A/N: The chapter title is a song by Cat Stevens, a very great singer/song writer. I'm Not entirely thrilled by my title … but it will eventually make sense. I don't own anything!
He was soaking wet, the ministry regulation cloak had kicked the can ten seconds into the torrential down pour that was March in London. Harry had expected as much, but the foreknowledge did not lessen his discomfort. It was hard to feel anything but antipathy for Kingsley Shaklebolt and anything to do with the Aurory, or even the Ministry right now. It was nine o'clock on his one weekend off this month, Ron's first weekend home in the same amount of time and Hermione had cooked; a rare occasion, but very much worth the wait. Not that any of it would matter to Shaklebolt, and Harry wouldn't even bother to mention it.
The pitch dark around him only heightened the surrealism of the illuminated scene before him. A sense of déjà vu washed over Harry as he surveyed the smoking remains of a house. The gardens and cars parked out front were totally intact, but the house had been reduced to a literal pile of rubble. The only thing missing was a Dark Mark lighting up the night sky – now he understood.
Harry's supposedly repellent cloak blended him seamlessly into the equally soaked and miserable crowd of Aurores, Hit-wizards, Obliviators, and Medi-wizards. He'd always enjoyed the sensation of facelessness a crime scene gave him. For a few moments he was just another cog in the wheel, no one singled him out, or expected him to have all the answers – for a few, priceless moments. Clearing his mind for what was starting to look like a long night, Harry scanned the crowd for Kingsley. The impressive man was hard to miss, standing head and shoulders over everyone -- save Ron and Dumbledor – it took half the time as the search for an ordinary Auror would take. The Obliviators were frantically trying to keep the scene clear of muggles, while the Hit-wizards and Aurors scanned the remains. A group of medi-wizards were standing guard over the victims' remains; the group who managed to hold Harry's attention was comprised of two medi-wizards, and Obliviator, Shaklebolt and a very wet, very pale little girl. Or what Harry thought was a little girl – upon closer inspection she was a bruised, frightened and young, woman. Her hair hung in a tangled mat past her shoulders, a borrowed cloak covering her violently shaking form, and her face was white in the places it wasn't purple. What was left of her clothing was soaked in blood and the rivulets running down her arms streaked a rusty red. Kingsley seemed to be listening to an account from the medi-wizard while the Obliviator looked on with badly concealed impatience.
"The earliest scans showed a use of the imperius curse on her, and a very mild crutio – she wouldn't have with stood anything stronger. That –"
"Kinsley, you summoned." Harry watched with amusement as the collective, including the muggle turned to glare at him.
"Potter, this, as you can see is a very serious problem we have on our hands tonight. Healer Girard here was just telling me which unforgivables and other curses had been used on our surviving victim, Miss Nigella Whiton." The girl cringed at the sound of her name.
"Look, Sir, I've asked you about four times to please call me Ella. I really don't want to ask you again." Shaklebolt ignored her; Harry however found the girl's gumption startling given the circumstances. The stoic Auror simply turned to look at the remains of the house, and Harry silently followed him. The two Aurors had fought side by side for over fifteen years, long before Harry was even an Auror. That leant them an uncanny sense about the other, and a deep respect which was reciprocal. Harry knew Kingsley must be thinking the scene was far too familiar – the old Auror had seen it often enough.
"I know, Shaklebolt, I know." Harry sensed, rather than saw his partner shrug -- an uncomfortably inelegant gesture. "I want to talk to the girl."
"Yes, so do I, but the damn Healer says she's too weak from shock. Not to my eyes she isn't! I've never seen a victim, muggle or magical as calm as this one after an attack as violent as this, not in all my years as an Auror." Kingsley rounded, staring at the bedraggled girl shrewdly.
"You think she was involved?" Harry found the scepticism hard to conceal as he regarded their young victim as well. She was definitely a muggle, not even a Squib. And she was a tiny thing, no more than five foot two and as soaking as she was now she couldn't weigh six stone. Not to mention very few people hung around when they planned to harm relatives, they often claimed accidental death, not murder, after torture.
"No I don't think she was involved. It's just damned unnerving that she's alive in the first place, that she can speak, argue with me even, and it's just really unsettling."
"I'm going to talk to her." The only useful trait of being Harry Potter: The-boy-who-lived-again was that people never questioned his authority. "Excuse me Healer Girard but it is urgent that I speak to Miss Whiton immediately. We need to question her before she is given anything which might alter her memory, or her body finally reacts to what she has seen and we have to resort to magical means. It would - if I am correct - be best not to force anymore magic on her already weakened body?" Harry kept his tone neutral, trying as simply as he could to explain his point to the healer as best he could.
