Manslaughter

20. MANSLAUGHTER

"On to the Sixth Task!" crowed Hermione, as she burst out of the waiting room. "Where are you, James? Did you hear? Ms. Collins is going to drop her adoption petition and help Lu's father to recover."

James appeared in front of her. That's wonderful, Hermione.

"Didn't you hear our conversation? We found evidence...in Lu's lunch box...oh, I'm so happy! I didn't even have to use magic..."

I'm sorry, Hermione, I got side-tracked again.

Hermione was strangely disappointed. She had never much cared what Sirius thought of her, but she respected James' sobriety and patience and found that she really craved his approval too. She pouted, "Wow, I guess it's a good thing the aunt didn't try to blast me for talking to Lu, or that the inmates didn't stage an uprising while your back was turned, or..."

You're right. I should have been there for you...just in case. But, there is something more important right now...

"Yes, I know. Saving Dumbledore. But let's not forget that it's yours truly who's sticking her neck out for him...

It's not Dumbledore I'm thinking of. It's Sirius.

"What?"

Sirius has a favor to ask of us.

Hermione blinked.

James gestured at a bluish haze at the end of the corridor. It looked as if someone had been smoking there. The haze congealed into a ghostly figure...Sirius, looking woeful.

He can't speak to you...it's a condition of his testing...but he wants to thank you for what you did for Ovid Bragg. And...he would like you to help some of the ex-convicts on this ward.

"Why?"

It's one of the tests he has to undergo. He has to roam the land, looking for people to help, to prove that he's changed, that he really can sympathize with the sufferings of others.

"Sounds a bit like Dickens' A Christmas Carol."

Really? Oh, yes, I remember. Though Sirius more resembles Scrooge's happy-go-lucky nephew, than the old miser himself. Anyway, he stopped in here to get my advice about where to start looking and sensed that there are others here who have been convicted wrongly. It seems as though, as a former inmate himself, he has a special understanding of their situation. Every one of them has become a pariah to family and friends. That support system, so crucial to recovery, is denied them. He feels their pain deeply. Will you help them...and him? This is not a part of Dumbledore's tasks, Hermione. You can say no...if you want.

"No...I mean...yes, I want to help."

They followed the shade of Sirius back through the waiting room, unnoticed by the receptionist, who was listening to an animated conversation between Modesty Collins and an attendant. They slid through the door to the ward, passed some cubicles where visitors were meeting with patients, and followed a long, straight flight of steps downward. There was a stream of water flowing beside them in a narrow stone trough. The water swirled against the grayish-blue stone and made a restless, rushing sound. It was troubling, that sound, but at least the water was not fetid, like the air.

You need to know that this place is not well-kept. The rehabilitation of ex-convicts is not high on the Ministry's list of priorities.

"I gathered as much from the smell. I can't decide whether it reminds me more of a swamp or Crookshanks's litter pan."

It's the price the inmates pay for their perfidy.

"But apparently not all of them are guilty."

There was another set of doors at the bottom, and a guard station set into the wall. A woman with iron gray hair so perfectly combed and flattened that it looked as if it had been painted on her scalp sat at the admitting desk behind a window. Her white robes looked stiff and were buttoned up to the top of her neck.

"And how can I help you today, young lady?" she simpered in a voice that reminded Hermione of Professor Umbridge. Her badge proclaimed her to be: AMY RECHIDD, HEAD NURSE.

Hermione sent a desperate brain-wave to James. What'll I do now?

Feel inside your left pocket, he whispered.

Hermione felt and pulled out a bright yellow card. She speed-read it:

ST. MUNGO'S HOSPITAL...VISITOR'S PASS

Date: 14 July 1997

Name: Hermione Granger

Department/Ward: Azkaban Recovery Unit

Purpose: To observe day-to-day activities. Visitor is a seventh-year student at Hogwarts who is considering apprenticing as a Healer.

The signature was an illegible scrawl. She slid the card though the opening in the glass.

Nurse Rechidd pursed her lips. "Hogwarts. Well, aren't we special?" She looked Hermione up and down. "I suppose it would be all right for you to visit the day room. But I'm afraid we don't have anyone available to show you around just now."

