Harry woke earlier than usual on Sunday morning. His body wouldn't seem to let him rest. He went downstairs and stood by the front door, looking out onto the vast expanse of the lawns. The house was quiet, the view outside utterly still. It was five o'clock.
Wrapping his robe around himself, Harry went to the kitchen. He placed a kettle on the stove and ignited a flame with his wand. The water boiled quickly and Harry poured it over the tea in its pot. It was then he heard the flutter of wings outside the kitchen window.
Harry strode noiselessly to the sink and pushed out the glass. A small barn owl with a white, pinched face was carrying a thick edition of the Daily Prophet in its beak. Harry took the paper and placed six knuts in the small pouch tied to the animal's leg. The bird took flight, back into the hazy dawn.
Harry unfurled the broadsheet. It was just below the centerfold in large, black letters:
Ex-Auror Pleads Not Guilty in Muggle Torture Case, Trial Set for January
The arraignment of former Auror Theodonus Callahan was held yesterday in the regional Wizengamot court of Gloucestershire. The expelled Auror pled not guilty to Muggle torture, including several counts of unauthorized Legilimency, the prohibited use of high-severity Obliviation spells, and the infliction of the Cruciatus curse on Muggles. Around eighty people crammed into the small courtroom in Gloucester to hear Callahan's plea. The trial is set to begin the third week of January.
The Prophet has obtained an exclusive statement from Callahan's defense attorney, the renowned Edward Bruton, who retired seven years ago but has reemerged to defend the embattled ex-Auror.
On Callahan's not guilty plea, Counselor Bruton provided this comment: "While I cannot get into the details of the case at the present time, it is our intention to show that Theo Callahan committed no crime other than fulfilling his obligations as an Auror with his usual moral courageousness and steadfast dedication. It is the work of an activist Department of Magical Law Enforcement that has led to the unfortunate prosecution of this good man."
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has faced criticism in recent years for its perceived aggressiveness in pursuing a pro-Muggle and pro-Muggle-born rights agenda. Headed by noted pro-Muggle activist and scholar, John Lakey, DMLE may have invited further public discontent with its decision to prosecute Callahan.
When asked for comment, Hermione Granger, lead prosecutor for the DMLE, provided this statement: "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will follow the facts of this case. The severity of Mr. Callahan's alleged misconduct against a Muggle family should be of concern to every law-abiding witch and wizard. This tragic incident serves as a reminder of the continued mistreatment of Muggles in this country and the need to eradicate all forms of Muggle intolerance from the wizarding world."
Counselor Granger, who found fame for her role in assisting Harry Potter in the second defeat of the Dark Lord, emphasized the brutality of the attack on the Cameron family on 29 August. The Muggle family, whose names were released to the public yesterday, suffered severe memory loss due to high-severity Obliviation charms. Two Muggle adults (Walter and Theresa Cameron) were purportedly subjected to the Cruciatus curse while their children (Nicole and Duncan, 15 and 11 respectively) looked on. The Muggle girl is still in a magical coma at St. Mungo's as Healers attempt to re-grow her lost brain matter.
Another point of interest during the arraignment was Callahan's subjugation to a magical evaluation. The controversial procedure, widely used in the late 1990s and early 2000s, is now most commonly used on prime offenders, particularly those wizards accused of murder, in order to determine whether an Imperious Curse was involved. The use of the procedure on an Auror is unprecedented.
Turn to page 4, CALLAHAN
Harry flipped to the page and continued.
One Auror, who wished to remain anonymous due to a recent media blackout placed on the Auror Department, said he did not believe the procedure should have been used on Callahan.
"There are plenty of restrictions on Aurors who want to use magical evaluations on criminals. But if the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wants to use it on an Auror, or anyone for that matter, no one seems to make a fuss," he said. "Aurors are the ones who actually defend this country. They should either be granted the same permissions to use magical evaluations or equal restrictions should be placed on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
The Auror also commented on the particular use of the procedure on Callahan.
"Theo Callahan is a great man and was an accomplished Auror. He is not an anti-Muggle extremist or blood supremacist. I respect the judgment of my superiors, but in this case I cannot support the use of a magical evaluation on an Auror. It sets a bad precedent. It could jeopardize the security of our intelligence and, by extension, the security of wizarding Britain."
When asked who he thought approved the use of a magical evaluation on Callahan, another Auror provided this comment. "It was most likely [Director John] Lakey. It's never been a secret that he despises the Auror Department. Though, I bet the Chief [Harry Potter] also signed off on the evaluation. It's his best friend, [Hermione] Granger, who will be prosecuting Theo after all."
Harry Potter, the Chief of the Auror Department, provided this statement to the Prophet:
"The Auror Department condemns all forms of magical violence directed towards the Muggle population. The circumstances surrounding the case of former Auror, Theodonus Callahan, required that all available means be employed to determine the facts and defend the laws of wizarding Britain."
No word has yet been received as to whether Chief Potter was condoning the use of a magical evaluation on Callahan or if the use of magical evaluations on Aurors will become commonplace. A Department of Magical Law Enforcement spokesperson could not be reached for comment on the proposal of placing restrictions on the Department and its use of the magical evaluations.
For more coverage of the Callahan case, see the Prophet's editorial page.
Harry growled to himself. Two Aurors had spoken to the press. His statement to the Prophet also hadn't had the desired effect. It was on page four, which meant fewer people would see that he had condemned Callahan's alleged crimes. His statement was also framed in such a way that it appeared he only issued it to support Hermione.
Yet, Harry did support the evaluation when it came down to it. Callahan had given his consent. Annie was a trusted practitioner. In her report, she did not include any Auror intelligence she may have stumbled upon in Callahan's mind. In her fifteen years of performing evaluations, she had never spoken to the press or given a single interview. The woman had many disconcerting qualities but, in Harry's estimation, she was damn near incorruptible. Was it really so bad to evaluate Callahan then, particularly when the only witnesses were Muggles, who were not allowed to testify against wizards even if their memories were intact?
He was also angry at the treatment of Hermione. He couldn't shake the feeling that the Prophet had chosen her most radical-sounding quote from the many she had likely given them. Hermione's words inadvertently supported the narrative that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was an activist organization shoving Muggle rights down the public's throat. Sure, Lakey often trumpeted his cases involving Muggle or Muggle-born rights, but those cases were a small fraction of Department's work. The DMLE mostly settled petty civil disputes, investigated Ministry corruption, and prosecuted low-profile criminals. They were hardly a radical organization. Yet, it was cases like Callahan's that gave the public that impression.
Harry poured his tea and sat at the kitchen table. He was re-reading the Aurors' comments when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Ginny appeared, wearing a thin, white shift and her hair pulled into a low ponytail. Her eyes were half-closed with sleep.
"Hey," she mumbled, looking confused. "You weren't in bed. What're you doing up so early?"
"Reading."
She shuffled forward. "Reading what?"
"The paper."
She gave him a censorious look, moving towards the tea. "What's wrong with you this morning?"
"This," he spat, tossing the paper onto the table. "The Callahan story broke, remember?"
Ginny came up next to him and looked at the headline. She shrugged.
