A/N: I missed you guys.
This is a piece of a long document that I broke up into three parts so you could have an update on Harry Potter's birthday and an update the weekend after that. ;)
Unbeta'ed because I lost my phone and Anita, text me, please?
Quote from Precious Things by Tori Amos.
Enjoy.
fair fortune
by
sweetasylums
"These precious things,
let them break their hold on me."
Whispers rouse her.
"Has a doctor been in to see her?" It's her mother's voice.
"Yes," says her father. "He came by just now when you were in the loo. Said she'll have to stay a few days for observation."
"And?"
"And he didn't stay long. He said to call a nurse when she wakes, and the nurse will fetch him."
"Muriel said she has a dinner to go to tonight. Do you want to pick up the girls, take them home?"
"No, you go. Get some rest. I'll sit here with Hermione."
"Robert," her mother says, aghast, "you need to sleep."
"I'm not leaving her."
Neither notice when she opens her eyes. Sunlight is painted across her parents' faces. They're sat in wooden chairs beside her bed, worry etched on their faces, exhaustion weighing down their shoulders. Guilt settles heavily in her chest.
"Hey," she says. Her voice sounds strained even to her own ears.
"Hello, love," her father says, happily, and rests his hand on top of hers. The weight of it is comforting.
"How are the girls?" she asks them.
"They're doing just fine. I dropped them off at your Aunt's," her mother says. "Don't fret, Hermione. There's nothing to worry about." Her smile is wide. Too wide. Sad, almost.
"Glad to hear it," Hermione smiles back, just as wide; plays along with the ruse. Her mother is desperate to be reassuring. Hermione lets her, and hopes she finds some comfort in it. "You look tired, Mum."
"Your mum has been here since early this morning," says her father.
"This morning? What time is it now?"
"Half past four," Robert tells her, points to a clock on a far wall. The room is huge, open; lined with empty beds. Marble floors sparkle in the dying light.
"I can't believe I slept that long."
"You needed it." Ivy's attention keeps wandering to the clock.
"Go on, Mum," Hermione tells her. "I know you've got to pick up Lily and Tuney. I'll be okay."
Something about the statement makes Ivy's eyes well with tears. Her fingers brush through Hermione's hair and she says, reassuringly, "I know you will."
Children come and go in this ward; most fit to leave almost as soon as they sit down. Minor things like cauldron burns and engorged limbs. They leave with smiles on their faces and a murloc lollipop clutched in their hands.
Healers check in on her now and then. The Head Healer himself stops at the foot of her bed, chats with her father.
"We're monitoring her sleep tonight," he says, and turns to her. "That alright with you, Hermione?"
"Yes," she agrees, and she likes this man, this rebel Black.
"I'm staying, too," her father tells him.
"Of course," Healer Black responds with a bow, and he disappears behind the curtain again.
"Did he… did he just bow?" her father mumbles, eyes darting towards her.
She chokes back a laugh.
"Wizards are so bizarre."
Night has fallen and lamps are lit, lining the walls, illuminating the room with dull and dim light. A door at the far end of the room is closed, cloaked in shadow. It's tall and wide, made of dark, heavy wood. She has not seen anyone enter or exit that door in the fifteen hours she has been here.
The curtain makes a noxious noise as it's drawn back, draws their attention to it.
The Head Healer is back.
"How are you, Hermione?" he asks, checking her pulse, her temperature.
"Fine," she says. "What's through there?" she asks, nodding towards the door.
"Ah. That's the closed ward." Alphard doesn't elaborate. He doesn't have to. The closed ward. The chronic cases.
The kids that can't leave.
A frazzled-looking Healer appears holding a steaming mug filled with a pale liquid.
"This is a potion to help your daughter fall asleep," says Healer Black, taking the mug, dismissing the woman. Her father listens intently. "It will lull her to sleep, but will not hinder her dreams. She will be monitored throughout the evening, and any disturbances will be contained. We need to know what we're dealing with." Her father nods, and Alphard hands her the mug. It feels warm against her palms. "Did you catch all that, Hermione?"
"Yes," she says as she grips the cup. Her heart flutters nervously. "Is that all? You're just monitoring and containing? Not… interfering in any way?" Not seeing what she sees.
"Just watching," he tells her, truthfully, but he looks at her in a peculiar way.
"And who… who will be monitoring me?"
The Head Healer sits down beside her bed and crosses his legs, relaxed. "Why, I will, of course."
She glances down at the drink in her hands. The liquid is a swirling lavender, the scent soothes her. It tastes like chai, or warm like cinnamon, or smooth like chocolate. She cannot decide as she sips it. Warmth radiates right down to her fingertips and toes and her eyes begin to droop.
