Ron awoke slowly, cursing a night spent in plastic hospital chairs, and carefully began stretching his limbs. Hermione had spent the night next to him, her head bowed against his shoulder until she'd left to get ready for work an hour earlier. (At least, he thought she did. He only vaguely remembered her kissing him goodbye.) Thank the gods Minerva had told him to take some time off. He couldn't imagine trying to go teach after spending the night here.

Harry and Chris had disappeared, probably back to the Ministry. Ron wasn't sure when exactly they had disappeared, but he was pretty sure they were still there when Hermione had left. At least, he thought he had heard their voices. Bill, however, had claimed the vacated chairs and was currently sprawled out on them, snoring softly.

And then he spied Fred sitting on the floor across the hallway, his knees pulled up, his arms folded across them, staring into space and looking as though he hadn't closed his eyes all night.

"You all right, mate?"

Fred looked over at him and nodded once. That was all the response he seemed to be capable of.

"Have the healers come back yet?"

A small shake of the head.

Ron sighed.

"Look, I think the Tea Room is open. Why don't you come get some coffee with me?"

Fred merely stared ahead, as though he hadn't even heard his brother.

"Fred?" Bill's eyes opened, but he said nothing- merely met Ron's eyes and looked over at their brother, waiting for some kind of response.

He hadn't really expected Fred to comply, but Fred slowly pushed himself off the floor and stood waiting silently, as though unable to move without someone to tell him where to go.

Bill sat up, worry creasing his brow, but Ron waved him off and took Fred's elbow to lead him toward the Tea Room. He hoped to Merlin everything would he okay.

Entering and leaving the Department of Mysteries had always made Hermione nervous, as did certain areas she had glimpsed through the few years she had worked there. Early on, memories of her first horrific visit here plagued her, bringing to mind the fight for her and her classmates' lives at the end of their fifth year. Now, it only brought a queasiness to her stomach as she stepped into the Whirling Room. She closed her eyes as the walls began to spin, attempting to calm herself from the feeling of claustrophobia. She hated this trapped feeling, fearing for a few seconds that none of the doors would open for her, or perhaps the wrong one, leading her to one of those halls that had appeared in her nightmares so often during her last years at school.

The correct door always opened for her, of course, recognizing her as a member of the staff assigned to the Ancient Artifact Department. Hermione made her way down the hallway, finding herself breathing a little easier to be out of that room, and headed down to the Cloak Room to store her personal items before heading into the Acquisitions Corridor where current research was being done. It wasn't a corridor persay, more of a grand hall on par with the Versailles Hall of Mirrors: a vast room where ancient treasures were categorized and stored awaiting research to unlock its history and secrets.

When Hermione had first been assigned here, it had every appearance of an abandoned warehouse with piles unrecognizable under layers of dust. There was only one other employee down here, who had been assigned the year before Hermione, and in that year had made little headway with the artifacts, but had redesigned the cataloguing process, allowing for a much faster way to research and even cross-categorize items, whereas before, all research was done by flipping through thousand page tomes that were in no real order at all but the random order that the categorizer had picked up the artifacts to write about.

Now, nearly five years later, all the catalogues had been transferred to the new system and the two researchers had actually begun cleaning, researching, and storing the items in the room. Though she had been optimistic when first entering this corridor, Hermione now began to feel that she had been placed here in the hopes that she would inhale too much dust and die in the basement of the Ministry, never to be heard from again. The only thing that staved that irrational fear from taking over was the fact that Maggie was stuck down here too. But then again, Maggie had apparently requested this particular dark corner of the earth, while Hermione had been assigned, most likely by some higher up who resented her involvement in the party of school children who had broken into one of the more impenetrable places in the Wizarding government at the tender age of sixteen.

With a sigh, Hermione made her way down the corridor, her sneakers making the trek to the end nearly silent. She had long ago given up at dressing professionally for work. Too many outfits were covered in cobwebs and dirt, and skirts just did not allow for any stooping for lifting or kneeling next to large items. Instead, she found herself having become part of the very small group who wore jeans and old shirts to the Ministry… namely, herself and Maggie. Not that it mattered: no one of importance was coming down here anytime soon.

Just ahead, Hermione spotted her partner down here, clad similarly in jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt. A long black ponytail hung down her back. Maggie leaned on a large chest, believed to have been owned by Clovis of France, reading the newspaper and biting into a shiny red apple.

"Morning, Maggie," Hermione greeted as she approached, only to receive a patient hand, telling her to wait.

