CONTENT WARNING: Nothing about this story is suitable for younger audiences or those with a sensitivity to brutality. It is rated M for a reason. This story deals head on with graphic and gruesome themes. If detailed violence of any kind, explicit language, or sexual content (both consensual and otherwise) offends you, you may want to consider reading one of the other 827,000+ Harry Potter fanfictions located within this website. For those that enjoy this story but can't stomach the violence, I've marked the beginning and end of the more disturbing/violent content with three asterisks (***). You could skip them, but you do run the risk of missing crucial points of the plot. Please read at your own risk and discretion.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing from this universe. J. K. Rowling owns everything except for my twisted plots.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have to say, this chapter is far too long. The first chapter was mainly designed to scare off the squeamish. This chapter is mostly all exposition with its fair share of gore and angst, of course. Without further ado, read on my little vultures. (Before you get all unnecessarily offended by the title, Google claims that, "Along with death, vultures can also represent transformation and renewal." A very fitting description for this story as well, as you'll eventually find out.)
Chapter 2: Silence Amidst the Bustle
"Stop!" cried Umbridge from close behind Harry. His arms tightened around Hermione's limp body as he clutched her closer into his chest. He obeyed the command, his body swivelling to face his tormentor. Umbridge's eyes were filled with fright, her wrist shook with trepidation as she pointed it towards his chest. He was levitating a meter off the ground, a strange, white aura surrounding his shrunken, skeletal form while his emerald eyes radiated the extent of his loathing in her direction. Practically feral after three months of torture and desolation, his lips curled up over the white teeth stained red with blood.
"Put Miss Granger down. Now."
Harry snarled at her, a bubble of savagery rising in his throat. The Entrance Hall of the castle he once considered his home began to tremble, dust and pebbles raining down from the tall ceiling. Umbridge's hand faltered at the sudden change in atmosphere, her wand falling several centimetres as her eyes surveyed the crumbling room. The Slytherins surrounding her stepped backward slowly; Malfoy retreated behind the burly shoulders of Crabbe and Goyle who also appeared alarmed, wands drawn through their confusion. But Umbridge stayed steadfast, her wand pointing at Harry even through her disconcertion.
"I won't ask you again, Mr. Potter," Umbridge barked even as her voice shook, "Put her down!"
An ungodly crack erupted in the air as great fissures appeared in the stone bricks supporting the structure of the hall. Harry's body was vibrating with an unknown energy; Hermione was beginning to stir in his arms.
"Harry?"
Bright, green eyes shot open from beneath two tired, darkened lids. Harry Potter lurched forward in his gurney, a massive fracture appearing in the wall across from him, sawdust and chunks of wood littering the room during its rupture. His breath was ragged as he stared at the hole in the wall, realizing with a slight bit of panic that he had inflicted it without intending to for the second time that month.
"Alright, Harry?" Professor Dumbledore was resting in the chair beside his bed as he gave his long wand a wave, repairing the damage Harry had caused without a bat of his eye.
Of course, Harry didn't respond, gazing instead at the now seamless wall across from him, standing perfect as if it had never been damaged in the first place. What's happening to me? Harry thought to himself, rubbing the back of his neck unconsciously.
"I've got…some news," Dumbledore went on, ignoring Harry's determination to remain silent. Harry's interest was piqued, but he continued to stare ahead of himself blankly.
"You'll be leaving the hospital next Monday."
At this, Harry's eyes flickered towards the old man beside his bed, features contorted with curiosity.
"I'm sending you back to the Dursley's."
Harry flinched, turning his head away.
"Please, Harry." A tortured darkness settled into Professor Dumbledore's expression. "The world is in turmoil. Voldemort is at large, with his fingers deeply set into the Ministry. The Minister for Magic has been murdered. Death Eaters are crawling all over Britain in search of you. The wards on your family's home are strong. There is no better place to keep you safe. I will speak to them personally and keep a close eye on you this summer. I promise."
Harry returned his gaze to Dumbledore, several expressions battling across his face. He dreaded the idea of living with the Dursleys, but one thought kept revolving in his mind, overshadowing the first. Fudge is dead? His mind dissected this question, initially confused before growing concerned. It could only mean one thing; Voldemort didn't need Fudge anymore. Dumbledore was right on target that day in interpreting Harry's facial expressions, retrieving a newspaper from the pocket of his violet robes. The old man's ease in reading Harry's mind unnerved the boy as he accepted the paper with a fair amount of trepidation.
"MINISTER FOR MAGIC DEAD. YOU-KNOW-WHO TO BLAME," read the outdated headline from the 25th of June, the day after Harry escaped the dungeon. Beneath the headline, a large, wrinkled photograph of Cornelius Fudge gazed serenely into the camera lens, moving only to blink or to adjust his bowler hat. Harry scanned the text below, the information therein lending weight to his concerns.
It read, "It has been a tragic day as the news of the Minister for Magic's murder spreads throughout the British Isles. Last night, Cornelius Fudge was murdered allegedly by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Several Ministry officials reported to have seen the Dark Lord inside the Ministry of Magic, standing over the Minister's body. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports and former beater for the Wimbourne Wasps, retells his eye-witness account of what happened exclusively for the Daily Prophet. Continued on page 6."
Harry flipped through the pages with fumbling fingers, overcome by a macabre eagerness to read the rest of the story.
