Round#: 3

A/N: Story Title/Link: Found Objects

School and Theme: Ilvermorny/ Artefact Incidents—This round you will be looking at Magical Artefacts and how they are used, or how they can affect the user or victim.

Main Prompt: [emotion] Fear

Additional Prompts: [object] torn t-shirt

Year: 6

Wordcount: 2480

Buzzwords: Dark Magic

AU

Found Objects is a staged combat fight style used in theater and movies relying on 'everyday items' rather than a specific weapon, like a sword or a gun. My former life on the stage demanded the double-entendre.

The Hand of Glory in HP is based on a real life practice of making a candle out of the hand of a criminal, preferably using the human fat of said person as the tallow and their hair as the candle's wicks. It's an arduous process, but the benefits—being able to see in the dark and unlock any door—were considered worth the effort for those who needed such skills. I guess it is assumed to be other criminals, although that is not perfectly clear. While HP Wiki and Pottermore both make reference to the ability to see light no matter the conditions using Rowling's version of the HoG, I was intrigued with the idea that it might also open doors of all sorts—even those that were not meant to be opened. I will explore both here.

I think I wanted to use someone unexpected for this. Someone who would have access to a magical artefact and it would not, necessarily, be unusual, but also who would not automatically be associated with dark magic or a cursed object. Thusly, it had to be someone we knew came from a long-line of magic, but was also not drawn to dark arts.

I also have some questions about the magic Rowling clearly names but does not define in the way Harry is initially saved; the ancient magics that bind us by blood. If 'love' is a magic, does that mean that 'hate' is, too? I am exploring that idea here.

I picture this taking place some years after the war, but preceding the epilogue. I also envision this as being a point in which Ron and Hermione's relationship comes to a defining moment at which things may not play out as expected. I am also grateful to all who might read this for allowing me a bit of grace to muck about with the king, while I acknowledge that this may seem as if I have stunted his emotional growth a bit. For that reason, I list it as AU.

Found Objects

"You acquired this how?" she asked for what seemed like the hundredth time. Nothing he said was making any sense. That wouldn't be unusual for Ronald—not when he was excited—but something about this made her skin crawl. "Just go through it again. I don—"

"What does it matter how, 'Mione," he interrupted, exasperated. "What matters is that I have it!" He clutched the box tight to his chest, his face covered in a sheen of visible sweat despite the cold. He leaned in, his eyes wild, and whispered, "What should we do with it first?"

"DO with it?" Hermione pulled back. She wanted to get as far away from that thing as possible. It was unfortunate that her boyfriend had decided to bring it into the flat they shared. "I'd like to burn it, if I'm completely honest."

But Ron wasn't listening. The box was open again and he was staring at it, a creepy leer on his face. She was starting to get seriously worried.

She reached out to him. "Why don't we bring it over to the Ministry for a cursory inspection. You know, just in case." No sooner had the skin of her fingers touched his own, he flinched as if he'd been burned.

"No!" he screamed. The lid of the heavy, dark wood case came down with a thud as Ron scrambled to gather it up. "I don't need anyone to look at it. And I don't want to waste time at the Ministry." He stood up, his complexion even more sallow and feverish than it had been just moments before. Hermione wasn't sure he was going to be able to keep himself upright.

She leapt off the couch, quickly moving to his side, ready to offer him support. Moving erratically, he bypassed her using the wall to prop himself up as he made his way to the door. "Don't try to stop me, 'Mione," he slurred.

"Stop you?" she pleaded. "Stop you from what? Where are you going?" But he was already in the hall, stumbling out into the cold night without even so much as a jumper on. Hermione made a desperate grab at him, but only managed to snag his t-shirt, tearing a hole along the neck hem as he pulled free, plunging into the night. With a flash of light, he was gone.

Dammit. She'd only managed to throw a scarf around her neck, her breath visible in the frigid air as she mumbled to herself. Bollocks and dammit, Ronald! What have you gotten up to now?

She ran back inside their flat, grabbing up the floo powder and hoped her timing wasn't terrible.

"Grimmauld Place," she breathed, and stepped through.

Her timing was terrible, naturally. What did she expect? Hermione put her head down and made for the kitchen. She put the kettle on and waited. Ginny was the first one to pull herself together.

"And he just vanished?" Ginny asked, struggling to knot her bathrobe closed. She grabbed up three mugs, sliding them across the counter. Hermione poured. Harry wandered in, pulling a jumper on and running his fingers through his hair. As if I didn't know what was going on...

