CHAPTER 12

Three days after the attack, one of the Healers told Sirius that they were going to have to operate on Hermione. He had been camping out at St Mungo's for the last 72 hours, not bothering about showering or fresh clothes. All his meals had been hasty bites of greasy food at the hospital cafeteria. The rest of the time, he had been drinking cup after cup of tepid coffee on the chairs outside Hermione's room.

To the bemusement of the Healers, he hadn't spent much time actually with Hermione. He hovered by her door and relentlessly asked them questions about her condition, but didn't sit by her bedside - mostly because he just couldn't bring himself to face her like this. But because Ron was so busy with the investigation, compiling reports and documenting evidence, he was hardly at the hospital, save for a one-hour daily visit. And so, the Healers began to treat Sirius as Hermione's nearest kin, urging him not to let her feel stress or worry of any kind.

Her condition had seemed to be improving but one night, Hermione woke up despite a heavy dose of sedatives because of a splintering pain in her abdomen. She cried out and the Healer who stayed by her side through the night quickly alerted the others. Sirius was woken up by a crowd of lime-green figures rushing past him. They were in prodding and poking and testing her blood till early dawn, at which point they told Sirius they'd have to operate.

Sirius hadn't known what that meant.

'It's a Muggle procedure,' explained Patricia, 'We're going to use a few spells to cut down on the risk, of course, but at the most basic level, it means we're going to have to cut into Ms Granger.'

Sirius's eyes widened. 'Cut into her? That's exactly what her attacker did!'

'Not like that. We'll be using sterilized equipment and Rosalie is experienced with this procedure. The bottom line is that we need to get the infected portions of her intestines out.'

'How is she going to survive without them?' argued Sirius.

Patricia didn't answer.

They began the procedure around noon, which was a few hours before Ron generally dropped in to the hospital. Sirius waited outside the OR, biting his nails. About an hour after the Healers had wheeled Hermione in, Harry came rushing up the corridor.

'I just heard,' he panted. 'Paul told me. Any news?'

Sirius shook his head. 'It might take a couple more hours.'

Harry exhaled and sank down beside Sirius. 'Ron's going to be furious at missing this,' he said. 'Did you see her before?'

'No. They took her in straight away. They said she was in terrible pain.'

Harry closed his eyes tightly. Then, he said, 'They've identified the weapon.'

Sirius's eyes widened. 'What was it?'

'A crystal plate she had bought a few years back. It was in her living room. Whoever did this smashed it and used one of the shards to cut her up.'

Sirius groaned. 'God.'

'I know. Ron's working like hell to wrap this case up. Stratford's hoping they'll have an initial report to file in a few days. Sebastian and Roy have been doing overtime as well.'

Sirius didn't reply initially. He stared at the door, behind which he knew the Healers were slicing Hermione's belly open and pulling out her intestines.

Then, he turned to Harry.

'So what's the plan now?' he asked.

Harry looked grim. 'We're going to see Cavendish.'

A bright light flashed in Hermione's face and from far away, she thought she heard someone say her name.

She decided to ignore it. She didn't feel like talking. Her mind was peaceful, after what felt like a very long time. Instead of responding to the questions that she was sure would be hurled at her the moment she opened her eyes, she chose to settle deeper into her drug-induced sleep.

'I want to marry you,' Ron said.

Hermione looked around. This wasn't how she'd imagined it to be. In her mind, whenever she pictured Ron proposing to her, they had been at a restaurant. Their table had a vase stuffed with masses of lilies and there were candles everywhere. They were drinking wine.

But right now, they were sitting at the kitchen in the Burrow and Ron was making pancakes for breakfast. Early morning sunshine poured in through the red-and-white checked curtains of the window and there were no flowers on the table - only crayons which Victoire had left behind.

'Well?' Ron asked, a little anxiously. He transferred his attention to the frying pan, flipped a pancake and then turned back to her. 'How does that sound?'

'This isn't how I imagined it,' Hermione said, truthfully.

Ron grinned. He skillfully transferred the pancake to a plate and handed it to her. 'I figured,' he said, 'You wanted candles and wine, didn't you?'

This was so close to what she had been thinking that Hermione flushed. Ron caught her expression and flipped the last pancake onto a plate. He turned his attention to her, catching her hands and wrapping his fingers around her wrist. 'This isn't just some passing romance, Hermione,' he said, softly. 'This is the rest of our lives we're talking about. Not a date at a restaurant, but morning after morning of making breakfast together. Keeping house together. Having children together, even.'