"The world's worst fear has been realized when the Minister for Magic was found murdered with You-Know-Who spotted at the scene of the crime. "I saw him! Right there!" said Bagman, as he pointed to the floor near the lifts. He was standing in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, the room filled with aurors as they investigated the scene of the crime. Bagman went on, "You-Know-Who was just standing there, right out in the open! He looked…unusual, too. No nose, bald – and I mean bald, with red, snake-like eyes…. He was quite scary, actually. Then he shifted to the side, and Fudge was just lying there by his feet. You-Know-Who let out this…cackle at us before disapparating. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was pretty bad."
"It was a chilling tail from Bagman, but he wasn't the only one. Several others have recounted similar testimonies, as well. But no one had seen the actual murder take place, nor does anyone seem to know what transpired before the ministry officials arrived in the Atrium, well past the time of action. Mafalda Hopkirk, of the Improper Use of Magic Department, told the Daily Prophet, "We all received an owl with a parcel brandishing a Ministry seal. The letter said something like, 'Cornelius Fudge is dead because of his disobedience. Come to the Ministry of Magic immediately unless you want to join him.' I thought it was a joke, but when I got there, I was glad I showed up. Royden Poke," who worked in the Ministry of Magic in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, "never showed up last night and was found dead in his flat this morning with the Dark Mark burned into his forehead." The Daily Prophet confirmed this with Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office. "Yes, he was declared deceased this morning," said Scrimgeour. When pressed, Scrimgeour went on to mention that three others who had not followed the demands of the letter were found murdered. He refused to divulge the names of the three confirmed dead.
"The sighting of the Dark Lord fourteen years after his apparent defeat is stirring up the year-long controversy of Harry Potter, who claimed after the final event of the Triwizard Tournament last year that he had come face to face with You-Know-Who. Potter furthered his claim by adding that it was Peter Pettigrew, a dead man of nearly fifteen years, who killed Cedric Digory, a contender for the Triwizard Cup. Suspicions arose against Potter's innocence regarding Diggory's death, and Britain was in an uproar when the investigation was dropped, and the incident was labelled a "tragic accident." Fudge had been quick to shunt any possibility of the Dark Lord returning from the dead, ignoring Albus Dumbledore who vouched for Potter's account.
"In late March of this year, the investigation against Mr. Potter and Professor Dumbledore was relaunched. Dumbledore's arrest was issued in the beginning of April, instating Dolores Umbridge as headmistress in his stead. Dumbledore, however, escaped the aurors through unknown means. Fudge had then allegedly given Umbridge direct permission to detain and question the fifteen-year-old Potter for information on the whereabouts of Dumbledore and about his involvement of Diggory's death. With the recent sighting of Voldemort, the charges against Potter and Dumbledore have been dropped. Potter was released from Dolores Umbridge's custody and brought to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Umbridge was arrested after the state of Harry Potter and muggleborn classmate, Hermione Granger was discovered upon their release from captivity within the school.
"Utterly disgusting," Scrimgeour reported to the Prophet, "That woman should rot in Azkaban for what she did to those children." Bagman and Hopkirk shared similar opinions of Umbridge. "Well, now I know that she's a monster. But she always had seemed a little off to me," Bagman stated. "She was entrusted to care for those children, and she hurt them. There's a place in hell waiting for that woman," added Hopkirk. The extent of Potter and Granger's injuries are currently unclear, while Umbridge is being held in Azkaban to await a trial set in October. Albus Dumbledore has already been reinstated as headmaster at Hogwarts. "The whole ordeal was handled foolishly. One does not accuse Albus Dumbledore without ample evidence. There was more evidence that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned than there ever was to allude to Mr. Potter having done anything to Diggory," reported Scrimgeour. When pressed for what evidence suggested the return of the Dark Lord, Scrimgeour declined to speak further."
Harry could read no more and tossed the paper onto the end of his bed before scowling at his feet, hidden by the blankets. In typical Daily Prophet fashion, they had gotten more wrong than correct. However, an odd, twisting sensation was churning inside his stomach. The truth had finally emerged. He and Dumbledore had been veracious all along, and now everyone believed them. He dropped his face into his hands and took several harsh breaths in. If Fudge had just listened in the first place...none of it would have happened.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, raising a hand as if to touch him before dropping it in response to Harry's flinch.
Harry nodded, composing himself and restoring his deadened expression.
After a few moments, Dumbledore spoke of Harry's departure from St. Mungo's, but Harry heard little of what he was saying. A hollow ringing was piercing his ear drums as he fought against the terrible memories all over again. He saw a flash of his cold cell, a thin, womanly figure, an amethyst blade. Harry startled away from those thoughts, snapping back to the hospital room around him. Dumbledore ceased speaking at his frightened movement, taken aback at Harry's trembling form.
"How can I help you?" he wondered aloud, musing wistfully.
Harry clenched his jaw but gave no indication of an answer, horrible recollections still flashing behind his eyes no matter how fiercely he fought against them. Dumbledore began speaking again, but the high-pitched ring in Harry's ears deafened him to his headmaster's words once more. Panic had him rooted in place, as he sunk deeper inside of his own mind, sucked into the recesses of the darkest spot of his remembrances.