"He's been acting odd most of the day," Hermione said, pushing a mug in his direction. "Anxious. Secretive." She could feel her throat tightening up. "Did something happen at the Ministry?"

Harry looked uncomfortable. He paid an inordinate amount of attention to pouring milk in his tea.

"Harry!" Ginny grabbed a hold of his chin and turned his face towards hers. "What is going on?"

He shook his head. "I told him to leave it alone." He took out his wand and accio'dhis coat. "I told him we didn't have enough experience to deal with it."

"Experience with what?" Hermione found herself trembling. Truth had a way of resonating even before one knew it as such.

"It's a Hand of Glory," Harry mumbled as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. "It's a long-lost Prewett heirloom he's been researching for months now." He dug around in his pockets and pulled out a knit cap. "I didn't realize he'd actually found it."

Ginny's face turned red, anger rising. "How? What?"

"Please don't be cross with me," Harry said, grabbing her up quickly into his arms. "He's a grown man. I do not control him."

"No one does; that's the problem." She shot a withering look Hermione's way before she buried her tears in Harry's shoulder. "It's a good thing I love you," she whispered.

"Same."

Harry looked up and nodded at Hermione who made her way for the exit. He joined her outside. "Show me where you last saw him," he said, offering her his arm. And they apparated together into the night.

Hermione renewed her warming charm and stamped her feet. Leaving without a coat was not her brightest move. Then again, she hadn't planned on being outdoors for over an hour in the deep winter chill. She blew into her hands to keep her fingers nimble.

"Sorry this is taking so long," Harry said. "I just need to be sure…" His words trailed off as he charted the magical signature again and again. Hermione watched the trace glow in golds and reds with his repeated strokes. "It doesn't make sense," he said, quietly.

"What doesn't make sense?" Her reply aloud seemed to jolt him. He looked up at her, his eyes wide.

"He's at Hogwarts."

It was going to be a long night.

Ron stood outside the vault door, under-dressed, chilled to the bone—spellbound. He wasn't even sure how he'd gotten there. He lit the hand and the shadows crawled back, as if the dark itself feared the thing.

And the serpents coiled back to their nests.

"I don't know what she expects of me," Hermione went on, more out of a desire to distract herself from how cold she was than anything else. "It's not like I'm his mother."

Nor would I want to be.

"Anger is sort of how Ginny goes about getting upset," he said, absent-mindedly. "She doesn't mean anything by it. It's just her first instinct." He gave her a knowing smirk. "I figured you'd be used to that by now."

Hermione knew what he meant being with Ron as long as she had already. Still, she wasn't sure how she felt about it. Was this what her life was destined to be?

Harry stopped walking and raised his hand, indicating Hermione should do the same. She watched him strain to listen, her hand tightening around her wand.

Finally, he motioned for her to follow as they made their way down towards the dungeons. It was an approach to a part of the castle she had hoped to never make again. Beyond the Dark Arts classrooms and the Slytherin dormitory. Down, down into the moldy darkness where nothing good thrived. The perpetual drip of water echoed in the narrow tunnels, growing louder as the earth closed in around them. Walls made of sharp rock glistened with ice crystals as they dove deeper into the earth.

The shirt almost glowed against the dark basalt in the light of her illuminated wand. White on black. Hermione knew it right away—the t-shirt Ron had been wearing when he left. What was left was barely recognizable—wet, dirty, and shredded to ribbons.

"Merlin's beard," Harry whispered as he peered over her shoulder. "Come on. We're running out of time," he grabbed her hand and they practically ran the rest of the way towards the chamber.

What happened next was a blur. Hermione thought she remembered throwing up a defensive spell, but to no effect. She was enthralled immediately; the curse surged through her like an electrical charge.

Her last clear memory was of her body being flung into a wall of the bedrock that surrounded them. She crumpled to the ground, the ice melting against her to pool beneath her face. Through a haze she saw them, Harry and Ron. Struggling, grasping. Ron seemed impossibly strong—almost alien in the harsh green reflections off the lagoon.

But her sight faded and the world went dark. She lost her grip on composure. She started to forget who she was. There was only the terror.

Warmth only returned with the sun. A sun many days hence, as it broke through the low-slung clouds of a late February afternoon. It illuminated a stark white room that was clearly not her own.

"Oy, there," Harry smiled. He looked exhausted. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he smiled.

"Same to you," she croaked. Her throat was beyond dry. She went to reach for a glass and found her arm unwilling to comply. She tried to turn her head to look at Harry, but it only lolled from side to side.

"It will take a minute," he said to her, reaching in to offer her a sip of water from the drink he poured. "You were hurt pretty badly."