Margaret Alden, or Maggie as her friends called her, had been an enigma to Hermione early on. She had chosen this department both for the research opportunities, which Hermione could understand, and the isolation, which was harder to understand. When she had first come here, Maggie had hardly spoken to her, which Hermione had taken to be an instant dislike, assuming she was an intellectual snob who didn't want to be bothered with conversing with others, and found herself often ignored. As time passed, she found that none of her initial impressions had been true, except for the intellectual snob part. Maggie was incredibly intelligent, had been a Ravenclaw a year ahead of herself, and couldn't abide the idea that not everyone wanted to learn simply for the sake of knowledge and understanding, mastery of the unknown. What Hermione did learn was that the reason Maggie was so incredibly quiet was because that had been her way of getting to know people. Observation. That, and a slightly low self-esteem that assumed that not everyone wanted to talk to a self-ascribed book worm who preferred talking about wizards and witches who had been dead for a hundred years rather than the latest Quidditch games. And all those times Hermione had felt ignored, Maggie had simply been enveloped in her work. She, like Hermione so many times before, allowed herself to get so caught up in her work that she failed to notice things going on around her.

At last, Maggie looked up, her dark brown eyes encircled by oval shaped lenses. She smiled, holding the apple between her teeth as she folded up the newspaper and set it aside.

"Sorry," she said at last, taking the apple out of her mouth. "You caught me in the middle of a paragraph."

"It's all right. Anything interesting in there?"

"Terrifying is more like it. There were more attacks last night." She shook her head. "This war is getting out of hand, and I don't think the Ministry has any clue what to do about it."

"You know, saying something like that could land you on the Ministry Watchlist."

"Hermione, honestly, if you were one of their lapdogs, you wouldn't be down here right now, covered in dust and fighting a losing battle with archaic catalogues and broken relics. And if they were worried about me, they wouldn't allow me into the Department of Mysteries, so I think we're safe on both fronts."

Hermione smiled at her logic. She had a way of stating her opinions as though they were so obvious, anyone should have come up with them and agreed.

"Your boyfriend's a Weasley, isn't he?" Hermione's head jerked. She had had little sleep the previous night, and Maggie's continued conversation brought her out of a momentary smiling stupor.

"Yes."

"The paper said one of You Know Who's strongholds was raided and that a Weasley was among the prisoners rescued."

"Yeah," Hermione answered. "It was Ron's brother, George." Seeing the blank look on Maggie's face, she clarified. "The Weasley twins? They were a year ahead of you."

"Right," she answered, screwing up her face. "The one's that left when that Umbridge woman took over. They're friends with my brother."

"That's them."

"Hmm. Is he all right?"

"I don't know," Hermione answered truthfully. "He's in pretty bad shape. He hadn't woken up yet when I left the hospital early this morning."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." She smiled thinly. "He'll pull through, though. He's a Weasley." Her smile faded. She really hoped she was right about. She didn't know if Ron could take the loss of another family member. "Speaking of pulling through," she said suddenly, wanting to avoid negative thinking for at least a little while. "Where are we starting today?"

"Oh, I don't know," Maggie answered, picking up on Hermione's change. "I feel like being mocked by one dimensional images, so I think I'm going to clean some of the paintings at the end down there. See if any of them are actually important. You?"

"A little mocking would do me good."

"Excellent," Maggie replied with a smile. "A-mocking we shall go."

Draco awoke groggily, taking several seconds before he could actually open his eyes, and several seconds more to realize he was in his own bed, though he couldn't remember ever actually lying down. No, he vaguely remembered apparating home after the Dark Lord made his displeasure known for the failed defenses at Domus Devreor.

He would have shivered at the memory of last night, had his body the energy for it. As it was, his limbs felt as if they were weighed down to the bed. Too weak to move, Draco merely stared up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what had happened, when a noise from outside his bedroom door alerted him that he was not alone.

Instinct screamed at him to move, but his body refused to obey. He simply did not have the energy to do more then move his head to face whoever was coming through the door.

"Draco? What's wrong?" Snape, his hand still on the doorknob, stood in the entrance with a steaming bowl in his other hand. Draco's stomach turned at the scent of the food.

"What happened?" Was that really his voice that sounded so weak?

"I could ask you the same," came the answer as the Death Eater set the bowl on the bedside table and leaned over the young man. "I came here last night to check on you and found you collapsed on your kitchen floor." Touching his fingers to the inside of Draco's wrist, he checked his pulse before pushing Draco's eyelids up to look at his eyes. "It appears you have been quite ill, and your body finally quit on you."

"I'm sick?"

"Yes, though not dangerously so." The man smirked. "Your mother was under the impression that you were attacked."

