Unofficial Portkey Archive

The Catalyst

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Chapter Nineteen: Grief Unfettered

Auror Falworth erupted from the department's own Floo network, all green fire and righteous indignation. He had sent Dunwiddie back from St. Mungo's earlier, in an effort to see if there were anything else to be gleaned from Casimir Dolohov. He had stayed behind, speaking with Shravana Desai and a couple of the other Healers who'd had occasion to work on Eleanor's case. He had a vague notion of where the testing pitch was, and held out some desperate, nebulous hope that something could still be done.

The Healers had been not at all encouraging, and had followed up their conclusions with the medical and magical reasons for them. Healer Desai, in particular, looked almost haunted by what had transpired over the last several hours. Finally, Falworth realized that enough time had passed where there should be news of Eleanor's fate. If there was no longer anything he could do to prevent it - and the thought wrenched his insides in a painful way - then he was for damned sure going to figure out exactly what Dolohov had done, and why, and make certain that he paid for it.

He had been more or less instructed to "take care of the Potter girl situation", and make sure that few civilian casualties were sustained. He figured that meant he ought to have followed Mr. Potter and Miss Granger up to the testing facility and taken the appropriate measures, whatever those would have ended up being. He also figured that the Ministry would likely frown on any news that the Savior of the Wizarding World had been blown to hell by some ridiculous bastardization of proper magic and Muggle medicine, engineered by a Squib and a Muggle, no less. However, Falworth's genial Hufflepuff nature did not extend to ripping parents away from their dying child, nor to inserting himself into the grief that a hero, who frequently ended up with his life splattered all over the front pages anyway, deserved to muddle through in private.

By the time he tossed the Floo powder into the noisy and crowded fireplace at St. Mungo's, he had worked himself up into a fairly decent fury. He remembered his first thoughts upon seeing Eleanor in that cell, that she reminded him of his wife; he remembered the weight of her in his arms at the hospital, as they watched Healers fight for her father's life; he remembered the twin looks of agony on her parents' faces, just earlier today. He strode through the rabbit warren of the Auror bullpen, and back toward the interrogation rooms, his cloak snapping behind him, and his expression clearly warning against approach.

"Stu…" An Auror who'd finished the same time he had, from Ravenclaw, Ferdie Beauchamp, managed to hesitantly call out, snagging his attention. "Zeke wanted you in his office as soon as you got back. He wants a report." None of the Aurors would have ever called Ezekiel Entwhistle, "Zeke", to his face, but most of them did it behind his back.

"Not finished with it yet," Falworth barked, even though he knew, and Ferdie knew he knew, that a written report was not what the other man had meant.

The interrogation room where they had housed Rhunya Vaiciunas was dark, and Falworth had no idea what they'd done with her. The second room, however, still had the flashing red beacon just above the door frame, indicating that it was occupied. A quick glance through the charmed glass told Falworth that Dolohov was still inside, glaring sullenly at Dunwiddie and a silver-haired Auror named McEwen. He flashed a look at the two Aurors stationed in the corridor, with wands at the ready, but still leaning somewhat indolently against the far wall, and flung himself through the door, before anyone could protest.

Surprise flickered in both Dunwiddie's and McEwen's eyes, but they did not betray anything more in front of their suspect. Falworth hesitated for a fraction of a second, unsure now what to claim as his reason for entering, and knowing that he was far too close to this case.

"You're looking rather upset." Dolohov had no such qualms about speaking , apparently. There was a self-satisfied purr in his voice. "I do hope no one has died."

Falworth emitted a sort of inarticulate roar, which may have contained the two words "little girl", before he lunged toward the table, heaving the Squib from his chair and slamming him against the wall, his fists wound tightly in Dolohov's lapels. Dunwiddie hurtled behind him in an attempt to pry him off, and McEwen motioned for the Aurors in the corridor to stand down, shaking his head subtly in the direction of the window. After a brief scuffle, Dunwiddie succeeded in parting the two, although Dolohov resumed his seat with enough smug superiority in his eyes that Falworth desperately wanted to clock him a good one.

"For the love of Merlin," Falworth managed to say. "What was the point?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Dolohov's voice was low and measured, the articulation of each syllable indicative of the youth he'd had, exposed to aristocratic people, even while being shunned by them. "I'm quite unsure as to why I'm still here. I've told your colleagues that I wield neither magic nor Muggle medicine. I simply cannot do that of which I am accused." He upturned empty hands, a self-deprecating note of chagrin in his voice.