The mug is taken from her, she realizes she had almost spilled it.
"This stuff works fast," she says, or tries to say. The words sound slurred and far away.
Silver-grey eyes are warm as they look down at her. They're so vivid she can see the Christmas baubles glittering behind him, hear the house roaring with laughter, with song, and the dull sound of Mrs. Black shrieking from somewhere upstairs. She can't tell if her eyes are open or shut anymore, if she's here or there. But they've already stayed up well past their bedtime and she can hear Mrs. Weasley bustling through the kitchen door, checking to make sure they've all departed to their respective rooms.
"Goodnight, Hermione."
"Goodnight, Sirius."
The corridor is empty; long and dark. There's a sound somewhere in the distance, hissing, like steam escaping from a pipe. She can't tell if it's in front of her or behind her but she knows the creature's somewhere near, knows that one wrong glance now means death.
Penelope Clearwater is beside her, shaking.
"Don't look away from the mirror," Hermione whispers, in her bossiest of voices. She's terrified of course, and she's most likely going to die right here but there's a shred of parchment in her hands and she's clutching it like it'll save the world - and really, it just might. Even if she dies, they'll find it - she hopes - she hopes they'll find it if she dies. When she dies.
Harry will. Harry will find it.
They reach a corner and she holds the mirror out in front of them, tries to see if it's there, waiting. Penelope exhales so hard that the mirror fogs and Hermione feels panic set in - she rubs the glass with the sleeve of her robe and - oh.
Red eyes, glowing in the darkness, staring back at her in the mirror.
She tries to scream, and maybe she succeeds, but her limbs stiffen and the world goes dark.
"Easy, easy now," a soft voice murmurs.
Her eyes are bleary, but Sirius is standing over her, a dropper in hand that's dripping red liquid onto her lips and tongue. It's tastes spicy, zips through her bloodstream like adrenaline.
Wide awake now, she feels herself drop down a foot; her back hits the bed.
It's not Sirius above her, she realizes. It's Alphard Black. His glasses are crooked and the curtain is on the floor around them in pieces, tattered and frayed. The mug beside her bed is shattered and there is lavender liquid coating her father - he is passed out, slumped over a chair.
"Oh god, did I hurt him?" Hermione panics, trying to sit up, but Alphard puts a hand on her shoulder and keeps her down.
"No, it's just the potion. He'll be fine."
Her eyes fill with tears - solemn, angry, she's not sure - and she looks up the Head Healer. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Shh, quiet now. Drink this," he says, pulling a vial from his pocket. He pops the cork and she knows what it is. "Go on now, Hermione. Everything will be better in the morning."
Sleep is dreamless after that.
"Post-Traumatic Magical Instability."
The office is dead silent. Noise from the hospital does not penetrate these doors. The huge oak desk Alphard sits behind is shiny and sleek. Sunlight streams in from all around them, silver instruments on display gleam from their shelves. Hermione is reminded of Dumbledore's office. She stares out the window, looks to the clouds, tries to figure out how she's going to talk her way out of this one.
"Post-Traumatic Magical Instability," her mother repeats, looking to Robert.
Her father stares ahead. "Could you explain?"
"This is a rare condition, most commonly seen in children. In fact, I've never heard of a case that involved an adult. Traumatic events sometimes render a child's magic unstable. It makes them unwittingly dangerous, extreme emotions trigger the magical outbursts. Hermione's manifests with her nightmares. I suspect she dreams of the trauma often."
"Trauma?" her father asks. "What trauma?"
Hermione presses her fingernails into her palms, keeps her face impassive.
Alphard Black leans forward, elbows on his desk, fingertips together. There is something dangerous in his eyes now, something sharp, cutting. It looks like the ghost of a man she knew once, in another life. "That's precisely what I'm wondering, Mr. Evans."
"Are you suggesting that we hurt our daughter?"
"I'm suggesting that your daughter remain here, under my care, until we get to the source of this disorder."
"Out of the question," her father yells.
"Your other daughters will be taken as well, until it is decided that you are safe and stable guardians."
"ARE YOU -" her father roars.
"Stop," Hermione interjects. The sound cuts him off.
Both men fall silent. Three sets of eyes stare back at her.
"It isn't what you think."
The wizard stays quiet, but suspicion is painted across his face. He's trying to keep her safe, to protect her. And she loves him for it, this stranger. He thinks her an innocent girl. A victim, defenceless and frail. He doesn't know the things she has done, the things she has seen.
"You don't believe me," she tells him, resolutely, "but you will."
"You will."