Uh, somehow this got extremely violent. I would recommend not reading this if squeamish or having pure empathy.
Hermione paused awkwardly in front of the old, rusted door. She felt a little like she was being judged here, in front of this dingy, moss-colored entrance, by some sinister higher power. Raising a hesitant hand, she knocked twice.
The echoes rang throughout the chamber, and then there was a roar from her left.
Hermione whipped around to face the noise. It came from the direction of Dr. Dumbledore's office and…the experiments.
She shuddered. No one except Dr. Riddle, the Head, and Dr. Dumbledore were allowed in with the experiments. Harry had told her that he'd seem them, once, but she didn't believe his stories. There was no way they would experiment on real—
"Hermione?"
Fred looked at her expectantly from a crack through the door. His face seemed more haggard and dull each passing day.
"Fred—what was that noise?"
He snorted a bit and waved her in. "Probably someone who got caught in the incinerator," he answered coolly. "Maybe my brother."
"That's not funny," she said, looking disapproving. When he motioned for her to sit beside him, she did so carefully, clutching feebly at her bulky bag. "We don't even have an incinerator," she added. Maybe someone had accidentally turn on an alarm.
At his blank stare, she quickly asked, "How are you coping?"
He ruffled his ginger hair and made a dismissive motion with his arm. "Same old, same old. Poor George must be so lonely right now. I hope those bastards end up with the life sentence for kidnapping him."
Hermione tried to feel repulsed at the simple hatred in the dark gaze of this once cheerful young boy. "Fred…" she started, but cut herself off abruptly. It would do no good to remind him that George was killed.
She could still remember the day Dumbledore had announced that George had passed away due to his illness. Fred, yelling "he's lying" at anyone who would listen, had been in hysterics. She had been the only one who had taken pity on the boy and stopped to listen.
Fred explained how he had been hiding in the triangular crevasse between the open door and the wall, waiting to surprise Ginny. George had been sitting on the bed when suddenly, two men in black gear had come in and forced George to take drugs. He insisted that George had been knocked out, but Hermione had seen the body.
She had believed him because recently, she'd noticed some people missing on the long, unofficial records. Harry had never noticed, but Harry didn't have a photographic memory.
Looking away from Fred's hunched shoulders, she checked the time. 4:40.
"Fred," she tried, "are you sure you don't want to come with me?"
Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.
"I'd really like it, if you did," she mumbled. "You're like a little brother to me."
She waited.
Slowly, Hermione picked up her things and cradled them in her arms. "I'm sorry," she said.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, remembering the laughs Fred and George and she had shared.
Fred got up and limply wrapped his arms around her. "I'm staying for George," he said. His eyes, she noticed, were a little red. They told her 'I don't want to stay.'
"No," she objected. "You're coming with—"
As soon as she heard the noise, Hermione felt Fred push her away and run. The shriek was high, then low, then high, then low again.
"GEORGE!" he yelled.
Hermione took off after him.
…
"Tom, my boy, how are you? I was expecting you today." Dumbledore picked up another one of those filthy lemon drops and offered it to him. "Lemon drop?"
"Dumbledore," Tom greeted, feeling his brains slowly rot out of his ears. He had half a mind to walk in here one day and interrupt the old coot with the same introduction he gave Tom every. Single. Time.
Dumbledore looked put out, again, by his rejection of the lemon drop. As if he was expecting anything else.
"Well," Dumbledore started, thoughtfully, as Tom parroted in his mind "I suppose we should probably go to the other room, for our discussion, then."
"After you, sir," Tom stated with a genteel nod of the head.
Dumbledore lead them both to the well-furnished back room. The floor was a putrid shade of plum and the walls were covered in wallpaper decorated with scrawling designs. In the middle was an old, antique teak desk laden with stacks of papers, and behind it was a mismatched plush chair. Tom's eyes landed on the plastic and metal seat that was obviously for visitors, and his eye twitched at the cheapness of it. Deliberately, he turned his head and noticed a large portrait of Grindlewald. Tom smirked to himself. If only the public could get a hold of this…
"Now my dear boy," Dumbledore motioned to a chair, "tell me of your experiments."
