Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, I'm just borrowing him for now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Light streamed across her face as she came too. Her arms flailed madly without direction from her mind, but they were restrained by some currently unknown source. All she knew in that moment was that her body was on fire and that someone, possibly her, was screaming. Hands appeared out of the ether, pressing her back onto the bed she was laying on, trying to still her. "Someone help me!" shouted an authoritative voice over the continued screaming. Suddenly, gentle but firm hands placed themselves on either side of Heather's head and something above her blocked enough of the light to allow her to see a little. A large man in lime green robes streaked with red was crouching over her, while another similarly dressed witch was approaching with a flask of something. Panic overrode sense, and Heather tried to get free, but the man was not to be overcome. The glass rim was pressed to her lips and its contents were unceremoniously poured into her mouth.
The potion was like ice. It flooded her mouth before trickling down her throat until it reached her stomach. From there it spread slowly outwards, dulling the fire that burned in her side and causing her limbs to go numb. The pressure on her body ceased as the healers released her, and for the first time Heather realized there were others screaming and crying out in pain.
"You'll be alright, Potter," said the man who had held her head. "Just rest."
Time passed very strangely, and Heather was never really sure how much of what she saw and heard for a good while afterwards was real or imagined. She wasn't even entirely sure that she had been awake the entire time. Her attention drifted this way and that, and her eyes struggled to remain focused on anything for longer than a few seconds. The first thing she really noticed after a long while was that her body was very sore on her left side, especially when she tried to move. So, she just lay there wondering idly why everyone seemed to be moving so slowly.
Gradually the dull pain grew until it reached a point where she could no longer lie comfortably in any position. She cried out. A healer, or so she assumed anyway as her attention was focused solely on her side, rushed over. "Sorry about that, Potter," she stammered, rolling Heather back out of the fetal position she had adopted and inspecting her side. "You took a nasty blow there, but you weren't critical." Cold fingers probed the wound, sending a mix of sensations across Heather's ribcage. Pain nearly made her black out, and so she missed precisely what the healer did, but in a moment the fire subsided.
The light still blanketed her, but now it was warm instead of blinding. She awoke to find that she was lying on her back with the sheets of the bed pulled up to her chin. Her midriff felt compressed under the blankets, and her clumsy, fumbling fingers found thick bandages across her stomach. A rustling of paper next to her bed made her to look up and see Daphne sitting there, writing on a piece of parchment. Half of the witch's blonde hair had been burned away and her scalp was wrapped in cloth, giving her head a very misshaped appearance.
"You're awake!" Daphne exclaimed when she noticed Heather moving.
"Yeah," Heather replied through dried lips. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. "Where am I?" she asked.
"St. Mungo's. And before you ask, you've only been out for a few hours. We were all brought in early this morning. You…you remember what happened, right?"
Flashes of the battle in the graveyard pressed themselves together in a disjointed chain that paraded across Heather's vision. "Yeah, I remember." She forced the images away. "Who'd we lose?" she asked dully, remembering Ron lying prone in the grass.
"Hestia and Moore," Daphne replied sadly, setting the parchment on a small table.
Heather tried to push herself up and instantly regretted it. "But…what about Lee? I saw him di-" her voice choked up.
Daphne shook her head. "No, he's alive, but he's in bad shape. Took a blast to the face. It was touch and go for a while, but they say he's going to be ok."
Something in her face told Heather he wasn't the only one who was badly injured. "Who else?" she asked without really wanting to find out.
Daphne didn't meet her gaze, and her shoulders slumped against the back of her chair. "Honeywell. They couldn't save her eye. And…and Ron. He still hasn't woken up. Almost everyone else who was there is still here in the hospital with injuries too."
"No," Heather breathed. The last thing she could clearly remember Honeywell had been uninjured.
"The healers have done everything they can for Ron right now. It's down to him waking up. Honeywell's going to be alright, though." Daphne said sadly. She rested a hand on Heather's shoulder but didn't say anything else.
