Lonely World

Chapter 10

After an unreasonably long amount of time, I now return to this story. Considering that I myself had to re-read the story just to remember what has happened so far, I suggest that you do as well. I won't talk any more; after all, we've waited long enough for this.

Hermione's POV

Madame Pomfrey wasn't an easy woman to find, which was hardly useful considering the fast deteriorating state of my old friend next to me. For so many years of my life, she had been available at the drop of a hat; all we'd had to do was go down to the medical ward. But now, we were at war and life had become that much more difficult. The carefree comforts of Hogwarts were a distant memory.

It had been a long time since Fleur had sent her sleek, silver owl to find the talented healer and I for one was beginning to feel that we didn't have that time to spare. Although Harry had at last fallen fully out of consciousness,this wasn't stopping him from crying out and writhing. Most of what he was blurting out was unintelligible, but I was sure that I'd heard him cry that despised name 'Draco' on more than one occasion, leading me to believe that Voldemort hadn't been the only one who had had a hand in this dark business.

Fleur, to her credit, was working feverishly as she tried to attend to each of Harry's wounds. She had emptied her medical cabinet to treat him, her quick and nimble hands splashing an ocean of deflating draught over his swollen skin, rivers of dittany over the long, dark wounds and splashes of Murtlap over the less severe cuts. At the same time, I repeatedly cast Vulnera Sanentur over his wound-ridden upper body.

Fleur had used enough potions to treat a small army, I had cast the same spell more times than I could count, yet still we were seeing little improvement. Those dark, jagged cuts, stretching in angry fault lines over his chest, showed no signs of healing. The bruises remained stubbornly purple and his skin simply refused to lose its sticky, pale colouring. In short, Harry Potter was in a bad, bad way.

"Fleur." I said, touching the French woman's shoulders as I put down my wand.

She barely reacted, keeping her eyes fixed thoroughly on her patient.

"This is out of our depth, Fleur." I pleaded with her. "We've done all we can. I don't know why Harry didn't want to return to the Burrow, but we need the help of the people there. Professor McGonagall, Kingsley and Mrs Weasley will be able to help him more than we can."

Fleur sighed, reluctantly putting down her near empty bottle of dittany. "You are right, 'Ermione. He will 'ave to return there at some point, anyway."

She stood up as elegantly as ever, but for once she had allowed her appearance to stray from perfection. Her attire, a purely functional set of leggings and a plain top, was stained with blood and dirt, while her hair had fallen out of its intricately constructed bun and dark bags were unusually prominent under her eyes. I had always assumed that Fleur cared for very little more than her appearance, but perhaps she was not quite so self-centred after all.

As I looked up, our eyes met and I realised that she had noticed me staring at her; I blushed and quickly withdrew my gaze.

"He'll be too weak to apparate," I warned my fellow Order member.

She furrowed her eyebrows. "'Ow else weel we get 'im to zhe Burrow een time?"

I noticed with interest that her English accent was deteriorating, perhaps a sign that she was less calm than her exterior was letting on. However, I pushed this thought to the back of my mind and concentrated on the problem at hand.

"We can't use the floo network because it is monitored..." I began to run through the available options out loud.

Fleur added, "Not to mention zhe fact zhat 'Arry is unconscious."

"And we can't create a portkey because of the protective wards." I continued, glaring at Fleur for butting in with information I already knew.

"So... we are stuck?"

I nodded.

"Back to plan A, zhen." Fleur said resolutely, picking up her various medicines again.

Admiring her determination, I nodded and sat back down to join her.

We were two of the brightest witches of our generation, and our dying friend had had unspeakable things done to him. We of all people could help him.

Hestia Jones' POV

Tied to a chair, surrounded by leering death eaters and a very, very angry Voldemort, it was safe to say that I was enduring a bit of a mid life crisis. It gave me satisfaction to know that the reason my capturers were so infuriated was the invasion, which must have been at least a partial success. The bad news, however, was that a) Voldemort still lived, and b) their anger was only going to make my last moments worse.

