As consciousness slowly returned, Harry's first sensation was of a cool wetness on his brow, lying across his eyes.
His eyes seemed to be sealed shut as by a Colloportus Charm. Repeatedly his brain gave the command for them to open, but they obstinately defied his imperium.
Hermione would not be stymied, a distant voice asserted from the deepest corridors of his brain. Remember the door on the third-floor corridor? The window to Flitwick's office? She can open anything with a wave of her wand.
"Alohomora," Harry mumbled dryly, his voice a ghostly rasp. "Alohomora."
"Madam Grimm," came a soft voice as from another plane. "He's coming around."
Though distorted by the kettle drums resounding in his head, the voice sounded somehow familiar. But was it a dream, or --
His thoughts were interrupted by strong fingers sliding behind his head, gripping the base of his neck. His head was lifted, the action making his eyes throb and his brain swirl and eddy. He felt something smooth and hard, with a vaguely metallic tang, touch his lips. A spicy and rather unpleasant liquid splashed over his tongue and ran down his throat. It seemed to carry with it a soothing warmth which quickly spread through his whole body. A cleansing tide washed over his brain, clearing his thoughts. His senses sharpened, enabling him to catalog and identify certain things which were before only vague impressions.
He was lying on a bed. He felt the edge of the pillow against his shoulders as his head hung suspended above it. He heard the faint creak of bedsprings, one of which seemed to be poking through the mattress and worrying his lower back. The cool wetness on his head and eyes appeared to be a damp cloth. Even as he thought thus, the cloth was removed as a burst of cool air kissed Harry's face.
"His color is coming back," the familiar voice said in a satisfied manner. No, Harry detected more than mere satisfaction. Relief. Happiness.
Harry opened his eyes slowly, finding the light painful. The urge to lift his arm and cover his eyes was defeated by muscles which refused to respond. The fingers gripping his neck still holding him firmly aloft, Harry mumbled in inarticulate gratitude as the cloth dabbed lightly at the edges of his eyes until he was able to open them completely. He blinked repeatedly until his surroundings came into focus.
He was in a sparsely-furnished room painted in soothing pastels. Magical candles encased in what appeared to be soap bubbles hovered overhead, casting a soft light over all.
Unable to turn his head, Harry could see only the peripheral outlines of two persons, one on either side of his bed. The one on the right appeared to be holding him up. The other figure was in motion, disappearing from his line of sight a moment later. Abruptly Harry felt the hand gripping his neck lift him higher, and what he took to be a pillow was stuffed behind his back, thereafter being pounded into shape by unseen hands. The fingers on his neck relaxed, and he felt himself being eased back until his shoulders and head encountered the delicious softness of the fresh pillow. He shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders until he found a relatively comfortable position. He sighed heavily as the hand was removed from the back of his head and its owner appeared before him. It proved to be a witch of mature years, with broad shoulders and iron-grey hair pulled into a tight bun. Her square face was etched with delicate trac ings of worry lines so common in St. Mungo's Healers. She smiled a homely smile of approval which Harry hadn't the strength to return, then disappeared from sight.
Able to move his head now, Harry shifted his attention to his left, his heart fluttering in expectation. His other ministrant, having fluffed his pillow to satisfaction, came around and turned to face him, flashing a smile that sent a warmth through him rivaling that of the potion flowing through his veins.
"Hello, Harry," Hermione said softly, the merest hint of a tear on her cheek. "Welcome back to the land of the living."
With a herculean effort, Harry lifted his left arm sluggishly, his fingers spread out in longing. Seating herself in a nearby chair, Hermione took Harry's hand and guided it to her face. He touched her soft cheek, felt the wetness there. His own eyes misted.
In his brief but extensive travels, Harry had seen the world's splendor in all its forms, had beheld wonders eclipsing the ability of human language to convey. They were all swept away now like ashes from a grate by two soft brown eyes that stole the breath from his lungs and plundered all reason from his mind. In a hidden valley never recorded on any map, he had found a garden of wild orchids of a beauty to wring tears from a stone statue, had held the fragile blossoms in his hands and wept shamelessly at their soft, exquisite delicacy. But now, as he caressed Hermione's peach-colored cheek with trembling fingers, they became in his memory as rough, scaly dragon hide.
