Chapter Five: Enough
"Harry!" Tom announced as Harry stepped inside the Leaky Cauldron. Every head in the room snapped two curious eyes in his direction and he felt the heat rise under his collar.
"Hi, Tom," he replied, meandering to the bar and pulling up a stool.
"What can I get for you?"
Harry ran a hand around the back of his neck and sighed. "Can I get a decanter of Ogden's and a room for the night?"
Tom chuckled as he tossed the bar towel over his shoulder. "That sounds like a woman if I've ever heard it." He rummaged around under the bar and produced a tall glass. "I don't know about a decanter, but this is my standard fare for the broken-hearted."
"I'm not broken-hearted," Harry replied.
Tom raised an eyebrow and studied Harry's defeated expression. "Hmmm," he said, grabbing at his chin. "You're right." He snatched the glass from the bar and produced one twice its size. "This will do."
Harry smirked at the glass as Tom poured the whiskey. "What do you use this one for?"
"When the woman is your best friend."
Harry's head snapped up and his brow furrowed as Tom sniggered to himself and wandered down the bar. Harry took a sip of his drink, letting it warm a trail down his throat, and caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked tired. He ruffled a hand through his hair and propped his elbows on the bar.
"She's not my girlfriend, you know," a voice floated in from behind him. Harry didn't bother to look up, he'd recognize it anywhere. Far be it for him to find a place where he could relax.
"I don't have anything to say to you," Harry said, staring into his glass.
"So I gathered," Ron replied as he pulled up the stool next to Harry.
Harry took little solace in the glass Ron placed on the bar next to his. It was the smaller glass Ton originally produced for Harry. "Trouble in paradise?" he asked with a sneer.
"There is no paradise, Harry," Ron remarked, staring into his own glass. "I didn't have it with Hermione and I don't have it now."
"No?" Harry replied, catching his eye for the first time.
"No."
Ron's expression sent a chill up Harry's spine. Harry dropped his shoulders and took a sip of whiskey. Looking back to his reflection, he saw the pair of them, sitting together, miserable. Ron's eyes met his across the wavy mirror inspiring Harry to look away.
He wanted to be angry with Ron. He'd put all his stock in blaming him for everything that happened to Hermione; it saved him, at least in theory, from blaming himself. When he glimpsed them, sitting together, it reminded him of endless feasts at Hogwarts where they'd been the best of friends. He didn't want to be reminded of that. He wanted to be angry.
"Do you want to hear the story?" Ron asked.
Harry stared into his glass. "If you feel like listening to yourself talk, go ahead. It's not worth the energy to stop you."
Ron hesitated a moment, appearing to mull over his decision to go forward. Having made his decision, his eyes returned to the sparking ale in front of him and he let out a long breath. "She's a bit scary," he muttered.
"I seem to remember you saying that about Hermione at one time," Harry replied, drinking from his glass and staring straight ahead.
"Hermione's always been scary. But she's scary in that I'll-hex-you-with-a-curse-you-can't-pronounce kind of way. Emily isn't like that." He looked to Harry and returned his attention to the carvings in the bar. "I won't lie to you," he said. "I am a bit attracted to her."
Harry grumbled while keeping his eyes trained on his glass.
"I don't know," Ron sighed. "It was so hard with Hermione. I love her; I honestly do, Harry. I'll always love her. I think a part of her will always love me, but we just couldn't make it work."
"Maybe you didn't try hard enough."
"That's just it; all we did was 'try.' It shouldn't be that hard. Every day was a battle. It was draining. I aged more in the last year and a half than I have in the last fifteen. So did she."
"So, what happened?" Harry asked, hoping to maintain the façade that he didn't care.
"We fought…every day…about everything. I couldn't do anything, I couldn't say anything, I couldn't help her. Everything was an argument. Most days I'd end up leaving the flat, which is what I think she wanted in the first place." Ron harrumphed as he took a sip of his drink. "That's when I met Emily."
Harry looked at Ron for the first time in the story. "And…," Harry prompted.
