Quick note: Had a request from bdwilliams to give a bit of a 'status update' on Harry's lingering injuries. Recall that in Ch.50 of ASAoV, Erra utilized that ritual that healed Harry completely, curing all of his injuries and 'stabilizing' his magic (which Daphne promptly un-did a few minutes later). So, in sum - he's pretty healthy. Curse wound from Anu's Tooth in his gut, a few scars here and there from the battles against the Sibittu, that nasty case of demonic corruption, but no mobility issues!
Chapter XIII
It was less crowded than Tom Riddle remembered. When he was a student, Hogsmeade had been so filled with students that lines stretched out the doors of nearly every shop along the main street. It really was a shame, he mused, that so much magical blood had been shed since he was a child.
How unfortunate it was that they'd resisted his leadership, and forced his other self to destroy so many promising wizards and witches. While there were decisions that he found regrettable - notably, in utilizing the worst of pureblood dogma to garner the support of the aristocracy - in the end Tom felt no regrets. He'd come close; perhaps might have even succeeded were it not for a fluke of magic, but even had he won, he likely would have then had to wage another battle against the ideology he'd ostensibly espoused.
No, although he treasured that the lineage of Salazar Slytherin flowed through his veins, Tom was not so foolish as to ignore the pitiful end that had nearly snuffed out the lingering remnants of the Founder's last family. Rigorous adherence to pureblood dogma had left the Gaunts barely more than squibs, squatting like animals in a decrepit shack.
It wasn't blood that mattered, no; it was magic. That was what separated wizards and witches from the beasts. Integration, rather than extermination, was the necessary approach in dealing with mudbloods. He himself was the perfect example of such a strategy - a half-blood, born of a muggle father and brought up with no knowledge of magic, Tom Riddle Jr. discovered his heritage and utilized that knowledge to become the greatest wizard in history.
In a way, Potter had done him a favor by wiping out his former servants. Their extremism alienated the population, made him an enemy rather than a champion of the common people. No, he told himself as he stepped into the Three Broomsticks and walked up the backstairs to the private rooms, this time he wouldn't make the same mistakes.
"Milord!"
"Rise, Warrington. Time is short, and I have need of information."
"I live to serve," Clarence Warrington mumbled, eyes lowered deferentially..
"What is the situation inside the castle?"
"My sources indicate that Hogwarts teeters on the edge of revolt, milord. The Houses are united against the occupation; of the older students, nearly half have actively formed a conspiracy to overthrow the American leadership."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Montague tells me the leaders of this opposition group are pureblood Gryffindor and Hufflepuff students, most of whom are children of the former Conservative faction."
Tom smiled. "Meaning that their parents are already aligned with our cause."
"Yes, milord."
"You have the ingredient that I require?" Warrington quickly reached into his robes, removing a clear glass vial with several strands of brown hair, holding them out for Tom to take. Dropping them into the vial of Polyjuice that he unstoppered, Tom glanced back at Warrington. "You've guaranteed the owner of these hairs has been detained?"
"Yes, milord. Your form will be that of Michael Corner. He's Stunned and disillusioned inside the Shrieking Shack."
"Ensure that when you awaken him, he walks back. I will be taking the carriages."
"I understand. How long shall I wait to revive him to ensure you aren't caught?"
Tom gave the Seventh Year a thin smile. "It doesn't matter. Once I am inside the castle, I won't be spotted."
Downing the potion, he waited for his skin to stop bubbling before departing from the popular tavern, walking swiftly to the waiting carriages and hopping into one. A fond smile split his Polyjuiced face as he beheld the castle for the first time in decades.
There were a number of tasks he needed to accomplish, only one of which really presented any risk of discovery. Naturally, that would be his first stop.
Approaching the Potions classroom, Tom allowed the nostalgic memories to wash over him, of manipulating a political mastermind like Slughorn, wringing every bit of useful knowledge from the man in exchange for nothing more than the promise of future favors. He chuckled as he recalled personally murdering Horace over the summer; 'His astute sensibilities didn't serve him so well after all' he thought to himself in amusement.
Nonetheless, he was here for a reason and it was not to reminisce. Waving his wand over the doorway, he easily disabled the elementary alarm ward and unlocked the door, walking inside and withdrawing a shrunken chest. A few charms here and there, and all of the readied potions ingredients for this year's instruction floated into the expanded trunk.
Double-checking the classroom to be certain he'd gotten all of them, Tom shrank and pocketed the trunk and walked out, not bothering to close the door behind him. If the faculty decided to punish the students for his theft, so much the better; it would only heighten already inflamed tensions, further serving his purpose.