The Order was finished, I knew. Kingsley had told me, in confidence, that our last chance of stopping Voldemort was with that night's invasion. 'The Dark Lord will not be caught off guard again, Hestia,' he'd told me. And he was right.

I closed my eyes to shut out the images in front of me. Could they sense my fear, I wondered? Did they know that I was more scared at that moment than I had ever been before? When my eyes opened again, Voldemort's face was only inches from mine. Instantly, I recoiled. I could literally feel the breath of my worst enemy on my skin, and I was helpless to resist.

Unwillingly, I let out a little cry; if they hadn't been able to sense my fear before, they certainly could now.

"We've got some questions for you. You'd be well advised to answer them, and fast." The Dark Lord said menacingly. I was a fly trapped in a spider's web; again I closed my eyes. Now was when I had to make the choice, for I could betray my friends and ease my own passing, or I could protect their secrets, but endure horrible pain in my last moments.

Voldemort asked, "How many people are there in your futile resistance?"

Without opening my eyes, I replied quickly. "150 souls."

This was, of course, a lie.

"Is that so?" The Dark Lord laughed. "My men counted no more than 30."

I stood my ground. "150."

"Well there's one way to find out the truth." Voldemort sighed.

"Shall I fetch the veritaserum, my Lord?" A crony asked from nearby.

"No, no." Voldemort said, annoyance clear in his voice. "Too easy, too easy." He fixed his gaze back on me. "Miss Jones, do you know what the key to finding out the truth is?"

Shaking my head, I prepared for whatever manner of monstrosity he had in store for me.

"Fear." He hissed. "Lucius, bring me Fenrir Greyback."

I paled immediately, much to my tormentor's delight. Greyback's reputation was one well known throughout the Order and, indeed, the wizarding world. Every witch and wizard had heard stories of how the werewolf dealt with his prey. He would maul, he would bite, he would drink my blood, and he would take his time in doing so. It was said that Greyback could take days of agonising pain to finish off his victims.

The Order was finished, I reminded myself. Kingsley had told me so himself. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to give my capturers what they wanted, if they were going to win eventually anyway.

Guilt clawed at my conscience, but it was too insignificant to outweigh my fear of what Greyback and the Dark Lord himself could do with my body to draw out the information they desired.

"Okay." I said quietly, a lone tear sliding down the pale skin of my left cheek. "I'll tell you everything."

Fleur's POV

Tap. Tap. Tap. My concentration on the task at hand was so great that I barely noticed the sound of Emmanuelle, my dear owl, tapping urgently at the window. Gasping, I noticed that she carried a small piece of parchment in her beak.

"'Ermione!" I said, pointing to the elegantly silver creature.

My fellow Order member shot from where she was sitting to let Emmanuelle in, promptly removing the reply from my owl's beak. I got up too, stroking my messenger's sleek feathers in gratitude; I had a close relationship with Emmanuelle, and I could tell that she had flown as hard as she possibly could to deliver this message. The strength of our bond was such that she had known the urgency of the situation.

"What does eet say?" I asked impatiently. The reply could have been the difference between life and death for my dying friend.

Hermione shrieked in joy as she read the short note, handing it over to me as she did so.

I'll be there as soon as I've collected the necessary medicine.

I cannot apparate within your wards, so make sure you are outside to let me in.

Pomfrey.

Before I could stop myself, I was letting out an exclamation similar to Hermione's. Pomfrey's reputation as a healer was legendary, even in French medical circles. And I had seen her efficiency first hand when she had treated Bill's injury. If anybody would be able to draw the dark magic out of these wounds, it was her.

Hermione knelt down beside Harry, whispering in his ear: "Madame Pomfrey's coming, Harry. You're going to be all right."

