Ivy briefly regained consciousness when a healer touched her side. Words swam out of the blackness like strange fish.

Ballantine, auror


attack


poor man
cracked


too much stress

Merlin--!

Then, for a long time, there was nothing. When they finally revived her it felt as if she had been sleeping for a week. She squinted blearily at the healer and cursed England for having such awfully colored robes. Why in bloody hell did they have to be so bright? Why was she in the hospital anyways? Stupid bloody England. What was she doing there. Had she been drinking? Maybe it was something with her job, it wouldn't be the first time that she woke up after a fight--

Fight.

She tried to lift her head, but gave it up almost immediately. Too heavy. It hurt too much. And she had seen Constance, and she was starting to remember.

Not a fight. A beating.

Kendra.

A failure. A bloody beaten failure.

She closed her eyes again. Any will she had to get up disappeared like so much breath on cold glass. The healers should have given her a sleeping draught. It would have been much kinder of them. Rather than endure a volley of questions she couldn't answer. Ivy didn't feel like talking. She didn't feel like saying anything ever again. That Man would take any word as an excuse to get rid of her, her beautiful, beautiful daughter...distinctly Irish, who looked eerily like her...a miniature version of her, actually...she imagined the life That Man would make for her--what if Kendra was anything like her mother in personality!--and wished she were dead. She gathered a few painful tears and hid them underneath her eyelids. Just go away, Fallon. You don't want to know.

The Healers were all gone now. Constance leaned against the wall opposite Ivy's bed, watching her. She wasn't quite asleep, but not close to being awake either. Constance convinced the Healers to let her stay, despite their protests. Sometimes it helped to be an Auror. Ivy was a suspect, after all, and was the hospital's security really all that good? She didn't think so. So she stayed, and watched, and waited for Ivy to wake up.

What would happen when she did, the Scot wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure how to approach the situation, and she was dearly wishing she hadn't answered that owl. But what would have happened if she hadn't? She couldn't answer that question without knowing what had been going on. Why would Ivy be sneaking into Edward Garrow's mansion? Why was she so severely injured? Garrow had obviously had an easy time of it, overpowering her and drawing his wand on her. Garrow had come into the hospital after them, muttering something about not being able to contact Holywell; when he'd learned she was still there, he had insisted on giving her his statement. Still, all he'd said was that he'd found Ivy in his daughter's room. She'd run; he'd chased her, stopped her, and pulled his wand on her.

That didn't explain the level of injury Ivy had suffered. Constance was trying not to be biased, since she didn't really trust the Junior Undersecretary anyway, but she was finding it difficult. She frowned and stretched, agitated, waiting for Ivy to wake up so she could get some answers. She heard rustling and looked up. Ivy's head moved slightly. Constance strode to her bedside and looked down on her.

"Ivy," she said. "Ive, it's me, Constance. I know ye can hear me, now. Ye need t' tell me what happened." She paused, but the other woman remained silent. She frowned and pointed to a table across the room, even though Ivy's eyes were closed. "Are ye tired? Ye haven't gotten any decent rest; ye've been fitfull the whole time. Listen, I've got a sleeping draught here for ye, but ye're not gonna get it until I get some answers. Garrow's pushin' fer a speedy trial. Says ye're mad, a threat to him an' his daughter. Now tell me what happened, Ivy. I want the truth." She clenched her jaw, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. This is wrong. This is Ivy--this doesn't make sense!

"Ivy. Ive, it's me, Constance. I know ye can hear me, now. Ye need t' tell me what happened."

Grand.

Normally she would have replied with some sort of smart comment, but all the words had been plucked from her mouth. All that was left was the stinging mix of blood and healing potion that still lingered on her tongue. Did she bite her tongue during the fight? Maybe. Maybe it was a cut inside her cheek. The various pains she was currently feeling made it hard to pinpoint just one, they all blurred together in a full body, throbbing ache.

"Are ye tired? Ye haven't gotten any decent rest; ye've been fitfull the whole time. Listen, I've got a sleeping draught here for ye, but ye're not gonna get it until I get some answers. Garrow's pushin' fer a speedy trial. Says ye're mad, a threat to him an' his daughter. Now tell me what happened, Ivy. I want the truth."

Ivy zoned out--it felt as if the bed were moving underneath her, and white spots still appeared in the darkness behind her eyelids--until she heard the word Garrow, at which her entire body tensed. Mad, a threat to him and his daughter. So that was the story he was going for. She squeezed her eyes shut even more tightly and felt a tear escaped. She turned her head so Constance couldn't see it.