"I don't know. She was easy to talk to. I could relax around her. She laughed at my jokes and made me laugh as well. It seemed every time I escaped the wrath of Hermione, I ended up here. Oddly, she always seemed to be here." He chuckled to himself. "I didn't think anything of it then. I was just glad to have an ear that would listen without calling me a prat."
"So, what happened?" Harry asked, reiterating the question and cursing himself for gaining interest in the story.
"Nothing," Ron replied, shooting a look toward him. "I wouldn't cheat on Hermione." He looked away. "We just talked. After the last fight…the fight…the owls started flying."
"What do you mean?" Harry replied.
Ron chuckled to himself and drained his glass. "I was so jealous of you throughout our time at Hogwarts." Harry's eyebrows furrowed as the conversation seemed to go awry. "Your fame…your notoriety; I wished I could've had my fifteen minutes for your fifteen years."
"What's that got to do…"
Ron cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I got it." He turned to look at Harry and propped an elbow on the bar. "I think Emily saw Hermione's departure as her chance. She started owling me…every day. Then the owls came twice a day, then twice an hour. Every letter made some veiled reference to my heroics or bravery." Ron rolled his eyes and waved his empty glass in the air for Tom to see. "I tried to be polite. I was at least a bit interested. But not like she was. I didn't want to be a prat. But she wouldn't take the hint."
Harry found himself sympathizing with the one man he didn't want to sympathize with. But he understood Ron's dilemma all too well. Memories of Rita Skeeter's sensational journalism flashed through his mind. Before he knew it, he replied, "So what did you do?"
"I avoided her, until her owl came about Hermione." He gave a barking laugh. "I'd managed to forget she worked at St. Mungo's. But I didn't care when I got that owl. I didn't care if she thought I'd come running to her. I had to see Hermione. I had to know she was okay."
Harry turned away, guilt flushing his features. He'd felt the same way when caged in that waiting room as time slowed to a geologic pace. Something in Ron's voice reminded him that, regardless of his and Hermione's demise, he was still as much of a friend to her as Harry, and Harry kept him from seeing her that night.
"Ron, I'm…"
"No," Ron interjected.
Harry snapped his head to Ron's and silence fell between the two. Try as he might to forget, a lifetime of memories flashed before him. This was his best friend, his only real friend aside from Hermione, and he lost the resolve to keep him at bay.
"It's not your fault." Ron continued. "This is a public place and the rumors about Emily and I were commonplace. I'm not surprised you bought into them. I know that's what her healer thinks."
"Morgenstern," Harry muttered, slugging back another gulp of his firewhiskey.
"Yeah, Morgenstern," Ron lamented.
"Prat," they said together. They caught each other's eyes and broke into laughter. Aside from seeing Hermione home from St. Mungo's, nothing made Harry feel lighter than the harmony of their chuckling voices.
Tom appeared with another sparking glass of ale and refilled Ron's glass. "On your tab, Ron?" he asked as he wiped down the bar in front of them.
"On mine," Harry responded with a smile. "It's about time I bought my best friend a drink." He caught Ron's eye, from the corner of his own, and saw the relief reflected on his face.
"Very well," Tom responded. He pulled a key from his pocket and tossed it across the bar. "I've had Room Eleven prepared for you…for old time's sake." He winked and walked to the new customers who'd sat down at the end of the bar.
"Room Eleven?" Ron asked as he tapped his glass with his wand and watched it burst into a bright orange flame. "Why aren't you staying with Hermione?"
"She chucked me out."
"What?" Ron said, whirling around on his bar stool.
Harry put a hand up to calm him. "Well, not in so many words, but it's clear she doesn't want company."
"So?" Ron scoffed. "Harry, that flat is an abomination. I don't trust it not to burn down any more than I trust her not to do something stupid…again."
Harry nodded his assent throughout Ron's tirade. He agreed with every word. But, given Hermione's reaction to her parents' request, he dared not invite himself.
"I know. I was about to say some of those same things," he cut a glance to Ron, "with a bit more diplomacy…when her entire demeanor changed. She'd been so relaxed and peaceful and without warning…"
"She turned on you." Ron declared. "Started a row and produced enough tension to suffocate the dead until you felt compelled to leave."
Harry stared at Ron with his mouth agape.
"Welcome to my world, wonder boy."