"My mother?" In his head, he was leaping out of his bed, but all Snape saw was his head jerk. "My mother was here? In my flat?"

"Calm yourself, Draco. She was, but I convinced her to alow you to stay here to recover."

"Stay here?"

"She wanted to take you back to the manor."

Draco's face screwed up in distaste, then his mind turned to more serious matters.

"The raid?"

"Domus Devereor was taken and with it, many prisoners."

Gray eyes slid closed in relief. The Dark Lord had been unhappy that the attack had taken place, but that it had been successful- no wonder they had been punished so harshly. At least, despite his own pain, the mission was successful.

"What about-?" He did not dare to finish the question, even with his voice lowered as it was.

"I have had no contact with anyone but your mother," came the answer. "I know nothing of casualties or survivors. But for now, your health is most important. You should eat."

"I'm not hungry," came the protest, even as Snape lifted the bowl again.

"I didn't ask if you were hungry. You will eat."

"What do you think it was like for him?"

Ron looked up at Fred's sudden question. It was the first he had spoken since he had been ushered so quickly out of George's room early this morning. He hesitated by slowly sipping at his tea.

"I don't know." The younger brother didn't know how to answer. While he didn't have the answer, he had a pretty good idea. Stories of what happened in the prisons were well-known, though most of the information was obtained from dead bodies. Few prisoners ever actually found freedom. In fact, Ron only knew of seven: the seven rescued in this raid. "I think, though, that we should be prepared for anything."

Fred only made a noise in his throat in response. He had been so quiet, so passive since they had learned of George's survival and captivity- it saddened Ron a little. Fred and George were always the one's who lightened the mood when things got tough, but somehow now, when it seemed laughter was needed most, it was impossible. And Ron knew it would remain so until George was out of danger.

Which brought Ron's thinking back to the near-shock state Fred had been in since his ejection from he room.

"Fred, what happened last night?"

He shook his head, not wanting to answer.

"Come on, Fred. Something had to have happened for you to act like this."

"He had a fit," Fred answered quietly, staring intently down at his drink. "He was shaking and not breathing, and I thought- I thought he was going to die right in front of me."

Ron was shocked at this, trying hard not to imagine the scene what had turned the most outgoing member of their family silent, but it was hard. Though he had not seen George since before his disappearance, in his mind, he saw him, thin, battered, and suffering a seizure. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to force the image from his brain.

Nearly successful, he caught his brother's gaze again.

"George is tougher than that, Fred. Do you really think he would survive all this time just to-." He took a deep breath. "He wouldn't. That's just not his way."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking too." He fell silent, leaning his head on his hand and idly stirring the dark tea that he had yet to drink. "But, what if he's different? What if I don't know him anymore?"

It was a good question: one Ron didn't know how to answer, but he had to keep Fred's spirits up.

"Come on, this is George we're talking about."

Fred's face took on a pained look, but before he could reply, a nurse hurried up to their table.

"Mr. Weasley?"

"Yes?" The reply was in unison. The nurse stared between the two of them before addressing Fred.

"Healer Parsons sent me to find you. He wants to speak to you before you see your brother."

The words had barely tumbled from her lips before Fred's chair fell backward and he was hurrying out of the Tea Room with Ron right behind.

Hermione sat back on her heels and took a moment to examine the work she had been doing. Though her eyes took in the details of the painting, and her hand wrote down facts that might help her to identify it, her mind was elsewhere.

This war had been going strong for seven years now, though truth be told, it had been over three times that long since it had begun. Casualties were mounting, and fear seemed to be the rule. She had known many people who had been felled by a Death Eater. True, George had survived, but at what cost? From Fred's expression last night, or this morning to be accurate, he was not necessarily in one piece. And he was one of the lucky ones.

How long would they have to endure? How long would she have to worry about her friends every time they were out of sight?

"Where is this going?" she whispered out loud.

"That one? Probably back under dust." Maggie's voice came from right behind her, surprising Hermione. She whirled around to find Maggie blinking owlishly at her through her glasses. "Something wrong?"

"No, nothing. I just didn't realize you were right there."

"I've been here since we started," she pointed out slowly. "Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

"I'm sorry. I guess I was just lost in thought."

"Oh." Maggie nodded. "About George."

"About the whole war, actually. I wish- I wish we could end it. Don't you?"

"Well, of course. My brother's practically on the frontline, and he's all the family I have left." Maggie's face softened at the thought, and she appeared more human than most people ever realized. "I just- what is there for me to do? I'm not a strategist. I can't fight. I'm a researcher- a brain surrounded by bone and muscle. All I can do is let others more capable than I am fight, and I'll preserve what little history we have left."

