Nightingale

Vicarious Leigh

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 26/07/2005
Last Updated: 26/07/2005
Status: completed

Forever changed by the final confrontation with Voldemort, Hermione finds a way to move on in the one man she'd thought left forever...Harry.

Chapters

1. The Price of Heroism

2. A Hero Returns

3. The Road Less Traveled

4. Alone

5. Enough

6. Harry and the Healer

7. A Lesson in Love

8. The Birdman

9. Epilogue

1. The Price of Heroism

A/N: *All the typical disclaimers apply*

I started writing this (and posting a bit of it) in my LJ and on my Yahoo! Group months ago. I fell out of favor writing it as I got busy and the muse left. However, the arrival of HBP and the “Delusional” interview has reignited the muse and I finished it short order.

As I began writing this long before HBP came out anything you may read within it has not been influenced by Book 6 (although I find myself in the “beyond” again as it opens with the canon couple). Well, I might amend that to say the last half of chapter 8 and the Epilogue are post-HBP and “pirate cheese” ensues…I’m sure you won’t mind.

All parts herein have been shredded and reconstructed by my awesome betas and friends, Cheeringcharm and Danielerin. I pay special devotion to DE here as she’s left our fandom but still agreed to give this the once over for me *hugs DE.* Jane, you will be missed on PK, LJ and abroad – and as testament to the friendship we’ve forged and the consideration I have for you…

This one is for you.

Vicarious Leigh

Nightingale

By: Vicarious Leigh

Chapter One: The Price of Heroism

“Go ahead and say it, Ron!”

Although his back was turned to her, Hermione could see him stiffen as he stared through the windowpane.

“What am I supposed to say?”

“What you’ve been dying to say for the past six months!” Hermione blasted. Her eyes watered as she fought the vibration in her voice. “That you want out,” she continued. “That I’m not the person you fell in love with and you didn’t ask for the lifetime of misery you’re destined to have with me!”

Ron turned and met her glare. She stared at him from the dining table and awaited his reply. She could tell from his hesitation, however brief, that she’d been spot on in her assessment. It burgeoned her determination to carry out the plan she set forth a week ago.

“Is that what you think?” he replied.

“I know it.” She leaned back against the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She wanted him to run to her side and tell her she was wrong. She wanted him to tell her all they needed was their love and that nothing else mattered. She wanted him to argue with her, to prove the spark still existed.

He paced the floor in silence. That’s when she knew.

She couldn’t blame him. When he admitted his feelings for her, just over a year ago, she was a different person. They were students then, enjoying their last year at Hogwarts and pretending they were normal teenagers with normal best friends. But, pretend as they did, reality was a stern reminder. Hermione couldn’t argue the fact that Harry’s final battle with Voldemort changed her. It changed them all. She watched Ron pace in awkward silence before her and drew the courage to carry out the logical decision.

“I’m leaving, Ron.” His footsteps fell silent. He leaned forward, his back to her, and braced himself against the countertop.

“Why?”

“You know why,” she replied. “This isn’t working. If you’re too stubborn to say so, then I will,” she added. His head dropped between his shoulder blades. She wiped a tear from her eye before he had the sense to turn around. A bludger-sized lump lodged itself in her throat. She drew a breath to steady her voice against the words she’d wanted to say for six months.

“I’m sorry, Ron.”

“When?” It was the first time she heard his voice warble since she picked this row. Although she expected the question, she didn’t want to answer it. To do so betrayed the secret that she planned the end of their relationship weeks earlier.

“I can leave tomorrow,” she whispered.

He turned around and met her eyes with the question stamped along his brow. He didn’t need to ask. “I signed on a flat last week. It was ready yesterday.”

He closed his reddened eyes and drew a breath. She couldn’t take his expression. She found sudden interest in a loose thread from her sleeve and fought to keep the tears at bay. She wanted to leave. She wanted to run from the flat and crawl into a hole, but she couldn’t.

Ron beat her to it.

His long stride crossed the floor in three steps and the dishes shook in the cabinets as he slammed the door behind him. She buried her face in her hands and released an anguished cry as her shoulders bobbed up and down.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

*

Hermione wiped a tear from her eye as the sun streamed through the windows of her bedroom. She looked to the clock on her bedside table and wondered how long this would last. How many mornings would she rise at the exact same time? How many nights would she relive their last conversation? How many times would she find herself surprised that the diamond ring no longer sat on her left hand? She growled aloud and threw her hands over her eyes.

“I’m through wallowing,” she declared to the silence of her simple flat. She dropped her arms and winced as her elbow collided with the spine of the book she read when she fell asleep. She looked at the book, glanced at her wand lying on the bedside table, and turned a speculative eye toward the loo. “That’s it,” she remarked. “Today is the day.”

She pushed herself up on her pillows and slapped the book closed. She closed her eyes and drew a breath. Without opening them, she engaged in the same ritual she enacted every morning since reclaiming her independence. She wrapped her right hand around the bedpost and pushed her legs off the bed with her left. She pulled herself up and opened her eyes. With her destination in sight, she let go of her four poster bed and willed herself to do the one thing she hadn’t done since the fated battle with Voldemort…walk.

Apparently, today wasn’t the day.

Throwing her arms out, she tried to break her fall. As it was, she only managed to pull the coverings from her bed…and the book with it. As she collapsed to the floor, the heavy tome crashed into her forehead from above. Dancing lights blurred her vision as she squeezed her eyes closed. Tears of frustration threatened to break loose as she lay on the floor with a throbbing headache. She didn’t want to cry. She refused to feel sorry for herself. So, she did the next best thing. She opened her eyes, grabbed the book (Alternative Healing: the Muggle Approach) from its place on the floor, and threw it across the room.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!” she screamed. Her voice echoed from the walls as she punched the floor in frustration. She pushed herself onto her stomach and looked up toward the chair at the foot of the bed.

When she first learned of her paralysis, she took her prognosis for granted. After all, she was a witch. The healers at St. Mungo’s were among the best in the wizarding world. She operated under the assumption they would wave a wand and mutter an incantation and she’d be normal in a matter of seconds. In the months that followed, she chastised herself for not realizing the importance of her location. She didn’t wake up in Hogwarts’ hospital wing, and she never stopped to consider the ramifications of being placed in the spell damage ward at St. Mungo’s – not that it did her any good.

She was surprised to note the lacking progress of the wizarding world in relation to accommodating those with impaired mobility. Her spirits sank lower as she looked up at the throne she’d been relegated to for the past thirteen months. It was not unlike a muggle wheelchair in many respects. However, despite their lack of progress in healing neurological damage, the wizarding world did manage to improve upon the muggle accommodation. The enchanted chair reacted to a wave of her hand. She only pushed it herself during her morning “strolls.” Furthermore, it was charmed to ascend staircases and rise from the floor to help her reach whatever she needed. But that was a feature, much to her healer’s dismay, Hermione didn’t use. She abhorred flying on a broomstick in top condition. She certainly wasn’t going to fly a chair around the room when she couldn’t feel, or control, anything below her waist.

Since her release from St. Mungo’s, she kept regular appointments with Healer Morgenstern. He tried new spells and potions each time she met with him but nothing helped. She left every session feeling as dejected as when she arrived – more so because she had to withstand the disappointment stamped across Ron’s face. In an effort to find her own cure, she used her newfound position in charms research to her advantage.

The foundation that employed Hermione accommodated her condition. They awarded her full access to their research facilities and assigned a hearty owl to bring her the volumes she requested at any given time. They allowed her to work from home and submit her reports via the same method. After a week on the job, the poor bird required medical attention to treat exhaustion. When her supervisor offered a replacement courier, Hermione declined. After all, Hedwig was left to her care and bored stiff. She seemed to take Hermione’s assignments as a personal challenge to prove the last bird was below standard. Thanks to Hedwig, Hermione never missed a deadline or the opportunity to research her own cure.

She brewed her own potions and cast her own charms. Either due to embarrassment or the real possibility that her efforts would end in failure, she never told Ron of her endeavor. It was a good thing, too; none of her attempts garnered significant progress. That was when she began reading about muggle techniques in physical therapy.

She was desperate to try anything and everything she read. Most of her efforts ended with bruises or cuts. For as much as the books illustrated what to do, it was difficult to accomplish the task alone. On more than one occasion, Healer Morgenstern cast suspicious glances toward Ron and asked veiled questions about whether there was “anything she needed to tell him about her fiancé.” It took Hermione months to realize Healer Morgenstern thought the bruises were coming from Ron.

Despite her protestations, she never convinced Morgenstern that Ron was a perfect gentleman, if only because Hermione continued her efforts to heal herself and he was never an active participant in her therapy sessions. She couldn’t resist the compulsion as she felt tingles in her ankles on two occasions. She continued because she convinced herself it was working. It had to work.

“Morgenstern,” Hermione harrumphed. She looked at her watch and sighed. She had an appointment in an hour. It was the first appointment without Ron. She reached up to the bedside table and pulled her wand down. “Accio chair.”

***

“Hermione!” A dark-haired young man perked up at the sight of her rolling into the room. He was a well-dressed man a few years her senior. His hair always fell in place and his blue eyes sparkled like the glinting sunlight off the North Sea waves. He hopped from his chair with a wide smile and crossed the room.

“Good morning, Healer Morgenstern,” she replied. He waved his hands in front of him as if he were batting away a swarm of gnats.

“Thirteen months, Hermione! Thirteen months I’ve been telling you to call me Adam,” he swooped around behind her and pushed her chair across the hardwood floor. “You are, without doubt, the most stubborn witch in London.”