Pausing in the corridor, Tom disillusioned himself before starting the trek upstairs from the dungeons. He had a long way to go, and after the ride to the castle and his break-in to the potions stores, he wasn't willing to risk his Polyjuice running out at an inopportune moment. The castle was largely empty, another benefit to carrying out this mission during a Hogsmeade visit, and with little risk of discovery, he once more allowed himself to meander, to drift through the hallowed halls of his first real home.
He'd just finished his third turn in front of the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy when he heard the voices, choosing to quickly step through the door to the Room of Requirement before they came upon it. Focusing a moment to express his will on the room's enchantments, a peep hole appeared on the door he'd just entered, and he looked out into the corridor in curiosity.
"He's gone. Where could he have run off to? It's not possible!" A redheaded boy in Gryffindor robes held a piece of battered parchment, looking closely down at whatever was written on it.
"Maybe he took a portkey?"
"Then why would he walk all the way up here just to portkey out? It doesn't make any sense!"
The three boys argued quietly amongst themselves, whispering over each other to the point that he couldn't make out the individual words. Finally, the one with short blonde hair held out his hands for quiet.
"Look, in the end, it doesn't really matter. Whoever this Tom Riddle is, he's probably working with the occupation anyway. Let's just head back to the Tower, we're not going to learn anything more today."
The other two agreed, and the red-head tapped his wand against the parchment, muttering under his breath and carefully folding it up to hide in his robes.
'How curious' Had the students developed some way to track outsiders that entered the castle? If so, did the Room's enchantments cancel out whatever function that parchment served? Regardless, he'd need to be careful making his escape.
Tom looked around the cavernous storage space that the Room provided, picking a direction and walking aimlessly through the shelving and haphazard piles of junk. Here and there, he made useful discoveries, and items of value were quickly added to the potions ingredients he'd stolen. In the fifty years since he'd last set foot inside here, there had been a great deal added and he took his time exploring.
More than an hour had passed when he ran across it. Of course he recognized it immediately; he hadn't spent more than a year entertaining the angst of that pathetic ghost to not see it for what it was at a mere glance. But to find it here, of all places?
Tom laughed, loud and long. His other self had been a very busy wizard, hadn't he? Waving his wand and casting several diagnostic charms, his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. A very busy wizard. Still, it was hardly surprising, especially given that he, himself, had risen from a similar artifact.
Lifting the Lost Diadem off the warlock's bust, Tom carefully placed it on his head, settling it in place over his brow. A harsh crimson light flared, and a full dozen years of the life and travels of Lord Voldemort flowed into his consciousness. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. 'How… invigorating' he thought to himself with a vicious grin. Truly a fortuitous turn of events.
He walked through the halls, almost unconsciously disillusioning himself along the way. Upon reaching his destination, Tom gave a fond look around, soaking in the memories before taking the time to set up a powerful silencing ward inside the girl's lavatory. The absolute last thing he needed was anyone overhearing Parseltongue inside Hogwarts, and he now knew that Warren bint haunted this space.
There were human remains at the entrance to the Chamber itself, and Tom consoled himself that at least his beautiful basilisk had taken an intruder's life before she perished. It took considerable effort to hold back his curiosity and explore to see the full extent of the damage since he'd last entered his birthright, but he'd been inside the castle for several hours already, and harvesting what ingredients were still viable from the enormous serpent would take several more.
"And you're absolutely certain that this is the correct patrol schedule?"
"He wouldn't lie to me," Tonks responded confidently, leaning back in her seat and resting her hands behind her head.
Neville raised his eyebrows, and exchanged a glance with a frowning McGonagall. "Alright then. We have to assume they'll change up their routine sooner rather than later. Does your father know his role?"
"Of course, you don't have to be Dumbledore to send an owl!"
"Then let's get moving," Neville said, kicking at Tonks' chair and standing up.
They were committing everyone available to this raid. The lack of supplies, the price inflation, the violence; things were breaking down, the situation was quickly growing untenable. Whatever had been done to the Albion magics had to be reversed!
It was three in the morning, and Neville waited impatiently inside the public lavatory in Whitehall, hands tucked inside the pockets of the hooded sweatshirt he wore. A gift from the Grangers, one that allowed him to unobtrusively lean against the wall, looking for all the world like a loitering youth up to no good.
That turned out to be a useful cover in keeping passersby from stepping too closely; certainly an advantage when trying to keep nine disillusioned wizards and witches from being discovered.
Finally, a stall door opened, and his great-uncle poked his head out. "Well? Come along, let's go!"
