post. It wavered and shimmered in her watery vision, as she tried to blink the tears from her eyes. Her ears were ringing.
She sighed heavily with relief, and something like elation caused her heart to skip a beat. It worked, oh, it worked! Even through the wards and everything! She had not been at all sure that it would, and so she had been trying to get out of that cell to use the medallion. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she tried frantically to get oxygen into her compressed lungs, when she realized that Harry was still lying half on top of her.
He wasn't moving.
"Harry?" she whispered, her voice sounding high and quavering in the empty field. She tried to slide out from under him, without jostling him too much. She had no idea what other injuries he had sustained. She felt the tension in her body ratchet up to nearly unbearable levels until she was able to make out the rapid, shallow breathing that panted through his parted lips. Her hands patted at his shoulder, his cheeks; she ran her fingers into his hair, her palms at his temples, and said, a little more loudly, "Harry?" It was then that she noticed that blood was smeared on her torn shirt, and she could see that some of his crusted wounds had broken back open on impact. Her mind was racing at its customary frenetic pace once again.
She looked around the Quidditch pitch. It felt like days had passed in the Riddle house, but the sun was only just now fully over the horizon From her seated position, the grass, allowed to run wild, was nearly shoulder high and still damp with dew. The only movement she could see was that of a handful of butterflies lurching about in their drunken flight pattern. The only sound was the wind in the trees beyond the field, and an occasional trill of birdsong. The house was out of sight beyond the trees. She took a deep breath and felt some satisfaction temper her fear. She had chosen well for her portkey, resetting it just before they had departed: the Quidditch field behind the Burrow was an excellent place, unused for some time, isolated, with neither wizards nor Muggles around.
She felt strangely sapped, and couldn't figure out why at first, but then she suddenly remembered the dampening field. It's already affecting you, Harry had said. She had not wanted to Apparate back to the alley behind the joke shop in broad daylight, staggering under the weight of a very injured Harry Potter anyway, but this decided that conundrum. She could only hope that her magic aptitude would return either before or with nightfall, and that she could do something to ease Harry's pain.
My bag! She thought suddenly, looking frantically for it. The strap had torn, and it had landed a short distance away. She only hoped that everything in there of use was still intact. As it was, she wouldn't be able to do much for Harry without her wand. If only I could have gotten it back. She looked at Harry's wand, which had rolled a little ways away from his now relaxed hand, and wondered if she could make it work, remembering Ron's often poor results with Charlie's old wand. It was better than nothing at all, she decided, and retrieved both her bag and his wand.
The potions were unbroken, and she pulled them out eagerly, examining the labels to determine which would best suit Harry's needs. Gently, she pulled his glasses from his face, noting that the wire frames had been bent out of and then back into shape and one lens was missing. She thought about testing out Harry's wand and repairing his glasses, but figured that she'd better not risk any magic until the effects of the dampening field wore off. She shook her head as she remembered the uneven, jerky response of Harry's wand to her Accio, and uncorked the potion she'd selected.
She let a few drops of the viscous liquid drip into Harry's mouth, and eyed his wounds critically. Blood and dirt were crusted everywhere, and it looked almost impossible that he'd only been in captivity for four days. Her mind went instantly to the small pond behind the Weasley's home, and she looked down at Harry speculatively. Can I leave him alone long enough to go for water?
She grabbed his wand and headed for the pond, the roll of bandages clenched in her hand. She paused a few paces away to affirm that the tall grass of the pitch did conceal Harry from sight, and then she broke into a run.
She soaked the roll of bandages in the water as thoroughly as she could, her dentist's daughter's mind trying not to think of all the microorganisms roiling unseen in the liquid. She had barely reached the edge of the pitch, when she heard a muffled, inarticulate cry near the goalpost. She ran for the spot where she'd left him, skidding to a halt at his side. He issued a strangled groan that could have been her name.
"Harry? Harry? I'm right here." His eyes snapped open suddenly and fixed on her, and a shaky hand reached for hers.
"You - you - we got away?" he mumbled. She let a small smile curl her mouth, and whispered,
"We got away." She turned her attention to the drenched roll of bandages. It took two attempts at a Purgo with Harry's wand to - hopefully - disinfect the water. She squeezed the loose tail of the bandage, letting some of the water fall into his mouth, and he swallowed it gratefully. She then set about to cleaning some of his more livid looking wounds.
"What…now?" he asked, hissing air through his teeth at her ministrations.
