CHAPTER ONE

Patricia Monroe was looking forward to going home.

It was half past eleven and she had just completed a two-day shift at St Mungo's, where she worked in the Emergency Room. She had spent the last forty-eight hours attending to a broken arm, a sprained ankle, two cases of suspected chicken-pox and a child who had managed to ram a spoon up one of his nostrils. She was tired; her back ached, her fingers smelled of hospital spirit and she wanted nothing more than to run herself a long bath. After the last hour of her shift was finished, she looked hopefully at her chief resident, who was reading a magazine at the front desk.

'I'm done, Elspeth,' she said, 'Can I leave now?'

Elspeth tucked a strand of coppery hair behind one ear and then glanced at the clock that hung by the desk. 'Five more minutes, Pat. If nothing comes up, you're free to go.'

Patricia heaved a sigh of relief and collapsed on a chair beside Elspeth. She helped herself to a cup of cold tea from a tray which was kept specially for the residents. 'It's been a long shift,' she said, wearily.

'Is your boyfriend at home?'

'I hope so. He's been showing signs of bolting lately, you know. Men. They're all the-'

She never completed that sentence. Suddenly, a series of alarms blasted across all corridors of the Emergency Wing. Elspeth cursed and leapt to her feet, before gesturing towards Patricia.

'Get to the bay, now! I'll get a stretcher brought in.'

Silently kissing her long bath goodbye, Patricia hurried to the bay. Two of the attendants were opening the door of a black car, and she saw one of them let out an exclamation at what he saw inside. He leant over the drivers seat and when he straightened, there was a woman in his arms.

Patricia's eyes widened. 'What happened to her?'

The attendant, whose name was Freddie, looked grim. 'She's a mess. It's a wonder she managed to drive.'

Patricia glanced at the heap of what looked like blood and flesh in Paul's arms. 'She drove like that?'

'Apparently. There isn't anyone else in the car. Where the fuck is that stretcher?'

'Elspeth is sending someone with it. I'll make sure an OR is ready,' Patricia muttered. She turned on her heel and fled back into the Wing, passing two men with a stretcher on the way. Pausing only to give them directions, she rushed to Elspeth's office. 'OR!' she gasped, adding, 'And I think we'll need you there.'

Elspeth looked up sharply. 'What is it.'

'I have no idea, Elle. I have no bloody idea.'

Five minutes later, the woman was spread out on an operating theatre. Against the chrome and metal fixtures of the room, her bloodied, naked body looked oddly surreal. The attendant who had brought her in was by the door, rummaging in her handbag.

'Her name's Hermione Granger,' he said, holding up a driver's license.

Elspeth looked up sharply. She had been examining the woman's head along with a team of Healers. 'Granger? She's on the Wizengamot.'

The attendant shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. I don't read the newspapers. Whoever she is, she's been beaten up pretty badly.'

Elspeth pursed her lips. 'Might be a concussion,' she muttered, and taking her wand out of her robe pocket, she waved it lightly over the patient's head.

Patricia, in the meantime, was standing by the woman's misshapen abdomen. She withdrew her own wand and murmured something as she rested a gentle palm on the patient's stomach. Immediately, her expression changed.

'She's pregnant,' she said, quietly.

The Healers in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to face her. 'Pregnant?' Elspeth asked, uncertainly.

Patricia lifted her palm, which was glowing a pale shade of blue. 'I did a standard spell-check. She conceived barely an hour ago.'

One of the other Healers made a disbelieving noise. 'She's been beaten black and blue. For the love of god, her intestines are practically spilling out. An hour ago, whoever did this to her was probably still doing it.'

One by one, the people in the room dropped their gaze to the patient on the table. Her leg was broken and stuck out at an odd angle. Angry bruises covered her shoulders and her calves were marked with welts and cigarette burns. Her stomach had been attacked so viciously that it was actually torn open, her bloody innards already showing signs of getting infected.

Elspeth took a deep breath. 'Call Paul,' she said, sharply, 'And tell him to notify the Aurors. She's been raped.'

The Auror Department wasted no time. The moment they were informed that Hermione Granger, member of the Wizengamot, was lying bloodied and raped on a hospital operating table, they swung into action. Five minutes before midnight, a team was sent to the hospital and directly up to the office of the Chief of Surgery.

Paul DeSilva was an Anglo-Indian with many years of medical experience and a shining reputation. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a fine crop of silvery hair that was swept back from his temples. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. When he met the Aurors, his mouth was drawn into a terse, grave line.

'We've confirmed her identity,' he said, quietly. 'It's Hermione Granger, all right.'

The head of the team, a reputed Auror named Startford, glanced at a man on his right. 'Inform Harry immediately, Phillip,' he said, 'He'll want to know.'

Phillip nodded and departed.

'When did she get here?' Stratford asked, gravely.

'About half an hour back. She actually drove her car here on her own. It's a wonder she made it. The woman's been cut up pretty badly. The Healers are trying to get her intestines back into her body at this very minute. It's touch and go, I'm afraid to say.'

Stratford looked even more sober. 'And she was definitely raped?'

Paul nodded. 'Barely an hour and a half back, is our best estimate. She's - well, she's pregnant.'

The team of Aurors exchanged uneasy glances. Paul realized that something was different with this patient- it was a personal matter. Then, he remembered where he had heard the name Hermione Granger before. She was one of the best friends of Harry Potter - Chief of the Auror Department.

Along with that, something else he had recently read about the woman in a tabloid came to his mind. He glanced up questioningly. 'She's engaged, isn't she?'

Stratford nodded grimly. 'One of the Weasleys. His name's Ronald. He's a Quidditch player.'

Paul nodded. He was familiar with the Weasleys. Sighing, he took his glasses off and pressed his fingers to his temple.

'Look,' he said, 'I'll be honest with you. I've seen her condition. And I don't know if we can save her. It looks - well, it looks as though someone cut her up with something incredibly sharp, along with beating her black and blue with a sort of blunt instrument. The Healers are doing the best they can, but we can't be sure. In the meantime, her fiance needs to be told.'

'Phillip will take care of it. I'm assuming she's in no condition to give us a statement right now?'

Paul looked scornful. 'She hasn't even opened her eyes yet.'

'We'll have to leave that for later, then. In the meantime, we need to send a team over to her home. We'll try and figure out how she got bloodied up in the first place.'

It's been a while since I actually stuck to a story, but this plot has been eating at my brain for a while. Reviews will be much appreciated =)