The toilet flushed, and the water continued to run. One by one, Neville and the others stepped inside the bowl, swirling and descending through the pipes, shooting out to the employee entrance to the Ministry of Magic.
"Last chance to turn back," Croaker said quietly as they walked to the lifts, his smile evident in his voice despite the cowl that covered his face.
No one replied, and Neville took slow, deep breaths as the lift descended, trying to calm himself. If the auror movements that Jacobs had provided Tonks were true, then-
The doors opened with a dull chime, and the American patrol didn't even have time to show surprise before a litany of Stupefying Charms impacted them. "Let's move, we've got twenty-five minutes before the next patrol!"
Croaker led them through the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, the arcane research bureau dark and largely abandoned following the deaths of the majority of Unspeakables at the Battle of Azkaban. There were two more aurors guarding the entrance to the actuator chamber, swiftly incapacitated by Tonks and Sirius, leaving the controller of the Albion free and accessible.
"Merlin's beard," Neville breathed, taking in the sheer scale of runes coating every surface of the room. "How are we supposed to work out what controls what?"
His great-uncle spread an aged and weathered scroll out on the floor. "While the Albion predates the DoM, we do have a record of all adjustments made since our formation. Using this, we can eliminate sections of carving that are known to have been added by Unspeakables over the years."
McGonagall's lips compressed into a thin line. "That's hardly a solution, given that we don't have all week to compare and contrast!"
"It's the best I could do! We're talking about magic that's as old as the Founders!"
While the two bickered, Neville continued to look around. He'd never taken an Ancient Runes class in his life, and all of this seemed to be well beyond NEWT level carving. He was standing in the presence of magic conceived of in the time of Arthurian legend; in many ways the Albion was Magical Britain. It had protected them, safeguarded their existence, allowed their nation to flourish and grow.
"Eighteen minutes!" Sirius called from outside the chamber.
The timing for this strike was right; they'd been given information that had a limited expiration date, and the need of the people was immense. He'd planned this with McGonagall and Aberforth as best that he could. But even if they had a runologist with them, it's unlikely that in the timeframe he'd allowed anything useful could be accomplished.
"-got you here, didn't I? It's hardly my fault that you're so incapable that you don't know what to do once you all arrived!"
"You're the Director of the department! We didn't think the best you could do was hand over a half-completed scroll and say 'good luck'!"
"Stop, both of you," Neville ordered. "This is getting us nowhere."
"Thirteen minutes!"
"Uncle is right, Professor. He held up his end of the agreement. Unfortunately, it would probably take us days just to figure out what changes were made to the actuator, much less how to counter them. We did the best we could with what we knew."
"So we're just going to give up? Accessing this room again will be near-impossible; certainly not without a pitched battle that we don't have the numbers to win!"
He nodded his head in agreement. "I know. The people can't wait for us to regroup and try again. If the rumors of dragon pox are true, without medicine we could be facing a catastrophe. This 'wall' has to come down."
"Nine minutes!"
Croaker looked around the room in disgust, rolling up the scroll he'd brought and tucking it back into his robes. "An utter outrage, to use our own heritage against us! Have they no shame, turning the Albion into a death sentence for the people it was meant to protect?"
"What are you going to do?"
Neville met his former professor's questioning gaze with a stiff and uncomfortable grin. "Get everyone ready, we're heading out. Send word to the Tonkses."
"But-"
"Hurry!"
Ushering the two out of the chamber, Neville paused just outside the doorway, withdrawing his wand and turning around. Ancient magic, the legacy of his people. 'I bet Hermione would kill me for even thinking this' he thought, his grin turning to grimace. Nevertheless, it had to be done.
Raising his wand, pointing it at the center of the small chamber, Neville cried out, "Bombarda Maxima!"
Edward Tonks sat in the sand on Ramsgate Beach, just outside of Dover, staring into the English Channel. Had it been summer, he likely would not have been so alone, but given that November had brought with it a bitter winter wind, at this early hour there was no one in sight.
The water was choppy, the waves frothing as they crested ashore. Ted stared out into the horizon, at the narrow straits that separated Britain from the rest of the continent. Yellow flashing lights were easily visible, construction crews still working overtime to try and ascertain the reasons behind the Channel Tunnel's inexplicable collapse, barely a year after its completion.
It had dominated the muggles' attention, deservedly so given the loss of life that such a disaster carried. He knew it was callous of him to do so, but nonetheless Ted was unable to repress a sudden glimmer of jealousy that the worst the muggles had to be concerned about was engineering failures, rather than an international alliance of foreign nations occupying their lands.
