Chapter Seventeen

I got the message from Potter_Place that this story was wanting to be updated by Christmas, and so, having a little time on my hands with the wind-down of my children’s school into Christmas holiday (one more week to go!) and needing to channel my emotions into something more creative than setting fire to the vehicles of Those Who Should Not Be Allowed to Drive, I more than happily acquiesced to the request. I hope you enjoy. My apologies for the long wait.

Disclaimer: I own nothing in JKR’s little world of magic, but I perform my own magic to round out her characters’ lives a bit … just because I can.

“Miss Granger.”

Auror Banks separated herself from the cluster that now hovered at the foot of Hermione’s bed, and Head Auror Robards watched with more than a little pride as his protégé took charge. With a minor spell, quill was set hovering above parchment, leaving Auror Banks free to pay attention to the woman lying on the bed, whose head turned towards her but whose eyes didn’t seem to be capable of focusing.

“How are you doing?” Auror Banks asked sympathetically and not without a little feeling, and Robards knew at that moment exactly why the group had chosen her to approach the victim.

“I’m all right, thanks,” was Miss Granger’s hoarse reply, though Robards noticed how weakly her hands rested upon her stomach, covered by the stronger hands of the man who sat silently by her side.

Auror Banks coughed lightly and walked around to the side of Miss Granger’s bed as though about to share a confidence. “My apologies, Miss Granger,” she said, a little more intimately now that she was closer to the woman, “but you don’t look all right.”

Miss Granger laughed weakly. “No, I suppose I do not,” she answered, and Mr. Prince’s fingers tightened almost—but not quite—imperceptibly around hers.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Auror Banks said apologetically and waited for Miss Granger’s simple nod before continuing. “Do you remember what you were doing in Diagon Alley this afternoon, Miss Granger?”

“I needed clothes. Nothing fits me anymore for some reason,” Miss Granger replied with a small smile. Robards noticed Auror Banks relax even further into the role of efficient-but-kind interrogator.

His eyes met his protégé’s as she glanced at him over the bed, and he inclined his head encouragingly, communicating wordlessly she was doing an excellent job and to continue with the questioning. He really did not want to be here all day.

“Can you tell me how it was you came to be attacked?” Auror Banks’ question was accompanied by the scratching of the hovering quill.

Miss Granger’s face crumpled, noticeably upset at the stirred-up memories, and she turned her head toward Mr. Prince, who sat stolidly beside her and gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. “I had left Madam Zelda’s with my purchases and was going back to the Leaky Cauldron, but … it was crowded. Someone bumped into me and I nearly fell. I was grabbed before I could fall. I was turning to say ‘thank you’ to whoever had managed to catch me, but … I was dragged into an alley….”

“Did you see who it was?” Auror Banks asked gently after it seemed Miss Granger wasn’t going to continue.

“I … No, I … He wore a hood. It covered his face. I only heard his voice.”

Robards thought it odd she called her assailant ‘he’. True, it wasn’t difficult most of the time to tell the difference between the voice of a man and the voice of a woman, but in his vast experience, glamours were often used to disguise one’s voice. Miss Granger didn’t seem to hesitate on the point that her assailant was male. He futilely tried to gain Auror Banks’ attention.

“Are you sure it was a man, Miss Granger?” Auror Banks asked, to Robards’ pleasure. He had certainly taught her well.

“Well … yes. I mean, his voice was too low to be a woman’s, and he was rather tall. I can remember his hand on my elbow as he dragged me into that alley, and it felt large.”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Granger,” Robards cut in—he couldn’t help it, “but you aren’t a large woman. What are you, a meter sixty-two?”

“Fifty-six,” she corrected him as her eyes tried to pick him out unsuccessfully from the crowd. He knew then the Healers hadn’t exaggerated the extent of her injuries.

“You’ve made my point,” he continued. “Any woman of average height or greater could fit that description. And there are a number of voice glamours one could use.”

Auror Banks took up where he left off. “Since you didn’t see the face of your attacker, we can say that either he or she was larger than you. That would be safe to say then.” The scritch-scratching of the quill added finality to the statement. “Did this person say anything to you? Anything at all. Even what seems insignificant to you could be important.”

The quill hovered in anticipation of her answer as the Aurors collectively held their breaths. Robards’ eyes darted back and forth between the faces of Miss Granger and Mr. Prince, trying to glean any sort of attempt at deception. Something didn’t feel right about this situation. It was a gut instinct, and he was rather well-known for his gut instincts. But all Mr. Prince did was lower his gaze to their entwined hands and stroke a thumb across the back of her hand.

“When he … when he pushed me into the alley and started coming at me, I yelled at him not to … not to hurt my baby. And he called me a Mudblood. Said I … I deserved what I was going to get. I didn’t hear any spells….” Her voice trailed off weakly, and Auror Banks placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“It’s sounding as if they were nonverbal spells, and that’s important. Only about half of the wizarding community are adept at those, so that will narrow the field. And I think we can safely say your attacker was a pureblood,” Auror Banks looked up and nodded at Robards, “and obviously still holds antiquated prejudices left over from the war.”

