Change

Dumbledore stood at the sound of the first shriek. The entire Hall fell silent except for the erratic pace of Hermione’s footsteps as she ran. Harry, Ron, and Ginny made to run after her, but Dumbledore motioned them back.

“All students are to report to their dormitories with the exception of Mr. Potter, Ms. Weasley, and Mr. Weasley.” His authoritative voice broke the brittle silence and all was again commotion. As the students filed out of the Great Hall, he barked orders to the Professors.

“Minerva, you will attend to the Gryffindors; Hagrid, you will do your best to calm the Weasleys and Mr. Potter; Severus, Filius, Pomona, look to your respective houses. I will go after Ms. Granger.” He concentrated on Hermione and the fact that she was in danger and found himself transported to her home. He arrived in time to hear her vomiting and winced to himself as he spotted the blood on the carpet. Dumbledore ran up the stairs to see the gory scene in the master bedroom. Despite all his years fighting Deatheaters and experiencing their destruction firsthand, this situation made him turn away in disgust. It had even more malice than was usually invested in a Deatheater massacre. It was more deliberate and, if such a word can be used in this case, sophisticated. It was obviously designed to drive Hermione insane.

Dumbledore steeled himself and looked to Hermione. She was a mess, soaked in viscera, tears streaking paths in the blood on her face, half lying in a pool of her own vomit. She was passed out, no doubt from the trauma of seeing her parents like this as well as the huge expenditure of magic that was far beyond her experience. Dumbledore murmured, “Mobilicorpus,” and Hermione was floating above the floor. He gently steered her down the stairs and into the living room before casting a portkey spell on a candlestick. As he manipulated her fingers to grasp the candlestick, he noticed that they were claw shaped and sharp with one extra joint. He marveled at the young witches ability to call on such reserves of magical power as the familiar tug behind the navel signaled their return to Hogwarts.

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“What the fuck happened to Hermione?!” Ginny bellowed, surprising and intimidating McGonagall, Harry, and Ron. McGonagall was too shaken up to reprimand the younger Weasley for her language and managed only a slight shake of the head. Ron was sputtering, trying to avoid complete neurological failure, and Harry was quiet. Ginny couldn’t contain herself and began to babble, “If that was her mother’s wedding ring, then that must have been her mother’s finger. Merlin! Voldemort must have done something. I hope she gets there in time. I hope Dumbledore gets there in time. I can’t just sit here and wait, I have to do something, what can I do?”

She suddenly stopped talking and strode out of Gryffindor tower. Heedless of her brother calling her, she ran her way to the Headmaster’s office, shouting the names of all the sweets she could think of until the Gargoyle jumped aside. Ginny was halfway up the staircase when she heard Dumbledore enter. She demanded to know what happened. Only slightly surprised at her presence, Dumbledore, weary to the bone, began to explain.

“I have only just returned from escorting Ms. Granger to the hospital wing. Physically she is whole and well, but we cannot know her mental and emotional state until she awakens,” he droned, exhaustion showing in his voice. “Her parents have been killed by Deatheaters. Come into my office and wait for the full story until Mr. Potter and your brother arrive.”

Ginny stood stock still and continued to do so even as Professor Dumbledore passed her on his ascent to his office. She lifted her chin after an eternity and climbed the rest of the stairs. She collapsed into one of the armchairs before Dumbledore’s desk and sunk into worry for her friend. She determined that she had to be brave for Hermione, her friend would have enough to deal with and she needn’t add to that. Lost in her thoughts, Ginny didn’t notice Harry and Ron entering the room. Dumbledore’s sorrowful voice startled her out of her reverie.

Holding up his hand for silence, Dumbledore simply said, “I know that you are worried for your dear friend, but first let me assure you that physically she is all right.” Harry made to interrupt, but Dumbledore cut him off. “Please allow me to continue.” Harry settled into his seat, brow furrowed with only a thin slash for a mouth, and let Dumbledore go on. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger were tortured and killed by Deatheaters. They were mutilated after death in such a way as to bring the most pain possible to Hermione, and it sickens me to think about it. This was an attack to eliminate Hermione as a threat by reducing her to insanity, but the Deatheaters have severely underestimated her. Lucius Malfoy was still on the scene, ostensibly to gloat and further traumatize Ms. Granger. However, she has killed him. In her desperation to get to her parents and avenge their murder, Hermione had tapped into powers to which a witch of her age is not supposed to be able to have access. She apparated to the Granger home without splinching herself or going to the wrong location, and, upon seeing Mr. Malfoy, transformed her digits into extremely articulate claws. She ripped his heart out of his body.” Dumbledore steepled his fingers together and visibly recollected himself. “She is now unconscious in the hospital wing and, very likely, will remain so for an unknown amount of time. Quite possibly days, or even a week. Hermione will not be the same person when she wakes, but she will still need you three to help her through this difficult time; she has lost her parents and taken a human life in the span of five minutes. Her world has been shattered. Please caution your fellow students to be careful around her while I contact the authorities and try to handle her parents affairs.”

All three children were stunned as they filed back to the Gryffindor dormitories, Ginny leaning heavily on Ron. McGonagall made sure they were safely in before departing to the headmaster’s office herself. Ginny was quiet, tears sliding down her cheeks as though they were moisture on a painting. Ron sat bent over with his head in his hands, and Harry stared into the fire. Nothing was said and none of the other Gryffindors wanted to disturb the silence.