A familiar glowing jackrabbit pulled him out of his thoughts, and he stood up just as his daughter's Patronus struck him.
'Mission accomplished, initiate barrier test'
Offering the owl perched on his shoulder one more treat, he whispered the destination and wished her a safe flight.
"Finally! Doesn't the word 'emergency' mean anything to you?!"
"I've got an emergency of my own to deal with, what's the problem?"
Octava waved her wand, and the results of a highly specialized diagnostic charm popped up between them. "The Blockade around Magical Britain has collapsed."
"What?!"
"I said it was an emergency, didn't I?"
"How could-" Unus took a calming breath. "Do we know how this happened?"
"'We' may, but 'I' do not."
"All right. When did it go down?"
"You're lucky I'm a night owl. A quarter after four."
That meant three in the morning in London - the lowest level of human functionality. 'For most people' he silently added, casting a glance at Octava. "Can you raise the Blockade again?"
"I can try, but you'll need one of the others to test whether manipulating the ley lines have the same effectiveness as their own areal magic. Quinctus and Iugo were with me when I tested it before, they'll know how."
"Quinctus is in Bulgaria, and Iugo is dead. Send word to Senio, have him conduct the test."
If he'd expected her to display any emotion at the death of another of the Nine, he would have been disappointed. "What's going on in Bulgaria?"
"The emergency that I was dealing with. Keep me updated, and get to work."
A few hours later, just after the sun had risen, the Blockade around Magical Britain snapped back into place. Beyond the resistance and the Nine, no one in the British Isles would ever know that it went down to begin with.
For the rest of the Wizarding World, however, that was about to change, as a Great Horned Owl determinedly flapped its wings, crossing over the Netherlands and heading for Berlin, and Magical Germany's daily national newspaper.
November 18, 1996
Daphne jerked upright, swallowing the scream that bubbled up in her throat as she quickly realized that she neither felt any pain, nor was she in the dirt on the Calais shoreline.
Her surroundings were cloaked in the sort of understated opulence that her late mother would have killed to have. The furnishings were all high-quality wood, likely hand-made, and the bed she was in was sinfully comfortable - 'interwoven with enchantments, perhaps?'
Flexing her leg, Daphne felt relieved to discover that it was whole and healthy. The pain she'd felt inside that tunnel was terrible, made all the worse by the horror of seeing part of her body crushed beneath the massive muggle auto. She lifted the blankets off of her, examining her limb in the sunlight washing over her from the large window. There was a thin scar that traced around her thigh, just above her knee. Other than that, she bore no mark or sign of injury.
Someone had healed her, but who? And where was Harry?
The door opened and a man in a black suit with styled hair stood in the entryway. "How do you feel?"
His English was accented but perfectly intelligible. "I feel better, fine actually. Where am I?"
"Un attimo," he mumbled, stepping back and closing the door.
She raised her eyebrows upon hearing him speak Italian, but made no move to pursue him, instead getting out of bed and opening the wardrobe, exchanging the thin gown she wore for a set of generic, if high-quality, robes. She was in the process of running her fingers through her hair, trying to work out the mess of knots when the door opened once more, this time admitting an elderly man, walking with the aid of an ebony wood cane.
"Lord Zabini," Daphne greeted with a curtsy. "I assume you are responsible for my rescue?"
A fond smile on his face, he nodded shortly. "In a way. A… family friend, of sorts, happened to be in Calais and came across you and Mr. Potter, grievously wounded."
"Then I am in your debt. How is Harry? May I see him?"
"Harry's injuries were far more severe than your own. He remains under sedation, though my healers assure me that the worst of the damage has been repaired."
"If he's been healed, why is he still potioned?"
Zabini stared at her for a moment before casually remarking, "As I understand, regrowing all of the skin on one's body is quite painful."
She swallowed her demand to be taken to him immediately, choosing instead to smooth out her robes and take a seat on the bed. Glancing down at her bare feet, Daphne decided the smarter course of action would be to get answers about why they'd been brought to Sardinia.
"I suppose that Harry and I are very fortunate that you had an employee that happened to be staying at a camp for muggle migrants."
The elderly man laughed heartily. "Oh, I like you. Yes, it was quite a stroke of luck. Matteo!" The black-suited man from before stepped into the room. "Please provide Miss Greengrass some footwear and escort her to my office. This conversation may take some time, and I would rather not stand for the entirety of it." And with that, he turned and left the room, the gentle clack of his cane against the marble floors fading with his departure.
