Unofficial Portkey Archive

The Catalyst

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Chapter Seventeen: Pawn Moved

Two owls flapped their wings at Harry's window that afternoon, appearing at roughly the same time: one a sleek, stealthy bird from Falworth, and the other a fluffy barn owl from St. Mungo's. Hermione was reading a story to Eleanor on the couch, and exchanged worried glances with Harry, who had emerged from the bathroom, where he was getting ready to leave for a short meeting with Brig about their broom's test results, at the noise. Fastening the clasp of his robes, he moved across the living area, opening the window with a flick of his wand. Both owls perched politely on the sill, waiting for him to take the letters, and departed when he had, with nary a backward glance.

He unfurled the one from the hospital, his green eyes roving across the script, and finished with a sigh, heedlessly squashing part of the parchment with his closed hand. Hermione was watching him, even as her lips were forming the words set forth in the story book, but Eleanor was well aware that her mother's thought were elsewhere. She stopped attending to the story, and also began to peer at Harry from over the top of the book.

"They want us back at St. Mungo's to finish the testing that they couldn't finish yesterday," because of me, he implied without saying so. "Is that really necessary?"

"It's because her magic is… different," Hermione said, choosing her words carefully, well aware that she had Eleanor's attention. "We need to find out the mechanics behind it, how it reacts to various stimuli…" She knew she had what Harry and Ron called her "Healer-face" on. "So, we know what needs to be done, should an illness or emergency arise." She smiled at her daughter, and kissed the crown of her head. "This is not like what they did. This is to help keep you healthy and strong." Turning an earnest face back to Harry, she added, "Go on to your meeting with Brig. We've got to balance these work and parenting things eventually. I won't leave her side, I promise…" She trailed off, as Harry had opened the second missive, and was reading it.

"It's from Auror Falworth. They'd like to see us later on, at the Ministry, if that's convenient." He'd turned away from them, deliberately moving toward the kitchen, and Hermione knew there was more that he was not saying. Judging from the pensive expression on Eleanor's face, their daughter knew it as well.

With another kiss, and a "We'll take it with us," Hermione slid the storybook into Eleanor's lap, and followed Harry into the kitchen. She moved into his arms without prompting and asked, "What is it?"

"They've found him. Dolohov's son. They've got a name, a birth date, a last known address. They're going to bring him in, and they want Eleanor to confirm his identity." He drew in a deep breath. "They had Aurors canvassing the area of the old Dolohov townhouse - it hasn't been used by the family in years - and people have seen a man matching his description." She looked up at him with eyes that were simultaneously fearful and relieved. "They're going to get him, Hermione. They're going to get the man who did this to her."

"Best way out is through, yeah?" Hermione quipped, the lightness in her tone negated by the sheen of tears in her eyes. "We'll put this all behind us, and then…" Her voice trailed off, and she felt Harry's arms grow still around her. She knew they were thinking the same thing: this thing with Dolohov's son, the mystery of Eleanor's existence; these were distracting them from the daily problems that were sure to crop up - Ron and Ginny, the media, their fledgling relationship. Those things could be brushed aside, overlooked for now, but they wouldn't just vanish of their own accord.

"And then… we have to deal with angry exes, our entire lives on the front pages, how to raise an exceptional child, how to - how to - " Harry was speaking those very thoughts aloud; his hands came up to cup her face, his little fingers sliding into the notch between her jaw and her ear and caressing the slender lines of bone there. "Merlin, why can't things just go as they ought for once? We've not dated, but we know each other better than anyone else. We haven't done… erm, that, and yet we have a child. The family that we were taken into as though we were born part of them is probably never going to speak to us again. And yet, somehow… I'm happy about all this." He sighed. "It would have been nice to have gone about this the normal way round, though."

"You've never been normal, Harry." As he was about to respond with a laughing, sarcastic Thanks a lot, she finished, "You've always been extraordinary. And you bring that out in others."

"If not for Eleanor, and - and everything that's happened, do you think - do you think we'd have ever - ?"

