Chapter Two
"Did you see what happened?"
"No, but I think it's pretty bloody obvious, don't you?"
"You don't have any idea about the Muggle who…"
"No, for the last time. I don't know. You have a description."
"They're bringing her to right now…"
Moaning, Hermione sat up, the conversation swimming in her mind. Where was she? What had happened?
Memories came in tiny rivulets, flowing into an estuary before becoming whole.
She felt dirty… she was dirty.
She was wearing someone else's clothes – hospital clothes, and she was wrapped in a blanket. A kindly looking woman was bathing her forehead with a cold rag as another occupied herself by casting spell after spell. Memory spells, mostly the forgetting kind.
Realization flooded her. She lurched forward and threw everything in her stomach up. This was followed by dry heaves and a flurry of spell casting by the woman with the wand.
When the excitement died down, the kindly looking woman next to Hermione smiled at her, "Is there anything I can get you?"
Hermione recognized the pity in the woman's voice.
"I want to go home."
"I'm afraid you can't just yet, miss. There are a few more things we need, most importantly to make sure you're alright," the woman replied.
"I'm fine. I want a shower, and I'll be fine." She was trying to convince herself, but all over she was feeling violated. Everywhere hurt, especially the places that shouldn't.
A wizard medic was speaking to another wizard, an investigator, "The girl will have to come with us for a little while. It's mandatory that victims of rape must have a 24-hour surveillance before…"
His voice trailed away in Hermione's mind. She had been raped. Raped. Raped by a Muggle. Violated. Trashed. Desecrated…
More dry heaves. More spells.
Cold cloth on her forehead…
…Kind words…
Warm eyes filled with sympathy.
Pity-filled glances.
...
…Eyes so heavy.
…Sleep…
.
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Three days later, Hermione awoke, somehow instantly and fully aware of her surroundings. Judging by the white, uniform walls and the sickeningly sweet portrait of a young girl holding a parasol and chasing butterflies, Hermione determined she was in the hospital. Judging from the fact that the portrait on the wall was moving, it was St. Mungo's.
"Oh, splendid, you're awake."
The voice came from the other side of the room. Hermione's head spun around to appraise the speaker. Her mind was blown away by the array of flowers and gifts that littered the nightstand to her right. How had she not noticed?
Colors were so washed-out all of a sudden…
"How long have I been here?" Hermione croaked. Her voice was hoarse and her lips were dry and cracked from disuse.
"All of three days, miss," the nurse replied. She was a black woman, probably only a few years older than Hermione, and very pretty.
"I feel dirty," Hermione stated.
"Would you like me to run you a bath?" the nurse inquired. Her nametag boldly stated GENEVA.
Hermione merely nodded. A crack on her lip slit and began to bleed. Geneva calming flicked her wand, once, twice, three times. The lip was healed, a bathrobe appeared on the table nearby and the sounds of running water echoed slightly into the hospital room.
Geneva checked up on Hermione regularly, just to make sure she didn't do anything rash. Lucky she did: After fifteen minutes, Hermione had scrubbed her skin raw. Layers of skin seemed to come off too easily. Yet, underneath the first, the second was dirtier. The third was worse off than the second. The fourth was unbearably disgusting…
The bathwater ran red. Hermione scrubbed and scrubbed, to no avail – she only got dirtier the more she scrubbed, the closer in she got to her core.
Geneva's face remained calm and with some fancy wandwork, the damage was righted. "Why don't we get you into a nice seat?" she suggested. Perhaps she was an angel, Hermione didn't know.
Without a word or a gesture, Hermione dressed and wrapped herself up in a big fluffy blanket. From there, Geneva enchanted the window to look like the rolling waves of the ocean. Hermione sat in a white wicker chair and watched the sea, unblinkingly.
Sleep came so easily…
.
.
Hermione received many visitors over the next few days, including many schoolmates and good friends. She wasn't sure how everyone seemed to have heard about what had happened… to be sure, it was embarrassing… the way everyone gazed at her with looks of pity or worse.
Perhaps it is a mark of how much the incident had truly scarred her, but Hermione felt herself in a state almost beyond caring.
The only people she felt she couldn't face were Ron, Harry and Ginny. Whenever these three visited, she would feign sleep until they left, sometimes many hours later.