Heather wasn't even aware of the contact. She had fallen deep into herself, blocking out light, sound, even touch as the darkness spread throughout her. Ron was clinging to life because she had failed. Because she hadn't been strong enough to do her job. Honeywell was maimed for life, and neither Hestia nor Moore would ever be coming home again. From a great distance she heard Daphne adding that Slughorn was safe and was unhurt, beyond a few cuts and scrapes, but that did little to nothing to boost Heather's spirits. Not even the news that all of the death eaters had been killed or captured could save her from the darkness. It was all her fault. If she had only been there, she knew she could have saved them. If she had just been strong enough to move! The words 'if only' began to repeat themselves so often across her thoughts that she could practically see them arrange themselves in bold letters across her eyes. If only you were strong enough, if only you hadn't lost your nerve, if only, if only…
Something impacted with her chest with the force of a sledgehammer. "Heather!" exclaimed Mrs. Weasley, who had just arrived. "Thank goodness you're alright."
"Excuse me, madam," a healer exclaimed, appearing as though out of thin air, "but she's taken a bad blow to her ribcage. Please, if you could release her before…"
"Oh, of course, I'm so sorry," flustered Mrs. Weasley, releasing Heather and staring into her eyes intently. "Where's my son?" she asked the healer. "Ronald Weasley," she added at his confused look.
"Oh, Mr. Weasley is right this way." The healer said, pointing off somewhere to Heather's left. After a promise that she would return soon, Mrs. Weasley bustled off leaving Heather and Daphne alone with the healer.
Without asking, he knelt down and began to probe Heather's side again. Thankfully, this time the touch didn't send pain radiating through her body. "Good news, Miss Potter. You're doing just fine. I think we'll even be able to get you out of here today, if you'll promise that you'll take it easy."
"But…what you just told..." Daphne said, sounding surprised.
The healer chuckled. "A small lie, just to keep her from crushing you," he said to Heather. "No, I think you'll be out of here fairly quickly."
"I can't leave my friends," Heather said, glancing around at the other occupied beds nearby.
"The best thing you can do for them is to take care of yourself, so that you're here when they're better. Don't worry, they're in good hands here."
At a shout of pain from the other side of the ward, the healer rose and raced away. "That's good news," Daphne said with a small smile.
"Sure," Heather said before falling silent again. A healer arrived soon with a clipboard of forms for her to sign and a vial of potion she was supposed to take every few hours for the next two days. Her side was relatively free of pain when she got up to dress, which was something she supposed. Daphne kindly offered to escort her back to Grimmauld Place, but Heather refused. She was strong enough to apparate, even if she wasn't strong enough for much else anymore.
The outside of the house was as dour looking as ever when Heather arrived on the front step, far enough inside the wards so that she didn't need to worry about passing muggles. She knew the house was empty. Luna and Susan were at the hospital keeping vigil over Ron, and with a large portion of the Auror Office out of commission, she was sure that Neville would be at the Ministry. Katie, Seamus…and Ron, she stopped herself from following that line of thought, for fear it would consume her. Almost unwillingly, her right hand lifted itself and turned the doorknob.
After closing the door, Heather turned to take in the house. The hallway was still garishly decorated from her birthday party only a few days ago. Streamers and banners hung everywhere, their many colors striking an odd contrast with the darkness consuming her. It was as though they were mocking her with their brightness, laughing at her. She walked towards the stairs at the far end of the hall and stopped after setting her foot on the lowest one. The thought of climbing four flights up to her bedroom robbed her legs of their little strength, so instead she wrenched open the door to the basement and descended into the kitchen.
It too still bore marks of the recent party. Platters of magically preserved food covered a sideboard and even more decorations littered the walls. She lowered herself gingerly into a chair at the table and gazed without interest at the food. Sitting down eased the small pain still aching in her side, and after a moment she realized that without the pain to focus on, her thoughts could run unchecked. She rose again and felt the pain return. Without really thinking about what she was doing, she wandered towards the pantry. She wasn't hungry, but it was something to do. Thankfully there was no sign of Kreacher, he might have insisted that she sit down and that wasn't what she needed.
