Disclamer : Still borrowing J.K. Rowling's wonderful characters. Still not making any money. Sigh. Life can be so unfair!
Chapter 2: Mortality
The Foursome remained rigid. The moon set and the sun rose. In day, they faded, the midnight strands shimmering in the light. As the shadows lengthened once again, their outlines began to appear. The sun fell and washed them with a bloody trail, and they flickered, becoming reality.
They circled around the fire, crouching with their hands thrust over the flames. They said nothing, only watched the threads twist and turn. Their fingers did nothing to make them move, it was sheer will and fleeting desire. As one, their heads lifted, sniffing the air.
A black shape materialized, rooted in the fire. Long fingers clutched a wand and his hood turned from side to side, measuring up his opponents. The four laughed again, the air throbbing with their many layered voice.
"Mortal," they said together, "you are a fool. Do you seek to conquer us?"
The figure said nothing.
Hermione retched over the side of her mattress, the blood and bile staining the sheets and the cold floor red. She convulsed until nothing rose, until the taste faded to a metallic ring at the back of her throat. Shuddering, she heaved herself weakly back to rest squarely on the bed, sobbing softly without realizing it.
She started as a shadow loomed across her blurry vision, tall and forbidding.
"Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall whispered, kindly placing a warm hand on her shoulder, "come with me."
"I don't need to see Madame Pomfrey," she muttered thickly. "I'll be fine now, really."
"Come with me, Granger," McGonagall repeated. "This isn't about your health, but about your mother's."
She sat bolt upright, her heart choking her throbbing veins. "Mum? Has something happened to her?"
"If you would just follow me, we could discuss it," the teacher said, her voice still ringing with that foreign sound of patience and pity, strange on her sharp tongue.
"Professor?" a voice murmured sleepily at the other end of the room. "Is something the matter?"
"Go back to sleep, Miss Brown. This is between me and Miss Granger."
Lavender rolled over, never truly awake, and slipped into dreamless sleep.
Hermione finally scrambled out of bed, padding softly after the erect woman in front of her. She asked no questions, but fears and doubts beat against her skull, her temples pouring with sweat and her breathing ragged. Her sickness, nightmare induced, returned.
"Professor," she called weakly, begging to stop for a moment. She leaned over and heaved again, making nothing but a dry choking noise. Her stomach had been emptied long ago.
"You're shivering," McGonagall muttered, bending over the girl. She put a hand on her forehead, almost recoiling from the shock of meeting boiling skin. She noticed in the torchlight how pale Hermione was, the glassiness of her brown eyes and the strands of bushy hair plastered to her cheeks. "Are you quite sure you don't need to see Madame Pomfrey? The infirmary is open for emergencies."
"I'm fine. Just tell me about my mother. What happened?" Hermione stumbled ahead, lost in her agitation and dread.
McGonagall sighed and caught up to the sixteen-year-old, guiding her to Dumbledore's office. "The Headmaster will tell you. Best he does it — something this terrible doesn't deserve a secondary messenger." Privately, she was relieved not to break the news. Hermione's anger was not something to be faced lightly.
The gargoyle guardian sprang aside, allowing the two women to climb the slowly spiraling stair to Dumbledore's office. The round room was silent, filled only with the sound of the numerous portraits' heavy breathing. They peered gravely at the disheveled Hermione under half-closed lids.
"Ah, Hermione," Dumbledore said, waking from drowning thought. "Please, sit." He appraised her slightly green composure and wordlessly handed her a piece of warm chocolate, fresh from the cellar of Honeydukes, a magnificent candy shop in Hogsmeade. "Minerva," he said, turning to the Deputy Headmistress, "would you like to stay?"
"If Miss Granger doesn't mind." She hesitated, but Hermione said nothing. She magicked a chair that floated down beside Hermione's.
"My mum," Hermione prompted. Her stomach welcomed the sugar from sticky hands, and she at least felt able to hear the news.
"Yes. Your mother." Dumbledore sighed and pushed his half-moon spectacles higher on his very long nose. "Hermione, I am afraid to report that your mother is one of many victims in a recent Muggle-torture riot. She is currently in critical condition at St. Mungo's."
There was utter silence.
