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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
- 5
- 6
Silence

“What did you do to her?” Harry demanded, sharp emerald eyes flickering from Oliver to Hermione in quick succession.

Oliver held up his hands, his wand dropping from his fingers as Godric let out another low whine.

“Nothing-”

“Like hell!” Harry growled. The tip of his wand pressed into Oliver’s throat, making the man grimace.

“Harry James Potter. Put down your wand right now.” Hermione had hobbled closer to them, a faint blush of indignation and something else dotting her cheeks. “He didn’t do anything.”

Harry’s wand arm didn’t falter.

“Hermione,” he protested, gesturing with his free hand at her. “Look at you. What happened to you? Those scars and your leg.”

“I’ll tell you,” she said evenly. “But first drop your wand and let me get dressed. Oliver didn’t do anything.”

With an annoyed sigh, Harry dropped his wand, his eyes never leaving his old Quidditch captain.

“Oliver,” Hermione said, her tone holding a command he found reminiscent of early Hogwarts years. “I need clothes.”

“Right,” he said, bending to pick up and pocket his wand. Confused, Godric ran over and lay down at Hermione’s feet as she collapsed onto the living room couch, wincing as her weak leg buckled under her.

The moment Oliver left the room, Harry kneeled down by Hermione, his brows furrowed.

“If you want me to get you out of here, just say so,” he murmured. “If he did anything to you, I’ll kill him.”

“Harry, I’m fine,” Hermione lied, unwittingly backing away from his closeness. She was embarrassed about the whole situation, but unable to think over the ramifications at the moment. Why the hell was Harry here in the first place? Was Oliver really that daft?

Despite that, she felt a certain relief that her best friend was at her side. It felt like years since she’d seen him, when in reality she’d probably seen him Friday at the Ministry. Not that she remembered. She might not have been at work Friday for all she knew.

He was a welcome face, and part of her wanted to bury her head into his shoulder and sob.

She couldn’t let herself.

He was definitely a comfort, but also an important source of information.

Oliver came back into the room with the black shorts and his old Quidditch jersey, and Hermione knew the information would have to wait. She gave Harry a half smile as Oliver handed her the clothing, warm from the dryer.

“Potter. Mind a drink?” Oliver asked wearily, sensing that Hermione was too exhausted to get up and change.

Harry looked like he was about to refuse and add something rude to boot, but Hermione gave him a look that had him following Oliver into the kitchen. Oliver grabbed his abandoned brandy bottle from before and poured two glasses, handing Harry the larger one. The man took it stiffly, swirling the amber liquid instead of drinking.

“You know me, Potter,” Oliver said quietly after a moment. He took a sip of his drink, letting the alcohol burn straight to his stomach. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone, nonetheless Granger.”

“You can’t trust anyone nowadays,” Harry responded, still refusing to drink. “The world is mad. Always has been.”

Oliver had always looked with fondness upon the Boy-Turned-Man Who Lived, but the man had a stubbornness that could surpass Oliver’s. He was exhausted and exasperated and didn’t particularly want to handle the surly auror. The thought that Potter could help them didn’t escape his notice, but he was more worried about how. Hermione clearly hadn’t made progress on a solution.

Could Potter really help?

Hopefully. They were floundering around in the dark.

But Harry’s lack of trust in Oliver left a dark fog to the air, so he remained silently sipping on his brandy until Hermione called them back into the living room. The men entered, bringing their foul moods with them, and took their seats-Oliver across from Hermione, and Harry on the couch next to her.

She was fully dressed, her hair still sopping wet and dripping onto the clean jersey, cheeks pink with exertion. Oliver frowned and tossed his wand to her, enjoying a flash of triumph as Harry’s eyes widened.

Hermione gave Oliver a curt nod and dried her hair in a flick, chestnuts curls springing down her shoulders and back. Another flick had her bad leg supported in the air.

“Well?” Harry asked tersely as Hermione set the wand on the table. Godric sniffled by her feet. “Someone say something.”

