"Chapter 2"

~I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure. My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labor. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun.~

~Ecclesiastes~ 2;10-11

Hermione Granger had never been so nervous. Waiting in Professor Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she paced restlessly, wringing her hands worriedly and trying to assure herself that the Order members who were attacking Voldemort's stronghold would be safe. They'll get out perfectly fine, she thought to herself, but that did nothing to stop the frantic fluttering in her chest and the painful knot of dread tightening in the pit of her stomach.

She had not been allowed to join in on the mission this time. She had been injured only a couple of days ago in a previous engagement with a Death Eater, and Madame Pomfrey had not allowed her to even leave the hospital wing until only a few minutes ago. She had immediately come up here, knowing from their plans that the first ones out of the battle would be leaving by Floo, to wait for them to come back, but it had already been almost three hours and Floo network had not yet flared.

She breathed out an uneasy breath, running a hand through her hair and pushing her brown curls away from her face. What was taking them so long? She looked around, but there was nothing to distract her or calm her wracked nerves. The portraits of the preceding Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts were all feigning sleep, and she knew from recent experience that they would not allow her to engage them in conversation until and unless they wanted to. Their annoying smugness and gossiping natures always made Hermione bristle, but she couldn't argue with them. They, after all, were only portraits.

She huffed to herself, still pacing. She didn't like waiting for the others. She didn't like the feeling of being left behind. She didn't want to be protected, or coddled, or taken care of. What she wanted was revenge. She wanted the Death Eaters' blood. She wanted them all to rue the very day they took Harry from his friends. He had sacrificed himself for Hermione and Ron those many weeks ago, and had been captured by the Death Eaters. There was little doubt he had been sent before Voldemort himself, facing the certainty of torture and finally death.

And for that, they all must pay.

She had vowed to herself the day Harry was taken that she would avenge him by any means necessary, and if she damned her soul along the way… well, it had been her decision. She had made up her mind. There couldn't be any going back now. Even as her thoughts strayed down the dark path of her thoughts, the fireplace erupted in green flames and a whirling figure came from the golden grate, covered in soot and ash, coughing the dust from their lungs. As Hermione rushed forward, the familiar figure of Neville Longbottom came into view, steadying himself. His hair was singed, his cheek flayed open, and he was cradling his left arm, but he was alive, mercifully alive!

"Neville!" she cried, gripping his right arm. "What happened? Where are the others? Are they all right?"

Neville gently took hold of her hand and held it in his own, staining her fingers red with his blood. "They're okay," he said as calmly as he could, but there was something in his face, a grave seriousness, a slow-burning fury, that caused the knot in Hermione's stomach to twist painfully. Whatever had happened was grave, perhaps deadly so. Had someone died?

But no. No, she realized that the fury that Neville was feeling was not born of pure grief—this was righteous anger from shock. "N-Neville?" She couldn't help her stammer with his name, but her heart was pounding so fiercely within her chest she thought she was going to faint. She gripped his arm again, desperate. "What happened? Tell me, Neville." Still he hesitated. "Tell me!"

He took a deep breath, shut his eyes firmly, and then let it out heavily. "We got in the stronghold easily enough. We've captured about twelve Death Eaters, killed five. A few of our Order went down, three of them injured. Hermione…" He paused again, looking uncertain, lost… devastated. "You can't go crazy about this. We found the cells, where the prisoners were being held."

Her breath hitched, and her heart felt like it might burst. Could it-? No, it was impossible, it couldn't be… "Harry?" Her voice was strangled, choked, no more than a breath of wind passed between lips stiff with shock. "Was it Harry you found?"

Neville nodded, his eyes closed. "Hospital wing," he said. "They're taking the injured to the hospital wing."

Hermione ran. She didn't think about it, she did not allow her shock to get in the way—without even waiting for Neville to finish speaking, she spun on her heel and sprinted out of the office, heading solely for the infirmary, focused on one thought, and one thought only: seeing that Harry was alive for herself. She didn't hear Neville following her, did not even recall his injuries. She reached the hospital wing in record time but did not see anyone.

"Where are they?" she cried desperately, terrified to see the large room deserted. Neville, panting slightly, stopped behind her, and jumped when suddenly she whirled and gripped the lapels of his robes, her brown eyes crazed. "Neville, tell me—was he alive? Please, tell me, I need to know!"

