Posted 10/23/2014
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Fifty-Five - Scouting
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The Dark Lord let the silence linger for a moment, making Peter shift uneasily under the gaze. Finally, after what felt like an eternity awaiting the punishment Peter had come to expect in his years of service, the Dark Lord spoke up. "Very well, Wormtail. Continue with your task as soon as possible."
Peter barely kept from sighing in relief. Not even the use of the moniker bothered him as much as usual, not after the dismissal. Shuffling back to his place at the back of the wall, Peter's thoughts returned to the small potions lab he had been working in for days. If all went according to plan, he might be finished within the next week. Restocking on some of the rarer healing potions and salves certainly wasn't thrilling; Peter knew it, and so did everyone else in the room. However, if he did a good enough job, it might lead to a new and more important assignment. That too was a widely known fact – the Dark Lord rewarded service, but punished incompetence.
"It is truly a sight to behold," the Dark Lord said, looking at his followers. "In just two years, our numbers have risen; lost brothers and sisters have returned while new ones joined our cause. Many have seen the truth. Many have seen reason. Many have come to our side and have done their part for the betterment of our society." He rose from his throne. "Yaxley, you have served me well; without you, Bones would have continued to be a thorn in our side. Dolohov, you brought down the Scottish resistance before it had any significance. Walters, your information proved very useful indeed." The Dark Lord waited for a moment. "Lord Voldemort rewards those who serve him well," he announced, and Peter immediately understood what was coming next. "But Lord Voldemort punishes those who fail him," the Dark Lord continued in a cold tone, causing some of the Death Eaters to flinch.
Someone yelled, and only moments later, Albert Conroy was thrown to the ground in the middle of the room with Rabastan Lestrange towering over him. Almost at once, the light dimmed; Conroy glanced up at the Dark Lord as the other Death Eaters formed a circle around the two.
"Well, Albert," the Dark Lord mocked, "do you have anything to say?"
"I... I'm your faithful servant," Conroy gasped. "I..."
"You lie," the Dark Lord interrupted with a lazy wave of his hand, silencing the traitor. Peter barely managed to hide his satisfied smile. He had caused this, and while he didn't hate Conroy, he had little qualms about using it to advance himself.
"You lie," the Dark Lord repeated, "and you do it even though you know nothing can be kept from Lord Voldemort." Someone chuckled darkly, knowing Conroy's fate had been sealed already. "You have been working for our enemies. You have betrayed me. You have betrayed our cause."
No one chuckled this time, not even Bellatrix. Instead of her look of mad devotion, she seemed on the verge of killing Conroy on the spot, if not with her glare, then surely by pulling her wand. Lying was laughable; most had been accused of it at least once, but apart from a fair bit of torture of one kind or the other, it had been of little consequence. Betrayal was another matter.
Conroy shook his head wildly, mouthing something, but no sound came out.
"Did you really think Lord Voldemort wouldn't notice? Or did you think he wouldn't care?" With another wave, the Dark Lord lifted the silencing spell; Conroy's words tumbled out immediately.
"... never dared! My Lord, I have always been..."
Conroy screamed suddenly, convulsing on the ground. It took Peter a moment to realize the Dark Lord had moved already. Wand trained on the traitorous Conroy, the Dark Lord held the torture curse for a while until his victim's screams were little more than gasps for air.
"Let us see if we can't get the truth out of him," the Dark Lord proclaimed. "Wormtail, Carmichael, go."
Peter did as he was told, leaving his place in the circle. He didn't have to be told what to do; he knew what was asked of him.
Carmichael was first to the door, and she led the way to the guest rooms. For a moment, Peter felt envious. In just little more than four months, the lithe woman had managed to gain the Dark Lord's favour. In little more than four months, she had proven herself in combat; she had earned herself the respect of some of the more prestigious followers. And yet, after years of service, after successfully spying on the Order, after handing over the Potters, Peter had gotten nowhere near the recognition that upstart had earned herself.
Still not speaking, Carmichael turned left and strode into one of the rooms. She was greeted by a furious scream, but didn't seem fazed in the slightest, casually leaning out of the path of a vase that crashed against the corridor wall. "Mr. Conroy," Carmichael spoke up, catching a book out of the air as if it were of no concern, "your presence is requested in the dining hall." With a swish of her wand, she bound the elderly man again.
Not wanting to be outdone by the upstart, Peter hurried to fetch the other guest. Taking a deep breath and pulling his wand just in case, he pushed the door open, hoping whoever had tied their guests up had done a better job with this one. It didn't seem that way, however – close to the wooden chair, some ropes lay on the ground. The room wasn't empty, though; pure instinct made Peter jump back, and not a second too soon. He stumbled and fell to the ground, but evaded the surprise attack the Wilcox girl seemed to have prepared for him. She crashed into the door frame. It looked painful, and Peter was glad it hadn't been him that had been slammed against the wood. Only a moment later, however, he caught himself – he still had a wand, and he was still a servant of the Dark Lord.
