Extra long chapter today, because I had an extra scene I wanted to include. There's a lot of hate for Lydia since the last few chapters and I guess that's understandable. But bear in mind that LSP fucking stuff up for everyone because she doesn't listen is pretty much 50% of her character development. She turned up to Tree Trunks' wedding in a wedding dress, infected Finn with the lumps and once used a time device to maybe kill a guy she liked, just because. So AU Lydia by comparison is pretty restrained.

There's a revelation in this chapter that I wasn't sure I should even include, but in the end my proof readers convinced me to keep it because it makes certain characters a little more 3D and ties up a loose end quite satisfyingly. I hope it makes sense in the context of the story.

Content Warning: Harry Potter spoilers. Yeah, seriously, for the third and fourth books. Medical stuff, historical injury description, implied murder.

At first it was like a tiny flash in the darkness; just occasional little snippets of information dancing like darting fish against the blank background. The more they happened the longer the flashes lasted, each with a bottomless stretch of blackness in between.

"...Marcy..."

"...see you, she's..."

"...won't you wake up? I feel so helpless..."

"...mother would have been proud of you, kid. It wasn't supposed to end like this..."

"...the end I just stormed out, he can be a dick about it all he wants but he doesn't get to tell me..."

"...getting so thin, like you're disappearing right in front of my eyes. I can't even talk to anyone about it, except Neddy. Please wake up, I can't..."

"...when Marcy was five and we went to the circus? She was so scared of that elephant until the ringmaster let us feed it an apple. Legs like tree trunks, do you remember, darling?"

Then slowly it became more like swimming but so much more difficult. It felt like she was struggling slowly upwards through some sort of thick black gunk like treacle or tar, only nothing at all like that really. Then there was a voice that didn't immediately fade into a flash of confusing noise and words were filtering very slowly through the darkness but they made no sense.

"-fter about fifteen minutes, Harry heard the deafening roar that could mean only one thing: Cedric had got past his dragon, and seized the golden egg. Very good indeed! Bagman was shouting. And now the marks from the judges! Seriously, this is only going to go one way. Like, I bet Harry will win and Cedric will be annoyed. You would probably say these books are lame but I've never read them before. I hope you don't mind me reading them to you. I used to think I could totally have written all this. Like, it is just magic and stuff for kids. But then there was the big Prisoner of Azkaban reveal, Pettigrew is Scabbers. I did not see that one coming. Do you think Harry will end up getting together with Ginny or is he gay? I think maybe, I get these little hints. Like he thinks Bill is so cool and he seems to spend an awful lot of time trying to get Malfoy's attention. Hassan yelled at me for saying that, though. He still thinks gays are bad. But I have reached an understanding with Allah. I do not care what Hassan or anyone else says. I just wanted you to know that I won't turn by back on you."

The words were jumbled to her ears and meant nothing but the voice though, the voice was familiar. It reminded her of somewhere sunny with sunflowers outside the window and a row of neat cupboards filled with craft supplies, retro games consoles and tangled guitar leads. It sounded like sweet spiced tea and sneaking sound equipment out through the basement door, the one they weren't supposed to have the key code for. Happy times, laughter. But the laugh that went with the voice was missing and that wasn't right.

She wanted to say- something. She wasn't sure what. Some noise or word to let him know she could hear him. It was more than the confused flashes had inspired from her so far. But the voice was getting distant and more confusing and the blackness was swirling closer and swimming was too hard. She was being sucked back down into the inky depths again. She only had one coherent thought and that was regret because however they spoke the voice sounded strained and a little sad and somehow she knew it was her fault. Regret and blackness tugged confusingly at each other for a few seconds before the blackness won and closed over her again and she knew nothing more.

...

Hunson was almost asleep when he heard footsteps in the corridor and his cell opened unexpectedly. He frowned; it was too late to be his lawyer or the frequent detectives who came to interview him. Hunson glowered and stayed silent through those tedious hours when the police questioned him over and over. That bastard DCI Earle could try to string him up for attempted murder all he wanted but Hunson wasn't going to play along and make it any easier for him. Besides Petya was his lawyer now and he was excellent at wriggling out of tight spots. That's why he'd been their crooked legal man back when Hunson still had businesses to run. Petya Bolshakov was the slipperiest lawyer in East London; Hunson had faith in his old associate's abilities. He'd find a way out.

"On your feet, Abadeer."

He stood and squinted at the figure outlined in the sudden flare of light. After a second he frowned in recognition.

"Detective Hope?"

"The very same. I'm here to speak with you on behalf of the family."

