This is late, I know! Thank you so much, as always. I will be in touch with you all soon but I wanted to post this update today. It's been crazy busy here as I'm not home much I can't update as quickly as I would like. I'm participating in a Valentine's Drabble Challenge at Live Journal and will be writing my first ever piece for a Dramione fic exchange on AO3 – so look out for those! In this next part, Hermione and Neville meet again and she gets the shock of her life. I think you will all like it!
Enjoy!
LCailan
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
St David, Wales
One week later
The cottage in which Charlie lived with Angelina was a picturesque scene of old, towering trees covered with sparkling snow in winter and thick, luscious leaves in the springtime. It sat tucked behind those trees on a gently sloped hill near the sea, and one could see the distant view of the channel from the front windows. It was small, though not unbearably so, with large, square windows and a sturdy stone foundation. The roof was simple but steep with a handsome chimney made of the same stone as the rest of the house. The structure sat at the top of a well-kept path lined with more trees which eventually gave way to open land that led to the sea.
Neville stood on the bottom of the gentle slope that led up to the cottage admiring the stark yet beautiful view. For a few moments, he did nothing but take it in. In the summertime it was a glorious vision indeed but even in the dead of winter it was lovely. Behind him the sea lay spread like quicksilver and it churned and lapped against clay-colored sands. The winter sunlight gleamed off the rippling surface in a weak reflection. No one was about and at that moment Neville felt a poignant, sad loneliness.
He knew that once he got inside the cottage and there was firelight, tea, a hot meal and warm conversation the feeling would pass but somehow while he was alone staring out at the vast sea unfurled before him, Neville always felt lonely. On that late afternoon he felt a strange, anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. Still he was unable to believe what Angelina had told him.
It was true that Neville had expected bad news; his reaction was automatic because too many bad things had happened since the fall of the Ministry. He had not lost hope but neither was he a fool. Therefore, good news was a pleasant surprise. And the news about Hermione, well, it had been…
Merlin's beard!
Neville hadn't heard from Hermione after fleeing Hogwarts. They had been in the same year at school, shared the same struggles, learned the same lessons and most importantly, fought the same battles. He had admired her. He had esteemed her. She had been the kind of girl all the blokes admired, really. Though ever demonstrative, Neville's feelings for Hermione, Ron and Harry had been of greatest admiration. They hadn't just been classmates; they had been his friends.
The first real friends I ever had…
Ron had always made Neville laugh; Hermione had always been there with a word of advice or to help with their lessons, especially Potions. Merlin knew Neville had needed it and she had been endlessly patient. And Harry – if there had been anyone that Neville had emulated…
I can't believe he's dead. I can't believe he's been dead for so long now and I've done nothing-
He cut the track of the self-hatred train rather abruptly and then stared up at the stark, ethereally beautiful gray and white scene before him. The chimney of Charlie's cottage puffed out white, billowing clouds of smoke.
Ron had died so suddenly and in such a tragic manner shortly after Harry. Neville had never gotten to say good-bye to either of them and sometimes, on his worst days, it bothered him. Why had he lived? Why had Ron and Harry not survived?
I've done bloody nothing! Harry hunted horcruxes our last year, risked his arse and tried to save all of us and I ran like a sodding pile of crap.
Once more Neville tried to stop his train of thought with determination and began to make the short walk up the hill towards the inviting cottage. He pushed through the constant pain in his leg but the trek up the hill was slow going for him. As he walked his tumultuous thoughts would not give him rest.
Sure, there had been other battles after Hogwarts. Many of them, in fact, and for awhile Neville had fought as hard as he could. He had fought as hard as that day at the Ministry, in the Department of Mysteries. Nothing had seemed as daunting a task and never had he been as scared as he had been that long ago day at the Ministry. But in spite of that, he had never quite forgiven himself for failing Harry, for not finding the Sword of Gryffindor.
If I had somehow gotten that sword! I could have helped him; Voldemort could have perished that day! But he hadn't and we were all forced to run, weren't we? Could I have done more? Could I have been what I should have been?
A gust of wind hit Neville head on and his eyes watered though he wondered if that was only from the cold. He groaned against a spasm of pain and stopped moving uphill for a few moments.
Harry had run, Hermione, Ron and Ginny with him. Others had fled as well, and those who had stayed had surely perished. The battle of Hogwarts had ended badly and many had realized that their lives were at stake and the only way was to flee, recoup and try once more. That was all there was left, even now, was to try again and again.
