Chapter Thirty-Two
"Hello! Someone? There's need of a healer here!" Hermione called, trying hard to sound worried and clueless—worried she had covered, but clueless was only a new feeling for her, and one with which she was not yet comfortable enough to believe she was faking well.
Thorfinn-as-Draco had sneaked out ahead of her, as the presence of a Malfoy with the plan they'd had to hatch once they'd discovered that Helena's new 'condition' seemed more the permanent sort of problem had the potential of seeming rather suspicious. Hermione paced before the currently-unmanned front desk, chewing at her lower lip and twisting her clasped fingers, both well-known nervous gestures to convey her any anxiousness her voice might fail to portray adequately enough.
That, and she was certain simply being a wreck over whether or not this would work at all probably pushed her performance into a far more believable range.
The Medi-witch who'd greeted them earlier came bustling around a corner. "What is it, what's the matter?" she asked in an urgent whisper, clearly concerned the young woman's shouting might disturb some of the patients.
Hermione focused on the sensation of her knuckles turning this way and that to distract herself from her bald-faced lying, keeping a mildly frenzied tone in her voice. "I'm sorry," she immediately responded in a similarly alarmed murmur. "I was coming back 'round, got a little turned about, I think, and well . . . . There's a girl back there sitting up in bed, asking what's wrong with her father, who—from the looks of it—seems to be in some sort of coma on the bed beside hers."
The Medi-witch blinked rapidly a few times before her eyes shot wide. She abruptly turned away from Hermione and raced around the bend. Hermione made use of the other woman's surprised state to follow along behind her, pretending to be acting out of shock, herself.
Helena was playing her role to perfection, the dark eyes of the girl she'd accidentally inhabited—perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, and Hermione tried not to think how odd it would be to have her older sister suddenly being the younger sibling—were enormous as they snapped up from the form of the unconscious man in the next bed. Locking her attention on the Medi-witch, she asked, the words coming out rough and wispy for how long her vocal cords had gone unused, "Why am I here? What's happened? Why won't Father wake up?!"
Behind the healer, Hermione covered her mouth with her hand. She couldn't watch her sister put on this rubbish act without an inadvertent smile curving her lips—so many times Helena had pulled a similar ploy for attention when they'd been children.
"Miss Wickersham? Elise? Please, calm down, dear." The Medi-witch hurried to examine the girl as she explained about the wandwork backfire noted in the father's medical scroll. "You don't remember anything at all about your accident, then?"
Hermione's shoulders slumped. Her accident? Oh, no. The girl's father had probably been instructing her—likely attempting to supplement the spotty and odd education the last year of a Hogwarts infested with Death Eaters had provided—and the incident that had landed them both here had been a result of a perfectly innocent miscalculation on her part.
That the girl's dire mistake had permitted Hermione's sister physical form did not detract from the tragedy of the whole thing.
"I'm sorry, but I don't." Helena made a great show of looking about frantically. "Will he wake?"
Stepping back from her wand reading, the Medi-witch tried for a calming expression, but she simply appeared sad, an unmistakable air of pity about her for the girl's circumstances. "I'm so sorry my dear, but I'm afraid that doesn't seem likely." She forced a smile as she continued, "But then we didn't expect you'd wake, either, so there's always hope!"
Hermione felt herself sink a bit lower, still. Though the healer was doing her level-best to sound positive, she knew it wasn't that simple. The woman didn't have hope, she was still in shock the girl had woken, and was only saying what she thought her patient wanted—needed—to hear.
Managing to appear beside herself in a mix of anxiety and emotional anguish, Helena begged, "I don't want to stay here! Can . . . can I go home? Please?"
Now it was the Medi-witch who slumped where she stood. "We will need to keep you overnight at least—possibly even a few more days—for observation, some more in-depth exams, to ensure there's no lasting negative impact from your prolonged incapacitation, but . . . . Well, I'm sorry, again, but according to your Ministry records, you've no other family besides your father. Given your age, unless there is anyone who can act as a guardian or supervisor, willing to take responsibility for your care—"
"But there is!"
Hermione winced at how uncharacteristically chipper the girl probably sounded for someone who'd just woken from six months in a vegetative state to find her only family member in a similar medical condition.
The Medi-witch didn't appear to notice. Perhaps that was understandable, given that she likely imagined anyone who didn't absolutely have to be in the Janus Thickey ward would not want to stay there longer than strictly necessary. Hermione was inclined to agree.