"Is this surprising somehow? They're just reporting what happened yesterday."
Harry glared at the Prophet. "Yeah, but in a way that pushes their own agenda. They're trying to paint DMLE as some radical organization."
"You sound like Hermione."
"Good, then I must be right."
She looked at him levelly. "Hermione isn't right about everything, Harry, and she should be careful how she spins this case. I've been hearing things at our editorial meetings. Sympathy for Magical Law Enforcement is at an all-time low."
Harry considered this in silence. "It's fine if they want to criticize the Department," he eventually said, "but Hermione doesn't deserve that. People seem to forget everything she's done for this country."
Ginny arched a brow.
"Aren't you patriotic…" she said lightly. "Hermione has done a lot. People won't forget that. But, she'll face a fair amount of criticism as she becomes more prominent at the Department. It's inevitable, so there's no point in worrying about it."
She leaned down and kissed his cheek, but Harry looked away. That was the third time he'd been told to stop worrying about all this. But the steel knot of dread had returned to his stomach, the same knot he'd felt when Callahan said Hermione's name in an underground cell…
"I'm going to take a shower," he said, standing. "I might head into the office for a couple hours."
"Okay," Ginny replied. "Let me know if you're coming back for lunch and I'll fix you something if I'm not called in."
He nodded absently and took the stairs two at a time. He felt less anxious after a hot shower. Ginny had gone back to sleep and Harry returned to the kitchen to fix a proper breakfast. He fried a couple eggs and sandwiched them between four pieces of toast. He was eating at the counter when something silver shot into his line of sight. It was a patronus—a small Jack Russell terrier.
"Harry," came Ron's urgent voice from within the silver wisps, "can you come to the house? It's Hermione. You need to see this."
All of Harry's muscles seemed to seize inside his skin. He left his half-eaten meal on the plate, checked for his wand, and disapparated.
He landed in the foyer of Ron and Hermione's home.
Their house was nearly as grand as Harry and Ginny's, but considerably more modern. It had slated hardwood floors of grey oak, natural light flooded through floor-to-ceiling windows, and tropical plants dotted strategic corners in every room. It was studiously clean, but not unwelcoming—sort of like a well-appointed waiting room in a rich dentist's office. Needless to say, Hermione dictated most of the terms of the decorating.
Harry paced forward, looking left into an empty sitting room. He moved to the back of the house towards the kitchen and found Ron and Hermione sitting at the table, the pale morning light harsh upon their backs. Ron's hand was on Hermione's shoulder and her small frame was slumped over. For a moment, Harry thought she was crying.
But they both looked up at the sound of his footsteps and Harry saw that she wasn't crying. Rather, she looked calm, too calm. And Harry somehow knew she was carefully guarding her expression.
"Harry," Ron said with relief, standing.
"Morning," said Hermione, also standing and coming forward to kiss his cheek. "Ron thought it was necessary, but I didn't want to trouble you so early on a Sunday..."
As she stepped back, Harry had a brief moment to take in her appearance. She wore a navy robe over a large cotton tee-shirt, her pale, slender legs fully exposed. He tore his eyes back to her face.
"What is it?"
Hermione stepped to the side and Harry looked at the table properly for the first time. It was covered with letters.
"What's this?" he said, surging forward. He felt Hermione's hand on his elbow.
"They're just letters."
"Hate mail," Ron corrected, looking worriedly at him. "They've been arriving all morning. They all have to do with the Callahan story in the Prophet."
"Honestly," Hermione said, "I expected people to have strong opinions about this case. There's no need to make a fuss about it."
"Are any of them serious?" said Harry, taking Hermione's seat next to Ron.
"I sent my patronus after I read this one," Ron replied, handing Harry a small white envelope.
Harry took the letter, trying to ignore the tight coiling in his stomach. He removed a thin sheaf of parchment and read the untidy, heavy scrawl.
for the mudblood in today's paper,
you had a good run, but its time for you to be put down by those of us who know how to deal with you lot. you arent a witch and are only in this world because of those fools in the ministry. i'm not alone in this. you should watch your back. people will be coming for you now.
"Are there more?" Harry heard himself say.
"I found another after sending for you," Ron said, "but we haven't been through all the letters yet."
Harry nodded faintly. "Have you got all the wards and protections up on the house?"
"Of course we do," Hermione said, sounding affronted.
"Yeah, we always keep them up," Ron assured him.
"I'll do a check of the house before I leave, anyway."
"Is there anything else we can do?" Ron asked haltingly.
Harry glanced at Hermione, who stood across from him. Her hands were on her hips, raising her shirt slightly, so that he could see the small shorts she wore beneath.
"Well—"
"No," she said immediately. "No."
"What?" said Ron, confused.
Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione cut him off. "It's ridiculous," she said, staring hard at him.
"Hermione!" Ron said, voice rising. "Let Harry speak. This is his area."
"He wants to give me a security detail," she shot back.
"Oh." He looked at Harry. "You—you think it's that serious?"
"Yeah, I do."
From the moment he'd read the first letter, Harry had decided to give her a security detail. But, to placate her, all he said was, "I'll have to look through the rest of the letters to be sure. Then, I'll make my decision."
"With my consent!" cried Hermione.
"Right," said Harry, not looking at her. He picked up another letter.
"Look, Harry," she said, sounding slightly desperate now. "The trial isn't until January. Things will calm down after a couple days, I promise you. There's no need to inconvenience your Aurors, or me for that matter, with a security detail this far out. If it makes you feel better, I'll take one closer to the trial date…"
Harry looked at her steadily. "I'll read the letters and let you know what I decide."
She released a frustrated breath and stalked towards the counter, pouring herself coffee. There was silence for a while, Ron occasionally showing Harry a letter and Harry had soon created a separate pile for the more threatening ones. As she watched her husband and brother-in-law peruse her hate mail, Hermione eventually said:
"I can't stay here and look at you two. I'm going to the office. Lakey's probably there and he's likely got post too. I'll need to speak to him."
Harry looked at her sharply and Hermione smiled.
"Don't worry, Harry," she said, not bothering to hide her derision. "I'm just apparating there, aren't I? Nothing will happen to me along the way."
He said nothing and Hermione drank the last of her coffee.
"I'll see you two later, then?"
Ron nodded, but Harry said: "After you're done with Lakey, come to my office for lunch. I'll introduce you to your security detail."
She glared at him like he'd insulted Professor McGonagall and trudged into the hall.
Ron waited for her footsteps to fade before he spoke. "So, she really needs a detail, you think?"
"Yeah," he said, his mouth feeling curiously dry. "I should've thought of it sooner."
"Don't worry about it. She won't like it, but she'll get used to it." He looked at the pile of letters. "Are you really going to read all of these?"
"Every one."
The ginger nodded slowly. "Did you read the Prophet this morning?"
"Yeah."
"Pretty bad," Ron said, looking down. "Especially the editorial section—"
"What?" said Harry quickly. "I didn't read that. What did it say?"
Ron unearthed a copy of the Sunday Prophet from the pile of letters. He handed it to Harry.
"Take a look when you get a chance. It's pretty nasty."
Harry nodded, glancing briefly at the wretched paper before returning his attention to the letters.