“So I’ve been told,” she answered. The chair drew to a stop and Morgenstern dropped onto a large exercise ball in front of her.

“You seem glum this morning,” he began. “Is something the matter?” Before the question finished issuing from his throat, he looked over her shoulder toward the door. His brow furrowed as he continued to search the room.

“He’s not here,” she said. His eyes returned to hers and he gave her a supportive smile. “I left,” she continued before he could interject. “It wasn’t fair to him.”

“Not fair to him?” he scoffed. “Hermione…”

“Please, don’t,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to hear how this wasn’t my fault. I don’t want to hear that I’m the same person inside or how he should love me for who I am.” She looked at him with glaring eyes. “You’ve said all of that before. The truth is this…” she waved her hands over her chair, “does matter.”

Morgenstern didn’t reply. “He’s barely started his life,” she mumbled. “Maybe if things had been different it would’ve worked. But this wasn’t what he signed up for.” She dropped her forehead into her hand. “I couldn’t do that to him.”

“You picked a fight so he could break up with a clear conscience,” he said. Hermione’s head shot up from her hand. Morgenstern laughed. “Honestly, Hermione, you think I can’t see through you?”

“Well, I…”

“Enough of this depressing chatter,” he interrupted. “I’m interested to try some of these alternative healing methods you suggested. Let’s get started.”

Thankful for the change of subject and an activity to occupy her thoughts, Hermione worked with the healer for ninety minutes. They ran the gamut of physical exercises from her textbook. Morgenstern never helped her move from station to station, rather he encouraged her to get herself from one place to the next, even if she had to drag herself there. The one time he did let his “drill sergeant” guard down and suggested the use of her wand, Hermione told him off and pulled herself to the next station out of spite. When they finished, she was exhausted. She heaved herself into her chair and let out a fatigued breath.

“Hermione, how are you getting home?” he asked.

Her head was laid back against her chair and her eyes were closed. “Well, you see, I have this chair,” she quipped. The silence that greeted her compelled her to open one eye. Morgenstern crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot against the hardwood floor. “Oh, lighten up,” she argued. “I can get along just fine.”

“You’re knackered, Hermione. I worked you too hard,” he lamented.

“Nonsense,” she replied, closing her eyes again.

“Why don’t I summon someone to help you home,” he offered. “Where’s that white owl that’s always following you around?” The question got Hermione’s attention and her head rose up. She hadn’t seen Hedwig since she’d moved out of Ron’s flat.

“I imagine the little turncoat elected to stay with Ron,” she sneered. “I haven’t seen her since I left.” She dropped her head back against the chair. “Betrayed by a bird,” she scoffed. “What next?”

“But, I thought it was your owl?” Morgenstern questioned.

“No,” Hermione replied, fighting through a yawn. “I’ve been taking care of her for a friend.”

“Where’s she?” he asked.

“He,” she clarified, “left after I was released from St. Mungo’s.” For as much as she worked to avoid it, Morgenstern’s question compelled her to think of the one person she’d tried so hard not to think about.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m the one in charge.” He waved his wand and his jacket flew across the room. He threw it around his shoulders and smirked. “You can tell me all about him while I take you home.” If she’d had the energy, she would’ve rebuked the offer. However, as she had no choice in the matter, she told Morgenstern about the last time she saw her best friend.

***

Hermione felt the weight of her visitor depress the mattress next to her. Warm fingers brushed along her cheek as her eyes fluttered open. Not surprisingly, she was staring upon the face of her best friend; the same friend who’d been attached to her bedside for over a month.

“You know,” she began. “You’ll start a scandal with as much as you’ve been hanging around.” He chuckled to himself and kissed the back of her hand. “I wanted to thank you for helping Ron and I get settled into this flat,” she said.

“It’s the least I could do,” he mumbled. She recognized the expression on his face. It was the same one she saw every time he visited her.

“Harry,” she lamented. “How many times must we have this discussion?” The muscles along his jaw line worked methodically and his eyes did not meet hers. “What happened to me was not your fault.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“Look at me,” she implored. His eyes met hers as she squeezed his hand. “I don’t care what the healers at St. Mungo’s say,” she continued. “I will walk again.” A tear escaped his eye as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“I know,” he repeated as his lips brushed her skin. He sat back and stared at their hands, intertwined on the bed, as he ran his thumb across the back of her hand. He was pensive this afternoon; it didn’t escape Hermione’s attention.

“There’s something else,” she pondered aloud. Harry didn’t reply. The silence became unnerving as a litany of worst case scenarios began to play in her mind. “Harry, what is it?”

He looked between her eyes and their clasped hands several times. He drew a breath and looked away.

“Hermione, there’s something I’ve wanted to tell you. I think it’s the right time.” Her heart dropped to her knees.

She’d wondered about his feelings for her. In all honesty, she’d wondered about her own feelings for him. While Harry supported her relationship with Ron, something in his demeanor never convinced her he was accepting of his role as “third wheel.” Perhaps it was the fact his smile never met his eyes, or the stolen glances when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Maybe it was the fact he hadn’t left her side since she crumpled to the floor under the pain of Lucius Malfoy’s curse. She wasn’t sure what made her think Harry harbored feelings for her, but this was not the time to spout confessions. They’d just unpacked the last box in the flat Ron acquired for himself and Hermione.

She opened her mouth to stem his words before they could roll off his tongue; she didn’t get the chance.

“I’m leaving.”

“What?!” she exclaimed.

“Hermione,” he whispered. “I don’t know if you’ll understand this. I’m not sure that I do. But, I have to go.”

“Go where?” her voice warbled.

“I don’t know,” he scoffed. “I just know I have to go. I’m not sure what I’m doing or where I’m going anymore. The days run into each other and I can’t tell when one starts and one stops. I can’t go out in public without being mobbed. I can’t get away and I’m going insane locked up inside. I’ve got all the freedom in the world and I feel like I’m stuck in that bloody cupboard under the stairs.” He raised his eyes to hers and tried to laugh. “You’re the logical one; I guess I was hoping you could tell me if I’ve gone mad.”

Hermione wanted to do just that. Ron began his new job at the Ministry two weeks ago and Harry saw to her care while Ron was at the office. Aside from the fact they were best friends since she was eleven, she grew accustomed to seeing him everyday. If Harry left, she’d be alone…the one thing she feared the most. She thought to say these very words when her eyes met his.

He looked lost. The expression on his face reminded her of the little boy she met on the train. He bested the most powerful dark wizard in a millennium, but it was obvious he continued to wage a battle within himself. She couldn’t bring herself to voice her selfish concerns. It was time for Harry to put “Harry” first, and he needed permission to do so.

“No,” she replied. “I don’t think you’re mad.” His face relaxed and she continued. “You’ve been through so much – so much more than any of us could imagine. With a few notable exceptions,” she couldn’t help but smile, “you’ve never complained about it.”

He chuckled aloud. “Like my entire fifth year at Hogwarts?” he asked.

Hermione reflected his smile and nodded. “I wasn’t going to say it,” she laughed. He echoed her laughter and Hermione’s spirits lifted to see his face brighten. As quickly as the feeling came, it left. She had to ask. “How long will you be gone?”

He looked down at their hands and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he speculated. “However long it takes, I suppose.” He looked at her with a serious expression. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while, but I couldn’t leave you – not until I knew you were settled…and safe.”

“What did Ron say?” she asked as he looked toward the window at the mention of Ron’s name.

“I haven’t told anyone else,” he answered. Hermione nodded. Somewhere inside she knew Harry hadn’t told Ron. She would’ve known about his plans if he had.

“Well, if you’re going to go away, we’re going to do it properly. Mrs. Weasley would hunt you down if you dared to leave without allowing her to cook a feast fit for the Royal Navy,” Hermione joked.

Harry laughed and nodded. “Too right,” he replied. “And that’s one witch I wouldn’t want to make angry.” They smiled together and Harry kissed her cheek. “Thank you for understanding,” he whispered.

“I have one condition,” Hermione replied.

“What’s that?”

“Promise me you’ll come back,” she answered with a trembling voice. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her to his chest. She fought to keep the tears from erupting as the reality of his words began to resonate within her.

“I promise.”

Try as she might, the tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked; she would miss him.

***

“So that’s it,” Morgenstern asked as he lifted Hermione from her chair. “He just left?”

“Yes and no,” she replied as she slung her arm around the healer’s shoulders for support. “We met a few days later at the Burrow and had a farewell dinner. He said his proper goodbyes and promised to return.”

“But he left his owl with you?” Morgenstern questioned as he settled Hermione onto her deep set sofa.

Hermione pulled the cardinal and gold afghan, which Molly knitted for her during her recovery, from the back of the sofa. “He said he didn’t want to be held to writing letters. He claimed he was terrible with that sort of thing and didn’t want anyone to worry about him when he hadn’t written in ages.”

Hermione tossed the afghan toward her feet three times in an attempt to fan it out over her. She was fighting the growing concern she was coming down with something. Her entire body felt cold.

Morgenstern pushed the table toward her and set a glass of water next to the books she’d stacked four high. He caught the afghan in midair and pulled it over her legs.

“So he chose not to write anyone at all,” he clarified.

“Right,” Hermione replied as she fluffed the pillow behind her head.

“Well, it’s good that you’re not fussed about it,” Morgenstern said with a chuckle. Hermione stopped what she was doing and looked up at him. “You have quite a right hook.” Hermione growled and dropped against the pillow. She’d punched it, more than fluffed it, but that was a typical reaction when she found herself thinking about Harry Potter.