"Who might that be, my dear? We'll contact them straight away to see if arrangements can be made."
"Narcissa Malfoy. She—she'd been a friend of my mother before her passing."
Holding in a sigh, Hermione rolled her eyes. Ravenclaws. Obviously it had been simple to deduce the girl's mother was dead, since her father was listed as her only living relative, but it felt as though so much was happening so quickly that even Hermione was a bit surprised at how easily her clever sister was rolling with the punches.
"Malfoy?" the Medi-witch echoed, causing Hermione a moment's panic, but then the woman, clearly aware of their silent spectator all the while but too involved with her patient to shoo the younger witch away, turned to face her. "Yes, I don't suppose she would know what happened to the Wickershams, what with all the confusion during the War. Where's the Malfoy who was with you? Narcissa's son, wasn't it?"
"Went home shortly after we got here," she answered with a shrug, keeping her eyes wide to convey her own continued shock at this wildly unexpected turn of events. "I don't think he was very comfortable after about the twentieth autograph Mr. Lockhart forced on him."
The healer sighed, nodding. "Dash it all. I'll see Mrs. Malfoy is contacted immediately. I may not like it," she confided to Hermione in a whisper, clearly more than aware who she was to the Wizarding community at large, "but I can't blame the girl for wanting to leave. Wait. You're familiar with Malfoy family. Oh, you'd certainly be faster than an owl. Will you go and inform Mrs. Malfoy that her presence is urgently requested?"
Hermione refrained from giving into her sore temptation to glance over the Medi-witch's shoulder and catching her sister's gaze. "Of course, I'll go immediately." She nodded, offering what she hoped was a supportive, if uncertain, smile.
Helena complained of hunger pangs, promptly distracting the elder witch. Hermione took the opportunity to hurry out of St. Mungo's.
Apparating as soon as she was able, Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin to find Thorfinn—whose most recent dose of Polyjuice potion had worn off by now so he was looking quite like himself, again—waiting for her outside the gates of Malfoy Manor. Under better circumstances, he'd have had a good chuckle over accidentally startling her, but just now he only looked . . . well, like a man who didn't know what to think.
"So?" he prompted.
Hermione shrugged. "It worked. Why didn't you go inside and tell them what was happening?"
He did laugh this time, a short bark loaded with disbelief. "Oh, and face their reactions to this mess alone? You must be a mad woman."
Her shoulders slumping, she let out a notably pathetic groan. She turned her attention to the grand house awaiting them.
Thorfinn looped a supportive arm around her shoulder. "C'mon, let's get this over with," he said in a forced jovial tone as he started walking with her through the gates.
Every parent currently under the roof of Malfoy Manor gaped at Hermione, silent for several painfully stretched heartbeats, after she explained what had gone on at the hospital. She hated feeling like she was throwing Minerva under the bus, given that the woman wasn't even present, but there was simply no way to discuss the matter without including how she'd come upon the idea in the first place.
Draco lingered in the parlor's arched entryway far behind her and Thorfinn, not wanting to be part of either side.
Salazar stood, crossing the floor to stand before his daughter, the sleepy baby basilisk curled 'round his neck. "You two did this for me?"
Thorfinn's brows shot up. He raised a finger in the air, opening his mouth to protest his involvement, but the Founder shot him a look. "Not you, I meant my daughters."
Even with the gravity of the situation, it warmed Hermione's heart that Salazar considered Helena his daughter. Helena had already made it clear—at least to Hermione—she considered him her father, so as unusual and tragic as these circumstances were, the whole thing was also felt strangely perfect.
"Just to clarify, we didn't really set out to 'do' anything, this all just sort of . . . happened."
"In—in a way, I suppose this is good. Isn't it?" Narcissa offered, rising from her place beside Lucius on the sofa. "If I claim temporary guardianship of the girl, we can monitor Helena's wellbeing. We can make use of our own examinations, determine if she is indeed, well, free to remain in Elise Wickersham's body. And, since the source of the malady is the same, it is likely whatever we discover about the daughter's condition will give us indicators of what to expect of the father."
Finally, some practicality about the idea of her sister's ghost possessing a living person who was simply . . . not there, anymore. Good. Hermione hoped.
Lucius rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. "Another guest. Wonderful," he said in a hushed but agonized voice, skillfully ignoring the glare his wife cut him just then.
