"In our mutual
Shame we idolise
To blind them from the truth
That finds a way from who we are.
Please don't be afraid
When the darkness fades away
The dawn will break the silence
Screaming in our hearts.
My love for you still grows
This I do for you
Before I try to fight the truth my final time."
Evanescence – Understanding.
Healer O'Brien has seen a lot of things in her working life. A lot of sad things.
She's seen parents forget the existence of their children, little girls with every inch of flesh shredded, men with the intestines of a cow. She's seen people who've had their eyes gouged out and replaced with nests maggots or fire ants, boys with their bones re-grown in all the wrong places. She's seen some of the worst cases of magical maladies, both accidental and intended to torture, and yet she still claims that the most horrific injuries you will ever see in St Mungo's are the non-magical ones. The ones caused by magic but not directly, the maladies of the mind and spirit.
"Make it go away! Make him leave!" A child, a girl, eleven or twelve years old, screaming and screaming, convinced she's haunted by the ghost of her rapist. She says she alone can hear him, she alone can feel and see him. "Noooo!"
So alone, so utterly isolated, her heart breaks every time. All the blood and screaming pain in the world will not rid her of the nightmares with hollow hurt-filled eyes. No one understands and she watches them tear their world apart, trying so hard to make her see. And she does. She sees but she cannot comprehend. Years of Healer training and there are still so many people she cannot save.
That little girl bled herself to death. She tried to scratch the pain away with nothing but her nails, sobbing, gasping and choking she drained away her pain with her blood. She died with a smile upon her face, naked and scarred and yet somehow free of pain.
In almost thirty years of work within the hospital she has seen a great many terrible things pass through these walls. With the rise of the First War she dealt with everything the Dark Arts could throw at her, some of the most horrific injuries floated in and she healed whatever she could, muggle or magical, Death Eaters and Aurors alike.
She was the healer who ordered Mad-Eye Moody his magical eye; she was one of the first people to see Frank and Alice Longbottom when they were discovered; she treated James Potter, healing war wounds while he chattered animatedly about his beautiful baby boy. Now years have passed but the war is a different one while she heals their children. Harry Potter, with his father's hair and mother's eyes, is silent as she dresses his wounds. (In some ways he's lost more than his father ever could.)
Surprisingly, the first fall of You-Know-Who saw a huge boom in patients at the hospital. Perhaps not entirely expected it still made sense. Wizarding England was on a high point, keeping healthy was key and the newfound positive attitude seemed to birth a legion of hypochondriacs. In another age it may have been irritating, but after eleven years of spurting blood and gaping wounds a few wizards wide eyed with concern over some mild rash was almost refreshing. The desk in her office was neat and orderly with a bright bunch of everlasting sunflowers (without Voldemort it felt as though an eternal summer had been unleashed, bright colours and loud noises was what made wizarding London what it was). Neville Longbottom still visited his parents but he brought colourful boquetsand the sun was high outside the window. He was still a victim but as he told them of the friends he made at his first year of Hogwarts Alice almost smiled, as though she recognised her son. Sights like that makes the years of pain seem almost worth it.
Like so many people in the country, when the rise of Voldemort was announced for the second time she wept, knowing what would be to come. New recruits were in their hundreds but so many dropped out when they saw the reality of what they were fighting. She missed the funeral of her neighbour because she was replacing a boy's heart (his previous one had been cursed with something once used for dieting, it ate away at the muscle until he went into arrest).
It was after almost two years of the second war that she saw the pair that broke her heart.
It had nothing to do with any love of her own, her husband, a bookkeeper for a quaint stationary shop, was as faithful and alive as ever. No. What hurt her so deeply was something many newspapers would have died in order to report. It was something that would have Harry Potter himself gaping in dismayed shock.
"Marianne?"
The window had been open wide, mid August and rain was pouring down in black torrents you'd associate with tropical monsoons. It was ridiculous. Who had left the window open? …But then, when was the last time it had rained like this is August?
"Marianne!"
A woman sat at a desk, glowering silently over a vase of very dead sunflowers, at the supposed British summertime out of the window. Her greying brown hair pulled into a low bun and with one hand she pushed her glasses back up her nose.
"Healer O'Brien? Are you even listening?"
The woman's head snapped up. "Harriet?" A sideways glance at the window, "Sorry, I was distracted."
"It's okay." Commented the younger healer obediently. "There's just something I think you should see to in bed fourteen."
The older woman nodded. "I'll be right out." She muttered, lifting her wand to slam shut the window.
She'd wandered from her office, smiling politely at a pot-faced auror who sat brooding in a corner, waiting to be released. The ward was relatively quiet, the young boy who'd come in possessed by demons earlier today had been stunned and strapped down (both magically and manually) while they waited for the resident exorcist to finish with an old witch on ward eighteen. This level of the building (seventh floor, positioned precisely in the construction of the building, four hundred years ago, to have maximum effect in combating the effects of the Dark Arts) was the headquarters for all Dark related injuries and ward thirteen (watched over by Healer O'Brien) was for the direst cases of them all.
