Set in 2001, but of course as all memories do, requires flashbacks and going into the past.
Please take the M rating seriously. Includes rape.
THE EXMORIATOR'S TALE by IRIS P.G. HANAMONE
CHAPTER ONE: The Denial and a Tale
"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."
- Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird.
The silvery liquid-air gently spilled out of its container into the Pensieve, and Mary watched it with greedy eyes hesitating not for one moment to plunge her face into the memory. Familiar coolness surrounded her, as she was, not uncomfortably, dragged into the Pensieve.
She was unsure of her whereabouts, but it was dark; single yellowed lights scattered down the long alleyway and a putrid dank smell of rot filled her nostrils. It was silent - much too silent, almost like a horror film waiting to unfold. Subconsciously she knew nothing could hurt her, as she was simply reliving a memory, but it did not stop her heart pounding consistently against her chest. She willed the blood to stop rushing in her ears so she could just -
A scream sliced though the air, the type which curdles your blood and chills your bones. She ran, anywhere but here, away from the sound and the woman and the god awful alleyway... Her breath came in short pants, head dizzied - black spots in her vision. Another alarming screech which was then muffled by something - or someone - and Mary knew she'd be haunted forever with the horrifying screams.
'Help!' The voice screamed, a purely terrorized voice. Peculiarly, the voice sounded much nearer than before, and it clicked. She couldn't run away, the memory had trapped her in an endless circle, so she would pretty much remain in the same place she'd begun. Mary gathered her strength with a deep shaky breath. She'd come here for a reason.
She walked with slow, measured steps, bated breath and her eyes never straying from the place she was headed. It was a small alcove in the wall, deep enough so Mary couldn't see the back wall from her angle. She was close enough to hear the voices now, around a meter or so away from them. She pressed herself against the wall on which the alcove was built, her eyes wide open but unseeing.
'Don't fucking touch me.' Distinctly a female's voice, and although the words were strong, small tremors cracked her voice.
'Stupid Mudblood bitch!' There was a rustle of clothes being removed, another scream and a resounding slap. 'Stop fucking moving about and open your fucking legs, like the whore you were born to be!'
The woman wailed in muffled protest, as, Mary presumed in frozen horror, the man put his hand over her mouth. There was a deep moan in obvious pleasure, and she felt light-headed with disgust and fright.
'Stop it! STOP IT! You bastard, STOP IT!' Mary screamed, turning to the offender. 'Let her go, let her go!' Nonetheless, the man kept thrusting inside her, groaning, eyes shut in ecstasy. The woman's head tipped backwards in defeat, or perhaps she had passed out, her brown curly hair pulling away from her pale face, while visible tears slipped silently down her face.
The memory ended, the face of Hermione Granger's innocent face, wet with tears, imprinted in her mind.
Mary sunk to the floor, her forehead resting against the column of the Pensieve. Her heart ached with grief for Hermione. She took a deep shuddering breath: The story was now complete.
Finally gathering the courage to stand up onto her shaky legs, she turned and was greeted by not one, not two, but three Aurors.
'Mary Brooker?' She nodded curtly once, face set in a grim expression. 'You're coming with us.'
The crisp air rouged her cheeks, coldness slicing her throat - why on Earth was Winter so cold? - as she shivered violently; obviously the scratchy linen dress-type bag she was wearing did not keep any of her body heat in, or any frostiness out... how dare they, how dare they lock her up in here... The cell walls were all tiled, so ridiculously smooth, not one sharp edge in sight to use to attempt to break out. She knew even if she had a sharp edge it was impossible to get out without removing five or so charms from the door. And since they'd stripped her of all her possessions including her clothing, shoes and of course, wand, any escape attempt was futile. The window - if you could even call it that - was a perfect round circle high up on the far wall with four rusty iron bars cemented in vertically, allowing howling gusts of wind to bite at her raw skin - and oh! someone was coming - loud clanging footsteps, then the awful screech of the thick metal door was scraping against the floor. It was a sound which Mary would have never thought she would love so much.