"St. M-Mungo's? But that's supposed to be just for beings of the magical world, not meant for Muggles!" Hermione objected half-heartedly.
"Certain exceptions can be made. A Muggle hospital could not treat these magical wounds. All the ones who were still breathing when the Order arrived were transported there immediately. Thirty Muggles were tortured," he said sadly, "only seven survived. Of those seven, five have died under the care of Healers."
Hermione paled. She was unaware of how her hands gripped the chair, slowly throttling the life out of it. "She-she's still alive though?"
"At this very instant, yes."
Hermione simply sat there. For the first time since she could speak, words failed her. She held Dumbledore's gaze, detached and numb, as if another controlled her thought and body. As she met his blue stare, however, she felt irritation flare up, the same indignation she felt every time she saw him in the Great Hall. Upon close inspection, he looked simply weary, but it was worse than that. His eyes were calm. Usually, they flickered and twinkled with an inner unquenchable mirth or, when occasion demanded it, concern. But now, they were empty, void of any feeling at all. She realized he didn't care.
"Your father has been notified," he continued, and she noticed the lack of expression in his voice, "but I expect he will want to speak to you. You should let him know that you will return home and remain there as long as it takes for matters to settle."
"How?"
Dumbledore opened one of the many drawers in his desk and retrieved an old-fashioned telephone. It had no wires to connect to any service, and, perhaps even more surprising, was the fact that Dumbledore expected it to work on Hogwarts grounds. He smiled, interpreting her silence correctly. "According to Hogwarts: A History, a text I'm sure you're familiar with, electronics and Muggle inventions will not function properly on the grounds. However, bear in mind that the title contains the word 'history,' in itself the key to breaking rules. For there is no history until we create it, yes?" His long fingers quickly rotated the dial, and he handed the mouthpiece and receiver over to Hermione.
The ring was cut short.
"Da?" Hermione asked, her voice listless. "It's me, Hermione."
She heard quiet weeping on the other end.
"There's been no word. No improvements, but at least she hasn't..." a noisy swallow, "...hasn't died." Carson Granger changed the subject abruptly. "Will school let you come home? I know your grades are important to you, but we need you here. I need you here."
"Yes, I'm coming home for as long as it takes," Hermione answered. "I'll be arriving magically, so when I appear in the kitchen, don't be alarmed."
"Come soon."
"I will." She hung up the phone, white-faced. "Sir? Can I go now?
He flourished his wand at a pen lying on the corner of his desk, mumbling, "Portus."
She extended a finger towards the object and hesitated. "Sir? My studies?"
"All assignments will be transferred to you each evening. Your belongings should already be in your home."
"Thank you. Oh, and sir?"
"Yes, Hermione?"
"What about Ron and Harry?"
Professor McGonagall spoke up. "I'll let them know. Don't worry, I'll make it perfectly clear that this is not a kidnaping attempt by You-Know-Who."
"Voldemort, Minerva."
"Thank you." Hermione closed her eyes and touched the pen. It flared blue, then they both vanished.
Professor McGonagall sighed and shook her head. "Poor girl. How long do you think it will take, Albus?"
"Yes, poor girl," Dumbledore agreed, already lost amid his sinking thoughts. McGonagall shot him a worried look, then quietly took her leave.
"Hermione!"
She flung herself into her father's pale arms, bursting into tears at the sight of his distraught face. Shushing her, he led her to the couch in the living room, where they collapsed together on the stiff cushions. She sobbed on his shoulder for a long while, feeling the warm hand on her back stroke her as if she was an infant again. She was slowly calmed, and felt herself grow drowsy.
"How will we know whether she'll live?" she asked.
"I expect they'll owl us. That's how I knew about it in the first place, seconds before Professor Dumbledore rang."
"Oh."
They sat in silence, feeling the quiet twist their ears and the strain in the air become almost visible. Their fists were intertwined, neither noticing the bruising force they put on the other's. They remained in the same position in the dark for an hour, two, three.
Finally, they heard a tapping at the window.
Hermione jumped up, ripping the shades open and slamming the glass upwards The owl, small breast jerking after swift flight, glided inside and perched on the lamp sitting on the end table. He held out his leg and immediately took wing after the parchment was gently unwound.
"Here, Da. You read it first," Hermione said, switching on the light.