The area surrounding bed fourteen had been curtained off, generally never the best sign. Calling to the healer who had alerted her of the new arrival, Healer O'Brien requested details of the patient.
"I don't know much, Ma'am," she apologised, "Martin was the one to let them in, you see, but he's been called downstairs."
"What do you know?"
"Well, from what I've seen, they're just kids. We've got Alicia doing an identity check at the moment, should have the names for you in a few minutes. But I recognise the girl though I'm not sure where from… The boy's pretty beaten up. She carried him all the way to the hospital and when she couldn't get him any further she called for help,only she refused to let go of his hand. I think she was hit by a confundus or something but we haven't had time to check, all she's been saying is "I hate him, I hate him," over and over again. You'd think she was talking about the boy were it not for the fact she was clinging to him like a lifeline."
"Have you checked for any binding spells, anything that could have had her bound to him?"
"There are none. She's got no lingering curses on her, though it's pretty obvious she's been in a fight. Can't say the same for the boy though, he's been to hell and back. We think he died earlier this hour; he's obviously been shocked back to life. Reckon it was her that brought him back, but it's anyone's guess as to why."
Nodding, O'Brien rounded the screen set up by the bed to meet the strangest sight.
A girl, no older than seventeen sat perched on the edge of the bedside chair, hair stuck out of her tight plait at odd angles while a bloodied gash ran the entire length of her face, from the bridge of her nose to her collarbone. Her appearance would have been entirely un-alarming in this ward were it not for the fact she wore the ragged robes of Dumbledore's Order, something many would have passed off as legend since the death of the great wizard. She hadn't noticed the two healers entering and was whispering imploringly to her unlikely companion who lay on the bed not quite conscious.
As unexpected as the sight of the girl was, the boy's appearance had Marianne O'Brien's heart in her mouth. His skin was several shades too pale to ever be considered living, his hair was silver blond beneath a thick layer of clotted blood from a serious head wound that had been very shoddily patched up, but the most disturbing thing was his clothing. There was no doubt about it, the boy that girl from the Order of the Phoenix was clinging to was a Death Eater, dressed from head to foot in the black robes of Voldemort's cult.
The two healers watched silently as the girl pushed back a lock of blond hair, whispering soothingly to the boy. His grey eyes regarded her blankly.
"Excuse me, Miss." Marianne began, touching the girl's shoulder lightly.
She looked up, dark brown eyes wide and bright. "You have to save him." She whispered, voice soft and cracking.
Marianne nodded. "We'll do everything within our power, dear, but first I'm going to have to ask you to step outside with Healer Taylor, here, so you can get yourself patched up. I'm going to look him over, okay?"
She nodded mutely, turning back to the boy on the bed. "I'm sorry." Her voice sounded so broken the hair on Marianne's neck stood on end. Letting go of his hand she followed Harriet out of the screen.
With a soft sigh the healer returned her gaze to the patient. Drawing her wand she slit open his robes to get easy access to his chest.
He really was messed up; his body had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. It took her almost a whole minute to clear the dried blood away from his wounds, revealing a black, oozing gash across his abdomen which would have looked as though it had been inflicted with a sword were it not for the angry tar-like substance that clung to it, eating away at his flesh. Running trained fingers along the edge of the cut she felt the heat of deadly dark magic, a poison so strong it was a miracle he'd managed to get as far as the hospital alive.
"Healer O'Brien?"
She looked up with cheerless eyes to see Harriet gazing in horror at the boy.
"He's going to die, isn't he?" She whispered, voice almost too low to be heard.
Marianne looked back down. "I'll need you to summon Rafael and Dmitri, I think they're at lunch at the moment but this is urgent." She said clearly, referring to the only two curse breakers in the hospital.
"Ma'am, do you think that will do any good at all?"
"Just do it, Harriet!" She snapped.
A heavy sigh and she focused her energy on healing his head, the cut ran the entire length of his hairline and she was horrified to see that although someone (presumably the Order girl he was bought in with) had roughly healed it to little more than a fracture, the wound had gone straight through the bone of his skull, exposing his brain.
"He said it was his punishment." Said a quiet voice behind her. Alarmed she looked up to see the girl watching with a dark expression on her freshly healed face. "He said they would not ever let him rest." Her face was deadly white with the single line of a newly formed pink scar running over her left eye.
Trying to ignore the girl with her haunting voice and haunted eyes, Marianne went back to clearing away the blood and attempting to quell the starts of an infection.
"He saved my life." Her hollow voice washed over the healer as though she had walked straight through a ghost. "I owe him everything."
Tensing and trying to focus, moving down to the naturally healing broken ribs, there was evidence that a lung had been punctured but it seemed that someone had healed it relatively quickly. There was no lasting damage and little internal bleeding so all she needed to do was heal the bruising and set the bones properly. The colouring faded to white and she moved on.