"Do you need me for this part?" Ron asked after a moment. "I'm supposed to meet George in Portsmouth for a Chinese shipment. It was meant to come in yesterday and we wanted to do a quality check before it's taken to London. These Personalize-able Insulting Fortune Cookies have a short shelf-life for some reason…"
"Sure, go ahead," Harry said. "Would it be all right if I have Hermione's post redirected to the AD? You'll still get your post at the house."
"Oh, yeah. I reckon that's all right."
Ron stood and Harry saw the worry in his eyes. He ran a hand absently through his red hair.
"Thanks," he said. "And yeah, let me know if you need anything."
"I will," he promised. "What about Hugo? Where's he?"
"We sent him to Mum's once the letters started coming in…" Ron paused. "Hermione didn't want him to see."
Harry nodded and Ron trailed back into the hall. Harry heard a faint pop and he was left alone.
A second later, there was a tap tap on the kitchen window. Harry turned and saw a large grey owl hovering outside. It had four letters wedged into its beak. Harry stood, took the letters, and placed them atop the others.
It was then he realized his arms were shaking.
By eleven, Harry had gone through every letter at least twice: forty-seven letters in total, three supportive of Hermione and forty-four that constituted hate mail. Ten referred to her death.
Harry laid these latter ten in front of him on the table. He removed his wand and hovered it over the letters until a faint blue glow seemed to surround the parchment of each one. He closed his eyes. It was a point-of-origin spell and, as Harry let his wand pass over each envelope, the source of each letter filtered into his mind. Seven from London and its surrounding areas. Two from further south. One from Norwich.
Harry released a faint breath. That meant the post from further north hadn't arrived yet, which meant more potential death threats to consider.
Harry summoned parchment and a quill from Hermione's kitchen desk and scribbled a note to his assistant, Gwen, instructing her to redirect Hermione's post to the AD. Harry then went to Ron and Hermione's small conservatory at the back of the house. It was a gorgeous space with high windows and unvarnished wooden beams. English garden plants lined every wall, lending the whole room a wet, earthy scent. There was a large white cage along one of the walls that held three sleeping owls. Harry removed Pigwidgeon, Ron's tiny Scops owl, and the bird hooted happily at the sight of him. Pig was older now and moved much more slowly, his penchant for flying around ceiling fans all but gone. Yet, the small bird was still carrying out his post duties. Harry carefully tied the parchment to his leg.
"Gwendolyn Fuller, Auror Department, Ministry of Magic," he whispered. "Take it to her right away. Thank you, Pig."
Pig nibbled Harry's finger, then took flight through a partially-open ceiling panel. Harry watched him disappear, lowering himself to a bench beneath a large belladonna plant. He placed his head in his hands and stayed that way for several minutes, waiting for his arms to stop shaking.
He tried to get the words of those ten letters out of his head, but he couldn't. None of them were particularly explicit in terms of details Harry could act on—names, places, dates. They were determinedly obscure, vague threats laced with anti-Muggle and sexist insults.
It reminded Harry of another time Hermione had received hate mail…twenty-two years ago. Yet, this was so much worse than letters from disgruntled Witch Weekly readers who thought Hermione was two-timing Harry. So much worse than undiluted bubotuber pus...
Harry ran his fingers down his face. He glanced at his watch. 11:15. He returned to the kitchen and placed the ten death threats in one pocket. The three supportive letters he placed in another. He'd give them to Hermione later. She should know at least a few people had bothered to voice their support for her.
Harry looked at the table again and picked up Ron's copy of the Sunday Prophet, placing it under his arm. He glared at the remaining letters and, with a flick of his wand, they erupted in flames and folded in upon themselves. No residue was left behind.
After checking the wards around Ron and Hermione's home, Harry arrived at the Ministry Atrium. It was mostly empty on a Sunday morning and, as he walked towards the golden lifts at the far end of the hall, security guards saluted as he passed. Harry barely noticed and jabbed the button for the Auror Department. When the lift opened, he moved through the grand solarium that housed hundreds of Auror cubicles and proceeded towards his office. Several of the Aurors on duty were watching him, no doubt taking Harry's sour expression as confirmation of his displeasure that Aurors had spoken to the Prophet.
At this moment, however, Harry couldn't think about that. He had to scrounge up a security detail for Hermione on short notice, brief them on her situation, and introduce her to her new bodyguards. Setting up a security detail usually took a great deal of time and consideration. Harry had gone through the process several times for the Minister of Magic, key members of the Wizengamot, and various department heads. The size of the security force usually depended on the prominence of the individual. The Minister of Magic never went anywhere without a security detail of six highly-trained wizards. John Lakey and the other department heads, however, only used security for public events. For Hermione's situation—in which there were active threats against her life—she would need constant surveillance by at least two Aurors.
Harry was steps from his office when Gwen called out to him.
"Chief!" she said, walking swiftly towards him down a row of cubicles. "You got a note from Counselor Granger about an hour ago. She says she'll meet you for lunch around noon. I also put in the address change you requested. Should be in effect by tomorrow morning."
Harry growled in frustration. "Write them back. Tell them to change it immediately. Post will be arriving at her house throughout the day. If they can't do it fast enough, send Kenney or Lao to Counselor Granger's home to collect the rest of the letters. They're on duty, right?" he asked, distracted.
"Yes," said Gwen, taking notes on a small pad in her hand.
"Also, I need to set up a security detail for the Counselor. Call in Durkheim, Burke, and More. I know the first two aren't on duty, but call them in anyway."
She nodded, still scribbling.
Harry went to his office, watching as Gwen swung her arm in the air and a golden ball of light flew into the pit of Auror cubicles. It hovered over a desk closer to the lifts and a tall, blond wizard stood immediately. This was Yvain More, a young Auror Harry had been impressed with after several trips into the field and who needed time on a security detail in order to get promoted. He was strikingly handsome, which belied his shy nature, but Harry was most grateful for his size. He would be an imposing figure to anyone who wished Hermione ill.
Hurrying down a row of cubicles, Yvain stopped before Gwen's desk and she waved him distractedly inside.
"Chief?" Yvain said, looking puzzled. "You summoned me?"
"Yeah," Harry grunted, removing the letters and placing them on the desk. "Take a seat. We're waiting for a few others."
Yvain sat hesitantly on the worn leather couch along the right wall. His eyes scanned the pictures lining the walls. Framed copies of the Daily Prophet. A photograph of a seventeen-year-old Harry during his Auror induction ceremony. Another picture, fourteen years later, of Harry becoming Chief.
More personal pictures were arranged on the shelves behind Harry's desk and Yvain easily recognized everyone in them. He'd grown up with Harry's face on the front page of the Prophet. Birth announcements for Harry's children were splattered across magazine covers and gushed over in gossip columns. There was not a wizard alive who did not know who Harry Potter was. His fame had not diminished with age.