Rising from her chair, Hermione sat on the edge of Harry's bed, still holding his hand to her face. She leaned in, fixing Harry's emerald eyes with her coffee-colored ones.
"It was touch and go for a while there, Harry. More than once in those first few hours, I thought -- we thought we might lose you."
"What was wrong with me?" Harry asked, a bit fearful now, though he felt fit, if weak as a newborn.
"Malaria."
Harry's eyes widened, his hand going limp against Hermione's face. Her fingers tightened around his as she lowered his hand to her lap, caressing it lightly.
"I've...heard about it," Harry said slowly. "I think Uncle Vernon mentioned an uncle who came back from the war with a case of it. But -- I didn't think it was that bad. I mean, it's not supposed to be fatal -- is it?"
"Not to Muggles," Hermione said. "Excepting the most extreme form, 'Plasmodium falciparum,' the symptoms are usually the equivalent of a severe case of the flu. Proper treatment usually brings a full recovery, though the symptoms may recur from time to time, making it more of a nuisance than anything else.
"But with wizards," she said with an ill-suppressed shudder, "the malarial parasite mutates on contact with magical blood. The resulting contagion is more virulent than the bubonic plague. Without immediate treatment, death usually comes within hours.
"On the good side, swift application of the Anophelus Potion not only brings complete recovery, but results in total immunity thereafter.
"But it was a close thing, Harry," she said, her voice tinged with a sort of anguished relief. "To be honest, if you hadn't thought to use the Stunning Spell on yourself, you might not have made it back in time. Madam Grimm began administering the potion immediately, but you were so far gone -- thank Merlin you thought to use that Charm! I don't believe anyone ever thought of that before. It slowed your breathing to almost nothing, which meant that the parasite couldn't get any oxygen either. Brilliant. It's almost a shame that the Ministry and the Order rounded up all the Death Eaters after Voldemort's fall. You'd have made a smashing Auror."
Harry wisely elected not to set Hermione to rights as to the real reason why he had Stupefied himself. Better she not know just yet that he had administered the Charm to keep himself from freezing to death and/or suffocating over the Tibetan plateau. Plenty of time for the truth later. In a year, perhaps. A decade. Or a century, even.
"In Stupefied form," Hermione went on, sounding like the bushy-haired, indefatigable Walking Encyclopedia Harry had so grown to love, "your body's functions were frozen and the malarial infection was completely arrested. It came back to life when we Ennervated you, and when we saw how advanced it was, I'll admit we were worried.
"As it was, when you crash-landed at the Burrow, it looked like you were already gone. It's a good job Madam Pomfrey was at the party. She helped me diagnose you, and we got you here to St. Mungo's straightaway. All certified Healers are authorized to enchant emergency portkeys at need. We always keep our potions cupboard fully stocked, and we began treatment immediately. Madam Grimm has been giving you small doses of Anophelus Potion over the last three days -- you were too weak to take a full dose all at once. I've been sleeping next to your bed so I could report on your progress. Some of the consulting Healers had their doubts about your recovery, but I set them straight. Once the potion was at work inside you, all that was required was that you fight, and keep fighting. The most critical part of the cure is the will to live. I told Madam Grimm not to worry. I knew you were a fighter. If Voldemort couldn't do you in, a little bug didn't stand a chance!"
"You're the reason I fought, Hermione," Harry said, his eyes beginning to shine wetly. "I had to get back to you. I had to keep my promise. Had to prove that -- that I can be the kind of man you deserve. Someone you can depend on.
"I thought about you every day I was gone, Hermione. And every night. I was a fool to leave you. But I'll never leave you again! I love you, Hermione! Oh, Merlin, how I love you!"
Harry lifted his hand from Hermione's lap and caressed her face. Slipping his fingers behind her ear, he drew her to him in a single fluid motion and pressed his lips to hers. All the love and desire pent up for fourteen lonely months poured out of him. He devoured her, inhaled her, flowed into and through her. And somewhere in the midst of this maelstrom of emotion, a realization struck him like a blow to the core of his soul.
