FIC: Making Progress (1/2), Hermione/Luna, NC-17
Title: Making Progress (1/2)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Hermione/Luna
Word Count: 12,008 total (6019 this part)
Summary: Hermione begins treatment of a patient who is scarred in more ways than one and finds herself thrown completely off balance
Author's Notes: Written for stephanometra in the sexy_brilliance fic exchange. Thanks to thescarletwoman and cocohufflepuffs for betaing!
Hermione Granger didn't think she was overly vain, but she was glad she'd taken a stand on the uniforms. The lime green was just so hideous that she didn't think she could make herself put it on day in and day out. Her reasoning had been sound, though: she wasn't a Healer, after all, and their robes were so very, er, bright to allow for easy identification. If someone needed a Healer straight away, they need only look for the closest person in neon green. Hermione wasn't trained as a Healer, and wouldn't it be a tragedy if someone wasted time trying to get her to help when they should have been finding someone else?
No, she would stick with plain, sensible black robes. She wasn't a Healer. She was a Counsellor.
And she looked the part, or so she thought as she checked her appearance in the mirror that Monday morning. Her hair was in as close to a bun as she could ever get it without straightening elixirs and fixing charms. Stray strands were making their escape as always, but she didn't have the time or the concern to do anything about it. She made her usual commute to St. Mungo's via the Floo Network and headed to her office, nodding hello at a few passing acquaintances. She hadn't taken the time to get to know many of the other staff members because she crossed paths with so few of them. Beyond Poppy Pomfrey, who ran the place now, and a few specially selected mediwitches and -wizards with whom she worked directly, she had no cause to talk to anyone else. She preferred silence and good, hard work to the stares and whispers of people who only knew her for her role in the war and her famous friendships.
She unlocked her office and scowled the moment she walked in and saw her desk littered with parchment. Honestly, why Triage couldn't put new files in the basket she'd set out on her desk with the clearly demarcated sign "Incoming Parchment" was beyond her. She toyed with the idea of charming the letters fluorescent or changing the wording to "Put your damned scrolls here, you illiterate idiots!", her lips curving into a pleased smile at the thought. In the end, though, she scooped the parchment off her desk and dropped all but one scroll into the basket, sitting down to read through and plan her work for the week. She was fairly autonomous in her methods and schedule because she was the only one with proper training- no one else had earned a Muggle degree in Psychology from Oxford, after all. She did, however, have to report to the Board of Directors, and she didn't always agree with their decisions.
Take this one, for instance. McNally had no business being discharged yet, and she didn't care how in need of bed spaces they were. He had only just begun to sleep through the night without screaming himself hoarse, his voice whispery and halting when he spoke during the day. He wasn't ready to face the realities outside the hospital's walls. At the very least, she would keep him as an outpatient and insist that he return three to five times per week for further sessions.
The rest of the parchmentwork was routine- approvals for requisitions she'd made, patient updates, an interoffice memo or two. It looked like it would be a light day, and that made her wonder, not for the first time, how much longer she would be needed. The war had been over for over a year. How many more victims of acute psychological trauma could there be?
Sighing, she pushed back her chair and stood, ready for another day of rounds. Something caught her attention as she turned to go, though, a thick scroll of parchment half-hidden under her desk. Damn Mathilda in triage! They were definitely going to have a talk about the merits of her "in" basket today. What good was being a war hero if no one bloody listened to you? She unrolled the renegade parchment and scanned its contents. New patient, and she'd almost missed it entirely, thank you very much. Post-War Trauma, recently discovered in an abandoned Death Eater gaol. Interesting. They'd had a few of those, but none for the last few months. Female, not responsive to questioning. No identification had been made yet. Estimated to be in her early twenties. Hermione wondered if it was anyone she'd gone to school with. She'd treated several classmates- Seamus Finnegan, Katie Bell, Percy Weasley. That last had been the hardest, Percy tortured into near madness a few years ago, just like the Longbottoms, his vaunted Ministry not raising a finger to rescue him. It had taken more than a year to rehabilitate him, and even now he visited her once a week, under the pretence of reviewing her work, of course. He held an honourary position on the Board of St. Mungo's now because he couldn't work.
"Height, 5'7," Hermione murmured, which put the patient about two inches taller than she was. "Weight, ten stone, hair grey, waist length." Uncommon but not unheard of. Some people went prematurely grey and some lost their hair completely under intense offensive spells. "'Not violent but only capable of uttering nonsense syllables."
Well, that was a bit unusual but again, not unheard of. Different people reacted in different ways to extensive curse damage, and if this Jane Doe had been locked away in a gaol for at least a year, if not longer... well, there was no telling what she'd had to endure. How she was even alive was a total mystery.
Reprioritizing her day, she decided to spend the entire morning with this new patient, taking the time to observe and draw conclusions about the type of damage done so that she could formulate a program of treatment. She marched out of her office, parchment and quill tucked under one arm, and made her way to the Miriam Strout ward, where they kept all of her patients. They were kept separate from the hopeless cases, such as the Longbottoms and Gilderoy Lockhart in the Janus Thickey ward, because they had chances of recovery. It was a rare thing indeed when one of her patients was transferred to the Janus Thickey ward. She was very good at what she did, especially when she caught them early.
A young mediwizard and counselor-in-training met her as she reached the new patient's door. "Madam Granger," he said, using the deferential title in spite of the fact that he was a year or two older than she was.
"Hawkins," she said. "You're the one who admitted her?"
"Yes ma'am. Friday night."
"Friday?" The new patient had been here for days without being properly examined? Someone was going to get a lecture. "Why wasn't I notified?"
"It wasn't my call, ma'am." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "She was raving about vegetables when she came in."
Hermione blinked, her annoyance at protocol momentarily derailed. "Vegetables?"
"She hasn't had anything to eat in we don't know how long, so we thought perhaps she was asking for food." He shook his head, trying a bit too hard to demonstrate empathy, in Hermione's opinion. "She might be hopeless, Miss Gr- er, Madam Granger. We brought her green onions like she asked, but she wove 'em into a crown and started wearing them. She wouldn't eat anything else and she hasn't said much since, except for the occasional bit of nonsense. And she's barely had a chance to move, so she's got terrible muscular atrophy."
Hermione's mind was racing as the pieces fit together. Who else did she know around her age who wore vegetables and talked nonsense? "Was she making reference to imaginary creatures?"
The young man's eyes widened. "Matter of fact, she tried to tell us that the... crumple-horned snorkacks? Rescued her. How'd you know? Seen something like this before?"
"Not exactly," Hermione said, pushing past him and used her wand to disarm the locking charms on the door. She barged in and looked around. The room was empty.
"Hawkins?"
"She's there, ma'am. She's pulled the bed out from the wall and she's sitting behind it."
Hermione made her way further into the room and peered around the bed. It sat about a foot from the wall, and her new patient was nestled in the space, a blanket around her thin shoulders. She was curled up on her side, her face buried in the crook of one uncovered, scarred arm. Hermione could only see her silvery hair, a wreath of green onions resting upon it.
"Luna?" Hermione asked, nearly certain that her hunch was correct.
The bundle of bone and blanket didn't move.
