Happy Friday my lovelies!
This chapter isn't the most uplifting of chapters, but it was necessary. No one panic. No one dies or is in serious danger.
Sixth Year definitely moves at a quicker pace than their fifth year did, so if it seems like there are time jumps a bit, it's cause there are. No major ones though.
Please, please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
Saturday, January 22nd, 1977
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
London, UK
He was so fragile looking. So frail. So delicate. It was difficult looking at someone so young, yet so empty.
The artificial light from the window on the opposite wall seemed too bright, somehow bordering on cruel. The same light had bathed the boy for four years now, it'd washed over him every day since they'd placed him in this small, cramped room. There was enough room for the single bed he was laid out on, a thin, rickety chair in the corner, and a round, stubby table squeezed in between the bed and the wall on the other side of the room.
The only pleasant, somewhat uplifting things in here, were the fuschia blanket placed across his lower half, and the plum coloured curtains on the faux window. (The Healers that dealt with this wing tried the best they could, with what little they'd been given to aid in the care of a practically orphaned boy; he had no relatives left to care for him, the Healers were all he had left.)
"It was his Mum," a voice said softly behind Hermione and Draco, and the disguised witch and wizard nearly jumped out of their skin. Prickly tingles snaked their way along Hermione's spine, and then spread out across her scalp—mainly pooling in the curve of her neck at the base of her skull.
They weren't supposed to be in here, and if Draco hadn't gleaned enough information from the chatty receptionist that was filling in for the usual witch, they wouldn't be.
When they set out on this venture, they didn't anticipate finding a twelve year old boy who was worse off than Frank and Alice had ever been. Limp brown hair that had lost all of its' sheen, his head was turned away from them, and in the ten minutes they'd been standing there watching him—shell shocked—he hadn't budged an inch. If not for the soft, almost imperceptible way his chest rose and fell, they wouldn't have believed he was even breathing.
Hermione had the good grace to look sheepish at being caught, and was about to come up with an elaborate excuse for their presence, when Draco asked, his voice breaking, "his Mum did this?"
The unexpected Healer was an older man, silver hair dusted with pale blond streaks, deep frown lines were etched into his forehead, but joyous wrinkles were around his eyes and mouth as well. He then spoke in a gentle way, but one that demanded your attention despite its softness.
"Four years, two months and seventeen days ago, Liam was brought in by an Auror. I'll never forget it, the desperation in his voice as he burst in, carrying Liam's seizing, twitching body." The man strolled into the room, lapping his hands in front of him.
"It was raining—pouring. Nasty, frigid rain," the older wizard said.
Hermione and Draco remained silent, their shoulders drooping as they stepped into each other subconsciously.
"She used the cruciatus curse on her own son," Hermione whispered, absently toying with her dead-straight blond locks.
"For hours," he confirmed, coming to a halt alongside them, and he turned a keen eye to meet Hermione's. "She was suspected of dabbling in the dark arts, but it wasn't until that evening that it was confirmed. Their only neighbours came home and heard him screaming—she didn't even bother to throw up silencing charms."
"How awful," Hermione choked out, peering up at Draco, whose jaw was clenched tightly, and his gaze was fixed upon the floor.
"May I ask why you're here?" the wizened man asked.
Draco clearly decided honesty—to a point—was the best policy, "someone we once knew went through a similar experience."
"Ah," the man nodded his head gravely, the frown lines burrowing across his forehead. Thankfully he did not inquire about any of the finer details. "Well, Liam could use some company, you're the first visitors he's had in a long time."
"You don't mind us being here?" Hermione asked, eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise.
"Are you going to cause any harm to befall him?" The Healer asked with a sad smile, shifting his gaze to settle on the young boy.
"Of course not," Draco responded instantly, his tone gruff, but an earnest look was written across his features. Beside him, Hermione was furiously shaking her head, her shoulder length tresses whipping about as she did.
"Then, I see no issue with you being here," He shrugged, and he pivoted, his hands now clasped behind his back as he made to leave. "Visiting hours end little over an hour from now," he called over his shoulder.
Hermione waited until he was gone, "he was eight, Draco."
Draco was stoic, not uttering a peep, and he merely wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side.
"The person who was meant to take care of him, put him here," Hermione sniffed.
"He should be in Hogwarts, he should…" Draco trailed off, as if at a loss for words.
"I know," Hermione's hand rose in search of Draco's (still on her shoulder), and she laced their fingers together. "We have to figure out a cure—not just for Alice and Frank. For him. For Liam."
"We best get to work then," Draco replied, determination heavily laced through each and every word.
Hermione and Draco stayed until visiting hours concluded, jotting down notes on anything they thought would be useful. Before they left, Hermione leaned down, gently pressing a kiss to Liam's hairline, and said, "we're going to fix this. I promise."
Hermione hastily dismissed the touch of underlying doubt that attempted to make itself known. In a way, they'd strayed from their path a bit lately, when it pertained to figuring out how to cure Frank and Alice; Hermione supposed it was because they saw them everyday—looking the picture of health and happiness, it hadn't felt real. The memory of meeting Neville's parents in St. Mungo's all those years ago, had faded around the edges, and her end goal had blurred because of it.