Murmurs went around the room as Aurors discussed their suspicions quietly. Robards sent a warning glance their way; a few picked up on it and shushed the rest of the crowd. Miss Granger was visibly shaking now, and Mr. Prince looked up at the questioning Auror and then over to Robards, who was quite impressed at the man’s self-control. If it had been his wife in that hospital bed, he was unsure he would have been able to remain so composed. Usually, the Auror department preferred to question victims alone because albeit well-meaning friends and family invariably interrupted and marred any attempt at getting a decent interview. Mr. Prince had remained quiet, however, confident in the woman’s ability to answer on her own, even though the questioning was obviously upsetting her.

“Are there any more questions?” Mr. Prince broke his silence. “I’m afraid she can’t take much more. She’s still weak and she hasn’t had the best of days.”

“That’s putting it mildly, Mr. Prince,” Robards answered. “She’s fallen victim to a very serious attack, and we very rarely find someone callous enough to attack a pregnant woman.”

“Still,” Auror Banks intervened, “I believe we’ve got all we can at the moment. If I have any questions, Miss Granger, do I have your permission to contact you?”

“Of course,” Miss Granger replied, smiling tremulously in Auror Banks direction.

With a round of ‘thank yous’, the Aurors gathered themselves and exited, leaving the couple behind. As Head Auror Robards shut the door and turned to Auror Banks, he commented, “Well done. Especially that bit about asking her permission to contact her in the future. But I don’t know … My gut feeling is telling me she knows more than she let on.”

“I don’t know why,” Auror Banks answered, “but I think your gut feeling may be contagious.”

“Are you nearly ready, Hermione?” Jean Granger called from outside the bathroom door, knocking lightly.

Hermione looked at her reflection in the square piece of glass which hung above the sink and ignored her mother. Ready for what? she thought. Ready for someone to hex me when I walk out the door? Ready for the press owls that will hound me until they get a proper interview? Ready for the latest insult from Mr. Harry Potter to get hurled at me like a Bludger?

She’d been in hospital for two weeks now and felt as though she were going stir-crazy. Her mother’s question was left unanswered, as she didn’t trust herself to say anything kind enough at the moment. Sighing and resting her hands upon the washbasin, she stared at her fingernails while attempting a couple of relaxation techniques the medi-counselor had taught her the day before.

“You are too tense. Wound up tight like a panther waiting to pounce on its prey,” the middle-aged woman had said. Hermione had found the alliteration and simile odd for someone in the healing profession; it smacked more of fiction-writing than anything else.

“Yes, well, being pregnant by a man who wants nothing to do with the baby will do that to you. Not to mention being a hex magnet,” Hermione had shot back rather snottily.

She had immediately felt awful for taking it out on the medi-counselor and apologized, allowing the woman to teach her a few relaxation techniques as penance, which so far had worked only part of the time. This was not one of those times. She made the nastiest face she could in the mirror, trying to make her reflection look as ugly as she felt on the inside.

“Tut, tut, a girl as pretty as you shouldn’t make faces like that. Your face might—”

“Say one more word and your next method of employment will be as several compact mirrors,” Hermione interrupted the talking piece of glass. The mirror had been blissfully silent up until this point. Obviously, it wasn’t charmed with any sort of self-preserving intelligence or it would have held its silver tongue.

“Sorry, did you say something, Hermione? I didn’t hear you,” her mother called again, reminding Hermione that her parents and Samuel were waiting on the opposite side of the door to take her home.

The Welcome Witch had sent a memo up earlier informing them that a small group of reporters were waiting in the lobby, and Severus had immediately gone to arrange travel by Floo. She imagined little reporter heads satisfyingly snapping off one by one as she walked through the lobby, question upon question dying on their lips. Exactly why she was not going home that way. At this rate, she’d end up in Azkaban. Glowering at herself in the mirror one last time, she turned and opened the door.

“Oh, Hermione. There you are. I was getting worried,” her mother said, her whole body seeming to sigh in relief. “I nearly had Samuel open the door with his magic wand. I had never seen that done before and I remember something you said about a spell—ello, hello-rah—well, whatever. I asked, but he said you merely needed more time and—”

Hermione smiled tightly, lips pressed firmly together so as not to utter any of the myriad saucy things that were popping into her head, and glanced at Samuel, who just shrugged away her mother’s rambling dialogue. Her father intervened, as usual, and was murmuring something to her mother, thankfully out of earshot, and ushering her out of the way. Only the sound of her mother’s controlled but urgent whisperings carried over in her direction. She closed her eyes and firmly rubbed her right temple with the heel of her palm. She really needed to relax. Her mother might be a little … overbearing at times, but she meant well, and Hermione really didn’t want to lash out at people who didn’t deserve it, especially her own mother.

“I already sent your case on ahead,” Severus’ voice rumbled sotto voce next to her ear, and he replaced her hand with both of his, kneading her temples gently. She allowed herself to rest a while against his soothing touch. “We’ll get you settled, and I’ll make sure your parents get home safely after tea.”