"We try to get back to the Shop," she said, matter of factly, not looking at him. She unbuttoned his shirt, and looked critically at his chest, which was black and blue with horrible bruises. As she passed her hand lightly across it, he groaned, and she jumped. "I think you've some broken ribs."
He mumbled something about Malfoy's boots, as he grimaced, and she uncorked a vial of thick salve, shaking it into her hand like one would shake a catsup bottle, struggling to conceal the emotion his words elicited. She began to dab at his injuries carefully with the salve, and when she was done, let him have more of the pain-killing potion. She smeared his open wounds with a sealing serum, and they both had some of the water. She then carefully washed his face and hands with the remainder of the wet bandages.
She regarded him carefully then. His hair was lank and dirty, and his face was still dark and misshapen from bruises, and his eyes were swollen, with a hemorrhage in one, but he - he was still Harry, her Harry, and she had missed him so much. The Polyjuiced Muggle version of him just wasn't the same.
"Glad you came," he said with effort, coughing at the end of his sentence. "Shouldn't have…dangerous."
"How could I not?" she answered, with her heart in her eyes, helpless to prevent it from being so. His discerning eyes searched her face carefully, and he took a shuddering breath.
"Where's… Ron?" The odd timing of the question made her jump guiltily.
"I don't know, Harry," she said, opting for candor. "We were looking for you, and that medallion was my link to them, and now that it's been destroyed… I'm hoping we can Apparate back once it gets dark. I could reset the portkey, but without my own wand, I don't know where we'd -" She stopped her absent-minded rambling when she saw that Harry had slipped back into unconsciousness. His breathing was fast and shallow.
She looked down suddenly, realizing that her shirt was still torn and had been the entire time she and Harry had been talking. Flushing uncomfortably, even as she felt silly for worrying over such things at a time like this, she pulled a spare shirt from the bottom of the bag, and changed quickly, discarded the fragments of her other blouse.
She slouched down into a more comfortable seated position next to him, twining his hand in both of hers, and pulling all three arms under her chin, his hand close to her heart. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
~~**~~
With all the stress and worry and relief and adrenaline that had alternately flooded her system for the last few days, it was nearly unfathomable to Hermione that she could have nodded off - sitting up! - next to Harry. As it was a distant noise like many fireworks detonating jolted her from a sound sleep. She blinked her eyes in disorientation, looking at the tall grass that surrounded her, trying to remember exactly where she was and what had happened. Harry moved restlessly next to her, and the memories rushed back.
And that meant that the noises like firecrackers were….
"Oh," Hermione breathed in a barely audible gasp. "Oh, oh, oh ….oh shit!" she said, looking frantically around. How in the hell had they traced a bloody Portkey? I shouldn't have stayed here! I shouldn't have stayed here! She berated herself, knowing that even though it had taken them hours - the sun was now well past its zenith - that Voldemort's followers had, in fact, pursued them somehow.
She could hear distant shouts, as well as tumult arising from the neighbors. Stay inside your houses, please! Hermione thought fervently. The clamor came nearer, as the Death Eaters converged on the house. The breeze carried the sounds clearly, even though she could not see the Burrow.
"Anti-apparation wards!" came one order, and Hermione watched the sky fearfully, waiting for the telltale shimmer. Was she far enough out of range? She looked doubtfully at Harry's wand. Should she risk Apparating Harry, and possibly splinching both of them? Or should she reset the portkey with her own off-kilter magical abilities and someone else's wand?
"We could end up anywhere!" she muttered to herself, feeling her forehead break out in a cold sweat. Her eyes flitted down to Harry. "I guess anywhere is better than here." There was a rushing noise and Hermione could just see flames beyond the trees. The Burrow burned.
"Portus exaudio," she incanted, tapping her watch with Harry's wand. The timepiece did not glow. She repeated the spell, a little more desperation fraying the edges of her voice. "Damn it!" she swore, even as she remembered with frustration that it didn't matter anyway. She could not Portkey and risk leading the Death Eaters to the Shop. If they had traced it once, they could perhaps trace it again. She heard voices nearer, and risked peeking out from the tall grasses of the pitch.
Two Death Eaters stood at the edge of the trees that ran between the field and the Burrow. Their speech carried to her clearly.
"… wants the boy back. But he said…what we like with the girl … provided … make Potter watch." One of them leered at and nudged the other, and Hermione felt her gorge rise. Her trembling hands betrayed her state of mind, as she looked down at the recalcitrant wand.