"I don't think we would have." Hermione's voice was faraway and reflective. "And there's the greater tragedy. We would have stayed with Ron and Ginny, and probably been passably happy, in the way that someone swimming in a pond is thrilled with its vastness, because he's never seen the ocean." Harry regarded her soberly for a moment, looking as though she were a gift that he couldn't believe he'd been given, but then he broke the solemnity with a half-grin.

"That's rather lyrical of you, Granger," he teased. "And rather complimentary to me." There was an impish sparkle in his green eyes.

"Don't flatter yourself, Pott - " The remainder of his surname was swallowed by his kiss. Hermione's insides liquefied, and her knees wobbled. She felt his arms slide down to link behind her back, supporting her. Will it always feel this way? I hope it always feels this way. She almost groaned aloud when he just as reluctantly drew away from her.

"I've…really got to go…" His words trailed slowly out of his mouth, as if he genuinely did not want to give them voice. There was mute apology in his eyes, causing one corner of her mouth to uptilt.

"Go!" Her twinkling eyes and her playful shove made him kiss her again. "You've missed enough work already. You're lucky Brig likes you so much!" Harry backed away from her, with an expression that clearly said Of course he does. Why wouldn't he?

"I'll meet you at the Ministry in a couple of hours?" He called over his shoulder, half in query, as he moved to drop a quick kiss on the crown of Eleanor's head. Hermione nodded at him.

"I'll send a Patronus when we're finished at St. Mungo's." He winked at her, ducked his head in farewell, and Apparated away with a crisp crack.

Hermione puttered around Harry's flat for a few minutes, tidying up things that didn't really need to be tidied, just to have something to do with her hands while her mind whirled in dizzying circuits. On one pass through the living area, she felt Eleanor's gaze on her, and stopped. The green eyes were even more solemn than was their general wont.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"I'm not good," Eleanor sighed. Hermione took a moment to curse everyone at that research facility for planting this idea in the psyche of an impressionable child.

"I know it's hard, Eleanor, but you have to tell yourself that nothing those people said to you was true. They - they were not good people. What they were doing to you was wrong. They were wrong, not you."

"Just because you don't like what someone says, doesn't make it not true," Eleanor pointed out placidly. "I am not good for Father. I am not good for anyone."

"The Healers at St. Mungo's are going to figure out what to do. It might be something like your bracelet… but a better one - one that doesn't give you a headache. Or it might be something completely different. You are an important little girl, Eleanor."

"Because I can see what people think inside their heads? Or because they want to give my magic to Skibs?" Eleanor spoke with a clinical curiosity that pierced Hermione like a rapier blade.

"Because…" Hermione hesitated, pressing her lips together contemplatively, and then came to sit beside her daughter on the sofa. "Because you're Harry Potter's daughter. Your father is important. He - he is one of the bravest, noblest people that I know. And he has saved many, many lives. People don't forget things like that. And you are his daughter. He loves you… very, very much. There are going to be wizards and witches all over the place out there, just tripping over themselves to help someone that Harry Potter loves."

The corners of Eleanor's eyes crinkled up, as she pictured grown men and women hurrying to and fro, stumbling over every little thing in their paths and crashing into one another. "Do they trip over themselves to help you?" she asked, her implication clear.

"You know what?" Hermione leaned toward her with a conspiratorial whisper, trying to ignore the high color in her cheeks. "Actually, they do." Eleanor giggled then, her nose scrunching up as she cupped her hand over her mouth. The sound struck Hermione as incongruous coming from such a serious little girl, and it made her vow to cause that giggle so much more often that it no longer sounded odd. She should meet George, she thought, almost instinctively, and then felt the new triplet twinges of guilt, pain, and regret immediately on its heels.

Eleanor had evidently read at least a bit of this, for she tucked her tiny hand into her mother's, and said, "You and Father belong together. That should not make you feel bad." Hermione laughed a little, and blinked back the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes.

"Being a grown-up is hard sometimes, Eleanor," she said honestly.