As Yvain thought this, he watched a moving photo of an ecstatic Harry—who couldn't be more than twenty-five—holding a small baby with dark hair. Another picture showed Harry grinning with a beautiful redheaded woman, the wind blowing her Holyhead Harpies robes. Immediately below, there was a close-up picture of Harry with a young boy, who appeared to be a younger version of Harry himself—the same jet-black hair and bottle-green eyes. Next to this one, a photo of five children—one tall boy with a mischievous grin, another boy with a quiet smile, and a small ginger girl with a cherub's face. Flanking them was a small boy with mousy brown hair and an older girl with bushy, auburn hair.
A final picture, the one closest to Harry's desk, was of three individuals. The famous Golden Trio. They looked barely older than eighteen and the future Auror Chief's arms were draped over his friends' shoulders. Yvain could just make out the Auror "inductee" armband on Harry's left bicep. The two men were laughing uproariously while the woman, whom Yvain recognized as a younger Counselor Granger, smiled up at each of them and occasionally rolled her eyes. Yvain was caught off guard by how pretty she was.
While Yvain studied the pictures, Harry rifled through his file cabinet. Soon, the distant sound of a grate sliding open reached their ears and Harry looked up. Matthew Durkheim and a slight witch emerged from the lifts and walked swiftly in the direction of Harry's office.
"Afternoon," Durkheim said, stepping inside and looking between Harry and Yvain.
The witch was Cassiopeia Burke. Like Yvain, she was also in her twenties. She had long black hair that reached down to the small of her back and heavy lashes overlaid her light grey eyes. She had joined the force three years ago and Harry had not gotten the chance to get to know her, despite the fact that she was distantly related to the Black family. She was exceedingly quiet, bordering on the mysterious, but she had proven her skills in a number of cases during her short time at the AD. Harry knew Hermione would prefer not to have two hulking men follow her around, so Cassiopeia, or Cassy, was a nice alternative.
"Thanks for coming in," Harry said to them. "Sit down."
The two took their seats next to Yvain.
"You've no doubt read the paper this morning," he began. "Counselor Granger has received a number of death threats concerning her involvement in the Callahan case and we'll be providing her with a security detail."
Yvain's eyes widened at the mention of death threats. Durkheim looked at the floor, brow furrowed. Cassy didn't react at all.
"Gwen's put in a change of address for Counselor Granger. Her post will now come here. Durkheim," Harry said, pushing forward the ten letters, "I'd like you to run a thorough examination on these letters. It'll be your responsibility to identify any other death threats and carry out the proper procedures."
Durkheim nodded, taking the small stack of letters.
"Yvain, Cassy," the Chief continued, "for the time being, you'll be Counselor Granger's security detail. Until I've decided the threat has subsided, you'll both be at her side whenever she steps outside her home or the Ministry. This includes all of her public engagements, meetings, and errands."
The young Aurors nodded.
"I know security details aren't the most glamorous work, but all Aurors eventually have to do them." Harry paused and looked gravely at them. "I don't think I can stress enough the seriousness of this case. The public mood is volatile and could easily turn violent against the government prosecutors, including Counselor Granger. Are you both willing to take on this assignment?"
Yvain bobbed his head. Cassy nodded in consent as well.
"Good," Harry said. "Counselor Granger will be here soon and we'll get you three better acquainted. In the meantime, go through your files and pass off any unfinished casework to another Auror. You can check with Gwen to see who's available. Understood?"
They nodded again.
"All right, dismissed."
The younger Aurors left, but Durkheim lingered by his door.
"I'm—er—sorry this is happening to her," the veteran Auror said quietly, "and to you."
Harry nodded, feeling unable to speak just then. Durkheim shut the door softly behind him.
Harry sighed and looked at his watch. It was five til noon. Hermione would arrive shortly. He quickly filled out the paperwork for her security detail and set it aside. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Sunday Prophet resting on the corner of his desk.
With the sensation of needing to steel himself, he picked up the broadsheet and turned to the editorial section. There were three editorials—one on an upcoming Quidditch match with Ireland and another calling for renovations to St. Mungo's. Then, he saw it.
Auror Outrage: When Reform Turns to Radicalism
by Howard Banbury
After the second fall of the Dark Lord, we all remember the shock and jubilation that swept through our small world. Wizards were able to move freely and without fear for the first time in years. Death Eaters were tried and sent to Azkaban. The world seemed to return to the order so direly missed over the previous years.
Ironically, somewhere in the chaos of restoring our world, a more insidious transformation was taking place—a transformation we are only now beginning to fully acknowledge. Amidst such happy occurrences as the reconstruction of Hogwarts and the installation of Minister Shacklebolt, one organization—the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—saw an opportunity to enact dramatic and cavalier reforms on a battle-weary wizarding public.
At first, such provisions as mandating three years of Muggle Studies for all Hogwarts students or reserving seats for Muggle-borns in Slytherin House seemed perfectly benign. Yet, these small changes became the seeds of a pernicious plot to merge the wizarding and Muggle worlds with the end goal of permanently altering magical society.
How else can we interpret such remarks as those by leading bleeding heart, Hermione Granger? Granger, the lead Ministry prosecutor of ex-Auror Theo Callahan, personifies the nefarious intentions of DMLE. Speaking after Callahan's arraignment yesterday, Granger emphasized the need to "eradicate all forms of Muggle intolerance from the wizarding world."
Unfortunately, this is not the first time Granger, a Muggle-born, has aligned herself with extremist pro-Muggle positions. Though she has been rightly praised for assisting Harry Potter in the defeat of the Dark Lord, Granger's career can hardly be described as "mainstream." Since her Hogwarts days, Granger has been a noted supporter of house-elf liberation and, upon graduation, founded a small activist organization called the National Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare. While she relinquished her role upon joining the Ministry, Granger has continued to publicly call for the complete emancipation of house elves. Even after joining DMLE, where Granger is considered to be a rising star under the tutelage of Director John Lakey, her anti-wizard activities did not cease.
Admittedly, Granger has worked to advance Muggle-born rights within our society. Indeed, she received widespread support for Ministry-funded training workshops for the Muggle parents of young witches and wizards and spearheaded an anti-discrimination suit against several wizarding establishments that refused to employ Muggle-borns. Most recently, she assisted Director Lakey in implementing an affirmative action policy for Muggle-borns within the Ministry itself.
These efforts are an important part of promoting wizarding unity and, if Granger had left it at that, there likely would not be a problem. However, Granger has proven that this is not her aim. While she cannot publicly admit it, she desires nothing less than the full integration of the wizarding and Muggle worlds. Her firm support of wizard-Muggle exchange programmes and intergovernmental consultations prove this point beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Now, the prosecution of a respected Auror, Theo Callahan, for the alleged torture of a Muggle family (a family that appears to have been extremely uncooperative with Mr. Callahan) adds a whole new dimension to DMLE's efforts to undermine the wizarding order. Simply put, when an Auror cannot adequately carry out his duties for fear of reprisals from DMLE, no witch or wizard is completely safe. Granger and her ilk have shown they are willing to sacrifice wizarding safety and security on the altar of tolerance for Muggles.
What DMLE does not understand, however, is that their goals are diametrically opposed to the goals of the vast majority of the wizarding public. Granger, for her part, is chasing a quixotic dream that is no doubt a product of her upbringing. Wizards and Muggles are simply biologically and functionally separate beings, which makes the universal integration of Muggles incomprehensible. You could no sooner combine dragon's blood with bubotuber puss than combine the wizarding and Muggle worlds.