Can I concentrate enough to Apparate? Think of the alley behind the joke shop. She closed her eyes and scrunched up her forehead in effort, but her thoughts were so frazzled that she figured they'd be splinched for sure, perhaps irreversibly.
"I've got to do this!" she said in a low whisper, taking a deep breath, and forcing herself to slow down, to calm down. Her heart was still leaping about inside her chest like a frightened rabbit. The Death Eaters had begun a slow survey of the pitch, though the casual way in which they looked suggested that they didn't think their search here would be fruitful. "Harry?" she leaned down, her voice barely audible. He groaned in response, and she shushed him frantically. "You've got to sit up for me. We've got to Apparate now. It's not going to feel good." He rolled glassy eyes toward her, and she looked desperately for cognizance.
"'Kay," he grunted softly, wincing, but struggling not to cry out, as Hermione sat him up, throwing her bag on her shoulder. She wrapped the other arm firmly around his, and closed her eyes. Think of the three D's, she could still here that instructor's flat voice intoning.
There was a loud crack, and, in the infinitesimal moment before Disapparation, she could hear the shouts of the Death Eaters.
Their materialization was nearly as rough as their Portkey landing. Hermione's feet came out from under her as she fell, colliding with a hard, lumpy surface, and trying to shield Harry from the worst of the impact. She could have cried when her hands scraped hard against the abrasive gravel of the alley behind Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, but it wouldn't have been from the pain.
"Oh, thank Merlin!" she heard herself mutter brokenly, and then she paused to wonder why there seemed to be so many limbs tangled up with hers.
"Hermione?" came an incredulous voice that she instantly recognized.
"Ron?" Hermione's voice mirrored the confusion in his. "What happened?"
"You bloody well Apparated right on top of me, that's what happened," Ron said in a low, disgruntled voice that did nothing to disguise how glad he was to see her. "We've been looking for you for hours."
"He destroyed my medallion," Hermione said, trying to right herself, while keeping one arm cradled under Harry.
"Who destroyed - " Ron broke off and changed tack, when he noticed the extra body piled up with himself and Hermione. "Bloody hell, Hermione. You've done it. How is he?" Hermione shot him an exasperated look.
"He's been in Voldemort's tender loving care for four days," she hissed. "How do you think he is? Let's get him inside. Be careful with him," she added anxiously, as Ron levitated Harry up and opened the back door.
Inside the joke shop, she felt naked and exposed, as they bent low to dodge the windows looking out onto Diagon Alley, the bustling of which seemed somehow ominous to her. Ron, she noticed, was careful to keep Harry's height off the ground below window level. She held the lab door open for them, and breathed a little easier once they were all inside.
"You're going to have to get the door," she said with chagrin. "Voldemort took my wand." A thread of annoyance laced her tone. Ron lowered Harry gently to the floor and used his wand to open the hidden door. Hermione watched Harry anxiously.
"You got away from Voldemort without a wand?" Ron looked at her with wide eyes.
"Well, I had Harry's wand, but it hasn't worked for me very well," she admitted, as Ron levitated Harry again, and they proceeded carefully down the stairs. She thought she heard her redheaded best friend snort sarcastically,
"Hasn't worked for you very well!" He sounded torn between admiration and disgust. She would have laughed if the situation hadn't seemed so dire. Harry had lost consciousness again, and what effect would their flights and rough landings have on him? She wondered how long it would take his magic to recover - if it even would - and she wondered how he would cope with it in the intervening time. She thought of the dead girl, and how quickly and meaninglessly death had snatched her away, and a shudder ran through her slender frame.
They came around the corner to the wide, open doorway of the War Room, where the other Order members, save Mr. Weasley, were hunched around the wireless again.
"Bloody hell," Fred said succinctly, his jaw going a little slack. The other Order members looked as if they would gladly echo Fred's sentiment. Ron was floating Harry down the hall, and stopped before the door to Ginny's room, which Hermione could not logically fault, as it was an infirmary of sorts, as well as the only room to have actual beds, rather than bunks.
Mr. Weasley was slumped in a wing chair next to Ginny's bed, and did a double take of astonishment, as Ron set Harry gently down on the other bed, and the rest of the Order clustered around the doorway, watching with wide eyes.
Professor McGonagall made her way forward, and began to examine Harry, as Hermione stood at Harry's head, her eyes following the Headmistress' every move.