Neville took a breath and then continued the painful climb towards the cottage.
He had never seen Harry or Ron again.
Bloody hell, if I had known that night was the last time I'd see them I'd have...said something profound. I don't even remember if I said good-bye.
Neville blinked as he stared down at his gloved hands for a few moments. Funny how he couldn't remember anything he had said to them that last day.
He had heard, years later, that Harry had married Ginny. Then he had heard about Ron and Hermione. It had given Neville a sense of peace for at least they had been happy for a few moments. And Ginny had raised three children who would carry on Harry's name. Three beautiful, precious and precocious children who had reminded Neville of Harry the first time he had met them after they had escaped from the alienage. He only prayed and hoped that Albus, James and Lily would survive the ordeals now and find the peace and freedom that they deserved.
Thinking about Ginny and Harry's children caused Neville to think about Hermione.
Ginny had confided in him while he given the children thorough checkups after they had gone into hiding. She had spoken to him of Draco Malfoy and of the fiery night Justin Finch-Fletchley had died and she had fled the alienage with the children hoping that Hermione would come with her. And she hadn't. Neville wasn't daft but he often wasn't the first to catch on to things. But even he had no trouble seeing how hurt Ginny had seemed; it had made him want to put his arms around her for a few moments if simply to offer his strength because she had seemed to be so weak. Ginny had offered no great details about what Hermione had gone through at the alienage apart from a few muffled whispers of Pansy Parkinson, so Neville had only rumors to go on.
And the only things he had heard were whispers about the horrors and depravity that the Ministry had put the Muggle-borns through.
Hermione isn't the sort who would allow that to happen for long, is she? If Malfoy had offered her a way out-
But he didn't know enough to really believe anything at all.
But now, I will!
The prospect of seeing Hermione Granger once again filled Neville with a kind of joy he hadn't felt in years, since school, really. She reminded him of better times, of schoolbooks, Herbology, and the Great Hall. Oh, he knew that times were different now; he was different and she, too, had changed. Still, a part of him couldn't quell the feeling of happiness in spite of the sadness she had been through.
I'll help her, he determined as he began to make the last half of the climb to the cottage, pushing through is pain. I'll help her heal; I'll be the friend she was to me.
By the time Neville reached the snowy crest of the hill the front door of the cottage had been opened and Angelina ushered him in immediately. The room was warm and the fire glowing brightly in the hearth.
"Crikey, Nevie Longbuttocks, took you long enough to get here!"
Charlie had gotten up from his place at the wooden kitchen table that sat by a large window just as Neville gave him a cross look.
"I reckon that's not my name, is it?" he replied always annoyed with Charlie's teasing even though it was obviously harmless.
A very pregnant Angelina shook her head but interceded for Neville which was the norm.
"Leave him be, Charlie. It was rather funny the first time but now it's gotten a bit old."
She offered Neville a smile.
"I'm glad you got here as soon as you could."
Neville took off his traveling coat.
"It's been busy. I've had loads of supplies to send out and there are too many patients this time of year what with the weather."
Angelina nodded with understanding as Charlie came over to clap his hand over Neville's back.
"You hungry, mate? Angelina's been cocking about the kitchen all afternoon but there's still no food to be had."
"Sod off, Charlie," said Angelina moving to hang Neville's coat on one of their chairs.
The exchange was obviously one of affection between the two. Charlie rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Neville who was quite good at reading others' emotions wondered at his obvious good mood. Perhaps it was that they hadn't seen Charlie Weasley in good spirits since George's death and it was such a stark difference from what they had gotten used to.
"I could make you a cuppa," offered the red-haired man. "You probably need warming up, yeah?"
Neville accepted with a smile and watched as Angelina put on the pot and then join him at the rickety kitchen table. Neville's propensity for caring kicked in straight away.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good," replied the woman rubbing her belly absently. "The baby kicks so much I think his future is in football."
Charlie pulled out some cracked teacups and then laughed.
"There'll be no doubt that baby is George's," he announced.
Neville and Angelina could tell that Charlie's effort was to make the phrase sound casual but there was no mistaking the sadness in his voice. Wordlessly, Neville rummaged around the rucksack he had brought along with him, pulling out a small ream of parchment.
"It's research," he explained, sliding it along the table towards her. "On something new I'm working on for a prenatal potion of sorts."
Angelina's eyes sparkled as she offered Neville a smile.
"I'm lucky. I reckon I've got the best bloody Healer in all of Wales!"