“You’d better sit back, Potter,” Oliver commented, placing his now empty cup on the floor next to him. “It’s quite the story.”

Thirty minutes later, the group sat in silence. Hermione looked weary; Oliver nudged Godric idly with his foot, his brain on overdrive, and Harry looked downright solemn. He had asked as many questions as he could as they related what had happened.

Oliver knew Harry had to be accessing files on the ministry killers within his head. He was clearly upset, but when he’d tried to grab Hermione’s hand during Oliver’s description of how he’d found her, he’d learned his lesson not to touch her as she flinched away.

The sun had set outside, plunging the room into darkness. The Hogwarts candles lit themselves and floated closer to the trio, bathing them in soft light.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry finally said, turning to his friend. His eyes were downcast. “I’m sorry we haven’t caught them. That that happened to you. It’s my fault that this happened; I’m the head of the investigation. I should’ve known it would only be a matter of time-”

“Stop it, Harry,” she responded quietly. “It’s not your fault; it’s mine. You’ve done the best you can, especially with Ginny and the baby at home.”

“You’re wrong-it’s not-”

She shushed him with a wave of her hand.

“It’s done now. It doesn’t matter. What matters is finding out who did this. Do you know if I was in the office last week? Do you remember seeing me at all?”

Harry nodded, tilting his head up to look at her.

“Yes. I saw you every day except Wednesday. Your secretary said you’d caught a nasty bit of flu.”

Oliver saw Hermione’s eyebrows skyrocket, but he kept to his quiet observation. A spark of jealousy was starting in his chest that he couldn’t control. Her nature was so easy with Harry; so natural. Of course, it was to be expected. They’d been friends for at least ten years. But Hermione wouldn’t let Harry touch her either. It wasn’t just him.

“Sick? I’m never sick,” she mumbled, interrupting Oliver’s thoughts. “Is there any way you can see what I did during the week? Check the records I filed? Talk to people at the office?”

“Sure, Mione, but it might look suspicious if I ask too many questions. If that bastard works in the ministry, whoever they are will catch wind. We can’t have him or them knowing you’re alive,” Harry said, his eyes dark. “They’ll come for you.”

Hermione nodded, her face passive with the knowledge she’d already garnered herself.

“But how do you fake her death?” Oliver asked. The two jumped and looked at him as if they had forgotten he was in the room.

“It’ll be difficult,” Harry said. He sat back into the couch, twirling his wedding band absently. “But we can do it. Whatever will buy us time to figure out who did this.”

“When will you do it?”

“Tonight. It has to happen tonight or they’ll be suspicious that it took so long to find the body. I’ll discover Hermione on my way to your house for dinner. If anyone saw me arrive here earlier, I’ll say I left again to grab drinks,” Harry said, and Hermione nodded.

Oliver had no doubts that when Harry had opened a whole door of resources, Hermione had figured out a plan. He hoped it would give her a shred of confidence.

“I’ll signal the aurors,” Harry continued. “They’ll come, and I’m sure the media will follow.”

“Your acting better be up to par, Harry Potter,” Hermione said wryly. Oliver cracked a grin, glad that he wouldn’t be there. He was a terrible actor.

“I can handle it,” Harry said seriously. “We’ll have to make you look like you did when Wood found you. Masking charms should do it, but we’ll need him to help.”

Shit. Maybe he would be there. Not for long, hopefully.

Hermione glanced at Oliver, her expression unreadable, before looking back at Harry.

“And the healer? Who will you pay off? And where will you get the potion?” Hermione asked.

Oliver was admittedly lost, but didn’t want to let on.

“I know someone. Don’t worry. They can give me the potion,” Harry said. He looked at the clock on the wall before standing. “We have to work fast. I’ll be back in an hour with everything. Oliver-make sure people see you. Take Godric for a walk.”

At his mention, the lightly snoring dog thumped his tail, not fully waking up from his dreams.

Harry looked like he was going to hug Hermione, but reconsidered and stepped towards the door. She waved him away. Oliver noted her face had taken on a pale pallor, though her eyes were determined.