The - manservant? bodyguard? - returned with a pair of beautiful flats, and Daphne followed him through several twists and turns of the massive home she was in to a large office, one that was easily the size of her family's formal dining room. A glass of wine and a cup of water were placed in front of her, and then Matteo took a position behind Lord Zabini. 'Definitely a bodyguard'.
"You have many questions," he prompted.
"How long have you been following us?"
"You are mistaken, I was not having you followed."
"Lord Zabini-"
"You think I aim to deceive you, but you are incorrect. It was, my dear girl, simple deductive reasoning. Following the death of Albus Dumbledore, what else would Harry Potter's next course of action be?"
Daphne tried and failed to stop her cheeks from heating up. No wonder the ICW had been waiting for them; that they'd immediately head towards Britain must have been the most obvious move they could have possibly made. 'Some Slytherin I turned out to be'. "We were traveling using muggle methods, though."
"Of course; you were traveling with one of, if not the most wanted man in the magical world. There are only so many ways into Great Britain; my family merely made certain that associates of ours were stationed at the most obvious pathways."
Rather than embarrass herself further, Daphne fell silent, running through the various faces and encounters that she and Harry had in the Calais camps. "That dog, it followed us everywhere from the moment we arrived…"
His dark eyes lit with amusement. "Animagus transformations are a very useful ability, no? I confess, I never bothered to learn the skill myself, but those who are dedicated enough to do so rarely need to look hard for work."
"I still don't understand what involvement you have with Harry and I."
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together and placing them under his chin. "I should start by noting that had my family not involved ourselves in your affairs, you and Mr. Potter would likely be dead in Calais."
She didn't respond. Zabini was obviously after something involving Harry, the absolute last thing Daphne was going to do was fall down in gratitude.
"Please, enjoy your drink, my dear. It is chianti from my family's vineyards; our discussion may take some time, and you will not regret it." She sipped from the wine glass; he was right, it was full-bodied and dry, but rich with flavor. "How aware are you of what has taken place in the Wizarding World since Mr. Potter destroyed most of Vienna?"
"He didn't-" she trailed off, then sighed. "I know that the Confederation has sought Harry's friends and family, and tortured them in an attempt to draw him back. I know that there is armed resistance against the foreign occupation in Great Britain, though I'm not sure to what capacity. I know th-that they want to kill him."
"This is all true, yes," Zabini said, finishing his wine and setting his glass to the side, where Matteo immediately refilled it. "First, to begin I'd like to point out that Mr. Potter did himself no favors through his actions in Eastern and Central Europe."
"The Sibittu had to be stopped. They were- they were monsters. You don't know-"
"I do know. Yes, they were a great danger, and yes, many lives were lost. But they were far from unstoppable. In fact, prior to your party's involvement, there was considerable pressure on the new Supreme Mugwump to dedicate more resources to combating the demons, as opposed to hunting for Potter."
"But Dumbledore- he told us that the ministries were letting them slaughter muggles, not even trying to defeat them!"
Zabini leaned forward, elbows on his desk, swirling his wine glass with one hand. "Dumbledore was a great wizard, of that there is no doubt, but you'd do well to remember that he spent most of the last half-century dealing with school children. It is why his tenure as Supreme Mugwump was never challenged by the Sorcerer's Assembly; the other mugwumps delighted in his disinterest." Pausing to take a drink, he continued. "I have been working the levers of power from the shadows for generations, Miss Greengrass. I can assure you, whatever plan you three enacted, in the end you succeeded only at viscerally proving that the Confederation was indeed correct about the threat that Harry Potter poses."
This was- it wasn't fair. They were sixteen years old, not politicians; they were supposed to still be in school! "We thought- Dumbledore hoped that if Harry defeated the Sibittu, it would show that he was a force for good. Someone that could protect the world, not destroy it."
"A noble intention, but one that ultimately was poorly executed."
"If the whole world is against Harry, why save us? What's in it for you?"
"Patience, child. Have some more wine," his lips quirked, as though wanting to smile at the glare she directed at him. "While I do think that Mr. Potter is a likeable sort of fellow, you're correct to be suspicious. A friend to my family he may be, he is not someone I would risk our holdings for."
"Go on," she encouraged, steeling herself by taking a bigger gulp of wine.
"I will try not to bore you with too much detail, but the reasons for our involvement originate many years ago, during the war against the Dark Lord Grindelwald. Prior to his rise, the International Confederation of Wizards served predominantly an advisory function in the Wizarding World. Here and there, they might step in to facilitate dialogue when conflict arose, but overall it was a body for negotiations among sovereign states.