Bloody babby, she was. There should have been something clever or inspired or at least polite for her to say to Con, but all she could think of was Feck off and leave me alone.

Truth! Ha! If only.

Rather than respond, she cracked her eyelids and lifted an arm and felt the place where her rib was supposed to be. Skele-Gro. That's what she tasted. She tried to move her other arm, but it was bandaged. Must have torn or cracked something. There were sure to be bruises all over her, in the shape of handprints, and her face was probably swollen. She recalled That Man breathing into her hair. Why did he destroy her appearance, when it was the only thing he liked about her?

Her thoughts kept straying away. She closed her eyes again. I just want to sleep.

She really looked awful. Constance found it hard to believe that someone could be so violent with a simple intruder. For most people, the goal was to incapacitate, or at least overpower. This went far beyond that line. This, to Constance, seemed very much like a crime of passion. But what passion could there be between Garrow and Ivy? As far as Constance knew, they'd never met, which was sort of a prerequisite for passion, and therefore crimes of. She turned her head away and Constance frowned.

"Look, ye," she said testily. "Ye're bein' awfully childish, Ivy. Why won't ye bloody tell me what happened?"

She obviously had no desire to talk, which left Constance bewildered. Ivy wasn't someone she'd feel comfortable using interrogation techniques on; she'd have to make her talk the way friends did. Just one problem: Constance wasn't really sure how to do that. What resulted was mounting frustration on Con's part, and a sinking feeling of failure. This is why you don't make friends. They betray you and...they just make everything so difficult! Her feelings for Ivy were making it hard for her to do her job; that thought made her feel suddenly very angry at the other woman.

"Don't ye think this is difficult for me too, Ivy? Ye're the last person I ever thought I'd be arresting, the last person I'd ever want to arrest!" she snapped. Still, Ivy remained silent, ignoring Constance and exploring her injuries as much as her heavy bandaging allowed. Scowling, Constance walked over to her bedside and leaned down. You're my friend, Ivy...I can't do my job because you're my friend.

"Fine. Ye won't talk, so I will. Do ye wanna know what I think? I think Garrow's a filthy liar. There weren't no reason for him to beat ye like this if he didn't know ye, if he thought ye were just an intruder. No reason for a speedy trial if he wasn't afraid of somethin'. No reason to be afraid if ye had no good reason to bother him. Did ye lie, when we firs' met an' ye said ye'd never met him?" she said. She shook her head, sighing heavily. "There's pieces missin', Ivy, holes his story dinna fill. With or without yer help, Ivy, I aim to find out what ye're hidin'."

"Look, ye. Ye're bein' awfully childish, Ivy. Why won't ye bloody tell me what happened?"

Childish! Ivy wasn't childish, she was childless! Con's words ground on her nerves, and something about the almost-Irish accent and slangy dialect made the words even sharper, but her hopeless exhaustion prevailed. She lay there with her eyes closed and prayed the interrogation went quickly.

"Don't ye think this is difficult for me too, Ivy? Ye're the last person I ever thought I'd be arresting, the last person I'd ever want to arrest!"

Her eyes cracked and she smiled at the Scot. All of a sudden an image of Holly had filled her mind, so swiftly and painlessly--how long had it been since she thought of her best friend without a stab of pain?--that she was almost tempted into speaking. But the temptation passed quickly as Con continued to speak. Even though she was of a different nationality, had not a single physical trait of Holly's, and had no obsession with fire, she had a similar sensible spirit that wasn't distracted by Ivy's dramatics.

Then the pain came. The dead never really died, after all, they just lingered in other people's voices and faces, to remind of the loss. And the continuation of the loss. How could the world keep turning without someone who was so important, who had been the fount of common sense, or leadership, or parental love? Other people just stole the traits and paraded around in them like false kings.

"Fine. Ye won't talk, so I will. Do ye wanna know what I think? I think Garrow's a filthy liar. There weren't no reason for him to beat ye like this if he didn't know ye, if he thought ye were just an intruder. No reason for a speedy trial if he wasn't afraid of somethin'. No reason to be afraid if ye had no good reason to bother him. Did ye lie, when we firs' met an' ye said ye'd never met him? There's pieces missin', Ivy, holes his story dinna fill. With or without yer help, Ivy, I aim to find out what ye're hidin'."

"Mmm."

Her throat was sore. What a surprise.

"A speedy trial," she finally said, her voice hoarse. "Is that so."

