The Silver Swan

Chapter 16

Hermione gone, we were left with very little to do. As if to make amends for their past silence, or perhaps to keep themselves as well as us busy, the Crones told us stories. Hestia Jones described the increasingly surreal atmosphere inside the Ministry. 'Barmy, even for wizards,' was her considered assessment.

"Potter and the Weasleys calling the tune and the Minister and the rest falling all over themselves to follow."

Madam Marchbanks had doubts.

"They're being used; they just don't see it. The Minister's not the fool he looks, and Dolores Umbridge is pulling strings in the background. The Ministry need the Chosen One on their side as long as You Know Who is a threat but, mark my words, they have 'posthumous Order of Merlin' written all over them, Potter and that whole magical children's crusade of his."

My conflicting emotions at hearing this must have been apparent. Susan took my hand, and the children's book witch, whose name turned out to be Ophelia Wellbeloved ('your grandmother used to call me lovey, but that was just to wind up the boys'), hastened to change the subject. Had matters gone as planned, I was startled to learn, I could well have ended up as heiress of the Codex.

"Gwenneth knew she was dying, that she would never have a daughter. Carling Bulstrode was meant to pass it on her granddaughter, when your dad got round to producing one, but then you were twins and the two of them could never decide which one of you should have it. In the end, it went to Carling's own granddaughter."

That put me in mind of something.

"Millicent knew, didn't she?"

"Why do you say that?"

"When she designated Hermione, she apologised to me. I never understood why."

Susan smiled at that.

"Millie had a sentimental streak, she did. Not an asset in Slytherin..."

There wasn't much to say after that. Despite our best efforts, conversation died out. Two hours had gone by; we had no way of knowing how much longer we might have to wait for news.

Through the afternoon and into the evening we waited, sitting on the hard wooden chairs around Madam Marchbanks' kitchen table. Mugs of tea accumulated in front of us, cold, bitter, and undrunk.

Susan's hand in mine brought no comfort at all.

Hermione did not return.

*

* *

As dusk fell, we allowed ourselves to say aloud what we had all been thinking. Something had gone terribly wrong. Finally I gathered up my courage.

"We have to find her. Let me try."

Susan understood at once what I had in mind.

"The Orb ... Can you do it?"

I had no idea. All I knew was that I couldn't bear not attempting it. As before, my friends anchored me to reality, Penny taking one hand and Susan the other. Knowing what to expect, the journey into the Orb was not quite so frightening as it had been the first time. Hardest was avoiding the temptation to reach out for my sister. Grimly, I concentrated on Hermione. I thought of my Arithmancy partner and my friend. I remembered her dancing with Viktor Krum, defying Harry Potter, kissing Neville Longbottom. I pictured her that very morning coming to the mock-heroic defence of her cat. Her cat ... Crookshanks ... he was there ... there in the Orb. It took me a moment to realise what I was seeing, so little was I expecting this, but once I understood, it was unmistakably Crookshanks with his tail in the air walking down a London street for all the world as if he owned it. Not only did I see the bandy-legged cat, but I felt what must be his mind, fierce predatory instincts and something else as well. Fear? Concern? Protectiveness? It made no sense at all. And where in all of this was Hermione? It was as if he understood my thought; for all I know, he did. Crookshanks looked back and, putting forth all of my strength, I forced the Orb to show me what he saw.

Hermione was there. I could see her now. I could see her, but I couldn't feel her mind.

As I watched, Crookshanks stopped, clearly waiting for his mistress. When she caught up to him, he rubbed up against her legs and then went forward again, just a little ways ahead. It was Penny who understood first.

"He's leading her home; it's what they do. Kneazles."

I felt Susan shudder, as if repressing a cry. When she spoke, it was with quiet urgency.

"She must be hurt. Can you tell where she is, Padma?"

As it happened, I could. It was a part of London I knew well.

"Charing Cross Road - they've just passed in front of Foyles."