(***)
The first thing Harry was aware of was the searing pain in his jaw and chest. His wrists were bound together in front of him as he lay at an awkward angle on the hard, uneven stone. Breathing was difficult; his mouth and nose weren't functioning properly, no matter how hard he gasped. Then he heard the voices above him.
"No…I don't think I'll be trying this one again in a hurry. Who knew such a small device could cause so much ruin on a body?" It was Umbridge's voice.
A shadow dimmed the light in front of his eyelids. "Oh, wow." Another female voice sounded closer to him; it was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. "Yes, it's done a number on his jaw, hasn't it?" said the voice. Cold hands were assaulting the wounds under his chin, and he jerked away with a groan.
"Awake, is he?" came Umbridge's voice once more.
He allowed his eyes to open and gazed blurrily into the face of Pansy Parkinson. His forehead creased while his mind tried to make sense of her sluggishly.
"How long have you been practicing healing charms?" Umbridge asked. Harry could only make out the shape of her standing to Pansy's right, her stubby arms crossed around her chest. Harry coughed blood from between his teeth.
"About three years. My father calls me his prodigy. I should be able to fix him up in no time so you can continue your fun." Pansy grinned up at Umbridge, then down at Harry. The feral contortion of her face sent shivers across his body in waves.
"Excellent. Get him back to his cell. I have many others I need to see today. Filch! Clean up the mess the Potter boy left." Umbridge pointed to the splatters of Harry's blood painting the chamber like a grisly abstract. Filch, already brandishing a mop, begrudgingly did as he was told, his thin lips pressed into a tight line of disgust.
"Mobilicorpus!" Pansy pronounced, swishing her wand at Harry who levitated, his head still spoked upon the Heretic's Fork. Pansy led him out of the torturous hall and into the dark corridor. The trip back to his cell seemed to take double the time it had before due to the agony of his injuries. Many times, he nearly lost consciousness when the pain flared to an intolerable amount. But he was never so lucky.
At long last, they reached his cell, and Pansy dropped him to the hard stone below. He moaned, arching his back to prevent the fork from sliding farther in.
Pansy shut and locked the door behind them, placing the key in the pocket of her green and silver plaid, short, v-line skirt, and turned with a grin that was terribly similar to Umbridge's signature smirk. "Shall we begin then?"
Pansy knelt by his head and clutched a fistful of his hair with one hand and the fork with the other, wrenching his neck backward as far as it could go. She tore the prongs from the flesh of his mouth and chin, before Harry bellowed, finally able to extend his jaw once more. Blood poured down his neck as Pansy reached behind to untie the leather that fastened the device to his person. Then, with a hard yank on the metal, extracted the bottom prongs from his collarbone. Harry could do little more than grunt with anguish.
Dropping the fork onto the stone with a loud clang, Pansy cooed, "That's better." Her fingers sunk into the holes beneath his chin, and Harry jerked away from her touch.
She laughed at him. "That's not how this works, Harry. I can touch you wherever I like." Her fingers caressed his cheek. "And I can hurt you as much as I want."
Pansy pulled a switchblade from the pocket of her skirt, flashing it at him. The metal was coated with a dark, violet substance. She pretended to jab him with it before he cringed into the ground, while she giggled excitedly, staring down at him with cold, blue eyes. The knife rose again, came down towards his abdomen, but it didn't stop this time before it pierced through his skin, shredded through his organs. He screamed, louder than he'd ever screamed in his short life. Pansy chuckled, her fingers pressing into the wound in his chin a second time, forcing that pain to rival the one in his stomach. There was little else to feel, little else to comprehend other than the agony and the lights fading slowly from his eyes.
"Wonderful, isn't it...my knife?" Pansy chimed, "It's infused with a paralysis poison. It lets me do whatever I please with my victims…until they bleed out."
Harry realized with a start that she was right. He certainly was paralysed. Try as he may to struggle away from her, his arms and legs would not respond. He could only breathe and stare, horrified, into her ice blue eyes.
"Don't worry." Pansy brushed the strands of his inky hair away from those leaf-green eyes with cool, bloodied fingers, the trimmed nails painted a shiny silver, "My father also taught me the importance of healing. He told me that it was the best way to torture…to cripple then to heal. He was right; look how it's helped me! I'm your healer now, Harry, and I can do whatever I want to you. You're all alone. No Dumbledore to come and rescue you now, is there?" Her voice came easy and relaxed as if her words meant nothing at all, while Harry struggled to wrap his mind around the glaring evidence that everyone around him was entirely unhinged, like the darkness creeping silently into the night as it blinds one's eyes, forcing them to realize that the sun has gone.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the torment. Pansy laughed again, her fingers reaching into her white button-down shirt to retrieve a crystalline phial attached to a long, silver chain. Her well-manicured fingers unstopped the cap before tipping the bluish liquid inside the phial between his parted, gasping lips; he tried to cough it up, but his paralysis ensured it was impossible. The liquid slid down his throat and settled into his stomach. Moments later, his fingers and toes began to tingle. The feeling spread across his limbs until he could move his whole body again. He noticed with surprise that each of his wounds had been reduced to painful and swollen scabs. Glancing up at her cautiously, he didn't dare speak or move. Blood still soaked the torso and neck of his grey shirt, still coated his skin, and it was then that it struck him how much of it he had lost. Weak and shaking, he felt his feeble heart fluttering inside his chest, his own mortality thumping in his ears like a drum. Despite it all, his inquisitive, detective's mind couldn't resist the urge to blurt out, "Why are you doing this?"