His stunning spell missed by the breadth of a hair, it seemed; the blond girl had recovered just a bit too soon from her impact. With the desperation of a trapped animal and the daring of a true Gryffindor, she jumped towards Peter. A shimmer, the reflection of light in her hand was all the warning he got, but it was enough to make him roll out of the way. For the second time, the girl missed her target.
Hissing almost like a cat, making the hairs on Peter's neck stand up, Wilcox made a wild swing in his direction. Peter sent yet another stunning spell at her, but missed once more. Wilcox jumped, her left hand outstretched and ready to grab Peter, her right close to her body. Snarling, she caught his right arm, and with her momentum, she easily pushed his wand hand out of the way. However, her attack failed. Whether by luck or instincts, Peter had managed to deflect her right hand. Instead of his throat, it hit the ground about an inch away from his ear.
A flash of red light interrupted the struggle for control. Wilcox crumbled, lifeless.
"A bit on the feisty side, isn't she?" Carmichael commented idly, her wand back on the bound Mr. Conroy.
With a glare, Peter pushed the unconscious Wilcox off of him. Just what he needed – owing that upstart a debt for helping him.
"You're bleeding," Carmichael added, pointing to Peter's left arm. She was right; it bled from a cut along the back of his arm. Peter's eyes darted to Wilcox' right hand. A shard of glass lay next to it, partly wrapped in some cloth to create a make-shift knife.
Peter barely managed to keep from cursing loudly. "Whoever tied them up, anyway?" he growled, quickly binding Wilcox. "Both of them getting free? Really?"
"What does it matter?" Carmichael replied with a shrug, watching as Peter struggled to his feet and inspected his arm. "Here, let me help you," Carmichael offered with a smirk, waving her wand. The cut healed and left nothing but a faint line. "Now let's not keep the Dark Lord waiting, shall we?"
Together, they walked back through the corridor, each levitating one prisoner. When they arrived back at the dining room, the circle parted to make way for them.
"Ah," the Dark Lord spoke up mockingly, "our guests of honour have arrived." He lifted the revived the stunned Wilcox on Peter's side.
Conroy whirled on his spot. His face was bruised, and a deep cut indicated he already felt the anger and impatience of the master he had betrayed, yet what little colour had remained left him as he saw the prisoners. He mouthed soundlessly, and Peter wondered whether he had been silenced again.
"Yes," the Dark Lord said, "there are no secrets from Lord Voldemort." With a wave of his wand, he froze Conroy; another wave made the traitor whirl on the spot to come face to face with the Dark Lord.
"Let us see, then," the master said, and some around the room shifted uncomfortably, Peter included. He knew how it was to face judgement by the Dark Lord. "What do you think of our guests? We took great lengths to get them here tonight, did you know? I sent someone to fetch them, even." After a moment of silence, the Dark Lord's lips curled. "Bring the girl here," he ordered with a wave of his wand in Conroy's direction. "Let us see what we can learn from them."
"Wait!" Conroy shouted. "I... I'll tell you everything I know! I... They have nothing to do with it!"
"Empty promises," the Dark Lord mocked. "Tell me then, Conroy. Tell me what you know. Tell me of your betrayal, how you met with the girl, how you passed her information and tried to help her escape Lord Voldemort's wrath."
Conroy swallowed a lump in his throat. "I never did such a thing, my Lord! I... I'm your servant! I never betrayed you!"
Wilcox made to speak, but a wave of the Dark Lord's wand silenced her.
"You still dare lying the Lord Voldemort. Haven't you learned that nothing can be kept from him, the greatest wizard the world has ever seen? Lord Voldemort knows you met her, he knows you met the resistance."
"Bones!" Conroy gasped, "I ran into her, yes, but she left before I could capture her! I have nothing to do with Bones! I... I'll bring her to you. I swear I'll bring her to you, I'll prove myself to you, I'll prove my loyalty!"
"The Bones girl doesn't matter," the Dark Lord told him. "You have nothing to offer."
Conroy paled further. "I... I failed. I've wavered in my loyalty, I... I beg your forgiveness."
"Doesn't that feel refreshing?" the Dark Lord said with a mocking smile. "Yes, telling the truth is liberating. It's a shame you hadn't been so honest with me before I had your father and the girl brought in. Why did you sneak out, I wonder, to meet with her? Come on, let's hear your explanation."
Wilcox struggled against the ropes binding her, but couldn't break free. All she could do was shout mutely. Peter took the opportunity to punch her in the side – his small revenge for the trouble she had caused him.
"I..." Conroy began, casting a frightened glance around, but no one stepped forward to help him. "We... I knew her from school. We ran into each other."
"And you fell in love," the Dark Lord finished with a mirthless laugh. "How droll. It doesn't matter; you sneaked out, knowing you shouldn't. You betrayed Lord Voldemort."
"I beg your forgiveness!" Conroy grovelled.