Hermione had gone by that most remarkable of bookstores without so much as a sideways glance. That, if nothing else, convinced me that she was not herself. Fortunately, the Crones did not need things explained to them. Madam Marchbanks stood up at once.

"Hestia, Ophelia - with me."

Without further explanation, the three of them abruptly disapparated and, as I continued looking into it, the Orb suddenly seemed to fill with mist and I lost all connection to it. Before I had time to wonder at this, they were all back, Madam Marchbanks with Crookshanks in her arms, the other two holding on to Hermione, one at each side.

Hermione stood in the middle of the room, once again lost in a daze. When Crookshanks went to her, she stooped to pick him up, but ignored the rest of us altogether. The Crones cast once again the spell they had used when we first arrived, but this time it had no effect. When we took her arm and led her, Hermione sat on a chair, and there she remained unmoving. After an hour of this, not knowing what else to do, we put her to bed. Susan and I stayed with her, but there was no need. She settled down at once and slept peacefully through the night, still holding her cat.

When she awoke the next morning, there was no change.

*

* *

When we came into the kitchen, I was sorry to find that both Penny and Ophelia Wellbeloved, each in her own way a link to my past, were gone. Hestia Jones remained to remind us of a bleak present and uncertain future. We all sat grimly around the table once again, eating porridge and trying without success not to stare at Hermione, who spooned up her breakfast serenely as if no one else were there. Crookshanks, as before, stood guard over his mistress and glared accusingly at the rest of us. Hestia Jones and Madam Marchbanks were also silent, but in their case it was obvious that they were engaged in a wordless conversation. As we finished eating, they seemed to reach agreement. Hestia turned to us.

"There's only one thing left to try."

Susan, as so often, a step ahead of me, understood at once what she had in mind.

"No! It isn't right; you know that. She's helpless; she can't protect herself."

She turned to me for support.

"They want to try legilimency, but they can't. We can't let them! Not when she's like this. It would be ... a violation."

I was startled at the vehemence of her reaction; it must have shown.

"Padma, I know what I'm talking about. I ... I can do it too, a bit, it's how I know when people are telling the truth and sometimes I see more, I can't help it, but I try not to. It's not the gift most people think; it's a curse, really. There are things no one should know about anyone else, and the way Hermione is now she won't be able to keep them out. It's just wrong!"

A long silence followed, and when Hestia Jones finally broke it her tone had lost its assurance; it was clear that Susan's words had hit home.

"Would you feel better if you were the one to do it, Susan? I can help you, show you what to look for, but only you would see. You could decide what to share, what we truly need to know. But we do need to know. We can't help her unless we understand what happened."

Susan said nothing, only shook her head and clenched her jaw, and I knew instinctively that this was the very suggestion she had been dreading. Without a word, she got up and walked away from the table.

I found her in the room where we had slept, looking out the window with the look of one someone considering whether to jump through it. Taking both her hands, I made her sit down on the bed with me.

"What is it, Susan? There's more than you've been telling us, I know there is."

It was a long moment before she answered.

"I don't think I can do this, Padma...."

There was another long pause, and then the words came tumbling out, as she rested her head on my shoulder, looking down so as not to meet my eyes.

"I've done it before ... Millie and I ... we used it to talk, like Hestia and Madam Marchbanks do, but I didn't stop there, I couldn't. I had to know more."

"Susan, what ...?"

She looked up at me then.

"What do you think, Padma? I wanted to know how she really felt about me ... about Hermione. And then when I found out that it really was me that she wanted, I went farther. I wanted to know everything ... I thought it would be terribly romantic, that it would bring us closer. It didn't, though, we were never the same again ... I don't think she ever really trusted me after that ... it was the only thing we could never talk about."

By this point, it wasn't hard to guess what would come next, but still I had to let her say it.

"You're thinking it too, Padma. I know you are. 'What does she know about me?' And even if I tell you I've never done it with you - and I swear I haven't - you'll always wonder; you'll never be sure."