Harry closed his mouth and played with the condensation on the outside of his glass. Something stirred in his mind and he struggled to put his finger on it. The more he thought, the clearer it became. Hermione forced Ron out of her life. She picked the rows until he couldn't take it anymore and she was doing the same thing to Harry.
"Ron," Harry began. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure," Ron replied.
"Do you think Hermione suspected something between you and Emily?"
Ron turned the glass on the table. "I don't know." Harry got up from his stool and tossed the key and a few galleons on the bar. "Where are you off to?" Ron asked.
"Hermione's," Harry replied. "I'll owl you tomorrow." Ron sat back on the stool and a grin creased his lips. Harry started for the door and stopped almost as quickly. "Listen, Ron…"
"I told you not to worry about it," he replied with a smile. "Go. She needs you." Harry smiled and slapped the back of his shoulder. As he left the pub, he heard Ron's voice call to Tom that Harry left enough money for at least one more Flaming Firebolt.
***
"Hermione, let me in," Harry called as he rapped on the door. He'd been knocking for five minutes. Two of her neighbors popped their heads out of their doors to investigate the racket while the woman who was the textbook definition of 'stubborn' feigned a deaf ear. Harry dug in his front pocket and produced the key to her flat. He looked at the paint, peeling from the wooden door, and resorted to a slight misrepresentation of the truth.
"I have no where to stay, Hermione."
Seconds later the brass knob jiggled and the door snapped open. "Did you try the Leaky Cauldron?"
Harry ignored the question. He breezed past her into the flat and dropped his bag next to the door.
"What do you think you're doing?" she exclaimed.
"What does it look like?" he responded, leaning against the back of the sofa.
"You…you can't…stay," she bumbled.
"Surely, you wouldn't throw me to the cobblestones," Harry said as he stood upright and walked into the kitchen. He could hear Hermione struggling to find a response.
"I haven't got a place for you to sleep," she argued as she rolled into the kitchen.
"I'll sleep on the sofa."
"You'll starve, there's hardly enough in that cupboard for me," she continued.
"That's why I'm making a shopping list."
"I'll seal the door the second you leave!"
"I have a key."
"That's something else I'd like to discuss with you," she sneered.
"I'm not leaving, Hermione."
"Harry!" she yelled. "This is my home and I've not invited you!"
Harry put the quill down and turned toward her. He crossed his arms over his chest and drew a calming breath. This repartee entertained him in the beginning but her tenacity wore on his nerves.
"Hermione," he began, "I know you haven't invited me and I don't care." Her eyes flashed with indignation. "I'm not leaving," he reiterated.
"I can manage well enough on…"
"No, you can't!" He interrupted. "Look at this flat! It's dark, it's old, it's small, and it's falling down around your ears. Is this what you envisioned for yourself?" he said before considering the ramifications of the question.
"No!" she cried. "None of this is what I envisioned for myself!" she screamed, throwing her arms in the air. "I never envisioned myself strapped to this bloody chair and incapable of the most mundane task. I never envisioned myself unable to stand on my own two feet…to walk across a room…to reach a book on the third shelf!" Her voice shook as the tears splashed down her cheeks. "I never envisioned myself having to call my fiancé to retrieve me from the loo because I couldn't…I mean, I needed…" Frustrated by her inability to finish the sentence gracefully, she snapped a teacup from the table and threw it across the room. It smashed into an adjacent wall as she swiped a tear from her cheek.
Harry couldn't take the look in her eyes. For the first time since their battle with Voldemort, he saw her through the wall of stoicism she erected in St. Mungo's. He saw the pain in her eyes and heard it quiver in her voice. He felt her imprisonment to a condition she never asked for and didn't deserve. The tears sprang to his eyes and he crossed the room to where she sat, glaring at him.
"No!" She slapped his hands away from her as he tried to pull her close. "No. No!" she continued as he wrapped his fingers around her wheels and refused to let her back away.
He fell to his knees in front of her, his eyes blurred with the sting of guilty tears. Her staunch defiance collapsed as long overdue sobs eclipsed her willpower to keep him at bay.