"Fine," the wizard sighed in resignation. "You have five minutes to ask her questions at which point the port key to St.Mungo's will activate." Harry smiled appreciatively.
"Won't be a problem," he focused his attention on the young woman in front of him. "Miss Whiton –"
"Ella, please call me Ella." The girl's voice was all but a rasp, something he hadn't noticed in her out burst at Kingsley.
"Ella, will you tell me about the attack on your house?"
"The Doctor already knows what happened."
"Has he asked you any questions?"
"No, but he waved a stick at me and proceeded to tell your partner a bunch of rubbish about what happened," Harry was used to disbelief from muggles, even fear. Some how this girl didn't seem to disbelieve or be afraid so much as simply want to be difficult.
"You don't believe the attackers used curses on you?"
"If that's what you people call it, yes they did seem to have power over us."
"Us?"
"My family and I. My Mother and Rachelle they just dropped to the floor … both were cold as stone. Daddy and Lauren … they went with two of the men. The other two stayed with me … I … They …" Her raspy voice seemed to grow even smaller, younger sounding as the story died on her lips. She was shaking violently, as though she'd been recently hit with a jelly-legs hex. Harry was about to ask her to continue when her voice seemed to return, the same strong, confidant voice with which she had addressed Kingsley. "They did something to me, I'm not really sure what it was, but one of the men said something and my whole body felt like it was on fire. I don't think I've ever screamed like I did then." Her voice faltered a bit and she broke eye contact, her knuckles whitening on the cloaks hem. "The, they … they took turns touching me. One of them even … he … he r-raped me." That wasn't the end of it, but Harry felt that was enough for now.
"Thank you Ella."
"For what; watching strangers kill my family?"
"For being brave enough to tell me as much as you did, it's very difficult to rehash painful memories." That was Harry's understatement of the century, and Ella's face said as much.
"What are you people?" She looked up at Harry, catching his eye and searching for some sort of answer. He felt as though she were reading his soul.
"Enough," the Healer bustled into their conversation, breaking eye contact between Harry and the muggle girl. He had been oddly transfixed by those eyes, a clear turquoise in colour; they seemed too old for such a young girl. It was as though she'd seen more in her short lifetime to do with pain and suffering than he had, even after a life such as his.
He'd seen eyes like that before. He knew those eyes better than he knew his own bottle green pair. It was highly unlikely that a twenty-five year old muggle had experienced anything close to the death toll of the second war, nor had she known the guilt of knowing the people died due to your existence, that the people you loved were dropping like flies in an effort to protect you. Harry was an adult now, he had long ago come to the conclusion that none of what had happened was his fault, and that people weren't dying for him, they were dying for freedom, a way of life he hadn't been able to comprehend was slipping away before their eyes. So many of the people fighting knew what was at stake in a way he still didn't. Only Ginny had died, actually, physically defending him, and he would never forgive himself for that.
Harry made a split second decision, "I'm coming with you to St. Mungo's and I'll do the Obliviation." His plan wasn't exactly ethical, but it was the best he could come up with. Shaklebolt raised his brows at Harry, but remained silent.
"Auror Potter that is what Obliviators are for!" A young witch who would have been pretty if it weren't for the icy blue tinge to her lips protested.
"Yes, I am well aware of the procedure. However I need more information from her before she can be Obliviated, which means she cannot receive the procedure until after the Healers clear her." It was unbearable sometimes, the idiocy of the Ministry bureaucracy. You couldn't step on any other department's toes without a fight, no matter how important or logical your reasoning. Not to mention that the bloody pureblood over there thought she would be able to come up with a reasonable answer as to whom 'they' were, and what had happened.
"I do wish you people would stop talking about me as though I can't hear your every word. It would also be nice if you would tell me what this procedure you're all talking about is, and why exactly you plan to wipe my memory?" Harry turned back to the muggle girl; she had obviously regained her composure. It was disturbing – to say the least – the way she kept switching personalities.
"I would like to be in a position where I could explain –" Harry began.
"Oh I'm very sure you would, however I don't fancy having my memory wiped by either of you people so you can put a stop to that non-sense this instance!" She looked spitting mad and ready to mutiny any moment now.
"Alright I'm calling rank on all of you," Shaklebolt saw the same look Harry had and felt it prudent to step in and save his witness.
"About bloody time," Ella's words echoed Harry's thoughts so exactly he wondered briefly if maybe she wasn't magical.
"She will go to St. Mungo's for treatment, after which Auror Potter and I will deal with her memories. The Obliviators are better put to use here any way." The finality with which Kingsley spoke was enough to put everyone back on course. Within moments the Medi-wizard was prepping Ella for her journey to the hospital as they all gathered around a tyre iron he had pulled from his medical sack. The familiar tugging sensation and Harry was spinning towards the hospital, and so much more.