"Silence," the Dark Lord commanded. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Bellatrix' glee and wasn't the least bit surprised. Out of all of the Dark Lord's followers, she would enjoy the torment the most.
With a simple wave of the wand, the Dark Lord made Wilcox drift over, crumbling to the ground in the middle of the room. Their eyes met, and Peter knew the Dark Lord searched for any and all knowledge she might have that could prove useful. He had done it with Bertha Jorkins; he had done it with many of his enemies; he had done it with his followers.
After a tense moment, the Dark Lord broke the eye contact, turning to Conroy again. "Lord Voldemort offered you power. He offered you wealth. He offered you a future. Yet you threw it all away only to beg for forgiveness now."
Conroy shivered on the ground.
"You will still be useful," the Dark Lord said.
Conroy, his head bent, missed the gleam in the dark wizard's eye. "Thank you, my Lord. I will not disappoint you again."
"Lord Voldemort rewards those who follow him unwaveringly," their master announced. "And he punishes those who do not." The movement was too quick to be seen by most; Wilcox curled up, screaming, as the torture began.
Inwardly, Peter was thankful he didn't have many people left he held dear, but like everyone else, he stood and watched. He watched Conroy's desperate pleading; he watched as the Dark Lord punished Wilcox for her friend's transgression; he watched as the girl was almost driven insane. He watched until Conroy's face fell and his hope died – until Conroy was killed with a simple flick of a wand. When the Dark Lord was done and had left, Peter moved again, not listening as Bellatrix dragged the half-conscious Wilcox off.
"All right, I'm off for my scouting mission," Harry told Hermione. "Shouldn't take too long, just a quick sweep of the area. Anything you want me to bring back for you?"
She shook her head. "No, it'll be fine. Be careful, and don't forget, dinner will be in about two hours. If you can manage it, that'd be nice."
"That's hardly a problem, is it? Two hours, all I need to do is a quick look at the wards to see whether he has worked on them."
After a moment of silence, she shrugged. "I guess so."
Harry had a hunch what she was thinking about and decided to be back in time to save Hermione, Ron, and Daphne from the awkward moment of dinner without him. From what he had noticed, they were somewhat civil most of time, but it was probably a good idea to have him around to keep the peace. Pushing the thought out of his mind, Harry waved once and headed out.
Apparating under the guise of a wiry, pockmarked man with a massive nose and greying, longer hair just in case, Harry thought about his past excursions. He knew a lot about Nott already, and just like any Death Eater, his home shouldn't be that difficult to get into. Well, not that difficult for Tom, of course, and likewise for Harry, who knew the same backdoors the dark lord had forced upon all his followers, but unlike Macnair, who hadn't bothered with additional protections and closing all other loopholes, Nott had been thorough, leaving Harry with either taking down some or maybe even all of the wards, announcing his tactic of sneaking into the homes of his marks. So far, he had been able to keep that part secret, misleading the Ministry about the time and his presence at the scene of crime. On the other hand, sneaking in through with Riddle's backdoor could be a risk of a different kind in that it might reveal the secret knowledge of Death Eater's protections.
And there was the house, Harry thought, glancing at the rather mundane building from his spot. Hidden by trees, it was actually quite decent. A small pond close to it reminded Harry of the Burrow, but he pushed the thought aside. Crouching down, he picked at the ground, searching for signs of wards and charms. It didn't take long for him to find something new and surprising, and Harry would have laughed, had the situation not been so serious. Nott had added a protection since the last visit, but he had done a rather bad job. For one, simply adding a new layer didn't guarantee success, and for another, he hadn't bothered integrating it in other wards. However, without the proper connections to the rest of the wards, making it come down would be easy. More importantly, it was even easier to get past the ward.
Eyes focused on the ground, Harry found some small protections he hadn't expected. Alarms, Harry recognized, even if they were rather simple. Tom wouldn't have minded them, not when he could simply walk through them and let the inhabitants know someone was coming.
Reconnaissance missions were an integral part of his strategy. If he wanted to surprise his victims in their own home and leave without a trace of his attack, he needed to be sure he could evade notice before it was too late. As such, he had taken to spying and watching the targets. Goyle had been laughably easy, just a quick stunner, a few memory spells, and he was done. Macnair had been a different matter in that he had been too sure about his supposed safety. With only minimal protections in place, it had been no problem to get to him. Szarka had been wary, but also not that difficult to overcome. The man had been a smuggler, not a warding specialist or fighter. Or rich, Harry added after a moment. And he had foolishly thought no one would come after him.
And that was the perimeter alarm Riddle occasionally taught his followers, Harry thought, stepping over a small hedge. Nott had put it to good use, the inner wards extending just a bit over the physical border. Lesser men and women would have seen the hedge and believed it to be of significance and not thought it might be a deception. But no, Harry had noticed that one early on and knew just how to get past it.
And then, just as he was disabling yet another protection, he was blown off his feet by an unseen force. The moment he touched the ground, he twisted, concentrating on the first place he could think of – the Hogsmeade Train Station.