"Luna Lovegood?" Hermione dropped into a crouch, keeping her voice calm, steady, and soft. She had learned more from trial and error than from her classes at Cambridge about practicalities, such as how to speak with her new patients so as not to alarm them. "My name is Hermione Granger. Do you remember me?"
No response. Hermione stayed silent for ten minutes, letting the patient get used to her presence, demonstrating that she had no intention of hurting her. At last, she said, "Thank you for letting me stay here. I'll come back tomorrow, all right? I'm going to visit every day to make sure you're comfortable and safe."
The person across from her might have been dead, for all the response she got. But she was undeterred. She was used to this kind of initial reaction, and she took Hawkins aside the second she stepped out of the room.
"I want full diagnostic spells run on her while she's asleep. I want to know every physical ache and pain she's experiencing, every spell she's been on the business end of in the last three years. And in the meantime, tell me everything you already know," she demanded.
~*~
Standing outside her newest patient's room the next day, Hermione read over the results of the diagnostic spells performed on Probably-Luna while she slept. She slumped against the wall, sliding down until she hit the floor, never stopping her perusal. The laundry list of magical sins committed against Luna went on and on. The Cruciatus multiple times, and Laceratium, the whipping spell Lucius Malfoy had used on Ron once. That explained the scar tissue on her arm. It made Hermione sick to think where else the scars might extend.
She'd been contained in a small, stone cell on the bluffs, not quite enough room in any one dimension to stand up fully or stretch out. She hadn't been chained up because she hadn't needed to be. She'd had no window and the way out was walled and spelled. They'd set the magical equivalent of a Muggle IV into her, giving her just enough sustenance to stay alive without having to waste any one Death Eater's time bringing her meals and possibly making him- or herself vulnerable to an attack from Luna. There had been no means of escape, and no rescue effort had been made. No one knew the gaol existed. They'd all been told that Luna died tragically, and in the chaos of war, no one had time to investigate one of a number of deaths.
There had been six other bodies found in the gaol. They'd all been dead for months. Only Luna had survived, and Hermione wanted to know why.
"Has she eaten?" Hermione asked Hawkins.
"No, ma'am. She hasn't actually eaten in all the time she was in that cell. We don't know if she remembers how."
"You're using the same intravenous spells that the Death Eaters used, then?"
Hawkins nodded. "It's the best we've got right now, until she'll start eating on her own."
"Right. Well, let's just see about getting her there," Hermione said, squaring her shoulders and entering the room once more. She found Luna in nearly the same position, curled up in blankets and shadows.
"Hello Luna," she said softly. "How are you feeling today?"
She wasn't expecting a response, so she wasn't disappointed. Sitting down, she said, "Is it too bright in here?" If Luna had been living in relative darkness, perhaps she was uncomfortable here. Hermione got up and slipped out of the room for a moment. She quickly dimmed the lights with her wand, making the room comfortably dark to overtaxed eyes. Only the sunlight leaking in around the edges of the drawn blind added any extra light. Creeping back in, she resumed her seat.
"Is that better?"
The lump under the blankets didn't stir, but Hermione didn't mind. She would give her patient as much time as she needed. When she left Luna that day, she ordered a course of rehabilitative spellwork to begin during the night, as Luna slept. She didn't want the girl to see anyone with a wand, which she would undoubtedly associate with torture. Though what could be done while Luna slept was limited. Still, charms could be used to help strengthen her muscles at the very least.
As it happened, after a week of daily visits, Luna actually looked at her for the first time, and Hermione confirmed that she really was Luna Lovegood. She looked so different, so thin and stretched. So utterly sad. She emerged from her burrow of blankets and blinked at Hermione, her eyes wide and nearly devoid of colour. Hermione couldn't help but stare. Her irises were so pale that they were luminous and silvered, to match her silver hair. And the criss-cross of silver scars that etched a roadmap across her arms. Her eyes, always protuberant, seemed to be popping out of her gaunt face.
"Hello Luna," Hermione said, maintaining a calm voice in spite of her excitement.
Luna watched her curiously, and Hermione had the strange impression that she was being studied. "Do you remember me?" she asked, but Luna didn't reply. She didn't even blink. Hermione turned the lights up a bit at the end of the session.
Over the period of another week, Hermione carefully turned the lights up, giving Luna a day or two in between increments to adjust. She didn't complain and she didn't speak. She spent most of their visits leaning against the wall, wrapped in her blankets, scrutinizing Hermione. Hermione decided that this was progress, because if she wasn't regressing then she must be moving forward. She didn't believe in stasis. Three weeks after she first met with Luna, she authorized opening the blinds for the first time. When she came in the next morning, Luna was still wedged between the bed and wall, but Hermione was shocked to see her right in a patch of sunlight, face upturned and smiling.
"Good morning, Luna," Hermione said. She was always careful to use her name because her patient hadn't yet shown any signs of recognizing it, or recognizing Hermione.
The girl didn't respond, keeping her silent, unmoving vigil as she stared toward the window above her, chin tilted up, sunlight settling softly about her silvered hair. Her face was still drawn, her eyes nearly transparent, several faint scars on her cheeks and nose that hadn't been there before she'd disappeared and been presumed dead in the Battle of Ynsrrt all those months ago.
Dropping to a crouch, Hermione scooted forward a bit, hovering on the outside of the invisible border the edge of the bed made. "Luna?" she asked softly. "Can you hear me?" Every few days she tried to affirm her own identity, as well as Luna's.
"Motions and potions and potions and potions," Luna said, her voice rasping, her eyes fixed steadily upward.
Hermione's heart thudded in her chest. This was the first vocal response she'd received. She had reports that Luna occasional babbled "nonsense" in the evenings, but she'd yet to hear it. "Luna, I'm Hermione. Your friend. Do you remember me?"
The girl blinked, shaking a little as if coming out of a trance, and then turned her luminous eyes toward Hermione. "I haven't any friends, so I think you've owled the wrong house."
"I was your friend," Hermione said persistently. "We went to school together, you and I. Do you remember Hogwarts, Luna?"
"Luna," she repeated, as if tasting the name. "Luna. That's... what they used to whisper. In the night, I think it was the stars, the stars have such mocking voices, don't they?" Her voice dropped conspiratorially. "Onions keep the voices away."
Hermione bit her lip. Luna didn't sound particularly attached to her name, and didn't seem to recognise Hermione at all. Perhaps she'd been hit with a memory modification charm? Hermione would have them run a complete diagnostic on her memory, but only when Luna was sleeping. She didn't want to frighten the girl, and she'd learned the hard way that new patients were often terrified of wands. They had seen only pain at the end of them and had forgotten all of the positive things magic could bring about it.
"Luna," she tried again, voice quiet but firm. "I'm Hermione. Do you remember me?"
Silence.
"I've enjoyed spending this time with you. I want to get to know you a bit better, though, is that all right?"
The other young woman stared out the window.
"I'm going to keep visiting you every day. How does that sound?"
Luna rocked forward a bit, drawing her knees up under the blanket and wrapping her arms around them. Hermione couldn't help but stare at the crisscross of scar tissue along the slip of forearm the motion revealed. Her heart caught in her throat.
She spent another hour that day speaking quietly to Luna, but the lost Ravenclaw didn't say another word. She kept her face upturned, letting the sunlight bathe her pale skin. Lacking answers and totally frustrated, Hermione left after Luna ignored the lunch tray set before her, as usual. She still refused to eat and had to be fed by magical means.
