FicWad

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE This fic will involve sorcery, character death, swear words, an American writer attempting British English and generalised Lilith mayhem.



Chapter 2

A plump woman all in green gently lifted her patient's pale arm, washing the gore and dirt away with a warm cloth. She moved rapidly but with practised gentleness, cleansing away blood and worse, and dressing the wounds with murtlap essence. The wan little face was bruised; more angry purplish marks blossomed on the white skin hidden beneath the sheets. A front line fighter, this one. Either very lucky or very good; from what the nurse had heard, most of the front liners had died.

"Is she awake yet?" The voice from the hallway was cultured, harsh, and feminine. Rebecca brushed thick hair out of the child's face. Clearly, not lucky. The girl must just be very good.
"I couldn't guarantee that she will ever wake up. It looks as if she's absorbed dozens of curses, I can't even count all the hex-marks."
Air hissed between sharp little teeth. "And, in your great wisdom, can you tell me if she will /live/?"
The nurse shrugged, noncommital. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Pointed heels clicked on the bare wooden floor and an icy aura swept just into the room. The voice strained for a semblance of caring. "Is there anything I can get for you that may help her? Anything at all?"
Rebecca pursed her lips, thinking, as she cleared away the bath things. "Blood replenishing potion. Murtlap essence." She sniffed at an empty beaker. "I'm out of Skele-Mend, and she'll need at least six more doses."
"Six "
"Aye, six. Broken pelvises don't mend themselves, you know," came the insufferably smug reply. "She'll need a top-notch tonic once daily for the next week. New robes, certainly, the ones she was wearing are in ruins."

"Anything else?" The nurse heard the cool blonde's temper slipping. She sipped of her anger, enjoying this small, sweet taste of revenge, minor though it was.
"Food, preferably good broth until she's strong enough to take something else. Are you going to kill her, Narcissa?"

The question, asked without warning, startled the blonde into answering truthfully. "No." Damned woman. Too clever by half. "No, I currently have no plans to kill her."
"She's a hostage then." The nurse continued in a pleasant, conversational tone. "Before you had me snatched from St. Mungo's, word was that your ilk had killed the niece of the Minister. I don't recall Amelia Bones being noted for her mercy, and I'll bet she's downright bloodthirsty at the moment. Don't you think?"

Silence. Rebecca kept up the chit-chat, thoroughly convinced that she would be killed as soon as the hostage was well on the mend, no matter what. In the meantime, she would have her bit of fun with her old classmate. "And how is Lucius?"
"Lucius is dead, thank you for inquiring."
She tut-tutted. "Inconvenient. Killed attacking children, oh, that must sting the infamous Malfoy pride. Hope it was painful. How much longer do you think it will be before the Aurors come to drag you to Azkaban?"
No answer. That one must have hit home. "And did your darling boy die as bravely as his father?"
"My darling boy is not dead-"
"Yet."
"And he will not die, not if I have anything to say about it. You have four hours to wake that girl or I shall kill you both and find a healthier hostage."
"Don't forget the Skele-Mend," Rebecca called after the departing woman.


*

Arthur sat by the bedside of his youngest son and awkwardly took his hand. He ran a thumb caressingly down the boy's palm and back up again, tracing the lifeline. It didn't seem fair, really. Death, like a vulture to a ripe carcass, had swooped down on the school that morning; without remorse, without regard for tenderness of years or goodness of heart. He looked at his boy, his youngest boy, as tall as a man and perhaps as scarred as a man. But still just a boy. One child of many, one child in a whole school full of them.
"I'm so sorry, Ron. I wanted to be here... I tried to be here. It's not fair."
Another boy, all dark unruly hair and awkward boyish limbs and white bandages, plopped down in a chair across from him. He observed Mr. Weasley's lip wobbling uncontrollably.
"Mr. Weasley, Ron's only asleep. Madam Pomfrey says he'll wake up any time now," he said, as uneasy in the role of comforter as in the role of hero. He reached out and patted the man's hand. "Ron's fine. Barely a scratch."

Arthur shook his head and gripped his son's hand more firmly. How could he possibly explain a father's guilt? Other men were now collecting the bodies of their dead sons. Arthur sat here by the side of his youngest boy, healthy and alive. Warm. Breathing. He clutched the hand of his son and wept openly at the unfairness of life, in which the good died young and a man could be so damned grateful that it had been someone else's son.


Madam Pomfrey observed the wreckage that was Arthur Weasley and prepared another Calming Draught. She was handing out such potions like sweets today; the distraught, the grieving, the emotionally scarred and the Healers who were reaching the limits of their ability to function within the ramifications of a school turned battleground turned hospital. She tapped an upended beaker the get the last glistening drop and made a mental note to ask Severus to refill her supply at the soonest.

Damn.

Don't think about it. It wasn't- hadn't- happened. Push it all back, and down, until it disappeared and wasn't even a bad memory. Nothing untoward here, just a school nurse having a rather busier day than normal. Yes. That was a much more comfortable thought. She shot a glare at a pair of third years huddled near the door and shushed them. Patients needed quiet and rest, and Arthur certainly needed a Calming Draught.
"You two, if you've nothing better to do then fetch me Calming Draughts, Draught of Peace and sleep potions from Professor Snape's stores. Bring me anything else that looks useful, while you're at it. He's busy at the moment, but you'll find them in his office, in the cupboard behind his desk."
The pair exchanged looks and the bravest spoke up hesitantly. "Ma'am... we're sorry, maybe you hadn't heard, but-"
"Move along, move along." She flipped a hand at them. "Hop to it, now, I haven't got all day and I'm running low. Murtlap tentacles too, if he has any. Do you need a list?"
"No ma'am."
"Then off with you."

She bustled over to Ron Weasley's bed and administered the potion to Arthur, giving The Look to Potter, whom she distinctly recalled was not allowed out of bed yet and reminded him of such.
"Plenty of people needed that bed more than I did," he said simply.
Poppy looked around, at her full infirmary and the spare beds spilling out into the hall. The boy had a point.
"Madam Pomfrey, has Hermione been found yet?"
"I haven't seen her, Mr. Potter, but seeing as you're feeling so healthy, you're free to look around. Perhaps she's in the hall, or being interviewed. Hold up, young man, before you go rushing off like that you're on the understanding that I will allow you to walk about the hallways and make inquiries, on the condition that you are not to leave the castle, you are to eat something as soon as possible, and you are to spend the rest of the night in your dormitory. Resting. Are we clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."