Truth be told, she was furious with him. She hoped he would’ve made some overture to contact her. When her birthday passed without so much as a note, her confidence faltered. Now, almost a full year after he left, she resigned herself to the opinion that he wasn’t coming back.

It was easier to get by that way.

“Do you need anything else?” Morgenstern asked as he straightened up.

“No,” Hermione smiled. “Thank you for seeing me home.”

“Not a problem,” he answered, tossing his jacket over his shoulder. “I’ll see you next week,” he replied as he winked at her and left.

Hermione looked around her quiet flat and reached for the topmost book on the table beside her. She flipped it open to the page she’d marked and tried to read. It was an effort in futility.

Morgenstern forced her to spend more time thinking about Harry than she had in months. Now that she started, she couldn’t stop. She remembered the last time she saw him — the look in his eyes and the warmth of his touch. She curled the afghan around her trying to reproduce the warmth she felt in his arms. She closed her eyes in concentration and tried to stifle the self-deprecating thoughts that convinced her he’d never return. It wasn’t long before exhaustion overtook her. She drifted to sleep with the vision of his smile dancing across her memory.

In her dreams, she was dancing with him. He clasped her right hand in his left as he twirled her around the dance floor. They stepped from one foot to the other as they glided over the moonlit parquet. They floated along to a classic Viennese waltz that Hermione heard her mother play over and over as a child. Even before the battle, she never learned to dance; now it was a dream tantamount to climbing Mount Everest.

But that was the thing about dreams…you could do anything…with anyone. However, it didn’t take long for her body to remind her it was all a dream. She imagined a stabbing pain in her right thigh and the absurdity of it woke her from her musings.

She opened her eyes to find her hand rubbing her thigh where she’d felt the pain. Startled, she grabbed her leg with both hands, squeezing the muscles for any sign of feeling.

Nothing.

She dropped back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her mind was racing. Did she dream it all? Was it all a figment of her imagination or did something in her session with Morgenstern actually work? If that was the case, which of the multitude of exercises had been successful? She threw her arm over her eyes and growled in frustration before looking at the clock on the wall. She’d been asleep for three hours.

“Goodness,” she said aloud, realizing she needed a bath in the wake of her exertions. She summoned the chair Morgenstern left by the door and threw off her afghan. She pulled herself into the seat and rolled to the bathroom.

With a few quick motions, she’d begun filling the tub and lit several candles her mother had given her. Although skeptical of muggle “aromatherapy,” Hermione admitted there may’ve been something to it. With a swish and flick of her wand, the candles floated around the room in much the same manner they did in Hogwarts’ Great Hall. She pulled her hair on top of her head and used the spells Morgenstern had explained in order to undress. After a few moments of wrestling with her socks, she slipped into the warm water and dimmed the bathroom lights so that hues of the scarlet sunset reflected on the wall across from the window. She closed her eyes and let herself remember her dream one last time.

She’d stayed in the bathtub so long she resorted to using a heating charm on the water twice. Taking the time for herself she often neglected, she lazed in the tub. She gave herself a facial, shaved her legs, and used fragranced bath oils to smooth and condition her skin.

She closed her eyes, as she’d done before, and thought of Ron as her hands brushed over the curves of her hips and the fullness of her breast. She tried to capture the sensation of having a man worship her body the way she always wished he would. She startled herself back to reality when she realized her hands were moving across her body to the vision of Harry’s piercing green eyes, rather than Ron’s blue ones. The embarrassment of fantasizing about her best friend was enough to encourage her from the tub altogether.

Hermione looked around the bathroom in search of her towel. She forgot to stack them on the floor next to the tub. “I am losing it,” she lamented out loud. The towels weren’t far away. She could reach them if she tried hard enough. She looked at the wand lying on the chair behind the tub and the towel rack a few meters away. It wasn’t far. Maybe she had felt something. Maybe today would be the day.

She left the wand where it lay and braced her hands on top of the tub. Reenergized, she pulled herself up and locked her arms with surprising ease. A smile broke across her face as she looked toward the towels. They were so close. If she could just push off with one foot, she could stretch far enough to reach them. She leaned her body over the edge of the tub and let go with her left arm. She crossed her body with it and leaned out toward the towel rack. Her fingers were millimeters away from the soft white terrycloth; she could feel it. She was going to do it! She leaned a bit further, straining with everything she had. She just needed one little push with her foot to make it happen.

She drew a breath and willed her body to cooperate. She grabbed for the towel and with a yelp of victory felt the fabric against her fingertips. As she grasped for the towel with her left hand, her heart leapt to her throat. Her right hand slipped along the porcelain tub. She tried to stop her hand from sliding out from under her, but the bath oils coating her palm made that impossible. Time moved so slowly she could see the tub railing growing closer and closer to her head, but she was helpless to stop it. A searing pain shot through her forehead and an explosion of colored lights blinded her. The ceiling of the bathroom became wavy and the sounds of the street outside her window fell silent.

In the second that passed before she slipped into blackness she realized she was underwater.

2. A Hero Returns

Chapter Two: A Hero Returns

He knocked on the door three times. Hermione was either not at home or sleeping. He reckoned if she was snuggled in her bed or on the sofa, it would be quite a chore to get to the front door at all.

Harry pulled the letter out of his pocket and studied the envelope. He didn’t stop to read it; he’d done that enough to have the words memorized. He turned it over in his hand and caught the brass key that fell into his palm. He turned it over in his fingers, contemplating his next move. Giving himself one more chance to enter her apartment the standard way, he knocked again.

Nothing.

He pressed his ear to the door and heard no signs of occupancy. Believing Hermione to be elsewhere, he slipped the key into the door and turned the knob. He stepped through the door into her dim flat. He closed the door and walked tentatively around the room. Favorite photographs of Hermione, Ron, and him adorned the fireplace mantle and books collapsed the shelves of the two built-in bookcases flanking either side of it. He picked up the familiar afghan and raised it to his face. He drew in the faint scent of Hermione’s perfume before realizing he had his face dug in the throw. Clearing his throat, he draped the afghan back on the sofa.

“Er, Hermione?” he called. He wasn’t sure whether to yell or whisper. If she was here, she certainly wasn’t expecting him. Paraplegic or not, her hexes were cause for concern. “Hermione? It’s me, Harry.”

He walked through the kitchen and looked around. The tea kettle was warm on the stove.

“Hermione?” he called again, walking down the hallway to what he assumed was her bedroom. He pushed the door open and sneaked his head through the narrow opening.

“Hermione?” he said at a whisper. The room was large enough for her bed, a bedside table, and a small dresser. He ran his fingers along the dresser and noticed the light streaming from the half-opened door to the bathroom. He stood stock-still, not knowing how to proceed.

She had no idea he was coming back, let alone coming into her flat unannounced. If he poked his head into the bathroom, she’d release a scream tantamount to that of an unpotted mandrake. However, the longer he stood in her bedroom, the more convinced he became that the door would open and she’d hex her intruder into next week before stopping to realize who he was.

Feeling it better to accept a quick death on his own terms, he stepped toward the bathroom door. He fisted his hand in a vain attempt to stop it from shaking. When it didn’t work, he placed it on the door and began to push it open. “Er, Hermione,” he said in as careful a voice as he could muster.

She didn’t respond. He pushed the door open farther and peeked through the opening. “Hermione? It’s me, Harr…”

The breath evaporated from his lungs as he stood rooted to the floor. Visions of the Tri-Wizard Tournament’s second task flashed through his mind as he saw her lying at the bottom of the bathtub. She had a knot on her forehead above her right eye, and her hair was floating around her pale face as if caught in a gentle breeze.

“Hermione!” he screamed.

He threw open the door and dove toward the tub. Splashing a wave of chilled water onto the floor, he thrust his hands into the tub and grabbed under her arms. Fighting to keep hold of her slippery skin, he dragged her from the water and dropped her on the bathroom rug.

“Hermione!” he called as he hovered over her. “Oh God, please wake up,” he begged. She wasn’t breathing. He dropped his ear to her bare chest and strained to hear the beating of her heart.

Nothing.

“Oh my God,” he cried, snapping his head back up and putting a hand under her neck. He had a vague recollection of a first aid class he’d undertaken in primary school. Instinct drove him as he covered her mouth with his and blew the air from his lungs into hers. He could hear it rattling in her chest and took another breath, and another.

She wouldn’t breathe. She wouldn’t respond. He refused to believe she was dead. His eyes were stinging with horrified tears as he pressed the heels of his hand between her breasts. She was bouncing off the floor with the force of his thrusts.

“Come on, Hermione…please,” he begged as he continued to pound away at her sternum. He dropped his mouth back to hers and blew another breath into her lungs as hot tears slipped down his cheeks.

He was losing her.

He tried to blow another breath, but it caught in his throat as he started to sob. “Please, Hermione,” he cried. “I can’t lose you – not now,” he pleaded.

His breath rattled in her chest again. He sat up and looked down at her as her eyes fluttered open and she gasped for air. Her body wracked with convulsions. The water from her lungs sprayed the floor beside her. Harry, overwhelmed with relief, collapsed into a fit of sobs as he pushed her onto her side. She coughed so hard he thought she would break in two. When she cleared her lungs enough to draw breath, he pulled her over onto her back and saw her fight to keep her eyes open.

“Hermione?” His voice cracked as he ran his fingers over her cheek. “You’re okay. You’re okay,” he repeated more for his own edification than for hers.

