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Silence	By : thenextjourney Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 2049 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: JKR owns the Harry Potter Series in its entirety, and I don't write for money.

Chapter List
- 1-Silence
- 2-Fate
- 3-Poison
- 4-Almost
- 5-Keeper
- 6-Illusion
- 3
- 4
- 5
Silence

Hermione cast an extra protection charm over the bathroom door before setting Oliver's wand on the counter. The privacy made her feel better. She didn't trust him-not yet, anyways. In this situation, was it ok to trust anyone? She had no memory, so for now it was best to play it safe.

Even if Oliver had saved her.

But could she trust him for that?

Was that what had actually happened? His story?

Then again, they did have history. At least it was better than a stranger finding her. She had to admit that when she recognized him, she had felt a weight lift from the pit of her stomach. It was nice to see him there, however surprising.

Just before, she had let down her guard.

Should she have?

Hermione shook her head, untangling some of the bloody curls from her neck. He seemed sincere, and certainly didn't seem clever enough to set up an elaborate ruse. He was…what? A Quidditch player?

All brawn and no brain.

Maybe he was just a victim of chance, but she wasn't ready to believe anything. He was too perfectly innocent with his big silly dog.

For now, it was best to lock doors.

She moved to grab towels from under the sink, but gasped as she put pressure on her leg and rippling pain shot through her body. She gripped the edge of the counter and willed it to go away, closing her eyes.

"Damnit," she muttered. She opened her eyes and glanced down. The bruises across her upper thigh were nasty purple and yellow-tinged at the edges. She grimaced and grabbed Oliver's wand again before looking for something to bite down on. She decided on an unused toothbrush in one of the cabinet drawers.

Avoiding the mirror, Hermione took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and placed the toothbrush between her teeth. She bit down, making sure her tongue and lips were out of the way before taking a deep breath.

She had to do this, and she certainly couldn't go to St. Mungos.

Fuck, it was going to hurt.

Hermione unwound the splint and threw it in the trash before positioning her broken leg up on the side of the bathtub. She took a moment to breathe before pointing Oliver's wand at her upper right thigh.

"Mittendum."

There was a sudden violent crack as her leg shuddered and the bone realigned. Crippling pain shot through her whole body as she clamped down on the toothbrush. Groaning, she leaned back against the wall and tried to catch a full breath.

Hermione whimpered as the bone marrow began to thread together and the spongy bone crackled back into place. The effort not to scream was so great that the toothbrush began to crack in her mouth, poking at her soft palette.

Yeah…that's all I need, for the big hero to come knocking down the door. No, too complicated. For him.

She clamped her eyes closed and felt several tears leak out and down her cheeks. Clutching the sides of the bathtub, she waited as the compact bone began to pull together, repositioning the blood vessels, arteries, and tissues. A parched sob escaped her throat, but she clamped her lips closed to keep from wailing.

After what felt like ages, the pain faded away to a dull throb.

Hermione opened her eyes and let out a shaky breath. She pulled the toothbrush from her mouth, noting the teeth marks on it before tossing it into the trash.

A couple more days and her leg would be as good as new. The bone wasn't strong yet, but as long as she didn't run around, it would be fine. At least she could put weight on it.

Trying not to think too much about the nameless person who had physically ruined her, Hermione turned the shower on and flipped the water to hot. She pulled the blanket off-her only piece of clothing, she remembered with distaste-and slid onto the bottom of the steaming shower.

She let out a sigh as the streams soothed her aching muscles and troubled mind. The water immediately turned murky brown as it ran off her pale skin and swirled down the drain. Hermione rubbed absently at her arms and legs, making sure she cleaned every patch of skin. Part of her wanted to scrub herself raw.

It was maddening, not knowing.

She ached everywhere, especially from her neck down to the tops of her thighs. Looking down, she realized why. Fading pink lines scarred her freckled skin.

Oliver. He said he healed me.

Maybe he was turning out to be trustworthy. At most, he didn't leave her to die.

