August 1997 - A Convenient Oath
"Are you all right? You seem concerned"
The girl with frizzy hair placed the cut-out article she was reading on her lap and glanced at the redhead who stood in front of her. A thin layer of sweat was covering the boy's forehead and a few heart-shaped confettis sprinkled his hair. Ron leaned against the stepladder and motioned for Hermione to hand him over the water that lay near her sun lounger. She groped around on the grass until her fingers settled on the smooth plastic bottle.
"I am" she replied with a faint voice as she gave him the drink and she peeked at the banner Molly Weasley was hanging on the tent, where the words "Bill and Fleur" were proudly standing out.
It was a time to celebrate, but the girl was not in the mood for a party.
It was a few days now that Hermione, Ron and Harry were gathered at the Burrow, for a supposedly lighthearted stay. The end of the year had been gruelling, and the three of them had been blissed to get to enjoy each other's company. Yet, their cheer had been short-lived, soon enough interrupted by the Minister of Magic's arrival.
"I am here to hand Albus Perceval Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's inheritance over to you" had disclosed the man with a distant air that they had found desolating.
It was over a month now that the school's Headmaster had passed away, but the pain was still sharp. Harry, of them all, had been hit the hardest, yet he had kept his chin high in front of the Minister, because even though grief was slow and unforgiving, the loss of dear ones sometimes instilled strength in those who remained.
The Minister had opened a box, entrusted them with three items. The Headmaster's Deluminator, a storybook, and a golden snitch. Attached to the objects was a note.
"Keep going" it said, a message abstruse to anyone but them and which served as a reminder of their duty. The task that fell to them had begun with Harry's private lessons, late-night appointments with the Headmaster that aimed at the boy to learn more about Voldemort's past. He had found out about the wizard's childhood, and his unusual habit at collecting things. That he had turned into an elegant young man who had married into nobility.
For months on they had rummaged through the Dark Lord's life, sought any kind of clues that could help them defeat him. Yet, as they had scoured for evidence, combed the memories and items that were reunited in that folder Dumbledore had handed them - which bore the name of his spouse - the trio had grown disheartened.
It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, for all the trails they had found had lead nowhere. They had skimmed through the directory, accessed the Ministry's archives, looked through old newspapers, in the news section first, in the obituaries then, for Dumbledore's evasive answers regarding the woman's current location did not bode well.
Once they had believed they were close to something, after Neville Longbottom - who had been eavesdropping on their conversation in the common room - had disclosed with a sheepish tone that he had heard that name once.
At St Mungos.
"I knew it" had grumbled Ron, "I knew no one can marry You-Know-Who without going mental" but the hospital's register had shown no sign of a patient named Selwyn… Once more, they had returned empty-handed from their search.
And such a laborious task - which soon became a burden, something they tackled with great reluctance - was suddenly overshadowed by a more pressing matter: to find and destroy all fragments of the Dark Lord's soul. The hunt for Horcruxes had begun, and just like that, the Selwyn case had become a distant memory, another forgotten file on a dusty shelve.
Until that very morning, when Hermione had engaged in a conversation with Arthur Weasley over some poached eggs and fried bacon.
"So, tell me, have you ever seen one of these?" had asked Ron's father before he'd pointed a finger at a Muggle magazine. On the glossy front page stood a vehicle with propeller heads and Hermione had nodded before she had swallowed the content of her mouth.
"It's a helicopter" was her response, and Arthur Weasley had nodded furiously and squirmed on his seat before he had inundated the girl with questions.
Yes helicopters were loud, no she had never gotten into one and yes there were museums where they were exposed.
"My uncle had bought a miniature remote-controlled helicopter for my cousin once" had chimed in Harry and Arthur's eyes had gleamed.
Molly had made a face that had meant something like "don't you give him bad ideas" but the twins had refocused the topic already, sharing the story of that one Quidditch player who had collided with such a vehicle mid-game.
"Whop whop whop!" had joked Fred as he had made the sound of someone's body being caught in the screw, thus triggering the laugh of his siblings.