But what bothered her the most were the whispers.
Medics would whisper around her when they thought she couldn't hear.. The Weasleys too, partook in these mysterious whispers, but never truly within her earshot.
All she ever heard were snippets of conversations. Things like "…when we should tell her…" or "…the girl needs to find out sooner or later…"
Then one day, a wizard in some very official-looking robes appeared in her room. It seemed he had taken the entire Weasley clan plus Harry for moral support. It had caught Hermione by surprise and there was so time to feign sleep.
She was stuck to face whatever they had to say to her.
"Ms. Granger," the man in the official robes began. Hermione could tell by the way he spoke that he was aware of her predicament, "I realize that now… might not be the best time to speak to you of this. However, it is necessary you know – something that will… change your life…"
Mrs. Weasley strode across the room and embraced Hermione such that she knew her life was about to get much, MUCH worse…
.
.
Over the next hour, Hermione will find out that her loving parents had both perished in an unfortunate house fire.
Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Granger's electric can opener had backfired, setting their house ablaze… without enough warning for the two to escape.
What the wizard from the Ministry wanted to tell her was the contents of her parents' will, drawn up imperfectly due to their early and sudden death.
"It seems that, excluding a few specifics, you have received the vast majority of your parents' property," the man explained. "Since they never completed their will, leaving a few bases uncovered, you are set to receive everything. Rather than at age 22, for example.."
Hermione stared at the portrait on the wall. The girl with the parasol was grinning impishly at her.
Silence.
"Ms. Granger?" the man prompted.
"What is to become of her?" Mrs. Weasley demanded. "We could make room with us…"
"Ah, the Granger were very specific about that bit, luckily. The girl is to live with her grandmother."
"I don't have a grandmother. They're both dead." These were Hermione's first words during the meeting.
The man frowned, "I spoke with her yesterday – she is quite alive and very prepared to take you…"
Hermione remained silent. Her parents had told her both sets of her grandparents perished from various things before Hermione had been born. Had they kept a big secret from her? Had they hidden much from her?
Well, she could no longer ask them…
"Callidora Black is a fine woman, I assure you," the man continued, as if eager to please. "She is one of the oldest members of the…"
"Callidora Black?" Mr. Weasley demanded, speaking for the first time. The Weasley brood, for the first time, tore their eyes from Hermione and looked up at their father in surprise.
"Who is she, Dad?" Ginny inquired curiously.
"If I'm not mistaken," Mr. Weasley said, "old Callidora married Harfang Longbottom… so that would mean…"
"Hermione's cousins with Neville!" Ron exclaimed, gaping.
"Which would mean…" Ginny continued, putting two and two together.
"Indeed," the wizard finished, "Ms. Granger is not, in fact, Muggle-born."
"And further than that, children," Mrs. Weasley continued breathlessly, "that means that Hermione's going to live with your Great Aunt Dora."
The Weasleys gaped at Hermione. Harry remained with his eyes fixed on her, as if trying to search her mind.
Hermione remained silent. Thoughts were swimming in her over-crowded head, but she refused to let them show on her face.
Geneva rescued her at this moment: "Everybody out! This is far too much excitement for a recovering patient!"
Without taking "no" for an answer, Hermione's own personal angel ushered the lot of them out of the room, promising them all exclusive visiting rights in the near future. The man in the robes remained, as he required a signature of Hermione's, merely to accept her parents' last testament.
"Good luck, Ms. Granger." The man sounded like he truly meant it. With a last nod in her direction, he Disapparated.
"Tough crowd," Geneva commented mildly.
Hermione managed what was supposed to be a chuckle, but manifested instead as a sob.
"There, there," the kindly woman comforted. "Would you like to take a walk around?
Hermione shook her head "no."
"Is there anything else I can get you?"
"Tell me something," Hermione whispered, "will I survive?"
Geneva put an arm around her patient's shoulders, "You will.. It will take time and you must be patient. Time heals all wounds – you just have to let it." She paused, "At any rate, you have a very loving group of people who care for you. If you've got them, you've got it all."
"Yes," Hermione agreed.
It was true words of wisdom… but the pain refused to disappear.
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Author's Note: Wow! You've gotten this far! Please please PLEASE leave me some feedback, I am always open to new suggestions and helpful criticism.