Yet, if Granger is successful in her dogged pursuit of Muggle rights we may see more than just Aurors targeted. The real horror of the world Granger envisions hinges on the question of where exactly "reform" ends? Perhaps when wizards are forced to intermarry with Muggles? Or when speaking disparagingly of a Muggle is a crime? If this seems fantastical, you have not considered the depth of DMLE's pro-Muggle radicalism.
It is especially heart-wrenching that the woman at the center of the movement to uproot the very foundations of our fragile world should be so intimately linked to our history. Granger, who married into a prominent pureblood family, the Weasleys, is also the best friend of Harry Potter. Tragically, Granger fails to realize that the world her husband and best friend fought to preserve is not her world. Her world is the stuff of dreams while theirs is the stuff of facts—facts firmly rooted on the irreconcilable differences between wizards and Muggles.
Harry stared at the words on the page. His arms were shaking again. He glanced at the byline—Howard Banbury. He was a prominent conservative columnist at the Prophet. Harry had met with him once or twice at the Prophet's annual Christmas Party with Ginny. The man had never been anything but obsequiously kind.
As bad as Harry found the news article on Callahan's arraignment, this editorial was ten times worse. Knowing Banbury's influence in conservative, pureblood circles, Harry immediately understood that Hermione was now their new favorite target, taking the mantle from John Lakey. It wasn't entirely surprising. A self-assured, ambitious, Muggle-born woman would always be a more enticing target than a pureblood man, even one with Lakey's political views.
"Tragically, Granger fails to realize that the world her husband and best friend fought to preserve is not her world. Her world is the stuff of dreams while theirs is the stuff of facts—facts firmly rooted on the irreconcilable differences between wizards and Muggles."
Harry could barely finish that line. What complete filth. What condescending, dangerous drivel. Hermione fought for exactly the same world Harry fought for. A world where a murderous, fascistic blood supremacist couldn't upend society in a matter of days. One where good people wouldn't be cowed into numbness and acquiescence.
Breathing deeply, Harry shoved the paper into the bin next to his desk. All of them had told him—Ginny, Lakey, even Hermione—that she'd face more criticism as she took on more prominent cases within the Department Magical Law Enforcement. But he hadn't expected this. How had the Prophet even allowed it to be published? It was uncomfortably close to the articles in the Prophet and screeds on the Wireless during Voldemort's second reign. Could no one else see that? Had the horrors of Voldemort faded that quickly?
As Harry thought this, he glanced at his watch. It was 12:10. She was just a little late.
For several minutes, Harry flipped through a memo Gwen had left on his desk—something about upgrades to the underage magic monitoring system. He checked his watch again.
12:17.
He stood up and opened the door.
"What time did Counselor Granger say she'd be in?" he said to Gwen.
"Noon, sir," she replied, scribbling on her ever-present notepad.
"Around noon or at noon?" he asked sharply.
She glanced at him, then rifled through the papers on her desk, pulling out a small piece of parchment.
"This is what came," she said, reading it out. "'Harry, I have to run a quick errand, but I'll meet you at noon for lunch. See you soon. Hermione.'"
"She went on an errand? Did she say where?"
"I-I don't know," said Gwen, now concerned. "This is all I have from her…"
A low growl escaped from Harry's throat and Gwen stared.
"Is that on interdepartmental paper?"
"Yessir. It's DMLE letterhead."
"When was it sent?"
"Er—"
Harry snatched the paper from her hands and Gwen started. Her commander was known for his quiet furies. He never acted like that.
There was no time stamp on the memo. That was unsurprising since the Ministry was technically closed for the weekend. Harry muttered a charm under his breath, similar to the point-of-origin spell. It'd been sent at eleven. Harry had still been at her home then. He looked towards the far side of the solarium, near the hall to DMLE. A high whine was starting up in the back of his skull. It made it hard to think.
Gwen was watching Harry's expression with increasing alarm.
"Chief," she said cautiously, "she's barely fifteen minutes late. I'm sure she's on her way?"
Harry nodded numbly, staring at Hermione's fine, looping handwriting. He drifted back into his office and tried to focus on the stack of files awaiting his signature.
At 12:31, he burst out of his office again and down the aisle. Yvain looked up curiously as Harry passed.
He turned left down a vast hallway near the lifts. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror Department were located on the first floor of the Ministry, closest to the Atrium so they could apparate quickly on urgent business. To his left and right were the lesser DMLE offices, including the Department of Intoxicating Substances and the Improper Use of Magic Office.
Harry rounded the corner and saw handsome, gold lettering above a mahogany archway: Department of Magical Law Enforcement—Head Office.
Harry pushed against the mammoth doors beneath the arch and was greeted by an anteroom full of empty cubicles, similar to the AD. At the back, Harry saw a light on in the largest room: Lakey's office. Without fully understanding why, he broke into a run, his feet echoing on the marble floor. Halfway down the aisle, he passed Hermione's first cubicle, the one she'd been given when she first joined the Ministry. He used to come and eat lunch there every Wednesday, sitting on her small desk and chatting to her and her attorney friends...
He was feet from Lakey's office when he saw the silhouette of a man stand up. The director emerged a moment later, meeting Harry at the door.
"Harry? To what do I owe the pleasure?" But his usual smile faded upon seeing Harry's face. "Is everything all right?"
"Have you seen Hermione today?"
"Why, yes," said Lakey, stepping back as Harry charged into his office. It was a fine room with leather furniture and high windows overlooking the Atrium. "I saw her this morning, not more than a couple hours ago."
"Where'd she go next?"
"She had an errand…" he said, now looking alarmed. "Harry, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he grunted, staring about the office as if she might materialize from the walls. "I dunno. Something is off."
Lakey's brows drew together as he observed Harry with a keen lawyer's eye. In the thirteen years he'd known the Boy Who Lived, the director knew he was not the type of person to become visibly agitated or distressed. He always exuded a calm, deliberate manner—it was part of what made him an effective Auror Chief. Now, that man seemed far away. His face was white, a light sheen of sweat on his brow and a bright spark lit his disconcertingly green eyes.
Lakey swallowed. "She said she was going to St. Mungo's to visit the Camerons."
"The who?"
"The Camerons. The Muggle family Callahan attacked."
"Oh, right," Harry said, still breathless. But this information eased his anxiety by the smallest fraction. Visiting a bereaved Muggle family was just the sort of thing Hermione would get caught up in.
"What's this about?" Lakey pressed. "Why do you look like the world is crashing down?"
Harry tried to control his expression, to reconstruct his usual composed exterior. He suddenly felt very silly as he formed the words to explain himself.
"Er—she's late for an appointment we had…"
"Well, how late?"
"About a half hour."
Lakey stared at him before he laughed. "Merlin, you scared me half to death. Is that all, then?"
Harry nodded and Lakey looked at him for another long moment.
"Come have a drink. Looks like you need it."
Harry glanced at the bar cart in the corner of Lakey's office.
"It's early," he said, not feeling like he could swallow anything at the moment. "So, you think she's probably just running late with the Camerons?"
