Chapter 18: Betrayal and Hope
Mary's hands trembled as she fumbled with her phone, trying to steady her breathing. The air in Hermione's living room was heavy with the unfamiliar and the impossible, as if every breath drew in not just oxygen, but magic itself. Harry, Ginny, Mycroft, and Poppy Pomfrey—each of them commanded the space with an authority that left Mary feeling like an outsider, despite her desperate desire to help Hermione. The flickering stasis spell Ginny had cast on Hermione was holding, but every moment felt like sand slipping through an hourglass.
Mary shot another glance at Hermione, her pale face barely visible beneath the soft glow of the spell. She remembered the confident young woman who had waltzed into their lives with a blend of intelligence and fierce loyalty, and now, she was reduced to this fragile, suspended state. Mary had never seen anything like it—this mix of wizardry and desperation. But she knew one thing: Hermione needed help, and they were running out of time.
Mary's phone buzzed against her palm. She unlocked it, scrolling through the unanswered texts she had sent John. Her heart sank with each failed call, the 'delivered' notifications offering the smallest sliver of hope. He had to be alive. He had to see these messages. With shaking fingers, she typed a new message, trying to convey the urgency and chaos without scaring him further. She told him Hermione was pregnant, asked if he knew. She mentioned the dire situation, how without the father, Hermione and the baby wouldn't make it. She pleaded for him to respond. She sent the text, silently praying that John would see it and understand.
In the corner of the room, Poppy Pomfrey hovered over Hermione, her wand moving in precise, gentle arcs. Her expression was focused, the years of experience evident in the care she took with each spell. But even Poppy, the most seasoned healer any of them knew, looked strained. Hermione's condition was beyond the scope of any ordinary medical intervention—this was life and death, and time was not on their side.
Harry, Ginny, and Mycroft stood a little apart, their expressions dark as they grappled with the question of Hermione's baby's father. It was a thought that gnawed at each of them.
"Could it be Ron's?" Harry asked, breaking the uneasy silence. His voice was quiet, edged with the painful familiarity of their shared past. Ginny shook her head, her face pale but resolute.
"She hasn't been back to our world since before Halloween," Ginny replied, her voice soft but firm. "And by my estimates, she's close to her second trimester now. The timing doesn't fit."
Harry nodded, his jaw clenched in frustration. They were running out of options, and every wrong guess was time Hermione didn't have.
"Lestrade, maybe?" Mycroft offered, his brow furrowing in thought. "He did ask her on a date once, but Sherlock shut it down with one of his usual snide remarks. Perhaps it pushed Hermione to—"
"—Prove a point?" Ginny finished, looking skeptical. "She could date who she liked, but Hermione's not the type for one-night stands, especially not to spite Sherlock."
Mycroft exhaled sharply, annoyance seeping through his usually composed facade. This was getting them nowhere. He glanced over at Mary, who had gone pale, her eyes wide and distant as if struggling to piece together the shattered fragments of her reality.
No one wanted to voice it aloud, but the unspoken suspicion hung heavy in the room: Could the father be John? The implications of it were vast, and the silence that followed spoke volumes. Mary's lips tightened, and she pressed her phone harder against her chest, as if trying to keep it from slipping from her grasp. She felt a twisting ache in her stomach, torn between the raw betrayal and the undeniable urge to save Hermione. If it was John, if Hermione had turned to him—what did that mean for their marriage, their friendship? But those thoughts had to be set aside for now; Hermione's life depended on it.
Mycroft cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "We can't waste any more time speculating. If John is our best lead, we need to act." His tone was clipped, betraying none of the turmoil that might have flickered behind his eyes. He was used to setting aside personal feelings when the stakes were high, and this situation was no different.
He hesitated, recalling the incident with the sleeping agent at his parents' estate. Sherlock had never been one for patience or protocol, often opting for his own methods, regardless of the collateral damage. Mycroft had hoped it was a one-off, but now it seemed like Sherlock's reckless tendencies had spiraled into something far more dangerous.
"I had Sherlock looking into a case," Mycroft began, his voice low and measured. "A secret location—a small island, off the books. I suspect he may have jumped the gun. Sherlock often views rules as suggestions at best."
Harry nodded, listening intently. "Have you been there before?" he asked. "If you can describe it, I might be able to Apparate us there. It's risky as hell, but we don't have any other options."
Mycroft's lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't like the idea of sending Harry off based on his description alone; the chances of splinching were high, and he had no margin for error. He rifled through his mind, the memory of the island clear but impossible to share in detail with just words.
"I don't have a picture," Mycroft admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. "I don't carry classified case files on me."
Mary, who had been quietly watching the exchange, took a small step forward. "I don't know much about your magic, but you've done things here tonight I wouldn't have believed possible," she said, her voice shaky but determined. "Couldn't you… I don't know, take the memory from Mycroft's head? Show Harry that way?"