Nothing happened, and the spin unbalanced him. The split moment to catch himself was enough – his wand was torn from his hands by magic and to the right. So that was how getting disarmed felt like.
"Ah, no, I don't think so. Apparition? Really?" a cold, disembodied voice laughed to the right. One enemy; male, by the sound of it, but invisible. Harry's wand, however, remained visible for a moment, allowing Harry to pinpoint the location of at least one enemy. "Do you think we are idiots?"
"Kind of," Harry replied with a chuckle.
Only his quick reflexes saved him from what looked like an Incarcerus from somewhere to his left that missed him by the breath of a hair. So one enemy was to the left, then. The situation wasn't as bad as it could have been, though – there were probably a handful surrounding him, not a full army, and they were susceptible to taunts.
A hiss from the right had Harry smiling inwardly. Apparently, he wasn't the only one whom the spell had barely missed. It also meant whoever was left wasn't experienced with fighting invisible. They had probably put their least experienced fighter to his left, expecting it to be his weaker side.
"All right, hands up," the voice from the right ordered.
"Or you'll try hitting each other again?" Harry mocked in a low grumble that hopefully sounded convincing. He scanned his surroundings. How many were there? At least two, Harry knew, but probably more. Just a quick flick and he'd have his second wand in hand. But then, he still didn't know where all of the attackers were exactly, and he'd lose the advantage of a surprise attack very fast. A sweeping strike to the right might be enough to take out anyone hiding there, but it wasn't impossible that they had put their strongest fighter elsewhere.
"I said there was someone there," a woman announced from the left, roughly from where the spell had come. She sounded worried and, if Harry had to guess, young. "What do we do now? Call the Ministry?"
"The Ministry?" the disembodied voice laughed, and Harry recognized it as Nott's. Nott to the right, someone worried to the left. Harry made sure to remember the spot and keep an eye on any signs of movement around Nott or the woman's hiding places. "No, this one's ours. He wanted to visit us, didn't he? The Ministry? No, don't need them mucking everything up and making things more complicated than necessary." To Harry, he added, "So let's see what we have here, no? Let's get acquainted, you and I."
Around Harry, people dropped their disillusionment charms. Four, Harry counted. Mr. Nott stood slightly to the right side, wand trained on the intruder. He was roughly at the spot Harry's wand had vanished. At the man's side, a weedy woman glared at Harry. While he couldn't see many similarities to Theodore Nott, Harry knew she was Mrs. Nott. A man Harry didn't know stood in front of him, but he had little trouble recognizing what that one was. He carried himself with the aura of power, shoulders squared and jaw set, yet ready to pounce at a moment's notice. This one had learned how to fight, and he didn't hesitate from harming or killing. To the left of Harry was a pudgy woman with a slight overbite he thought he had seen sometime at school. She was in her mid-twenties and had been graduating when he began school. Strange how time had passed. Still, he could attach a name to the face - Victoria Nott, the daughter.
Harry did a quick run-down. Nott and his wife at his side were the leaders; the daughter was back-up; the thug was the safety net in case something went wrong.
"Now then, who do we have here?" Mr. Nott wondered, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips as he stared at Harry. "With a face like that, I'd sneak around as well, but that doesn't mean you should've come here of all places. You could be one of mine, but you aren't, I know that. I don't think we have met before, but you do look familiar in a way. There is something there, but..."
With a jolt, Harry became aware of the similarities the man had noticed. Harry hadn't taken Polyjuice Potion and only transfigured himself. The nose wasn't his, but not the most noticeable in his face. The hair was easy to change and not something witches and wizards would consider a good clue about someone's identity. His face may have changed, but he hadn't changed everything – certainly not some of the more recognizable features. He still wore his glasses, for one. He hadn't dared played around with his eyes. And while he didn't really look like himself, his disguise had been intended to fool someone at a distance, not to withstand a closer inspection.
"The eyes," Mr. Nott spoke up suddenly, his voice an awed whisper.
Harry felt a cold wash over his back. Nott had recognized him; Harry knew it. Nott knew who was behind it. Worse, Harry had allowed himself to be seen and caught. But the danger cleared his head. All other thoughts were pushed from his mind, and all that was left was the problem at hand. He'd been seen. His secret would get out. He had to step in. He had to take steps to protect it. He knew what needed to be done. He needed to silence the witnesses.
"The eyes," Nott whispered disbelievingly. "it those eyes. It's him, it's..."
Nott had figured it out – top priority. The thug was the safety net in case something went wrong – high priority. The pudgy girl was back-up – little risk. Harry stopped thinking. Decades of experience backing him up, he struck, quick as a snake and deadly. His left hand slashed through the air in an arc directed at the thuggish man in front of him while his right flicked, bringing the second wand out.