"Promise me, Mother," she said, speaking as forcefully as Hermione had ever heard her. "Promise me you will not let anything - anything - keep you and Father apart from each other."

"Now that we've finally figured out what was right in front of our noses, you mean?" Hermione forced some joviality into her tone, and found her good humor returning. "I think your father and I will be just fine." There were still troubled shadows swimming in the green pools of Eleanor's eyes, but she said nothing further, and Hermione let it slide. "We should go on to St. Mungo's. Healer Desai will be waiting on us, and we can get this all over with. Maybe have some ice cream afterward?"

"In a cone?" Eleanor drummed her shoes against each other, and the sides of the rubber soles made a gentle thunking sound. There was a hopeful spark in her green eyes; so like her father's, Hermione thought.

"If that's what you'd like," Hermione said agreeably, standing to her feet, and pulling Eleanor to hers. "Let's go and get this all finished! What do you say?"

*********

Harry and Brig were elbow deep in rolls of parchment spread out across three or four different drafting tables. They had been arguing amicably over whether or not a four-degree change in the shaft angle would improve the lagging cornering time, and then moved on to broom-straw composition.

"I'm tellin' ye, Harry, there's a reason it's no' been done before."

"A broom tail is made of twigs to be functional, as a broom. If you're going to be flying it, not sweeping with it, then it doesn't matter what the tail is made of."

"Ye still have to take into account: aerodynamics, shear, weight…" The buckles on Brig's leather apron jingled softly as he ticked points off on his fingers. "The twigs are economical, an' they work." Harry stabbed his own finger in the direction of the experimental alloy broom on the far table beneath the large window. It lay in a puddle of sunlight, as if on display in a gallery.

"But what if something else works better? Something just as light, just as capable, but far more durable?"

"Ye don' even know that it'll work better. Ye've worked out the broom shaft with the alloy, an' it looks grand, I'll admit it. But the twigs would be a completely differen' matter!"

"I don't think it would be different at all. Using something like the alloy - why, broom tails could last five times as long!"

"So, ye want to be puttin' us out o' business then?"Brig's walrus mustache was cocked at a wry angle above his mouth. "Or did ye forget about the `Broom Repair' part o' our sign out there?" He chucked his thumb over his shoulder toward the front of the shop.

"We could revolutionize this whole industry, Brig!"

"I rather thought ye'd had enough o' revolutions for your lifetime, Mr. Potter." His eyes were twinkling with gentle teasing, but Harry flung a wounded look at him: Et tu, Brig?

"I want to take it out," he announced suddenly, no longer talking about the broom they'd been testing over the last two weeks.

"It isn't ready yet."

"It needs one more layer of charms!" There was clear protest in Harry's voice.

"Charmin' a broom for flight is the most complicated part o' the entire process. Ye've never done one all on your own! Ye've got an elite broom there, and those charms are more complex still. Ye rush it, an' ye might just find yourself having a lunch o' cobblestones!"

"An elite broom, eh? Even if I replace the tail with something besides twigs?" Harry flashed a playfully mocking glance at his mentor, and Brig's mustache dropped dourly.

"You're far too young an' green to be using me own words against me. I'll no' have it! If ye want to finalize the charms on that newfangled contraption ye've got there, be my guest. But do no' come cryin' to me to collect all your body parts from the four corners of the testin' green!"

"I'll be careful. Do you really think I've come this far to kill myself testing a broom prototype?" Brig's wordless glance, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline, was eloquence itself. "Besides," Harry stumbled, a crooked grin wobbling on his face, "I've got a daughter now, you know." The pride in his voice was almost another sentience in the room. "I'm not going to take foolish risks, Brig. I can do this."

"Yes, ye said as much o'er the Floo the other day." Brig scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck with one massive paw. "So, the Prophet, then? They're tellin' the truth? About Hermione an' your wee lass… an' Ron?"

"Some of it's true," Harry admitted uncomfortably. "But it didn't all happen the way they said. Our daughter - Hermione's and mine - she was created in a lab… by scientists. Like an experiment." He gestured vaguely toward the alloy broom, groping for an example that a wizard might understand. "We - Hermione and I - we never cheated, Brig."