"The experiment?" Falworth played ignorant, hanging onto to tattered remnants of control. Dolohov's answering look made Falworth think that his attempt at subtlety was less than successful. "The raided lab? We have a witness who has described you."

"You have a witness?" Dolohov's teeth scraped across his lip, emphasizing the `V' of the present tense. His gaze was amused, coolly sardonic. Falworth could feel the color mounting in his face.

"Yes, we do." He did not allow himself to look at the other two Aurors in the room. "Did you really think any facet of your experiment was going to work? You - a scion of the Dolohov house - reduced to working with Muggles." He let disdain drip from the last word, shaking his head as if he felt sorry for the man across from him. "So - let me see if I've got this right - you're born defective; your parents are quite justified in their focus on their younger son, the one who can actually perform the functions of a magical heir. You end up consorting with Muggles… and hatch a plot with one of them to… what? Take over the world? Dispense magic to everyone, as if you were some sort of apothecary?" Falworth pursed his lips as if he were holding back a laugh. Do not think of Eleanor, he told himself sternly. A dark shadow of hatred gleamed in Dolohov's hooded eyes, though his face remained impassive. "The plan doesn't work - no big surprise there, I'd wager - so your secondary plot," his voice lilted upward, as if he were telling a particularly funny anecdote, "is to murder Harry Potter, the greatest hero the wizarding world has ever known." He infused his tone with some grudging admiration. "You do aim high, don't you? Were you trying to get your mummy and daddy to love you? Couldn't you have just knocked over a Muggle bank or two? They don't even have dragons. Muggles apparently do it fairly readily - I'd think it'd be easy enough, even for a Squi - "

Falworth didn't get to finish the word, as Dolohov dove across the table, succeeding only in knocking the Auror from his chair before Dunwiddie banished him toward the wall, holding him pinned in place, with one flick of his wand. Falworth picked himself up, daubing at a smudge of blood at his temple, where he'd hit his head on the table. He followed Dolohov's irate gaze, zeroed in on his partner's wand.

"You never got to use one of those, did you, Casimir?" Falworth purred. "You were never even accorded the chance. Stripped of your birthright by some caprice of fate. And then - " His voice grew less tentative. He was on the right track now; he knew it. "And then you grow up, hidden in the shadows, an object of shame, your very presence declaring your parents' failure… and who do you keep hearing about? Who controls where you parents go, to whom they speak, how they act? Who are they all afraid of? Who has power that he hasn't earned, doesn't deserve, doesn't even know how to wield? Who has altered the very destiny of the Dark Lord himself??"

Dolohov was trembling with rage, his chest heaving against the spell that prevented his movement.

"Harry Potter," Falworth whispered, and Dolohov flinched. "It's him, isn't it? Embued with all the power that you were denied. As famous and adored as you are forgotten and despised. You may have told your Muggle friend something different, but that was the only real reason you chose Harry Potter's child, wasn't it? Once you knew the experiment wouldn't work, you came up with another plan, a plan that would take him out. You knew his background; you'd read enough about his Blood-Traitor ways, his faith in Dumbledore, his unwillingness to kill… you were almost certain that he would take the child in. And so you left her there, left her there for us to find.

"But of course, you've failed. Did you really think you could beat Harry Potter?" The amusement was back. "Or his offspring for that matter? Harry Potter's daughter has more power in her little finger than you will ever have. Sure, you may have made her that way, but of course, you couldn't do that right. So you tried to make her into a weapon, but then you couldn't do that right either. Listen! Maybe you can hear them laughing."

"You're lying!!" It was an unhinged cry reeking of desperation. "She's dead and so is he! You don't have to be magical to put together potions, you just have to be a chemist. And the witch triggered it. The witch triggered it! Eamon said it would work. Eamon said - " He sucked in a ragged breath, sagging against the bonds of the spell. "He has to be dead. He has to be dead…" It was almost a sob.

Falworth darted a glance at Dunwiddie and McEwen. "Got enough?"

McEwen's curt nod was all the answer he needed. He rose and exited the small room, not even sparing a glance for the pathetic Squib, still pinned to the wall like a beetle. Dunwiddie followed him out.

"So, she's alive? They were able to stop it?"

Falworth's shoulders drooped forward. He dropped his gaze so he wouldn't have to look at the hope in Guinnein's eyes.

"I don't know."