“I’ll be back soon,” Harry said, opening the door and stepping out. Oliver heard the click as Harry locked it from the outside.

When he looked back at Hermione, he was surprised to see her standing, his wand gripped in her hand.

“What was I wearing when you found me?”

“Not much,” he said before he could catch himself. “Er, it was mostly in tatters because of the injuries. A…a black skirt, I think. A blouse…it was probably white before all the blood.”

“And a bra? Underwear?” she asked, her cheeks not flushing in the slightest. She was clearly in working mode. “I don’t remember, Oliver. You have to tell me. It has to be as close as possible.”

“Tan bra,” he responded quickly before he could get embarrassed. “Black underwear.”

“Do you have a white button down and black pants? You should; they’re staples of any man’s wardrobe. I also need a pair of black boxers and a tan shirt. Or white if you don’t have tan.”

“Uh, right.” Oliver stood and jogged to his closet, pulling out the requested clothing. He was surprised he had a tan shirt at all, though it pained him to part with his Quidditch World Cup memoir. When he returned, Hermione pulled the clothes from him and examined them, her lips pursed.

“It’ll do.”

“I’m going to take Godric on a walk now. You can keep the wand, but be careful,” Oliver said, whistling for his dog. Godric jumped up from his spot and ran towards his owner, knocking into his legs hard enough that a weaker man would’ve been bowled over.

“Are you sure you don’t need it? This can wait ten minutes,” she said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Oliver shook his head. He would rather have her protected than him.

“They’re not after me. I’ll be back soon.”

He stepped out, Godric bounding ahead of him with his ears pointed straight up. He made sure he heard the resolute clicking of the lock behind him before setting off, trying not to seem jumpy as the normal street sounds filtered around them. The street was dark except for the lamps and quiet except for Godric peeing on everything he could.

An uneventful twenty minutes later, Oliver knocked on the door, Godric spinning around and hitting his tail against the wall in his excitement to get back inside to Hermione. The door latched open and Oliver pushed inside. Hermione was by the window, peeking through the curtain at the front step, his wand pointing at the door to let them in. When she saw Godric bounding to her feet, a relieved smile broke out over her face that went straight through Oliver’s heart. He quickly shook off the feeling to take in what she was wearing. Somehow, through some wondrous magic, she’d transfigured his clothing to look like a semblance of what she had been worn that night. It was nearly foolproof, and Oliver was surprised that his old clothes looked so seamless on her. She’d also applied a light layer of makeup and smoothed her curls down her back.

“This is my best guess as to how I looked,” she said as he watched her. “Are the clothes about right?”

Oliver nodded. She looked lovely, professional, composed. He didn’t know how to say that to her, so he kept his mouth shut.

“I’m sorry I ruined them,” she said. He thought she sounded a bit nervous, her hands running repeatedly over the front of the blouse, smoothing it down.

“It’s alright, Hermione. There are bigger things to worry about,” Oliver responded, wanting once again to comfort her but not knowing how. He couldn’t give her a book like last time. “How do I help?”

“Do you know masking charms?”

"Sure. Simple ones.”

“I need you to perform them on me. Get it as close as possible to what you remember. Rip my clothes as you remember,” she said. “Can you do that?”

“Can you lie down?”

Hermione cast a weary gaze at him before slowly settling herself on the floor, dropping his wand beside her. Godric immediately curled into her side and fell asleep with the ease of a puppy.

“You great lump,” he muttered, stepping to Hermione’s other side and kneeling down. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to imagine the scene from several nights before. His stomach squirmed as he got a clear image.

Oliver grabbed his wand and held it over her face.

“Dissimulo.”

There was a shimmer in the air, like heat over asphalt, before her face bloomed up, swollen and bruised.

Oliver moved to her neck next, creating illusions of the gashes he remembered, trying his best to replicate what he could. When he reached her shirt, he frowned before dragging his wand down to rip the fabric, adding masking charms before he had longer than a moment to look at her revealed skin.