More than anything, I wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that it wouldn't matter if she had, that I had no secrets from her and wanted none. In my heart, though, I knew it wasn't true, not then and maybe not ever, and I knew that she would know. So instead I held her close to me and said nothing at all.

It was, perhaps, the only way to lie to Susan Bones.

In the end, we all knew that we had no choice. When morning turned to afternoon with no improvement, Susan reluctantly agreed to allow Hestia Jones to look into Hermione's mind.

"Maybe it's better if it's someone she doesn't know..."

Still, she refused to be in the room as Hestia worked, and rejected my company as well.

"You go, Padma, one of us should be there."

What Hestia proposed to do was to transfer Hermione's memories of the previous day, assuming of course that she could find them, into a pensieve so that we could all see them. In a remarkably short time, she succeeded, but the very ease of it only increased our fears.

"Her mind is open, unguarded, like a child ..."

We gathered round the stone bowl, the two Crones and I, and prepared to view Hermione's memory.

*

* *

Hermione had been thoroughly briefed by the real Hestia Jones. Her entrance into the Ministry went smoothly and she made her way through the entrance lobby. No more than ten minutes later, she was knocking at the door of Amelia Bones' office. Madam Bones herself opened the door and let her in with a look of surprise, but very careful, we noticed, to say nothing. Only after the door was closed behind them did she speak.

"Hestia ...?"

"Not exactly."

Hermione handed Amelia Bones the folded-up parchment and, in her hands, it expanded to become a full-sized sheet. We couldn't see what was written, but whatever it was didn't take long to read. Nor did it seem to make her very happy. She looked up with surprise and displeasure.

"Miss Granger ...Circe's pigs! Why did they send you?"

I remember thinking how unfair it was that everyone we met that day was angry with us. Hermione, in any case, was having none of it.

"No one sent me. I came because it's my responsibility. Now can we hurry, please, the potion will wear off soon."

Madam Bones sighed audibly.

"It's no good. You can't get back out as Hestia. She's meant to be on duty now, should have been already. It's bad enough that she was seen coming here."

She thought for a moment, and then seemed to make up her mind.

"There's a one-time portkey from this office. You'll have to use it. It won't take you far, just back out into the street. You'll have to move fast. For Merlin's sake, stay with Muggle transport, though. Don't try to apparate or they'll be on you like a pack of nifflers in a gold mine. Let's hope they don't attack you in the middle of Muggle London."

Hermione nodded, but then a troubled expression crossed her face.

"The portkey, that was meant to be for you, wasn't it? It was your escape."

"Can't be helped. You'll have to wait until the potion wears off, though. Wouldn't do to have you transform in front of a bus full of Muggles."

While they waited, Hermione took out a book that I recognised as her diary and made a brief entry. When she was done, she showed Madam Bones what she had written.

"Whatever you want us to do, you can write it here. Even if something happens to me, she'll keep it safe."

Amelia Bones nodded, clearly recognising the nature of the book, and added a few lines. As she did, we heard Hermione gasp as she began to revert to her normal appearance. The process took several minutes and, by the time it was finished, her breath was coming in harsh gasps and we could se her clinging to the edge of the desk in obvious pain. Even Madam Bones' stern face showed concern.

"How many times have you transformed today?"

Hermione's reply came through clenched teeth.

"...four ... be better soon ... just give me a minute..."

Indeed, a few moments later, she straightened and drew a deep breath, still very pale but seemingly under control.

"There has got to be a better way."

"Perhaps. Hasn't been found yet, though. If you're ready, you should go now."

Hermione nodded.

"All right, then."

Without further comment, Madam Bones handed Hermione a quill from her desk, and then tapped it with her wand. The pensieve went dark for a moment, and then we found ourselves with our friend in a quiet and anonymous London side-street. Hermione looked round to orient herself, and then stepped off briskly towards one end of the street. She made her way around the corner and then down several more lanes. In the distance, we could se the major thoroughfare toward which she was headed.