Neville froze, and she assumed the worst. Her knees trembled and she would have sunk to the floor in a senseless heap if the sounds of approaching footsteps had not caught her attention. She turned on the spot to a sight that caused her to stumble back a step. "Merlin," she whispered, and gripped Neville's robes in what would have been a bruising grip on his skin.

It was Dumbledore in front, leading the group of Order members, who helped their fellows who had received injuries. But it was the body in the Headmaster's arms that made her move forward with a low moan. It was Harry, alive, but dreadfully changed. He was emaciated, skeletal, with little fat or muscle left to be had on lean, brittle bones that seemed liable to break at any moment. His arms and legs dangled limply, covered in dirt and smeared with blood, and the mud caked on his person could not hide from sight the awful jutting of his ribs, of which you could count every one easily, or the awful black and purple bruises marring his torn and shredded skin. He was naked except for an Order member's cloak that was drawn across his waist, saving him the shame of other people seeing specific areas of his person.

"Poppy!" Dumbledore shouted, looking furious and horrified as he strode along the beds, and immediately the Mediwitch was there, bustling along with the usual crisp manner she always had—which abruptly vanished when seeing the boy in Dumbledore's arms.

"Good Lord!" she exclaimed in horror, paling. "Is that-?"

"Yes."

"Lay him here." Even before the Headmaster had drawn back from the bed, the nurse was there, casting spells and checking the extent of his injuries. Neville held Hermione back as the young witch struggled to rush to her friend's side. Dumbledore moved aside, sensing her thoughts, and turned to her, and the look in his eyes stopped her short. It was an agonizing thing to see Harry within her reach and yet so very far away, separated as they were by pain, torture, and the nurse, who very soon straightened with a stricken look on her face so that she seemed aged by a number of years. "How is he even still alive?" she whispered, very white in the face. The group gathered around her went very silent and still at her words.

"What do you mean, Poppy?' Dumbledore asked; fury still smoldered in his azure eyes as he looked down at Harry's motionless form. The now-liberated young wizard seemed more dead than alive, his chest so still it seemed he wasn't breathing, and the skin beneath the scum was ghostly white. Hermione bit down on the roiling, almost obsessive urge to wash the filth from him, and instead attempted to placate her emotions by thinking that surely there would be time for that later. She didn't convince herself, however, and her hands were clenched so tightly into fists that her nails were digging painfully into her palms. All that mattered now was how terrible Harry looked, how still and…

"I mean," she heard Madame Pomfrey say in a voice that trembled, "that his body should have given out by now. From what I can tell he has not been properly fed for almost two weeks, perhaps one meal every other day, and before that none at all. He has been put under more than sixty hours of the Cruciatus Curse, and also time under a dementor's influence.

Gasps of shock echoed in the room. Hermione looked behind her at Neville, who still stood holding her back. He saw the desperate question in her eyes and shook his head. "He still has soul," he said softly. "Voldemort was torturing him like he probably usually did, but we didn't see dementors anywhere."

Madame Pomfrey shook her head. "It doesn't matter if the vile creatures were there at the time or not. The dementor still harmed him. What's more, see—" And she gently picked up one slim, calloused hand from the bed and attempted to straighten out his fingers, but was not able to. She shook her head. "The nerves in his limbs have deadened and stiffened. If he manages to… to survive this—" her voice cracked slightly but then she shook herself, "it will take months before he'll be able to use his hands again."

"What caused this?" Dumbledore asked, drawing a deep breath.

She shook her head helplessly. "It's barbaric, Albus," she whispered. "It's not completely clear about all that has been done to him, but I know that Potter's bones were broken numerous times, crushed, and then healed again and again. That damages nerve endings, and can even lead to paralysis." She grabbed the cloak covering him and drew it further up, hiding more of the awful thinness of his body. "He needs nourishment, but before that I will need to give him potions for a few days to clean out his sytem. I need you to send Severus here, Albus, so he can give me some potions."

"For what purpose?" Neville spoke up now.

The Mediwitch shook her head. "He is sick, Mr. Longbottom," she explained heavily. "Deadly so."

"From what?" Hermione cried, feeling her knees weaken again.

"A Muggle sickness. Dysentery."