Neville blushed, for in spite of receiving many accolades over the last few years he was still unsure of how to react to praise.
"It-it's nothing, really. Just a plant I was reading about that might help with muscle pain and…"
He faded away when Angelina began reading and looked up at Charlie who was pouring the tea.
"So…how is she?"
When the tea was ready, the tall red-haired man brought it all to the table.
"I wondered when we'd get around to all that."
Charlie scratched his head as he spoke quickly.
"We don't right know, actually. She's been here a week and hardly says a word. She eats and spends most of her time sleeping. Poor bird, I say."
Neville sipped the hot tea and winced as he burned his tongue. Charlie smirked.
"Watch out, mate. Tea's hot."
Ignoring the playful jab, Neville swallowed and spoke.
"She's been…I imagine she's been through much. It would make sense for her to sleep."
Angelina sighed.
"And eat. Her appetite is insatiable."
"That too," replied Neville thoughtfully.
Charlie had joined them at the table.
"What's got me is the fact that she won't tell us a thing!" he exclaimed with obvious irritation. "Blimey, she was my brother's wife for Merlin's sake! Being related should count for something, yeah?"
Angelina looked at Charlie patiently.
"Except that you've only met her one time, Charlie. Bill's wedding hardly counted, didn't it? I wasn't good friends with her either."
She glanced at Neville her eyes slightly pleading.
"You were her friend. Maybe she'll talk to you."
Neville had finished half his cup of tea which was rather impressive given the fact that it was scalding hot. He cleared his throat.
"When did she get here?"
"Last week," replied Charlie. "We knew. When Bernie drives that old lorry it only means supplies or refugees."
"And she's told you nothing?"
"Only that she had managed to escape London and had come from that horrid alienage run by that git Draco Malfoy."
Neville was silent thinking back to Ginny and what she had told him of the fiery night of her escape.
"If that's the case, she could have escaped with Ginny and the others. She could have been free ages ago. Why now?"
No one knew the answer to that but Neville wondered what it had to do with Malfoy.
Hermione opened her bleary eyes and stared at the wood and plaster ceiling above her head. A thin stream of light played along its surface from behind a thick curtain that someone had pulled against the window. She was used to the ceiling; she was used to the room, but every time she awoke, Hermione still found herself a bit disoriented and terrified that the Ministry had found her. It would take a few moments for her heart to stop racing. She slept a lot that first week of freedom and in spite of it feeling like it was a waste, her body had cried out for rest and she had found it in the warmth of a rickety camp bed and an old down comforter of Charlie's.
As she slept she was only half aware of her dreams.
Hermione had long ago gotten used to nightmares; they had plagued her from the moment of her escape after the battle of Hogwarts through the terrifying night of the flat raids and through all her months at the horrid alienage. The only reprieve from the clutches of horrific dreams had been those few moments she spent in the arms of a certain man with the Mark on his arm. She had stopped referring to him as a Death Eater. After all, titles meant nothing; the Ministry had made sure of that. The only thing that mattered was loyalty. Death Eater or not, if you did not fall in line with the Ministry's heartless beliefs you were no better than those they were prejudiced against.
Sometimes when Hermione first woke she would still feel the hard warmth of his flesh against hers, soft and calloused all at once. She would breathe in and the musk of his skin and the tiniest hint of mint and smoke would tickle her senses. She would recall the way his eyes would linger on hers just a bit too long, filling her with a growing heat and a pleasurable tension. Those moments in his bed were the happiest ones Hermione had. Perhaps the happiest she would ever be given.
What if he dies? What if I never see him again?
He had asked her to live. Once more Hermione tried to push his words out of her mind not wanting to be happy without him and hating herself for not doing what he wanted her to. How could she lie about him? How could she be happy?
Turning in the small bed, Hermione pulled the comforter over her head and cried silent tears as she often did in the mornings.
That first evening, Hermione had been too shocked by her newfound freedom and by seeing old classmates and Ron's brother to say much. Angelina and Charlie had been overly kind, plying her with tea and too much food, tending to the bruises and wounds upon her flesh, offering appropriate sympathies and soothing whispers.
She had been grateful even though it had been too hard in her fog of exhaustion and heartbreak to show it. The worst part hadn't been that Draco was not at her side.
Angelina…it had been too hard to see her pregnant!
Hermione covered her flat belly with one hand feeling an aching in her heart and a twinge of pain at the mere thought that if Draco had been a bit quicker, if she had been able to defend herself, if Marcus hadn't-
My baby!