Before she could reach it though, she suddenly pulled up in surprise and looked down as a small orange shape came streaking out from behind a dustbin.

"Crookshanks! How did you get here?"

We never got an answer to that question, because a moment later Hermione had more company. From the same direction came a voice we all recognised, its tone more pleading than commanding.

"Hermione, please don't move."

She looked up and, as she did, Harry Potter appeared from under his invisibility cloak, holding a wand pointed straight at her head.

On Hermione's face as she recognised her oldest friend was no surprise, only resignation. When she spoke, it was with the calm voice of one who knows that all is lost.

"So Harry, marauding on your own are you?"

Irony was lost on the Boy who Lived.

"Ginny is with Cho, the others are ... busy."

For a fleeting moment a look of concern crossed Hermione's features, and it didn't require Susan's gift to know that it was me she was thinking of.

"How is she, Cho Chang?"

"The same, maybe. We can't really tell. Not better, though."

That seemed to exhaust the topic, and for a moment they stood looking at each other as I remembered them doing under the rain in Cornwall. Harry Potter looked deeply unhappy, but his wand did not waver. Finally he took a deep breath, steeling himself to go on.

"Hermione, why are you doing this? Why don't you help us?"

Hermione's reply was at once sad and exasperated, as if explaining a particularly obvious bit of schoolwork for the third time.

"We've had this conversation already, Harry. I'm not going to change my mind. So go ahead and do whatever it is you have planned, why don't you. Are they lurking somewhere ready to arrest me, just waiting for your signal? It won't do any good, you know. I don't have what you want here and those who do won't give it to you."

"No, it's not like that! No one is coming. No one knows I'm here. The Ministry security people are still running around trying to figure out what happened to Hestia Jones."

He smiled then, and lowered his wand, knowing very well that curiosity would get the better of his friend.

"Don't you want to know how I found you?"

A rueful sigh acknowledged that he was right.

"All right, Harry. Tell me how clever you've been."

"You'll appreciate this, Hermione. Remember your old friend Rita Skeeter? Well she works for me now."

"Harry, have you gone completely mad? You know you can't trust her!"

"Oh, but I can. I have the same deal with her as you did, only I can pay her as well as threaten her. I rather think Sirius would approve of what I'm doing with his gold..."

"So Madam Bones' office was bugged..."

Harry nodded in acknowledgement.

"Exactly. And just now Rita told me a very odd story indeed. Seems Amelia Bones had a visitor that no one remembers, except that Rita did remember Amelia saying your name at one point. And then Neville of all people comes to tell me that he thinks it's your cat hanging about in front of the entrance. So I thought maybe if I came out and stayed with him for a bit, you'd be bound to turn up. Crookshanks didn't mind. He remembers who his friends are, even if you've forgotten."

"Harry don't..."

She hesitated, reproaches and justifications dying on her lips and, for the first time since we had invaded Hermione's memory, I felt distinctly uncomfortable at intruding on a scene so painfully private. Finally she went on in a small desperate voice.

"It's not about that any more, Harry. If it were just me... What I have now, I can't let anyone have that. Not even you. It's been used that way before, as a weapon. It just makes things worse."

"Hermione, you don't have a choice. ..."

"No, Harry, we always have a choice. You can just walk away. As soon as you're out of sight, you'll forget you met me. I'll take my chances with the Ministry. If I can get away from here, we have a place to hide, a place where I can keep it safe. It won't be used against you, I can promise you that. Please, Harry."

What Harry would have done we'll never know because there was a crack of apparition from behind Hermione and, before either of them could react, a spell rang out.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Harry stood paralysed with his mouth open, an incredulous expression frozen on his features.

I recognised the voice. It wasn't hit wizards from the Ministry or masked Death Eaters. Neville Longbottom, once again, had come to save the day.

Hermione's face was a picture.

