Title: And All the King's Horses
Genre: Mystery, Angst
Pairings: Ron/Hermione, Draco/Hermione
Rating: T (But mostly because if The Dark Knight isn't R, then I really don't know what R means... Or M. Whatever)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR. This work is for fun, not profit.
Summary: After Voldermort's fall, the world seemed full of hope and promise, and no one's star seemed brighter than Hermione Granger's. Twenty years later, her son tries to put back the pieces of a broken woman. The Marriage Law has gone terribly wrong.
Chapter 26
In which a young man visits the man who has haunted his nightmares since he was four, again
The last time he was here he practically whimpered when they took his wand away from him. This time he practically thrusts it into the guard's hands. He doesn't need his wand, or want it at least. Not now. Right now he wants to use his fists and pound in someone's face. His blood is boiling with rage, doubt is swirling in his mind, and he's on the precipice of despair. Strange, this time he feels no different upon entering the prison grounds. The Dementors cannot take away his rage, and that is all that keeps him from hopelessness. There are no happy thoughts in his head. Only rage and doubt.
A wall of cold does hit him as he rushes down the corridors. The guard escorting him is slow, so slow.
"Walk faster," he hisses, impatient.
The guard turns around, annoyed.
"Listen brat, just because you're Malfoy's kid…"
Malfoy, how that word hangs heavy over him now. But it is what he is. He is a Malfoy, and all that comes with it, even if he is a Gryffindor too. So he pulls out a bag of coins and waves it in front of the guard's face. "Run, don't mention my name, and you can have this."
It's crude. But effective. The guard starts running, and it's still not fast enough. They get to their destination, and maybe it's too fast after all, because Weasley isn't here yet.
"Where is he?" he spits out.
"They're bringing him."
He's antsy. His blood is boiling still, but he wonders for how long the rage will be able to keep him going. He hasn't slept, he's a bit hung over, and he wants to kill someone. He's not quite sure who: Grandfather for starting this, Father for agreeing to it, Mother for giving in, Weasley for unearthing it, Professor Parkinson for explaining, or himself for being helpless. No. He refuses to be helpless. He's going to fix it, and he's going to fix it soon, if he has to ally himself with the demon of his nightmares.
And here he comes. Ronald Weasley. He looks ragged and dull and grey, his hair white, his eyes sunken. The guards all leave. Weasley ends the silence: "So, you're back."
"Shut up!" he yells. Clenches his fist, lowers his eyes, and composes himself. "Yes. I'm back. I finally found out about the Marriage Law."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not. I'm certain you're sorry that there was ever a Marriage Law. I'm sure you're sorry about what happened to my mother. You're sorry you were away. You're sorry you came back. You're sorry you came back too late. You're sorry I was born. You're sorry my sister was born. You're sorry you didn't kill my father and grandfather when you got the chance. You're sorry you've been in Azkaban for eleven years. But you're not sorry I found out that my grandfather got a law passed to force my mother to marry my father against either of their wishes and ruined my mother's life. You're not sorry you tortured my father in front of my eyes."
"You're right," Weasley answers. "I'm not sorry. That day I would have loved to kill your father for what he did to Hermione. I would even have killed you, I was in such a rage, I would have killed you for being evidence of the fact that Hermione's soul had been broken to bits. A part of me is sorry that I'm not sorry, but that's it, if it makes any sense."
"You're sorry for you, not for me."
"No, how could I be sorry for you? She loves you."
And then, without warning, Weasley falls. He falls quickly and without grace. He does not stick his hands out to catch himself. His knees do not give out—all of him does, as if though an invisible string has been cut and the puppet has fallen, limp and lifeless.