“I just want to sleep in my own bed and not get woken up every hour to get poked, prodded, or lit up like a lightbulb by some … some … Healer trainee,” she whispered vehemently.

“Nice, clean bed; no interruptions,” he promised and took her hand to lead her home.

She could hear her parents in the other room still talking to Severus, her mother’s animated, ever-questioning tone reverberating above everything else. Even with her head between mattress and pillow, she could still hear the constant murmuring. It was driving her mad, but it wasn’t as though it was preventing her from sleeping. She wasn’t tired. That had been a little fabrication in order to get some ‘alone’ time—away from meddling Healers, away from her mother’s constant questions, away from everybody.

That thought made her cringe. She didn’t want to be away from Severus and quickly rescinded the thought. He actually seemed to be the only person who currently understood her state of mind. He was the only person she could talk to, to release some of the vitriol she kept contained around other people. She wasn’t about to tell her mother what Harry had said, only that he was married now and didn’t want his wife to know but would be supporting the child monetarily. She didn’t feel like sharing that he blamed her, nor that he accused her of getting pregnant to get money from him, nor that he had more or less told her, albeit not in so many words, that she should have gotten rid of it.

That was the part that echoed in her head day and night ever since the furor of that day had died to a dull roar and she had been able to think once again. She almost wished she was incapable of thinking or that Harry hadn’t said what he did or that he had never come in the first place and still didn’t know about the baby. But he had, and he did, and now she had to live with knowing her daughter’s “father” not only wanted nothing to do with the baby but with her as well. She knew Harry had never been good at dealing with disappointment. But it had never been she on the receiving end of his temper before, not really, and it stung. Hell, it bloody well hurt.

Throwing the pillow against the wall did nothing to calm her anger. It sort of just thwumphed noiselessly against the plaster and fell to the floor anticlimactically. She wanted to slam doors. She wanted to scream. She wanted to break dishes and whip all of her belongings into gratifyingly shattered heaps all around the flat. And she would do none of that because she did not want her parents to know how affected she was by everything that happened.

She sat on her bed, staring blankly at the window, wanting more than anything to use the Floo to call Harry and give him a piece of her mind and tell him what an insensitive prat he was and how dare he accuse her—his best friend!—of anything that would hurt him and—. Unfortunately, he was in Pembroke this week and would be in Cardiff the next … and she had no idea why she even had wanted to know that bit of information, but there it was. He wasn’t available to get yelled at through Floo was all that mattered. Maybe she’d send a Howler. Yeah. A Howler spelled with a loop that would scream its message at him repeatedly and follow him around for at least an hour.

Severus had had to stop her from sending an owl to Ellie, during a brief moment of intensified insanity only a couple days after Harry’s visit, telling her the whole story, complete with apology. He had taken the letter from her and tucked it inside his jacket and told her that her child didn’t deserve a life of turmoil, and if she sent that letter, that is undoubtedly what she’d create. He had begged her to let him take care of her and the baby, to be the baby’s father, to forget about Harry and his “typical pompous, self-centered attitude,” as he had called it.

He had been right, and she’d been glad in the end that she hadn’t gone through with owling that particular letter. And she had felt bad because she could tell Severus had important issues weighing on his mind and she was giving him no respite to think about let alone solve them.

She sighed heavily and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her head on her bent knees in defeat. She needed to forget about Harry. He was a prat, plain and simple. Always had been; was probably never going to change. He had no idea what she had been through or what she was going through, and he never would, no matter how often or how hard she tried to tell him. He was an ignorant fool and his predictable behavior was merely due to shock. She should have owled him with the news and let him digest it before he had seen her. If it only weren’t for the accident….

Hex. If it only weren’t for the hex. If there was one person she should spend time hating and plotting against, it was Malfoy. Both Malfoys, actually. Hell, for all she knew, all three of them. She didn’t know if Narcissa was involved in any of this or not. Narcissa could have baked those muffins herself, for all she knew.

And now Draco was threatening Severus with … well, her demise should he not follow through on his promise to brew that potion for Lucius.

Like father, like son. First Lucius Malfoy forces her hand to attempt murder—Suicide by Hermione, she thought acerbically—then his son repeatedly attempts to murder her child as payback. A nasty little thought niggled at the back of her brain that Harry might have appreciated the effort, but she forcefully drowned it in the pool of nasty little thoughts that had gathered over the past two weeks she’d spent in hospital.

Never mind it was Lucius’ own fault he now lay in a comatose state. Of course, she was the one who botched the killing curse. And she was glad she had. What was it anyway with people who thought killing was the answer to everything? She refused to have any part in it. At least Harry hadn’t come barging in with an Imperio and forced her to abort her child. There had been enough death.

Well, Draco wasn’t going to succeed. There was no way some Muggle-hating pureblood was going to destroy her life. And there was no way on this earth that she would allow a family of still-loyal Death Eaters to resume their accustomed status in the wizarding population.

A little smile quirked at her lips. If anyone deserved to be a recipient of her unleashed wrath, it was the Malfoys.