"What a dire story" had whispered Arthur Weasley before he had summoned a few clippings from his special folder, the one where he stored all Muggle-related things. But when he had shared the extract of the newspaper with the others, Hermione had found out that the piece reported on far more than a stupid Quidditch accident…
And as she lay in the Weasleys' garden, finally in possession of some evidence that she had never imagined to find, Hermione felt a lump growing in her throat.
"What's that?" pointed Ron to the cut out article the girl had nicked from his father's collection, and she handed it to him
—
The Wizard's World Beguiling Broadsheet of Choice
The Daily Prophet
London. Monday, February 3rd, 1975.
Editorial
'The Hypocritical Oath'
With more than two hundred people injured and ninety deaths, Christmas Eve of 1974 will remain one of the saddest days in British History. In a time that ought to be dedicated to the most sacred form of joy, London was the stage of a brutal offensive while hundreds of the Ministry's officials and their family were reunited for a charity concert in London. All at once, what was meant to be a cheerful evening turned into a blood curdling nightmare.
It is in such a mayhem that the victims had been sent to the closest hospital - St Mungo's - where many healers had been called as backups. The year-end festivities translated into a reduced workforce, and despite the best effort of the staff, the casualties were far too great for the healers to handle.
In total, fifty people died as a result of shortage of personnel, as revealed by the special committee that investigated the affair. And if the Minister's detractors were right to point to the recent budget cut that impeded St Mungo's, there is far more concerning than the politician's bad governing habits.
As rumours already had it on the days that followed such frightful incident, the special committee confirmed a far worse allegation: that a few healers simply did not show up fast enough - if not at all - despite them being on call.
Some invoked the disruption of the Floor Network, which had been disturbed by the perpetrators of the attack. Others blamed the late notification. Yet, none seem to beat Healer Selwyn, who certainly won the prize for the least imaginative excuse.
When confronted about her non-appearance the night of the attack, the woman claimed that she was tending to a sick friend, and refused to disclose the latter's name, going as far as to invoke the Hippocratic Oath in court.
"All that may come to my knowledge in the exercise of my profession or outside of my profession or in daily commerce with wizards, which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and never reveal" she said to the investigator.
Far be it from me to question the committee's decision to disculpate Healer Selwyn, but I would simply like to remind our readers who Annabel Sybil Selwyn really is. Was she not called once by a name she later disowned?
If that 'friend' she purported to be tending to turned out to be one of the perpetrators of the attack, or worse, its instigator, then one may wonder where her loyalty lies… Because if the Death Eaters start to infiltrate the ranks of our healers, then the Minister's budget cut is the least thing there is to worry about.
Now, I have a question to you all: how many people, how many children might have survived if St Mungo's was, that night, fortified by another hand?
And to Healer Selwyn, who seems to think that names can be changed when bothersome, I suggest a name change for the Hippocratic Oath.
How about we call it the Hypocritical Oath instead?
—
He read the article once more, thoroughly this time. His face verged on the green, his freckles disappearing in the glowing sun.
"Shit" he simply uttered once he was done and Hermione nodded, knowing far too well the conflicting emotions that were stirring inside of him. He was silent like a grave, not even deigning to respond to his mother who was issuing them to get in the house and start to get ready.
"How could we have missed something that big?" Ron queried, yet slowly ungluing himself from the stepladder on which he was leaning.
Hermione shrugged as she stood up.
"Maybe she tried to disappear? Erase all traces of her past?"
"It would coincide with her taking her maiden's name back" he agreed with a nod.
"Exactly" acquiesced the girl before she began to whisper.
"And from this, we can assume three things… One, she tried to dissociate herself from Voldemort, at least publicly, for reasons we aren't aware of…"
Ron stiffened at the name and he looked around to make sure that no one was near.
"You mean other reasons than him having her take the blame for a crime he committed?"
"Well, yes, but there might be more" she added. "I can't help but think there is something related to those two pregnancies..."
Hermione grabbed the towel that covered the lounger and folded it quickly before she pursued.
"Two, she made it out of Azkaban, safe and sound, and she was not a patient in St Mungo's but a healer"
"What's three then?" asked Ron impatiently, his stomach churning when Hermione shot him a glance full of innuendo.
"Well, if Neville did not lie about hearing her name as he claimed, she might still be alive. And like the editorial said, we don't know where her loyalty lies"