"Grindelwald's conquest of most of Europe changed that. Suddenly, here was this madman, a wizard of nearly incomprehensible power, one that sacked Ministry after Ministry, who was allying with non-magicals and using magic to tear apart their world in addition to our own. I was a much younger man, but I remember that time well; no one knew that Dumbledore could match him, and certainly no individual nation could stand against his army."
"Which is why the ICW organized the war against him," Daphne cut in.
"Exactly. Who better to do so, after all? Only, once Grindelwald was defeated, the Confederation did not relinquish the wartime infrastructure they had assembled. Power abhors a vacuum, my dear, and there were many wizards and witches who had signed on with the ICW as true believers that a powerful supranational body was needed to guarantee another Dark Lord would not replace Grindelwald."
She knew all- well, most of this, and based on her father's experiences with the Ministry in Britain, could guess the rest. "And I assume that your family's business has been negatively impacted by the ICW's centralized power?"
His smile was practically ear to ear. "You're a very bright girl. Indeed, the current international environment is not as profitable as it could be. And so, we've come at last to why I am willing to take in Harry Potter, counter to all prevailing wisdom." He reached into his desk, withdrawing a sizable stack of newspapers and placed them on the edge of his desk, well within Daphne's reach.
'Starvation, Disease, and Desperation - Missive Details Life Behind the British Blockade'
'From Plenty to Penurity - How the ICW Punished an Entire Nation for One Man's Crimes'
'Does the Confederation Desire a World Nation? How Britain's Own Borders were Turned Against a Sovereign State'
There were more; newspapers in languages she'd never seen before, but all of them referencing the same thing; a message, one that somehow slipped past the ICW enchantments, detailing the difficulties that Magical Britain endured beneath the occupation. "How did they get this information out of the country?"
Zabini shrugged. "It hardly matters. What's important is that there are now oppositional pressures on the Confederation. Wizards and witches have governed themselves long before it existed; there is little appetite to accept dictates from Switzerland," he said, his excitement spilling over into his voice. "If they aren't careful, the ICW just might find that much of the world is less concerned with Harry Potter, and more concerned with them."
"What happened to you?! Are you okay?"
Hermione raised her head, and Ron had to steady himself on the thin metal frame of the bed in the Hospital Wing as he took in his friend's appearance. Hermione had been brutally beaten, all of her fingers broken, teeth kicked in, and crude letters spelling out 'FROG' had been carved into her collarbone.
Lavender and Parvati hesitantly approached her, reaching out to Hermione to offer comfort, while he looked over her injuries in horror. "Who did this to you, Hermione?" he asked, barely able to spit the words out through his clenched jaw.
"Perhaps you'll have better luck than I did," Madam Pomfrey said, sweeping past the three Gryffindors to set a tray of potions down on the nightstand next to her patient. "Miss Granger has not spoken a word since she was discovered in this state."
"Can- I mean, is it alright if we speak with her alone?"
The mediwitch took in his stiff posture, and the anger that radiated off his tall and lanky frame. "That depends, Mr. Weasley; if Miss Granger does speak with you, what do you plan to do in response?"
"I just want to help my friend!" he protested vehemently.
"Very well. See that in doing so, you don't land yourself, or any other students, in any of my beds. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Madam."
With a nod, she gave Hermione the instructions on which potions to take now, and which were to help her sleep, then stepped outside the curtains separating her bed from the others. Ron was quick to cast a privacy charm once she left.
"Who did this to you?"
"Ron, maybe now isn't the time to-"
"I deserved it."
Lavender quieted at the whispered words from their muggleborn housemate, but was quick to leap to her defense - even, in this case, when the words were self-inflicted. "Don't say that! No one deserves this!"
"Yes, I do. You don't understand, just leave me be."
"We can't do that. You're one of us, Hermione, we can't let anyone treat you this way and get away with it!" The battered young woman didn't reply, instead burying her face into her mangled and bandaged hands and sobbing loudly. "Was it the new professors? The Americans?"
"Were they Slytherins? I know that there's been a lot of tension since the muggleborns came back," Parvati said, gently stroking Hermione's hair and encouraging her to drink her potions.
That action brought some semblance of calm, and by the time she'd set aside all but the Dreamless Sleep, Hermione's cries had quieted. Sandwiched between Lavender and Parvati, she slowly raised her gaze to meet Ron's, her bloodshot eyes the only bright spot among the black, blues, and yellows of her bruised visage.
"It was the others. The ones who came back with me, from France."
"What!? Muggleborns attacked you? But why?"
"It's my fault. It's all my fault!"
"What is? We don't understand, you've got to tell us," Lavender said, wrapping her hysterical roommate up in a gentle embrace. "Nothing you could have done justified this!"