'Get out.'
'Gladly.' She muttered, her voice cracked and dry from being in a cell for so long, her knees cracking as she stood up off the icy floor onto her numbed feet, stumbling once and clambering back up with the aid of the stupidly smooth tiles. The numbness was creeping up her leg, and had almost reached her thigh now. The man snatched her arm and dragged her out, clearly fed up of waiting for her to get up off the floor. She licked her lips, God they were so sore, so dry, yet so numb she was sure they must be blue and she needed water. The man kept lugging her till they reached a grey bricked wall.
'Stand up straight.' He barked at her, pushing her roughly away from him, but keeping a grip on her clothing. She was trembling now, not out of fear but out of the sheer bitter wind robbing her small body of all its heat. Her teeth chattered so fiercely that they'd cut her tongue accidentally, copper-tasting blood seeping through the corners of her mouth. She made no attempt to wipe it away, in fear that if she uncrossed her arms her arms might shrivel up and fall off, and the guard stared at her in utter disgust. 'Stop moving,' he said, jerking her with him as he counted bricks from the bottom of the wall, then placing the tip of his wand on the chosen brick and muttering a password. She watched wearily with blurred vision - it seemed increasingly hard to concentrate - as the brick glowed green, as did the some of the surrounding bricks - it was too bright, too bright for her eyes and she closed them, oh! that felt so nice I don't want to ever open them again let me sleep I just want to sleep I'm tired I'm cold leave me alone pleasepleaseplease-
Mary collapsed, unconscious, to the floor.
'Water... I need water...' She croaked out, at the two interrogators, their eyebrows raised in surprise at her body sprawled out on the wooden floor, but she never wanted to get up - it was so warm, so hot, compared to the stone floor of her cell.
'Rennervate. Aguamenti.' Then she was being hauled off the floor and dumped on a chair, a glass of water on the desk in front of her, which she did not hesitate to gulp down. She could feel the water travelling down her chest, cool and refreshing.
'Name?' Mary rubbed her hands together in an attempt to warm them up. They'd finally given her a fleece blanket, and allowed a warming-spell to be placed where she was seated.
'Mary. Mary Brooker.'
'What is your vocation?'
'Exmoriator.' She said through gritted teeth as the man smirked. The nerve!
'You've been arrested on the suspected murder of Hermione Jean Granger,' - Here she spluttered in the absolute ridicularity of the situation – 'stealing of memories, manipulation of the said memories, involving yourself in crime scenes which you were not assigned… Ms Brooker, the list goes on. What have you got to say for yourself?' Mary glared at the pair of them. She was being made to sit down while they stood up, as if she was in bloody Beauxbatons again, in the headmaster's office!
'I stand by my original word. You are taking it all out of context – I did not do anything wrong.'
'Ms Brooker, there is evidence-'
'Sir, there is evidence that I could have split orange juice on the breakfast table last Friday! The memories are gone, yes, but you are pointing the finger at me, because you know damn well that they're just trying to get rid of this case!' Mary's face felt red with anger - even though it felt like all the heat had been drained out of her from that fucking cell - her eyes were blazing with irritation for these complete bastards of interrogators! She took a deep calming breath and closed her eyes. 'You have not even asked me for my side of the story yet.'
The two men exchanged a glance, and the slightly balder one, probably in his mid-fifties, took a seat opposite Mary. She watched him with a beady eye, untrusting. He hesitantly moved his hand towards the potion on the table – Veritaserum, Mary thought to herself, sneering – then drew it away. Good idea, Mister.
'Ms Brooker, I want to give you the benefit of the doubt that you shall not lie to us. You have one chance to tell your story without the effects of the Veritaserum potion, but do not even think I would hesitate using it on you if I have any suspicion of your deliberate omission!' His voice was rising high, speaking quickly.
'And of course, one of us is a very highly skilled Legimens…' Mary raised her brow in half-disgust, half-amusement. It sounded as if they were trying to convince themselves. Lucky her, not being force fed Veritaserum down her throat.