Liam was here right now, silent, and suffering because of the actions of someone who was meant to protect him from all the monsters, for as long as she could. Instead, she was the monster.
They needed to find a cure, not just for their friends anymore, for other people who'd been affected by the atrocious curse. For Liam, who should be in his second year at Hogwarts, not permanently affixed to a hospital bed, save for the moments where the Healers strap him into a wheelchair so he gets some fresh air, or move his limbs so his muscles won't atrophy.
When Hermione and Draco apparated to Hogsmeade's outskirts, the polyjuice potion had both worn off, and soberly, they began the trek back to the Castle.
"I don't feel like going back to the Castle just yet," Draco admitted to her softly as they trudged on.
Hermione halted in her tracks, tugged the hair tie from around her left wrist, and set about pulling her hair back into a ponytail. "Then we won't."
"Hermione…where will we go then?" Draco exhaled, his shoulders hunched together as if an oppressive burden was squeezing them together; he was clearly more affected by their trip to St. Mungo's than he'd originally let on. If Hermione was to gamble and hazard a guess, he was probably scared that they might not be able to find a cure.
"We haven't been to Hagrid's in a while, we could stop by for a cuppa," Hermione suggested. She finished her task, and her hands dropped heavily to her sides.
Draco drew in a laborious breath, his right hand moving to push his hair back off of his forehead, "okay." Draco nodded jerkily, blinking rapidly, "okay, let's go to Hagrid's."
Hermione closed the distance between them, ghosting her hand over his cheek, a feeble smile on her face. Draco greedily leaned into the warmth radiating off her skin.
Suddenly, with no forewarning, Draco said, "I think we can rule out a spell. It has to be a potion."
Hermione mulled it over in her head, her hand dropping to her side—her fingers busied themselves by playing with her trousers' belt loops . Draco moved first, shoving his hands into his pockets as they changed direction, instead heading down to the Gamekeeper's Hut.
"You sure? We thought that we were making progress with the last incantation we were working on," Hermione threw out, quickly falling in step with Draco.
"I'm positive," Draco nodded, his facial expression contorting into a mess of lines as he concentrated, frowning.
"Okay, you were working on the potion side mainly on your own, walk me through what you've done so far," Hermione said, clasping her hands in front of her. There was a spring in her step, as the excitement mounted inside her, she could taste triumph, and she felt the hope cement itself around her bones.
"One of the main ingredients has to be Shrivelfig leaves," Draco said pensively, glancing at her out of his peripherals. "I think we need to crush them with Asphodel—"
"Which will make a thick paste," Hermione interjected. It'll give off a pungent odour as well.
"Exactly," Draco replied, the corners of his lips twitching upwards, "but then I think we should…"
They proceeded to discuss the potion the entire way down to Hagrid's. Visiting the Half-giant turned out to be a marvellous idea, as it was always delightful spending time with Hagrid; if they ever needed to forget about their troubles or worries, they'd often pop down to his Hut for tea and some lighthearted pleasantries.
By the time they retired back to the Gryffindor Tower, Hermione and Draco were both thoroughly exhausted—mentally and physically. They were so fatigued that they didn't bother to stop by the Room of Requirement for some alone time. Instead, they tiredly climbed through the Portrait Hole into the Common Room—which was fairly empty, but they chalked that up to the fact that the Ravenclaws were hosting one of their famous parties. Normally, Hermione and Draco would have been at said party (the other Marauders, and everyone else in their house from fifth year and up were in attendance), but they were both longing for their beds.
"You notice that Emmeline was flirting with Moony in Defense last week?" Draco asked, covering his mouth as a yawn burst forth unwittingly, coming to a halt at the base of the stairs to the boy's dormitories.
"Yes," Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Nothing is going to happen though."
"You sure about that?" Draco quirked a brow, running a hand through his hair.
"Positive," Hermione replied, stifling her own yawn.
"You're positive," Draco repeated.
"I just know," Hermione said, hazel eyes glowing in the lowly lit room.
"You just know," Draco snorted, recalling her saying those exact words, years ago now. It was odd how much time they spent dwelling on the past, pondering old memories, letting nostalgia overwhelm them. Draco vowed to try and live more in the present from now on, to appreciate the little things more. Like how Hermione's nose was scrunched up as she yawned once more.
"Yupp, night, Draco. I'll see you in the morning," Hermione said, sending a listless wave over her shoulder as she dragged herself away from him and up to her dorm. He really wanted to follow her. Alas, he knew he couldn't. He didn't have the luxury of sneaking into her bed at night: if they got caught the fallout would be disastrous.
Draco waited until she disappeared from sight before he sluggishly ascended the stairs to his own dorm.
The door to their dorm shrieked and creaked as it swung inwards. The room silently greeted him with darkness, and as he suspected, it was completely empty; it was a lot messier than he left it earlier though.
Draco headed directly for his four poster bed, eager to slip into the land of dreams. Which is why the moment his body hit his bed, he was out.