Author's Note: Trigger warning for self harm, mental illness, medication, and trauma.

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Til next time :)


CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Destruction of Aldeford

Her room is cold when she enters, having left Hermione and Ron to finish their lunches in the pub downstairs.

She sits on her bed and stares blankly out the window. Orange leaves sway in the wind outside, brushing the glass with every wave. There is a question plaguing the youngest Weasley, but she doesn't know how to answer it.

Of course she recognised Harry. She had studied every inch of him during the time they were together. Hermione and Ron may have been fooled, but they didn't know him like she did. How intimately she knew him inside and out.

Why couldn't she say anything? It was as if in that moment, she was encased in steel, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but simply be. She was Neville's most loyal soldier, a dedicated auror working for the Order – and yet she let the traitor slip right out of her hands without a second thought.

"You idiot!" Ginny growls through grit teeth, slamming a fist into the side of her head. "You utter moron! You fucking weakling!"

She jumps to her feet, breath coming shallow and fast, and she paces her tiny room with the restlessness of one in captivity. She is still weak. Her heart still uncertain. She always criticised others whenever they revealed such uncertainty – and look at her now! What a hypocrite.

Wave after wave of utter self-loathing churns within her, acidic and all consuming. She brandishes her wand and grips it so tight, her fingers turn numb. Hazel eyes blaze with the heat of her hate. Steel capped boots come to a stop. "It's yours to fix, Weasley," she mutters, teeth bared in a vicious, mirthless grin. "No more fuck ups. No more!"


"Heya Midge," Jobe sings as she throws open the door, "do I have a song for you!"

Margaret Aldeford barely stirs in her wheelchair, parked in front of the window. Her nurse, a kindly, broad-faced fellow with a wonderful smile, chuckles when he sees Jobe enter. "Oh, Margaret! Look who's here to see you again?"

The old lady, once sharp and intelligent, can only mumble incoherently and drool onto her dressing grown. While disturbing, Jobe learned it was due to her medication. Apparently high doses of anti-psychotics can make a patient produce too much saliva, thus making them drool uncontrollably.

Part of it, Jobe suspects, has to do with Harry leaving and her snake of a son taking advantage of her. Anyone would become depressed after everything Margaret had been through recently.

"You're looking cute as always, Midge. Did Josef help you with your makeup gain?" Jobe drops into the rocking chair beside Margaret, guitar in lap. She flashes the nurse a grin and he chuckles in turn.

"Unfortunately," Josef says, scratching the side of his head. "I've been learning from YouTube videos, so I'm not really good yet. I think I'm getting the hang of contouring though – what do you think?" He waves to Margaret's made up face and while it's admittedly sloppy, the care is evident.

Jobe whistles and nods her approval. She throws up two thumbs. "Great work, Jojo. You got Midge looking like a movie star."

Margaret turns her gaze slowly from the window, as if disturbed by the sudden racket. Watery greys as dark as storm clouds stare blankly at her jovial visitor. Jobe waves and offers the old lady a warm smile.

"How are you doing, Jobe? It got a bit cold last night, didn't it?" Josef gives the musician a worried look as he continues making up his patient's bed.

"It's alright. I'm used to it." The woman waves away Josef's concern and picks out a calming tune on her guitar. Five strings is a bitch, but she can make do for the moment. "I wouldn't mind some pudding though. Got any left?"

The nurse hums amusedly and folds the last sheet neatly on the bed. He straightens up and brushes off his hands. "I'll see what I can do," he says with a wink.

"Thanks, you're a sweetheart." Jobe glances to Margaret, brows creasing a tad.

"She'll be fine," Josef says, catching that worried look. "While I know it might appear to be overkill with the meds, I can assure you, it's only to help her."

"They know what's wrong with her yet?" Jobe asks, leaning over to readjust the old lady's gown.

Josef sighs and shakes his head, clean bedpan in hand. "Her doctor reckons it's something to do with sudden trauma. But it's strange...she displays symptoms and behaviours similar to brain trauma patients – but her scans came back clean." He places the bedpan underneath the bed. "I've personally seen nothing like it myself. I know Margaret. I know how sharp she was. Dunno what could have caused this, really."

Jobe frowns and continues playing her guitar. "Reckon it has something to do with what's been happening?"

"Hm?" The nurse straightens up, arms akimbo. "Oh, you mean that weird disease that killed all those people?"

Jobe nods, peering up at Josef with a serious expression so unlike the otherwise buoyant woman.

The nurse sighs and shrugs. "Anything's possible at this point. There's something strange in the air, Jobe. And I don't think it's anything good."

There's a long pause as they both ruminate over his words. Josef is the first to break the silence with a smile and a clap. "Well, I better go get you that pudding! I'll see if there are any sandwiches left as well."

With a grim smile, Jobe watches the nurse hurry out of the room. She turns her attention to Margaret, who is openly staring at her guitar. There's a slight bob of her head with every beat. Jobe's face brightens when she notices this development and she plays a bit louder. "Like that, do you? My grandpa taught me this song. It's called Sweet Whiskey of Mine-"

"Jobe?"

Her fingers slip and strikes the wrong chord. Margaret lets out a slight wail, so jarring is the sound. Breath catching in her throat, Jobe turns to see a young woman and an older man standing in the doorway. They are dressed quite well, exuding wealth and luxury. A lord and lady, perhaps.

It takes a moment for her brain to catch up to her eyes.