"You've done a good job with the field medicine, Miss Granger," she finally announced, as she began to use the healing charms that Hermione had not trusted herself to perform. She looked down at Harry, relaxing slightly as his breathing seemed to ease.
After a moment, Professor McGonagall seemed to be satisfied, remarking only that it was amazing that his injuries were so superficial. Hermione was on the verge of protesting, knowing that there were wounds that were not so easily found and that did not so easily heal. She stopped, after another look at Harry, and suggested that they go into the War Room, so she could tell them what exactly had transpired.
~~**~~
Remus and Mr. Weasley had remained behind, to get Harry into clean clothing, and Hermione began her story once they'd arrived.
"I don't know what you did, Hermione, but I must say it was brilliant work all the way round," Remus said, sinking into a chair, and shaking his head. The others agreed, while Ron shot Hermione a rather appraising look.
"Think of how well it would have come off if she'd gotten help like she was supposed to," he remarked pointedly, and Hermione flushed. She had hoped that he wouldn't have picked up on that right away.
"Ron, by the time I realized that I could use back-up, I was already in the house. I wasn't going to risk leaving, and not being able to get back to him."
"You said Voldemort destroyed your medallion! You could have been killed," Ron said hotly.
"I could have been killed falling down the stairs!" Hermione retorted, and Ron flushed.
"Does it not even bother you that we've been back here since this morning, all of us, worried sick about where you were?"
"Ron - " Remus tried to interject, but Hermione overrode him.
"Voldemort got my wand, Ron! There was a dampening field in Harry's cell, and it threw my magic off. I was afraid to try anything with Harry's wand and end up doing Merlin knows what! I was going to wait until nightfall to Apparate back. If the Death Eaters hadn't - " she stumbled abruptly to a stop, looking profoundly guilty. Ron had grown very still.
"If the Death Eaters hadn't what?" he asked.
"My portkey was set for the Quidditch pitch behind your house," she sighed. "They traced it." Ron had paled, and Hermione hastened to add, "But I didn't use it to get back here. I Apparated. We should be okay."
"Home?" he asked in a voice that cracked halfway through the lone syllable, and Hermione realized that she had misunderstood his panic. Her eyes filled up with tears.
"They've burned it." She whispered. She looked toward Fred and Mr. Weasley, as if for some kind of absolution. "Ron, I'm - " she reached out for him, but he recoiled away from her so violently that he upended his chair, pacing around the entrance to the War Room agitatedly, like a big cat in a cage.
"Hermione, there was no way you could've expected them to trace the Portkey. I didn't even know it could be done," Mr. Weasley said in a sympathetic, but still rather vacant voice.
"She could have gone for help, like we agreed on!" Ron said angrily. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he's safe. But you - you could've been killed, Hermione. Don't you remember anything I've said to you this week?" Hermione remembered. I don't think I could take it if something happened to you.
"But Harry - " she managed, before her throat closed up completely.
"Harry!" Ron sounded incensed, but there was a tinge of something else in his voice. "Harry? It's always about Harry with you!"
"Ron!" Tonks reprimanded sharply.
"That's quite enough, Ron," his father said tiredly. Ron swore and knocked his overturned chair across the room, where it hit a wall, before striding out of sight. There were a few beats of tense silence, before they heard a door slam.
"I'm - I'm sorry," Hermione said to the rest of the group, feeling ashamed that after their talk about her not unnecessarily risking herself, how she was not expendable, that she had gone off on her own after all. "If you'd been there, if you'd seen … h - him, you - you'd - "
"I trust that you did what you thought was best, Hermione," Mr. Weasley said gently. "Ron's … been through a lot, l - lost a lot. He doesn't want lose you too." Hermione's throat was burning, and her eyes stung. With all they'd been through in the last few days, it was a wonder that someone hadn't already gone completely to pieces.
"I know," she croaked.
"What you've done for the Order," Tonks spoke up, looking at her with gentle eyes, "is - is incredible. To have Harry back would be wonderful anyway, but given his power and how his presence would boost morale…plus with the Prophecy - " he stopped. Hermione was shaking her head, and a tear dripped forlornly down her cheek.
"No power," she managed to say, still having trouble forcing words through the clog in her throat.
"The dampening field?" Fred asked, understanding her meaning first. She nodded.