The shelves were mostly bare, having been properly raided to prepare for the party. Someone was supposed to go shopping tomorrow, but now it looked like that wasn't going to happen. To the left of the door, about halfway up the wall sat an unopened case of butterbeer. Feeling suddenly thirsty, Heather pried it open and extracted a bottle. At her touch, the chilling charm on the glass went to work. She cracked open the seal and downed the contents before the charm could finish its work. Gagging slightly at the taste of lukewarm butterbeer, Heather let the empty bottle fall to the floor and grabbed another. This time she allowed the drink to reach a good, cold temperature before chugging it down in one go. Extracting a third, Heather hefted the case under her arm on her good side and carried it back to the table. The pain radiating in her side felt, if not good then something close, as she downed her third drink. One by one she worked her way through the crate until the table before her was littered with empty bottles. While butterbeer was not particularly strong, after all it was served legally to students, it had been a long time since Heather had eaten anything and it wasn't long before she started to feel a buzz.
The silence of the kitchen pressed in on her, interrupted only by the thud of a bottle landing on the table when she set it down mixed with the occasional tinkle of her empties rolling around. Still thirsty, she reached a fumbling hand deep into the case for her next drink and felt only empty air. With bleary eyes she peered into the opening, knowing full well she hadn't finished the entire thing already. It was only then that she really noticed just how full the table immediately around her was with empty bottles.
She stood, feeling her legs wobble beneath her as they took her weight and staggered towards the pantry, thinking she had seen another case there. There was another box on the next shelf down, but it wasn't butterbeer. When Heather pulled the cardboard apart, she saw a dozen bottles of brown liquid capped in red wax. Tentatively, she extracted one and for once didn't feel the trepidation she usually associated with a bottle of firewhiskey. "That'll do" she grunted, peeling the wax off and pulling out the stopper. The first swallow drove away the cold that infested her. The second brought warmth and light which flooded through her, electrifying her skin. It wasn't until after the third gulp that she lowered the bottle from her lips. Satisfied, she extracted another bottle and carried it and the still unfished one back to her chair.
It was like the world stopped mattering to her. All she knew was that the darkness she had been feeling for so long was being driven back, and that it would only stay gone so long as she kept drinking. So she drank, and the more she drank, the better she felt. She smiled at nothing, felt her heart soar like it was astride a racing Firebolt, she even laughed. From the dregs of her muddled brain came snippets of the song Hagrid and Slughorn had sung the night Aragog had been buried. Slowly, unbothered by the fact that she only knew about half of the words, she began to sing. Her feet began to tap as she sung, inserting other lyrics when her memory came up short, until she was feeling quite cheery. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling marvelously. Only brief pauses between verses for drink stopped the noise, and in those precious seconds the silence returned, and with it, writhing tendrils of darkness. When the first bottle was empty, Heather cracked into the next. Humming to herself, she lowered her head onto her arms and drifted off into oblivion.
From that moment on, if Heather was awake, she was drinking. It wasn't always firewhiskey, but it was always something with alcohol in it. The next morning, she set off for the Leaky Cauldron and secured four cases of butterbeer. Tom raised his eyebrows at the order, but he wasn't going to say no to that kind of money, certainly not from Heather Potter. Luna and Susan watched as Heather carted the boxes in but said nothing. They had brought back word that Ron was finally awake, or at least he had been before being put back to sleep by the healers, and that everyone else was going to be ok. Katie and Seamus were to be held a few more days for observation. There hadn't been word from Neville.
Heather was cheered for a moment at the news before the image of Lee's burned face swam into her mind. Then came Hestia and Moore's faces, followed by Honeywell. She instinctively grabbed at the bottle she was currently drinking and took several long swallows. It would be expected for her to visit the hospital, and with Luna's help she managed the trip. She didn't stay long. More than one person took a long sniff when she spoke, and she knew they must smell the liquor on her breath.
For lunch that day, Heather fixed herself a sandwich and washed it down with a full bottle of firewhiskey. For dinner she didn't bother with the sandwich. The next day she didn't appear at all, but at regular intervals bottles would soar from the kitchen up to her bedroom. When Susan came upstairs to summon her down to eat dinner, she found Heather passed out in bed, still in her pajamas, which were covered in stains. Bottles and cups littered the floor and sticky puddles of spilled drink were everywhere. Susan pulled the door closed quietly and returned to the kitchen, where she and Luna talked in low tones.