His spell had hit, Harry was sure of it. The element of surprise had worked for once, the wandless magic had torn into flesh and Nott's first spell had ricocheted off of Harry's reflective shield in the thug's direction. A rain of blood splattered the grass from where the victim had his chest sliced open almost horizontally, the unknown thug's spell likewise reflected in Nott's direction. But Harry had already realized the wandless spell hadn't cut deep enough – instead of slicing the man in half, he had gotten little more than a scratch and not deep enough to sever the spine.
Pudgy Victoria in the back, two in front of him, Harry threw himself to the ground to roll off, sending a wall of fire at the girl mid-movement, followed by another swish of his hand. While not targeted, it worked as a distraction. The girl was thrown off her feet – enough to keep her busy for the moment and off-balance, but she never landed. Finishing his roll and jumping back to his feet, he used a somewhat crude levitation charm on her with his free hand. The wandless spell worked about as well as he had hoped – the pudgy girl was flung through the air and towards the unknown thug who was beginning to recover from his shock. With a swish of his wand, Harry sent a slicing spell his way. It ended the levitation, and while the girl crashed to the ground, the thug was split in half from hip to shoulder.
One down, three left, Harry thought grimly as he faced Nott and the weedy woman, but not only was the element of surprise gone, he had also shown his aptitude with wandless magic. They now knew just what they were up against. He saw it in the weedy woman's eyes. She had shifted away from Nott, leaving Harry with three separate targets. She sent a cutting curse his way he easily sidestepped, only to duck under a spell he didn't know from the pudgy girl to his left.
Silence the witnesses, Harry thought. Only three left.
With a flick of her wand, the destroyed dummy vanished, only to be replaced by another.
Daphne dropped into one of the stances she had been working on. Speed, she reminded herself, she was light on your feet, she was fast and agile. Quick attacks, spells she was familiar with. Diversity, she added after a moment's hesitation.
Keeping her goals in mind, she imagined the dummy being Malfoy. Sneering at her, mocking her weakness, on she could practically hear his taunts. Then her wand moved, a jab, then a twirl, an upward jerk, followed by a looping motion back to the target, slashing the air, a whirl following the motion, a roll on the floor, conjuring a flock of birds in a sudden inspiration and sending them at the target. Jumping to her feet, she made a sweeping motion. The birds, almost upon their victim, transformed into rough arrows. Professor McGonagall would have chided her for the sloppy work, but Daphne just followed it with a barrage of stunners, Bone-breakers and cutting curses, finishing it off with a burst of flames. Without wasting time, she conjured another group of dummy and unleashed her fury at Malfoy on them.
Panting after the workout about a quarter of an hour later, she looked at the smouldering remains of the dummies. She had definitely improved a lot, and she was happy about that. Most of her attacks had hit, and she had kept a good attack pattern. But would she stand a chance against the real deal? Would she trounce Malfoy? Or had he gotten lessons from his psychopathic aunt? It was possible, and it was worrying to think about. Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't only mad, she was also rumoured to be incredibly skilled. If she'd given her nephew some training, just what would Malfoy be capable of? Would he have any reservations?
Daphne vanished the remains, conjuring a chained dog. If she wanted to face the wizard, she needed to test herself against a living and moving target. Duelling against Harry had taught her a lot about a real fight, especially being prepared for surprises.
Her first spells hit, and the dog understood his task well enough. Barking and snarling, he tried to attack her, but he had also learned to avoid magic. Her wand danced, spells raining down on the canine. She missed often, but some of the hexes and jinxes got through, and with each passing moment, it became easier. In fact, it was strangely reminiscent of fighting against Harry, she realized with a chuckle – he also rarely stood still and had a knack for somehow slipping out of harm's way.
After about five minutes, she landed a lucky hit with a cutter, splitting the dog from head to tail. She vanished the body. Birds then, she decided. If she could take down a flock of birds, then her aim couldn't be that bad. And it would teach her awareness of her surroundings.
That part of training took longer than she would have liked and left her with a few scratches on her face and arms, but filled her with a sense of pride. True, she had had trouble with it, but she had managed in the end.
Wiping sweat from his face, she imagined Harry's face when she would wipe the floor with him. One day, she would win. No matter how much training he had gotten from people like Moody, despite his talent and experience, even Harry wasn't invincible. And that meant she would find a weakness one day.
Well, she thought, a weakness she could use against him in a fight.
Allowing herself a grin, she conjured another dummy, mostly to practice some of the spells she wasn't overly good at. Yes, she mused, she did know something he was apparently weak to, but then, he didn't seem to fight it much. Whether in the library or the training room, many of their meetings in the past week had led to them enjoying a private moment or two. And just as he couldn't resist her, so did Daphne find herself unable to resist him. Had she really deemed his kisses entertaining once? Had she really hesitated at first, unsure of whether she had wanted a repeat? The memories of his kisses – the short, sweet pecks stolen in passing; the longer ones that felt as natural as breathing to her when the world seemed to consist of nothing but Harry and her; the ones that spoke of a longing that threatened to consume them – came to her mind. She had to have been a fool to deny herself that happiness. Why would she ever have wanted to in the first place? Kissing him wasn't merely entertaining, and ever since that first evening, she had known it. It was powerful and untainted and sweet and a downpour, washing away the dirt and weariness she had collected over the years. It was the ray of sunshine and happiness, and every time they met, every time they kissed, she could feel both of their hearts beating for her. She'd found a kindred spirit, and since their first real kisses, she felt her old self reawaken, almost as if the last years had never been.