"It didn't seem like something either o' ye would do, that's fair certain."

"The funny thing is… now, now that everything has happened, and - and - even though nothing happened before… Well, now, we've - we've realized, that is - "

"Ye've realized that she's the one for ye, haven't ye, lad?"

"Yeah," Harry let out a half-laugh that was mostly just a sardonic exhalation of air. "We both have, Brig, and mostly… mostly I wonder - other than how we're going to raise a child and how long this is going to be on the front pages - mostly I wonder how I didn't see this before. It seems so obvious now, for both of us to have been so incredibly blind."

"There's no need wastin' time o'er regrets about the past. It can't be undone." Brig's heavy hand came down on Harry's shoulder for a couple of fatherly pats. "Best ye figured it out before any vows were said, before other children were involved, when hearts migh' be damaged, but no' broken for good. They'll be fine, Harry, an' ye an' Hermione will be too."

Harry met Brig's gaze with a half-smile that gave clear voice to his gratitude, when he wasn't sure he'd be able to speak it aloud. Brig patted his shoulder again, and reached for the quill tucked into the band of his visor.

"Now," he continued, his brogue becoming brisk and businesslike. "Let's see about getting' the las' layer o' charms on that broom o' yours. Show me what ye've got."

******

Harry wasn't sure how much time had gone by, when he got the last charm laid down in precisely the location and configuration that Brig deemed worthy. The sun's angle was sharply different in the sky, and he was pretty sure that the muscles in his fingers had frozen permanently around his wand. He arched his back and groaned, as every vertebrae in his spine popped, protesting his lengthy crouch over the drafting table. Brig prowled around the perimeter of the table, examining the broom from every possible angle, and rapidly casting a succession of diagnostic spells.

"Well," Brig said after a moment, drawing out the short word interminably. "I think ye've done good work, Harry. Ye've got a knack for this, no doubt." He threw a critical glance toward the window. "And just enough time to take `er out before the light gets bad." The childlike enthusiasm that wreathed Harry's face was infectious enough to wring an answering smile from the older man. "An' remember what I said. I'll no' be Summoning the pieces o' ye, nor chuckin' `em in the Floo to St. Mungo's!"

Harry picked up the broom with reverence, rotating it slowly in his hand and marveling at how light and natural it felt, like an extension of himself.

"Gareth and Morty `ave gone out on an orderin' run. I'll send Morty along when he gets back."

"Brig!" Harry's shoulders slumped in disappointment, finishing with a muttered, "He calls me `Boss'."

"And dinna pretend that ye don't love it on some level. Don't argue wi' me, Harry," he added, as the younger man opened his mouth to protest some more. "It's safer wi' another wizard there. Just in case anythin' happens."

"In case he needs to chuck pieces of me through the Floo?"

"Exactly so." Brig nodded at him seriously, and Harry rolled his eyes, before Apparating up to the testing fields.

*****

Harry felt Hermione's Patronus before he saw it. He was airborne, but still felt the shivery rush through the wards, as the otter crossed through. When he saw it gliding toward him in a series of silvery smooth arcs, as if through non-existent waves, he felt his heart somersault into his throat, even though he knew what message it was likely bringing. Deciding that it would behoove him not to be thirty feet up in the air, he executed a long graceful dive, springing from the broom before it had come to a complete stop. He turned to face the ethereal otter, which had dutifully followed him down.

"We've finished the testing at St. Mungo's. Auror Falworth is ready for us at the Ministry." Hermione's Patronus-voice, though clearly hers, had a cool, hollow sound that resonated around the otherwise empty testing field.

"Thank you," Harry said automatically, then felt his face flush. Ginny had always teased him for thanking Patronuses. The otter dissipated into a glittery cloud of particles before vanishing entirely. He took a moment to rotate the new broom - his broom - in front of him, curling and uncurling his wrist, eyeing it carefully in the slanting afternoon sun. The ride had been fantastic, smooth and fast, the angles cut by the broom, knife-sharp. With a final fond glance, he shrunk the broom down and carefully put it in his pocket, strode to the edge of the field, and Apparated away once he'd cleared the wards.

