Lumos

Chapter Fifty-Seven: "Inheritance" (II)

"Does he need all that much?" Hermione tried.

Ron would like as much evidence as they could offer, obviously. But with Hermione's contributions, George ought to be able to volunteer as much as he felt comfortable with.

George's striped, grey shirt hung baggy on his torso. "He's told me to focus on the bits you weren't around for—especially what happened before you showed up."

Hermione shifted, uneasy. "Is that—was that—"

"I don't remember them taking me from the cell in the Corrections Center," George's voice went cold. "I was there one second. You lot left. A few Task Force gits sauntered in, smirking—"

Hermione rounded to the table and pulled a sheet of parchment free, beginning to transcribe.

George faltered.

"Go on," Hermione said, tone crisp.

Perhaps a business tone would encourage him.

"And then I woke up as they ripped a bag off my head, with a blinding headache at the back of my skull, in the clothes I was wearing when they brought me in—" His voice slowed at bit as he drew closer, watching her quill move with a confused sort of distraction. "— and my hands stuck over my head on a post."

The last detail sent a shard of terror through her, but Hermione nodded firmly, copying it down.

George knew it was ghastly. A poor reaction could make speaking about it harder for him.

"Do you know who was there?" Hermione asked, dipping the quill. "And which room they had you in?"

"Not sure of the room," George said. "They only brought me there a few times—just a bit down the hall from where we were kept, though."

Hermione noted that down.

George picked up his wand and studied the handle.

"It was Flint. Some sod named, um—Caster, I think, but they only said it the once. And Lockhart." He blew out a whoosh. "They were trying to get details out of me."

He grimaced and scratched his eyebrow. "It's a bit of a blur after that. I occluded so hard, I mostly only have flashes. I remember you poking in on my dreams, in the Hogsmeade passage."

Hermione nodded, laying down his words verbatim. George reached to still her hand.

"You—you don't have to do this," he said.

Hermione lifted her gaze from their hands to his eyeline. "I'm here for it all, George."

The corner of his mouth quirked, though his eyes held no humor. "I suppose this is the part where I trust you, then feel a bit better because I have."

Hermione nodded firmly.

George's gaze held.

He sighed. "Alright, then."

Hermione swallowed. She wasn't—she hadn't—it's not as though she was struggling. Not in the same way George was. Obviously. No, this was a regular, rational, proportional response. It was only because she wasn't doing enough, sitting around like this. It was only because it hurt to comprehend what he'd been through. Her curse damage could be settled with a daily potion, and soon she'd be rid of the symptoms in full. It wasn't like George's. She hadn't been hurt—not like he had.

Her feelings were different.

She was—she was fine.

She had to be. She was a mum, now.

#

Time crawled by. Bill's visit to London extended, due to complications with the accountant cousin. He rang Fleur every night, and the sight of Victoire trundling around the cabin with a modified muggle phone stuck to her ear became commonplace. It was always a bit of a coin toss, whether Bill would be truly on the line with the girl, or if she'd merely taken it out and started to chattering in the hopes that Bill would respond.