"Because people like you, the mudbloods, and the blood-traitors you associate so closely with need to be stopped…permanently. And everyone else in this dammed world needs to see what happens when someone tries to fight against the Dark Lord." Pansy stood. Still grasping the hilt of her knife, she wiped the blood off the blade with a handkerchief. "That was just a taste of what's to come. Don't think you'll have any peace of mind once Umbridge is finished with you." Pansy gave him a sharp look, and he stared back at her, terrified and frantic, but adamantly trying not to show it. She left, the lock of the door clicking into place behind her.
His world had been flipped upside down in just a matter of hours. Clutching the fresh but scabbed wound in his stomach, he edged backward into the far, left corner of his cell. While studying the claustrophobic, stone walls, Harry broke down and cried. He wept for the pain he'd already endured, for the pain he knew was sure to come. He wept for his friends who he dreaded would receive similar treatment to his. He wept for the building, panic-inducing hopelessness rising in the pit of his chest. It was hard to find positivity when his body stung and throbbed, when he was drenched in his own blood, when he was waiting for maniacal people to come back and torture him all over again.
(***)
"Did you hear me, Harry?"
The broken, green-eyed boy with his messy shock of jet-black hair jerked into the present, finding Albus Dumbledore standing beside his bed. It hadn't yet registered that he was in St. Mungo's, nor that Umbridge was behind bars, nor that Pansy was gone. He only saw the headmaster's tall, thin form while calculating the threat he could pose to the boy.
Once more, Harry gave no indication of a response other than the accidental exposure of the perturbation and hypervigilance lurking inside his dilated pupils. Dumbledore frowned at the perspiration collecting on the young man's forehead. Clearing his throat of emotion, Dumbledore said, "Scrimgeour has demanded to speak with you. I've told him that you're not up to visitors, but he insisted. He's the new Minister for Magic, and, while I believe he has the potential for excellence, his willingness to disregard the advice and council of those around him have me uncertain of whether that potential will be seen. I'll show him in but feel free to blink at me twice should you require I shoo him away." Dumbledore winked at Harry before leaving the room.
The boy touched his fingers to the old, lightning bolt scar on his forehead which had begun to burn for the first time in weeks. The sensation made him nervous, but he had no time to contemplate it as the door to his private room opened to allow entrance for a tall, limping man with a mane of tawny hair, streaked with lines of grey. The man's loping grace and impressive presence reminded Harry of a lion stalking through the jungle. He carried a walking stick but didn't lean too exuberantly upon the handle with each step. Behind him came a tuft of bushy, red hair and a pale, freckled face set into a calculating expression. The hazel eyes belonging to the tall, lanky, younger man danced about the room, observing every crevice of every detail until they finally settled upon Harry where they fixated. Harry recognized him at once; it was Percy Weasley. Harry's malachite irises engaged in a silent battle with Percy's hazelnut ones, the emotion burning inside the ginger haired man's glare was foreign and unusual in a Weasley's eyes. It was peculiar to Harry that Percy had not so much as glanced at him during his hearing last year, yet he was now incapable of removing his glower of loathing from the pale, scarred features of Harry Potter's face.
The aging, feline man wasted no time in getting down to business, "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter." He adjusted the wire-rimmed spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose while his keen, yellowish eyes focused upon Harry's stony expression. "I apologize for barging in on you after…all you've been through. I offer my sympathy and regret for what happened. It was…an utter failure on the Ministry's part, and quite frankly a disastrous embarrassment of total negligence. That is why, as Minister, I'm going to put things right again."
It was something that Rufus Scrimgeour had said that spurred Harry to surrender the battle between the middle Weasley child and himself, eyes shifting to land upon the new Minister with a strange mixture of anger and apprehension. Scrimgeour took in the unfathomable agony lurking inside the depths of the boy's pupils and gave a faint, partially concealed shudder, then glanced about the room as if offended by a non-existent draft of frigid air.
Dumbledore, who had reclaimed his spot in the wooden seat beside Harry's left shoulder, shifted his crinkled blue stare to rest upon Scrimgeour as well, one long-fingered hand reaching upwards to stroke the silver strands of his waist-length beard. "May I ask what you intend to, 'put right,' Minister?"
Straightening the hunched shoulders, Scrimgeour turned his affronted posture towards the Hogwarts headmaster, lips curling over his crooked teeth. "For starters," he growled, "Throwing that wretched woman into a cell with no key."
"There is more than enough evidence to accomplish that without disrupting Harry here; he's been through enough. Adding more undue strain seems like overkill, wouldn't you agree?"
A sound emerged from the back of Scrimgeour's throat, giving Harry the impression that he did not care for Dumbledore much. Scrimgeour ignored Albus, turning back to Harry with thin lips. "You are our prime witness."
"Miss Granger will more than suffice, Rufus." Dumbledore's voice was soft.
"It's Minister to you," Scrimgeour barked over his shoulder. He handed Harry a scrap of parchment and a quill. "If you're not privy to speaking, perhaps you could write a testimony of what occurred in the dungeons of Hogwarts from the 2nd of April through the 24th of June."