Several more minutes passed, with Lavender rocking Hermione back and forth before she calmed down again, taking a deep breath and wiping at her swollen nose, her crying having caused it to start bleeding once again.
"Our- our parents, all of them, they were- they're gone," she said, struggling to get the words out through lips trembling with grief.
Ron stepped closer, some of his discomfort at the emotional scene fading. "There was another attack on the refugee camp?"
"No, it was the Americans. They obliviated our parents, and now they don't even know who we are!"
Parvati gasped. "But, why?"
"Because to them, our families are no better than animals," Hermione snarled, her grief subsumed momentarily. "The ones who have graduated, who have jobs were allowed to move their parents out, but every muggleborn at Hogwarts… we don't have parents anymore."
"I don't understand why the other students would attack you, though!" Ron exclaimed, trying to refocus on the conversation on something he could actually affect - like finding the people that hurt his friend. "It isn't your fault!"
"I was the one to move them to France, who started this whole awful mess! If they had just stayed in Britain-"
"If they'd stayed, they would have ended up like Colin and Dean, tortured and murdered by Death Eaters!" he raged in response. "How could they do this to you? You lost your parents just like them!"
"It's all my fault…"
The tears started again, and Ron put one hand on Hermione's shoulder, meeting Parvati's eyes as he did. His girlfriend gave a nod in reply to his silent question, and he left her and Lavender to care for their roommate.
While he could certainly sympathize with students whose parents had just had every memory of their children erased, Ron wasn't the type to forgive and forget when those same students beat the hell out of his friend; especially not when all Hermione had done was try to do the right thing. Hell, for all they knew, those bloody Americans might have memory charmed all their families anyway! What right did they have to attack her like that?
He hadn't been so angry since his Second Year, when Ginny had- when he'd lost his sister. He'd promised himself to be a better man, to stand up for those in need, and for damn sure he was going to.
Ron decided that tomorrow, he'd have a chat with Montague about this development. He wasn't going to stand by and lose anyone else. Never again.
Things at the- she didn't know what to call the dwelling that Luna's monsters had created, but Susan certainly wasn't going to sully the memory of Potter's Lodge by referring to it that way - had settled into a surreal normality.
Using the new wand she'd taken from the wizard at the hospital, Susan had done her best to construct a primitive sort of greenhouse, casting warming charms and trying to foster a vegetable garden large enough to provide her and Luna with sustenance. Or, at least, some food beyond the muggle sweets that the younger woman seemed to have an endless supply of.
She'd brought up the possibility of procuring some chickens, so that they could have a fresh supply of eggs and some occasional meat. Luna had agreed, and promptly set out with some of her 'friends' on an expedition to find some. However, after the second time that they'd awoken to find that Luna's… horrors had mutilated the chickens in ways that were truly abominable, she'd given up on the idea.
Eddie cooed at her, burbling with joy as she bounced him up and down. He was the sole bright spot, the one thing that made all of this tolerable. Susan was determined not to leave without Luna, even assuming that she had somewhere she could go, but it was unnerving to see her son reaching out to play with actual monsters. She couldn't help but fear what effect growing up in this environment might have on him.
"Are you going to bathe?"
She glanced towards the 'door' to her room, where Luna stared at the two of them. "Um, I don't know, I was getting ready to go to bed."
"You've been working all day, though! A nice scrub will help you sleep."
"I suppose," she replied in a noncommittal tone.
"Would you like me to watch Eddie? Or I can send Legs in, they seem to get along well."
'Always the same offer' "No! No, it's fine if you want to."
"Okay," she agreed, settling onto the makeshift bed that Susan had made from the hospital blankets and pillows she'd spirited away.
This was yet another part of the bizarre routine that had been established in the month she'd lived here. Luna had always been somewhat unpredictable, but ever since they'd been reunited, she was different, and not just in the sense of lording over an army of beings clearly not from this reality.
No, Susan thought, struggling to ignore the discomfort she felt as she removed her clothing and filled the wash basin with water, this side of Luna was one she'd never seen before, not even when she'd occasionally felt a twinge of jealousy over the younger girl's relationship with Harry in previous years. She honestly had no idea how she was supposed to react to this, and didn't feel secure enough to even bring it up.
Casting occasional glances towards her son while she bathed, Susan shivered as, just like every other night, Luna's silvery gaze never strayed from her nude body.
November 28, 1996
Pushing the thoughts of what she'd just learned about Bulgaria from her mind, Daphne walked into Harry's room, carrying a vase of fresh flowers that Alessio had provided her. Given the amount of time she'd spent visiting Astoria at St. Mungo's over the years, there was a kind of nostalgic comfort that came from the act of bringing and arranging something vibrant and alive at her loved one's bedside.