"I don't need you," she cried, her arms attempting to push his away. "I want to do this by myself," she begged as he pulled her against his chest. "I want to...," she sobbed. "I want to…"
He felt her sink into his arms and grasp at the back of his shirt as the words she cried tore his heart from his chest.
"Oh God, Harry, I don't want to live like this anymore!"
She collapsed in a fit of tears matched only by his own. He stood up, cradling her in his arms and moved to the sofa, rocking her methodically as they cried together. She continued to mumble amid her sobs.
"I know," he replied with equal frequency.
He continued to rock her in his arms as she spent the last tears within her. He ran his hand through her hair and kissed her forehead as she slumped against him. Wiping a stray tear from his own cheek, he broke the new silence. He raised her head from his chest and looked into her reddened eyes.
"You once told me not to worry. You said everything would be all right and I believed you." Her face began to contort with the tears that threatened her composure once again. Harry pulled her forehead to his lips and kissed her again. "I still believe you," he said, his lips pressed to her skin, "and it will be all right. I promise you that."
***
Hermione blinked her eyes against the invading sunlight. She squinted as she peered around the room. She lay in her bed snuggled under the covers as the sizzling sound of bacon crept through the door. Her eyes flew open as she pushed herself to a sitting position. Her shoes, socks and jumper sat folded on the dresser across the room. She snapped the covers up and prayed that she wasn't wearing her night clothes.
With a sigh, she relaxed and fell backward onto her pillows. She wore the same tank top and skirt she'd donned yesterday. Staring at the crackled ceiling above her bed, she grabbed a pillow and shoved it against her face. She wanted nothing more than to block out the world and believe the last week of her life did not exist. Yet the sound of Harry's off-key kitchen serenade reminded her of the multitude of things she'd rather forget.
The severity of the event was the only hope Hermione held that she would "live down" the fact that she drowned in her own bathtub. Days later, the entire situation seemed so bizarre that she couldn't believe it happened at all. But her itching throat, tender sternum and Harry's persistent mutilation of the latest Weird Sisters release convinced her otherwise. It did happen. He did save her.
And he saw her naked.
It was the last thought, more than any other, that invaded her thoughts both while she was sleeping and while awake. As soon as she understood what happened, and how she managed to survive the ordeal, the reality of her rescue became all-consuming. Not only did he pull her, naked and wet, from the bathtub, but he spent an undisclosed period of time reviving her through muggle cardiopulmonary resuscitation. The thought of it churned the fluid in her stomach and she pulled herself onto her side.
Through the course of her therapy she studied muggle medicine, as well as magical. She knew what Harry must've done to drag her back from the precipice she'd thrust herself toward. She didn't remember his lips on hers or his hands between her breasts. She only remembered throwing up all over the floor as she gasped for breath. If that wasn't embarrassing enough, she destroyed any remaining shred of dignity the previous night as she cried herself to sleep over an ailment she should've come to terms with already. She couldn't control her lower body. She could control her behavior. She'd done so with splendid distinction until Harry Potter returned to her life.
Dammit.
"Hermione?" his muffled voice called from behind the pillow.
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could crawl into a hole, as he pulled the pillow from her face.
"Playing hide and seek?" he chuckled as he sat down on the bed.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. "I wasn't good at that game as a child..." She didn't need to finish the rest of the sentence.
Harry's face grew serious and he grasped her hand in his. "How are you doing?" he asked, pressing the back of her hand to his lips.
She tried to ignore the flop in her chest as his eyes met hers and his warm breath danced across her hand. She tried to regain a modicum of the dignity she'd thrown away.
"I'm fine," she offered with a bright voice.
He cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "Hermione…"
"Listen, Harry," she interrupted. "I should apologize for last…"
"No, you shouldn't."
Hermione looked at him in disbelief. "Yes, I really should."
His head shook to the sides as she carried on with her apology. "I acted like a whinging dolt. You've scarcely been back one week and you're life has revolved around nothing but me. That's ridiculous. You have a life!" She stopped to consider her statement. "Don't you?"
Harry chuckled at the implication and ran his thumb across the back of her hand. He caught her eye and opened his mouth to reply, but closed it before he mustered a response. He let out a breath and squirmed on the bed. "Hermione," he began. "I," he paused, "I don't mind." His shoulders slumped and he looked toward the window.