"I'm sure she is," Lakey said confidently, striding to the cart and removing a stopper from a decanter. "She's visited several times. They've taken a strong liking to one another, I reckon."
Harry edged towards the door. "Well, I'll go back to the AD and wait for her then."
Lakey turned, his wooly brow arched. "Harry, sit down. When she gets back, she'll find you soon enough."
Harry hesitated, then lowered himself to a chair facing Lakey's expansive desk. The DMLE director returned with two glasses of whiskey and Harry took his numbly.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Lakey asked, taking a bracing swig. "I'm starting to think this case is affecting you more than Hermione."
Harry said nothing, staring at his glass.
"I reckon this has something to do with today's Prophet?" Lakey ventured quietly. "Hermione told me about the death threats. She also said you'd be giving her a security detail...That's the right thing to do, Harry."
He nodded sullenly.
"I've received quite a few death threats in my career," said Lakey in a tone bordering on pride. "And, of course, you've gotten many yourself even if we put aside the fact that Voldemort was after you for seventeen years," he chuckled. "Hermione's been lucky enough to avoid them until now."
He nodded again.
"Harry," the director said gently, "I know how much Hermione means to you…"
His eyes snapped up.
"But, you can't let these things distract you, right?" he went on. "Public officials get death threats. That's the way things are. I've told you before that as Hermione becomes more prominent in this department she'll become a target for criticism. You can't expect the rest of the world to care about her or understand her the way you and I do.
"The articles in the Prophet today were rubbish," he continued. "Most of the wizarding public knows that. Yet, the loudest voices will always make themselves heard, won't they? Just remember that the people who wrote Hermione today are a very small fraction of the population."
"Right," Harry said roughly. "I know. Thank you."
Lakey nodded, satisfied. As the older man took another sip, a loud noise suddenly emitted from a small table behind his desk.
Briiiiinng. Briiiiinng.
"What's that?" Harry said, his remaining modicum of calm instantly gone.
Lakey, who'd spilled drink on himself and was dabbing at his chin, said, "Er—it's a telly-phone."
"A telephone?" Harry repeated, raising his voice. He stood up.
Briiiiinng. Briiiiinng.
"Yes," Lakey replied. "You know, it's one of those Muggle contraptions that lets you speak to people through the wires. Sometimes I have to call the Muggle Lord Chancellor and—"
"I know what a telephone is!" Harry shouted. "Are you going to pick it up?"
"Oh, of course," said Lakey, setting down his drink and turning his chair. He picked up the receiver and held it awkwardly to his ear.
"Hello? Hello?" he said, louder than necessary. Sure sign of a pureblood. "This is Director Lakey."
Harry felt his feet move under him and he was at Lakey's side.
"Yes…yes, I'm John Lakey…."
Harry stared as the older wizard's face grew pale. And then paler.
"Yes, I know her..."
Harry wanted to rip the receiver out of Lakey's hands.
"Wait, what?" Lakey shouted, alarmed. "What now? Say that again?"
With real anguish, Lakey's eyes flashed to Harry and Harry stared back, his heart lodged in his throat.
"Yes, yes. I see. Where is this now? Is she alive? Is she all right?"
Harry's arms began to shake and the high whine picked up in his skull.
"All right, thank you," Lakey said at last. "I'll be right over." He hung up the phone.
"What's going on?" Harry demanded. He knew his voice was laced with panic but he no longer cared.
"It was a Muggle doctor," Lakey said slowly, as though in a trance. "Hermione's been admitted to hospital for some sort of injury. They found this number in her bag...said it was the only one they could find…."
"Injury?" Harry repeated. The high whine migrated to his jaw. "What happened?"
"They said it was a head trauma and that I should come immediately…bring her kin..."
The edges of his vision seemed to blur. "Which hospital?"
"Royal London."
Harry wanted to tear out of the room, but something in Lakey's face stopped him.
"John," he said very firmly, "I want you to go to St. Mungo's and tell them Hermione is on her way. I'll go to this Muggle hospital and bring her there. Got it?"
Lakey nodded.
Harry didn't wait another second. He ran from he room, darted down an aisle of cubicles, and charged into the hallway, sliding along the marble floor. As he neared the lifts, the Auror Department came into view.
"Durkheim!" Harry shouted as he punched the button to summon the lift. "Durkheim! Come here now!"
The few Aurors in the solarium turned to stare at Harry. A moment later, Harry saw Durkheim sprinting towards him just as the lift opened.
"You're coming with me," Harry said tersely, shutting the grate. "Hermione's at the Royal London Hospital."
Durkheim nodded, blessedly not asking for an explanation.
The lift opened to the Atrium and Harry and Durkheim disapparated.
Harry found himself on a crowded street corner full of Sunday shoppers. A large blue-glass building loomed ahead. Durkheim was at his side.
The reception area teemed with Muggle families, nurses and doctors passing through swinging doors marked "Restricted Access." In the distance, there was a sunlit lobby that echoed with the cries of children, mumbled conversations, and the splash of water in a decorative fountain. Harry pushed his way to the information desk, a few indignant cries following in his wake.
The woman behind the desk was elderly and seemed entirely unmoved at Harry's distraught appearance.
"Is there a Hermione Granger admitted here?" he demanded, his voice shaky. "Perhaps in your emergency area?"
The woman moved her fingers over a rectangle with little letters on it. She stared at something Harry dimly recognized as a computer. It was very different from the one he remembered from the Dursley household.
"There's no Granger here. Spell the first name."
"The first name? Yes, it's H-E-R-M-I-O-N-E," he said breathlessly.
A few seconds. "We have a Hermione Weasley admitted in the emergency care unit."
"Yes, that's her."
"Are you the husband?"
"Yes."
"ID?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Identification." She stared at him impatiently over her glasses. "I can't just let anyone in."
"Of course."
Harry dug into his trousers, feeling Durkheim staring at him. Luckily, he had his Muggle driver's license, but it said Harry Potter, of course, not "Weasley." As he lifted the card towards the woman, he touched his wand in his jacket and muttered under his breath.
The woman stared vacantly at the card, then smiled up at him. "All right, let me page a nurse to bring you to her room. Go wait by that door and someone will be right out."
"Thank you."
Harry and Durkheim moved where she indicated. Harry dug his hands into his pockets and stared at the floor, trying to block out the noise of pleasant conversations and laughing children reverberating inside the lobby area.
A moment later, a blond woman in green scrubs pushed through two swinging doors. She put on a tight smile as she approached them.
"You're here for Mrs. Weasley?"
"Yes," said Harry.
"Come with me."
Harry and Durkheim began to follow but the nurse stopped them.
"I'm sorry. Who's this?" she asked, gesturing to Durkheim.
"He's my…colleague," Harry replied honestly.
"I'm sorry, only family is allowed right now."
"No, ma'am," Harry said quickly, reaching for his wand again. "I need him with me. Please?"
But her face softened before he needed to cast any enchantment. "All right," she said gently. "This way."