But someone did.

Hermione rested her forehead against her knees and ran her hands through her tangle of curls, starting at the base of her neck. It took at least ten minutes to untangle the long mess, and another five to get all the matted blood to swirl away down the drain. Looking up, she saw a sponge and three bottles. Hermione mustered her strength and pulled up to standing, barely placing weight on her tender leg.

She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to be on her bed with Crookshanks curled next to her. Who would take care of him? When she was found missing, would someone adopt him? Probably not Harry or Ron; they despised the little guy. She hated the idea of him being given away. He was her pet, her family member, and had been for the last ten years.

Maybe Wood could…

No.

She looked back at the bottles and flipped the top of the shampoo open. A distinctly male smell drifted out, and she wrinkled her nose. It was woody and fresh, like a forest after rain. It wasn't bad, but reminded her too much of him and this. The house smelled like it, like him.

She supposed she didn't have much choice. She washed herself with the body wash before lathering up and rinsing out the shampoo and conditioner.

When she stepped out and dried herself off-exhausted, smelling like Oliver Wood, but alive-Hermione felt like a different person. She felt exposed and insecure, and it was new and completely foreign. Even in the Great War fighting alongside Harry and Ron, she had felt strong beside them. She knew what and why she had been fighting; there wasn't a moment where she considered what was right and wrong.

Now…well, what did she have now?

She didn't know who she was going to fight. She didn't know why. And most importantly, she didn't know if they were coming after her again. Did they think she was dead?

The anticipation, the lack of knowing, made her fingers shake as she tried to comb them through her hair. The Death Eaters and Voldemort had had faces and names. This person, or these people, were smarter and played by subtler rules.

Worst of all, they had beaten her. She didn't know how, but they had mangled her body, destroyed her memory, and shaken her spirit.

Were they smarter? Better?

Hermione hated it.

More than ever, she needed a strong drink, Crookshanks, and a good friend. She needed Harry, or Ron, or Ginny, or Mrs. Weasley, or George. She needed someone to say…something. Anything.

You should've stopped it.

You should've seen it coming.

You're better than their tricks. You should've known better.

You had been on guard for a while.

Stupid. STUPID.

Why did you let it happen?

She didn't want to be left alone, because the person she had lost faith in was staring back at her in the mirror.

Hermione grabbed Oliver's wand and released the protection charm before unlocking the door. She rewrapped the blanket tightly around her body before stepping out. Immediately, she bumped into a soft, furry side, and let out a quiet scream. Godric jumped up, illuminated in the lights of the floating candles floating through the house, and licked her shin apologetically.

She sighed and placed a hand on his head, fluffing his ears.

"I'm sorry," she murmured; Godric's tail began wagging as she scratched his neck. "Where's Wood?"

The collie pulled away reluctantly before trotting off down the hall, glancing over his shoulder as Hermione limped after him. They reached a half-closed door at the end, and Godric nudged it open with his nose. Hermione leaned against the doorframe, watching as Oliver came into view. He was leaning back against a bed's headboard with a quaffle in his hands. Every now and again, he would toss it up and catch it, his face blank but his eyes dark. Godric barked once as the quaffle was thrown towards the ceiling, and Oliver jumped and barely caught the ball as he looked up.

"Merlin, Godric," he said, putting the quaffle down and standing. He looked at Hermione framed in the doorway. She was still pale, but looked healthier. Her hair hung in long, wet curls, drops of water trailing down her shoulders.

"Sorry if we disturbed your game," she said.

Oliver waved his hand at her in dismissal, taking a few steps closer. Godric went to his side and sat down, moving his head under Oliver's hand for petting.

"Your leg. What did you do? I can't believe you're putting weight on it," Oliver said, turning his head to glance at her right leg where the blanket had fallen away.

Hermione flushed and covered her skin, even though she knew he had seen a lot more.

It was necessary. Necessary...

What a pervert.