"That's a pretty grim self-analysis."

"But it's honest." Her gaze fell to the side so she was staring at the portrait of a knight on his stamping steed. "I'm not a hero from a children's book. I'm not Dumbledore or Harry Potter or even my brother. And I accept that."

"But if you could make a difference?"

"As the Bard said, 'Fight till the last gasp.'"

Fred hovered over his brother, staring in distaste at the wide leather straps that wound around his brother's chest and extremities and held him to the bed. Only his right arm was not graced with the restraint, but it was in a sling secured around his chest. A medical restraint, he had been told. Completely necessary. But he hated them. Hated that his brother was made a prisoner again by his doctors and his own family. It was for his own good, to prevent him from reinjuring himself during his "fits," but Fred couldn't help but feel that he had failed his twin in some way.

Ginny had appeared while he and Ron were in the Tea Room, and she stood silently next to him, looking as though she hadn't slept all night, her eyes shining with tears as she too looked down at the twin.

Ron and Bill stood a few feet away, talking quietly to the Healer, whose grandfatherly disposition did nothing to calm him. He was glad they were there with him, Ron and Bill, the professor and the researcher, to talk to the Healer when he could not. Somehow, standing apart and listening to the conversation rather than taking part in it made things easier for him.

"I am afraid Mr. Weasley's healing process is going to be a long and painful one." He sighed, flipping a chart open. "We've healed what we could. In a few days, his superficial injuries and malnourishment will be completely gone; the bones in his arm and shoulder have been healed, though they may be a little sore for him when he wakes. However, there have been some complications. It appears that both of his legs have been broken and healed, poorly I might add, several times. The muscles and nerves in his left leg in particular suffered the worst of the damage. We are doing all we can to repair them, but he will not walk out of here unassisted."

"What does that mean?" Bill asked, and Fred was glad he did, as his own head had begun spinning and he didn't think he'd be able to give voice to the question.

"What it means, Mr, Weasley-."

"Bill," he corrected. "Call me Bill."

"Bill, then. What it means is that the bones in his legs were crushed, and I do not mean that as a metaphor. Literally, parts of his bones were no more than fragments. Whoever attempted to heal him tried to piece the bones back together rather than removing them and regrowing new ones. From the damage, I assume he was in a great deal of pain whenever his legs moved." Bill and Ron exchanged worried looks, though Fred continued looking directly at the Healer, as though trying to read his mind. "We are regrowing the bone, of course, but the nerve damage is quite severe. Unfortunately, nerves heal very slowly, and sometimes, not at all. By the time he leaves here, if George is able to walk at all, he will not be able to do it without help."

If he's able to walk at all? Fred turned his gaze back to his unconscious brother. It was easy to delude himself into believing his twin would be okay when the cuts were already healing into scars and the bruising was beginning to fade, but knowing that there were deeper injuries he could not see- the possibility of coming back from this seemed daunting at best. If his body was that bad, what would his mind be like?

He felt Ginny's hand snake into his, silent but supportive. She too was listening to the conversation.

"-permanent?" It was Ron who asked this time, drawing Fred's attention back to the conversation.

"I am afraid I cannot answer that question at this moment," came the sad answer. "A great deal will depend on George, himself. We will also have to do a thorough exploration of the area, determine the severity of the damage." He rubbed his old blue eyes tiredly. "There is an experimental process we are working on. Healer Stedgewick is in charge of the project. It is very slow, but it could ease some of his future pain and give him more movement, though at this juncture, I cannot discuss it as more than a mere possibility. When he wakes, Healer Stedgewick will speak to him about the possibility."

Fred vaguely heard his brothers thank the doctor, then move to stand beside him to look down at George. He didn't look at them, but knew that they were doing as he had, seeking out every injury done to him. They were silent for a long time before Ron spoke up.

"He's gonna have a lot of scars. The ones on his face aren't too bad, but the one on his neck- it looks like he was-." Ron jumped suddenly, and Fred assumed Bill had elbowed him to get him to shut up, but Fred knew what he was going to say. He had had the same thought. It looked as though someone had tried to cut his throat.

"Scars aren't so bad," Bill finally spoke up. "After a while, you hardly notice them." Fred glanced at his brother, and realized the truth in his words. Most of the time, he forgot the wide scars that slashed across his brother's face, a gift from a sadistic werewolf still in human form.

"Do you ever forget how you got them?" Ginny asked quietly.

Bill was silent for a bit, then answered slowly, "No."

The four Weasleys fell silent. No more comment was needed on Bill's answer. They all understood the implications, but somehow saying them aloud only made them more true.