***

Harry wasn't sure how long they'd been slumped in the middle of the broom test-flight pitch - long enough that the sun had begun to feel uncomfortably warm, long enough that the tears that weren't still burning his eyes like acid had dried on his face. He could no longer feel his right leg. And even all those things that were dimly registering in some back corner of his brain felt distinctly unreal, as if he were watching himself on television. Hermione hadn't moved either; he could still feel her nearby, could still hear her sniffles.

"I don't know what to do now." His throat felt raw, his voice crackly with disuse. How long had they been sitting here? He squinted up at Hermione, backlit by the sun. Movement caught his eye: Hermione's fingers stroking the ends of Eleanor's hair. Where is a Time Turner or a good `Finite' spell when you need one? This can't be real. He wanted to stay there forever, memorizing her face, imprinting it indelibly into his mind, and yet he wanted to flee too, run somewhere where he wouldn't have to see the stillness of that sweet face, where he could pretend it hadn't happened.

He could never pretend it hadn't happened.

"They'll need to come… get her, I - I guess," Hermione began slowly. Harry watched one of her hands tighten possessively. "They'll…" her voice dropped until it was nearly inaudible. "They'll probably want to - want to make sure she's - she's…" She looked helplessly at him, tears coating her cheeks like lacquer.

"Defused?" The word came out of him unbidden, angry and abrupt. Hermione sobbed, a suppressed hiccupping abomination of a thing, and he immediately felt shame swamp him atop everything else.

"I can check," she breathed, but made no actual move to do so.

"Why didn't - why aren't we dead?" he managed, reflecting with utter sincerity that he wished he was.

"I don't know. It - She ­was destabilizing magic. She - shut down the wards around the pitch - did you hear them go? If she did that, then we - we - should be dead." Her voice was articulate, even though it sounded like a weak shadow of itself.

He had accused her, earlier, of compartmentalizing things, of refusing to feel things so that she could examine them clinically. He realized that she was doing it again, but somehow that made him love her more, because she was doing it for him. He could barely summon the will to pull air into his lungs, and she was trying to figure things out, even while she was hurting just as much as he was.

"Hermione…" he began, feeling the burning ache in his chest and throat begin to tighten anew. He felt like someone had scooped out everything that mattered and scarpered off with it, leaving him hollow and empty.

A crack of Apparation startled them both into action. Neither one leapt to their feet, but sought to angle their bodies between their daughter and the intruder, wands brought to the ready without conscious thought.

"It's Auror Falworth," a voice called. The low angle of the sun made it hard for them to see him. "Is anyone hurt? The wards are out - oh, Merlin!" He stopped speaking as he got closer, and saw what Harry and Hermione cradled between them.

Falworth's lips pursed around words he did not speak. Is she…? He did not ask, did not need to ask. It was painfully obvious in the bleak looks and defeated postures of the parents twisted around the body of their daughter. His eyes ran professionally over the two of them, ignoring the twinge in his chest as he tried not to look at Eleanor. Mr. Potter and Miss Granger appeared unharmed.

"The two of you are all right." It escaped unbidden, not quite a question, and he wanted to Silencio himself. Of course, they were not all right - Harry's baleful answering gaze said so eloquently. He tried to imagine what they must be feeling, and could not.

"We're okay, Auror Falworth," Hermione spoke, her voice tear-clogged and raspy. "We're not sure how…"

"Let's … let me help you take her back." Falworth suggested gently, dropping near them in a crouched position.

"Take her back where?" Falworth just barely restrained a flinch at the sound of Harry's voice. He'd heard that voice before, many times - it was the voice of someone watching his life shatter around his feet, the voice of someone who'd watched Death Eaters slaughter his children, the voice of someone who'd seen her home and her husband burn to ashes.

"To St. Mungo's, Harry. To find out what happened, to find answers." Hermione's voice was calm, even though Falworth could hear the restraint, the tightness in it, as she fought to keep it from trembling.

"What the hell do answers matter now?"

"The answers always matter." She hooked her arm beneath his, bracing his weight against her shoulder, but arrested the attempt to stand. She cast a helpless look at Auror Falworth, eyes flicking down to Eleanor and back up to him.

"Here, let me - " he began, reaching to take the little girl in his arms, but Harry's tightened around her in response.

"No!" The single word almost blistered with pain, and Falworth noticed the tears washing down Hermione's cheeks anew. Harry made a visible attempt to collect himself, and then added, in a more controlled tone of voice, "I've got h - her."