It was Harry's turn to shudder, and he did not accept Scrimgeour's offer, turning his head toward the window where torrents of rain distorted his view of the outside world.
"Minister," Dumbledore said with a touch of venom, "May I speak with you privately, please?"
The sharp, golden eyes flashed once more to scrutinize Dumbledore. "You're wearing on my patience, Professor." But it was impossible to deny the penetrating blue eyes burrowing holes into Scrimgeour's head over the lenses of half-moon spectacles. The two older men left, leaving Harry and Percy alone together. The disowned Weasley continued to glare daggers at the boy. Harry wondered whether his eyes had ever actually left him upon entering the room.
"Harry Potter." Percy adjusted the emerald green robes draping from his shoulders, smoothing down imaginary crinkles. "You've built quite a name for yourself…haven't you?"
Harry bit his lip; the threatening undertones of Percy's voice had his hackles rising to attention. Of course, he didn't respond, keeping his eyes fixed upon the window and the persistent London rain behind the panes.
Percy continued on, "The Dark Lord has returned. It seems I was a fool to ever doubt it." His long thin legs carried him toward the chair beside Harry's bed, where he sat down upon it, crossing one knee over the other. Contrarily to his words, the man appeared entirely at ease, not a trace of guilt lurking inside his features. Something within those brownish eyes twisted Harry's stomach, reminding him of how little he liked Percy.
"But I feel I'm doing my part to set it all straight. I'm rising up in the Ministry rather quickly. I'd worried, of course, upon Fudge's unfortunate demise, that Scrimgeour would have me removed or at the very least demoted, but he took me right in as his assistant. I have also been building quite a name for myself. Nothing close to your legacy, but one step at a time." He flashed a grin, but it was all wrong. There was no pride in his voice, only condescendence towards the person he was bragging to. "My mother and father are still so thick headed. Still so determined to remain within their status of blood traitor. They could have had everything. The name Weasley used to carry a certain amount of respect."
Harry couldn't resist shooting him a dark look. How dare he barge in here and slander the name of his own family, the very family that had taken Harry in with open arms? But what had Harry more on edge was the usage of the word "blood-traitor." How had the Ministry brainwashed him so thoroughly? Harry's disdain for Percy grew, and the respect he once had for the studious Head Boy was gone. The glare set into his emerald eyes smouldered more intensely with each drum of his hammering heart.
"Ah, so you are still in there? Fearsome Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, slandered, humiliated, tortured, and yet you still glare with such ferocity. Did Umbridge steal your tongue like she did to that Squib, or are you still that stubborn?"
Harry wasn't sure how it happened, but he was suddenly wobbling in front of Percy on an aching leg, wand drawn and pointed between his eyes. The boy was gasping with exertion, but his leaf-green irises still burned brightly with anger. A slow grin crept up upon Percy's pinched face, but the door was opening once more, and the ginger-haired man never got a chance to respond to the fiery, inky-haired boy.
"What's all this?" Scrimgeour demanded, wrinkled fingers clutching the knob of the door as he sized the two of them up. Harry did not relax his extended arm, the tip of his wand nearly scraping Percy's forehead.
Percy stood from the chair and backed away from Harry, the grin now hiding in the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry, Minister," he said, "I only tried to offer my condolences."
"The boy is unstable. Can you blame him?" Scrimgeour muttered, clapping Percy on the back, his voice low but still audible to Harry and Dumbledore standing not a meter away. "Let's let him rest for now. When he's feeling better, we'll be back." The Minister barely managed to conceal the warning inside his words. He turned back to Dumbledore. "Perhaps a room near the Longbottoms would be better suited for him…?"
"That won't be necessary," Dumbledore responded, taking his place beside Harry's bed once more. Harry still pointed his wand at Percy, whose features were feigning innocence, while the headmaster continued on apparently oblivious to the exchange, "He's been through an ordeal, but he'll soon break out of it."
"If you insist." Scrimgeour eyed the boy doubtfully.
"I do," replied Dumbledore.
Rufus Scrimgeour and Percy Weasley strode from Harry's quarters, leaving behind a bitter taste in the boy's mouth. "I do hate politicians," Dumbledore murmured with an understanding smile, "So adamantly arrogant and set in their ways, believing that just because they've been elected to lead means they can do no wrong. Power does funny things to the mind, Harry."
Curling one corner of his mouth in response to Dumbledore's words, Harry shifted his miniscule weight onto his mattress, his hip burning in protest from the recent usage, while his wand arm fell limply to his side in relief. Scrimgeour had been a bit of a nuisance; Percy had been…something else entirely.
"I'm sorry to say that I must leave you now." Dumbledore was checking a pocket watch, before stuffing it back into some inner pocket of his violet robes. "I dare say I'm late already, but I couldn't miss the opportunity to put old Rufus in his place." A twinkle appeared in his eyes; it wasn't until it reappeared did Harry ever realize it was missing. Without hesitation, Dumbledore gave a polite nod and strolled out of the room.