~*~
Entering her room once more, she wasn't surprised to find Luna curled up in the little den she'd made for herself between the bed and the wall, enrobed in her blankets and sitting in the sunshine. The room had been getting steadily ranker with each passing day.
"How are you today, Luna?" she asked, sitting down on the floor a few feet from her patient. Luna didn't move. Hermione had been expecting that, so she tried again. "Lovely day, isn't it? I love sitting in the sun too."
Luna shivered and touched her onion wreath. It was decomposing, giving off a rotting-vegetable smell that was the cause of the room's odour. Hermione crossed her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to gag.
"We can get you new onions, if you'd like," she offered.
The silver-haired girl blinked but didn't look at her. "I'd like that. New onions will get rid of the voices again. Only these ones stopped working a while ago."
Hermione made a mental note of that- Luna heard voices. That wasn't a good sign. "What do the voices say?"
Luna turned her head away from Hermione, resting her cheek on her knees. "Now they say that they're my friend." She didn't speak for the rest of the time Hermione spent with her.
It didn't stall Hermione's determination at all, though. She'd faced much tougher situations, though she didn't think any had been through as much of an ordeal as Luna had. That she was even speaking at all said a lot about her resilience, even if she didn't remember Hermione or her past. When Hermione left her that morning, she ordered new green onions to be brought to Luna after lunch. She also wanted to try charms that could possibly restore the colour to her hair and eyes. Though strangely, Hermione rather liked her eyes. They were so clear and light. They were the eyes Luna always should have had, penetrating anyone she looked at. Luna had always been good at extraordinarily astute insights at disconcerting times, and she was always so light and straightforward. Luna was Luna, and even if she perplexed you, she was never anything but her genuine self. Shaking her head, Hermione went to the next room to see her next patient of the day.
It wasn't until the next morning that she received the results of the memory diagnostics. As near as her team could tell, Luna hadn't been subjected to any memory modification charms, which meant that she was repressing her memories due to her trauma. Not uncommon, though it made Hermione want to give her a hug and let her know that it would all be all right.
"Hallo, Luna," she said as she entered Luna's room, crouching down a few feet from her, as usual.
This time the girl turned and looked at Hermione in surprise. "You're still here."
Hermione smiled kindly at the other young woman. "Of course. I'm not going anywhere. I told you that right at the beginning, remember?"
Luna squinted at her, strangely clear eyes tracing her face. "No, at the very beginning, you were unhappy with me."
"I-" Hermione paused, a memory rising unbidden, the first time she'd met Luna and she'd said that The Quibbler was rubbish. "We were on the train," she said, letting her voice trail off in a peremptory way, hoping Luna would pick up the story and remember their first meeting.
"I don't like trains," Luna whimpered, curling into herself, and Hermione backed off. She worried that if she pushed too hard, Luna would stop speaking.
"Nice sunlight," Hermione said instead. Luna didn't respond. "Do you mind if I sit a bit closer and enjoy it with you?" She always waited for permission with her post-trauma patients. Some were so fearful of any person coming near them that they would lapse into near-catatonia if approached before they were ready.
Luna didn't spare a glance at her. "Nobody owns the sun."
Hermione paused, waiting for more. When Luna said nothing, she pushed herself to her feet and sat down on Luna's unslept-in bed, crossing her legs beneath her robes. "Do you prefer sleeping on the floor?"
A nod.
"Do you find it comfortable? I've slept on a few floors in my time." Establish a connection. Let them know they can trust you. She had taken what she'd learned in school and adapted it all for the unique situations she found herself in with her patients. Her professors at Oxford would never begin to understand just how she was applying their lessons.
"It's a known fact that brownies watch over you when you sleep on the floor," Luna said, and for the first time, Hermione heard a shadow of the dreaminess that used to characterize Luna's tone. She hadn't realised that she'd actually missed this young woman since the end of the war. Her voice was lost now, instead of dreamy. It made Hermione want to punish those responsible all over again and she wondered just who had put her in that gaol.
They sat quietly together, Luna basking in the sunlight, Hermione watching Luna. Her skin was so pale, and Hermione thought again of being locked in a cell with no windows. Had there been any light at all? It was too soon to ask, no matter how much she wanted to know. And didn't want to know at the same time.
As she got up to leave for the rest of her rounds, Luna whispered, "I thought the onions would get rid of you."
"I rather like onions," Hermione replied matter-of-factly. It wasn't until she was out of the room that she realized what Luna meant.
"What do the voices say?"
"Now they say that they're my friend."
Hermione bit her lip as a wave of emotion crashed into her. Luna had thought Hermione was a figment of her imagination and that the onion wreath would banish her. What had this poor girl suffered through? What visions had kept her company through her long interment?
She needed answers and none had been forthcoming, so she owled Ron and Harry that night.
Boys,
I don't care what strings you have to pull, I really need to find out about the recently discovered Death Eater gaol. Someone was found alive inside, and I need to know everything.
Breakfast Thursday at Harry's?
Hermione
She figured two days was enough time to give them to get the information she wanted. Enough to convey her sense of urgency without letting them skimp on the details. Her days with Luna in between were much the same. Luna tolerated her presence, sometimes talked, sometimes didn't. She demanded cabbages and set them on the window sill, muttering something about vampires as she stuck several large, plumed feathers of different colours into them, but she showed no signs of remembered Hermione, no matter how much time they spent together.
Eager to learn what they'd found out, Hermione met Ron and Harry for breakfast at Harry's flat in Notting Hill that Thursday morning. She Floo'd in to find Harry yelling at his mirror.
"Hair care tips again?" she asked, brushing soot off her robes as the vertigo from the Floo Network subsided.
"Advice on my sex life," Harry sighed. "I'd break it if I thought I could stand seven years of bad luck."
"You could hex it silent, you know," she said, trying to keep the note of exasperation from creeping into her voice.
His brow furrowed questioningly at her and she shook her head. For the saviour of the Wizarding world, he could be so dense at times. "Silencio!" she said, and the mirror stopped muttering under its breath.
"Brilliant! Thanks, I should have thought of that." He grinned at her and gave her a swift hug.
"Yes, you should have. Ron's not here yet?" she asked, following him to his breakfast nook. He'd set out three oranges that were definitely past their prime. "Ugh. We're going out."
Harry's cheeks flushed. "Haven't had time to do the groceries this week."
"Forgot to, more like," Hermione teased. "I don't suppose you remembered to find out my information for me?"
The whoosh of the Floo interrupted his retort, and Ron came into the kitchen seconds later.
Hermione and Harry exchanged a look.
"What?" Ron asked defensively.
"The Minister doesn't mind lipstick on your collar when you show up to work?" Harry asked, straight-faced.
Ron blushed red to his roots, hand flying to his neck. "Well, the Minister is my dad, isn't he, so he'd probably be proud."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Other side, Ron. Scourgify!" The stain disappeared. "Honestly, can't you keep your hands to yourself even once? Or is she too demanding for you?"
"You'd like Morag if you gave her half a chance," Ron sulked.
"I'm sure she's lovely. Breakfast?" She marched out of the kitchen, but not before she heard Ron mutter to Harry, "It's not like I'm the one who broke up with her, is it?"