The girl's affection for the Boy who Lived was clear to see, but I was finding it difficult to gauge her feelings for him. With my Veela instincts, I could normally look at a person and know about their love life, but Hermione's was clouded. I could definitely sense love for the Chosen One in her, but it was clouded and unsure. It surprised me to find myself hoping that she did not love him, though I did not know why; although myself and Hermione had not always seen eye to eye, it disgusted me that she was in a relationship with someone as uncouth and flawed as Ronald Weasley.

With one last friendly pat to Harry's arm, Hermione got up again, running outside to check for Pomfrey's arrival. Before following her, I myself got on my knee beside the young man. Thin and fragile, he was a mere shadow of the defiant man that I had known before, the man who had risked both his own life and the glory of the Tri-Wizard Cup to save my sister when he was in just his fourth year. That bravery seemed gone, lost now, for the figure lying beside me looked nothing if not afraid.

"Oh, 'Arry." I sighed, running a finger down his clammy cheek. "What 'ave they done to you?"

After another shake of my head, I followed Hermione outside, hoping that Pomfrey was not far off.

Kingsley's POV

Though spirits in the Weasley house were exceptionally high, I knew that the night had been a failure. The Dark Lord still lived, we had inflicted few casualties, and poor Hestia Jones was with the enemy. What was more, Fleur Weasley and our spy had not made contact yet, and Hermione was certainly taking her time in finding them.

The good news, however, was that we ourselves had suffered no casualties other than Hestia. Everyone had held their own in battle and proved that they could fight and win against Death Eaters. But would we ever get such an opportunity to take them by surprise again? I seriously doubted it. Voldemort had probably already erected stronger wards. However, I plastered a smile onto my face and tried to keep morale high. It had been nobody's fault that Voldemort hadn't been there that night, luck had simply been against us, as ever.

A few metres to my left, Ron Weasley was detailing his acts of great heroism and bravery to a small admiring crowd. I wondered if that crowd knew that he had, in fact, simply been hit by a stray stunner, which had incapacitated him and taken him out of the battle. George seemed to be doing his best to convey the truth, I noticed with a smile.

To my right, the Order's younger members were laughing, dancing and generally partying. And why not? After all, in their eyes, they had been part of a successful attack against the Dark Lord. None of them had died, while they had managed to kill some of the enemy. Even Ginny, who hadn't been her cheeky, bouncy self since the Battle of Hogwarts, had a drink in her hand as she joined in with the celebrations.

A few had convened in the living room's corner to mourn Hestia, who had been well-liked by everyone she had met. If I'd had my way, everyone would be showing the brilliant, young fighter the same respect, but I knew that morale was essential at that moment. I bowed my own head; another of my friends was gone. How many more people would I lose, would we lose, before this was over?

Minerva sidled up to me. "What are you thinking, Kingsley?"

Noting that she, like me, did not seem to be joining in with the celebrations, I guessed that she had come to the same conclusion as me.

"They think we won a great victory tonight," I sighed quietly. "But we achieved nothing, and in doing so we lost a great person."

The elderly teacher nodded. "They did well tonight, but with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named still alive, I fear that our attack meant nothing."

We stood in silence for a few moments, an odd contrast to the music and the commotion of the party, before I said anything more.

"Poor Hestia."

Minerva nodded her agreement. "I only hope she doesn't give them any valuable information."

"It would hardly be her fault if she did," Kingsley pointed out. "I can only imagine the methods You-Know-Who will use to get what he wants."

Suddenly, two familiar women burst through the door and the party briefly silenced. Both of them had a considerable amount of blood on their clothing, blood that it was unlikely the had picked up during battle. Hermione certainly hadn't looked so dishevelled when she'd left.

Ron, still recovering from his mortal injury, clearly expected his girlfriend to come to find him, but Bill pushed politely through the crowd to talk to his wife. They exchanged a brief dialogue before Hermione and Fleur continued onwards to where I was standing, clearly conscious of the many curious eyes on them.