The warden nodded to Hope and swung the door closed; he must be on the payroll too then. That was a pleasant surprise. Hunson made a mental note to thank Petya when he next saw him.

"You're working for the family now, Hope?" I'm surprised a man like you would want to get involved with their kind of business." Hunson said quietly.

"Your friend Papa Bolshakov can be quite persuasive when he wants to be." the young detective replied. "He offered me several thousand reasons to take a personal interest in your case."

Hunson examined the younger man's round face closely; he prided himself on having a knack for knowing when he was being lied to. The detective had the open, guileless expression of the painfully truthful. From what Hunson had seen Elmon Hope was ambitious and flashy; a detective's wage probably wasn't keeping him in the luxury he'd hoped for when he joined the force. Petya must have seen it and taken him onto the payroll.

"I'm to keep you updated, too. So far there's only a small change in your daughter's condition. She's breathing on her own again but there's only minimal brain activity. Chances are she'll stay a vegetable for the rest of her life. They say every day she doesn't wake up it gets less and less likely she ever will; she could die any time and then you're facing a murder charge." Hope told him. Hunson shrugged. He had his regrets about that but she'd been shoving her twisted perversion in his face, would any reasonable man have done differently? Marceline had always known he had a temper and she'd always taken great delight in setting that temper off. Just like Claudia; it was no surprise they'd ended the same way. And she was tainted, corrupted. Better she just die and be done with it. Hunson allowed himself a moment of regret that she didn't have life support machines that could be conveniently switched off.

"You know about the evidence against me then?"

"Yes, I've heard the recordings. Unfortunately too many other people have also heard them to make it disappear but the legality of that evidence is dubious; she did it completely without your knowledge or consent. If the prosecution were going to build their case solely on that then you'd be walking out of court a free man." Hope replied.

Hunson nodded. He'd heard the same from Petya of course but there was too much other evidence. That little bastard had knocked him out and the police had had all the time they needed to search him while he was unconscious. The best his lawyers could come up with was pleading self-defence; claiming Marceline had threatened him with a knife and that the boy must have removed it before the police arrived. It was a slim chance but Hunson was hopeful that Petya would be able to buy him a sympathetic judge and jury. He had no plans whatsoever to go back to jail, not after he'd finally bought his way out. His reputation had caused some of the younger hard cases to take a swing at him and he'd been moved to solitary that morning for his own safety.

"That boy, that little bastard from downstairs. I want his body to turn up in the river. Naked. Violated. Make it as violent and degrading as possible; I want his whole fucking family shamed for what he did to me." Hunson growled with a sour frown. He unconsciously touched the back of his head where the boy had hit him with Simon's cricket bat. There were still stitches in the wound; a week later and it had barely healed. Hunson knew that was a sign of his age but he couldn't help but feel it was the boy's fault too. He should never have let his daughter grow up in an area like that. Of course she'd turned out perverted and disturbed. He would fix her if the little bitch ever woke up. He wasn't done with her; Marceline was in for a world more pain for the trouble she'd put him through.

Hope nodded sympathetically.

"The boy will get a token of the family's appreciation, don't worry about that."

He groped in the top pocket of his jacket and after a moment produced a small hip flask. He unscrewed the lid and passed it across to Hunson.

"From Bolshakov. He said to tell you he knows when a man needs a stiff drink."

Hunson took it and downed almost the whole flask in one mouthful. He and Petya had been drinking buddies many years ago and they'd had a running competition to find the most expensive whiskey London had to offer. Trust Petya to remember it; he was a better friend that Hunson had realised. He licked his lips and savoured the aftertaste thoughtfully.

"A hint of salt, it's quite full bodied. Old Pulteney?"

Hope grinned.

"Pultney Twenty Five, the cask strength single barrel edition. That stuff's like gold dust to find. Bolshakov insisted on the very best for you, he told me to tell you so. Said you might notice the taste otherwise."

It took a few long moments for Hunson to register that anything was amiss. Then-

"Wait, what? The taste? What about the taste?"

Hope stood. The smile was completely wiped from his podgy face. He was frowning down at Hunson and his cherubic features looked odd pulled into such severe lines. Hunson stared at him, confused. Suddenly he felt oddly disconnected; like the world was beginning to dissolve a little at the edges. He couldn't speak or try to stand and his mouth had gone weirdly dry.

"Courtesy of Petya Bolshakov. He said to tell you that for what it was worth he didn't think you deserved to be anaesthetised but he wasn't a sick bastard like you. Said you'd have enjoyed watching someone suffer but he had no taste for it. Personally, I need to give you something before you completely lose all feeling."