"It was keyed specifically to him. They had - had his wand fastened above his cell door, on the inside. So he could - so he would be able to see it, knowing that he couldn't fight back."
"Perhaps you'd better tell us everything now," McGonagall prompted gently, and Hermione poured out the whole sordid tale, complete with the Muggle's grisly death and Harry's limited commentary about what he'd been through for the last four days, leaving out only his remark, He knew that there was nothing worse that he could do to me. It was too personal, too revealing, and she would not, could not speak it there in front of her boyfriend's father and brother.
"If he was planning to execute Harry publicly, then this is going to be a huge blow to his pride. Voldemort will stop at nothing to recapture him," Remus was saying gravely.
"Did Harry say anything about the security of the Shop?" Tonks asked, intently, leaning forward across the table toward Hermione.
"No," Hermione said. "He was kind of out of it. But if - if the Shop was compromised, wouldn't - wouldn't Voldemort have come already?"
"Probably," Tonks was in Auror mode, steepling her fingers under her chin and obviously thinking furiously. "But he knows you're alive now, whereas before he was only guessing. Couple that with your appearance in Knockturn Alley yesterday, and - and - "
"And the Weasleys' known affiliation with this shop -" Fred interjected. They all looked seriously at each other.
"They're going to come," Remus finished for them, with no doubt or uncertainty in his voice. Hermione felt a tremor run over her body. Standing in front of him is only going to get you killed first rang through her head, followed by Ron's accusation: It's always about Harry with you!
"We should start packing everything up," Tonks said. "Maybe we can be moved out of here by tomorrow."
"Should Harry be moved?" Hermione blurted suddenly, and then felt foolish. Tonks was looking at her with a glimmer of understanding in her eyes.
"You've moved him twice already," she teased. "I think he'll be fine. Why don't you get some rest? You certainly deserve it." The Auror laid a gentle hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I should tell you, we have guests resting back there."
"Who?" Hermione's one-word question was a breathless gasp.
"Luna..and Neville," Tonks answered. "Augusta and Luna's dad - didn't make it. They had joined forces evidently, concealed the children. Death Eaters killed them, but were unable to find Neville or Luna." Hermione's hand had gone up to her mouth during Tonks' statement.
"What about Fleur? Percy?" she wondered aloud, but Tonks only shook her head sadly.
"We haven't been able to find them. Madame Pomfrey either…Flitwick…"
"Hagrid?" Hermione suggested.
"Still no word since he traveled to the continent. It may be months before we hear from him, with communications the way they are. He probably doesn't even know what's happened…if he's even still alive," Tonks added tiredly, shaking her head at the bad news that seemed upwelling and everlasting. "Now go. Sleep."
"Okay," Hermione said distantly, and stood, though she really didn't want to go back to her bunk, in the room where Ron was. Moving sluggishly, as if the stress of the day had finally caught up with her, she drifted down the hallway in a fog, and was surprised when she opened the door to find herself faced with the two convalescents. She hadn't really meant to come to this room. Still, her feet carried her to Harry's bedside, as if propelled by some other power. She knelt by the bed, and leaned her elbows on the mattress. His dark hair was shiny in the low light of the room, and she figured that Lupin or Mr. Weasley had cast a cleaning charm on his hair. He already looked much better.
"Hi, Harry," she whispered softly. "I didn't get a chance to tell you how glad I am that you're back and that you're okay. I wanted you to know that I - " He stirred restlessly, and mumbled a slurred,
"H'mione?" With great effort, he turned his head to look at her fully. Hermione knew that her face had to be wreathed in a radiant, foolish smile. He slid one arm across the bed, palm up, revealing fingers that had been splinted while the bones knit. She gladly placed her hand in his. "'Sreally you?"
"It's really me," she affirmed. "You're at the Shop. Everything's going to be okay now." She wondered if she really meant it, but he seemed to see through her statement of optimism.
"How bad?" he asked, and she deliberately misunderstood him.
"Your injuries aren't severe," she replied. "Professor McGonagall reckons you'll be fine." He shook his head painstakingly.
"The war…how bad?" He was speaking through clenched teeth, and Hermione could tell he was trying to conserve his strength by keeping his statements clipped and short. Oh, that, she thought glumly. Of course he'd want to know. She met his eyes dead on, and felt his fingers tighten briefly around hers.
"It's bad, Harry," she said sincerely.
"Ginny?" he rolled his eyes toward the occupant of the other bed, and Hermione felt her heart squeeze involuntarily in pain, as Practical Hermione began berating the idea of jealous behavior at a time like this.