'You should not have to worry, sirs. You'll come to understand it is one of the most tragically beautiful stories you will ever hear, and it would be an offence in itself to edit it.' They shared a look with each other, skeptical. 'I suggest you both sit down,' she spoke calmly, softly, her voice ageing by 40 years or so, 'This might take a while.' While the elder man looked outraged that he was being belittled, the younger man nodded at the seat, their eyes connected. Begrudgingly, he took a seat; she allowed herself a small smirk. "You must be familiar with the great Hermione Granger - the war Goddess who won the Great War beside her best friend Harry Potter."
Both nodded affirmatively. 'I met her out of pure luck, or perhaps bad luck, as she was wheeled in beside me at The Isis, belly protruding outwards identically to my own.'
'And so thus the story begins. I shall tell it in third person, and perhaps you shall feel what I felt lying next to her.' Her eyes grew distant as she stared at one of the grey block walls.
THURSDAY 6TH SEPTEMBER
THE ISIS HOSPITAL FOR WITCHES, LONDON
The woman sighed heavily, rubbing her swollen stomach in slow circles, dark smudges beneath her eyes indicating her tiredness and sleepless nights. Mary stared at her sympathetically, and grinned from her bed.
'How far along on are you then, eh?' She said, smiling at her, eyes flickering between her face and her bump as the woman turned to face her. There was something not right about her face. While pregnancy was supposed to give you a healthy happy glow, a fuller face and shiny eyes, she looked... drained, dull, and deathly pale.
'I don't know,' She replied, monotonously. She turned her face away, giving Mary her straggly mane of curls to talk to, hanging in greasy chunks suggesting her uncleanliness. Mary wrinkled her nose in slight distaste, but tried again anyway.
'Why, you must know! I should say you were... seven months? How are you in the hospital so soon?' Mary persevered in the conversation. She hadn't had a woman to woman chat in almost three days! Forgive her for seeming pushy, but she was craving to just...chat!
'I told you I don't know, and to be honest I don't really care.' She turned her face to emphasise with a glare. 'I would be grateful if you just let me be.' Mary's eyes widened in shock, and she shut her mouth with a snap.
'Can I at least know your name?'
There was silence for a while, and Mary had thought she might have fallen asleep.
'Hermione Granger.'
No... This woman could not be Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger was an upbeat, joyous, hardworking, loyal Gryffindor! This woman was anything but - the complete opposite in fact!
But if she stared long enough, the trademark thick curls were still visible, and if it were washed and properly looked after, it might be that beautiful chestnut colour which graced every picture of her, the milky white skin and of course - the eyes. The sparkle and life had disappeared as if extinguished like a candle-light, but the colour, though flat, was still there. It was –
'Hermione Granger,' she breathed, 'what happened?'
'A lot.' And those once lively eyes filled with anguished tears. 'Oh God help me!' Mary lifted herself from her bed, overwhelmed by motherly instincts to cradle this poor woman, probably ten years her younger and gently comfort her. She stroked her matted hair away from her face as Miss Granger placed her head into her breast and sobbed through her pain, soft words of reassurance whispered in her ear.
Please don't leave – Please don't – Not alone please no…'
'Miss Granger, I will stay as long as you want me to.' Mary said solemnly, still holding her.
'Lies – you lied, he lied – Hate, hate– alone -'
Her cries subsided and she slowly fell into a deep sleep, and Mary held her still.
It was not until years later, when I was put on a case of the mysterious death of Hermione Granger when I did learn all the facts. I was hooked on her tragic love story, and I was utterly determined to conclude and serve her justice – justice, which was merely overlooked by you all. I wanted to find out what exactly had happened.
'And did you find it?' Mary had been so consumed in retelling her story that she had forgotten her audience. She raised her eyebrows condescendingly towards the young thirty-something man who had spoken.