And suddenly he feels cold. The cold of Azkaban is multiplied, it pierces his skin and flows into his veins. It kills the white hot rage that sustained him, and now all he can think of is of how he feels like the four year old hiding behind the curtains in the living room. There's a man, a friend of his Mother's. And then his Father. And then some yelling. His Father and the man, yelling—saying awful things, things he doesn't understand. His Mother starts screaming. That's the most terrifying thing of all. His Mother's never screamed before. She'll never scream again, until— That's besides the point. His Mother is so calm, so docile, she always does what Father wants. Now she's screaming too. Crying. Father looks like he's about to hit her, and he cries out, but his screams of terror are drowned out by his own Mother's scream of pain. His Mother's on the floor now, crying, and Father immediately looks sad. Father's tone changes. Father is kneeling next to Mother. Mother is sobbing quietly, and Father is trying to calm her down. He wants to run to Mother, but he can't he's afraid. Afraid of his own Father.
His eyes are so intensely focused on Father and Mother that he doesn't notice the man as he pulls out his wand. There's just a sudden flash. He's never seen it before, but he knows it's a spell and he can feel that it's a bad one. Father crumples to the ground. Father is the one screaming now. It sounds awful, like father is dying, and he doesn't even know what death means. Father is rolling around on the floor uncontrollably, screaming, screaming, screaming, and Mother is sobbing on the floor, huddled, sobbing. The man kicks Father to the side, but it doesn't seem to make a difference—the screams can't possibly get any worse. Then the man goes to Mother, and he is terrified that the man will hurt her like he hurt Father, but he can't move from behind the curtain.
Mother is standing. She looks like a ghost. More than usual.
The man is kicking Father, harder and harder. The screams aren't changing.
Father is writhing on the floor. Screaming.
Mother is standing.
Tears are rolling down his cheeks. He's too terrified to scream anymore. Suddenly Mother's eyes lock with his. She sees him, and looks even more like a ghost. She looks to the man, still kicking, then to Father, and finally back to him. He thinks tears are rolling down her cheeks, but he can't be sure. She reaches into her dress and pulls out a wand. He's never seen Mother's wand before. He didn't realize she had one. Without flinching she points her wand at the man and says something. The man falls. Father stops screaming, and Mother falls to her knees, her face in her hands.
He runs to Mother, who holds him tightly. Tightly, tightly, he thinks he'll die.
Mother. Oh God! Mother. And all he can think of is his mother being dragged away from her home in the middle of the night by Father and Grandfather. How they must have snapped her wand, and how she must have fought back, tooth and nail. And how they must have tied her arms and legs, leaving her to scream with all her might, until her throat was raw and her voice was gone, so that she could only cry and cry, until she had no more tears to shed. How she must have trembled silently. He can't think of anything, but of the girl in the picture, laughing, full of life, and how she became the grey woman in St. Mungo's. What was done to her, and how he came to be. What Mother must have gone through for him to be born. And he's sick and he's cold. He feels dirty. Part of him wants to wash and wash and wash, until his skin comes off, and part of him wants to crawl into the warm earth, it's so cold. He's not sure there'll ever be any happiness again in the world. And why should there be? If Mother was miserable for twenty years, all because of him? Why should he be happy? He shouldn't. He doesn't deserve to be happy. He's never deserved it. The precipice grows deeper and blacker, and he knows he must climb into it. Mother has lived in despair. Now he must too.
Instinctively, his hand goes into his pocket, looking for that ancient security blanket, more powerful and reassuring than his wand: the phoenix-feather quill.
Grandfather has found out about the lion, and then, more than thunder ever had, Grandfather rages and berates Father and Mother. Father sits silent, but for once Mother stands, stands up to Grandfather. It only lasts a day, a single day of open revolt against Grandfather, but in its own way, Mother's strange, unnecessary act gives him the courage not to cry as Grandfather rips his faithful lion to shreds. He cries afterwards, but then he does so quietly into his pillow in the dead of night in the privacy of his room.
His sobs however are not so quiet that they don't called forth Mother. She opens his door with a gentle alohamora and glides delicately to his bed where she joins him and begins to smother him in kisses and caresses until he had finally stops his sobbing and turns to face her. He finds her holding the old lion, slightly worse for wear, but certainly a good deal better off than the fluff underneath Grandfather's feet.