“I’m here,” he assured. “I won’t leave you again.” The color returned to her cheeks and her eyelids fluttered closed. He paused for a moment, relishing in the sound of her respiration. He looked around the bathroom and found her dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. He pulled it down and covered her with it before gathering her in his arms and heading for the fireplace.

***

Harry grew angrier with every second he remained caged in this sterile room. He’d flooed to St. Mungo’s with Hermione clutched to his chest. He barely explained what happened before a tall, dark-haired healer shuttled her away. The clock jested that it had only been an hour since his arrival here even though it felt like ten years.

He sat in the waiting room chairs, he paced the floor and he stared at outdated copies of Witch Weekly. Nothing assuaged the impatience within him. He wanted to see her. He wanted information. He wanted answers.

He wanted to kill Ron.

He leapt from the chair and paced a trail through the floor as he thought of the conversation he had with his best friend.

*

“Ron,” Harry asked, stepping onto the terrace of Ron and Hermione’s flat.

“Hi’ya, Harry,” he replied as he turned to see who joined him. Harry walked to the railing and propped his elbows along the top as Ron did. He watched the people carry on with their lives on the street below.

“All right, Harry?” Ron questioned.

“I, er – need to talk to you about something,” Harry answered. Ron turned to face him and leaned sideways along the terrace railing.

“Go ahead,” he replied. Harry took a breath and looked back over the busy street.

“I’m going away for a while,” Harry said. He cast a quick glance in Ron’s direction to judge his reaction. Ron didn’t seem fussed one way or the other. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”

“Why are you leaving?” Ron asked. Harry looked at him and tried to think of an appropriate response. There were several reasons why he decided to go. He didn’t feel comfortable sharing all of the reasons…well, more specifically, sharing one of the reasons.

He needed time to clear his head. He needed time to process what transpired during the final battle and what it meant for him now. His future was his own and he had no idea what to do with it. He didn’t think he’d arrive at that conclusion without taking a sabbatical of sorts. He had to get away from the memories, the limelight…and her.

Harry considered Hermione one of his best friends since he was eleven years old. As they grew older, he noticed the affection Ron developed for her. Given the considerations of the prophecy, he found little interest in matters of the heart. When Ron and Hermione began dating, during their seventh year, Harry was supportive. Why shouldn’t he be? The nagging self-doubt in the back of his mind continued to remind him that every day was borrowed time.

Then the battle came.

Hermione made it possible for Harry to defeat Voldemort. Without her sacrifice, Harry wouldn’t have survived the attack led by Lucius Malfoy. She threw herself in front of his spiraling black curse and crumbled to the floor in front of Harry. He thought she was dead. A rage unlike any he experienced erupted within him. He only had vague memories of the fight that ensued. In the end, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Lord Voldemort were dead.

He spent the next few days at Hermione’s bedside. He was grateful she was alive but guilt-ridden over her injury. She tried to convince him the choice was hers and that she’d be cured in record time. But something in him didn’t accept the “happy ending” she’d proposed. Happy endings didn’t happen to him. That became obvious the more time he spent with her.

The longer he stayed at her bedside, the more he realized his feelings for her did not stop at friendship. Every time he closed his eyes he watched her fall. He saw the look in her eyes as she decided to dive in front of him. He understood she’d given her life for his and that realization, more than anything, awakened something within his soul.

He lived the next several weeks in a self-imposed hell. Hermione and Ron were in love. Ron spent as much time at her side as Harry. He showed Harry the ring in confidence and presented it to Hermione upon her release from the hospital. Harry was congratulatory in public, but in private part of him died with her answer to Ron…”yes.”

“I just need to get out of here for a while,” Harry said.

Ron nodded. “What are you going to tell Hermione?” he asked.

“I already told her,” Harry answered. Ron’s indifference faltered. He looked at him with an unreadable expression.

“What did she say?”

“She was supportive,” Harry replied. For reasons he couldn’t explain he didn’t feel like giving Ron the details of their conversation. “I’ll make the same promise to you that I made to her,” Harry added.

“What’s that?”

“I promised her that I would come back.” Ron nodded in agreement. “But, I need you to promise me something as well,” he continued. Ron furrowed his brow as Harry voiced his request. “Take care of her, Ron. You know how stubborn she is.” Ron let out a scoffing chuckle. “Don’t let her do anything stupid.”

“I’ll try,” he whispered. Harry raised an eyebrow and turned to face him.

“You love her, don’t you?” Harry asked. Ron hesitated just long enough to annoy Harry.

“You know I do,” he answered.

“Then I trust her care to you,” Harry replied.

*

“Bloody brilliant, that,” Harry barked to the empty waiting area. He flopped onto a worn green chair, propped his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. He took a few deep breaths and relaxed against the back of the chair. His eyes met those of the mediwitch from the information desk who’d been stealing glances at him since he arrived. Over the course of his sabbatical, he grew accustomed to a life free of paparazzi. Apparently, London did not forget him.

He stood up, his movement startling the mediwitch back to her task, and walked to the window.

“Mr. Potter,” a voice interrupted as Harry spun around. It was the same healer that grabbed Hermione out of his arms over an hour ago. His serious expression sent Harry’s heart pounding. He crossed the room in three steps and met him at the door.

“Is she all right?” he blurted out before the healer could begin.

“My name is Healer Morgenstern,” he replied without answering the question. “I’ve been working with Hermione for over a year,” he continued.

“Is she all right?” Harry repeated.

Morgenstern raised his hands in front of him. “She’s all right,” he answered.

Harry felt a crushing weight lift from his shoulders as he crumbled into a vacant chair. He buried his misting eyes in his hand as he heard the healer take the chair next to him. “Thank you,” Harry said with a wavering voice.

“She has you to thank,” Morgenstern replied. “You saved her life. I needn’t tell you how fortuitous your timing was. Had you arrived a moment later…,” he trailed off. “Well…” Harry nodded his understanding. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words either.

“Can I see her?” Harry requested. Morgenstern stood up and straightened his coat.

“Not yet,” he lamented. “She’s not regained consciousness. We’re not sure how long her brain was without oxygen. We have several tests we need to perform to rule out permanent brain damage,” he explained. Harry’s levity vanished. “It will be a few hours before I’ll allow visitors.”

His face softened and he clasped Harry on the shoulder. “Go home and take a kip, Harry. Get cleaned up. You’ll worry her if you look haggard when she wakes.”

He gave Harry a smile and left through the same door he entered. Harry stood in the room without knowing what to do. The mediwitch at the information desk looked uncomfortable at best. She shuffled papers around and avoided his eyes. Harry was about to ask the location of the nearest hotel when he realized the source of her discomfort. As he stepped to the desk, Ron stepped out of the shadows on the other side.

“I came as soon as I heard. How is she?” his voice cracked.

The hair on the back of Harry’s neck stood at attention. “Fine, no thanks to you,” he hissed. Ron’s head snapped up and his eyes flashed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he rebuffed.

“You promised me,” Harry spat. “You said you’d keep her safe. I only left because I trusted you to take care of her!”

“I did take care of her!” Ron argued.

“And you did a bloody good job of it!” Harry yelled. “She drowned! She drowned in her own bathtub! Where the hell were you?!” Harry stepped inches from Ron as he lambasted him.

“She left me!” Ron yelled.

“And I’m sure you fought to change her mind,” Harry barked. He turned away and paced the floor in order to assuage the overwhelming urge to punch Ron in the face.

“I don’t know what happened,” Ron muttered. “Something changed. We were miserable, Harry. I thought it best to let her go while we could still be friends.”

Harry turned on his heel and caught the furtive glance the mediwitch directed toward Ron. Reality clicked into place and a fire erupted in his chest. He fought to contain the rage welling in him.

“I’m curious, Ron,” Harry hissed. “We’ve only been here an hour. Hermione’s parents don’t even know what happened; neither does your mother and you have more family working in the Ministry than I can count.”

“So?” Ron questioned.

“How did you know we were here, and why are you not surprised to see that I’m back?”

He asked the question but already knew the answer. The mediwitch’s cheeks flushed and she busied herself with the same papers she’d shuffled for ten minutes. When Ron didn’t answer, Harry’s tenuous grasp on civility vanished.

“You son of a bitch!” he crossed the space between them in two steps and realized he’d thrown a punch after Ron sprawled across the floor with a bloodied lip. The mediwitch leapt from her chair and rushed to his side. She glared at him as a pair of strong arms descended around Harry and pulled him away.

“Geroff me,” Harry barked as he struggled against the arms restraining him.

“I will not,” Morgenstern’s voice chastised. “Emily, get him out of here.” The mediwitch helped Ron to his feet and tried to pull him down the corridor. Ron and Harry stared at each other with glaring eyes before he gave into her attempts and she led him away. As they disappeared around the corner, Morgenstern released Harry and he turned to face him.

“I will not have this kind of behavior here,” Morgenstern warned.

Harry shuffled from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“As well you should be,” Morgenstern continued.

Harry looked at his feet. He’d lost his temper and wasn’t proud of it. He chanced a glance at Hermione’s healer. His eyes drifted down the corridor where Ron and Emily disappeared. After a brief silence he returned his attention to Harry and cleared his throat.

“That being said,” he paused. “Thank you. I’ve wanted to do that for months.” Harry was dumbfounded. “Excuse me, I need to get back to Hermione.” He turned to walk out of the room and stopped as he reached the door. “Come back at nine. It’s after visiting hours, but I’ll leave word with the information desk to allow you.”