He found them easily once he made it to the Ministry, though he'd entered the Auror department with some trepidation. He knew that these were Ron's comrades, his colleagues, and they were most likely to take his side; not to mention there were more than a few people Harry had trained with who still believed him to be a quitter who was overly enamored of himself. Thankfully, Ron didn't appear to be in the office; Harry wondered if he was out in the field with the spell-sketcher. He could feel eyes on him - he carefully avoided Sinjin's measured gaze - but was able to wend his way through the maze of cubicles and stacked file boxes without any overt confrontation.

And it looked like he might still have a fan or two in the place, he thought, as he caught sight of Hermione, with Eleanor clinging to her hand. He raised one arm in greeting, and met the eyes of a mousy young woman, clutching a clipboard and quill, looking for all the world like she wanted to melt into the wall after he'd caught her avidly staring. She dropped her gaze quickly, and scrawled something with her quill, pretending to be immersed in whatever it was she'd been tasked to do.

At least, not everyone hates me, he thought, and then reflected on how sad it was that that thought comforted him.

"Father!" Eleanor's voice was not loud, but had a jubilant tone. Harry felt his heart clench with unadulterated joy.

"Did they figure anything out?" He asked Hermione. He wanted so badly to be able to hold Eleanor's hand, to pick her up, to cuddle her to his side while they read a story…

"Not sure yet," Hermione replied, her eyes sympathetic to his obvious desires, her voice discreetly low. "Her magic is - is highly reactive. Volatile, even. The attempts to suppress it cause it to surge around the erected barriers, to actively try to break them down, to - "

"To escape?"

"Kind of," Hermione nodded in agreement with his word choice. "That's what gives her a headache. Theoretically, we could increase the strength of her bracelet, but - "

" - that would make her headaches worse."

"Exactly."

"What about me? When can I - ?"

"I don't know, Harry," Hermione's voice was compassionate and contemplative. "There are two research Healers who have actually attended Muggle universities, in addition to their Healer training, and they've been looking at some of the data, as well as Shravana, Fellowes, and myself." She shrugged off-handedly, as if she weren't much of an addition. "The problem comes from your magic being so similar to hers. They've theorized that the more - the more her magic comes into contact with you, the more… acclimated it gets. That's why your reactions have been progressively worsening."

"There's got to be something, Hermione! Something I could wear, some spell to be cast on me, to keep this from happening!" Hermione looked ineffably sad.

"It's just another barrier, Harry."

He averted his blurred gaze to a far corner of the Auror offices, not wishing either Hermione or Eleanor to see him tear up. It's a wild thing, he reflected, thinking of what Hermione had said about Eleanor's magic fighting against restraint. It lashes out with attempts to bind it, or… he remembered the scenes he'd seen in her memory - the hellhound, the fire in the lab. Or when it perceives that it is in danger, that Eleanor is in danger. Part of him recognized it as ridiculous that he was referring to magic as a sentient being on its own. But most of him was frightened that such an unpredictable, savage, engineered thing was encased inside the fragile, five-year-old body of his daughter.

Belatedly, he jerked toward Eleanor, realizing that she was probably picking up on everything he'd been thinking. He met a somber green gaze, so much like the one that met him in the mirror. Her beautiful wide eyes - his mother's eyes - were fathomless and clear. She'd "heard" everything. Yes, Father. Her chin dropped in a careful nod. He couldn't really hear her in his mind, but her eyes said it all. You are right. Everything you did-not-say is right. He reached over and chucked her chin, careful to keep the cuff of his shirt in between his skin and hers.

"I am so sorry." The four-word phrase seemed incredibly inadequate, and yet it was all he could do.