Hermione closed her eyes, and tried to take it all in. "Hurt?" she managed after a moment.

"The hand," he said. Harry sighed and shook his head. "A story passed down from the Prewett side of Ron's family, I gather. Personally, I didn't believe it actually existed, but Ron wouldn't give it up." He looked up at her, his eyes haunted. "It is a Hand of Glory of immense power, Hermione. Easily the most potent I've ever seen."

She blinked her eyes back open with what seemed an inordinate amount of effort for something so simple. Did he sound excited? She was having difficulty getting her bearings. "Is?" she asked. "As in, it has not been destroyed?"

"Goodness, no," Harry replied. "It is being studied and documented by Ministry officials and Auror specialists, even as we speak." His eyes had a strange look about them, but then again, she was so tired.

Perhaps I am imagining things. She sipped slowly at the water he still had on offer. He was staring off into the middle distance, clearly not entirely with her here. And where is here, exactly? She managed a cursory glance at her surroundings; white walls, white sheets, white skin.

"Ron!"

His body was mottled blue, black and ice white as he lay, unconscious, in the bed next to her own. Even his hair seemed streaked with white, as if he had aged enormously.

"Easy does it." Harry reached in to prop her up a bit more so she could see better. "He's got some ways to go to recover, I'm afraid."

"But—"

"It is a curse of the blood," he said, grimly. "We don't know yet what recovery will look like for him."

Had she been able, Hermione would have sank back down into her bed. Her mind spun with thoughts, none of which seemed coherent.

"I know," Harry filled into the silence. "It is all I can do to get Ginny to eat."

"What happened?" she finally managed.

"I wish we knew," he answered. "He seems to have gone into some sort of nightmarescape. Nothing he said made any sense. It was as if he had gone back to second year."

"You mean with Riddle and the diary?"

"He was looking for Ginny. Like he'd lost all those years in between"

They sat in silence for a moment. Hermione tried desperately to remember but her head was so fuzzy. "Why didn't it affect you?" She asked, finally. "Why did it attack me and not you?"

"It didn't. It doesn't." He was fumbling, covering something up. Hermione knew him too well for that. She looked at her best friend square in the eyes, and he folded. "The hand was cursed, yes. But it didn't attack you. Ron did."

Hermione found herself grateful for not having full control over her body. She couldn't jump out of bed to rush to the library. She couldn't even jump to a conclusion. "But why?"

Harry held her hands in his own. "It's too soon to know, 'Mione," he soothed. "But you can bet that it wasn't about you. He was not in his right mind."

In that moment, Hermione felt lost. What is wrong with us? Has it always been this way? She could no longer tell if it was her own, true feelings, or the residue left behind from the curse.

"For a certainty, the object is cursed," Harry interjected into her thoughts as if he'd read them. "Now you might ask if they all are, and, yes, that is sort of how they are made. But this one is very different."

Leave it to Harry to plunge into a problem that needs solving so as to take my mind off the rest. He really is the best friend a girl could have.

Hermione decided to play along. "Harry? Do you think it is anything like what happened to you? I mean, like when you were a baby?"

"You mean how my mother saved my life?" His face sort of pinched up while he thought this idea through. "Well, this certainly isn't love..."

Hermione chewed at her lip; a good sign if there ever was one of her feeling more like herself. "Do you think that instead of love—like it was for you—do you think it was hate? Do you think this was meant to be an expression of hatred towards the creator's own family?"

She instantly felt the rush of adrenaline; it was something she always felt when she was on the right track.

Harry rose and walked over to Ron's bedside. He flipped open the chart, making note of this or that, and then raised his wand, performing a quick diagnostic sweep over and around Ron's still form. She heard him catch his breath before he rushed back to her bedside.

"You truly are the most brilliant witch of your age," he exclaimed, grabbing her up and planting a kiss on her forehead. "I've got to run."

Hermione was unceremoniously released, flopping back into pillows like a rag doll. "You can't leave without telling me what you found!" She managed to crank her neck enough to follow him towards the door, and caught his smile.

"I'm not entirely sure," he grinned, "but let's just say I'm fairly convinced we'll have our Ron back in no time." Harry crossed back to her quickly and leaned down. "Coiled like a snake around his heart. Something dark and foreboding. It tightens if you probe it. Hate, I bet. I would never have thought if you hadn't..."

He shook his head, but relief was written all over his face. "I've got to get this to Kingsley so someone with more expertise can take start to work on this!" He squeezed her hand one more time, and flew out the door and into the bright morning sun.

And on the other side of the room, Ron opened his eyes.