Together, they helped him to rise, as he protectively cradled his daughter against his chest. The wind dandled playful fingers through his hair, dried the new tears on his face. Harry felt as if he'd been sitting on that pitch for a hundred years. Again, the unreal sensation that this was happening to someone else crested over him. His arms were numb; his heart was numb. Distantly, he could hear Hermione speaking, as she looped an arm into the crook of his elbow.

"I know where to go," she said softly. She jostled a bit against him as Auror Falworth took up position on her other side. "Hold on to me," she directed.

And then they were gone.

***

They were in a deserted corridor, all cool dark tile, greenish torchlight, and the pungent aroma of Sterilizing Serum. Harry couldn't read the metal placard on the nearest set of double doors, but even in his stunted childhood and decidedly abnormal adolescence, he had seen enough snippets of crime procedurals to know where they were. The dreadful weight of that knowledge coupled with the Side-Along welled up enough nausea to cause him to unceremoniously give Eleanor over to Falworth and Hermione.

There was a bin tucked into the corner of the corridor, and Harry only just made it in time, wandlessly ripping the lid off of it and propelling it down the next hallway with a deafening clang that he barely registered. The metal edges of the bin bit into his fingers, as he clung to it, as though it were a lifeline, and vomited into it, retching until there was nothing left but tears and bile. The futile emptiness sucked at him like a Dementor. It wasn't, perhaps, the first time he'd wished to die, but he'd never meant it more than at that moment.

There were cool fingers on the back of his neck, as a dampened handkerchief appeared in front of him, mopping his forehead. Slowly, he stood up, swiveling to see Hermione behind him, tears standing in her dark eyes. The corridor was empty.

"Auror Falworth went to … get help. She's - she's in there." She gestured toward that set of double doors and pressed her lips together tightly.

Harry felt something akin to shame burn deep in his gut. Compartmentalizing. She's still doing it. How many times over the years had Hermione shoved aside what she was feeling, so that she could be there for him? The Department of Mysteries, the Horcrux hunt, the Tournament? How many other times that he had been too thick to notice?

"Hermione…" he croaked, trying to articulate his gratitude, trying to finish what he'd started to say when Auror Falworth arrived. He cupped her jaw in one hand, trying to ignore the burn of imminent tears in his nose. "I - I love you. And I am so sorry… for your loss."

It was trite, canned, a ridiculous and unhelpful thing to say. Yet, it had been the only thing he could think of, the only thing he could force out of his aching throat. And he knew - even reeling as he was - that he desperately wanted to make her aware that he was aware of her grief.

Hermione sobbed something that sounded like our loss, and came into his arms, which closed around her without thought. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and let herself cry. He pressed her as closely to him as he could, so closely that he could feel the vibration from her wracked body, and held her while she did.

He could feel the dampness seeping into his shirt, as well as from his own liquid eyes, yet neither of them moved until they heard the low hum of voices and the resounding footfalls of multiple people approaching. He heard Hermione draw in a jagged breath, as she moved away from him, daubing at her eyes with the handkerchief.

Falworth came around the corner, accompanied by Dunwiddie, Healer Desai, and someone neither Harry nor Hermione recognized, but was presumably the coroner, a dour-looking witch with iron gray hair and a no-nonsense attitude. The other three looked almost as stricken as the young couple felt.

"She's - " was all Hermione could manage, with a feeble flip of her arm, gesturing toward the double doors from which Harry had seen her emerge. She clenched her teeth together in a vain effort to keep her jaw from quivering, and laced her fingers through Harry's so tightly that she thought she could feel the bones grinding together.

"The post-mortem trace should only take an hour or two to complete. Then we'll be able to determine cause of death. You two should go home… try to get some rest…" The coroner's voice was at odds with her appearance, surprisingly gentle and empathetic, though she did not euphemize her words.

"Will you be able to tell us why we weren't harmed?" Hermione blurted the question, almost without thinking, unaware that her mind had registered, on some level, the details of what had transpired. "The wards at the testing pitch failed, but Harry and I - " are fine. Her sentence trailed off unfinished. She and Harry were clearly not fine.

"I will see if I can find anything out about what happened, Healer Granger." The coroner turned and proceeded down the corridor, her heels clicking, then retreating, as she disappeared through the doors.

Shravana spoke next, laying a compassionate hand over Hermione's arm. "Take all the time you need, Hermione. The Chief Healers have already spoken to our media liaison. Once the report has been given, all St. Mungo's will release is that there is no longer a danger to the wizarding populace at large. Any further information is restricted."