"Dysa-what?" Neville asked blankly.

"Dysentery, Longbottom. It affects the bowels and the intestines. It comes from drinking impure, distilled water. Bacteria attacks the body's system, inflames the digestive tracks. High fever, delirium, even relieving accidents… it all comes with it."

Hermione remembered reading about World War II concentration camps and the absolute hell prisoners faced there. Numerous accounts had talked about how typhoid and dysentery had run rampant through the camps and killed millions. She could recall one such story from the Holocaust from Elie Wiesel, who wrote the book Night and told about his experiences in Dachau. His father had been inadvertently killed because of dysentery, one of thousands who had lost their lives because of it. She had trouble matching the idea of the idea of that to Harry, of him having dysentery. It wasn't an illness commonly found in Europe, and never in wizards. There was no possible way Harry had it, Pomfrey must be mistaken…

"I will go speak with Severus," Dumbledore said, and he turned and left.

Pomfrey blinked twice, her eyes bright, but shook herself again. "You, Miss Granger," she said gently. "I can see you want some time with Mr. Potter. You have been helping me here sometimes during the past few months. Will you wash the filth off of him and get him cleaned up? You know what to do."

How had she known what Hermione had been dying to do? Hermione could have squealed with delight, finally getting what she wanted desperately, but decided not to waste her time doing so. Nodding her assent, she moved forward immediately as the Mediwitch went to help the other injured.

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It was hard, insanely so, washing the filth from Harry's body. It was several weeks' worth of blood and mud and dirt accumulated on his skin and his hair, which reached to about his shoulder blades. She felt almost like she couldn't handle him too hard because of how brittle he felt beneath her fingers. The dirt had to be washed away, though, so she hardened her breaking heart and scrubbed his limbs until they were at least recognizable as covered with flesh. He was utterly unresponsive as she worked, until she approached his head, and then he stirred a little. A shiver went down her spine as a quiet moan built in his throat, a moan of unspeakable agony and weakness. Of loss. He was mourning, she realized, understanding in the way only she could when it came to Harry Potter, but she didn't know what he mourning about. It broke her heart and caused her pent-back tears to fall finally. They fell on his cheeks and forehead, and he stirred more, his brows drawn down into a grimace.

Then his eyes fluttered open. She met his gaze, and immediately wished she hadn't. They were Harry's familiar emerald green eyes that looked up at her, but they were dull, lifeless, and she could see he did not recognize her. They were dead, empty windows that seemed likely to draw you down into a well of despair and depression.

"Harry," she whispered, agonized, hurting like she never had before.

He flinched at the sound of her voice and seemed to cringe away from her touch, and still he did not see her. What had Voldemort done to him?

"Harry," she whispered again, her voice trembling with her aching sadness. "Harry, I'm not going to hurt you."

Again he flinched, but unable to find the strength to do anything. "Oh god," he whispered suddenly, in a voice that was not his own, "oh god… kill me."

She jerked back from him, unable to believe what she was hearing. Horror built in her chest, and she wanted to scream, knowing what he was asking. His hand twitched where it lay, as if imploring her, and his voice grew in volume as he begged her. "Please… kill me… kill me!"

"Harry—"

"Kill me!"

Unable to handle his pleas, Hermione could only do what her mind and body wanted—she turned and fled into the main part of the infirmary, where she fell limply to her knees on the floor, sobbing and half-screaming, almost hysterical. Madame Pomfrey, hearing her, rushed forward, followed by Neville, whose cheek was taped up and his left arm was up in a sling. Pomfrey seemed able to guess exactly what had happened and hurried into the small back room, while Neville, unable to bear the sight of Hermione crying, knelt and slowly drew her into a one-armed embrace. She sobbed shamelessly into his shoulder, unable to control herself, shuddering as a voice cried out, begging for death. It was a voice without any humanity in it, merely a hurt animal left to suffer, a voice they did not recognize in its agony.

Hermione hid her face and continued to weep. Had she found her best friend only to see he was no longer within her grasp?

A/N: Yay, second chapter done! Thanks so much for the reviews—they really help with writing, knowing someone's actually reading. Sorry for the angsty chapter, but it'll pick up soon, and I'll introduce Ron into the story in the next couple chaps. R&R!

Were you happy to see Neville? Should he be a main character in this, do you think?