"But how?" he asks and she smiles (she always smiles more at night time, when it's just the two of them in his room).
"Magic." And then, for a second, she stops smiling. "But, Grandfather can't know, do you understand?" He nods, and then she takes out her wand—that precious instrument so rarely seen, and presses it to the lion and utters an incantation he doesn't understand. The lion had transforms into a phoenix-feather quill and keeps him company ever after.
Mother does love him. And that's a happy thought. Enough, he thinks, to conjure up a Patronus, and certainly enough to fight at least some of the cold. In his other pocket he has a bar of chocolate. Good stuff. He takes a bite out of the bar, and that does a little more to revive him. Weasley is still on the floor, he offers him a chunk of chocolate, and that's enough to get a hand moving; it's slow and grey and skeletal, but it's moving towards the chocolate. And then, for no reason, it stops and Weasley sits up straight, smile on his face and gleam in his eye.
"On second thought, no thanks. I think I'm fine. Or more than fine, really, but that's not why you're here. You want to fix your mommy."
"Can it be done?"
"Yes. Hermione Granger's condition is not dissimilar from Harry Potter's. I could heal them both. I could free her soul from the black magics that bind it. But not from here."
"Tell me how to do it."
"I can't. It would take too long. It wouldn't work. Although, if you want, there's an old book you could read."
"Where is it?"
"In an old library in Transylvania. It would be easier to just bring me along. Safer too, just ask Ronnekins."
"What?"
"Nothing. Nothing. You know, after years in Azkaban, one does get lonely. Your Great-Aunt Bellatrix isn't the best of companions. Help me and I'll help you. Like the apes: you pick the fleas off my back, and I'll pick them off yours. Scratch and scratch, you know."
"No."
"No. Ok then. Hurry home to Daddy. Poor Draco. He's taking this all rather poorly isn't it? Probably drinking. Well. Drinking a lot. Well… Drinking a lot, for him. Which is really a lot. One of these days he's going to drink himself to death. Go to him. He needs you now. Mum is too far gone for you to help, unless you call in big bad Ronnekins or go to Transylvania. Why don't you go to Transylvania. It's a real good read. I swear."
"You're not making a very convincing argument for me to ask you to help me."
"Of course I'm not. What ever gave you the impression I wanted to help, or even get out of Azkaban? It's such a cheerful place. Why go about rescuing Mrs. Hermione Malfoy when I can stick around this place reciting nursery rhymes? Ring a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Or how about this one? Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king's horses, And all the king's men, Couldn't put Humpty together again." Weasley laughs madly, and now he's terrified once more.
"No. No. Stop." Weasley is suddenly on his knees, clutching at his head. He looks up at him, his eyes hollow in despair, the mad mirth gone. "The chocolate, give me the chocolate." And he does as instructed. Weasley gobbles it up like a man who hasn't seen food in weeks, and then he starts to sob. "I can't think straight if I'm in here. I can't help Hermione or Harry; hell I can't help myself. Tell my mother that I was ill today. It won't be a lie. Then come back to Azkaban as quick as you can. I'll need all the chocolate and polyjuice you can manage to bring me there."
"Why chocolate and polyjuice?"
"Chocolate is the best general antidote to certain kinds of black magic. I'll need all of that you can muster. Milk chocolate. Not white, not dark. And the polyjuice is for hiding afterwards. The last guy to break out of Azkaban managed to say out because he was an animagus and because he had Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to rely upon. I have neither of those advantages. I can't believe I'm taking a page out of that psycho Crouch's book."
And he nods, almost afraid that he's made a deal with the devil. But there's no one else to turn to… certainly not father or grandfather or Rose. So the devil it is. Now, where to get polyjuice, and how to find the Weasley matriarch?
Author's Notes: And finally, we have a plot. You know the drill. Review, please.