Tears pooled in her eyes and slipped down her pale cheeks silently. She cried for Draco and for their great loss. She cried because she felt lost, frightened and confused even amidst friends and such luxuries as a warm bed and plenty of food.
How horrible I am!
Shame, too, colored her thoughts and dreams. For why should she have gotten a second chance when so many others had perished? Harry was dead! Tonks and Remus…Moody…Ron, Bill, George and Fred, Percy, Arthur and Molly! What about Justin? What about the countless other friends and acquaintances that she didn't know about? The list seemed endless. They had been innocent, good people, fighting in what they believed in and giving their lives for others.
And I'm doing nothing.
In spite of the guilt, Hermione found seclusion preferable to the barrage of questions from Charlie and the sympathy she didn't want from Angelina. They were asking too many bloody questions and Hermione had found herself feeling more and more tense, not wanting to divulge all that Draco had told her and how deeply she felt for him. And hiding underneath her comforter was the only place she could find to think and try to pull herself together. Hermione had decided that she'd face all the questions once she felt strong enough to do so.
But not yet...
Her belly gave a loud growl as if reminding her that even if she couldn't face questions that there were other, more basic things to live for. One of them was having food whenever she needed it. Though there was never an overabundance, Hermione hadn't seen such copious food since her time at the new Malfoy Manor. That food hadn't been hers for the taking and this time…she was able to have whatever she could eat.
Hermione stood and wrapped the comforter around her shoulders as she walked on wobbly legs towards the wooden door that led to the rest of the cottage. Beyond it she heard voices. Another twinge of pain ran through her as she listened to Angelina chattering on about her pregnancy and how the prenatal potions she was taking seemed to be helping her. There was a moment where Hermione felt she was going to be physically ill; she simply couldn't bear the pain of loss another second and leaned against the door to keep from crying. Tears on an empty stomach apparently caused nausea. Waiting for the aching, horrid feeling to pass, Hermione shut her eyes tightly and pressed her face against the cool, wooden door. She held back her bile as the room spun and then finally, she opened the door to the small sitting room and kitchen beyond.
Hermione stopped in her tracks.
Neville.
She had known that she would see him again but there was nothing that could describe the sudden emotion that unfurled within her, starting in the pit of her belly and slowly filling every inch of her so that she was suddenly filled with warmth.
"N-neville," she whispered as if in awe.
"Hermione," he replied standing.
It was like old times, really. Her jaw trembling, she spoke.
"I thought I'd n-never see you again."
His voice was hoarse.
"When I heard that Harry and Ron had-"
He took a step forward, reaching out towards her tentatively.
"You're limping."
"Just an old war injury," he joked, a smile lighting up his round face.
It made Hermione feel just a bit warmer to see such familiarity after years of coldness and disregard. His light brown eyes took her in for a few moments.
"You…you look thin, Hermione."
"Nothing Angelina's cooking won't fix," whispered Hermione, her face breaking out into a radiant smile.
They fell into each others arms then and Hermione found herself sobbing with joy. He was just a bit taller than she remembered, a bit heavier, but just as soft. Hugging Neville had always been like hugging a huge stuffed bear, just like the ones she had owned as a child. It was comforting and brought peace. He wasn't hard lined like all the other males she had known. Neville wasn't sinew and muscle as much as he was filled out and rounded. Nothing about him was hardened – from the softness of his fingertips, the embrace she found herself in, to the gentleness in his eyes and the huge heart that he possessed.
"God, I'm so glad to see you," she muttered against the fabric of his waistcoat which fit dangerously tight around his middle.
She felt his tightened embrace in response and her earlier fear and restlessness faded into the background.
It's as if my thoughts are Dementors and his touch is a Patronus.
Neville shifted slightly.
"You don't know the half of it."
It would have been impossible to express how he felt at seeing his old friend once more. They stood there like that for a few seconds until Charlie got up abruptly, pulling on Angelina's arm.
"Come on! Do you and Baby fancy a walk?" he suggested practically dragging the pregnant girl towards the door.
Hermione pulled away from Neville but missed the look between Angelina and Charlie just as they slipped through the front door. The silence that followed was tense even though Hermione didn't want it to be. She looked up at Neville as she lowered herself slowly into a chair, feeling suddenly dizzy by the gamut of emotions assaulting her.