'Did I ever!' She laughed. 'Why, sir, I am the only person who has threaded the all the pieces together! Not even those two protagonists know the whole story – only their side… I know it all…'
FRIDAY 7TH SEPTEMBER
THE ISIS HOSPITAL FOR WITCHES, LONDON
Mary awoke to slight movement under her jaw, and she sat upright sleepily, yawning rubbing her stomach unconsciously...
...And a weary stare from Hermione.
'What do you want from me? An autograph? A picture? An interview?' She muttered sarcastically, no strength behind the words. 'Take a picture, and I'll sign it - Just leave me alone.'
'Merlin, no, I'm not here for that!'
'Then why are you still here?' Her brows drew together, eyes narrowing.
'It might have something to do with the fact that I'm pregnant...' Hermione's eyes widened, and for a brief moment, a small smirk played on her lips. 'And you'd asked me to stay... so here I am.'
Her cheeks flushed a little, and she looked away. 'Y-you didn't really have to...' Mary touched her hand lightly.
'It was no problem.' An awkward silence ensued. 'So... where's your husband?' She asked conversationally, smiling at Hermione. Instead of the friendly, conversation she was expecting, there was yet another small silence; she cringed anticipating her response.
'What husband?' She sneered, 'I have no husband. I have nothing, and no one.' Contempt dripped from her words.
'W-what?' Mary frowned. This was so very unlike the Hermione Granger who she'd read about. Where were the rest of the prized Trio? Harry Potter - Ron Weasley... She looked around, as if she was to find them hiding in a corner. Her supposed best friends were not anywhere seen - not even her parents. Wh-
'I know what you're thinking. "Oh, where's Ron, where's Harry, where's the Golden Trio, why aren't they together? Where are her parents, why is she looking so goddamn awful? Why's she pregnant?"' The last word was spat out with such hatred and disgust, Mary's eyebrows raised in shock and her mouth dropped open slightly. 'I'll tell you now, honey, the world isn't as it seems. The world is full of hatred. Even after Voldemort's -' Here Mary couldn't help a small shiver down her back at the name, and Hermione noticed, sneering wickedly at her, '- demise, people are still calling each other Mudblood and other racist terms. Of course all very quietly, behind the Ministry's back. Harry and Ron didn't care though. They said the war was over, that it shouldn't matter if people were still spitting Mudblood at me, sneering at my bloodline down a dark alleyway. They didn't believe it was still happening to me, because of course, no one called me names in front of the mighty Harry Potter.
There's still so much prejudism, and you know it. What's your blood status, Pureblood?'
Mary nodded dumbly. 'It's not like that...' She said weakly. Hermione seemed crazed, her eyes wide and shiny with rage, hair in straggly clumps, her skin pale and pasty, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead.
'But of course it is. You're a Pureblood, you don't know what happens. You don't know what it feels like to have people whispering with disgusted looks upon their face, you just prance around completely oblivious to how we live. How the dirty, dirty Mudbloods live. How we're still treated unfairly. How we will always be treated unfairly.
Tell me, did you really think that all the racism was going to be gone, just like that?'
It was a very surprising revelation, back then. I never thought that people would still hold grudges against blood quite so much, that it would affect today's society. After all, it was a rather large war, and many, many people were affected by it. Us Pureblood witches and wizards should have started to understand what was going on around us, know how wrong it was to discriminate Muggle-borns.
But of course there are still prejudices out there. Of course tradition would out a war which was won by a young boy in his Seventh Year. Law doesn't change people's mindset, it only makes some cowards afraid of the retributions which they would have to face if they were to speak against the law. Purebloods generally still have the same mentality. Don't forget, sirs, that the Wizarding World is based largely upon tradition.
The world is still so greatly unfair.
We shouldn't be so naive to believe otherwise.
'Oh, he's beautiful, Mary.' A soft kiss at her temple as she cradled her miracle, dazed, tears welling up in her eyes, smiling sleepily to Francis. We make such a wonderful family, she thought as her eyelids drooped in fatigue. Her baby was being pulled away from her now, and she collapsed into the hospital's pillows, sinking into a deep sleep.