Hermione's kiss was like a living flame, burning, surging through him like a raging firestorm; electric -- volcanic -- exploding through him like every Filibuster Firework Fred and George had ever set off in their seven years at Hogwarts, all igniting in a single nova-burst at the point where his and Hermione's lips met. She was gasping, whimpering, pouring out all the passion she had held under lock and key for a lifetime.
Feeling totally spent, Harry let his hand fall away and onto his bed. Hermione's face drifted back just far enough so that their eyes could reach into the other's soul with a touch soft as a sigh and unyielding as steel.
"Marry me, Hermione," Harry panted, his cheeks damp with tears of joy and love. "Please, oh please marry me!"
Hermione took Harry's hand in hers, brought his fingers to her lips and kissed them.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she said in an anguished voice, her own cheeks moist. "I -- I can't."
Harry's heart sank into his belly. His mind spun dizzily as in a renewed malarial delirium. Then it was that Hermione's words from minutes earlier crashed into Harry's brain like the Hogwarts Express at full throttle. The party! The Burrow! They had been feeding him potion here at St. Mungo's for three days -- THREE DAYS!
"Ron," Harry croaked in an agonized whisper, the light in his eyes dying as his face paled into a mask of horror. "Merciful God in Heaven. Ron..."
But Hermione placed her hand on Harry's face and smiled through her tears.
"No, Harry. Not Ron. Yes, he was at the party. He did ask me to marry him...I told you he was a persistent bugger. I said no. And my answer would have been the same even if you hadn't...er...crashed the party, so to speak."
"B-but -- " Harry stammered stupidly, " -- I thought -- you said -- "
"Yes," Hermione said with a look of deep introspection in her eyes. "I remember. I said a lot of things back then. I wanted it all, and nothing and no one was going to stand in my way. A successful career. A stable, well-ordered life. Job, home, husband, all neatly filed and catalogued like the Dewey Decimal System. But in the last year I've -- I guess you could say I've readjusted my priorities."
"But -- what brought this on?" Harry asked.
"Dumbledore," Hermione smiled mysteriously. "And you." Harry's puzzlement was manifest, and Hermione laughed softly as she leaned back and shook her hair away from her face with a casual toss of her head that Fleur Delacour would have envied. "Dumbledore has been sending me regular owls for the past year," she said. "Keeping me abreast of your travels."
Harry was about to ask how Dumbledore could know where he was and what he was doing from the other side of the world, but he thought better of it. Harry's own experience had taught him that what Dumbledore did not know on any given topic would scarcely fill a thimble in a Muggle sewing kit. And the old wizard's inscrutability in such matters was at least on a par with that of the Master whose pupil he had been more than a century before Harry was a gleam in his parents' eyes. Some questions, he decided, were better left unvoiced.
"Dumbledore told me about all the people you met during your travels," Hermione continued. "And about how you helped them in so many ways, whether with magic, doing chores -- even dipping into your Gringotts vault.
"And healing."
Hermione paused, and her eyes seemed to embrace Harry down to his very soul.
"Mending bones. Mixing potions. Using the skills I taught you at school to help so many -- and asking nothing in return. Even risking your life."
These last words baffled Harry; but before he could open his mouth to question this curious statement, Hermione reached into her robes and drew forth a small object which she held up to the candlelight. It was a small crystal phial, magically sealed but clearly empty.
"Well, Harry?"
How, Harry wondered, did Hermione manage, in a voice soft as the flutter of a fairy wing, to indict him with all the elemental force of an Atlantic hurricane?
"Part of my Potions Kit," Harry said simply, his eyes avoiding hers as he spoke. "Must have left it in my pocket."
Hermione sighed.
"I saw Dumbledore give you this after graduation, Harry. And I heard him tell you what was in it. Phoenix tears. A single drop from this phial could have cured your malaria in moments."