And Harry Potter certainly met that qualification.
He was looking much better; his hair had been regrown, and was back to its familiar untamable mess. Raw, pink flesh peeked out from bandages here and there, and the healers had told her that he was only a few days away from a full recovery. He remained sedated, though, to allow the regrown nerves in his skin time to acclimate to tactile sensation; otherwise, they'd informed her, he'd likely feel as though the bandages he was wrapped in were akin to sandpaper on an open wound.
Walking past the woman present in the room, likely a nurse or maid of some kind, Daphne took in the condition of the flowers from three days before, noticing that some of them were starting to droop.
"Excuse me, when you're done tidying up, could you please take these to my quarters?" The woman didn't reply. Perhaps she didn't speak English? "Excuse me, miss? Signora?"
"I am not a servant."
Hearing the coldness in her reply, Daphne turned fully to regard this new face. She was gorgeous, around her and Harry's age, perhaps just a year or two older. Flawless olive skin, full lips, smoky brown eyes, and dark brown hair that was immaculately done in a complex arrangement.
Daphne was far from modest about her own appearance, but next to this woman, she felt like a little girl, a notion made all the more immediate given the expansive cleavage the stranger had on display. "I don't believe we've met."
"No, we have not, but I know all about you, Daphne Greengrass."
Her eyes narrowed. "Oh?"
"Si, and not just from my grandfather. I believe you are acquainted with my cousin, your schoolmate."
"You're Chiara Zabini." It was a statement, not a question.
"I am. I had wondered where the flowers were coming from, it is kind of you to bring them for my Harry."
'Who did this bitch think she was?' "'Your' Harry?"
Chiara smiled, revealing perfectly straight teeth. "We are betrothed, after all."
"Wha- you, you're lying." There was no way that was true. Daphne was positive she was lying; Harry had spent the last year in love with Susan! "Besides, he's been unconscious since he got here, did you sign an 'x' with his blood on the contract?"
"Of course not," Chiara said, settling into Daphne's seat next to the bed. "Harry signed it during his last stay on the island. Grandfather was so excited to bring him into the family, he even waived the bride-price."
"Maybe he just didn't think you were worth any gold," Daphne said, false sweetness lacing her tones.
"That is likely so, and I don't doubt that Harry would agree that I am truly priceless," she responded, just as pleasantly.
Daphne held out a hand, conjuring a seat on the opposite side of Harry's bed, somehow managing to take a seat and not rip this slut's hair out with her bare hands. "You must forgive my surprise, it's just that Harry never mentioned you, not even when he was living with me."
"Davvero? This is so?" She looked Daphne up and down, long and slow, with a raised eyebrow. "Then you and he are together?"
"We-" she wanted so badly to wipe that smug look off Chiara's face, but there was no point. Harry would be waking up soon, and Daphne couldn't be sure that he would even want to see her, much less go along with some ruse solely to preserve her pride. "We traveled together," she finished lamely.
"Ah, I understand. So you were, ah, like roommates."
Her face burning with humiliation, Daphne didn't respond to that assertion. "If you're supposedly betrothed, why haven't I seen you here before?"
"I was abroad, in Paris, and unaware that he'd returned. Naturally, I rushed back to Sardinia as soon as I was made aware."
"I can tell you hurried. We've been here for nearly a month."
Chiara tilted her head, her full attention on Daphne, with her bright smile looking for all the world like this was the most enjoyable conversation she'd ever had. "But Harry has not been awake, no? So, when he awakens, it will be as though I were at his side for every moment of his recovery."
She couldn't resist, even knowing that the other woman was goading her into acting like a jealous schoolgirl. "Unless I tell him otherwise." The only reply was the musical sound of genuine laughter coming from the other side of the bed.
It was official. Daphne hated Chiara Zabini, and there was no way she was going to let her sink her claws into Harry, no matter what it took.
A/N: Ruh-roh. Daphne's once again on the outside looking in. Poor girl.
Next chapter we'll find out what the heck is going in Bulgaria, Harry wakes up and has a nice chat with the Zabinis, and the second half of this story will really start to take shape (assuming you haven't already guessed where I'm going with it after this chap!)
I feel like I need to write a Hermione fluff piece after the way I've tortured her in, what, 3 different stories now. :(
I'd like to recommend, to those of you who enjoy fem!Harry fics, a truly excellent one by SilverStarwolfe called Gryffindor's Girl. It's excellent, almost 300k words.
