Subpoena

The next several days passed in a bustle of business.

Hermione had submitted the paperwork for Sirius’ first appearance to the Wizengamot the day after he’d given the interview. Draco and Hermione’s new case was official; the pair kept busy with its workload. Tooley managed things around the house and kept a watchful eye on Black. Hermione had shut off her floo network for the week, allowing house calls from only her co-worker, who came and left at random hours. The most challenging of their endeavors, however, was improving the health of Sirius Black.

Food made him sick, walking stole his strength, just about everything sucked his lifeforce until he had to lie down.

And he was bloody sick of it.

Although nearly 41, the man was emerging from an Azkaban induced fog and falling back to his pre-prison self. That self happened to be a reckless 21 year old Gryffindor, who hated lounging about and waiting for things to happen to him. This became especially apparent on the Thursday after his arrival, when Sirius thought he might implode from impatience.

He was sitting in a plush blue armchair he requested be moved from the sitting room to the windows facing the back yard. Black was not permitted to go outside (as if I could make a run for it if I wanted to, he thought) so he settled for the next best option- indoor sunbathing. Truthfully, he was thankful for the skylights, as he had learned they were named, that were found in every room of the witch's house. He said to anyone who asked that he had simply become tired of the dark, but the truthful part of his brain knew it was more than that. After nineteen years in Azkaban the brave Sirius Black could no longer face the night without his throat constricting and his ears ringing. It was by the kitchen window he sat, trying desperately to taste the late summer sun.

Hermione waltzed into the kitchen, thick book in hand, and without looking up set about making herself a cup of tea.

The two had hardly talked, even though they lived in such close quarters for the past week. What are you supposed to say to a girl twenty years your junior who rescued you from hell, but doesn’t believe you deserved to be? The wizard had told himself each time he considered starting a conversation. His back firmly turned to her, he continued his sitting and staring in silence.

“Do you want some?” Hermione said, making Sirius jump.

“What, tea?”

“Earl grey, more specifically.”

“Yes, please.”

The conversation stopped as abruptly as it had started, the witch rummaging about to make a second cup.

“Why do you do things the muggle way?” Sirius asked, unable to keep the words from leaving his lips. He turned in his seat to see the witch pause, standing frozen on a step stool as she reached for something (presumably a mug) in the upper cabinets.

“I’m muggleborn. Two wars, one of which you fought in, have taught us that there’s no shame in that,” she responded sharply.

Sirius sucked in a breath, realizing he had struck a nerve. Even with all of the damned pureblood etiquette lessons he had been forced to take in his childhood, tact was something he’d never been able to pick up. He chose his next words carefully, saying them slowly so he’d have time to change them if needed.

“My best mate's wife was muggleborn, and she was one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. But after Hogwarts, she used magic for nearly everything. Paperwork, cleaning, anything she wanted. Why don’t you?”

Hermione stepped down from the stool, mug in hand. She finished fussing with the kettle and leaned against the counter, quiet for some time before answering.

“Before the war, I had to obliviate my parents and send them away to protect them. I found them once we had won, but they were too far gone for me to heal. Doing things the way I grew up doing them...it makes me feel like part of them is still around.”

The kettle interrupted their conversation with shrieking. Hermione turned to tend to it, hiding her reddening cheeks and blinking rather quickly. Handing a cup to Sirius, she clumsily changed the subject.

“You should be able to start on something more solid this weekend. I was thinking about bread? Or some oats? It shouldn’t be this difficult for your body to adjust; I can’t figure it out.”

“It’s probably to be expected after nearly twenty years without food,” the wizard said, taking a sip of his tea.

Hermione slopped liquid from her mug and gaped at Black.

“What do you mean, you haven’t eaten in nineteen years?” She nearly whispered.

Sirius looked at her, tilting his head slightly.

“We don’t eat in Azkaban. I thought it was common knowledge.”

“Of course you ate, you would have died within weeks.”

The wizard shook his head and took another sip.

“The warden-the human one- can magic just enough nutrients into your body to keep you alive. You get to physically drink water once every few days or so, but you’re never allowed food. They keep you in constant starvation mode, but never actually let you tip over. Pity,” he added bitterly, “I would have loved to die so many times.”

He went to take another sip of his drink when he realized the witch beside him was, quite literally, seething. She had a look in her eyes Sirius had only seen in one other person, and that was only after he had very nearly dropped the newborn of an exhausted red-headed witch. Hermione's hair seemed to grow impossibly bigger. He could hear her grinding her teeth and almost feel her wrath coming off in waves.

“Every fucking time I think they can’t get worse,” she hissed through a clenched jaw, “they find a way.”

Sirius stared at her in near-shock. He couldn’t recall hearing the witch swear before now.

“It isn’t too bad of a system for people who actually deserve it,” he said hurriedly, “I had a cousin in there- before she escaped- tortured a couple to insanity. Bloody deserved starvation if you ask me.”

Hermione turned on him, reeling.

“The point of what we are doing, Mister Black, is to stop the ministry from allowing and encouraging inhumane treatment to any person or magical creature. That way of thinking is why we’ve had two wars in a single lifetime! And three within a Wizarding lifetime! It’s not about the bad people, it’s about the good ones, particularly the good ones who fell through the cracks like you claim to have done!” She screeched, her octave rising in proportion to her volume. “You have to change your mindset if you don’t want to end back up in Azkaban. You’re not even helping your own defense!”