She imagined the cell waiting for her; then she imagined the cell waiting for Kendra. The crushed dollhouse. Her little home shattered. She'd never had much of a home, her daughter.

A long pause.

Her eyes finally opened and she stared levelly at Con, almost unblinkingly.

"Very well. The truth. I've known that man for a very long time. I met him during the Blood revolution in Ireland. When we met, me little brothers had been tortured to death. Da was drinking and ma was out of her mind. I was out of me mind too, I suppose. The Fearghus had me and were brainwashing me. I cracked. All I could think of was my little brothers, not even old enough to be in school, tortured to death in front of my mother, and she had already lost many of her brothers and sisters. I thought that I needed to replace what she lost. I wanted to replace it. I had to. But I couldn't control my behavior. I didn't care about myself anymore."

"Eventually they released me and I worked as a secretary for them. The Fearghus. I would give their men whatever they wanted, so long as they kept giving me alcohol for da and favors for the others in me family. They were quite ferocious with me. But I didn't care. I was hoping they would get me pregnant, and then I could replace Kenny and Mikey. And ma and da would get better. But no matter how much they got from me, I never got anything from them. I couldn't get pregnant. I was infertile."

The ludicrousness of the statement--she was half bloody Graham, they bred like rabbits during a full moon!--almost made her burst into laughter. A faint, faint smile crossed her features.

"And then I met Garrow. He had a daughter. A beautiful, beautiful baby girl, with dark curly hair and dark eyes. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I wanted her to be mine. I wanted her to be my gift, my treasure. For my family. So I began following him. I followed him for years. I tried stealing his daughter away from him. Once I succeeded, but he got her back. I continued stalking him. I stalked him through the revolution and then I followed him to England many years later. I splinched his leg off. He lied to me about Kendra. He always lied to me about Kendra. When he found me this time, I had nearly gotten away with her again. He flew into a rage. He's a very protective man."

She paused to cough. It hurt to breath. Everything hurt.

"And that's the truth."

And she smiled painfully.

Ivy opened her eyes--finally, a response--and smiled at her. Constance leaned back, confused. A smile was the last thing she'd expected. Then again, the entire night had been full of unexpected and in some ways unwelcome things. She wasn't sure how to feel about a smile from Ivy. Her initial reaction was to be pleased, but as she thought about it another possibility arose: perhaps Ivy had just gone insane. That was what people were saying anyway, wasn't it? That she'd cracked under all the stress in the department.

If that's the case, we're all doomed, Constance thought. Robards would obviously be next. She was already on the edge of insanity. Perhaps it was merely a pureblood condition, and her Muggle father's blood would keep her safe. She shook her head at that idea. Preposterous. It was as bad as a pureblood saying they were better at Charms because they could trace their line back to so-and-so. Familiar anger at the indignity of blood purism rose up, but it was quashed as Ivy began to speak.

The Blood Revolution. Of course Constance had heard about it. She'd been nineteen when the news about the Council Blood Bath came into Level Two. Potter had wanted to send help to the Free Blood Organization, but the higher-ups, the Level Ones--had it been late Senior Undersecretary Michael Garrow? Yes, he hadn't died until the year later. Garrow Sr. hadn't allowed it. Said the FBO was crushed, almost completely annihilated. He'd said it wasn't worth it.

Ivy finished her story. That was it? That wasn't right. That was in-keeping with Garrow's story. That made him the good guy, which meant Ivy was the bad guy. That wasn't right. This was the part where Ivy was supposed to tell her that Garrow really was the wretch Constance thought he was, and then they worked together to gather the evidence to overthrow him. That's what was supposed to happen, not this. Not surrender.

She's lying, Constance thought. But did she really know that? No, she had no proof otherwise. Logically, it made sense--but only if she accepted Garrow's version as true. Could it be? Con didn't want it to be, but she had nothing else. No evidence to the contrary. No evidence. Frustration, so familiar she almost didn't notice it, consumed her. There was never enough evidence--there's never enough of the evidence you want.

Garrow's daughter. Constance had passed her, for a split second, on the stairs. She'd been crying, wailing, words mixed in. What had that one word been? One word, over and over. Constance frowned, trying to remember it. It hadn't been English, Constance remembered being vaguely surprised at that. Damn. If I could just remember that word! Irrationally, she felt like knowing that word would solve the puzzle.

"He lied about Kendra," she repeated, narrowing her brow in confusion. Kendra. Must be the little girl. "What did he say? What was the lie?" Constance couldn't think of anything else to ask. She couldn't accuse Ivy of lying. She had no proof.