*

Harry could’ve hired a room for the evening but chose not to. Since he wasn’t allowed to see Hermione, he settled for tending to her flat. He let himself in with the same key he used before. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was not there, but her apartment seemed desolate. The faint smell of her perfume mingled with the lingering aroma of chamomile tea. He busied himself straightening the parlor. He folded her cardinal afghan and straightened her books on the shelf. He couldn’t help but smile to learn that she managed to collect the separate editions of Hogwarts: A History. He made her bed and fluffed her pillows. He managed to attend to every room, knowing full-well he was avoiding the last.

He took a breath and opened the door to her bathroom. The enchanted candles, which he didn’t notice earlier, floated in midair. He drew his wand from his back pocket and vanished them. He looked to the water, now ice cold, in the bathtub and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t erase the vision of Hermione’s pallid complexion and floating hair. He tried to shake the image from his head as he opened his eyes. He grabbed a towel from the rack on the opposite wall and began cleaning up the water that had splashed on the floor. In a matter of minutes he returned the bathroom to an organized fashion and stepped back to the bedroom. He dropped onto her bed and buried his head in his hands. So much transpired in the last few hours he scarcely knew what to make of it.

But he knew this much…he was exhausted. The room was quiet; Hermione’s bed was warm and soft and her pillow smelled like vanilla shampoo. Before he had time to consider the appropriateness of his actions he’d fallen asleep on her bed.

*

“Er, I’m here to see Hermione Granger,” Harry addressed the old wizard manning the information desk. His eyes drifted upward from the Daily Prophet. He cast a disinterested glance in Harry’s direction until his eyes found the infamous scar emblazoned on Harry’s forehead. Harry smoothed the fringe over his forehead as the star-struck guard handed him a badge. Before the guard mustered the courage to speak, Harry took it and walked through the door. He looked at the room number stamped on the badge and searched the numbers on the wall to find the appropriate corridor.

“Mr. Potter,” Morgenstern’s voice called down the corridor. “You’re right on time,” he said. The healer was emerging from her room, chart in hand, and approached Harry with a smile.

“How is she?” Harry asked.

“We’re still waiting on a few tests from the potions lab, but the prognosis looks good. We’ll have a better idea when she wakes up,” the healer explained. Harry nodded his head and started toward the door as Morgenstern placed a hand on his chest. “I doubt I need to tell you that your presence here might be a surprise to Hermione. Be gentle with her,” he warned.

Harry raised an eyebrow and looked at Morgenstern’s hand in speculation. “I trust there aren’t any surprises waiting for me,” Harry said, raising his eyes to the healer’s. “Between the two of you,” he clarified.

Morgenstern’s face remained set. “She’s been in my care for several months. I am concerned for her physical and emotional well-being. I shall have words with anyone who chooses to impede her progress,” Morgenstern replied. He dropped his hand from Harry’s chest and disappeared down the corridor. Harry returned his attention to the oak door before him and pushed it open.

Much like the last time she recovered at St. Mungo’s, the room reflected the surroundings that would soothe and comfort the person assigned to it. In Hermione’s case, the room looked identical to her last admission. The polished mahogany floor disappeared into a wall of carved bookshelves that lined the entire room. Books of every variety sat on the shelves, organized by subject matter. Hermione lie in a massive four poster bed covered in a fluffy duvet. The dim lamplight cast a mellow hue across her face. The only indication that this room was housed in a medical facility was a thin band of blinking orbs that glinted on the wall above her head. Harry stepped to her bedside as a deep set crimson chair appeared beside her.

He settled himself into the chair drawing in the peaceful expression marking her features. The color returned to her cheeks and her hair glistened from the amber lights above her head. Her arms were lying at her sides as her chest rose and fell with predictable rhythm. He slid his hand across the bed coverings and wrapped her hand in his. He found himself fighting back tears as he relished in the warmth radiating from her fingers. It was enough to make him believe in a higher power as he’d prayed to every one he could name to make this moment a reality.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. He was torn between the desire to watch her sleep and the overwhelming need to see her eyes. He brushed his hand along her cheek letting his thumb drag along the softness of her complexion. His heart leapt as he felt her cheek press into his hand. A weak smile creased her lips as her eyes fluttered. Eager to see the warmth of her eyes Harry slid to the edge of the chair and propped his elbows on her bed. His face ached with the smile he’d not been able to form in days.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she whispered as her eyes found his.

Harry shook his head and kissed the back of her hand again. “No, I’m here.” She squeaked an inaudible response as Harry dragged his chair closer. “You scared the bloody hell out of me,” he chuckled as she returned the grandest smile she could muster.

Hermione’s mouth bobbed open and closed and her respiration increased. The blue light above her head materialized into a snitch-sized orb that flew from the wall. It hovered over her for a few seconds and replaced itself.

In an effort to keep his solitude with her unbroken, Harry tried to calm her. “It’s okay, Hermione.”

With his free hand, he smoothed the hair back from her forehead. Her shoulders relaxed and her breathing returned to normal as he continued to run his fingers through her hair.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words escaped his lips before he realized it. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away from him. Startled by his own impropriety, he released her hand and sat back in the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. The room fell into uncomfortable silence.

“Look who’s awake!” Morgenstern’s voice interrupted as the door swung open. Harry looked up and noticed the smile that erupted on Hermione’s face. Her healer noticed it as well. “There’s that beautiful smile!” He flopped down on the bed next to her and took her hand. “Well, I could tell you how you’re feeling but I’d rather ask the question and look concerned.” She smiled again. Harry suddenly felt like an uninvited guest.

“My throat hurts,” she squeaked.

Morgenstern nodded. “That’s to be expected. It will get better in a few days. Anything else?”

“My chest,” she whispered. Morganstern lit his wand and looked into both of her eyes.

“You have Mr. Potter to thank for that,” he replied. “Nox.” He sat back on the bed and cast Harry a fleeting smile. “However, I think you’d rather have a sore sternum than the alternative.” Hermione’s eyes dropped to her feet. “Well, I’m comfortable in saying you will make a full recovery, Miss Granger,” the healer announced, “provided you stay in the shallow end.” He chuckled at his own joke and stood up. With a glance between Hermione and Harry he left them in the same awkward silence that his appearance assuaged.

“I, er – should probably go,” Harry said, getting to his feet. Hermione’s head snapped toward him and she grabbed his hand.

“No,” she whispered. “Stay with me…please.” She tugged Harry toward the bed. She gave him a guarded smile and appeared to search for the words. “Harry,” she began. He leaned in closer. “I don’t know what to say,” she continued.

He knew how she was feeling. After the final battle, he fought the same embarrassment when trying to face her. He couldn’t stand to hear it. He placed his finger on her lips to silence her before she could continue.

“We’re even.”

Her face broke into a smile matched only in his dreams; he couldn’t help but reflect it. He pulled his finger away from her soft lips and busied himself straightening her covers. She drew a breath and closed her eyes.

“You need your rest,” he directed.

Her eyes flew open in alarm and she grasped his hand. He leaned over her and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” She nodded her head and her eyes closed as quickly as she’d opened them. He dared not move until her breathing became deep and regular.

As he pulled himself from her side, he couldn’t help what came out of his mouth. It was the one thing he was too frightened to tell her when she was awake and the one thing he wanted, more than anything, for her to know.

“I love you,” he whispered as he kissed her forehead again.

Harry borrowed the cardinal throw from the foot of her bed and curled up in the chair the room furnished for him. It was the first time, in months, that he truly slept.

3. The Road Less Traveled

Chapter Three: The Road Less Traveled

It was dark here…and cold. The light fled from this place as prey from the hunt. Light was its nemesis. Light was the enemy to the nothingness that swallowed her. But the pain was gone…and she could walk.

She took tentative steps as she peered through the pitch in search of something...anything. There was nothing. Dread settled in her chest as the unfamiliarity of this place consumed her.

That’s when she saw it.

As a pinprick from a distant land, she saw the light. It radiated warmth and love. It drew her in. She walked toward it. There she would find comfort, family and belonging. She knew it as well as she knew Hogwarts: A History. Enraptured with renewed mobility, she broke into a run. The light grew brighter, wider and more welcoming as she approached. A smile tugged at her lips as she felt the warmth wash over her. She strained her ears to understand the whispered voices just beyond. In doing so, she heard one from behind.

“Please, Hermione.”

She stopped and turned toward the voice. It was Harry’s. She strained her eyes against the darkness. “Harry?” she called. Her voice did not echo. It did not ring. It evaporated into the depths before her.

“You can’t leave me – not now.”

“Harry, where are you?” she yelled.

Without sparing a backward glance to the beckoning warmth of the light, she set off in search of him. Unsure of her surroundings, she took careful steps with extended arms. She heard him. She knew it. He was here.

“Harry, I can’t find you! Where are you?” she called again.

The darkness grew colder and she glanced over her shoulder. The light was dying, growing ever dimmer as a candlewick at its last breath. Panic rose in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs ignited with the painful fire of demand. Her legs fell numb sending her crashing to the unseen floor. She gasped for air and her body convulsed. Waves of pain shot through her chest and ribs as she coughed uncontrollably but she could hear him. He was crying.

I’m dying.

She fought to see through the darkness, to fight the beast that threatened to pull her away. Harry was back. She couldn’t leave him – not now.