"That's all right. I can find my way, I'm sure."

"Oh, can you? I must warn you, the inmates can be...frightening at times."

"I'm well-versed in defensive spells."

"I'm sure you are. But you'll still have to sign a waiver." She waved her wand and produced a clipboard. A bright green quill detached itself from behind her left ear and began frantically scrawling something on it. When it finished, the pen reinserted itself into Nurse Rechidd's hair, and she handed the clipboard and another pen to Hermione.

Hermione read the paper that was attached to it. I fully understand the risks of entering this ward without an escort and will not hold the staff of St. Mungo's Azkaban Recovery Unit and Outpatient Mental Services responsible for anything that might happen to me while I am within its confines.

Hermione signed the sheet and asked in as calm a voice as she could manage, "Erm...what kind of 'anything' are we talking about here?"

Nurse Rechidd's eyes gleamed at her discomfort. "Oh, they have no weapons, if you're worried about that. But some of them are quite strong...yes, quite strong. But it's more the nightmares..."

"Nightmares?"

"Yes, some visitors find it difficult to sleep at night once they've been here. They have no stomach for the harsh reality of mental illness. Most never return." She smiled, showing a perfect set of very large teeth. "Was there anything in particular you'd like to see?"

Hermione gulped and glanced through a small window in the double doors next to the station. She could see Sirius hovering over a ragged mass, curled up on the floor.

"That person there. I'll start with him...or her...if I may." She pointed through the glass.

Nurse Rechidd looked through her own window into the ward and frowned. "What's he doing in there?" She waved her wand, and both her door and the double doors opened. Hermione took that as a cue to enter. She found herself in a large shadowy room, minimally furnished. There were figures lounging on more of those plastic couches, or leaning against walls, or crouching and staring at the threadbare rug, or pacing it in the gloom. Faint groans and grunting sounds came from somewhere behind the dingy walls.

She glanced back at the nurse, who was nudging the pile of rags with her foot. "Mr. Fletcher," she scolded, "are you still here? Best be off now, before the orderly mistakes you for one of the inmates...erm...patients."

"Uh... whah?"

Hermione goggled. Dung Fletcher. What's he doing here? He couldn't have served time in Azkaban since I last saw him, could he? Did Harry have him arrested for stealing the Blacks' plates?

The disheveled old wizard sat up and looked about him. "Arr... must've dropped off. 'Ere, who's this?" He gazed at Hermione through rheumy eyes. "It's Miney... Miney... Gingold, ain' it? 'Arry's Potter's girl-friend."

"It's Granger, Mr. Fletcher. I'm Hermione Granger. What are you doing in this place?"

"Oh, you're acquainted with our traveling compost heap?" Nurse Rechidd looked doubtful, then added cheerfully, "Well, he can show you around then. He knows the place better than most." She turned, tittering at her little joke, and walked back to her station. The doors snapped closed.

He got up gingerly and brushed at his robes, a useless gesture. "Miney Granger, what you doing 'ere? Last I 'erd you was storming the Ministry itself, roustin' Death-Eaters by the score."

"That's been a year ago..."

"Wisht I coulda been there....I'd a hexed 'em good. Say, don' tell me they collared you for that!"

"No, I'm just visiting. But you...why are you...?"

"Like you... just visitin'. Course..." he lowered his voice, "place like this 'ud make a decent hidey hole if you was on the lam er something." He straightened up, trying to look respectable. "Not that I am o'course. Just visitin' my ol' pal, Brutus... Brutus Mortlake." He gestured to a corner where a hulking fellow stood pressed against the wall. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Terrible thing they did to ol' Brutus. I brought 'im a little somepin' to cheer 'im up... you know... hair of the dog...." He opened his coat briefly. Hermione could see a pint bottle secreted in an inside pocket. It looked nearly empty. "But 'ee won' have none of it. Jes' stands and stares."

Hermione watched as the figure of Sirius drifted over behind the object of their scrutiny. He caught her eye and nodded his head. Apparently Brutus Mortlake was one of the people who needed to be helped. "What happened to him, Mr. Fletcher?"