Hope kicked him as hard as he could in the balls. Hunson didn't even have time to think about moving to protect himself before the foot connected and he pitched forwards in blinding agony onto the cold concrete of his cell floor.

"Bolshakov asked me to remind you that he was always a loyal friend to the Petrikovs. And that you are no Petrikov. There's no place in the business for a man who acts against his family, Abadeer. Simon sends his regards too. He might not know much anymore but he remembers how much he hates you."

With that the detective rapped sharply on the door of the cell and it opened again to reveal the same heavy set warden who'd taken Hunson down to solitary that morning. Hope nodded to him and he entered the cell.

"Make it look like a suicide." Hope told the grim faced warden before he strode away down the corridor.

Hunson couldn't move as the big man advanced on him, couldn't even shout out. Vaguely he was aware that he'd been drugged; that would show up in a tox screen if they ran one but Petya had probably bought the coroner too. He was going to die. He knew it all the way down to his bones.

"I'm no friend of the Petrikovs myself but I like their money." the warden told him conversationally as he scooped Hunson up and arranged him on his thin metal bed. Hunson couldn't reply. He couldn't do anything but stare at the man with mute eyes full of impotent horror. His limbs felt like they'd been petrified, like he was slowly turning to stone.

"I'd like to say I hope you won't feel this but I got a little girl too. She'll be eight next week. Thanks to Bolshakov and his generous bonus to my pay packet we're taking her to Disneyland as a surprise. Can't wait to see the look on her face, she's my little angel. Anyone laid a hand on her and I'd fucking kill them slow and painful like. So I can't say I won't enjoy this, you scumbag."

Something glinted on the edge of Hunson's vision and it resolved into the blade of a homemade shiv, a razor blade melted into the handle of a toothbrush. The warden grinned at him over the weapon and held it up in one massive gloved hand so his victim could get a good look at it. Hunson wished he could scream. But he could do nothing, only lie helpless as his shirt sleeves were pulled back to expose his wrists.

The last thought Hunson Abadeer ever had was wondering if this was how his wife had felt before she died, wondering if she'd been as terrified as he was.

...

Time passed but she didn't know how she knew, just that it had. It felt different; a whole different season rather than a different day or different hour. There were still words filling the air all around her but this time it was a feminine voice speaking softly. It barely made any more sense than the last one. The voice was just a gentle murmur of nonsense that left her with confused impressions of sky blue eyes crinkling happily behind round glasses, freckles like tiny drops of sunshine on smooth pale cheeks, warm lips and soft hands. She didn't know how or why but she knew she loved that voice fiercely.

"...the Screams are playing at the Fox and Hounds again tonight but their new bassist is pretty crap. If you wake up we could go and heckle together. Please? Think about it, there's still time. Oh, and Ash called too; he said he'd come and see you this week. He finally introduced Anton to his father and I think it went well. If you wake up we can try a double date with them, or is that too cheesy for you? I know how you vegans are about cheesy things. Anyway, you can tell me off for making lame jokes if you wake up. Lame jokes are your territory. Please love, please just wake up and tell me I'm a dork or that I'm awful at talking to girls or anything. Please? I miss you so much. Please wake up, Marcy."

She desperately wanted to reply despite not really understanding what the words meant. But she couldn't remember how speaking worked or how to make the words flow out of her throat. The room grew quieter around her and for a few minutes the only noise was the low beep of some kind of machinery and a soft snuffling that reminded her of tears running down her cheeks. Eventually the voice spoke again. This time it was a little raw and raspy, like the speaker had done a lot of sobbing recently.

"I have to go now but I'll be back tomorrow. Wish me luck for this afternoon's lab session. I'm still catching up on what I've missed but my tagged cell cultures are finally growing. If you wake up I can take you into my lab and show you my fluorescent green science. I'll be back tomorrow. I love you."

Something touched her face; something warm and velvety soft that pressed against her cheek. After several long slow moments she realised it was a gentle kiss. Someone had kissed her cheek. The scent of rose perfume hung thick and sweet like Turkish Delight all around her, both familiar and wonderful. The blackness gave way a little more and let through a hazy flickering dream. It was like an old black and white film being played after a long time gathering dust. She had an impression of two girls curled together in a huge bed, warm and sated, gently exploring the curves of each other's hips and backs with their fingertips and sharing slow lingering kisses. She wasn't aware of how much time had passed before the dream fizzled back into blank darkness.

...

The scene was too familiar. If it hadn't been for the age of the girl in the hospital bed Earle could have pretended the last fifteen years hadn't happened. It was identical to the night he'd stood watch by her bed when she was just a child.