Hermione swallowed. He was watching her very closely, his pale blue eyes searching her face for a reaction.

'Ron,' she said, truthfully, 'I love you.'

Ron's face broke into a broad smile and he pulled her in to a tight hug. Hermione slipped her arms around his shoulders and smiled into his neck.

'We're going to be happy for a very long time, Ronald.'

'Sign here,' said the redheaded guard at the gate.

Harry touched the tip of his wand to the point the guard indicated and a shower of pale blue sparks confirmed that his magical signature had been registered. As he moved through the gate, he was conscious of Ron doing the same thing behind him.

He had been to Azkaban only a handful of times since he had joined the Ministry. This had been a conscious decision - the Dementors weren't in the prison anymore but it seemed that their centuries-old hold over the island had steeped into its very fabric. The temperature dipped dramatically on it and no matter how perfect the weather before leaving for it, the sea was bound to be choppy and the sky a dull shade of gray by the time they reached.

The castle itself was made of dark gray stone, each block the size of a house. The walls, Harry had heard once, were over ten feet thick. Plenty of room for depressing Dementor essence to seep into, then.

The bottom portions of the castle were reserved for the prison staff, who had square rooms with protective spells. The level above was where the 'milder' prisoners were kept and above that, each floor was allotted to prisoners of rising grades of danger. The topmost levels of the towers - around six hundred feet above the base - were where the really dangerous ones were kept; where Grindelwald had been kept before Lord Voldemort had murdered him.

'All done sir,' said the guard, standing back respectfully. He tapped the doorway to the entrance to allow them to enter.

'Which was?' asked Ron.

'You'd be asking the warden for that, sir. Don't know where he's being kept. They just brought him in a few hours back.'

Harry nodded and entered the entrance room, which was more of a cavernous hall. A vaulted ceiling and bland tiling greeted him. To one corner was a metallic door with a sign that proclaimed it was the office of the chief warden. Harry hesitated outside it for a moment, wondering whether to knock. Then, he simply pushed it open.

'Warden White,' he said, impassively as he entered, addressing the man at the desk. Ron followed him silently. 'Good to see you again.'

Warden White, who had presided over Azkaban since the time of the Dementors, was a tall, stick-thin man with a lined face and severe features. He had a scattering of snow-white hair and the suggestion of a beard about his jaw. There was something very insubstantial about him; Harry had always wondered whether it had to do with being around Dementors so much. When he looked up from his paperwork, his ice-blue eyes widened with recognition.

'Mr Potter,' he said. 'It's been a while.'

Obviously, thought Harry. Aloud, he said, 'Work, Warden White. You know how it is.'

'Work! Indeed I do,' said White, rubbing a finger against his jaw. He offered Harry a watery smile and then said, 'It's work that brings you here, isn't it?'

'Of a manner,' Harry acknowledged. He drew himself a chair and one for Ron - Warden White wasn't one for niceties, like offering someone a seat. 'I want to talk to Cavendish.'

Again, White looked mildly amused. He opened a drawer of his desk and rummaged in it, pulling out a letter. 'Oh, yes,' he said. 'I got this a little earlier. From your department. Permission to visit our newest import, I see.'

Ron squirmed in his seat and Harry didn't blame him. 'Prisoner is the more apt word, I think,' he said, politely.

White laughed. It was a colorless chuckle, much like his face. 'The more official one, I suppose. If you don't mind my asking, what is the reason for this interview?'

Harry hesitated. Although White was a Ministry employee, he didn't know how much to divulge. The man had a sharp ear and a canny sense of putting two and two together, and he didn't know how comfortable he was of that. 'It's about an attack,' he said, finally. 'We think some friend of his might be behind it.'

At those words, White let out a guffaw which was possibly the heartiest one Harry had ever heard from him. 'Friend?' White echoed. 'Now that's an apt word. Bloody henchman might be better, though. I assume this is about Hermione Granger?'

Ron's eyes widened. 'You heard about that?'

White spread his hands. 'I read the papers.'

'They never mentioned-'

'Her name, I know. But I have ears, Harry. It isn't hard to put two and two together.'

Harry swallowed. Exactly what he'd been afraid of.

'You'll get your interview in five minutes,' said White. 'Let the guards prep him first. In the meantime, can I make a suggestion?'

Harry didn't answer. White leaned over the desk and his eyes narrowed.

'Cavendish' friends,' he whispered, 'Are everywhere. High places as well. I'd be careful if I were you. Prisoners talk, you know - and there's no one to hear them but the warden.'