Mary awoke with dull pains all over her body, to the sight of her husband, Francis, holding her baby boy in his arms, smiling softly. The sun seemed to glow, the light streaming in with little dust motes dancing, floating...
Everything was perfect.
Mary strode up to The Isis Hospital - at the moment a orange-red brick-coloured wall and seemingly battered door, protected with an heavy iron gate, painted in shiny black paint which had flaked off in some places, I-S-I-S wrought cursively along the top in a dull gold - a spring in her step and a wide smile on her face. It was a spectacularly beautiful day for late September, and Mary just had the impulse to go out and -
She didn't really know what she was doing here, but something tugged at her heart to gogogo to the hospital, to see Hermione. She hadn't seen her in almost two weeks, and she just had wondered what she was doing. How she was doing.
After all, she had said that she had no one. Not anymore! Mary smiled to herself, pressing her hand against the paint-peeling door, then pressing again this time, harder, to allow herself inside, wrinkling her nose slightly at the sterilised air smell so specific to hospitals. If a curious and brave Muggle were to venture inside past the iron gates, all they would see is a dank, musty hallway, moss creeping up the sides of the walls and a never ending corridor, which lead out to the exit, the other side of the building which was the exit of a popular Muggle clothing shop. And of course, the simple mild Confundus charm on the door helped to keep them that little bit confused, so they would be less likely to go back again.
But of course, she was a witch, so the door opened to reveal a wide and open spaced reception area, many wizards and witches in a waiting area to the right, sitting on murky grey-green plastic covers. She walked up to the small blonde Welcomewitch at behind the reception desk. She was a pretty, young witch, of twenty-something years old, with an innocent smile which younger witches and wizards often carried.
'Hello, madam and welcome to The Isis Hospital - do you need any help?'
'Ah yes actually. I'm enquiring about a patient - Her name is Hermione Granger? Probably on Level 2, the- er- pregnancy and children level?'
'I can check that for you, if you would just wait one second,' She paused and muttered a charm at the paperwork, picking out the correct paper and skimming the information, 'Miss Granger is still checked in to the hospital.'
'On Level 2, yes?'
The witch hesitated, looking uncomfortable. 'Madam, I'm not so sure if I'm allowed to disclose this information...'
'What has happened to her? Where is she?' She didn't respond. 'Honestly, it's fine, we're relatives, she's my second cousin.'
'She is? Are you sure?' She sounded doubtful, and even Mary wasn't convinced by her lie.
'Of course! Listen, miss, it is very important for you to tell me where she is. I'm her only family left...'
'I'm no-'
'Miss, I don't mean to sound pushy but it is imperative I see Hermione right now,' Mary paused searching the Welcomewitch's face for a response then pressed further. 'I shouldn't really tell you this but I'm part of the Ministry and have been assigned to - oh fuck it. Imperio.'
'You admit to using an Unforgivable curse!' The elder interviewer, whose name was Thomas, Thomas Griggoty - Pureblood - originally Tom, though after the fall of the Dark Lord, it was somewhat looked down upon if he still used it in its short term. As if on cue, a man in a dark cloak who'd dragged her into this room grabbed a hold of her arm, violently pulling both her arms now behind her back tightly. Mary winced. 'You realise Ms Brooker that there will be severe consequences for this. Lifetime in Azkaban.'
'I had good reason for it! Please,' she tugged on her arm which the guard forcibly squeezed - she knew they'd be a bruise there tomorrow morning, 'please allow me to finish. All was for a good cause.' Alan, the younger of the two interviewers put a placating hand on Thomas's back.
'Perhaps we should give her a chance; so far we've jumped to the wrong conclusions.' Alan spoke reassuringly, in an attempt to allow Mary the chance to retell her story. When this only made his face a deep shade of red in annoyance, he spoke swiftly and quietly under his breath to calm his neighbour. Mary held her breath. They seemed to have a quietly spoken argument, a couple of harsh words exchanged and a quick discreet look towards her, and Alan smiled at her. 'We've agreed to give you a chance to carry on your story, if your use of this Unforgivable is for good cause, as you say.' Thomas frowned at her, staring with awfully evil look in his eyes. She nodded with a tight smile on her face.