Pushing the thoughts out of her mind, she continued her training. Spell after spell she sent at dummies. She'd get her revenge, she thought wryly – it had taken long enough – and then she'd get to go outside. She missed the sun on her face, the wind in her hair. She missed being anywhere not cooped up. She missed running and the grass between her toes.
Maybe she could go to the continent after the war. Winter or not, Spain did sound nice. Or maybe she could travel farther south? Or maybe go east and visit her distant relatives in Hungary. Unless Daphne was mistaken, they had horses and lots of land to walk around on. Yes, she'd like that. Away from the war-torn country, away from the pain – maybe she'd heal.
But something felt off about that plan. She felt she couldn't just leave Britain behind like that, not in times of need. Maybe she could join some relief team? There would be a lot of rebuilding to do, and even though it had taken her father's imprisonment and her friends' example, in the end, Daphne had joined a side. Now a lot of those she liked were working against the Dark Lord; once the war would be over, they'd probably wouldn't just slink back into the shadows. There had to be something she could do; places she could go others couldn't. Her family's library, for one. Maybe she could find something there, something to help others? She dimly remembered a distant great-grandaunt working as a healer and leaving a book. And there'd be a lot of healing to be done one way or another.
Vanishing the remains, Daphne stepped out of the room and into the hallway. Dinner would be soon, but she needed to shower first. Not only did she want to get rid of the smell and sweat, she also enjoyed showering. It was nice in its own way, a very pleasant experience. And, she added with a smile, after dinner, Granger and Weasley would hopefully retreat to their rooms – or one of them, more likely. Just how long did it take them to get things going anyway? Harry and she had taken far less time – didn't Weasley and Granger know what they missed out on? But it didn't matter to Daphne all that much what those two got up to. With them out of the picture, Kreacher would busy himself with cleaning. Perhaps Harry would go to his room to brood – or think, as he liked to call it – but Daphne decided she wouldn't let him. No, the memories of their kisses too fresh in her mind, she decided she would pay him a visit and see whether they couldn't do something more worthwhile with the time. It'd been far too long since they had spent an entire evening together. They could take all evening, and one kiss might lead to another. And maybe they'd fall asleep together once more. While they hadn't really talked about that, Daphne had a feeling Harry wouldn't disagree. For one, it would mean a chance to kiss until they fell asleep, for another, it meant spending more time together. As far as Daphne could tell, there was no downside.
Yes, a shower would be a good idea. Once clean and fed, she'd sneak up to him for a while or a bit longer to be just a girl with her... whatever he was. Husband, technically, yes, but that didn't feel right. Husband, that had some meaning behind it. That had all kinds of implications. From paying attention to some deep bond. So, what has Harry to her?
She was just about to go into her room when she heard raised voices drifting from Granger's room. Well, not her business, Daphne thought, about to close the door for the other girl – a good deed a day although she wasn't sure who'd profit from it – but then, she caught a glimpse of the room through the crack. Inside, Weasley ran around. Granger was waving her wand frantically at a shock of black hair and a lot of red.
Instead of closing it, Daphne pushed it further open.
Kreacher ran around as well, preparing small things like potions. Weasley jumped here and there, looking sickly, either helping or standing in the way, Daphne wasn't too sure about that, but she didn't pay them much attention. Granger stood rigidly, casting spells at an astonishing speed and firing off orders to the elf, but her eyes were fixed on Harry, and no one looked worse than he did. Deathly pale, he lay on his back, eyes fluttering feebly. His shirt was off, revealing his torn body with what appeared to be chunks of his skin missing. His left arm seemed to have been mauled, shredded, looking for a second as if it had been split from hand to shoulder, with skin torn away, the flesh charred and torn. Despite the hubbub around her, Daphne heard nothing but her breath echoing deafeningly in the room as she stood frozen to the spot.
"Greengrass!" Granger yelled, "Don't just stand there! Ron, switch with her, I need your help and Dittany." She cast something else on Harry's arm. It jerked, some of the flesh reattaching itself with a squelching noise.
The sudden movement, the sickening sight woke Daphne from her shock. She staggered forward, her eyes still fixed on Harry, afraid he'd be gone the moment she looked away. Weasley pushed something in her hands. A bottle. "Blood Replenishment," the redhead growled, grabbing another bottle and running to the bed. Daphne followed dazedly.