Harry turned to her, surprised by the suggestion. He couldn't help but smile at her quick thinking, despite the dire circumstances. "Legilimency," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "It's risky—I'm no expert, but I've gotten better since the Auror academy. If I can pull the memory, I might be able to Apparate us directly there. Mycroft would have to come with me, though, to solidify the details."
Mycroft gave a curt nod. He was familiar with Legilimency, though he had never been on the receiving end of it. "Do it," he said, steeling himself. "We don't have time for hesitation."
Mary, emboldened by the flicker of hope, stepped into the center of the room, drawing the attention of everyone present. "Alright," she said, her voice gaining strength. "We have a plan. Poppy, Ginny, you stay here and take care of Hermione. Get everything ready for… whatever this spell is. I'll keep trying to contact John and Sherlock, just in case it reaches them. Harry, you take Mycroft, find John, and bring him back. Remember, you have a maximum of one hour to find him and return. We need at least twenty minutes for the spell—will that be enough?"
Poppy glanced up from her work, her eyes sharp. "It's tight, but it should suffice."
Harry nodded, determination setting in his features. He turned to Mycroft. "Close your eyes and push the memory to the front of your mind. This might hurt."
Mycroft did as instructed, his eyes closing, his breath steadying as he concentrated. Harry stepped closer, raising his wand. He whispered the incantation for Legilimency, and at once, the world around him shifted.
Inside Mycroft's mind was a fortress—rigid and imposing, built of secrets and unyielding resolve. Harry had studied Occlumency under Snape, and he knew how formidable a well-guarded mind could be. Mycroft's was a labyrinth of iron will, and Harry had to push through the barriers with careful force. A figure resembling Mycroft appeared, a silent sentinel in this fortress of thought, and handed Harry a folder before disappearing back into the shadows.
Harry opened the folder, the vision of the island unfolding before him in vivid detail. He was no longer in Mycroft's mind but standing on the island itself, its rugged coastline stretching out under a stormy sky. He took in every nuance—the color of the sand, the jagged rocks, the scent of salt in the air. He memorized the feel of the ground beneath his feet, the sharp cry of seagulls above. Every detail mattered; they only had one chance to get this right.
He pulled back from Mycroft's mind, returning to the living room. Mycroft was watching him, unfazed by the invasion of his thoughts.
"Are we ready?" Mycroft asked, his voice steady despite the looming danger.
Harry nodded, gripping his wand tightly. "Ready," he confirmed, taking hold of Mycroft's arm. With a deep breath and a focused mind, he twisted on the spot, and with a sharp crack, they Disapparated, leaving behind the desperate hope that this gambit would pay off.
The room fell silent, the sound of their departure echoing in the sudden stillness. Mary clutched her phone tightly, staring at the last message she had sent to John, praying for a response. Ginny and Poppy continued their vigil over Hermione, the magical stasis holding her in its fragile grasp. Time was running out, and every second felt like a heartbeat closer to the edge.
Mary's resolve hardened. They had a plan, but plans didn't always go the way they were supposed to. She couldn't afford to break down now. Not when Hermione's life was on the line. Not when the weight of betrayal and uncertainty loomed over her like a storm cloud. She glanced again at her phone, the empty silence of John's absence gnawing at her nerves.
No answer. Still no answer.
Mary pressed her lips together and started dialing again, willing herself to stay calm. She couldn't let her emotions cloud her judgment. John would answer. He had to. And when he did, she would have the words ready—clear, precise, and with just enough urgency to make him drop everything and come running. He'd always been there when it mattered. She had to believe that he still would be, no matter what lay between them.
She glanced at the clock on the wall, the ticking second hand seeming to race against them. Ginny and Poppy moved with quiet determination, setting up the final preparations for the spell that would decide Hermione's fate. A faint, pulsing light from Ginny's wand illuminated Hermione's face, making her look more fragile, almost otherworldly, suspended in a state between life and whatever lay beyond.
Mary's phone buzzed in her hand, and her heart leapt—only to sink when she saw it was just another notification from an app she'd forgotten to silence. She rubbed her forehead, feeling the pressure building, the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. She was no wizard, no detective, but she could try to keep them all together, to hold onto the slivers of hope that still flickered like the faint glow of Ginny's spell.
The sound of Poppy's voice cut through her thoughts. "We're almost ready," she said, her tone calm but with an edge of urgency. She glanced at the clock, then back at Mary, twenty minutes had passed already since the countdowm began. "They have to be back soon."
Mary nodded. She didn't need Poppy to finish. They all knew what was at stake. As she stared at her phone one last time, she whispered under her breath, hoping somehow the words would reach John and Sherlock wherever they were.
"Please," she murmured. "Just pick up. We need you."
The room remained tense, every tick of the clock a reminder of the rapidly diminishing time. But Mary stood firm, gripping her phone like a lifeline, waiting for that moment when everything would change.
When Harry and Mycroft would return.
When they would finally get their answers.
And when they would know, once and for all, if they were too late—or if there was still a chance to save Hermione. And end her marriage.