Alarm flashed suddenly in Hermione's eyes. "Do you think there could still - "

Harry interrupted her, his voice still raw and rough. "I picked her up. I - there was nothing. Nothing happened."

Hermione understood. The very thing that made her magic unstable, that made it want to commingle with her father's, was gone. The danger was gone.

Eleanor was gone.

"It's just a precaution," Healer Desai added, appearing to agree with Harry's assessment.

"Of course." The phrase slipped out on a shaky breath of air, a meaningless nicety. She cast dark and mournful eyes toward the two Aurors. "Do you - "

"We'll Owl, if we need anything," Falworth said carefully. "It is not our intention to intrude. I - I can only imagine what you must be feeling now." Hermione felt Harry's hand tremble in her clasp.

"There are people you can both talk to. The hospital has several Mind Healers on retainer." Healer Desai spoke kindly, but Hermione could practically feel Harry physically rejecting the notion.

"Thank you." Again, the words fell from her lips as if she'd been Imperiused. Harry was starting to shake. She wasn't sure who was clinging to whom more fiercely. "Owl as soon as you know anything." There was a beat of silence. She couldn't, could not, look at those double doors again. She felt as though she were seconds away from completely losing it.

"Let's go home, Harry."

***

Harry and Hermione went straight back to Harry's flat, something for which they were both immensely grateful when they heard the tumult just outside the front door. Hermione unlaced her fingers from Harry's and moved carefully toward the front window, flicking the edge of a slat just enough to glance out. The sidewalk was jammed, reporters smashed up against each other, camera equipment whirring and flashing and emitting colored puffs of smoke. Bystanders, who were obviously Muggles, were moving past the melee as quickly as they could, eyeing it sideways, but not yet looking unduly alarmed. If it kept up, it would not be long before the Ministry was called out.

The decisive click of a door shutting penetrated Hermione's consciousness like a rapier. She turned, noting that Harry's own bedroom door was still ajar. He'd gone in Eleanor's room.

So swiftly that she wondered whether she'd Apparated, she found herself at the door, rattling the locked handle. She could have used Alohamora, but somehow that seemed like the grossest of betrayals.

"Harry!" She strove to keep her voice from cracking. "Harry, don't do this!"

"Hermione…" Her name was a sigh. She wasn't sure what he would have finished it with: go away please; I can't do this right now; leave me alone?

"Harry… please let me in."

The words resonated heavily in her soul. She wasn't talking about the door. And they both knew it.

A split second later, the latch gave way. When Hermione entered the room, she almost blundered right into Harry, who'd stopped just inside. Her eyes tripped over the light purple walls, the little bookshelf, the plush Kneazle, the bed - turned back neatly as though Eleanor had just gotten out five minutes earlier. She must not move much when she sleeps, Hermione thought - have moved - past tense, past tense, dammit!

The pain was blistering, debilitating. She tugged at Harry's elbow.

"Let's not stay in here, Harry," she rasped.

"I need to stay in here." His reply was simple, and she did not argue further. He moved to sit beneath the window; the curtains were drawn, only ringed with low light from outside, and the room was dim. Wordlessly, she joined him on the floor.

"It happens so fast, you know. People. In your life, and then … gone." His gaze was glassy, distant. She wondered who exactly was in his mind at that moment - Eleanor, Sirius, Fred, Remus, his parents…

"I know, Harry." The words were automatic. Did she know? Did the sheer number of Harry's losses make each additional loss easier to handle… or harder to bear? But she looked at Harry's face, white to the lips, and knew that this one was worse, far worse than any that had come before.

"Except for you. You were always there." His voice was mechanical. He sounded as if he were reminding himself of fundamental truths, taking security from things he knew, when his feet had been knocked out from under him.

"Every time. Except one. I wasn't there then… at the end. But I would have been." If you'd let me; if Ron hadn't been there; if I'd been stronger; if I'd known my own heart…

"I know."

"And… and I'm here now. I'm here." Now. Forever. She couldn't bring herself to say it, but he must have heard it anyway.

"Not just because of - " Eleanor?

"No." Her voice wobbled. "Because I love you. I'm not going anywhere." She laid her head on his shoulder, and she felt him relax a little then.

"Neither am I." He sniffed a little, and she felt him drop a kiss on top of her head.

They sat silently in Eleanor's room until long after the sun had gone down.

TBC

AN: I am so sorry this has taken so long. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write. Thanks for being patient!

--lorien

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