They followed the woman down a long corridor. Doctors strode by without looking at them, reading metal clipboards. More nurses stood behind large counters, murmuring to one another and entering more information into those ubiquitous computers. Harry had never been inside a Muggle hospital before. The Dursleys weren't particularly keen on his physical health, after all, even when he sustained quite serious injuries after altercations with his cousin...and his uncle. Harry tried not to look inside the patients' rooms, overwhelmed by the sounds and smells—the astringent scent of alcohol masking flesh and fear.
All too soon, the nurse stopped. Room 0466.
"Wait here," she instructed. "I'll just grab the doctor."
Left alone, Durkheim tried to catch his commander's eye, but Harry couldn't look at him. His hands felt almost entirely numb and the dull whine dug into the base of his skull like a blunt knife.
A moment later, a tall British-Indian doctor rounded the corner. He wore turquoise scrubs and dark curls peeked out from under his surgical cap.
"Hello," he said. "I'm Amar Srinivasan. I'm a trauma surgeon here at Royal London."
"Can I see her?" Harry asked, voice tight.
The doctor looked at his clipboard. "You're Hermione's husband?"
"Yes."
"You're…Ronald Weasley?"
Harry growled in frustration. "I'm Ronald Weasley, damn it. Let me see my wife!"
"All right, Mr. Weasley," Dr. Srinivasan said calmly. "First, let me tell you what happened. Hermione sustained a serious head trauma. There were some large, but mostly superficial, lacerations on her scalp that we were able to stitch up. She has minor scrapes and bruises elsewhere on her body. She's currently unconscious due to the anesthesia we gave her."
While he didn't understand every word, Harry nodded. "But, she's...alive...she's going to be fine?"
Dr. Srinivasan nodded. "She is. I'll take you in now."
The doctor opened the door and Harry felt his feet carry him forward. The room was small and the curtains were drawn, a single lamp giving off a soft glow. Hermione was laid out on a narrow bed under a white sheet. In all his life, Harry had never seen her look so small as she did then. It was so easy—far too easy—to mistake her for dead.
Transfixed, his eyes trailed up her legs and chest to the clean bandages around her head, which had been shaved in places.
"I don't know if you've been told how this happened?" Dr. Srinivasan said softly.
"No we haven't," Durkheim answered for Harry.
"It's very odd," the doctor sighed. "It seems your wife was walking along a deserted street, not five blocks from here, when she was struck in the head with a brick."
Harry stared at him. "A what?"
"A brick. Like what they make buildings out of."
Harry continued to stare at him.
"A brick hit her," the doctor repeated, "and from some distance, I'd say, judging by the contusion on the right side of her head. But it wasn't so much the brick that did the damage. After all, your head naturally moves with a blow like that. When she fell on the pavement…that did the most damage. She was knocked unconscious and a young couple found her a few minutes later lying on the street."
Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to hear anymore, but the doctor went on.
"We took her into surgery and evaluated the trauma. Initially, we thought there might be swelling, so we removed parts of her skull in a few places. Not as scary as it sounds!" the doctor said quickly, catching Harry's expression. "We were able to replace them after a few minutes once we determined there was minimal swelling. The rest was simply stitching up the lacerations on her scalp. When she wakes up, we can provide a better answer as to whether there's been any loss in functionality or memory loss."
"Loss in functionality?" Harry whispered.
"That would be an unlikely outcome," the doctor said gently.
There was silence for a moment, Hermione's soft breathing the only sound. Then, there was a quiet knock at the door and two nurses slipped inside, including the one who'd escorted them. They undoubtedly needed the doctor for another patient.
"The police are talking to the couple that found her," the doctor said quickly. "We've told them you're here, so they'll likely have a few questions for you."
"The police are here?" Harry said, surprised.
"Er, yes," replied Dr. Srinivasan awkwardly. "They'll give you a better explanation than I could, but...it looks like this was not an accident. At least, that's what the evidence suggests…"
"Evidence," he repeated.
Dr. Srinivasan stepped to the side, revealing a small metal table. On it were several items inside large plastic bags.
"These were taken from the scene."
Harry moved forward with Durkheim. Hermione's clothes were in one bag. They were soaked in blood, a pale lavender jumper—one of her favorites—now a deep, hideous crimson. The other bag contained a massive brick of greyish cement, the kind of object you might find strewn about a construction site.
Dr. Srinivasan carefully picked up the second bag.
"This is what was thrown at your wife," he said cautiously, watching Harry's face. "The reason the police think it's not an accident is because there's something written on it. I don't know the first word, but..."
The doctor held the brick into the light and Harry leaned closer. He could make out two jagged words burned into the surface. The work of a spell.
MUGGLE CUNT
Harry clenched his jaw as an icy wave of nausea coursed through him.
"What's the prognosis?" Durkheim asked as the doctor returned the bag to the table.
"She should come out of anesthesia this evening. We'll run some neurological tests, including an MRI if necessary. If she responds well to commands, has bodily functionality, and speaks clearly, then we're likely in the clear. But, there's every reason to believe she will make a quick and complete recovery."
The nurses shifted impatiently by the door.
"Well, I can leave you here with her for a few minutes," Dr. Srinivasan said, turning towards the door. "The police should be along momentarily."
Harry reached out and gripped the doctor's forearm. The movement startled him, but he met Harry's firm gaze with a bemused expression.
"Thank you for everything you've done," Harry said lowly, pouring all his relief into these few words.
Dr. Srinivasan nodded, smiling.
"And I want you to know," Harry said, "I am sorry about this."
The doctor barely had time to look confused.
"Stupefy!" he whispered.
Gripping the doctor tightly, Harry eased his fall to the floor. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Durkheim stun the two nurses. They instantly collapsed to the floor as well, legs tangling together.
"Lock the door."
Durkheim did so with a flick of his wand and cast a Muggle-repelling charm for good measure. He looked back at his chief for further instruction, but he was standing beside her bed, his back turned.
"Chief?" he said, approaching cautiously.
"We're going to split up," said Harry, thinking quickly. "I'll take her to St. Mungo's. You take the evidence to the AD. Obliviate the doctor and nurses and you'll also have to obliviate the police and the couple who found her as well. That should be enough…"
Harry knelt down and gingerly removed Hermione's chart from Dr. Srinivasan's hands. He scanned the flimsy Muggle papers and decided to take it to St. Mungo's, in case it helped the Healers.
"Are we clear?" Harry asked, tucking the chart under his arm.
"Yessir," said Durkheim. He was already bending over the blonde nurse, erasing her memory.
Harry turned back to Hermione. Her breath came in short exhalations through pale lips. So unlike when he'd...
He shook his head and, as gently as he could, as though she might turn to ash in his arms, Harry lifted Hermione from the bed, doing his best to cradle her bandaged head against his chest. It might've been the adrenaline coursing through him, but she felt eerily weightless.
"Matt," Harry said. He used his first name when they were alone. "Before you wipe the memories of the couple, get their names and address? I'd like to thank them."
The Auror nodded.
With that, Harry adjusted Hermione in his arms and a soft murmur escaped her lips at the movement. Harry focused his mind on the lobby of St. Mungo's and they disapparated.
A second later, Harry stood in the teeming center of another hospital.