Once again, the boy was left to his loneliness. As was always the case whenever he was alone, his mind swirled and stumbled and lurched towards the festering sickness, towards the bitter blackness lurking in the recesses of his memories. He struggled against it, beating down the flashes with the vigour and bravery characteristic to the house of Gryffindor. But still, they battered him. There were flashes of endless darkness, and he knew instantly what it meant. It was the darkness he was left in for days at a time, cold, bleeding…so endlessly alone. Then came flashes of bushy, brown hair, warm, amber eyes, a slender, heart-shaped face contorting with despair. It was her. He knew he didn't have it in him in that moment to witness those memories, knew he would not be able to withstand seeing her in pain, begging for relief. He had to do something. He had to get away.
Before he managed to talk himself out of whatever it was that he was about to do, his long, bony legs were propelling him out of the comfort and safety of the white, cotton sheets. His bare feet were dragging him to the cupboard where his possessions were stashed. He dug through his trunk to find the sheer, delicate fabric before throwing it over his shoulders. Stopping for one moment to glance into the tall mirror hanging from the cupboard panel, he made certain that every inch of his body was concealed inside of his invisibility cloak. Then he ventured outside the sanctuary of his small, hospital room. He didn't know where he was going, but he determined himself to search behind every door to find who he was looking for.
The halls of St. Mungo's were bustling with energy. Mediwitches and Healers dashed through hallways while paper airplanes swished through the air. The gurgle of voices and the stomps of feet reverberated down the narrow, energetic hallway. Harry clung to the wall as he ventured down the passage saturated in the stench of sickness and sweat, both to support his aching limbs and to keep his distance from the hurried people in white robes. It took him several tries, but he found her near the end of the hallway, tucked into a small, private room that was identical to his. He took a moment to admire her, hidden beneath his cloak, until he noticed the fright in her eyes at the door opening and closing seemingly of its own accord. Sucking in a large, steadying breath, he threw the cloak from his shoulders.
Hermione Granger squeaked, her bony hands covering her mouth as her eyes focused on his face, first with terror, then, after a few moments of dead silence, with disbelief. Her hands slipped from her mouth to crash into her lap concealed by a fuzzy, blue blanket. Her lips were flapping soundlessly, before she managed to choke, "Harry?"
A slight, lopsided grin that didn't stretch farther than his cheekbones settled into the gaunt face in reply to the emaciated girl with a long mop of messy, chestnut hair. He gave her a slow nod, before gesturing towards her bed.
"Of course!" she whispered, shifting over so he could rest upon it. He was grateful for the spot, not just to relieve the pain burning in his hip and calf, but for the proximity it lent him to her. Several moments of comfortable, awed silence stretched around them while they gazed into each other's faces, observing any changes they may have missed in the weeks that they were apart.
"You're taller," she blurted out.
He looked down at himself, feeling silly, before shrugging. He hadn't noticed.
"And you've put on about a stone." Her honey eyes were studying him up and down. "That's good. When I saw you last, it looked like you were going to…. You were rather thin."
Harry flinched, her words spurring his mind to revolve around those memories again. He grabbed her hand in a desperate attempt to stay present with her. She was alive, after all. They had made it out of that…place. Wasn't that all that mattered? Her fingers squeezed around his chilly skin.
"I've missed you so terribly, Harry. I knew you weren't dead, but I still feared the worst. That…all of it…had finally driven you mad. Dumbledore wouldn't tell me much about you."
Harry was beyond mad, but he couldn't find his voice to tell her.
"Why won't you talk to me?" she shuddered, tears collecting along her ducts.
The verdigris eyes darkened to the colour of a forest at midnight before they flickered toward her cupboard, away from her hurt eyes. He extracted his hand from hers and rubbed his wrists, anxiety clawing up his windpipe. But this was Hermione. She was safe. He could talk to her if no one else. His mouth opened, jaw tight, before it was snapping shut again without a squeak. He did this several times before he finally rasped, "Because…I…can't." Harry's heart was pounding; his tongue felt dry.
"What do you mean, 'you can't'?" she demanded, perhaps a bit too loudly. Harry put a finger to his lips, reminding her to stay quiet. They both glanced towards the door for several moments until they were certain they were unheard.
"It's…hard. I haven't spoken in weeks." Harry rubbed the tops of his arms, looking at anything but her, cheeks faintly red.
"What? Why not?"
Their eyes locked once more, before Harry's voice came strong and clear, "It's the last bit of control I have left over my life."
She took a deep breath, then nodded. "You're right. I can't fault you for it."
He was surprised. "I thought you'd argue a bit more than that."
She was shaking her head, the strands of her wild hair trembling with the movement. "No, don't be silly. It's your choice to stay silent. While I may worry about the implications it could have on your psyche, again, I understand your motivation entirely."
His eyes narrowed as his mind slowly put together the pieces of what she was saying, hearing the hidden meaning lurking inside his best friend's words. "Alright. Then what's yours?"
Hermione blinked once, then twice, her hand raising to twist a curl along her pointer finger. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"Rubbish," he countered, nudging her gently with his shoulder. "You're not telling me something. You have a way to…maintain control as well."
"Hm. Well…," she wouldn't meet his eyes, "I have…my ways, I suppose. Yes."
"And?" he pressed.
"What?"
"What are your ways?"
"Oh…I…."
"Hermione," he whispered. His eyes grew larger and some, distant, unknown emotion was seeping out from the blacks of his eyes, pouring into the rims of his lower lids. "You can talk to me." How ironic it was that he was the one urging her to speak.
"You won't like it. You'll think it's stupid…foolish."