He looked the same and yet different. His eyes held a familiarity as did the crooked smile that played upon his mouth. It was the small things that had changed, Hermione realized. The innocence was gone from his soft, rounded features; his eyes were strangely knowing, touched with pain, regret and the signs of a man who had seen too much. There were tiny lines around his mouth and brushed near his eyes, giving him the appearance of perpetual weariness. The biggest change, however, was the prominent limp that slowed his gait. It was hard not to notice and Hermione could immediately see that it caused him some pain.
Still, he was the same Neville Hermione remembered; he was the boy she had tucked into the box of happy memories so long ago shut away and left untouched.
As she watched him, Hermione couldn't help but speak.
"Neville, how did you…get hurt?" she asked in a low voice.
Neville remained standing as he spoke, unable to look at her.
"Battles," he replied. "There were so many of them I can't even quite remember when this happened. It was a curse, I reckon. Can't quite remember what kind, that."
He shifted a bit, wincing. It saddened Hermione to realize that Neville was just another victim of the Ministry and its cruelty. She reached over to touch his hand for a quick moment, needing the contact.
"Does it hurt much?"
"I manage."
Hermione could feel Neville's affirmation of what she already knew – he hurt badly and simply would not say so. For a moment the strange, tense silence filled the void between them and then Neville began to speak softly once more.
"Hermione, they're worried for you," he began with slight hesitation. "They were hoping…that you'll talk to me."
Hermione sensed hopefulness in his tone and bit her lip before speaking.
"I'm fine Neville. It's nothing a few more days of rest and a meal or two more won't cure, I'm certain."
The man on the other side of the wooden table didn't look convinced, however. He hadn't sat down and instead of doing so, began to rummage around a small rucksack that sat at his feet.
"You'll let me examine you then?"
"Whatever will ease their worry," replied Hermione with a bit more than slight annoyance. She wanted time to gather her thoughts and formulate answers to Charlie's questions. She didn't want barraged by people who were concerned and curious about her.
Turning away from Neville, Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line to keep from speaking her irritation. Neville's touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined her eyes and ears, speaking little and working diligently. She couldn't help but be taken in by his attention to detail and the caring with which he did his work. She realized how truly dedicated he was to the craft he had chosen.
"I heard you have a hospital?"
The question was one of curiosity, for Hermione wondered what she would do next and if what Draco had said would be true. Did Neville need help at the hospital? Would she finally have a real job, after all these years?
He straightened and rummaged once more in the rucksack, pulling out several small vials, some empty and some filled with liquids.
"I do. In Cardiff, actually. I opened it several years ago as a way to help the Alliance. And of course, I'm quite good at…"
He faded away, blushing. Hermione offered up a smile.
"You always were modest," she said with affection. "I've heard good things about your Clinic and you should be nothing but proud of your accomplishments, Neville."
He looked sad for a moment and Hermione was surprised to see a look of guilt cross is features.
"I'm blessed," he muttered. "While everyone was off fighting against the Death Eater Ministry I spent most of my time finishing my schooling and opening that Clinic. I feel…"
But Neville wasn't able to share with her how worthless and guilty he truly felt. Hermione got to her feet slowly, the dizziness coming and then fading. She touched his arm.
"Neville, you've done just as much as any of them! It doesn't matter that you aren't there right now! You're doing your part; everyone does their part somehow."
She thought of Draco; she thought of the Resistance.
Still pink, Neville handed her one of the small phials.
"It's a mixture of Pepperup potion and chamomile," he explained when she hesitated.
Neville wondered at the fearful look on her face and could only deduce that Hermione would forever be uncertain even of those who meant her no ill. He watched as she slowly took the phial.
"It'll make you feel calmer, I promise. I've been working on that one awhile," he continued with a hint of pride. "That and I have this ginger and mandrake root tea…"
Seemingly satisfied that the liquid was what he said it was, Hermione took it in two swallows, wincing at the slight burning sensation that filled her suddenly.
"Seems like you've been working on a whole lot."
He had stepped closer to continue his examination and Hermione's eyes followed his movements. He smelled medicinal – of mint and herbs. Up close she could see that he, like her, was scarred. His fingers, however calloused, offered her comfort.
"What happened to you?" he asked after a moment and Hermione knew he meant the scars that were liberally lashed against her flesh.
"The alienages," she whispered with a shudder. It was hard to put into words what Pansy Parkinson had made her feel. Even after the escape from London and the other woman's part in it, Hermione felt bitterness fill her at the thought of that hot afternoon in the courtyard. Somehow she was able to speak of it, however small and vague her explanation was.