'Now,' she carried on in a slightly shaky voice, 'where was I?'
'You'd just Imperius'd the Welcomewitch,' Thomas said sneeringly. She snapped her eyes back to him to give him the dirtiest look she could muster.
'Tell me where Hermione Granger is.'
'She's on the Level 4, ward 3. If you walk straight to the end, her bed is the one nearest the window. There's a password once the lift reaches Level 4. Intraveritis.'
'Intraveritis. Got it. Thank you. Finite Incantatem,' The witch's eyes were now slightly dazed 'Confundo,' she muttered under her breath.
'Oh, hello, I didn't see you there, did you need any help madam?' Mary feigned shock.
'Are you alright, miss? You'd just told me the whereabouts of someone I'm visiting...'
'O-oh ah did I? I'm - Oh okay, do you need help to get to where you need to go?' She sounded so confused, beginning to doubt herself.
'Are you sure you're alright miss?'
'Y-yes, I er, will be...' she said slightly faintly, rubbing her forehead. 'Must be the lack of sleep!' She joked, and Mary laughed shortly. She'd turned away when the little witch called out after her.
'And madam, it'll be a difficult time. I am so sorry.' She spoke with such sincerity Mary almost asked what she was talking about. Almost.
'Er- Thank you,' She said, frowning a little, and turning back around to walk away briskly to the lift.
Perhaps if Mary had turned around at that last moment, she would have been prepared for what approached her as she ascended to Level 4.
A man with a silly grin on his face holding his small daughter's hand as she hid behind his legs shyly joined her in the lift as the gates shut. The lift moved jerkily upwards, giving the familiar feeling in her stomach as if it was being lifted upwards. 'Level 2. The Demeter. Step out for maternity and childcare.' Vowels and consonants were all perfectly rounded for a cool, flowing voice, not dissimilar to that of the Ministry's. The doors snapped open and the man and his daughter stepped out.
'Level 3. The Hebe. Step out for General Women's Health.' She was alone in the lift, and she sighed quietly to herself.
'Level 4. The Béthelemis. Password secured.'
This was her stop, and the lift came to an abrupt halt as she stumbled a little to regain balance. It was quiet, but not the relaxing type of quiet. It was the type which was too quiet, eerily so. She didn't want to leave the lift - she had some niggling doubt in her mind about that name, it sounded suspiciously like a Muggle hospital... was it Bethlehem? Belhem? but only, dare she say it, French-ised. She put those thoughts aside, forcing herself to keep to the matter at hand.
'Intraveritis.' Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw when she walked through those rusty iron gates.
Explanations of some terms used (pretty important to read, to really understand):
'The Iris Hospital for Witches' - Just something I made up for this piece of fiction. Unfortunately not very inventive, but Iris is the Egyptian Goddess of Fertility, and so fits for this fiction. St. Mungo's is specifically only for those with "Magical Maladies and Injuries", so pregnant women couldn't really be shoved in with those with maladies, haha. This hospital caters for all women's needs (because it's specifically designed for witches) and contains 4 floors, each designed for something different. All will be explained.
'Exmoriator' - A wizard vocation I have made up. It derives from the Latin 'ex memoria habitia' which simply means 'taking out memories'. Mary's job is in the Muggle relations sector, and I assume there would be sub-sectors of jobs within. Exmoriators have the job of extracting and editing memories of Muggles (and wizards, if necessary, which I believe probably would be in some occasions). It is not the same job as an Obliviator.
'The Béthélemis' - pronounced [beh-thei-leuh-mi]
I am well aware that it might seem as though the story line revolves around the character Mary, but I feel that it's essential, purely for character development, and I've cut out as much as I can about her personal life, those small unnecessary bits of information which readers probably don't want to know.
If anything at all is unclear, do not hesitate to get in touch with me!