"Arr... sent to Azkaban. For... you know... manslaughter!" This got an appropriately horrified reaction, so he hastened to add, "But he didn't mean to do it."

Hermione took Dung's arm and led him over to a couch. "Tell me about it, won't you?" she asked. They sat. The plastic crackled, and a smell of old urine wafted up about them.

"You see, me an' Brutus an' 'is wife...we was havin' coupla drinks at the Cauldron one night...."

"The Leaky Cauldron?"

"Right, an' when we left, we was jumped by a gang of wiz-kids... "

"Whiz kids?"

"You know.... Choovenile dee-linquents. They wear Muggle jeans, ride souped-up power-sweeps... uh... brooms... They hang around bars tryin' to bully decent, law-abidin' folk. Some say they're part of You-Know-Who's narsties.... Well, this gang drops out of the sky, takes us by surprise an' Accio-s all our wands...like that! Nen they start takin' the jewelry an' money right off us. One of 'em... big, rangy kid... their leader, they say... does a blast spell right over our 'eds... like a kind of warning. Nen they hops their brooms. But ol' Brutus-'ee was a wrestler back in his palmier days... 'ee grabs a-holt o' the big kid... to tries to drag 'im off 'is sweep. The kid drops 'is own wand and manages to take off anyways. Brutus scoops up the wand an' takes aim, and there's this 'orrible flash, an' the kid screams an' gets tangled in these wires 'angin' across the street. Nen 'ee drops down in the road... fried like an oyster. They give Brutus ten years fer that... said it was excessive use of force. 'Ee never recovered from the Dementors. An' now, since 'ees out, that gang's threatening 'is fambly... revenge an' all that you know. 'Is wife don't dare try to visit 'im."

"How horrible," breathed Hermione, peering into the gloom to get a good look at Brutus Mortlake. He was quite large, not Hagrid-sized, but big enough. His face was lined deeply with sadness. "But if we could find proof that he didn't do it...the gang might leave them alone."

"I fink they're mad 'cause Brutus got the feller in the back. It's against their code of honour, y'see...an' these gangs got memories as long as a Pygmy Puff's tongue. But Brutus... 'ee did hex 'im.... I seen it.... Had to testify even. Felt rotten about it. But all that time Brutus said 'ee was innercent.... 'ee never did no spell at all. But the Aurors did one o' them Priory Ink and Dado hexes on the wand."

"You mean Prior incantato?"

"Right-ee-oh! An' there it was... a Blasting Spell."

"But you said the leader had fired off a Blasting Spell as a warning, just before they all took off. Couldn't that have been the one the Aurors detected?"

"Yeh, but if Brutus didn't do one too... how'd the kid get fried?"

"You said he got tangled in some overhead wires. Were they... possibly... telephone wires?"

"Yeh, Brutey's lawyer tried to make something out of that... like maybe the kid strangled on 'em, and it weren't the blast what kilt 'im at all."

"You mean the possibility of electrocution never came up at the trial?"

"What? That thing where eckle-trickity passes through yer, and you drop down dead? Nah, couldn't be that; there wasn't no lightning in the air at all."

"I don't mean lightning. I mean electricity from the phone wires!"

"But everybody knows them wires is 'armless. Why birds even sit on 'em wiv never so much as a spark. Nah, that ain't the answer."

"But it could be! If you only touch one of the wires you're okay, but if you touch two at the same time, it causes a short-circuit, and a terrific surge of voltage passes through your body. It's lethal in most cases."

"You mean the wires really killed the kid? Not Brutey?"

"I believe so, and if you just get someone at the Ministry...say Arthur Weasley...to look it up in any Muggle physics text, they can clear him."

"I'll do that, Miss. Right now. Arthur and me is thick as thieves... you know... what wiv being in the Order an' all." He stood up and shook Hermione's hand, then looked down at his shoes. "Uh... but maybe... do you think you could write all that stuff down? About the eck-lec-tiks and all. I'm not sure he'd believe... I mean... I'm not sure I could explain it as good as you...."