There were several needles in his rucksack and Neville used these for standard blood work that she would have done at a normal clinic. That was, if her life had ever been normal. After he was finished capping the various samples, Neville sat down.
"Hermione, I know you hate these questions," he began gently.
The girl shuddered once more, turning he pale face so that there would be no possibility of meeting her wounded gaze. Neville wanted to pry but he knew it would do no good. In the end, he offered silence, standing and walking slowly towards the tea kettle hoping she would speak when she was ready.
In spite of the awkwardness between them, something inside of Neville was changed at seeing Hermione again.
Charlie and Angelina were gone most of that day and Neville apparated back to his clinic with Hermione's exam results promising he would be back before supper.
Hermione, unnerved by being alone in the cottage, did little but pace back and forth on the worn, wooden floor. Each creak of the floorboards, every crackle of the fire and every time the wind picked up furiously Hermione would jump and her heart would pound viciously inside her chest. She told herself that no one was going to hurt her now that she was free, but again she was reminded how long it would take her mind to truly understand such a thing. The pale sun set along the winter sky casting swathing shadows along the endless horizon. The sky changed slowly, turning a deep, dark navy, but there were no stars that night.
Neville returned first, and she hurried to open the door for him because she preferred company. The first thing she noticed was the startled, perturbed look on his face.
"Is everything all right?" she asked with hesitation, her voice quavering for a moment.
Please, don't let it be bad news! Please, let everything be just fine!
Hermione didn't realize she had been holding her breath until her chest tightened uncomfortably. She let out the breath and hurried to follow Neville to the kitchen. In a most frustrating fashion, he said nothing, although she could almost hear the questions in his mind.
"Neville-"
He had turned to look at her closely, his expression shadowed and only visible by the warm firelight.
"Hermione, there's something-"
He hesitated, shaking his head and Hermione watched him swallow back words as his expression now grew pained. Her fingers tightened on the counter near where she had set a pot of stew to boil for a late supper.
"Look, if there's something I need to know, you best tell me now."
Her eyes brightened with unshed tears.
"I'm used to pain now, Neville. You don't need to worry about how you tell me."
Her voice was dead. Neville took a shaky breath.
"Did they…when you were at the alienage, what…things did they do to you?"
Hermione's head shot up as she stared at her old friend. It was a strange question; she hadn't expected it.
"I…"
Turning away, she set her jaw painfully.
"I won't talk about it," came her harried whisper. "I can't."
She felt his presence looming behind her but his voice was soft.
"I know they beat you. I can tell by the bruises and scars. We all have them. I know they tore apart your emotions and self-esteem. I know they…"
Hermione's breath had caught and her body tensed.
"Did they rape you?"
Neville's voice was uncertain, riddled with disgust and loathing. Hermione whirled, tears springing to her eyes.
"I-"
No would have been the simple, honest answer, but Hermione knew that her feelings were much more complicated and it was that which made her hesitate.
She thought with horror about Rookwood and Macnair. About the other Muggle-born girls who had met a worse fate than she. About all the women who had sold their bodies and lives to survive. She thought of Lavender's sad eyes and the night she had come to the alienage, still fighting against the Ministry but at the same time, having given up hope long before.
Hermione thought of Marcus Flint and Fenrir Greyback; she wasn't able to get the expressions of gleeful hunger and the smell of depravity out of her mind.
No, she hadn't been raped but still, she felt violated and destroyed. She felt torn apart.
Neville could see a flurry of emotions play across Hermione's pale, terrified face. He knew from her body language that there would be things she would never tell him, horrors that he would never have to endure. He hated the Ministry more with each passing second and cursed them for hurting someone as lovely as Hermione.
How could they have hurt her so? How could she have faced and survived such atrocities? How could any human being treat another with such disregard? And now…
A deep sadness filled him and the words were nearly impossible to speak.
"Hermione, you're pregnant," he whispered. "I can't…imagine…"
Her face turned white and as a strange gasp escaped her as she clapped her hand across her mouth. Her sudden cry was muffled and Neville reached out.
"Hermione, listen to me-"
She pushed against his hand vehemently, tears streaming down her bloodless face and then she turned and fled. The sound of her weeping and the look of shock and sheer disbelief would be indelibly imprinted on Neville's mind from that moment onward.
He was only bitterly disappointed that he could not help her. No one could.