Hermione winced but didn't comment, leading the way down to a corner cafe that they often patronized when they congregated at Harry's. He was right, for once. She'd been the one to end things between them, not him. She'd been so sure about them when she was younger, but a year and a half together had left her confused and isolated. It wasn't that she didn't love him, after all. It was just... missing something that she was sure proper love should have. They still got on all right, or as right as they ever did, which meant they bickered a lot and drove Harry spare. She knew she shouldn't begrudge him his new girlfriend, and she didn't, exactly. She just wished she could find what was missing for herself.
Seating themselves around a small round table, Hermione looked at them sharply. "All right, tell me everything."
"There's not a lot to tell, really," Harry said with a shrug, helping himself to a pastry. "Just the usual stuff. It's an oubliette-"
"An oubliette?" Ron snickered. Harry socked him in the shoulder.
"-out on the coast by Cornwall, nearly as hard to get out of as Azkaban."
"I heard from the source I leaned on that the others died of starvation," Ron said importantly.
"And did your dad also tell you anything about the one who survived?" Hermione asked. Harry snickered.
Another blush, and Ron said, "They don't know much about the survivor yet. You probably know more than we do."
"Do you know the names of the other prisoners? The dead ones?" Hermione pressed.
"Not all of them," Harry answered. "They think one was Amos Diggory from the photograph of Cedric Diggory they found in his pocket, and the name Proudfoot was in the dirt of another cell, so that might have been that Auror Proudfoot. Not sure about the other four, though."
"What about the one you've got?" Ron asked.
"Yeah, do you know who the survivor is?" Harry put in.
Hermione nodded and took a breath. "It's Luna. Luna Lovegood."
Harry and Ron both stared. Harry said, "They told us she was dead."
"I know."
"Is she all right?" Ron asked. "Well, I mean, all right as anyone can be after being stuck in some nasty Death Eater prison?"
Hermione paused before answering. "I... she will be, I think. She's definitely making progress. Do either of you know why she lived when all the others died?"
Ron shook his head, but Harry said, "I can ask Moody if you want, see what he knows."
"He knows everything," Ron agreed. "He'll be able to get you whatever information you need, so long as you convince him you aren't going to use it against him. Besides, it's not like he can really say no to you."
Harry shot him a look. "You know I'd never coerce anyone, Ron."
Ron shrugged. "Not saying you would. I'm saying you could and Moody knows it. Between your hero status and your ability to set a boa constrictor on him..." And Ron was right. In his last moments as he was trying to kill Harry, Voldemort had sent a burst of magical energy outward, imbuing all of his recent spells with extra power. It had worked to a certain extent- people who had been hit with one of the Dark Lord's spells had fallen, their pain redoubled, and many of the defences put in place held off the Order better than they would have done otherwise. But it had also give Harry more power, the ability to summon all the serpents in the vicinity, including Nagini, to listen only to him and not Voldemort.
"Well, however you manage it. Thank you. Both of you," Hermione said. "Let me know the minute you've found anything out."
~*~
"They don't have any nargles here," Luna said with a sigh as Hermione sat down across from her.
Hermione took a breath to swallow her excitement. Luna had never initiated conversation before. This was progress! Real progress!
"The other thing green onions are supposed to do is attract nargles. They like green onions and mistletoe."
Hermione nodded. When they were kids, she would have shut the other girl down for her inanity. Now, she was just happy to hear Luna speak freely at all. Perhaps she wasn't taking Luna for granted any more, but Hermione found she rather liked to hear the fanciful things Luna had to say. "What are nargles like?"
"Like bowtruckles, only they're tinier and they're all green and they make very squeaky noises," Luna explained. "They bring good luck. I think I've used up all of mine, so I could use some extra."
Hermione waited for more, but Luna started to hum absently. It wasn't time yet to prod about her year in the gaol. Instead, Hermione said, "I like eating green onions in salads."
No answer, only more humming. Hermione thought she recognized it as a Celestina Warbeck tune. "What foods do you like to eat, Luna?"
The other young woman stared at her but didn't say a word. Hermione found this a little less disconcerting than she had at first. She plugged on, filling the silence in. "If you'd rather eat and actually get to taste your food, you can do that."
"Like a tea party?" Luna exclaimed, snapping out of her trance. Her face was animated for the first time, illuminated by sunlight and excitement. Hermione couldn't help her own excitement rising.
"Yes, exactly like a tea party. Would you like that, Luna?"
Luna nodded, a dreamy smile on her face. She looked so much like she had when they were young that Hermione's breath caught. "You're invited, and that other boy who checks on me."
"Hawkins?"
"Yes, and the nargles, of course."
"We'll put out extra green onions."
"Try mistletoe instead. Maybe they'll like that better."
~*~
Hermione arranged for the tea party two days later, giving the staff enough time to withdraw Luna's nourishing spells and prepare a special nutrient-rich, easily-digestible tea service. Hermione had a small white table and a set of four white chairs carried into Luna's room, much to her obvious delight. It was the first time she'd heard Luna laugh in over a year, since they'd all been getting ready for the Battle of Ynsrrt and Luna had thought something Ron had said was side-splittingly funny. She couldn't remember Ron's comment now.
"Aren't you going to an awful lot of trouble?" Hawkins asked incredulously as he watched another mediwizard carrying a silver tea service into the room. Hermione was strict about the work being done manually- there were to be no wands in Luna's presence until she was ready for it.
"If we can get her to start eating, it's worth it," Hermione reasoned.
"Is this because she used to be your friend?"
"She is my friend, and no. I'd do the same for any patient." Hermione stared the man down as if she had a decade or two more authority than she actually did.
Luna squealed with pleasure and stood up on shaky legs, grabbing the wall for support. Despite muscular rehabilitative charms, she'd barely moved from her little den behind the bed. Hermione crossed the room quickly and held out her hand.
"All right, Luna?"
The girl stared at the hand as if she'd never seen one before. Hermione didn't waver, letting her get used to the idea that a hand was being extend and it wasn't to hurt her. After a wary moment or two, Luna reached out and touched Hermione's palm with her index and middle fingers, a tremulous kiss of skin against skin that ended almost before it began. Hermione quelled a shiver. Oh, this was so exciting! Luna was really moving forward!
"It's all right," she said soothingly. "I'll help you walk over to the tea table."
Luna nodded as if shoring up her courage and reached out again, placing her hand in Hermione's and squeezing.
"You're very real," Luna said at last, taking one stiff step forward, and then another. It reminded Hermione of a baby deer taking its first steps on spindly new legs.
"Yes, I am. Just as real as you are." They made their way over to the table, where Hawkins was standing. She let Luna set the pace.
"Your hands are very soft. Do you immerse them in unicorn saliva?" Luna asked, and Hawkins had to turn away to muffle a snicker.
"I use a Muggle skin lotion," Hermione told her, helping her into her chair before sitting next to her.
Luna didn't let go of her hand. "Muggles," she said thoughtfully. "I remember them. Odd lot."
Hawkins, who, if Hermione remembered correctly, was Muggleborn too, shot Hermione a "takes one to know one" look as he took a seat.
"I don't think any nargles will join us," Luna announced, picking up a tim tam biscuit with her free hand and holding it up to the light as though she was examining a rare gemstone for flaws. "But we should set a place for them. They'll come once we're done."