Marceline looked so much like Claudia that it hurt to look at her. Same lips and eyes, same voice, same tragic weakness for wanting to be a hero. And it looked like she was going to suffer the same fate, too. The way her girlfriend sobbed over her was new; so far as he'd known Claudia hadn't experimented with girls. But other than that it was like he was trapped in his worst nightmare again.

Earle took a long sip of his coffee and stared harder at the unmoving face of the girl who should have been his step daughter.

"I was even gonna get to know you." he confessed gruffly to her prone form. "You and the boy too. Get us a place away from the city, I was gonna be the Dad you deserved. I promised your mother I'd look after you. Guess my promises aren't worth shit. Sorry kid."

The door opened unexpected and Earle whipped around. It was late, well outside visiting hours. Nobody should be there but him. The last person on earth that he wanted to see entered the small hospital room and stopped dead when he saw the older man. Hope and Earle stared at each other for a tense second before the old detective snorted entirely humourlessly and kicked out the chair next to him. Hope sat warily.

"You know what I wish someone had told me when I was your age, Hope?" Earle asked conversationally after the silence stretched to breaking point between them. The younger man just shook his head. "Not to get mixed up with the family. Take some advice from someone who learned the hard way."

"Dunno what you're talking about, I'm just here to pay my respects." Hope replied, avoiding his superior's eyes.

"Bullshit. You're here to absolve your guilt about murdering her father. Trust me, little Petrikova doesn't care."

Hope's face turned a blotchy red and he scowled, setting his chubby jowls quivering indignantly.

"What the fuck do you know about it, Earle? Why's it got anything to do with you anyway? I'm here in my own time, it's nothing to do with you whether I visit a sick girl or not. And what the fuck are you doing here, anyway? You miserable old arsehole, why do you wanna hang around some pretty comatose girl's room, you some kinda fucking pervert? Waiting for the nurses to go home so you can have a quick fumble-"

"Shut the fuck up you stupid little bastard." Earle growled, suddenly furious. Hope shut up. "You really want to know? Mmmmm? Yeah, I'm here to absolve my guilt too. Here to try to keep a promise I made her mother. See, my Claudia loved those kids more than she loved herself, or me, or that evil bastard she married. And I loved her, desperately, stupidly. She'd have done anything for them, even made me promise to learn to love them too. You know what? I would have, for her. She was gonna put Hunson away and the four of us were gonna get a little place in the country, proper happy families like. And then he fucking murdered her. So I'm here fifteen years too late to keep my promise to Claudia, try to do the best for her daughter whatever the fuck that even means anymore. But I fucked that up, too. And now the last person I owe anything to is probably gonna die and what was even the point or any of it? You think it matters any that Bolshakov finally turned on Abadeer? You think Marceline would give a fuck that I was here to watch her? If she dies in the night someone should be here with her, she shouldn't be alone. But it doesn't matter, not really. None of it fucking matters. It hasn't mattered for fifteen years. Take my advice you stupid little boy, do not get mixed up in the family."

Hope stared at him, mouth hanging open comically. He looked like a curly haired fish, like his eyes would bug out of his round face in shock.

"She was having an affair after all, she was seeing you. Did Bolshakov know? Or the eccentric brother?" Hope breathed, staring at him hard. Earle nodded, no point trying to deny it now.

"Yeah, she was. Simon knew but I've no idea if Bolshakov ever did, I guess he doesn't give a fuck either. We never meant it to happen but I was probably the only man in her whole life that'd treated her with a little respect except for her crazy brother. And she was outta my league, any fool with eyes could see that. But I let it happen anyway. She started it all, I couldn't help myself. And the family killed her because of me. I'm telling you, Hope. Whatever they're giving you I promise it's gonna cost you more in the long run than you can afford. What is it, money? Drugs? You're a big enough lad to know that they won't hesitate to put you in the ground when you stop being convenient. You think Bolshakov is your friend? You're an idiot. Men like Bolshakov don't have friends."

"You don't know Bolshakov or me." Hope muttered, avoiding his eyes and frowning down at the floor.

"Oh I don't? You're young and stupid, Elmon. You want to be a bigger deal than you know how to be. And you think you can outsmart the man who orchestrated Abadeer's death. He's running the family now, a lot more cautiously than anyone else has in recent years. Petya Bolshakov is not a man to mess with. He's subtle and cunning and he will fucking disappear you the second you make a nuisance of yourself. Don't think you have the better of him, Hope. You could go far but not with the family hanging like a stone around your neck."

Elmon just scowled at him again, body language screaming defiance, and Earle shook his head sadly.