She held the phial up to the light, scrutinized it for a moment, then returned her attention to Harry. Again he averted his eyes.
"There was...a cholera outbreak in Bangladesh," Harry murmured. "And a little girl with leprosy in Kazakhstan...and -- "
"And you used it all," Hermione said gently, almost worshipfully. "Every drop. Until there was none left to save your own life."
Hermione's fingers closed around the empty phial as if it were a sacred relic and pressed it to her bosom.
"The wizarding world doesn't need another high-priced Healer," she said determinedly. "Prescribing potions to High-Society pure-bloods like Narcissa Malfoy. It needs more people like you, Harry. People who do good for its own sake.
"The party you 'crashed' at the Burrow was a going-away party, Harry. You see...I've applied to the Ministry for a Missionary Passport. It will admit me into any magical community in the world. Percy is working on it personally at the Department of Magical Cooperation. As soon as the paperwork is in order, I'm off on a three-year mission. I'll be hard to go. I've a lot of people to say goodbye to...a lot of friends I won't see for a long time...who I know I'll miss terribly. But I know it's the right choice. It's what I need to do.
"You once asked me to understand when you made a difficult decision. I need you to do the same for me. Can you understand, Harry? I -- I can't marry now. Not anyone. For the next three years, I've got to be married to my work. This may be the most important thing I'll ever do. I -- I can't do it by halves. Can you...forgive me?"
Tears were streaming down Harry's face as if a tap had been opened.
"I said it before. Just when I think you can't impress me more...I love you so much, Hermione. I wouldn't stop you for all the gold in Gringotts."
"Thank you," Hermione said in a voice softer than moonlight. She turned away, allowing Harry as much as herself a respite for composure. When at last she turned back around, her face was dry, though her cheeks glowed crimson and her eyes were still a bit puffy.
"Now, Mr. Potter," she said in a crisply professional voice, reminding Harry forcibly of Madam Pomfrey at her regal best, "I think you've had enough excitement for your first day back among the living. We may have flushed the malaria out of your system, but your recovery still has a little ways to go. Doctor Granger prescribes a Sleeping Draught." She gave Harry a withering look, as if daring him to object while she fought desperately not to smile.
"I always follow doctor's orders," Harry said obediently, his eyes flashing at Hermione's in a silent chuckle.
Hermione secured a flask from a cabinet and filled a goblet with a practiced eye. Harry drained it, feeling a relaxing warmth spread through him delightfully. Hermione removed the pillow from his shoulders, and he lay back with a contented sigh, looking up at Hermione with a mixture of deepest respect, boundless admiration -- and unequivocal love.
"By the way, Harry," Hermione added as a seeming afterthought, "I have a small problem you may be able to help me with."
"Anything," Harry said as a delicious drowsiness crept through him.
"Dumbledore warned me," Hermione said in a serious voice, "that there are many dangers inherent in such a mission as I propose. He strongly urged me not to go alone, but to take someone along to act as a sort of -- bodyguard, shall we say.
"So, Harry, you wouldn't happen to know of any unemployed ex-Aurors who might fill the position, would you?"
"I might know someone," Harry said with a suppressed grin, his speech slurring slightly as the potion took hold.
"Is he trustworthy?" Hermione asked with playful innocence.
"He'll...never...let...you...down."
Straining to see through blurring eyes, Harry saw Hermione lean close, felt her warm breath on his ear.
"Tell him he's hired."
Soft fingers parted his hair; tender lips touched his forehead in a feathery kiss.
"When...leaving?" Harry mumbled through a drowsy smile.
"Don't you worry about anything but getting well," Hermione instructed. "There's no hurry.
"I'll wait for you."
Harry held his breath. All that followed Hermione's words was a quiet, blessed silence. But to Harry, that silence was the most beautiful sound in the world.
Author's Note: Thanks to all who followed this story to its end. I hope it was worth the time invested. This story was deeper and less straightforward than my usual fare, and I felt increasingly uncomfortable in such unfamiliar territory. But when an idea springs up and demands to be written, one can but follow where the Muse leads. May she be kinder to me in future. Until then, thanks again.