From up close, it looked both worse and better, strangely. Whatever had done it had destroyed a lot, but the wounds on his torso seemed to be healing as soon as Weasley dripped the liquid from his bottle on it. New flesh replaced what had been lost, and new skin covered some of the spots. The clean cuts reminded Daphne of the Splinching accidents she had heard about.
The arm was worse because she could see the damage clearly, and better because she could see whatever Granger was doing seemed to work. Bit by bit, the damage was undone. While the skin was still missing in many places and the flesh underneath reeked, it had stopped bleeding apart from a small dribble.
Still, Daphne felt bile rising in her at standing next to a blood-drenched bed, and the smell rising in her nose made her dizzy. But more than that, despite the air suffocating her, despite the pain in her chest and her limbs as heavy as lead, she moved. The blood replenishment was still in her hand, and she opened it. Her eyes locked on his face, her fear making her skin tingle and screaming to run away as far as she could, she opened his mouth, shocked by how cold and clammy he felt. There was no power there, no life and no mind she could see, but with shaking hands, she put the bottle to his lips and tipped it. The potion made its way into his mouth.
The shock of seeing him swallow, of seeing the life still left in him, and of him fighting for it made her almost drop the bottle, but instead, she clenched it twice as hard while Granger worked to save his life, Weasley fixing some minor, life-threatening wound, and Kreacher worked tirelessly for his master's friend. In trance, she followed the orders, Granger gave her, giving Harry this or that to drink, but Daphne rarely dared look away from Harry.
It wouldn't go off, she thought, cowered in the chair and scratching her hands. Intellectually, she knew the blood was gone. The blood was gone, and yet her heart told her it was still there. How long would it take to come to terms with it? How long until she wouldn't see him weak and fighting for his life? Even close to the brink, he had fought, even when all strength had left him, he had found some to carry on.
The blood was still there, Daphne thought. It couldn't be washed away, blood like that stayed with someone until it became a part of them. She scratched her face, running her fingers through her hair absent-mindedly.
What time was it? She didn't know. Maybe it was morning already. Maybe she'd fallen asleep. It had to be late, she supposed, but she knew she couldn't sleep. The memories were too fresh, and her mind wouldn't let her rest, and maybe she'd go to bed and he'd be gone. Her fault. Her fault, and she knew it. Untainted, that's what she had thought, hadn't she? Her ray of sunshine and happiness. Stupid, she chided herself, scratching her hand once more. She'd returned to her old self, had started to like him, had let him in her heart. Too tempting. She'd practically begged for something to happen. Wasn't that how things worked out?
The echo of her breathing filled the air of the library. A sanctuary of sorts, and only the elf could enter. She'd sent him away, forbidden him from coming in. She didn't need any more accusations. She didn't want to see those eyes again.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to collect her thoughts. The storm has passed. You are alive. The blood is gone. The storm has passed. You are alive. You're not responsible. The blood is gone. You are alive. You're not responsible. Each time she went over it in her head, she calmed down a bit.
Harry wasn't dead yet, was he? And maybe it had nothing to do with her? No, she corrected, it likely had nothing to do with her. He'd heal and be healthy and whole again. And he could still be the ray of sunshine and happiness. It'd be tainted, yes, but he could still be it. He'd be hers, and she'd be his, so it'd be only fair, wouldn't it? A kindred spirit. How could she have expected anything else? Why had she thought Harry would be different? Of course he couldn't be untainted. Of course it couldn't simply be good. No matter what you tried, no matter what you hoped for or how hard you wished for it, you couldn't change a thing in the world. Hadn't she learned as much? How could she have expected to have one part of her life where she was truly free?
Maybe she should visit him, just to be sure and calm her mind. Maybe that would calm her, to know he was still alive, to see him once again, to know where he was. Maybe all she needed was replace the memories of him close to death with a more recent image. He'd survived, Granger had said as much. He'd survive, Daphne told herself.
Tiredly, she struggled to her feet, noticing the tingle in her legs. She'd sat for too long, had been to tense to pay attention to it before, but she managed. Stepping out of the library, she found the hallway quiet and the door to Granger's room ajar. Of course, it wasn't Granger's room right now, but the makeshift infirmary, but that didn't matter for the moment. Daphne slipped inside.
He lay there, looking pale, but peaceful. His left arm was in bandages, his chest covered by the blanket. Weasley had gotten the wound to close, Daphne knew. From Granger's mutterings, it had indeed been splinched, which meant it could heal over time. The arm was a different matter altogether. While Granger had managed staunch the bleeding and mend some of the damage, it hadn't worked completely, which probably meant whatever it had been that had caused the injury had been made to resist healing. Dark magic came to mind, but wounds by that didn't heal. Whatever it had been, it couldn't have been dark, but it acted like it, from what Daphne had seen. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what kind of spell it had been.
Absent-mindedly, she noticed someone had changed the sheets. She shouldn't be surprised; no one would let people sleep on bloodied sheets, after all, but she was still glad someone had done it. One less connection to the previous time she'd seen Harry.