"Maybe so." His lips pulled up again, his eyes warming a degree. "But I'll like you all the same."
Hermione ducked her head, the wild curls shielding her face from Harry's inquisitive gaze while her fingers fiddled together. "Well…," she began, "I…haven't been eating often enough."
"I see."
"I've been stuffing my food into my serviette, then vanishing it. The Mediwitches haven't caught on yet. My Healer doesn't understand why I've barely put on five pounds since I got here. But whenever the Mediwitches come to collect my tray, it's been eaten, or at least it appears to have been."
Harry was listening intently to Hermione, but something she had said spurred his interest; he fixated upon it. "You vanished your food…with magic?"
She glanced sheepishly at him from behind the mahogany strands. "Erm, yes."
"How have you not gotten caught?" he asked.
"I haven't been using my wand. Plus, the Ministry never put our Traces back on after we…er, left Hogwarts for the summer. It would drive them batty I would imagine, what with all the routine wand-work occurring in a magical hospital."
"You can control it?" Harry whispered, his features shifting into blazing curiosity.
"I'm sorry?" Hermione frowned at him; her expression concerned by his sudden intensity. She brushed her hair back from her face as she studied his.
He ignored her scrutiny and pressed on, "You can control it. The wandless magic."
"I…well, yes," she admitted.
"How?" he breathed.
"I don't know. I can't do anything exuberant. Just little things, like vanishing a plate of food in small increments."
"I keep having these…explosive bouts of magic."
Hermione gave him a sharp look. "What do you mean by explosive?"
"I mean, I blew a hole into my wall this morning. Last week, I shattered the window. I'm worried it's going to hurt someone." Again, he thought to himself with a shudder.
Hermione was staring at him, her face indecipherable. "How long has this been happening?"
"I'm not sure exactly. But…do you remember what happened the night we escaped?" His features were clouded, a storm brewing inside his eyes.
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath of air, her shoulders expanding around the intake. Breathing it back out in a quick gust, she murmured, "Bits and pieces. I remember…Pansy. She was tormenting you like she always did. But then she turned to me, and…." She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "I can't remember anything after that."
"She hurt you." His snarl was sandpaper. "Knocked you unconscious. Then…I…." Pansy stood over Hermione's limp form, a maniacal giggle escaping her lips, the sound deafening in the cramped, stone space. She raised her blade, and Harry snapped. He extended both arms in front of him, howling at the sadistic maiden coiled over his best friend's body. He felt a burst of heat escape his fingertips before Pansy was flung with a stomach-lurching crunch into the wall behind her. Harry shook his head, clenching his teeth. He couldn't look at Hermione as he said, "Then I killed her."
"W-What?"
Hiding his face in his hands, he began to whisper so quietly and quickly that she had to tuck her ear close beside his hidden mouth. "I lost all semblance of control. She was… torturing you, about to stab you. I raised my hands and flung her into the wall without touching her. The sound it made…I knew it had hurt her. But I didn't stop there. I levitated the blade out of her hand, and I plunged it into her chest, right into her heart. She stared at me in horror in those few seconds it took for her to slip away. And I…left her there. Scooped you up, dragged you from that dungeon and left her lifeless body on the cold stone. I'm the true monster." His scar was throbbing at the memory, and Harry wondered with hysteria whether it was a sign that he was turning into a Voldemort-esque type villain.
"No, Harry. You're not. You were protecting us from a vile excuse of a human. She deserved to die." Hermione was gently tugging at his arms, imploring him to leave his shell.
"It wasn't my right to decide. She was just as much of a victim as we were. Raised since the day she was born to harrow us, to hate us. And I…slaughtered her. She was knocked out already after she crashed into the wall; we would have gotten away from her. She didn't have to die."
"Harry," Hermione whispered, but before she could finish, voices erupted from outside her door. Harry leapt from the bed, wobbling on his misshapen leg, and threw his invisibility cloak back over his shoulders, tucking himself beside Hermione's cupboard. "Harry!" she whispered again, eyes searching in vain for him. Before she could react further, the door to her room opened.
From his spot beside the cupboard, Harry peered through the layer of thin fabric concealing his wiry form to find, for the second time that day, Rufus Scrimgeour and Percy Weasley strolling inside Hermione's room. Both men appeared slightly sourer than they had earlier when they were invading Harry's quarters. Percy Weasley scanned the room once more until they landed on the spot beside the cupboard, boring into Harry's invisible eyes. It sent a chill down him, and Harry shook himself internally to steady the nerves strung tight.
"Miss Granger," Scrimgeour nodded curtly, "I apologize for barging in on you again. Until Mr. Potter agrees to give his testimony against Dolores Umbridge, you are now our main witness in this case. Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?"
Hermione's face betrayed an unnatural pallor while she gnawed on her lower lip. Unable to meet the rangy man's eyes, she took to fidgeting with her fingernails, plucking non-existent dirt from the crevices. Nodding once, she muttered, "I suppose so…."
"Excellent," replied Scrimgeour, oblivious to her discomfort. Harry frowned at him with distaste from behind the cloth.
"I have one question of my own, however," Hermione started, her eyes narrowing as she managed to glance up at the tall man towering above her.
This took the Minister off guard as he rocked slightly back against the heels of his tan, brogue boots. His hand reached up unconsciously to loosen his grey tie a touch, before clearing his throat and saying, "So long as your question doesn't fall into classified matters…I suppose I could answer one question."