"We need to talk in private. Now." Hermione said urgently to me and Minerva.

I stared at her for a second, wondering what could possibly have created this urgency and need for secrecy. Glancing to my side, I noticed that the professor was doing the same.

"Come on, then." I said, gesturing for them to follow me outside into the garden.

As we left, I uneasily felt the eyes of the entire room follow us. Our organisation was had a strong foundation of trust, and I knew that this secrecy would not be good for morale.

It was only once we were at the very bottom of the garden that the women were ready to speak.

"Go on, Miss Granger." McGonagall encouraged, her eyes flitting back to the Burrow. She had not missed the fact that the rest of the Order had crowded to the window to watch this exchange.

The brilliant witch took a deep breath. "Harry's alive."

I looked at her. "Say that again, and promise that you aren't joking."

Beside me, the transfiguration teacher looked like she was about to faint as she failed to wipe a growing smile from her face.

"She iz telling zhe truth." Fleur verified. "But 'e iz in a bad way. 'E was tortured badly."

"Well, where is he?" Minerva asked urgently, her moment of sentimentality over. "While we're dallying, he needs our help."

Fleur continued, "'E iz at my 'ouse. We tried to bring 'im 'ere, but 'e resisted."

"Don't worry, Professor." Hermione reassured her old teacher. "Madame Pomfrey is there treating him as we speak."

"Pomfrey, yes." Minerva calmed down, resembling her usual stony demeanour. "If she can't heal him, nobody will. Good thinking, Miss Granger."

Hermione glowed with pride at the compliment.

"You three go onto Shell Cottage while I tell the others." I decided. "I'll meet you there in ten minutes."

"Wait." Fleur grabbed my arm as I turned. "If we tell zhem now, zhey will all want to see 'im. Should we not let 'im get better first?"
"Mrs Weasley," I said, noticing her bristle at my use of her married name. "Harry is our biggest weapon. Just the sound of his name inspires courage and hope in even the most lost of all causes. Those people in there..." I violently pointed to the house. "...they need him. I've tried my best, but I can't fill his shoes because Harry is a born leader and what makes him so easy to follow and die for is that he doesn't even know it."

Silence followed my emotional outburst before Minerva nodded. "I agree. Those people in there were and still are loyal to Harry, and they deserve to know."

"And zhey will know." Fleur implored us. "But not tonight. They 'ave fought a successful battle, their morale iz 'igh enough for tonight. And believe me, zhe state zhat 'Arry is in right now, eet will not raise zhe morale."

Hermione reasoned, "Speaking as Harry's friend, I would be angry if someone did not tell me that he was alive, but it's true that nobody who loves him will want to see him in the state his in in."

I briefly considered their points before finally agreeing. "Fine. We will compromise. For tonight, I will do it your way but tomorrow, I am going to tell them. Remember, our Order is based on trust and loyalty."

Minerva and Hermione nodded in agreement and Fleur, although seemingly unhappy at the compromise, eventually gave her own consent too.

"I'll see you at Shell Cottage in ten." I continued. "I'll make something up to tell the rest of the Order."

The three women disapparated one by one, leaving me alone in the dark tranquillity of the Burrow's garden. Noticing that people were still pressed up against the windows to see what was happening, I sighed. Harry's return had certainly complicated things. The fact that I would have to lie to my peers about something so serious made me feel uneasy, but still I could feel the faintest spark of hope ignite deep in my chest. This could be the turn of the tide; maybe, just maybe, we did still have a chance in this war after all.

Well, I certainly enjoyed writing again, and I hope that you enjoyed reading it. The basic point of this chapter was to emphasise the seriousness of Harry's injuries, but also the inspiring effect that his name has on his followers.

Next chapter will be a busy one. We'll have the rest of the Order being informed, more on what Hestia Jones has given away, and even a bit of consciousness for Harry.

Thanks very much.

Charlie.