Three Healers, closely followed by Lakey, rushed towards him and Hermione. Removing her from his arms, the Healers levitated her body so that it was laid out as though on an invisible stretcher. They spoke in a rapid jargon Harry did not completely understand.
"Harry!" Lakey was saying, gripping Harry's arm tightly. "Is she all right? What happened?"
Harry would've answered but the head Healer motioned to him.
"I'll tell you in a bit," he said curtly.
As Harry and Lakey followed the Healers to the lifts, the lobby went utterly still—patients and families and orderlies gawking as Harry followed the colorless body of his best friend. The Healers directed Hermione into a narrow lift and they all squeezed in around her. One of the Assistant Healers pressed the appropriate button with her elbow.
"Chief Potter," said the head Healer, a short man with pale red hair, "I'm Healer Waltham. Can you tell us what happened to Counselor Granger?"
"She was taken to a Muggle hospital. She was hit with a brick and her head struck the pavement. Very hard."
"Hit with a what?" Lakey cried.
"A brick," Harry repeated, preternaturally calm. "The doctor said they stitched her up and—" He looked at the chart still wedged under his arm. "Here," he said, passing it to Waltham. "This should explain what they did."
The Healer read through it quickly. The lift came to a stop and Hermione's body was floated out onto the landing. Harry and Lakey followed after.
"We've set up a room in the special visitor section," Waltham said. "We'll analyze her injuries and see what needs to be done. Please follow me."
The Healers directed Hermione's body down another long corridor lined with patients' rooms. The smell of rubbing alcohol was gone, replaced with the scents of potions and ointments, so familiar to Harry after countless stays in the Hospital Wing.
They stopped before a room at the very end of the hallway. VIP-7.
The attendants laid Hermione on the bed. Healer Waltham and two others removed their wands and passed them up and down Hermione's frame, but focusing on her head.
Lakey and Harry were left alone.
"They threw a brick at her?" Lakey whispered, seething.
"Yes."
"This is outrageous, intolerable! Poor Hermione!"
Harry worked his jaw. "Did you send for Ron?"
"Yes, of course," Lakey said. "I had some trouble tracking him down, though. He's not in London but one of their workers contacted him. He should be here any second."
Harry nodded, eyes fixed on the Healers bustling over Hermione.
"How could someone throw a brick at her?" Lakey seethed again. "A brick. It's so crude, so utterly nonsensical..."
"Maybe not," Harry said, voice low. "The words 'Muggle cunt' were cared on the brick, John. Maybe whoever did it wanted a crude, non-magical way of harming her, a woman they don't truly see as magical."
"Yes, but a brick wouldn't kill her—well, not usually."
"I don't think they meant to kill her. I think they meant to warn her."
Five minutes later, the Healers finished their evaluation and they called Harry and Lakey forward.
"Well," Healer Waltham said, pleased, "for all the grief we give Muggle doctors, they did a remarkable job on Counselor Granger. Everything right from a non-magical standpoint."
Lakey released an enormous sigh, a smile cracking through his tight countenance.
"Now that we know her condition is stable, we'll take her into the operating room," Healer Waltham explained. "We'll remove the stitches and apply a healing balm. It should only take a few minutes to close the lacerations and minimize the scarring. Then, we'll re-grow her hair. Sound all right?"
Lakey nodded, near exultant.
"What about brain functionality? Memory loss?" Harry asked.
"She'll make a full recovery," Waltham assured him. "We just checked her for neurological damage. Her mind is running like wildfire. Once these Muggle drugs wear off, she'll likely be bursting with things to say."
Lakey chuckled. "Sounds like our Hermione!"
"I'll need someone to sign a consent form," Waltham said, rolling out a sheaf of parchment on a bottle green clipboard. "Has her husband arrived?"
Harry felt a small tug in his stomach, like a reflex. Perhaps it was the residual effect of pretending to be Hermione's husband at hospital, but...he wanted to take the proffered quill...to sign his name.
"He hasn't," said Lakey.
"Well, Director, you can sign for her."
Lakey took the clipboard and did so.
"We'll arrange the operating chamber now. You two can sit with her in the meantime."
The Healer left with his attendants. The room went quiet, Lakey rocking on the balls of his feet and looking between an unconscious Hermione and a stonily silent Harry.
"How about I fix us some tea, then? It's been quite a morning."
Harry nodded and Lakey left, closing the door softly behind him.
Harry stood entirely still for what felt like several minutes, listening to her soft breathing. Then, his feet carried him forward and he came to stand next to the bed, looking down at her.
Her studied her curls beneath the bandages, her delicate brows untroubled in sleep, her pale face drained of all color. But it was her lips he looked at longest, those full arcs he knew well now. From quiet moments when he lost focus at work, or in dreams he kept waiting to go away...
Slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his. It was like ice and he rubbed her fingers between his palms, trying to pass his warmth to her. He lowered himself shakily to the chair next to the bed.
"This can never happen again," he whispered, unsure whether he was speaking to her or himself. "Not ever."
He brought her hand to his lips. He kissed the front and back of her palm before letting his lips brush each fingertip in turn. Then, he leaned forward and it seemed a perfect and natural thing to kiss the less bandaged side of her face, to brush away the stray curls. So easy to touch his lips to hers, just lightly and only fleetingly. So he did.
Someone cleared their throat at the door. It was Durkheim.
"Matt," Harry said, leaning away from her and dropping her hand.
"I took the evidence to the AD and had Lao begin the examination," the Auror said, looking at the floor. "And I got the names and address you wanted."
He removed a scrap of Muggle paper and passed it to Harry.
Anna Douthat and Greg Alans
14 Dewsbury Road, Brent, Greater London
"Thank you."
"It's no problem, sir."
Ron arrived just as Hermione was being transferred to the operating chamber.
"What's happened?" he shouted, panicked. "What's wrong with her head?"
"Mr. Weasley," Healer Waltham said, grabbing Ron before he could reach Hermione. "Your wife is going to be fine. She has a minor head injury that we're about to remedy. Chief Potter can give you more details. If you like, you three can watch the procedure in the viewing gallery."
Ron nodded absently, letting himself be led by Lakey while the DMLE Director explained what happened. Harry trailed silently after. In the gallery, Harry kept his eyes fixed on the Healers as they turned Hermione on her side. He watched as Healer Waltham methodically removed each Muggle stitch from Hermione's scalp, the useless sutures clinking softly as he dropped them in a metal tray. Another Healer gently spread a pale orange paste over her lacerations. Minutes later, the paste was swept away to reveal a completely healed, if slightly bruised, scalp. Finally, Healer Waltham hovered his wand over Hermione's head and golden brown tendrils burst forward like an accelerated spring.
Harry was quiet throughout the operation and after, through the arrival of Ginny and Mrs. Weasley. When the Healers returned Hermione to her room, Ron and Mrs. Weasley went to her bedside.
Ginny came up to Harry and he felt her wrap her arms around his torso, hugging him tightly.
"Such a horrible thing," she said softly. "I'm so glad she's okay."
Harry was dimly aware he should say something—something reassuring or some other acknowledgement. But he found he could not speak.
At that moment, Ron had picked up Hermione's hand and pressed it to his lips.