A harsh light, unlike that which called to her, filled her vision. Her chest throbbed in protest as the viscous air burned her lungs. His face swam through the haze before her. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, tell him how much she missed his company and ask him all the details of his sabbatical, but her voice produced no sound.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said. “I’m here. I won’t leave you again.” The darkness consumed her. But he remained. She could feel him. When she opened her eyes she saw him. He occupied an overstuffed chair to her left and she felt the familiar warmth of her hand wrapped in his. She was at St. Mungo’s. Morgenstern tended to her. She’d fallen asleep.

Hermione opened her eyes. She relived these dreams so often over the past few hours, or maybe it was days, that she couldn’t separate her unconscious meanderings from reality.

Only one thing remained constant…Harry.

Feeling the solitude radiate from her chilled hand, she looked to the bedside chair. Harry slouched on his right side. His shoes piled on the floor beneath his legs which lie haphazard over the upholstered arm. His head peeked out from the crimson throw he swaddled himself in and his chin rested on his chest. His heavy breaths eclipsed the whirring sounds streaming from the mediorbs over her head.

She felt the smile tug the corners of her mouth as she gazed at him. He looked so peaceful. The door clicked to her right and she turned to see Healer Morgenstern enter the room.

“Hi,” she whispered with a crackling voice. His eyes flicked to the chair and back to her as he settled on the edge of her bed.

“Throat still sore, eh?” he said with a smirk. Hermione trailed her fingers along her neck and nodded as she winced and swallowed the bludger lodged in her throat. “It will get better.”

He lit his wand and pulled her left eyebrow up. She could hear the blood pound in her ears as the vibrant light pierced her cornea. He leaned over her and repeated the process with her right eye. Blinking oily spots from her vision, she felt his hand palpate her sternum. She gasped as an unexpected dart of pain shot through to her back. He muttered a spell as his wand trailed over her chest and the throbbing ebbed away.

“There,” he finished. “That should help.”

Hermione drew a breath and smiled.

“It does,” she croaked. He snapped his hand toward her and shook his head. Her eyebrows knitted together as he grinned.

“Of all the orders I’ve ever given you, Hermione, this will be the most difficult for you to follow.” He sniggered to himself. “You cannot speak a word for at least twenty-four hours. Your throat and lungs don’t take well to lye-based soaps, or water, or convulsive coughing for that matter.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “And since I’ve sentenced you to silence…you’ll have to keep that between us as well.”

He winked and rose from the bed. She couldn’t help but smile. Not long after Harry left, her relationship with Ron spiraled into oblivion. Her Hogwarts classmates were consumed by their careers. Time and relationships slipped away from everyone. Working from her flat, Hermione became one of those people everyone intended to visit. No one did.

Healer Morgenstern filled a void in her life when Harry left. He encouraged her to talk through her emotional issues, as well as the physical ones. In truth, he became more than her healer – he became her friend.

This wasn’t the first time he kissed the back of her hand and flashed a mischievous wink. Such was his modus operandi when they exchanged playful banter. It was the reason she refused to call him Adam. She didn’t reserve herself on professional grounds; she did so because she knew it irked him beyond measure.

She heard the door close and realized she was stroking her fingers along her neck. She relaxed into her pillow and turned back to Harry.

She met a vexed expression that caused the smile to slide from her face. He sat, propped on his elbow, eyeing the door where Morgenstern last appeared. He seemed to feel her eyes on him and gathered himself in an instant. He threw off his blanket and flashed a warm smile. She couldn’t help but smile back; she never could. His grin was contagious.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Shhh.” He pulled his chair close to her bedside. “You’re not supposed to be talking.” Hermione opened her mouth to reply and Harry cut her off with a wave of his hand. She sank against her pillows and lowered her eyes. He laughed. “I’m just saying I wouldn’t put it past that bloke Morgenstern to use the ‘silencio.’”

Harry was right. Morgenstern would relish the opportunity to spell her into silence for twenty-four hours. In thinking about it, she wondered why he hadn’t done it already. The answer was as obvious as the question. Committing herself to silence inflicted greater torture than if he provided a convenient excuse.

“What’s that look for?” Harry asked. Hermione looked away from the door where Morgenstern last appeared and back to the best friend at her side. She realized her eyes were rolling over her healer’s propensity to run up the score. No matter, what comes around goes around.

“Oh,” Harry clarified. “I guess you can’t answer that, can you?”

He smiled, grasped her palm in his, and dropped his forehead to the back of her wrist. She reached over, listening to his peaceful breathing, and ran her fingers through his hair. She pushed herself onto her side and relaxed into the down pillows. Silence soothed the companionable air between them. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand as her fingers tousled the hair-that-would-not-lay-flat. Minutes passed, perhaps hours; she didn’t care.

He’d kept his promise.

“Hermione?”

A familiar voice broke the silence. Harry’s head snapped up, startling her enough to recoil her own hand from his hair. She rolled onto her back as Ron walked through the door. He clutched a bouquet of baby snapdragons. She smiled as her eyes fell upon her favorite flower. His face brightened upon seeing her but she didn’t miss the hesitation in his step as his eyes found Harry’s. She looked between them both, catching Harry’s glare only seconds before he disguised it. Ron placed the flowers on her bedside table and dropped a kiss to her cheek. Harry’s hand slid from hers as he crossed his arms over his chest. Hermione glanced from Harry to Ron as if courtside at Wimbledon.

Something was wrong.

Ron settled into the straight-backed chair on the opposite side of the bed and avoided formal discussion with Harry. It was the Tri-wizard tournament all over again. For reasons she didn’t understand, the atmosphere in her room spiraled from warm companionship to palpable tension. She was clever enough to realize one thing; she was both literally and figuratively caught in the middle.

“How are you feeling?” Ron asked. Hermione smiled and nodded. She fingered the petals of the snapdragons and smiled brighter. Ron’s face fell in confusion. Hermione pointed to her throat and shrugged her shoulders. Ron’s eyebrows furrowed. “You can’t talk?” he questioned. Hermione shook her head in response. “Why not?”

“It might have something to do with drowning in her own bathtub.”

Hermione rounded on Harry. His glare chilled the room and she saw the tension rippling through his forearms. She turned back to Ron who ignored him altogether.

“I thought to visit before the troops arrived,” he continued. “Mum found out what happened, so I’m sure the queue will be twenty deep by the time I leave.”

“And when will that be?” Harry interrupted.

Hermione couldn’t take it. She snapped her head to Harry’s. “What has gotten into you?!” her voiced cracked.

The words vibrated in her throat, shooting a dart of pain through her larynx as she rubbed her neck. Her words drew Harry from the glower trained on Ron. His eyes floated above her head to the strip of mediorbs Hermione heard clicking and whirring. His expression softened and he reached for her hand. She pulled away. She didn’t want to be comforted. She didn’t want to be calm.

“What happened?” she croaked, looking between a lifetime of friendship on either side of her bed.

Ron’s eyes dropped. The flashing lights from the mediorbs highlighted his swollen pink lip. She grazed a finger across it and Ron sucked in a breath.

“I thought you couldn’t talk?” he asked, now inspecting his lip with his own fingers.

“She’s not supposed to talk,” Harry bit.

“Shove off, Harry!” Ron snapped. Before she knew it, they both leapt to their feet, casting vicious snarls toward each other.

“Stop it!” she barked over the increasing cacophony of the mediorbs. Tears sprung to her eyes from the razor blades that sliced her throat.

“Get out,” another voice interjected. She leaned back against the pillows and looked around Ron. A red-faced Morgenstern stood in the doorway with menacing presence.

“Yes, Ron. Get out,” Harry replied with a tangible chill in his voice.

Morgenstern moved to the end of the bed and flicked his wand. He caught the green orb that flew from the wall and it popped open in his hand. He scratched the quill over the parchment in her chart and did not look up from his endeavor. “Both of you.” He released the orb and it flew back to its place on the wall.

Hermione tried to protest as the blue orb zipped to his hand. But as she drew a breath to respond, the air rattled in her lungs and she fell into heaving coughs. The involuntary compulsion to clear her lungs set fire to her chest and throat. Eyes watering and unable to hold herself up, she slid down the pillows and saw Harry’s face replaced by Morgenstern’s.

“Out! Now!” he directed as he slid onto the bed and pulled Hermione over his arm. She saw Harry back away from the bed as the coughing eased. “When you learn to behave as men you can return,” he barked. “Separately!”

She heard their footsteps grow faint until the door clicked shut and Hermione drew clear breath. Her body relaxed against Morgenstern’s right arm as his left massaged a wide circle along her back. He pulled her up and set her back against the pillows. She buried her face in her hands and avoided his eyes.

“Hermione,” he whispered. She dropped her hands and raised her eyes to his. “My first priority is your health.” She nodded. “I won’t tolerate visitors if this is the result,” he said, waving her chart in the air.

She played with the threading on the duvet and nodded again.

“You have to rest if your body is going to recover.” He drew a vial from the pocket of his robe. “Drink this,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll never turn off that infernal brain of yours and sleep without it.”

Dejected, Hermione reached for the vial and tipped her head back. As the potion slid down her throat, Morgenstern continued, “Besides, short of the silencio, it’s the only way I can shut you up.”

Hermione wanted to glare at him but her eyes grew heavy. Warm waves slipped over her body and the room dimmed. She felt the duvet rise on her chest and heard Morgenstern’s chuckling voice drift away.

“I’ll pay for that later.”

***

Ron stalked from the room with Harry on his heels. He decided to add this morning to the litany of events he’d fucked up with Hermione. The list was long and spattered with good intentions gone awry. This was no different.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” Harry sneered.