When he reached her injured leg, he paused, not knowing how to go about making it look broken.

“I’ll do it later,” Hermione said, waving her bruised hand at him. “Don’t worry.”

“Alright. Is that all?”

“No. We need blood.”

Oliver blanched a little, still trying to cast charms over her legs.

“And what do you suggest we do about that?”

“Get a jar.”

He furrowed his brow, but did as he was told, walking to the kitchen and coming back with an old juice jar.

“Cut my palm,” Hermione said. “Get a few drops; then multiply it.”

“I won’t cut your palm, Hermione,” he responded, a little too vehemently. The idea of causing her more pain was revolting.

“I’ll do it,” she snapped, and Oliver moved back as she wrenched the wand from his grip. Something in her tone made him think she was disappointed, but he paled as she slashed through the skin of her palm and held it over the jar. Several beads of dark red blood splashed into the bottom before she sealed the cut. A muttered word later, and her blood filled the jar to the rim. She grabbed the lid and screwed it on.

“For later.”

Oliver accepted the wand back and continued his charm work. Finally, he reached her feet and sat back on his heels, taking in the whole sight of her. It was bloody horrifying. When she sat up to look at him, he fell back. It was like a walking nightmare. He had never wanted to see that again.

“You’re a sight,” he managed.

Hermione didn’t say anything, instead standing and limping towards the bathroom. When Oliver caught her intention, he stood and grabbed her wrist. She made a little surprised noise and tried to wrench out of his grasp.

“Don’t. Don’t look,” he said.

“I need to know what they did to me,” she responded angrily, fighting against his strong grip.

“You don’t need to see this.”

“Let go of me!”

Oliver reluctantly dropped his grip, shaking his head as her eyes began to look panicked. He didn’t want to ruin what they’d gained so far, but no one could take themselves looking like that. Especially in Hermione’s weakened condition. But if she was determined, he wasn’t going to force her. She was allowed to make her own decisions, however poor. However much they might affect her psyche.

He rested his head lightly against the wall as she hobbled into the bathroom. There was a moment of silence that made Oliver distinctly uncomfortable before he heard a tortured sob. He rolled over to look into the bathroom and saw Hermione leaning against the counter, her eyes downcast as the beginnings of tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“Hermione…” he started, not knowing what to say.

She looked up into the mirror, catching his eye with the one that wasn’t swollen closed. A parched sob escaped her lips.

“L-look what th-they did to my f-face,” she cried.

His chest ached with increasing intensity as he watched her lean down and sob, wrapping her arms around her body as if she were afraid she would shatter. He knew she shouldn’t have looked. He shouldn’t have let her go.

Oliver knew he had to do something, even if it meant getting slapped. Determined to comfort her, he stepped forward and slowly wrapped his arms around her, forcing her to turn into his chest. Hermione stiffened immediately and pressed her palms to his chest, but her sobs weakened her conviction. After a few minutes of standing there, she gave in and pressed her forehead against his chest, leaning against his body as if he were the only thing keeping her upright.

He rested his chin on top of her head, not daring to move much more in case she pushed him away. A silent, sad thrill coursed through him that she had allowed him to touch her, comfort her. He hated that she had to be this weak to do it.

Maybe it was good, he reasoned. Maybe this was the beginning of healing. Maybe now she wouldn’t think he’d kill her in the night. The grain of trust she was showing set his resolve in stone.

Oliver would find who had tried to kill her, and when he did he couldn’t guarantee that they’d come out alive.

Author’s Note:

I’m sorry for the extended hiatus, but I have a week to satisfy a couple more chapters for you guys before school starts! Then back to two week updating.

Things in the story will start to pick up as they get clues on who did it.

Look out for the next chapter and the details of Hermione’s faked death.

Please tell me what you think! I’m a little rusty on my writing, admittedly.

Thank you for your lovely reviews!

See you soon, lovely people. The first clue comes in the next chapter.
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Silence