"You really thought I didn't know? I recognise a man who's been bought by the Old Moscow crew. They will turn you into one of them, strip away the humanity. Elmon, look at me. I have been there, I've let them take pieces of me that I could not afford to give. I stood there and watched that little girl shiver and whimper in a medicated sleep because she couldn't stand the agony of her burns. A seven year old girl, too small and innocent to understand what the fuck had happened to her. And I watched her cry out and knew she'd just seen her entire world go up in smoke, knew she'd lost everyone and everything her whole existence was built on. And you know what I thought? I wished she'd died, instead of Claudia. I wished that little girl had burned to death with every fibre of my being. She was so small and fragile, so innocent, and I'd have let her burn forever if it would have brought my Claudia back. I wouldn't have given a single fuck, haven't been able to give a fuck about anyone or anything since. That's what getting mixed up with the family did to me. Don't pretend you know yourself until you're tested by something like that. You're a colder bastard than you realise, I promise you."

Hope just shrugged again and turned his face away, looking at the unconscious girl again and avoiding the older man's cold gaze. Earle couldn't stand the oppressive silence of her room any more. It was too thick with unspoken accusations that he'd let Claudia down twice now, let Marceline down, and let the man he'd wanted to be down. He got up with a low growl rumbling the back of his throat and strode out of the door, regretting that he'd ever come in the first place. Hope stared after him with a scornful frown creasing his chubby forehead.

...

The third time she almost managed to open an eye and for a split second the light stabbed at her, a confusing flash of blue and white and gold. There was movement near her and she quite clearly heard someone speaking. This time it almost made sense.

"Did her eyes just flicker?"

"The doctor said that'd happen sometimes, that it didn't mean anything. It's just a reflex. But it's been more and more frequent, I'm sure she's dreaming. Ash said it happened the other day when he dropped by to visit and Finn's seen it a couple of times too. I wish it meant she was waking up."

She wanted to tell them she was awake and she could hear them, she wanted to scream it. But she couldn't open her eyes, couldn't move or speak. Frustration boiled through her as she lay helpless and immobile. She knew those voices. She could see their faces so perfectly. She just couldn't conjure the names that went with those faces to the front of her damaged mind.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes of course, anything. Is something bothering you?"

If she'd had any conscious control over her breathing she would have held her breath. The air of the room felt heavy, tense with anticipation.

"Do you wish sometimes that it was the other way around? That he'd beaten me into a coma and not your best friend? She got hurt because of me, because we were together. Do you wish it had been me?"

The pause before the answer came seemed to stretch on forever. It lasted for so long that the blackness had started to swirl around the edges of her awareness again before the deeper voice with the slight accent spoke.

"No. Never. My only regret is that I should have been quicker, should have come and stopped him the minute I heard things getting violent. It must be some terrible mistake but somehow I am now the man in her life. If anyone should have been hurt it should have been me. She has been nothing but a good friend to me, like a sister. I should have saved her."

She didn't understand. What were they talking about? When had she been hurt? She wanted them to tell her, explain it all. But an insistent rhythmic buzz announced someone's phone was ringing and the deeper voice excused himself with a brief goodbye.

She didn't know how long her other visitor stayed after that. Nobody spoke more and perhaps the other girl just sat staring at her unmoving face until unconsciousness claimed her again.

More time passed but she was much more aware of its passing than she had been before; almost able to feel the change in the air between night and day if she tried. Maybe it was even the same day, she felt certain it was. She became aware of music filling the room and after a minute realised it was a tune she recognised. It was a Christmas carol. Someone was playing an old recording of Silent Night, like Simon used to every Christmas since their first year living together. She'd smiled and played along with his festive activities despite the lingering horror still in her eyes from the fire. Both of them pretended to be jollier than they really felt and somehow that had been a comfort. Little Marcy had put out a plate of cheese rolls and a glass of whiskey because she knew that Santa got bored of eating mince pies and wasn't really fond of sherry, just like Simon. He'd explained what the word 'coincidence' meant and how Santa was definitely real and would be there any minute, so she better go and put her special penguin pyjamas on and get into bed and he'd be through to read her a bedtime story soon.

The music ended and a voice straight out of her memories murmured,

"Merry Christmas, Marcy. I miss you."

It took an age, but she was determined. She knew that voice and for the first time since she could remember she knew the name of the person it belonged to. Someone she had to wake up for. Simon was there, Simon was lucid again. She wasn't going to miss that, not for anything. It took all the strength she had and it seemed like she was straining against the blackness for hours but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds in reality. With a herculean effort Marceline finally opened her eyes.