Onward to part 2
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Hermione/Luna
Word Count: 12,008 total (6019 this part)
Summary: Hermione begins treatment of a patient who is scarred in more ways than one and finds herself thrown completely off balance
Author's Notes: Written for stephanometra in the sexy_brilliance fic exchange. Thanks to thescarletwoman and cocohufflepuffs for betaing!
Hermione Granger didn't think she was overly vain, but she was glad she'd taken a stand on the uniforms. The lime green was just so hideous that she didn't think she could make herself put it on day in and day out. Her reasoning had been sound, though: she wasn't a Healer, after all, and their robes were so very, er, bright to allow for easy identification. If someone needed a Healer straight away, they need only look for the closest person in neon green. Hermione wasn't trained as a Healer, and wouldn't it be a tragedy if someone wasted time trying to get her to help when they should have been finding someone else?
No, she would stick with plain, sensible black robes. She wasn't a Healer. She was a Counsellor.
And she looked the part, or so she thought as she checked her appearance in the mirror that Monday morning. Her hair was in as close to a bun as she could ever get it without straightening elixirs and fixing charms. Stray strands were making their escape as always, but she didn't have the time or the concern to do anything about it. She made her usual commute to St. Mungo's via the Floo Network and headed to her office, nodding hello at a few passing acquaintances. She hadn't taken the time to get to know many of the other staff members because she crossed paths with so few of them. Beyond Poppy Pomfrey, who ran the place now, and a few specially selected mediwitches and -wizards with whom she worked directly, she had no cause to talk to anyone else. She preferred silence and good, hard work to the stares and whispers of people who only knew her for her role in the war and her famous friendships.
She unlocked her office and scowled the moment she walked in and saw her desk littered with parchment. Honestly, why Triage couldn't put new files in the basket she'd set out on her desk with the clearly demarcated sign "Incoming Parchment" was beyond her. She toyed with the idea of charming the letters fluorescent or changing the wording to "Put your damned scrolls here, you illiterate idiots!", her lips curving into a pleased smile at the thought. In the end, though, she scooped the parchment off her desk and dropped all but one scroll into the basket, sitting down to read through and plan her work for the week. She was fairly autonomous in her methods and schedule because she was the only one with proper training- no one else had earned a Muggle degree in Psychology from Oxford, after all. She did, however, have to report to the Board of Directors, and she didn't always agree with their decisions.
Take this one, for instance. McNally had no business being discharged yet, and she didn't care how in need of bed spaces they were. He had only just begun to sleep through the night without screaming himself hoarse, his voice whispery and halting when he spoke during the day. He wasn't ready to face the realities outside the hospital's walls. At the very least, she would keep him as an outpatient and insist that he return three to five times per week for further sessions.
The rest of the parchmentwork was routine- approvals for requisitions she'd made, patient updates, an interoffice memo or two. It looked like it would be a light day, and that made her wonder, not for the first time, how much longer she would be needed. The war had been over for over a year. How many more victims of acute psychological trauma could there be?
Sighing, she pushed back her chair and stood, ready for another day of rounds. Something caught her attention as she turned to go, though, a thick scroll of parchment half-hidden under her desk. Damn Mathilda in triage! They were definitely going to have a talk about the merits of her "in" basket today. What good was being a war hero if no one bloody listened to you? She unrolled the renegade parchment and scanned its contents. New patient, and she'd almost missed it entirely, thank you very much. Post-War Trauma, recently discovered in an abandoned Death Eater gaol. Interesting. They'd had a few of those, but none for the last few months. Female, not responsive to questioning. No identification had been made yet. Estimated to be in her early twenties. Hermione wondered if it was anyone she'd gone to school with. She'd treated several classmates- Seamus Finnegan, Katie Bell, Percy Weasley. That last had been the hardest, Percy tortured into near madness a few years ago, just like the Longbottoms, his vaunted Ministry not raising a finger to rescue him. It had taken more than a year to rehabilitate him, and even now he visited her once a week, under the pretence of reviewing her work, of course. He held an honourary position on the Board of St. Mungo's now because he couldn't work.
"Height, 5'7," Hermione murmured, which put the patient about two inches taller than she was. "Weight, ten stone, hair grey, waist length." Uncommon but not unheard of. Some people went prematurely grey and some lost their hair completely under intense offensive spells. "'Not violent but only capable of uttering nonsense syllables."
Well, that was a bit unusual but again, not unheard of. Different people reacted in different ways to extensive curse damage, and if this Jane Doe had been locked away in a gaol for at least a year, if not longer... well, there was no telling what she'd had to endure. How she was even alive was a total mystery.
Reprioritizing her day, she decided to spend the entire morning with this new patient, taking the time to observe and draw conclusions about the type of damage done so that she could formulate a program of treatment. She marched out of her office, parchment and quill tucked under one arm, and made her way to the Miriam Strout ward, where they kept all of her patients. They were kept separate from the hopeless cases, such as the Longbottoms and Gilderoy Lockhart in the Janus Thickey ward, because they had chances of recovery. It was a rare thing indeed when one of her patients was transferred to the Janus Thickey ward. She was very good at what she did, especially when she caught them early.
A young mediwizard and counselor-in-training met her as she reached the new patient's door. "Madam Granger," he said, using the deferential title in spite of the fact that he was a year or two older than she was.
"Hawkins," she said. "You're the one who admitted her?"
"Yes ma'am. Friday night."
"Friday?" The new patient had been here for days without being properly examined? Someone was going to get a lecture. "Why wasn't I notified?"
"It wasn't my call, ma'am." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "She was raving about vegetables when she came in."
Hermione blinked, her annoyance at protocol momentarily derailed. "Vegetables?"
"She hasn't had anything to eat in we don't know how long, so we thought perhaps she was asking for food." He shook his head, trying a bit too hard to demonstrate empathy, in Hermione's opinion. "She might be hopeless, Miss Gr- er, Madam Granger. We brought her green onions like she asked, but she wove 'em into a crown and started wearing them. She wouldn't eat anything else and she hasn't said much since, except for the occasional bit of nonsense. And she's barely had a chance to move, so she's got terrible muscular atrophy."
Hermione's mind was racing as the pieces fit together. Who else did she know around her age who wore vegetables and talked nonsense? "Was she making reference to imaginary creatures?"
The young man's eyes widened. "Matter of fact, she tried to tell us that the... crumple-horned snorkacks? Rescued her. How'd you know? Seen something like this before?"
"Not exactly," Hermione said, pushing past him and used her wand to disarm the locking charms on the door. She barged in and looked around. The room was empty.
"Hawkins?"
"She's there, ma'am. She's pulled the bed out from the wall and she's sitting behind it."
Hermione made her way further into the room and peered around the bed. It sat about a foot from the wall, and her new patient was nestled in the space, a blanket around her thin shoulders. She was curled up on her side, her face buried in the crook of one uncovered, scarred arm. Hermione could only see her silvery hair, a wreath of green onions resting upon it.
"Luna?" Hermione asked, nearly certain that her hunch was correct.
The bundle of bone and blanket didn't move.
"Luna Lovegood?" Hermione dropped into a crouch, keeping her voice calm, steady, and soft. She had learned more from trial and error than from her classes at Cambridge about practicalities, such as how to speak with her new patients so as not to alarm them. "My name is Hermione Granger. Do you remember me?"