"It's only fair, isn't it?" Hermione wondered aloud, frowning. Percy had given up his search for the invisible boy, now glaring at Hermione with an inordinate amount of contempt. Not noticing Percy's bizarre reaction to her, she continued on to ask her one question, "Why is that the Minister for Magic is handling an investigation? Isn't that job typically better suited for an auror? It is their job, isn't it?"
"That was three questions." Scrimgeour was being quite unpleasant, but still a few shades better than Percy; Harry had to admit. Under Hermione's unwavering stare, he finally conceded, "Yes, you are correct. However, this particular investigation was assigned to me before I was elected Minister. I felt it was my duty to see it through."
Hermione digested that, back to chewing her irritated, lower lip. "But aren't there other matters more pressing for a Minister to spend his time with?"
"I didn't come here to have my discernment questioned by a thirteen-year-old."
"I'm sixteen. And I didn't come here to be interrogated by the Minister for Magic, to be treated like some kind of pariah, or to be glared at by a selfish coward." On the last retort, she glowered back at Percy, who merely grinned condescendingly back at her. Harry found himself impressed by his best friend's newfound ferocity.
"Please, Miss Granger. This is not an interrogation. If it makes you more comfortable, I can have my assistant wait outside."
Hermione grumbled something unintelligible beneath her breath, before audibly muttering, "That won't be necessary. Proceed, please, so we can get this over with."
Straightening the collar of his robes while positively affronted, Scrimgeour barked out, "You mentioned last time we spoke that Umbridge had locked both you and Mr. Potter in a small holding cell beneath the castle."
"Yes."
"Were you fed during this time?"
"Not always, no. And not nearly enough."
"About how often were you fed?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course. It may seem like a minute detail compared to the rest of your testimony; however, I'm going to have every vile thing she did to you brought up in court."
"It just seems like starvation is quite tame compared to actual torture."
"On the contrary, denying a child basic human needs shows just how despicable she truly was."
Hermione shuddered, taking a sip of water from the glass on her nightstand. "A valid point," she admitted while attempting to conceal her resentment at having to concede. "Although, simply torturing a child seems bad enough to throw someone in a cell for a rather long time."
"As I said, I'm going to pin her on her every crime; every wrong deed that woman committed will be brought against her before the Wizengamot. Can you fault me for that?"
Hermione returned to chewing her lip, now avoiding Percy's lour. After a moment of silence, she glanced up at Scrimgeour with an emotion quite similar to the one stained in Harry's eyes swirling inside her pupils before she shook her head in consent.
"Start from the beginning one more time, please. Have you got all this, Mr. Weasley?"
"Yes, Minister." The hazel eyes were now following the quill in his pale hand racing across the page of a wired notebook.
While Harry held his breath to contain the panic, Hermione recounted every detail, from the time that Harry was detained by Umbridge to the day they were both rescued. He'd heard these details from Hermione's lips before. However, being drawn back into them now was too much to bear. Sliding dizzily down the wall, Harry rested upon the floor with his fists digging into his lips to mask the sound of his hyperventilation. Every word out of her mouth was a vivid memory as he got lost inside of his own mind.
"Harry!"
The wasted teenager snapped back to reality, finding Hermione Granger alone in her room, squatting in front of him, fingers clutching the soft fabric of his cloak in her delicate hands. Through the stream of heavy respiration, Harry's distant but tumultuous gaze struggled to focus on her. She cradled his cheekbones between her cool palms, allowing his cloak to liquefy upon her knees. The chill of her touch was soothing against his damp skin, and, after several long moments, he managed to steady himself enough to meet her worried gaze.
"What happened?" she whispered.
He shook his head, temporarily reverting to his silence, even towards her.
"Do you get them too?"
Emerald met honey. Harry's neck quirked to the side just enough to convey his confusion.
Hermione clarified, "Flashbacks."
The white face paled further to a chalky grey, his eyes sliding shut. With three, curt jerks of his chin, he nodded his affirmation.
"How often?" she wondered.
The smaragdine irises snapped open to meet Hermione's tentative expression. Clearing his throat brusquely, his muttered words were nearly inaudible. "I should go."
"I'm sorry," her voice was broken, "I didn't mean to pry. I just…want to help."
With all of the angst and anger and anxiety seeping from his body, Harry cut Hermione with his words without thinking before he instantly regretted them. "You fucking can't, Hermione! No one can."
On that note, he snatched his cloak off of her knees and left her crouching beside her cupboard. Beneath the cloak, he stumbled at a painful, near-sprint down the crowded hallway, knocking a few unsuspecting Mediwitches into walls or trolleys along the way. By the time he was collapsing into his gurney, safely tucked away into his own private, little haven, saline was dripping over his lower lids and dampening his alabaster cheeks while the breath in his lungs whooshed raggedly between his chapped lips. He loathed himself for the pain he put into Hermione's eyes, the image of her perched near the corner of her room flashing in his head, making him sick while the reminder of her wounded features were bleeding into his soul. Why am I so bloody stupid? he wondered while wrenching at his hair. But his misery blinded him to the villains edging closer around his conscious brain, until they were right upon him, engulfing him with their shadows and dragging him down for another taste of hell.
Thanks for reading,
~Charlie