Tom smiled a self-depreciating smile and recited his summary of the works as Dumbledore fiddled around with a plastic remote. "Both of the experiments are progressing, as planned, sir," he concluded, wondering why he worked for this man at all, when he owned this company.
And speaking of that, why did he even donate his precious project to Dumbledore at all?
Lord Voldemort wasn't a charitable man…
A deep, unsettling cold descended over him as realized what had happened. He struggled against the constants on his arms, legs, and neck, to no avail. He was trapped in the chair. Trapped to the machine.
Again.
"You…" he hissed. "You think you've defiled me, you worthless fool!"
Dumbledore smiled. "Tom, my boy, please don't struggle so. You might hurt yourself."
"I am LORD VOLDEMORT!" he roared. "Unhand me! I will not be tricked again!"
Clucking his tongue disapprovingly, Dumbledore pressed a couple more buttons on his remote and a hidden compartment above Tom slid out to reveal a large, lowering, upside down dome.
Soon it covered Tom's head and his yells of protest were muffled, then gone.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily.
Tom blinked as Dumbledore sat up and shook his hand. His eyes narrowed at the always abrupt dismissals. Dumbledore was a terrible leader. He never gave an opinion on Tom's work, ever. While they bid each other goodbye, Tom realized he needed a strong cup of tea, now, because visiting the old coot always gave him migraines. This was going to be a nuisance.
…
Harry traced a finger over the two pictures in the worn locket.
It might have once been beautiful, with its elaborate carvings and meticulously etched ornaments, but when Dumbledore had given it to him, along with a ratty old cup, an empty book, and some other old treasures, age had already transformed it to the great brown lump it was today.
He snapped it shut and dropped it into his t-shirt. He didn't really care much for the locket, but it was a handy place to store pictures.
There were only two living occupants in the dimly lit room. The third could be considered living, if the definition was stretched.
As Harry approached, grinning, the red-haired boy curled up on himself.
"Why're you sniveling, Georgie-boy?" he asked cheekily. Harry squatted and reached a hand over to tousle the boy's hair. George shielded away from the touch with a whimper.
"George," Harry whined. "You said you were strong." He crouched down until he was eye to eye with the fearful boy and whispered, "did you lie?"
George opened and closed his mouth a few times, but managed to croak out a no.
Harry raised an eyebrow. Then, he jumped back up and rubbed his chin.
"Hmmm. What to do, what to do. Oh, I know!"
He grabbed George and shoved him onto the operating table, ignoring the cries, the boy's clawing, and the blood that started to drip from George's back. After securing him, Harry groped around for his needle.
"Where is my-? Oh." Harry rolled his eyes and fished under George's back for the needle, which had jabbed the boy in the shoulder. "Sorry 'bout that," he called flippantly.
Harry guessed that it had probably hurt, since the needle was pretty big.
At this point, George was sobbing. "Please Harry, please, please, I wanna go home, I don't care what you do to the others, I just wanna go home…"
"George, what would Hermione say about that?" Harry remonstrated. "You don't want to disappoint Hermione, right?"
George sobbed harder, and Harry finally found the other thing he was looking for.
"My shears!" he cried, pleased.
George started to scream. He wanted to be with Fred and Hermione again.
…
A very grumpy Draco Malfoy and an equally grumpy Severus Snape drove down to DG General Hospital on the bumpy road and the under the blistering sun.
"They just had to make the hospital out here in the woods." Snape snarled.
"You don't even sound that unhappy, compared to usual. I bet you're taking delight in my misery," Draco moaned as he tried to unstick his hair from his forehead. "Malfoy hair was not meant for the heat."
"To hell with your hair."
A scuffle ensued.
FairlyJane-Yes! I heard about whistleblower :D Can't wait until that comes out.