"... Neville? ... what...?"

His answer came in a desperate breathless rush.

"Hermione, they're coming after you ... they detected the unauthorised portkey ... arrested Amelia Bones ... they're going to interrogate her ... Veritaserum ... they'll find out it sent you here. My Gram knew about it ... I had to warn you. Hit wizards ... here soon. They won't stop to talk. The rules have changed, Hermione ... the Unforgivables ..."

The stream of words had run its course. He was reduced to a whisper.

"Hermione, they want you dead."

"I know... Thank you."

Slowly he raised his wand. Hermione, in bemused and incredulous fascination, seemed unable to believe that the boy whose homework she endlessly corrected and whose toad she forever rescued, the boy who once before had saved her life, could actually pose a threat to her.

"I have to do this ... Harry's a witness ... I'll be interrogated as well ... they won't be so anxious to come after you now. They'll leave you alone."

Still Hermione did nothing.

"Hermione, I'm really, really sorry about this ... obliviate!"

*

* *

We were back in Madam Marchbanks' flat. Unbelieving, I looked at the two Crones.

"What did he do? Surely he couldn't have intended ... this."

Helplessly, we all looked at Hermione, still in her oblivious condition. Slowly, Madam Marchbanks turned back to me.

"I'm sure he didn't. I expect he wanted her to forget about the Codex, or maybe just how to use it. It's a tricky spell Obliviate, often goes wrong. And with all that her mind has been through recently ...".

"What can we do now?"

I looked from one to the other, but neither had a solution at hand. Finally Hestia spoke.

"I know this isn't the answer you want, Padma, but we do nothing. Anything we try could end up making her worse. We wait and hope she recovers on her own."

It occurred to me, uncharitably, that the Crones hadn't been terribly helpful the first time we had met them either. At least now they didn't offer us biscuits.

I went to collect Susan, to tell her what we had learned. Outwardly, at least, our friend was back to her usual self, composed and practical. When she had heard my story, she, at least, had no doubt as to what we should do.

"We need to look in Hermione's diary, to find out where my aunt was sending us. Remember what she told you before. If we change the passwords not even she can give us away. We have to hurry, though. If they get there first ..."

I opened Hermione's diary, uncertain what to do. The pages were blank, much as I had expected. Remembering Hermione's experience with the Codex, I tentatively wrote my name on the first page. The reply was immediate; firm quick writing appeared beneath mine.

Where's Hermione? Is something wrong?

The emotion was palpable. It was brought home to me that this was not a magical object but a sentient being. I remembered Hermione referring to it as "her;" I expect she had a name, although I never learned it. Whoever she was, she deserved an honest answer.

"She has been injured. We think her memory is damaged. We don't know if it's permanent.

"Are you taking care of her?

"Of course. She doesn't seem to be in any pain. She's not talking, I don't know if she can."

There was a pause before its (her?) reply. Can a book, even a magical diary be deep in thought? This one certainly seemed to be. Finally she made up her mind.

Hermione gave me instructions in case she was dead or captured. She never anticipated this, but maybe it amounts to the same thing.

"I'm afraid it may."

I'm supposed to ask you a question, to make sure it's really you.

"Go ahead."

What is around your neck?

I hadn't been aware that Hermione knew.

"A silver swan."

All right, I have something for you.

At once, the page filled with a different writing. I recognised it at once as Hermione's. Typically, she wasted no time on sentiment.

Dear Padma and Susan, here's what you need to do...

We made the journey on broomsticks under cover of night. Hermione, once again, rode with me; possibly for the first time in her life, she seemed to enjoy the experience. After a brief discussion, we had decided to dispense with concealment charms, trusting to speed and surprise. Apparently it was the right thing to do, because we arrived to our destination unmolested.