"He's a traitor, you know. They tortured him like they tortured me. Over and over because he wasn't worth his name or his blood."
She hissed as her wand slipped, dragging the slash over his heart further open when she'd been trying to get it closed. Closing her eyes she tried to focus on stopping her hands from shaking… There was just something about the voice and the almost-presence over her shoulder that chilled her bones to the very marrow. Whatever these children had been through together it had very nearly destroyed them… and she wasn't certain they were altogether lucky to be alive.
"Miss, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to step outside until I'm finished."
The girl didn't seem to hear her, eyes wide and empty she clutched at her right arm slowly rubbing a though trying to return circulation. "They said his wasn't worthy of his blood and they bled him. They took four pints at once and made me drink it." Tears spilled over but her voice didn't change. "It tasted sweet. Like molten metal." Then, pitch rising it almost cracked. "It was so warm and he was so cold. They made me drink it all."
Dark eyes spilling crystal tears over a porcelain face. "They threw him in my cell. 'Filthy traitor to play with the filthy Mudblood,' they said. He'll hate me now. I saved his life, but it's tainted him, or he'll think so. I gave him my blood. Half of what he lost. I felt so weak… but his body didn't reject it so that has to say something… It means nothing. Blood means nothing because he's bleeding mine right now and he's no less human than he was before. No less human…" Hugging herself she whispered, "No less human… "
Marianne looked back down, wet eyes seeing nothing of the boy but a black and white blur.
Over her shoulder the girl laughed. "It's like I always thought he'd be," her voice was almost curious, morbid fascination with lingering disgust and repulsion. "Pure white on the outside, but he's bleeding black. Rotten to the core… I hate him. I hate him so much."
Trembling the healer reached out to brush away his hair from closed eyes.
"He's rotten to the core."
"You said he saved you. You said that I had to save him…" Her own voice was foreign in her ears.
"No! He can't die!" Horror and madness and fear and hopelessness. Desperation in every syllable.
"He's not going to die." Automatic response, so untrue. Her hands shook.
With a violent shock she felt warm fingers on her wrists, guiding her away from the bed.
"We'll finish up here," said a warm voice in her ear, Raphael released her hands and nodded to the girl. "Go and get her something to drink… You look like you've seen a dementor."
Nodding quietly she moved towards the girl. "Would you like me to get you some tea? Or do you have anyone you want us to contact?"
The girl shook her head. "They think I've died."
Her eyes widened in surprise, "Who thinks your dead?"
"Harry and Ron and everyone." She nodded to the boy. "He showed me pictures of my funeral. Ginny made a beautiful speech."
"Harry Potter and Ron Weasley?" The healer asked in shock. Pieces clicking together in her mind, dark haired girl of the Order ('Filthy traitor to play with the filthy Mudblood,' they said), muggleborn who was killed by Death Eaters. Friend of the famous Harry Potter…
"Healer O'Brien." It was Alicia. She looked as stunned and Marianne felt. "I've found their names… You're not going to believe this."
Almost dazed she went to stand behind the younger witch.
"Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. They're the only matches… But she died last year… Her funeral – it was in the papers."
They turned to the girl. "What's your name?" Alicia asked.
"Hermione."
Wide horrified eyes. "No…" Marianne felt sick. She stepped back.
"My name is Hermione."
"No!" firmer and sharper. "Hermione Granger died. She was killed by Death Eaters last year…" she shook her head. "We had her body here for a post-mortem! I saw her in the morgue!"
"Yes." Said a haunted voice. "Hermione Granger died." The healers exchanged appalled looks. "They killed me," the girl whimpered, pale fingers clutching thin pale arms. "Again and again they killed me." Rocking back and forwards on the balls of her feet. "But he rescued me." Sweet abhorrence rank in her voice. Madness. She loved and hated him in the extreme. "He saved me and you have to save him… or I'll be left all alone." She choked on a sob. "He understands…" Shoulders shaking. "I don't want to die alone… Don't let me die alone… Don't let him die. He can't die…"
Aghast she looked to Alicia. "Is there any possibility…"
"No. It's an exact DNA match. Hermione Granger is alive."
"But… Someone will have to tell Harry Potter." Hushed voice. Guilty secret.
"You can't! That's breaking the code… You know he's been looking to catch Malfoy since the day Hogwarts closed!"
"But Hermione Granger…"
"He'll find out soon enough."
Outside the rain pounded down. Warped drumbeat. Confusion masked with blanket grey. The girl stood by the window, pale arms wrapped tightly around her thin body.
"She's lost her mind…"
"They've broken her."
"Don't let me die alone."
AN: Yus… That was odd. Nice combination of Donnie Darko, Holby City and an ancient Evanescence album. The joy. She wasn't supposed to turn out all mad, I'd intended to give it a nice pleasant ending with everyone being alive and happy, but half way through their conversation I realised Hermione had gone insane. And the idea intrigued me so I carried on. I was considering writing the bit that came before this, what happened to Draco and Hermione etc. from one or both points of view. What do you think?