"Harry," she replied. "I don't want to hold anyone back. I did it to Ron. I won't do it to you."
His head snapped back to hers. "You're not holding me back, Hermione." He let go of her hand and straightened the blanket atop of her. "Maybe you just need to acquaint yourself with the fact I like being here…with you."
Hermione's stomach quivered and she scrambled for a change of topic. "Well, er…" she stammered. "I assume I have you to thank for ending up here." She looked around her bedroom. "I hope your back isn't too disgruntled with you."
Harry laughed. "Not at all."
"Yes, well," she continued. "Thank you for, er…" She looked down at her tank top and fiddled with the blanket covering the same skirt she'd worn last night. She coughed and tried to clear her throat. "Well…thank you."
Harry hopped from the bed and ruffled a hand through his hair. "I..er…" He cleared his throat. "I made breakfast."
Hermione drew a breath and looked past him through the open bedroom door. "I know. It smells wonderful!"
Harry spun around and pulled her chair toward the bed. "I should check on it; it's probably charcoal by now." He drew the wheelchair next to her and stepped backward. "Take your time," he added with betrayed nonchalance as he bumped into the doorjamb.
"I'll just be a minute," Hermione whispered, stupefied by the awkward atmosphere between them. He closed the door behind him and hummed the same butchered tune as he walked back to the kitchen.
She pushed herself up on the pillows and wrapped her hand around the bedpost before realizing her ritual. As she pushed her legs off the bed, she stopped. Looking at the door through which Harry disappeared, she considered the ramifications of her actions. Should she fall, as she always did, it opened the door to another embarrassing adventure.
"Accio chair," she mumbled, catching it in her hand as it rolled to her.
***
Harry flipped the bacon in the pan and turned off the burner. He stacked the bacon on a serving plate next to the eggs and toast and set it on the table. He picked a few dead petals from the flowers on the table and made his way to the refrigerator.
"Hermione, breakfast is ready," he called. Pulling the carafe of pumpkin juice from the refrigerator, he began searching the cabinets for glasses.
"They're down here," Hermione said, pointing to the base cabinet on his left.
"Oh."
He looked at her, looked at her chair, and felt smaller than Professor Flitwick. He had searched in the lower cabinets for the serving platter but, in his haste, fell victim to standard habit when searching for the glasses.
"This looks wonderful, Harry," she said, gliding over to the table. "I haven't had a proper breakfast in ages."
"So your cupboard would have me believe."
He settled into an upholstered chair across from her and winked. "Let's eat." He took a few slices of bacon and scooped some eggs onto his plate. He looked up, noticing she hadn't moved, and stopped.
"You haven't become a vegetarian, have you?" He was only half-joking.
Hermione looked at him and smiled, taking a piece of toast from the stack. "No," she replied. "This just reminded me of breakfast in the Great Hall."
Harry stopped to consider the implications of that sentence. Was she remembering the food at Hogwarts? The companionship? The battle?
"What?" she asked.
Harry looked up from the bacon that chilled in his hand. "Nothing," he replied, shaking the sound of her screams from his head.
Several minutes passed with only the sound of cutlery clinking against the dishes. Harry stole glances across the table as often as he dared in order to appraise her mood. She seemed the same as she'd been since he returned - the same as she'd been since the battle.
She looked incomplete…hollow. Something was missing. Her face didn't ignite with the fiery passion he'd seen her contribute to any number of causes. Her skin didn't glow. Her eyes didn't sparkle. Malfoy's swirling black curse appeared to have broken her spirit more so than her spinal cord. But the part that unnerved him most was the realization that he didn't know how to help her. He didn't know what to do.
So he changed the subject.
"So, what's on the agenda for today?"
"I've got to meet Morgenstern in two hours."
Harry remembered the encoded conversation she and the healer exchanged as she left St. Mungo's. Poking a scrambled egg with his fork, he continued. "Do you meet often?"
"Every week." She poured another glass of pumpkin juice.
"Oh," he replied with his best effort to sound nonchalant.
"Would you like to come?"
He looked up to find her smiling at him across the table. "How could I resist?"