"Tom?" she creaks, eyes widening twofold. She numbly stands and rests her guitar against the rocking chair. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Harry stumbles back, blinking rapidly. He barely registers Draco's hands steadying him from behind. Jobe is here. She's standing right in front of him, looking incredibly pissed off.

And Margaret-

He stares, falling still and silent. Margaret...Mrs. Aldeford...she is sitting hunched in a wheelchair, looking so incredibly small and frail. Eyes glazed and unfocused, drool dripping from her chin. She's nothing like the Margaret Aldeford he knows. Strong, large, and indestructible.

A burning fist grips his chest, sears him from within. An agonising throb starts at the base of his throat, getting larger and more painful with each passing second. He shuffles towards her, hands reaching out for her. Knees knock painfully against one of the wheels, bringing him to a stop. He stares down at her, not able to bring himself to say anything.

But Jobe says it all. "Don't pretend to care now," she spits, all venom. She comes to stand beside the old lady, grasping those thin shoulders protectively. Her coffee eyes flash with barely constrained rage. "Why did you come back? I thought you were long gone by now."

Every word strikes like a stab from a knife, but he doesn't bother defending himself because he knows she's right. He brushes hair from Margaret's face, tucking the white locks carefully behind her ear. Unfocused silvers rise to his dewy emeralds. A wrinkled hand rises to prod at his cheek and tug at his long, curly locks. Her skin is ice cold and soft.

"They found her like this not long after you ditched her. Lying in her own shit and piss." Jobe's expression darkens, turns thunderous. "She was calling for you, you know. But you came too late."

Harry pulls back, head bowed to his chest. Ebony locks fall over his face, hiding his expression. "What happened to her," he rasps, hardly a question.

"No-one knows," Jobe says, coldly. "There were witnesses who claim that a group of people came to visit Midge-Mrs. Aldeford the night you left."

Harry clenches his fists, nails drawing blood from his palms. "Locals?"

"No." Jobe narrows her eyes at Harry, studying his reaction. "You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on, Tom?"

Harry raises his eyes to his old friend's. Confusion, hurt, and anger tugs at her tired face. "It's a long story."

"I've got time," she snaps, patience all but gone.

Harry feels Draco shifting behind him uneasily. He offers the Death Eater a reassuring nod. The man seems unconvinced, but closes the door nonetheless.

"Then I suppose I should tell you what my real name is," Harry begins.


Hermione watches Ron silently with a suspicious eye. He excused himself from the table momentarily to speak with another auror – Keaton, she thinks his name is. An unsavoury type with a mean sneer whenever he looks at her. He's the kind of man who like to undress women with his eyes – an absolute creep and a pathetic excuse for an auror.

So why would Ron be so well acquainted with such a man?

They speak as if they are old friends, so engaged are they in their discussion. By the way they are furiously gesturing and how serious their expressions are, Hermione can assume they are planning something.

She sighs and downs the rest of her white wine. While they are still technically together, they have grown so far apart over the past few weeks. Ron always seems to be away on some business or another, and Hermione is much too preoccupied with dealing with both her role as an Order member and her work at Hogwarts as the Transfiguration professor.

She can't even remember the last time they were intimate. Frustrations surmounting, Hermione slams her glass down and leans on her elbows, fingers digging into her temples.

"Alright, Hermione?" Charlie says as he sits down in Ron's seat. He sets down a plate of chips and a burger before digging right in.

"Just fine," the brunette says, absently stealing chips from her friend's plate.

"Huh. Little brother of mine's up to no good again?" Charlie comments, following her gaze. He shrugs and stuffs two chips into his mouth. "I'd leave it if I were you. Ron's been nothing but an utter prick lately. Who knows what he's thinking."

"Should I be worried, Charlie?" Hermione asks, nibbling on her stolen goods. "He wouldn't be caught dead speaking to Keaton a month ago...and now look at them!"

"Practically kissing, yeah. I've noticed." Charlie snorts and shakes his head. "Knowing Ron, it's probably something tremendously stupid. But he's stubborn as hell. Nothing we can do or say will make him change his mind."

The witch frowns at Charlie. "What if Molly and Arth-"

"My parents are tired, Hermione. They're struggling to keep their heads above water right now. You know ever since..." He mirrors her frown and averts his gaze. "Well, point is, adding to their problems isn't gonna solve anything."

Hermione sighs again, feeling a tension head ache start in her temples. "I suppose I'll have to deal with it. Whatever it is."

"You know I'm here to help, Hermione." Charlie gives her a fleeting smile as he picks up his burger. "Any luck today on your end?"

The brunette shakes her head, wiping her mouth on a napkin. "A whole month of nothing."

"I hear that," the older Weasley agrees through a mouthful of burger.

"Kingsley's sending us to investigate a sighting down at Godric's Hollow tonight. Will you be coming with us?"

"Yep. Got the letter this morning." Charlie tosses a chip into his mouth and glances about. "Where's Ginny?"

Hermione grimaces. "She didn't want lunch. Charlie," she leans forward, worry creasing her brow. "It will be alright, won't it? Everyone will come out of this okay, won't they?"

The man pauses, chewing thoughtfully. He swallows and gives the witch a kind smile. "I'm sure it's all gonna be fine, Hermione."

She leans back, unconvinced. Her eyes flit to Ron and Keaton, sitting in the shadows of the tavern. "It brings out the worst in us, doesn't it?" she mumbles to herself.

Oblivious, Charlie chomps down on his burger. He decides then and there that this is the best burger he has ever tasted. It's the small joys, he thinks, that makes this war bearable.