"Something I learned a long time ago. It was important to know those things during the war. The spell brings the bone back together. My leg's not strong yet, but it'll be better soon."

"Must've hurt a hell of a lot."

Hermione glanced up at him before nodding a little.

"Mm."

There was silence as Hermione took in Oliver's room for the first time. It was covered in Quidditch posters and decorated in Puddlemere gold and dark blue. Several snitches flapped lazily in the corner, and a broom was leaning against the bedpost. To the left, a long shelf held Quidditch awards and a messy pile of books. On the opposite side of the room, a dark desk shelved several rolls of parchment and a pile of quills and ink. It looked like Oliver had tried to clean while she was in the shower; a pile of dirty clothes were spilling from the closet.

Hermione almost smiled, but instead remembered her own lack of clothing. She flushed again, looking at the man standing before her. He had seen her grow from first to third year. They had even bumped into each other fourth year during the Quidditch World Cup. That was when he had been signed to Puddlemere as a reserve, she recalled. They were childhood acquaintances, not friends, and he had seenall of her, stripped down to her soul and more.

Hermione thought that maybe it would've been better if a stranger had found her.

Now she and Oliver Wood were stuck.

Might as well get settled.

"Can I get something other than a blanket to wear?" she finally asked, trying to smile but unable to bring her lips up.

"Oh. Of course. Sorry," Oliver said. He rubbed his forehead and glanced around his room. "Only have men's clothing…I wonder what would fit."

He walked over to his closet and opened the door. Hermione watched as the pile of clothes tumbled out. Godric, annoyed that he had been ignored by his owner, walked back over to Hermione. She scratched his head absently as Oliver disappeared inside the closet.

A minute later, a pair of black shorts came flying out towards her. Hermione barely caught them. They looked a bit big, but had an elastic waist and tie. The next thing came at her in a red blur, and she had no time to react before it hit her in the face.

"Wood, I've been through enough. Let's not test my reflexes just yet," she snapped, catching the shirt as it fell. She held the slick material up to the candlelight; gold and red shone back at her, like home.

"Ah, my bad, Granger. I'm used to…throwing things, I suppose," Oliver said, stepping back into the room. He saw her staring at the shirt. "Ah, yeah. My old Gryffindor jersey. It's the smallest thing I have. Was a bit smaller back then."

Hermione nodded and turned the jersey around, reading WOOD in gold letters. She pulled the shirt to her chest, feeling comfort for the first time since she woke up.

"No, it's fine. Better than that. Thank you," she said softly.

"You're welcome."

Oliver watched as she hugged the jersey to herself like it was a last lifeline. He thought she looked a bit like the Grey Lady, the elusive Ravenclaw ghost. It was almost like she wasn't really there. He was afraid if he didn't say anything, she would slip away.

"Are you…alright? I mean, of course not, but you were in the shower for a long time," he said, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

Hermione snapped from her trance, looking up and catching his eyes.

"Wouldn't you do the same?" she asked, looking genuinely curious.

"I guess so," he replied, not quite sure what she was referring to. He motioned for her to sit down at the desk, but she shook her head.

Apparently they were boring Godric, as he had fallen asleep between them on the floor. Hermione looked down at the snoring dog, her eyes warming.

A thought suddenly struck Oliver, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Er. I don't really have…women's underwear or anything like that. If you want, I do have boxers, but…that's probably not the…best…," he said, trailing away and rubbing the back of his neck.

Good work, mate. Just try to make it more awkward. I dare you.

He avoided her eyes, mentally berating himself.

"No, no. This is fine. Don't trouble yourself with it."

Something stirred in Hermione when she saw how uncomfortable he was. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

"Alright."

"I'm going to change, but then I'd like to go to sleep. We can figure out whatever it is we need tomorrow. I'm exhausted," she said. Without a response, she turned and limped back to the bathroom.

Once changed, Hermione ventured a cautious look in the mirror. The bright red made her look pallid, and the shorts and jersey hung off her body. Her hair was half dry with frizzled curls. Despite looking an absolute fright, she felt like she could sleep.