Ron rounded on him. “What in bloody hell are you on about? Just because we didn’t make it as a couple doesn’t mean she’s any less my friend than yours!”

“And we’re lucky she’s here to be a friend to anyone!”

“Well, thank Merlin for the savior of the world!”

He was out of control and he knew it. But he was livid and couldn’t stop himself. “Or should I say ‘thank Harry’?” He spat as he clasped his hands in mock prayer.

Add another one to the list.

“You don’t know what in blazes you’re talking about,” Harry replied. His voice dropped several octaves and cooled the air between them. Ron took a step back and surveyed the man before him with disbelieving eyes. He knew, all too well, what he was talking about. Harry knew it, too.

Since the day they left for Hogwarts, Ron existed as one half of an infrastructure meant to support Harry Potter. The other half lay in a hospital bed beyond the door. They traversed hell and high water together and although Ron suffered moments of star-struck jealousy, he never forgot Harry’s position. Nor did he envy it. The realization that he tread upon hallowed ground snapped Ron to his senses.

“Listen, Harry,” he began. “I know you think I broke my promise. Maybe you’re right.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest and continued to seethe. “But you know as well as I do, when her mind is set to do something, rampaging hippogriffs won’t stop her. We were miserable together. She wanted out, and I didn’t want to argue anymore.”

He believed Harry heard his words if only because he didn’t rebuke them. Ron met his eyes for a moment before turning to the window. He couldn’t voice the truth as he perceived it.

I wasn’t good enough for her.

“She was in love with you, Ron.” Harry’s voice grew quiet. “What more did you need?”

Ron scoffed at the implication. He couldn’t escape the irony that, for once, his experience exceeded Harry’s. “Love isn’t everything.”

He turned around. Harry’s disbelieving expression creased his brow as Ron scoffed. “You think love is something you hear on the wireless. It’s not all passion and perfection.”

“So you’re saying you never loved her?” Harry barked.

“No!” Ron threw his hands in the air. “I’m saying love is not what you think it is! Sooner or later the passion fades and you have to figure out how to exist in the same space together. Dishes have to be done, flats tidied, clothes washed, bills paid.”

Ron paced the floor trying to escape the words his heart screamed. Sometimes love wasn’t enough. If love was all they needed, they could’ve survived. He could’ve helped her heal…helped her feel something. But he never did. He never could; not when he brewed her potions, not when he massaged her legs…not when he made love to her.

“No matter what you think, I’ve always loved Hermione,” Ron said, turning back to Harry. “I always will. Nothing can change that.” Harry’s eyes flicked over Ron’s shoulder as he stiffened once more.

“Nothing can change that?” he began, the bile creeping back to his voice, “or no one?”

Ron glanced over his shoulder to see Emily leading his frazzled mother down the corridor toward him. When he turned back, Harry was gone.

“Here he is, Mrs. Weasley,” she announced as Ron turned to greet his mother.

“Ron,” Molly began. She pulled him into her arms and hugged him. He wanted to be annoyed with her coddling, but truth be told, he needed a hug. “How is she?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t get much time with her before…” The door opened behind him and Morgenstern appeared with her chart. Ron’s eyes caught the healer’s before he found interest in the floor tiles.

“Are you Hermione Granger’s healer?” Molly asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “How can I help you?”

“How is she? Can I see her? Is there anything I can do to help?” she fired in rapid succession.

Morgenstern’s hands flew up in mock surrender. “You must be Molly Weasley.” She nodded as he ticked the answers off on his fingers one at a time. “She’ll be fine if I can keep her rested.” He cut a glance toward Ron. “You may see her, although at the moment, she’s not much company. I’ve given her a sleeping draught to soothe her agitation.”

“Agitation?” Molly interrupted. “Why would she be agitated?”

Ron felt Morgenstern’s eyes searing through the side of his head. “I think your son can answer that question better than I,” he replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a seven year old growing potatoes in his ears down the corridor.” He shuffled past Molly as she rounded on Ron.

“Ronald?!” she barked. “What have you done to Hermione?”

“Nothing, Mum,” he retorted.

Molly harrumphed and brushed past him through the doorway to Hermione’s room. It snapped shut and Ron released the breath he didn’t realize was trapped in his chest.

“Your mum is sweet,” Emily remarked.

Ron’s head shot up from the tiled floor he inspected. “Er, thanks.”

She blushed and crossed her arms over her chest, twirling one long, blond lock between her fingers. “Listen,” she hesitated. “I really enjoyed spending time with you last night.”

Ron felt the heat of discomfort creep under his collar. He glanced around in search of prying eyes.

“Emily,” he began. “I appreciate your attention to my injury,” he said as he touched his lip. “But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“Ron,” she said as she stepped toward him. “I’m not looking for a relationship. But I don’t see anything wrong with being your friend.”

She took his hand in hers and ran her thumb along the backside of it. She squeezed his hand in hers and winked. “Go home and rest. You know I’ll owl you if anything happens.”

“I know,” Ron said aloud to her back as she swept down the hall. “You owl me every hour.”

4. Alone

As always thanks to CC and DE for the beta work!!!

*hugs*

VL

Chapter Four: Alone

Harry waved at the security wizard and breezed by the station before the old man could stop him with another photographic introduction to his new grandson, Harry. He bounded up the stairs toward Hermione’s room, a scroll of parchment clutched in his hand.

He received the owl from St. Mungo’s an hour ago. Morgenstern spared any explanation and informed him that Hermione would be released from the hospital’s care at noon. Harry spent just enough time tidying her bookshelves and straightening the photographs on her mantelpiece before conjuring a vase of peonies for the kitchen table. Satisfied that her home was as inviting as he could make it, he set off for St. Mungo’s at record pace. To him, an official discharge from the hospital solidified her prognosis. He had found her in time.

A broad smile stamped itself across his face. He felt like he was flying without a broomstick. Not even the presence of Ron’s new attraction, cutting her eyes at him from behind the nurses’ desk, could dampen his mood. Hermione was coming home. He reached for the doorknob to her room when it slipped out of reach and opened for him. He stopped in his tracks, feeling his expression falter, as Ron stepped out of the room.

“Harry,” he said.

“Ron,” he replied.

Ron walked past him without another word and headed for places unknown. Harry didn’t care to watch him go, nor did he care to watch “Emily” scurry after him. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Hermione sat upright in her bed with a mass of fluffy pillows behind her. She wore a gray plaid skirt and a periwinkle jumper that reminded him of the robes she’d worn during the Yule Ball. She flipped a book over in her hands and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Hey, you,” he said.

Her face broke into a grin and she looked up from her book. “Hi,” she responded with a beaming smile. “I get to go home today!”

She looked like a third year at Honeydukes…or Hermione Granger in a bookshop. Her eyes sparkled and her smile was contagious. Harry couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yes, I know,” he laughed. “That’s why I’m here.” He looked at his watch and checked it against the clock in the room before settling his eyes upon hers. “What’s that?”

Hermione picked up the book and waved it in the air. “A book,” she chirped. “Ron gave it to me.”

She seemed to consider her words the second she said them. The smile slid from her face and she looked at him in question.

“So, do you care to tell me what yesterday afternoon was all about?”

Harry shrugged and walked over to her bed. Settling down beside her, he replied, “Not particularly.”

Hermione scoffed and flopped back against the pillows. “That’s what he said.” Harry grinned. “Honestly Harry, this is ridiculous. If there’s something the two of you are angry about, you need to talk about it! This isn’t fourth year, you know! You are supposed to be adults. You should be able to discuss your problems…”

Hermione continued to talk, but Harry didn’t hear much of what she said. She rattled on, waving her arms in the air and bobbing her head from side to side. Her eyes flashed and another wisp of hair escaped the clip at the nape of her neck. He’d spent a great deal of time over the past year trying to forget what she looked like. If it was possible, she was more beautiful than his biased musings remembered. His eyes drifted to the supple pink lips that continued to twitch and move as she reprimanded him. They shimmered from her lip gloss…raspberry? He longed for a taste.

“…Harry!” Hermione growled. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Harry shook himself from the thought. “Er,” he stammered, faking a cough for additional time. “Sure,” he replied.

She crossed her arms across her chest. “Then what did I say?”

He felt like he was back in Snape’s dungeon. He felt the flush betray him and looked away. “You…er,” he groped. “You said I should talk to Ron.”

“Yes, I did. But that was before you got all glazed over.”

“What?” Harry rebuked. “I did not…”

“It’s the same look you and Ron perfected at Hogwarts whenever I had something important to say,” she countered.

Harry averted his eyes and picked at the bed coverings. “My mind might’ve wandered a bit.”

“I know. You spewed me.” She crossed her arms and the corner of her lip curled.

“I what?” Harry asked.

“That’s what I named your not-listening-to-a-word-I’m-saying look.”

They broke into laughter and Hermione slapped his shoulder with her book.

“Git,” she giggled. Harry picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. Hermione snapped her hand from his and gave a half-hearted scoff. “Don’t try and be charming now!”

“That’s my job.” Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck curl at the silky voice that nicked his line.

“That it is, Healer Morgenstern,” Hermione said, looking over Harry’s shoulder. It irritated Harry to see her expression brighten.

“I have your discharge papers,” he announced, settling himself on the other side of her bed. “As I see you have your escort home,” he bobbed his head toward Harry without looking at him, “I suppose I can let you out of my sight.”

“I’m sure Harry can see me home as well as you have,” she replied. Harry’s heart flopped in his chest. He looked between Hermione and Morgenstern and felt jealousy prickle his temper.