No response. Hermione stayed silent for ten minutes, letting the patient get used to her presence, demonstrating that she had no intention of hurting her. At last, she said, "Thank you for letting me stay here. I'll come back tomorrow, all right? I'm going to visit every day to make sure you're comfortable and safe."
The person across from her might have been dead, for all the response she got. But she was undeterred. She was used to this kind of initial reaction, and she took Hawkins aside the second she stepped out of the room.
"I want full diagnostic spells run on her while she's asleep. I want to know every physical ache and pain she's experiencing, every spell she's been on the business end of in the last three years. And in the meantime, tell me everything you already know," she demanded.
~*~
Standing outside her newest patient's room the next day, Hermione read over the results of the diagnostic spells performed on Probably-Luna while she slept. She slumped against the wall, sliding down until she hit the floor, never stopping her perusal. The laundry list of magical sins committed against Luna went on and on. The Cruciatus multiple times, and Laceratium, the whipping spell Lucius Malfoy had used on Ron once. That explained the scar tissue on her arm. It made Hermione sick to think where else the scars might extend.
She'd been contained in a small, stone cell on the bluffs, not quite enough room in any one dimension to stand up fully or stretch out. She hadn't been chained up because she hadn't needed to be. She'd had no window and the way out was walled and spelled. They'd set the magical equivalent of a Muggle IV into her, giving her just enough sustenance to stay alive without having to waste any one Death Eater's time bringing her meals and possibly making him- or herself vulnerable to an attack from Luna. There had been no means of escape, and no rescue effort had been made. No one knew the gaol existed. They'd all been told that Luna died tragically, and in the chaos of war, no one had time to investigate one of a number of deaths.
There had been six other bodies found in the gaol. They'd all been dead for months. Only Luna had survived, and Hermione wanted to know why.
"Has she eaten?" Hermione asked Hawkins.
"No, ma'am. She hasn't actually eaten in all the time she was in that cell. We don't know if she remembers how."
"You're using the same intravenous spells that the Death Eaters used, then?"
Hawkins nodded. "It's the best we've got right now, until she'll start eating on her own."
"Right. Well, let's just see about getting her there," Hermione said, squaring her shoulders and entering the room once more. She found Luna in nearly the same position, curled up in blankets and shadows.
"Hello Luna," she said softly. "How are you feeling today?"
She wasn't expecting a response, so she wasn't disappointed. Sitting down, she said, "Is it too bright in here?" If Luna had been living in relative darkness, perhaps she was uncomfortable here. Hermione got up and slipped out of the room for a moment. She quickly dimmed the lights with her wand, making the room comfortably dark to overtaxed eyes. Only the sunlight leaking in around the edges of the drawn blind added any extra light. Creeping back in, she resumed her seat.
"Is that better?"
The lump under the blankets didn't stir, but Hermione didn't mind. She would give her patient as much time as she needed. When she left Luna that day, she ordered a course of rehabilitative spellwork to begin during the night, as Luna slept. She didn't want the girl to see anyone with a wand, which she would undoubtedly associate with torture. Though what could be done while Luna slept was limited. Still, charms could be used to help strengthen her muscles at the very least.
As it happened, after a week of daily visits, Luna actually looked at her for the first time, and Hermione confirmed that she really was Luna Lovegood. She looked so different, so thin and stretched. So utterly sad. She emerged from her burrow of blankets and blinked at Hermione, her eyes wide and nearly devoid of colour. Hermione couldn't help but stare. Her irises were so pale that they were luminous and silvered, to match her silver hair. And the criss-cross of silver scars that etched a roadmap across her arms. Her eyes, always protuberant, seemed to be popping out of her gaunt face.
"Hello Luna," Hermione said, maintaining a calm voice in spite of her excitement.
Luna watched her curiously, and Hermione had the strange impression that she was being studied. "Do you remember me?" she asked, but Luna didn't reply. She didn't even blink. Hermione turned the lights up a bit at the end of the session.
Over the period of another week, Hermione carefully turned the lights up, giving Luna a day or two in between increments to adjust. She didn't complain and she didn't speak. She spent most of their visits leaning against the wall, wrapped in her blankets, scrutinizing Hermione. Hermione decided that this was progress, because if she wasn't regressing then she must be moving forward. She didn't believe in stasis. Three weeks after she first met with Luna, she authorized opening the blinds for the first time. When she came in the next morning, Luna was still wedged between the bed and wall, but Hermione was shocked to see her right in a patch of sunlight, face upturned and smiling.
"Good morning, Luna," Hermione said. She was always careful to use her name because her patient hadn't yet shown any signs of recognizing it, or recognizing Hermione.
The girl didn't respond, keeping her silent, unmoving vigil as she stared toward the window above her, chin tilted up, sunlight settling softly about her silvered hair. Her face was still drawn, her eyes nearly transparent, several faint scars on her cheeks and nose that hadn't been there before she'd disappeared and been presumed dead in the Battle of Ynsrrt all those months ago.
Dropping to a crouch, Hermione scooted forward a bit, hovering on the outside of the invisible border the edge of the bed made. "Luna?" she asked softly. "Can you hear me?" Every few days she tried to affirm her own identity, as well as Luna's.
"Motions and potions and potions and potions," Luna said, her voice rasping, her eyes fixed steadily upward.
Hermione's heart thudded in her chest. This was the first vocal response she'd received. She had reports that Luna occasional babbled "nonsense" in the evenings, but she'd yet to hear it. "Luna, I'm Hermione. Your friend. Do you remember me?"
The girl blinked, shaking a little as if coming out of a trance, and then turned her luminous eyes toward Hermione. "I haven't any friends, so I think you've owled the wrong house."
"I was your friend," Hermione said persistently. "We went to school together, you and I. Do you remember Hogwarts, Luna?"
"Luna," she repeated, as if tasting the name. "Luna. That's... what they used to whisper. In the night, I think it was the stars, the stars have such mocking voices, don't they?" Her voice dropped conspiratorially. "Onions keep the voices away."
Hermione bit her lip. Luna didn't sound particularly attached to her name, and didn't seem to recognise Hermione at all. Perhaps she'd been hit with a memory modification charm? Hermione would have them run a complete diagnostic on her memory, but only when Luna was sleeping. She didn't want to frighten the girl, and she'd learned the hard way that new patients were often terrified of wands. They had seen only pain at the end of them and had forgotten all of the positive things magic could bring about it.
"Luna," she tried again, voice quiet but firm. "I'm Hermione. Do you remember me?"
Silence.
"I've enjoyed spending this time with you. I want to get to know you a bit better, though, is that all right?"
The other young woman stared out the window.
"I'm going to keep visiting you every day. How does that sound?"
Luna rocked forward a bit, drawing her knees up under the blanket and wrapping her arms around them. Hermione couldn't help but stare at the crisscross of scar tissue along the slip of forearm the motion revealed. Her heart caught in her throat.
She spent another hour that day speaking quietly to Luna, but the lost Ravenclaw didn't say another word. She kept her face upturned, letting the sunlight bathe her pale skin. Lacking answers and totally frustrated, Hermione left after Luna ignored the lunch tray set before her, as usual. She still refused to eat and had to be fed by magical means.