It was surprising what an old jersey could do for your mood.

She turned to shut off the light, but caught WOOD in the mirror first. Briefly, she wondered how many times she had seen Oliver wear the shirt; how many games he had won and goals he had blocked.

Hermione liked old things. They had history. She could almost hear the roaring of the Quidditch stands, could almost feel the crisp air and excitement.

Almost.

She shut the light off and made her way back to Oliver's bedroom, but when she got there, he wasn't inside.

"In here, Granger."

She turned and followed the voice attached to the Scottish man. He was in a room at the living area end of the hallway. When she entered, he was finishing making the bed in what was clearly a guest room. The walls were white with sparse blue and silver decorations. The bed cover looked like an old quilt, but warm nevertheless. She recognized the pillows from his room.

It wasn't much, but it looked heavenly to Hermione. Her eyes felt heavy, and she wanted nothing more than to fall away into oblivion.

"Nan made this quilt for me when I was just a young one. It looks a bit odd, but it's comfortable," he said, not looking up.

Godric had moved to the hallway, and was currently nudging at Hermione's leg. She reached down and stroked his fur.

"It looks great," she said, walking over to the bed, her legs nearly collapsing as she sat down.

Oliver looked up, startled.

"Do you need help?" he asked, stepping closer.

Hermione shook her head, recoiling a bit, then instantly feeling shameful for her reaction.

"No. No, thank you. I'm just going to sleep. I left your wand in your room," she said, dragging her limp leg up onto the bed. She was dangerously close to falling asleep already.

Oliver took a step back towards the door.

"If you really want the wand, you can have it," he said after a moment. "If it would make you feel better. The house is well protected right now, though."

Hermione doubted it would keep out whoever had done this to her, but she pushed the idea away.

She needed to sleep, not sit up clutching a wand.

"No, it's alright. I can do some wandless magic if need be. Besides, you're right down the hall."

He nodded, offering her a half smile. She tried to smile back, but instead just nodded.

"Exactly. If you need...if you want anything, just call," he said after a moment. "I'll hear it."

"Thank you," she said, pulling the quilt over her body and turning on her side to face the door. Her eyes were drooping when Oliver shut the light off.

"Night, Granger."

"Night, Wood."

Oliver closed the door and stepped out into the dark hallway. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and made his way to take a shower and try to clear his head.

Before he stepped into the bathroom, he heard a distinct click. His hair stood up on end as he tried to place it, wondering how quickly he could get to his wand.

It took a moment for him to register what it was.

Hermione had locked herself into the guest room.

Oliver looked out into the hall and saw Godric lying outside of the bedroom, whining quietly and pawing at the door.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the bathroom, shaking his head.

She had locked herself in. He knew that it probably made her feel safe, but she had also locked him out.

Oliver caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused before it.

What did she see when she looked at him?

For whatever reason, he wanted desperately for her to trust him.

He was her lifeline now, not Godric or a Quidditch jersey.

She just couldn't see it yet.

But how do you get through to someone so withdrawn?

Oliver supposed he would find out.

I hope everyone is well and hope you enjoyed this chapter. : )

P.S. I got the idea for the Gryffindor jersey from an Olivione fanfic, but now I can't remember. ;_; I feel really bad. Can anyone recall a story where Oliver loans Hermione the shirt to wear? Something about Fred and George, too. It's been a while, and I don't think it's complete. If you guys remember, I'll give credit and link it in the next chapter. Thanks!

P.P.S. Ah! Someone just pointed out to me that in the 4th book, Oliver's jersey was resized and given to Ron. Thanks! I haven't read the books for a long time now (severe lack of time), but feel free to point out any other things that are AU. Despite that, I'm keeping the jersey detail, and there probably will be more forgotten/AU things to fit the purposes of the story. Sorry if it bothers anyone, and feel free to point out other things like that.
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Silence