"She got the partial effects of a curse. We don't know what did it, or how to fix it. She's stable for now," Hermione informed him. He was still looking at Ginny.
"Hospital?"
"The Death Eaters have got it," she said flatly. Harry appeared to ponder this for awhile, and stayed silent so long that Hermione thought he might have drifted off to sleep again, but at length, his eyelashes fluttered and his gaze returned to hers.
"Who…else?" Hermione pursed her lips together, knowing exactly what he meant. "Harry…" she began, her voice gentle. Harry regarded her warily, as one would when he knows the news is not going to be good. She quickly gave him a list of the Order members present in the Shop, remembering to gratefully add Luna and Neville's names to the list, and watched in alarm as his eyes filled with tears.
"That's it?" he rasped disbelievingly, as the tears fell weakly down his temples and into his hair. "Mrs… Weasley?"
"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione said, clamping her mouth shut as her jaw began to tremble. She was not going to cry in front of him, not when he needed her to be strong.
"Where's Ron?" he ventured, after a long moment of silence.
"Do you want me to get him for you?" she asked stiffly, still trying to quell her rising emotion.
"You two fight again?" he queried, slanting a look of concern at her. She was so startled that she withdrew her hand from his, folding it with its mate into her lap. A weak grin glimmered on his face.
"How did you know that?" she asked, half-smiling, a little unwillingly.
"Always know… I know you. Can always tell," he mumbled, shifting a little in the bed, and grimacing. Her eyebrows knit together in worry.
"I should go," she said, though she didn't really want to. She was halfway out of her kneeling position, when the door opened. Harry reached for her with surprising quickness, snagging her wrist with loose fingers.
"No. Stay," he entreated, and Hermione looked up to see Ron standing in the doorway. My face must be all over guilt, she thought, annoyed at herself. Ron's face was unreadable.
"Figured I'd find you here," he said blandly, causing Hermione to shoot a look at him. His features gave nothing away, and this nonplussed Hermione, as Ron generally wore his feelings on his sleeve.
"Ron!" Harry breathed, his eyes alighting as Ron approached the bedside. Ron's face relaxed, as he took in Harry's presence.
"It is good to see you again, mate. Didn't think we would," he said candidly. Hermione felt a wave of relief course through her, as Ron sat in the chair that his father had occupied, located in between the two beds. At least he's not going to fight with me now, in front of Harry. She sank back to her knees beside Harry's bed.
"Didn't think so…either," Harry managed. His mouth was turned up in a slight smile, but his eyes were glazed and far away. Hermione wondered how long he would see scenes from the Riddle house in his nightmares.
"I reckon Hermione told you about - about - " Ron struggled to finish, but gave up as Harry nodded.
"She told me," he said quietly. "'M sorry. If I -"
"It's not your fault, Harry," Ron spoke heavily. "Nobody here thinks so. We're just glad you're back."
"No good now," Harry struggled to say, sounding angry. "Can't fight… bloody Squib." he suddenly seemed to be breathing faster, and Hermione pressed the back of her hand to his forehead in concern.
"What's he on about?" Ron asked, his eyes going curiously to Hermione. Her anxious eyes flickered to Harry uncertainly, and she tried to subtly shake her head at Ron.
"Don't talk about me… like I'm not here!" Harry barked suddenly in a full sentence, and he pushed himself up on his elbows.
"Sorry, mate," Ron said quietly, while Hermione added,
"Harry, lie down, please." He looked as if he wanted to protest, but lay back down, and Hermione could see from his weakly trembling muscles how much even that small effort had fatigued him. He regarded them silently, his tired eyes belying the mutinous set of his jaw. Hermione stood up, stretching the kinks out of her knees.
"Come on, Ron," she said quietly, suddenly feeling as tired as Harry looked. "We'll come back later." Ron held the door open for her, guiding her out with the lightest of touches on her back. She looked over her shoulder at the door, and was startled to see Harry watching them leave, a thoughtful look of regret and longing on his face.
TBC
Ugh. This chapter is still on my last nerve. The rescue came easily enough, but the parts after that were harder. I keep thinking that they aren't grieving properly, but then, they can't…they don't have time. I hope it's not coming across as all of them treating the deaths lightly.
I hope you're enjoying the story so far. Next chapter: The Order goes a'raidin', and Hermione comes unglued.
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