Author's Note: I figured I should clear something out (which I really should have done earlier) before going on with this. I didn't really give a back story about how Sirius miraculously came back from the dead because as far as I'm concerned, he never died. Denial might not be healthy, but I like it (don't we all?). Plus, I somehow felt a came-back-through-the-veil recount would take away from this story. So bear with me there.

CHAPTER THREE

As soon as Elspeth returned to the OR, Harry wheeled around to face Stratford. 'What happened, exactly?' he demanded.

Ron made a noise which was something between a sigh and a groan and slumped against the wall. Stratford stepped forward and grabbed his arm. 'Come with me,' he said, roughly, 'We need to talk somewhere a bit more private.'

He hauled them up two floors to an empty office, where he deposited Ron in a swivel chair. Finding a thermos on the desk, he pushed it towards him. 'Probably has coffee. Drink some, you'll feel better.'

Ron ignored his command. Instead, he asked, 'Are they sure she'll be alright?'

Stratford looked grim. 'They aren't sure yet, Ron. It looks grim. She - she's been beat up quite badly, from what they described.'

Ron's face was ashen. Harry cut in.

'But what - how - what exactly happened?'

'That's what we're trying to find out. Paul DeSilva called us to inform us that they have a rape victim here. Apparently, she drove herself to the hospital in this condition.'

Ron said, hollowly, 'We saw her just a few hours back. We were coming back from the courtroom. I told her I'd go home with her, but she said she'd rather be alone.'

Stratford glanced up. 'The courtroom?'

'At the ministry,' Harry nodded. 'Hermione had a real big case today.' He was silent for a moment and then added, 'The Cavendish case.'

Stratford opened his mouth and then closed it. He knew all about the Cavendish case - the Daily Prophet had reported about nothing else for two weeks. Frederick Cavendish was a well-educated, rich doctor, who moved in high circles and was seemingly above all reproach. Six months back, a member of the Wizengamot had sent in a special petition to have him tried in court - on charges of running a dope racket. The sensation that had followed had been unbelievable. Eventually, Cavendish - as well as five of his associates - had wound up in front of a full-fledged Wizengamot. That evening's paper had reported that they had been found guilty and sentenced to ten years in Azkaban.

'She was on the Cavendish case,' he said, thoughtfully.

Harry nodded. 'It's more than that,' he said, glumly. 'Hermione's been pushing this case since its inception. She was the one who set the ball rolling in the first place.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, she had been suspicious of Cavendish for a while. She filed the case against him, and it was because of her that a lot of the evidence against the entire gang came up in the first place.'

'So she wasn't just responsible for the judgement? She was behind Cavendish's case the entire time?'

Ron nodded. 'They sentenced him this evening. It was the final trial. All of us went with Hermione to the courtroom. It was - it was a very important case for her.'

'Who was the Chief Wizengamot?' Stratford asked, brusquely.

'Calliope Mitchell. She had the ultimate word, but-' Harry broke off. He was nervously linking and unlinking his fingers. At the same time, a slow anger was beginning to burn in his eyes.

'But Cavendish would have held the entire Wizengamot responsible,' Stratford finished for him. 'Especially the woman who kicked off proceedings against him in the first place.'

Ron, who had been sitting with his head sunk in his hands, looked up. 'Are you saying - Cavendish-'

'It's possible,' Stratford interrupted, abruptly. 'But we don't know anything for sure. Either way, that's one definite angle to trace. Harry, I'm going to need a detailed account of Hermione's movements today- and tonight.'

'We'll tell you everything we know,' Harry said, quietly.

Sirius clasped his hands around a paper cup of coffee and stared dully at the unnaturally white wall in front of him. The coffee, which an attendant had handed him from a machine, was milky and altogether quite revolting. But it was piping hot and felt comforting against his palms, and in his throat. The hospital corridors were chilly and since he had given his jacket to Ginny, he was feeling cold and uneasy.

But that was nothing compared to the turmoil in his head.

The moment they'd pulled in to the hospital, Ginny had rushed off to find Harry. She had looked somewhat absurd, in her bathrobe and bomber jacket, with the flowered hem of her nightgown whipping about her ankles. Sirius had headed to the Emergency Room instead, where he rightly surmised that Hermione was being kept. But once he got there, a plump attendant with corn-coloured curls had immediately stopped him.

'Yes, she's here. But you can't see her just now. They're operating at the moment.'

'I just want to make sure-'

'Pardon me, sir, but are you a family member?' demanded the attendant, squinting suspiciously up at him. Sirius exhaled in exasperation.

'No, but-'

'Then you're just going to have to wait here. I understand that you're worried, but the patient is our first priority right now. Have a seat right there. I'll give you a cup of coffee.'

As the machine had spat out a stream of coffee into the cup she held under it, Sirius suddenly asked, 'Is Harry Potter here?'

The attendant nodded. 'Yes, he's come with his team. Perhaps they'd be able to tell you something once they get down.'

Sirius felt the blood drain from his face. 'He's come with his team?'

The attendant looked grim as she handed him the cup. 'A whole bunch of them,' she said, gravely. 'Haven't seen this sort of case for a very long time. You wait right here. Someone will be down in a minute.'

And she had left.

Sirius could feel panic coiling in his stomach. He wasn't in the least sleepy now; instead, the clogs of his brain were whirling frantically, trying to understand what had gone wrong. Hermione was in the hospital, she seemed to be in a serious condition. When Ginny had told him, his first, incoherent thought had been that she'd tried to harm herself. It had leapt to his mind like a serpent and clung persistently. But entire teams of Aurors didn't come to investigate attempted suicides, did they?

He took another sip of coffee and suddenly wondered where Ron was. He'd be in the hospital, of course. He'd probably be with Harry, worried sick about his fiancee.

He had to see Hermione before Ron did.

Groaning to himself, Sirius drained his coffee and tossed the cup away. He leaned back against the cold, metallic chair he was sitting on.

'Hermione,' he muttered, 'What happened to you?'

Hermione Granger was in pain.

She wasn't entirely sure where she was, or how she had got there. She had a few incoherent memories of a horn blaring, a headlights rushing past her and then, of anxious exclamations and a whirlwind of activity. Now, she was lying on something flat. And she was in pain.

Her shin felt as though it had splintered into a million pieces. Her skin burned, indiscriminately. Where her back met the surface she was lying on, she could feel the pain gathering in pools - at the nape of her neck, shoulder blades and lower down. Between her legs, it felt as though she were on fire. She could barely breathe.

But her stomach was numb. She felt nothing there.

She wondered whether she'd be able to open her eyes, but the effort was too much. It was as though someone had painted her lids shut; no amount of effort could induce them to spring open again. She tried to move a finger but although her brain frantically sent the message, her finger refused to oblige.

In some dull, semi-conscious corner of her brain, Hermione felt frightened. Then, she felt a small prick on her arm.

She was marveling at the fact that she could actually feel something through all the layers and layers of pain, when a change came over her mental state. The fear began to ebb slightly and she felt a sense of calmness - not complete calmness, but a can't-be-bothered sense of calmness - wash over her.

She continued to lie in that apathetic state, until she heard a voice say, from very far away, 'Pass me the scalpel'.

Author's Note: Well?