"It is not your fault," Eleanor whispered back. Harry wasn't sure exactly what expression was on his face at that moment, but he felt Hermione's fingers twine with his and squeeze hard. "Maybe the Healers can fix it." Something in the little girl's voice rang false, made Harry think that it was an untruth, a kind lie spoken solely for comfort's sake. He tried to make eye contact with her again, but she had bent down to adjust the lace of her shoe.

"Ah, Harry! You're here." Auror Falworth's business voice, upbeat but brisk, drove Harry from his reverie. "We've got him in a holding cell. On suspicion of Dark Activity."

"How can he be held for Dark Activity if he's a - "

"Suspicion of Dark Activity," Falworth corrected him, holding a finger aloft in mock pomposity. Harry squinted at him. The young Auror seemed entirely too…bouncy… for these proceedings, but Harry supposed that this would be a big arrest. Landmark case. And he did really seem rather fond of Eleanor. "We'll get Eleanor to identify him. Once we've got him for unlawfully holding her - then… well, then it doesn't matter whether or not he is a Squib. This way, please."

They started forward, but Hermione was immediately jerked back, when Eleanor planted her feet. Harry knelt in front of her immediately.

"Eleanor, it's okay. I know you're scared. But we're going to be on the other side of a big, heavy window. He won't be able to see us. He doesn't have magic anyway, and there are Aurors everywhere." He swung his arm wide to encompass the entirety of the department. "All you have to do is tell them whether or not the man in there is Sir. And then we'll be done."

"That's all?" Eleanor's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

"That's all. Your mother can hold your hand the whole time." Eleanor slid one shoe forward hesitantly, in lieu of a reply. They continued slowly to the corridor lined with holding cells, Eleanor walking so closely to her mother that Hermione was fighting not to trip over her.

An Auror guard on either side of the third cell door made it very obvious which one Dolohov occupied. Once they and Auror Falworth stood in front of the large window, charmed to be one-way glass, Auror Dunwiddie prodded something with his wand, causing the lights to come up in the cell. The hulking figure had been huddled in shadows, the cell almost twilight-dim, but his gaze lifted toward the window as the light grew brighter. Dunwiddie slid his wand into a small slot to activate the Sonorus inside the cell.

"Stand up and face the window," the Auror barked. Very slowly and deliberately, Dolohov uncurled himself from the crouch, standing straight and looking where he was directed with a malevolent and unrepentant gaze. Harry heard the faintest gasp from Hermione, as they got their first clear look at the man himself. He really does look an awful lot like his father, he thought.

"Can you see?" Hermione asked Eleanor softly. The little girl's eyes were not level with the windowsill, and she shook her head. Hermione reached down and picked her up, setting her daughter securely on one hip.

Harry knew it was impossible. The man was a Squib; there was no way he could have known Eleanor was there. Perhaps it was an educated guess due to the raising of the lights, but his timing was nevertheless eerie and uncanny. As Eleanor fully faced the window, it appeared that the two of them - one in the cell and one out - locked eyes with one another. Dolohov surged toward the window so suddenly that Hermione found herself instinctively backpedalling, with Harry inserting himself between her and the cell.

"Nononononononono!" Eleanor had begun a nearly banshee wail. Dolohov slammed both hands against the glass, his face contorted and feral.

"NOW!" He roared. "Now! Damn you!" Harry heard it in stereo, both physically and through the Sonorus spell. Several of the Aurors were looking around, bewildered, wands at the ready, wondering to whom Dolohov was speaking. Dunwiddie flung himself toward the cell door, wrenching it open and causing it to clatter noisily against the wall.

"Stupefy!"

Casimir Dolohov went limp, a marionette with his strings cut. Three Aurors joined Dunwiddie in the cell to secure him. Harry could feel Hermione's form trembling next to him, even as she patted Eleanor's back and hummed tunelessly. Eleanor's sobs gradually dwindled to noisy sniffles and erratic hiccups, her face buried in Hermione's neck.