Heather remained in this state for most of that week, blissfully lost in warmth and light that kept back the darkness which was only interrupted by sleep and waiting on a fresh bottle to arrive. It appeared that alcohol could do what sobriety could not and keep the dream at bay. If she drank, it stayed away, and she wanted nothing more than to never by asked 'why' again. She didn't know that Katie, Seamus, and Ron had been released from the hospital and had come home, or that Mrs. Weasley had been by to check on her. The only reason she left her bedroom was to go to the bathroom or to crack her door open and summon her next drink. She knew people were coming in her bedroom to check on her when she was sleeping. Someone, she didn't know who, kept leaving glasses of water on her bedside table.
She awoke and knew it was evening, as there was no light filtering in around the thick curtains. Her mouth was dry, and her head throbbed painfully. She needed a drink. She snatched up her wand and opened her bedroom door. "Accio firewhiskey" she muttered, waving her wand in a lazy arc. It usually took less than a minute for the drink to arrive, and Heather counted the seconds, eager for the relief that the warm liquid would provide. After three minutes had passed and the bottle hadn't appeared, she tried summoning it again. There was no way they could be out. A third attempt yielded the same results.
Grumbling in pain, Heather pulled herself up and began tottering down the stairs. When she stumbled into the kitchen, she saw that it wasn't empty. Sitting at the large table were Ron, Luna, Seamus, Katie, Susan, and Neville, all gazing solemnly at her. "Lo" she managed, leaning heavily on the door frame. "Don't mi- mind me," she hiccupped, "just lookin' for my drink." She was halfway across the kitchen before she realized that the pantry door was shut, and a chair was propped up under the latch. "What gives?" she asked, turning to look at everyone.
They all exchanged nervous looks, as though trying to determine who should speak first. "Heather…" Susan said at last, standing up from her chair, "We need to talk."
"About?" Heather asked, feeling the hairs on her neck stand up.
"About your drinking," Susan pressed when no one relieved her of being the speaker.
"What about it," Heather challenged. Her fingers were still closed around her wand, and she could feel the anger swelling within her.
"Heather…" Ron said cautiously, also rising. His wand was held loosely in his fingers, and he was supporting himself unevenly. "Put the wand down."
"Or what? You gonna attack me, Weasley? Cause it looks like you can barely stand." Heather barked. Part of her, that part that was buried deep down and was still capable of logic and reason regretted the words. The rest of her, which was only capable of joy and fire right now, reveled in the shocked, hurt expression on Ron's face.
"Let's all calm down," suggested Neville quickly. He approached Heather carefully, keeping both his hands empty and in plain view. "Why don't you sit down Ron, and Heather here, come sit by me." He rested a hand on Heather's arm, but she yanked herself away from his touch.
"Why? So you lot can ambush me?" she snarled.
"No one's ambushing you," Neville said, still in a calm, even voice that made Heather want to scream. How dare he be calm and reasonable when she wanted to scream. "We just want to talk to you." He tried again to touch Heather's arm, but she backed away again.
"Bullshit!" she shrieked.
Now it was Luna's turn. "Heather, we're your friends and we care about you," she said with sad, wide eyes. "We're sorry it has to be like this, but we can't keep letting you destroy yourself."
"And just what gives you the right to have a say in what I do? What gives any of you the right?" Heather yelled, levelling a finger at each person in turn.
Neville took another step closer, still with his hands empty. "We're your friends," he pressed. "And…after everything that happened at the graveyard, and Upper Flagley, of course we understand you needing something to help, but…"
Heather turned away from him and raised her wand, levelling at Ron's chest. Hungover as she was, she was still faster than him or anyone else in the kitchen. "You told them!" she screeched. "You told them about…about…" Tears stung her eyes.
"Heather, lower the wand." Katie said, moving forward to block Heather's line of sight to Ron, her wand now also in her hands.
"How dare you!" Heather howled, ignoring Katie. Her wand was trembling now and everything in her wanted to use it to strike. She wasn't even sure anymore if she cared just who she took out.
"Well, what the hell did you expect?" Ron shouted back, "We're all concerned about you and you're drinking yourself into oblivion."
"Ron," chided Susan, who was also moving to interpose herself between him and Heather.