With shaking hands, he unrolled the tiny scroll. His eyes scanned it and he looked up at Hermione's anxious eyes. He took a deep breath and forced a smile, handing the letter to her.
"She's okay?" Hermione asked, joy springing from her chest. She bit her lip and brought the paper to her eyes, reading the neatly penned words:
Dear Mr. Carson Granger,
The Healers at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Maladies are some of the best wizards and witches of our time, chosen expressly for their extensive knowledge of magic. They are specially trained to cure all illnesses, injuries, and undesirable effects from careless spell casting, and there are very few cases that cannot be saved.
There are few, yet they exist.
We regret to inform you that Mrs. Joanne Gannet Granger passed away this day, October 23, at 4:16 A.M. The Healers did all they could to cure her, but their skill was not enough to save her fading mortality...
The paper slipped from her fingers. Behind her, her father fell back on the couch, a dry cry pulled violently from his scratched throat.
"Joanne! My Joanne..." he sobbed. Hermione sank down softly to the indented place beside him, smelling the faint scent of her mother's warm embrace. She raised her arms to catch her mother's spirit, to ensnare her with bones and blood and flesh before she forever joined the masses of steam in the depths of shadow. Her fingers slipped through the easy air, her grip sliding on nothing. She threw out her arms faster and faster, clenching and releasing the empty breath beside her ears, her eyes, her mouth.
"Mum!" she cried, head falling to chest in resignation. Her sweaty palms rested on her legs, stilled at last. "Mum."
A wave of exhaustion and grief enveloped her, and salt poured from her eyes even as they rolled into her skull. She hung limply from the arm of the couch, consciousness destroyed.
"What do you see?"
"Nothing. I heard it."
"It's gone now."
"Yes. Follow me. We go to the source, where the lantern light won't shine any longer."
"I know."
The beating was steady, barely audible to the human ear. It required Hearing, just as the coursing blood required Seeing, listening past the surface noises for the mother of life, humanity. Any could Hear, but the knowledge of existence was necessary. The knowledge could be gained from one who has already Heard or Seen or Tasted or Touched or Smelled, but the clearest road to discovery was through Dream.
Hermione swam below the surface, finding living breath in the blood, and keeping the cold black shoes constantly in sight. Submerged in blood, sounds were louder and sharper, allowing her to hear their sloshing footsteps even when the light failed.
"This is it."
A/N: Right. So, this chapter has actually been sitting in my Document Manager for a REALLY long time, but every time I had a chance to post it was wrecked by some activity or other. (Mothers can be so annoying at times!) I hope that it meets expectations grief can be extremely difficult to write, and it's so easy to just glide over it without really delving into the true feeling. I hope it sounds genuine; I personally have never felt any loss quite so keenly as Hermione and her father did. The closest I came to that was the parting of my babysitter, who cared for me for thirteen years and could almost be considered my mother. But I still see her she didn't die. So not quite the same.
Third chap's almost all done. Just needs to be edited and such (plus I need to figure out how our two lovebirds are gonna meet) before it's posted. That means an update will probably be up in two weeks or so maybe three, depending on schoolwork and my currently overloaded schedule bear with me!
Okay, thank you's:
Slytherinswn - My first reviewer! Thanks so much for taking time to read my story; it was a definite confidence booster to get such an encouraging review so early on. My parents had no IDEA of what I was so fricking happy about. Kisses!
Hafthand - Wow. I feel so honored for being reviewed by such a renowned author! Awesome feeling, that. Now if only I could get in a similar rhythm to that which you have (for updating and such), I'll be spludoinkle. I'm off to read your story right this minute, actually. Maybe I'll get inspired. (BTW, thanks for the encouragement. Came at a much-needed time.) And for Monsieur Dumbledore, you'll just have to wait and see. It will all come clear (I just have to think of the details first!).
MrsAccioFirebolt - Thank you for the wonderful compliment! I was so happy about it. I was like, Wow! A reviewer! Fun! (As you can see, I'm still kind of giddy about it.) And of course I'll let you know if I figure out how to fix that little problem of ours.
Everyone else who's reading and not reviewing: Thanks for stopping by. There's still a little button down there though, who's begging for some attention.
Kisses to everyone!Blood Rust