~*~
Entering her room once more, she wasn't surprised to find Luna curled up in the little den she'd made for herself between the bed and the wall, enrobed in her blankets and sitting in the sunshine. The room had been getting steadily ranker with each passing day.
"How are you today, Luna?" she asked, sitting down on the floor a few feet from her patient. Luna didn't move. Hermione had been expecting that, so she tried again. "Lovely day, isn't it? I love sitting in the sun too."
Luna shivered and touched her onion wreath. It was decomposing, giving off a rotting-vegetable smell that was the cause of the room's odour. Hermione crossed her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to gag.
"We can get you new onions, if you'd like," she offered.
The silver-haired girl blinked but didn't look at her. "I'd like that. New onions will get rid of the voices again. Only these ones stopped working a while ago."
Hermione made a mental note of that- Luna heard voices. That wasn't a good sign. "What do the voices say?"
Luna turned her head away from Hermione, resting her cheek on her knees. "Now they say that they're my friend." She didn't speak for the rest of the time Hermione spent with her.
It didn't stall Hermione's determination at all, though. She'd faced much tougher situations, though she didn't think any had been through as much of an ordeal as Luna had. That she was even speaking at all said a lot about her resilience, even if she didn't remember Hermione or her past. When Hermione left her that morning, she ordered new green onions to be brought to Luna after lunch. She also wanted to try charms that could possibly restore the colour to her hair and eyes. Though strangely, Hermione rather liked her eyes. They were so clear and light. They were the eyes Luna always should have had, penetrating anyone she looked at. Luna had always been good at extraordinarily astute insights at disconcerting times, and she was always so light and straightforward. Luna was Luna, and even if she perplexed you, she was never anything but her genuine self. Shaking her head, Hermione went to the next room to see her next patient of the day.
It wasn't until the next morning that she received the results of the memory diagnostics. As near as her team could tell, Luna hadn't been subjected to any memory modification charms, which meant that she was repressing her memories due to her trauma. Not uncommon, though it made Hermione want to give her a hug and let her know that it would all be all right.
"Hallo, Luna," she said as she entered Luna's room, crouching down a few feet from her, as usual.
This time the girl turned and looked at Hermione in surprise. "You're still here."
Hermione smiled kindly at the other young woman. "Of course. I'm not going anywhere. I told you that right at the beginning, remember?"
Luna squinted at her, strangely clear eyes tracing her face. "No, at the very beginning, you were unhappy with me."
"I-" Hermione paused, a memory rising unbidden, the first time she'd met Luna and she'd said that The Quibbler was rubbish. "We were on the train," she said, letting her voice trail off in a peremptory way, hoping Luna would pick up the story and remember their first meeting.
"I don't like trains," Luna whimpered, curling into herself, and Hermione backed off. She worried that if she pushed too hard, Luna would stop speaking.
"Nice sunlight," Hermione said instead. Luna didn't respond. "Do you mind if I sit a bit closer and enjoy it with you?" She always waited for permission with her post-trauma patients. Some were so fearful of any person coming near them that they would lapse into near-catatonia if approached before they were ready.
Luna didn't spare a glance at her. "Nobody owns the sun."
Hermione paused, waiting for more. When Luna said nothing, she pushed herself to her feet and sat down on Luna's unslept-in bed, crossing her legs beneath her robes. "Do you prefer sleeping on the floor?"
A nod.
"Do you find it comfortable? I've slept on a few floors in my time." Establish a connection. Let them know they can trust you. She had taken what she'd learned in school and adapted it all for the unique situations she found herself in with her patients. Her professors at Oxford would never begin to understand just how she was applying their lessons.
"It's a known fact that brownies watch over you when you sleep on the floor," Luna said, and for the first time, Hermione heard a shadow of the dreaminess that used to characterize Luna's tone. She hadn't realised that she'd actually missed this young woman since the end of the war. Her voice was lost now, instead of dreamy. It made Hermione want to punish those responsible all over again and she wondered just who had put her in that gaol.
They sat quietly together, Luna basking in the sunlight, Hermione watching Luna. Her skin was so pale, and Hermione thought again of being locked in a cell with no windows. Had there been any light at all? It was too soon to ask, no matter how much she wanted to know. And didn't want to know at the same time.
As she got up to leave for the rest of her rounds, Luna whispered, "I thought the onions would get rid of you."
"I rather like onions," Hermione replied matter-of-factly. It wasn't until she was out of the room that she realized what Luna meant.
"What do the voices say?"
"Now they say that they're my friend."
Hermione bit her lip as a wave of emotion crashed into her. Luna had thought Hermione was a figment of her imagination and that the onion wreath would banish her. What had this poor girl suffered through? What visions had kept her company through her long interment?
She needed answers and none had been forthcoming, so she owled Ron and Harry that night.
Boys,
I don't care what strings you have to pull, I really need to find out about the recently discovered Death Eater gaol. Someone was found alive inside, and I need to know everything.
Breakfast Thursday at Harry's?
Hermione
She figured two days was enough time to give them to get the information she wanted. Enough to convey her sense of urgency without letting them skimp on the details. Her days with Luna in between were much the same. Luna tolerated her presence, sometimes talked, sometimes didn't. She demanded cabbages and set them on the window sill, muttering something about vampires as she stuck several large, plumed feathers of different colours into them, but she showed no signs of remembered Hermione, no matter how much time they spent together.
Eager to learn what they'd found out, Hermione met Ron and Harry for breakfast at Harry's flat in Notting Hill that Thursday morning. She Floo'd in to find Harry yelling at his mirror.
"Hair care tips again?" she asked, brushing soot off her robes as the vertigo from the Floo Network subsided.
"Advice on my sex life," Harry sighed. "I'd break it if I thought I could stand seven years of bad luck."
"You could hex it silent, you know," she said, trying to keep the note of exasperation from creeping into her voice.
His brow furrowed questioningly at her and she shook her head. For the saviour of the Wizarding world, he could be so dense at times. "Silencio!" she said, and the mirror stopped muttering under its breath.
"Brilliant! Thanks, I should have thought of that." He grinned at her and gave her a swift hug.
"Yes, you should have. Ron's not here yet?" she asked, following him to his breakfast nook. He'd set out three oranges that were definitely past their prime. "Ugh. We're going out."
Harry's cheeks flushed. "Haven't had time to do the groceries this week."
"Forgot to, more like," Hermione teased. "I don't suppose you remembered to find out my information for me?"
The whoosh of the Floo interrupted his retort, and Ron came into the kitchen seconds later.
Hermione and Harry exchanged a look.
"What?" Ron asked defensively.
"The Minister doesn't mind lipstick on your collar when you show up to work?" Harry asked, straight-faced.
Ron blushed red to his roots, hand flying to his neck. "Well, the Minister is my dad, isn't he, so he'd probably be proud."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Other side, Ron. Scourgify!" The stain disappeared. "Honestly, can't you keep your hands to yourself even once? Or is she too demanding for you?"
"You'd like Morag if you gave her half a chance," Ron sulked.
"I'm sure she's lovely. Breakfast?" She marched out of the kitchen, but not before she heard Ron mutter to Harry, "It's not like I'm the one who broke up with her, is it?"