"No!" Ron said angrily. He slid to his side, so he had a clear view of Heather. "You don't get to threaten me for doing what I had to do to take care of you. Just because you don't want to deal with the world doesn't mean that the rest of us won't. They needed to know."
Heather could hardly make him out anymore for the tears flooding her eyes. So, they all knew the truth about her. How weak, how pathetic she was. "Get out!" she screamed at Ron. "Get the hell out of my house!" When he made no move she yelled again, "Get out!"
Everyone was on their feet now. There was a blur of motion and Heather's wand was wrenched from her hand. "Heather, he isn't going anywhere. None of us are." It was Neville, he had just snatched her wand and was not backing away quickly.
"You can get out too! All of you!" Heather screeched at him, looking around anxiously for an exit. Seeing the door, she took off at a run that ended abruptly when she tripped on a loose stone in the floor. The floor rushed up to meet her and slammed hard into her body. Strong arms lifted her and gently maneuvered her into a chair.
"No one is going anywhere," Neville repeated. "We're your friends and that means we're here for you no matter what." Heather couldn't reply, snot was chocking her throat from the tears that wouldn't stop.
"We are cutting you off, though," said Susan, who was now crouching next to Heather's chair. "No more drinking, alright?" Heather tried again to tell them to get the hell out, but only chocked rasps escaped her lips. She lifted her eyes and found Ron, who was glaring at her from next to his chair. He was the only person who hadn't approached her. Heather tried her best to convey the sense of ultimate betrayal she felt, even as other voices swirled around her. All that mattered to her was just how much she hated Ron.
Neville and Seamus carted her upstairs to her bedroom, where Susan and Luna helped her clean up and get in bed. They left a glass of water on her bedside table and informed her that there was no alcohol left in the house. With that, they closed the door and left her there.
Heather tossed and turned for a while, trying to get comfortable. She knew that if she could just get a drink, even a single sip, she'd be able to sleep. It was no use trying to go back downstairs now while everyone was still awake, but soon. Just a little while longer. She began keeping track of time by the chiming of the old grandfather clock in the drawing room that echoed up the stairs. Around ten o'clock there were sounds of feet climbing the stairs, then doors were closed, and it was quiet. Heather waited another twenty minutes before making her move. The house was silent as she crept down to the kitchen. "Idiots," she muttered under her breath. Did they really think she was just going to believe that they really threw out everything to drink in the house?
The door to the pantry opened noiselessly, and Heather stepped inside. It was dark and without her wand she was forced to search blindly. Her arms slid back and forth across the shelves, dislodging tins, jars, and other food, but finding no alcohol. Her head was throbbing again, and she was close to tears. She needed something, anything to make it stop.
"Kreacher!" she shouted, marveling that she hadn't thought of him before.
With his customary crack the house elf appeared. "Mistress," Kreacher said, bowing low.
Was it her imagination or was there a reluctance to his appearance she hadn't seen in a long while. She brushed the thought aside. It didn't matter right now. "I need a drink." Heather gasped through the pain in her head. "Now."
"Would Mistress prefer water, or tea…" Kreacher suggested hesitantly, not meeting her gaze.
"You know bloody well that's not what I mean." Heather growled, now staggering in pain. "Whiskey. Firewhiskey. Now."
Kreacher began to wring his hands together. "Mistress, I have been instructed by Mistresses' friends to not give you strong drink. They say it is bad for you, Mis-"
Heather levelled a finger at him. "I don't give a damn what they told you. I am ordering you to go find me a drink. Now."
Kreacher looked at her with pleading eyes. "Mistress, please…" he begged.
"I gave you an order. Go!" She roared. With another crack, he was gone.
Heather stumbled around the table towards her chair. It shouldn't take that long for him to get what she needed and come back. In fact, why hadn't he just summoned it on the spot?
"Heather Potter. You should be ashamed of yourself, speaking to Kreacher like that." Heather whirled and almost fell over. Someone had entered the kitchen without her being aware of it. She was still dressed in traveling clothes and carrying a large suitcase in one hand, with long bushy brown hair swept back in a loose ponytail. Hermione Granger was standing in the kitchen of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.