Sirius attempted to stand and meet the witch, anger brewing within his chest.

“My own defense? You won’t bloody tell me how to prepare for my own defense! You and Malfoy,” he spat, “sit huddled in a corner, whispering about one thing or another and won’t fucking give me any mind! I’m the reason you have a platform to change law or whatever you like to say and you don’t even believe I’m innocent!”

“I know you’re innocent, you fuck! I know! But I also had to live with the aftermath of your decision, and that aftermath happens to be my best friend!” Hermione yelled, the tears she managed to fight off earlier spilling onto her cheeks.

Sirius felt his heart sink. The tightness of his throat returned and his stomach lurched.

“Harry...you know my godson?”

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Hermione burrowed further into the covers, shoving her face into a pillow. She’d been in a right sour mood after the earlier argument with Sirius in the kitchen. She had even let her feelings seep into her reply to Ginny, who had owled her friend wanting to know why she hadn’t seen her for so long.

Merlin, Hermione thought, I can't wait to have my house back.

Sighing, Hermione rolled onto her back and glared up at her ceiling as though it were the culprit stealing her sleep. Her stomach rumbled.

You wouldn’t be complaining if you weren’t awake to know better, she grumbled in response.

She stood, the cool night air hitting her bare legs. Hermione had been sweating before, and frowned at the sticky sheen now coating her. Slipping on a light robe and tying her hair up, she decided on a trip to the kitchen.

Pouring a bowl of weetabix, Hermione heard another low growl.

Shut it, you impatient thing, she chastened, raising a spoon to her lips.

It was after the growl repeated a third and fourth time that Hermione realized the sound was not coming from her stomach.

Placing her bowl on the counter with narrowing eyes she turned sharply towards the hall leading to Black’s room. There was no possibility for there to be a creature in any other part of her home. She had never cared for animals, and she had a feeling she was going to like the reason there was one in her guest’s room even less.

Silently, the witch summoned her wand from her bedside into her hand, creeping down towards the man’s room. Throwing the door open, her nose was accosted by a scent that made her stomach lurch.

Everything- everything- smelled like rust. It overtook her, making her eyes water and knees buckle. There was crimson splattered on every part of the once white room, pooling in some places. In the middle of the bed, a massive black dog ripped flesh from its own body.

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Bloody fucking shit

Hermione exhaled for the first time in what had felt like hours. She sat at the bedside of the human form of Sirius Black, after stunning his animagus one and forcefully transfiguring him back.

Bloody lucky I fought in a war

Hermione had healed the wizard alongside Tooley, who she screamed for the second she realized what was happening.

Black was attacking himself. Knowingly. In the only way he could.

Bloody lucky I had to heal in that war

Once the bleeding had subsided and a majority of the wounds were disinfected, Tooley had called on Draco, who came to the witch's house immediately. They had moved Black from the guest room to Hermione’s, placing a full body bind and adding several anti-transfiguration spells on the man. Hermione had been tasked with forcing a blood replenishing potion down the unconscious wizard's throat; Tooley and Draco set off to undo the damage in the guest room.

Draco tapped once on Hermione’s half open door, stepping inside when she lifted her head.

“It’s clean. Well, not clean clean. The smell will take a few days to clear out, I reckon, but the blood won’t have stained any…” he stopped, noticing the witch turning a delicate shade of green. Draco conjured a chair similar to the brunette’s and sat beside her.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Hermione breathed after a long silence, knees under her chin with eyes unfocused. “I just don’t understand...how do you get to that point?”

After several beats of silence, Draco spoke.

“When I had to...after I took the mark,” he started, “there were a lot of times I wanted it off. It burned to look at, it burned to touch, so after the war…” he looked down, feeling the witches eyes on his face, “I tried to, well, force it off.”

He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to show Hermione. She automatically recoiled at the sight of the tattoo, but reached to hold his forearm in her hands. On Draco’s forearm was a thick, silvery scar around the edges of the mark, as if someone had carved a circle in the surrounding flesh in an attempt to peel it off.

Hermione’s face paled- Draco wondered if that was worse than the green that had appeared moments ago. He tried to pull away, but the witch tightened her grip. She refused to look away from his arm. Holding his breath, Draco pushed his right hand inside the left sleeve of Hermione’s robe, grabbing her forearm where he knew another scar lay. When she didn’t pull away, Draco finally looked at the witch. She was crying, silently, unblinking, her breath never changing.

He wondered how much she had grieved in order to weep in such stillness.

“I've never really apologized for that night. I shouldn’t have told them I knew who you were. I should have killed that bitch on the spot and helped you guys get out,” the words tumbled from the deepest parts of Draco’s chest. “There’s a lot of things I shouldn’t have done, or at least should have done differently, particularly concerning you. I should never have called you a mud-“

The witches eyes snapped away from his arm into his own, brown meeting green.

“Do not,” Hermione whispered, “drown in what if’s. You were on the wrong side. You did horrible things. But you chose correctly in the end,” she said, thinking of how the boy had helped Ron and herself destroy Hufflepuff’s cup in the final battle. “And you’ve worked to make that choice count. Do not let your what-ifs get in the way of that.”

They were both crying now, tears falling from cheeks onto their intertwined arms. Neither witch nor wizard moved to wipe them, so there they sat, weeping over their scars and the form of a man they had yet to truly save.

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