The instructions in Hermione's diary led us to an estate of council flats on the edge of Hackney near the Regent's Canal, grim 1960's tower blocks surrounded by cracking pavement and dead grass, all generously strewn with rubbish. Still following instructions, we spoke a password first at the outer door and then at the door of Number 63, which, in defiance of all logic, proved to be on the 7^th floor. Inside, we found ourselves in a tiny and dingy entryway, but once the flat's door was closed and locked Susan let out a gasp. We could now see that the entryway led, not into a flat at all, but into the very replica of Madam Bones' cottage in Cornwall. There was the flagstone floor with the woven rugs, a fire was lit in the chimney and the ladder led up to the sleeping loft. Hermione's eyes gave a flicker of recognition and, for a moment, we thought she might talk. She didn't, of course, but she seemed somehow content as she went in on her own to sit by the fire.

Epilogue

And so we settled in. Winter turned to spring, summer waxed and waned, and now winter has come again. For the three of us, nothing ever changes. We all live together, Susan and I and the shell of Hermione Granger, once the brightest witch of her generation, now with the mind of a precocious three-year-old, albeit one who doesn't speak and has a very short attention span. She has a sunny disposition, takes great pleasure in simple things and, so far as anyone can tell, is perfectly content to spend hours on end sitting by the fire and stroking her cat.

The other day, Susan was teaching her a counting game with draughts pieces - she learns games quickly and then forgets them just as fast. She turned to me in childish triumph at having mastered the numbers one through five, and suddenly I thought of my Arithmancy partner, the girl who could calculate spell values in her head and knew Merlin's Table of Mystic Numbers by heart. I ran up to the sleeping loft so that she wouldn't see me cry.

We hung Millicent's portrait on the chimney - Susan will not have it in the bedroom, although just last night I woke up to find her downstairs staring at it again. Unlike Hermione, Millicent sometimes talks, usually to make a cutting comment of some sort. As time goes by, however, she seems to have less and less to say. The Codex of Nimuë rests on the mantelpiece beneath her. Crookshanks hisses at us if we go anywhere near it, and neither of them tells us anything at all.

I could say more, but what's the use? Our daily life is without interest even to us.

I could tell you that I go out in the mornings to do our shopping, and that shopkeepers never remember me from one day to the next.

I could tell you that on sunny days we take Hermione for walks by the Canal, and that she enjoys throwing bread to the ducks - who presumably don't remember us either.

I could tell you that Susan occupies herself with complex arithmantical calculations, looking for a way to untangle the barrage of mind-altering spells - the Codex', the Crones', and finally Neville's - to which Hermione was subjected. She agrees that it's hopeless and that even if she found a possible solution we would never dare to try it, but it's something to do. I sit next to her at the kitchen table with my parchment in front of me, inserting yet more bits of half-remembered conversations into this account that none but me will ever read.

I could tell you that we all three sleep together in the big bed upstairs and that some nights, after Hermione is asleep, Susan and I give each other what comfort we can - and she pretends not to notice the silver swan still hanging from my neck.

I could tell you that I made vegetable soup for our dinner yesterday and that it was really quite good, except that Hermione carefully picked out all of the bits of onion and laid them neatly on the side of her plate, and it was Susan who had to go upstairs to cry.

I could say more, but what's the use?

I could tell you that, once in a great while, I look into Parvati's crystal Orb, but that without my sister's help it never shows me what I really want to see. It never shows our future, or tells us whether we will be able to cure Hermione. I do not know if Cho Chang is alive or dead or still locked in crippling pain. Instead, I see endless scenes of death and vengeance, Tom's Death Eaters and Harry's Marauders systematically massacring each other and anyone who gets in their way. The Muggles put it all down to a new wave of Middle-Eastern terrorism - or is it something to do with Ulster? - and who will be left standing at the end the Inner Eye neither knows nor cares, although whoever it is probably won't be any too pleased with us.

I could say more but what's the use? The war between good and evil rages on, but it isn't the one most people think. The real war is for the hearts and minds of people who were once our friends.

We fought a battle in that war.

We lost.

Finis

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