There was a flicker of movement in the periphery of Harry's vision, and his war-honed senses did not overlook it, even in his focus on Eleanor's wellbeing. His wand was in his hand before he had fully turned, and twin scarlet bolts shot toward the chest of the little wallflower who'd been watching him earlier. She collapsed at the far end of the corridor in a heap of dull-colored clothing, and he allowed himself to exchange a satisfied glance with Falworth, who had thrown the other Stunner.

She had cast something though. A diffuse, greenish cloud was hurtling toward them. Both Harry's Shield charm and Falworth's Dispersal spell failed to stop it, but the cloud appeared to pass through everyone and disappear, with no effect.

"Restrain that woman!" Falworth called down the corridor, and spared an appreciative look at Harry. "Your casting speed is stellar, Mr. Potter. Are you sure you aren't interested in returning to finish your training?"

"I'm sure!" Harry returned amiably, but whatever he had planned to say next was lost in Hermione's terrified shriek. He spun on his heel so abruptly that he nearly fell. Hermione was in the floor, cradling an insensate Eleanor in her arms.

"She just … collapsed. She's - she's so hot!" Hermione's voice was tremulous, almost incoherent, but Harry saw her stop and make a conscious effort to gather herself. Aurors usually had some knowledge of field medicine, but Hermione likely had the most training of anyone on the floor.

"Find out what she did! Somebody wake her up!" Harry thundered, gesturing toward the fallen form of their attacker. Falworth seemed unfazed that the Boy Who Lived was giving orders, and confirmed it to the nearest Auror, with a tilt of his head toward the second holding cell. "What - what are you doing?" This was directed at Hermione, who was shifting, trying to slide herself out from under Eleanor. Her small limbs were beginning to convulse.

"I can't examine her like this."

"Give her to me!"

"Harry, you can't - !"

"Get me a blanket! The gloves worked well enough last time. And give her to me."

An Auror was quickly dispatched to that task. Another one bent down to murmur a question in Hermione's ear. She shook her head vehemently.

"There's no way we can put her in the Floo. Not when we don't even know what's going on. And it's too far to get her outside to Apparate. Her temperature is soaring… and I - I - "

Things were happening too fast, Harry thought, his mind whirling, his throat feeling as if it would swell shut permanently at any moment. People were talking around him, and he couldn't make sense of their words. Someone had brought a blanket, a heavy, itchy drab thing, and draped it over his arms and lap and front. Hermione gently set her in the concave hollow of the cloth, and Harry did his best to hold her elongated across his extended arms. Eleanor's dark hair was starting to cling to her flushed forehead and cheeks; her arms and legs trembled spasmodically. Hermione's wand was a blur, her brow furrowed in concentration, as she mumbled half-heard spells under her breath faster than Harry could process.

Eleanor had only been in contact with him - through a blanket and multiple layers of clothing - for moments, when Harry felt the hairs on his neck and arms stand up. Something - thrumming and painful and not unlike electric shock - roiled through his entire body. His hands clenched convulsively around his daughter. He felt as if he could identify every nerve ending he possessed.

"Some…thing's… wrong," he choked. A shock wave rolled down the corridor, as cracks appeared in the plaster and plaques for Meritorious Service fell from the wall with a series of tinkling crashes. In the main bullpen of the Auror's office, around the corner, alarms could be heard in crescendoing klaxons. Hermione cast a diagnostic spell, and her eyes widened in horror.

"Her magic is mixing with yours. I - I can't fix this. We've got to get her to St. Mungo's! Can you stand?"

Falworth was shouting at the other Aurors to evacuate the entire floor. The light fixtures rattled noisily in their casings. Harry managed to stand unsteadily to his feet, and the tiles clattered beneath the soles of his shoes. There seemed to be a howling maelstrom of wind coming from somewhere.

"We're going to the Floo!" Hermione was shouting at Falworth, who nodded every two or three words. "Get everyone out of our way! Send an Owl! Let them know we're going and we'll need all the help they've got!"

And then she was gone, blazing a trail for Harry to the Floo Network, and he was following clumsily in her wake, fear and grief and love and hope and despair bleeding together in equal measure to form one desperate thought:

Please…

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