She stepped closer, watching the blanket rise and fall slowly. So he was still alive. He looked positively small and fragile, but seeing him alive made breathing far easier for her.
"Greengrass," a voice announced.
Daphne turned around, her wand slipping into her hand. "Granger," she greeted.
"Why are you here?" The brown-haired Muggleborn watched her carefully, wand hidden at her side and ready for a fight.
Daphne bit back a comment she was longing to throw in Granger's face for intruding, for disrupting a private moment, but she felt she owed Granger a debt for her deeds of the day. "He is my husband, in case you've forgotten," Daphne replied with a forced laugh, not quite ready to admit the truth – that she needed to see him to calm her fears.
"Pah," Granger scoffed, "I know about the contract and how you two conspired beforehand, so don't feed me that rot. We both know you are only married on parchment, not in truth. You might..."
"I owe him for playing along with that, a debt I plan to repay," Daphne pressed out. The casual dismissal of any connection between Daphne and Harry hurt more than Daphne wanted to admit; whether Granger knew or not, Daphne liked to think there was more than just the marriage.
"I asked why you are here, Greengrass," Granger spoke with more force behind her words. "Why did you sneak in here in the middle of the night? After hiding for hours who knows where? You do realize how suspicious that is, right? An owed debt, a phoney marriage, neither is a good reason to come here now, yet stay away earlier. Sneaking in late at night doesn't really help."
Daphne bit her lip, but she couldn't stop herself from answering. "I... he's my... my friend," she tried. "I wanted to see how he is. I... I worried, I..."
"Yeah, no, Greengrass," Granger interrupted. "There's something you're not telling. The only reason you're here, the only reason why you have a roof over your head, the only reason your enemies haven't killed you yet is Harry. How did you repay his kindness? By attacking him. And now you want me to believe you are suddenly friends? Allies – that's what Harry said. You're working together, true. But friends?"
"I... Yes," Daphne decided, straightening her back. "Yes, we are friends. I know I sent a spell in his direction. I was there. I haven't done it since. Outside of training, that is," Daphne amended when Granger looked ready to speak up. "I still want to see him healthy and whole. Why? Because he's my friend, for one, and yes, I owe him for his help with the contract and the many other things he has done. Phoney or not, it was a decent thing to do. But apart from that, Granger, I do like him – that's why I said he's my friend. And I do worry. That's what I do when people I like are hurt or in danger."
"Healthy and... Then you shouldn't... It's stressful enough as it is around here, and I really don't need..." The Muggleborn broke off, shaking her head and biting back whatever else she had been about to say. "He'll survive," she said with a pained expression, "if that's what you're wondering, but he needs rest and quiet."
"That's good to hear," Daphne found herself saying.
"Idiot that he is, he still somehow always manages to do that." For a moment, Granger looked about as tired as Daphne felt, but then she recovered, just as Daphne was about to voice her thoughts. "Healing takes time, Greengrass," Granger said with a glance at their sleeping friend, "and rest. It'll be the best if you get some sleep. He won't wake for at least ten hours. There is no sense waiting around."
"Thank you," Daphne said with a nod, relaxing considerably and not caring that it had to have shown.
Granger's eyes flickered for a moment before her features softened. "Do you want to..." she hesitated. "Do you want to help?" she asked.
Daphne chuckled. "I thought you said he's healing? And only moments ago, you were ready to curse me. You said you don't believe I could worry for my friend. A friend, mind you, who not only also happens to be my husband, but also my best hope of seeing my friends and father again."
"I didn't mean help me treat him," Granger replied with a roll of her eyes. "You're rubbish at that, we both know as much." After a moment, she continued in a slightly remorseful tone, "But there might be something you could do. Something to hopefully help me do something for him. So, do you want to help?"
Narrowing her eyes, Daphne nodded, but kept quiet. She hadn't missed the Muggleborn's reluctance to apologize for her earlier suspicions – ignoring, of course, that she hadn't been helping her cause and didn't have a clean record either. But she did pick up on the implied peace offering from Granger. And if there was indeed something she could do to help Harry, then Daphne wouldn't complain.
"Well, good," Granger replied, "because this might be a bit problematic. I want to see whether you can bring me into the library."
"Only Blacks are allowed," Daphne said, slowly starting to nod as she began to understand.
"Harry can grant me access on a case-to-case basis, and it seems that, phoney marriage or not, you seem to share many of the privileges. If he can do it, maybe you can as well. There might be something useful in the library. Granted, I don't know all of the details, and seeing as how we're talking about purebloods, I wouldn't be surprised if there were traps and complications or some parts Harry left out when he explained it, but it's worth a shot."
"And you guess that I can do it as well, despite the phoney marriage," Daphne concluded, but she couldn't help but feel slightly cheered up at the prospect. Granger's reasoning was sound, and it would give her something to do – something to accomplish and feel useful. "Come on then," she sighed, "it's worth a try."
You can tell Hermione and Daphne will become the best of friends.