Hermione winced but didn't comment, leading the way down to a corner cafe that they often patronized when they congregated at Harry's. He was right, for once. She'd been the one to end things between them, not him. She'd been so sure about them when she was younger, but a year and a half together had left her confused and isolated. It wasn't that she didn't love him, after all. It was just... missing something that she was sure proper love should have. They still got on all right, or as right as they ever did, which meant they bickered a lot and drove Harry spare. She knew she shouldn't begrudge him his new girlfriend, and she didn't, exactly. She just wished she could find what was missing for herself.
Seating themselves around a small round table, Hermione looked at them sharply. "All right, tell me everything."
"There's not a lot to tell, really," Harry said with a shrug, helping himself to a pastry. "Just the usual stuff. It's an oubliette-"
"An oubliette?" Ron snickered. Harry socked him in the shoulder.
"-out on the coast by Cornwall, nearly as hard to get out of as Azkaban."
"I heard from the source I leaned on that the others died of starvation," Ron said importantly.
"And did your dad also tell you anything about the one who survived?" Hermione asked. Harry snickered.
Another blush, and Ron said, "They don't know much about the survivor yet. You probably know more than we do."
"Do you know the names of the other prisoners? The dead ones?" Hermione pressed.
"Not all of them," Harry answered. "They think one was Amos Diggory from the photograph of Cedric Diggory they found in his pocket, and the name Proudfoot was in the dirt of another cell, so that might have been that Auror Proudfoot. Not sure about the other four, though."
"What about the one you've got?" Ron asked.
"Yeah, do you know who the survivor is?" Harry put in.
Hermione nodded and took a breath. "It's Luna. Luna Lovegood."
Harry and Ron both stared. Harry said, "They told us she was dead."
"I know."
"Is she all right?" Ron asked. "Well, I mean, all right as anyone can be after being stuck in some nasty Death Eater prison?"
Hermione paused before answering. "I... she will be, I think. She's definitely making progress. Do either of you know why she lived when all the others died?"
Ron shook his head, but Harry said, "I can ask Moody if you want, see what he knows."
"He knows everything," Ron agreed. "He'll be able to get you whatever information you need, so long as you convince him you aren't going to use it against him. Besides, it's not like he can really say no to you."
Harry shot him a look. "You know I'd never coerce anyone, Ron."
Ron shrugged. "Not saying you would. I'm saying you could and Moody knows it. Between your hero status and your ability to set a boa constrictor on him..." And Ron was right. In his last moments as he was trying to kill Harry, Voldemort had sent a burst of magical energy outward, imbuing all of his recent spells with extra power. It had worked to a certain extent- people who had been hit with one of the Dark Lord's spells had fallen, their pain redoubled, and many of the defences put in place held off the Order better than they would have done otherwise. But it had also give Harry more power, the ability to summon all the serpents in the vicinity, including Nagini, to listen only to him and not Voldemort.
"Well, however you manage it. Thank you. Both of you," Hermione said. "Let me know the minute you've found anything out."
~*~
"They don't have any nargles here," Luna said with a sigh as Hermione sat down across from her.
Hermione took a breath to swallow her excitement. Luna had never initiated conversation before. This was progress! Real progress!
"The other thing green onions are supposed to do is attract nargles. They like green onions and mistletoe."
Hermione nodded. When they were kids, she would have shut the other girl down for her inanity. Now, she was just happy to hear Luna speak freely at all. Perhaps she wasn't taking Luna for granted any more, but Hermione found she rather liked to hear the fanciful things Luna had to say. "What are nargles like?"
"Like bowtruckles, only they're tinier and they're all green and they make very squeaky noises," Luna explained. "They bring good luck. I think I've used up all of mine, so I could use some extra."
Hermione waited for more, but Luna started to hum absently. It wasn't time yet to prod about her year in the gaol. Instead, Hermione said, "I like eating green onions in salads."
No answer, only more humming. Hermione thought she recognized it as a Celestina Warbeck tune. "What foods do you like to eat, Luna?"
The other young woman stared at her but didn't say a word. Hermione found this a little less disconcerting than she had at first. She plugged on, filling the silence in. "If you'd rather eat and actually get to taste your food, you can do that."
"Like a tea party?" Luna exclaimed, snapping out of her trance. Her face was animated for the first time, illuminated by sunlight and excitement. Hermione couldn't help her own excitement rising.
"Yes, exactly like a tea party. Would you like that, Luna?"
Luna nodded, a dreamy smile on her face. She looked so much like she had when they were young that Hermione's breath caught. "You're invited, and that other boy who checks on me."
"Hawkins?"
"Yes, and the nargles, of course."
"We'll put out extra green onions."
"Try mistletoe instead. Maybe they'll like that better."
~*~
Hermione arranged for the tea party two days later, giving the staff enough time to withdraw Luna's nourishing spells and prepare a special nutrient-rich, easily-digestible tea service. Hermione had a small white table and a set of four white chairs carried into Luna's room, much to her obvious delight. It was the first time she'd heard Luna laugh in over a year, since they'd all been getting ready for the Battle of Ynsrrt and Luna had thought something Ron had said was side-splittingly funny. She couldn't remember Ron's comment now.
"Aren't you going to an awful lot of trouble?" Hawkins asked incredulously as he watched another mediwizard carrying a silver tea service into the room. Hermione was strict about the work being done manually- there were to be no wands in Luna's presence until she was ready for it.
"If we can get her to start eating, it's worth it," Hermione reasoned.
"Is this because she used to be your friend?"
"She is my friend, and no. I'd do the same for any patient." Hermione stared the man down as if she had a decade or two more authority than she actually did.
Luna squealed with pleasure and stood up on shaky legs, grabbing the wall for support. Despite muscular rehabilitative charms, she'd barely moved from her little den behind the bed. Hermione crossed the room quickly and held out her hand.
"All right, Luna?"
The girl stared at the hand as if she'd never seen one before. Hermione didn't waver, letting her get used to the idea that a hand was being extend and it wasn't to hurt her. After a wary moment or two, Luna reached out and touched Hermione's palm with her index and middle fingers, a tremulous kiss of skin against skin that ended almost before it began. Hermione quelled a shiver. Oh, this was so exciting! Luna was really moving forward!
"It's all right," she said soothingly. "I'll help you walk over to the tea table."
Luna nodded as if shoring up her courage and reached out again, placing her hand in Hermione's and squeezing.
"You're very real," Luna said at last, taking one stiff step forward, and then another. It reminded Hermione of a baby deer taking its first steps on spindly new legs.
"Yes, I am. Just as real as you are." They made their way over to the table, where Hawkins was standing. She let Luna set the pace.
"Your hands are very soft. Do you immerse them in unicorn saliva?" Luna asked, and Hawkins had to turn away to muffle a snicker.
"I use a Muggle skin lotion," Hermione told her, helping her into her chair before sitting next to her.
Luna didn't let go of her hand. "Muggles," she said thoughtfully. "I remember them. Odd lot."
Hawkins, who, if Hermione remembered correctly, was Muggleborn too, shot Hermione a "takes one to know one" look as he took a seat.
"I don't think any nargles will join us," Luna announced, picking up a tim tam biscuit with her free hand and holding it up to the light as though she was examining a rare gemstone for flaws. "But we should set a place for them. They'll come once we're done."
Onward to part 2