The Grangers remained silent for their part. As the only Muggles in the room, Hermione imagined that even given what they knew of magic and the Wizarding world—which was still, troublingly, so much more than she'd ever expected—they were struggling to digest what they'd just heard.
"I suppose I'll be on my way, then." Narcissa nodded. "Wouldn't want to keep St. Mungo's waiting. The sooner this is handled, the sooner your sister can be out of there."
Hermione returned her nod, grateful. It would be a few days regardless, but yes, the sooner the better.
The blonde witch didn't wait for word from her son or husband, pivoting on her heel—with a dramatic flair, no less—and striding elegantly from the parlor. There was no mistaking the way every gaze in the room landed on Lucius in her absence.
Puffing out his cheeks, he exhaled as he looked about, his eyes meeting theirs in turn. "Oh, all right," he huffed, pushing up to stand and sulking along—also in a dramatic, yet elegant manner—behind her.
"I'll just stay here, then, shall I?" Draco called after his parents, his voice drifting over his shoulder in a barely audible whisper, grateful at the moment to have been overlooked.
Hermione could tell from her father's sudden and uncharacteristic fidgeting that he wanted to go with them. Wanted to be there for Helena, yet understood why he could not accompany them due to his current residence within the body of a wanted Death Eater.
She suddenly felt a little bad. Turning her attention on the Grangers, she simply watched them whispering between themselves for a moment. Possessions and Polyjuice and people erupting from thousand-year sleep spells . . . . It was a wonder any of them were keeping up with everything, let alone people not actually part of the Wizarding world, aside from specific and small key roles they'd played.
Closing her eyes, she exhaled a quite sigh. Even with her considerations of the time she needed to settle her own emotions before dealing with the Grangers, maybe she was being too hard on them. Maybe she had been too harsh in shutting them out without hearing what all of this had been like for them. They had raised her, loved her, protected her as their own, after all. She at least owed them this much.
"Okay," she said, opening her eyes and fixing her attention on her adoptive parents, once more. "Okay, let's go into the gardens and talk. The three of us. It's a lovely day, after all." She tried for a smile and, to her surprise, found she could muster up a genuine, if small, one for them.
Draco, Thorfinn, and Salazar watched the other three occupants of the parlor drift from the room, Dahlia and William Granger wearing visibly grateful and pleased expressions as they followed the witch.
Turning to face the last two still standing about, Draco asked, "So, who gets to go tell Professor McGonagall what her brilliant plan just brought about?"
Salazar's features pinched, his lips pursed as he darted his gaze around the room before returning his attention to the pale-haired slip of a wizard before him. He didn't know Minerva McGonagall from Circe, but he had heard tell of her from, well, everyone else in the manor, and he was not fond of the idea of upsetting her, which made him immeasurably pleased with his current situation. "I can hardly go," he said, waving his hand in circle in front of his borrowed, very recognizable, face.
Thorfinn didn't wait for Draco to look at him, answering with a shrug. "I can only go wearing your face, and honestly, the Polyjuice potion is starting to murder my taste buds."
Draco threw his head back—clearly not to be outdone by the dramatics of his parents—and let out a groan that was a sound of pure and utter irritation. Straightening, his shoulders drooped and he shook his head.
"Fine," he said, the words slipping out from between clenched teeth. "But if that woman murders me, I'm coming back to haunt both of you."
Thorfinn and Salazar watched the young man troop from the parlor, his unhappy storming footfalls echoing back to them as he crossed the main floor of the manor.
Left alone with his probable-future father-in-law, Thorfinn sucked his teeth, rocking back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his robes as he looked about. Hermione hadn't elaborated on why they were at St. Mungo's to begin with, simply brushing it off as 'not feeling well,' but he thought that perhaps from the way he'd kept his gaze trained on the floor, deliberately ignoring everyone in the room as she'd said it, her father had guessed what their true concern had been.
"So . . . ." He finally lifted his gaze to the other man's, still unsettled by the odd mingling of Salazar Slytherin's green irises overlapping the darker eyes of Antonin Dolohov. "Drink?"
Salazar showed a notably un-Salazar-Slytherin-like lapse in his typically regal demeanor—and perhaps a little that his time around modern Muggles had been rubbing off on him—slumping a bit in relief where he stood, as he answered, "Dear God, yes!"