“I’m sure he can,” Morgenstern replied. “I just need you to sign here…and here,” he directed, handing her an eagle feather quill from his robes.

She did as he requested and handed him the paperwork with a brilliant smile. “So, I’m free to go?” she rubbed her hands together.

“Free as a bird,” he replied, placing the paperwork in her chart and snapping it closed. Hermione clapped her hands together and looked around the room. Her eyes stopped on the chair behind Harry and her intention became clear.

“Here,” Morgenstern said, placing the chart on the bed and pushing his sleeves up his arms. “I’ll help y…”

“I’ll help her,” Harry interrupted and swooped down on Hermione before Morgenstern could lay a hand on her. She looked between them with an amused expression and threw her arm around Harry’s neck. He lifted her from the bed and turned toward her chair. Morgenstern stepped behind it and an unreadable expression crossed his brow. He held the chair in place while Harry settled her into it. She looked up as she adjusted herself in place and Harry felt her eyes moving between them. Not wishing to encourage another tongue lashing, he gathered himself and disengaged from the stare-down.

Hermione buried her forehead in her hand and giggled. That didn’t help.

“If you two are…,” she cleared her throat, “…finished, I need my bag.” She pointed past Harry to the black duffle on the floor. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.

“Are you ready then?” Harry asked.

“I need my wand,” she said, reaching for her bag.

“No, you don’t,” Harry replied, locking eyes with Morgenstern once more. “Not when you have me.”

Harry stepped around the chair, repelling Morgenstern with his glare, and pushed her from the room. He reveled in his victory…one step too soon.

“Same time, same place, Hermione!” Morgenstern announced.

“Wouldn’t miss it!” she called over her shoulder as the door closed behind them.

Harry had ample time to consider what Morgenstern meant as he pushed Hermione down the street. They didn’t speak as she seemed to revel in the temperate weather. She dropped her head against the chair and turned her face skyward to the warming rays of the sun. Her hands hung lazily over the armrests and played with the wind as a breeze would blow by. She looked so content…peaceful. It sparked discomfort in Harry.

Now what?

Since his return to England, his days were scripted. Her health consumed his thoughts and her flat usurped his activity while she recuperated at St. Mungo’s. Morgenstern gave her a clean bill of health upon her discharge and Harry found himself floundering for what to do next. Real life returned and Harry was ill prepared.

Although his vault at Gringotts made it a non-issue, Harry had no job which meant he had no excuse for how to spend his day. Furthermore, he didn’t have a place to live. While finding a flat wouldn’t be a difficult process, it would take more than the few hours remaining before nightfall and he’d swim through mystic eel slime before he’d swallow his pride and go to Ron’s.

He wanted to stay with Hermione.

“Harry!” Hermione yelped as the chair dropped off the curb on to the street.

“Er, sorry,” he apologized as he pushed her across the deserted intersection. He caught her eye and she dropped back against the chair with a smile.

“Daydreaming?” she inquired. “You’ve not said a word since we left.”

“Neither have you,” he responded. “Enjoying the weather?”

She smiled and nodded her head. “I think I’m just happy to be able to enjoy it.”

She looked forward as Harry reached the other side of the street and popped the front wheels onto the sidewalk. He lifted the back wheels over the curb. She closed her eyes again and sighed. “I’m glad I have you to chauffeur me around. I can’t tell you how annoying these curbs can be.”

“I thought this thing was supposed to levitate over obstacles?” he asked, looking around the back of it for some indication that it was a magical device.

“Harry,” she whispered. “This is muggle London. Even if I did use those blasted charms, which I don’t, I couldn’t use them here.” She caught his eye and quickly added, “Not that it’s a big deal.”

“Why wouldn’t you use them? They’re cast to help you,” he replied after a harried muggle man passed them.

“I get by perfectly well on my own, thank you. I don’t need some rogue flying chair to chuck me out of the window when I’m not paying attention.”

“But…,” he began.

“And I have a beautiful flat on the first floor so stairs aren’t an issue anyway,” Hermione finished.

Harry understood his limitations, being of the male gender, when it came to judging all things “beautiful.” But his opinion of the flat did not extend as far as hers. It was on the ground floor, but it failed the standard he would’ve set for his meticulous best friend. The lighting was not only dim but cast a sallow glow over the lounge. Without ample candlelight, he doubted her ability to read a book without getting a headache. By contrast, the fluorescent lighting in the galley kitchen reproduced the power of the sun and tainted the room with a lime hue. The clutter stacked in the corners drew attention to the flat’s inefficiency. She had ample cabinet space…four feet out of her reach.

She deserved better than that.

He pretended not to notice the looks they received as he’d walked her home. Muggles of every variety, and a few obvious wizards who gasped after glimpsing his scar, noticed them as he pushed her down the sidewalk. Their expressions ranged the gamut of emotion. One woman, although probably well-intentioned, gave Harry a woeful smile as she looked between him and Hermione. Another older woman just stared at her until they’d passed. Harry maneuvered out of the path of two younger men who, amid their animated conversation, didn’t notice her at all. One young girl was scuttled into a shop by her mother after she’d called out, “What’s wrong with that lady, mum?”

Overall, Harry was glad Hermione’s eyes were closed, although he wasn’t naïve enough to think she didn’t hear it, or see it, on the days that she traversed these streets alone. The thought of her, all alone, struggling with the chair down uneven pavement broke his heart.

She claimed she was independent and capable of tending to herself, but he didn’t believe her. He didn’t want to believe her. Her life should never have grown this complicated and he couldn’t help but remember the reason she’d been injured in the first place.

But he knew he couldn’t say any of that to her.

He’d not been back long, but he could see the fire in her eyes when she spoke of her independence. Be it fact or fiction, she intended to make the world believe she was as self-sufficient as ever. She made such a point of reiterating that fact; it convinced Harry of the opposite.

For better or worse, he’d always listened to his instincts. He’d only just begun listening to his heart. Both of them were screaming that Hermione needed help…and she’d never ask for it.

“Hermione?” he asked.

“Yes?” she replied, pulling her wand from the bag that swayed from the back of the chair. She muttered, “Alohomora,” and the door clicked open. He pushed her through the entrance and closed the door behind him.

“I, er…hope you don’t mind,” he began. “I’ve been tending to your flat while you’ve been gone.”

She waved her wand over the chair and rolled around the sofa. “I can tell.” She smirked. “You put my books back on the shelf.”

“Well, I was just trying to tidy up a bit,” he answered.

“What are you saying?” she countered, turning herself around and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Er, nothing…,” Harry replied, surprised by the irritation in her eyes. “I was just…I,” he stammered, glancing around the room. “I got some flowers for you,” he said, pointing to the arrangement he’d left on the table.

Hermione’s shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she muttered. “You’re just trying to be a good friend and I’m projecting my annoyance on you.”

“What annoyance?” he asked, settling onto the sofa in front of her.

She dropped her eyes to her hands and fiddled with the leather padding on the arm of her chair. “It’s not worth mentioning.”

Harry slid forward to the edge of the sofa and grasped her hands. “Tell me,” he prompted.

She sighed and slinked her right hand out of his grasp. Smoothing a lock of hair that hadn’t escaped her plait, she shook her head in dismissal. He squeezed her hand and ducked his head to meet her eyes again. She smirked and pinned her chin to her chest.

“My parents,” she answered.

“What about them?” Harry asked.

“They came to visit after you and Ron….” She hesitated. “Well, they want me to move back in with them.” She pulled her left hand from his and unknotted the bottom of the plait. “Apparently,” her voice grew agitated, “they don’t think I can handle living alone.” Her arms pulled at her hair with increasing vigor as she spoke. “I’m some helpless invalid that needs mummy to wash her backside and make her meals. Honestly! I’m a grown woman…aren’t I?”

“Er, yes,” Harry replied as he watched her aggravation blossom.

“Exactly! So what if I can’t walk around like everyone else? I’m not helpless! I can take care of myself!” She ran her hands through her hair and pulled it back into a clip she snatched from the table. “Move in with them,” she muttered. “Honestly.”

“Well,” Harry began, realizing the peril of his pursuit. “Wouldn’t you like a little help every now and again?”

Her head snapped up and her eyes caught fire. “Not you, too!” She grabbed the wheels of her chair and shoved herself across the room. “It was an accident, Harry! It could’ve happened to anyone! It could’ve happened to normal people.”

Harry winced at the implication. “Hermione,” he interrupted.

“No! Don’t patronize me. I am no different than anyone else.” She bit. “I can live on my own as well as you, or Ron, or anyone else. I don’t need my mummy or a man to help me. I don’t need anyone!”

He could see her eyes glistening with tears of anger. Harry didn’t know what to say. In his heart, he agreed with her parents, but he didn’t dare tell her that after the outburst he just witnessed. He only wanted what he was sure they wanted; Hermione to be safe and well cared for. She’d done so much for so many, and now, when she needed something done for her, she refused to accept help.

“I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me,” she mumbled.

Her abrupt change in demeanor caught Harry’s attention. In a matter of seconds, she’d erected a fortress around herself. She forced a smile that did not meet her eyes and continued. “It’s been a big day and I’m knackered. If you don’t mind, I’m going to have a kip.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry replied.

“So, I’ll see you later?”

Harry’s heart sank. Her intention was clear. He rubbed his palms along his trousers trying to find a reason to stay. She didn’t flinch from her position across the room and the atmosphere grew awkward. He rose from the sofa and looked around for something, anything, to stall his departure. He looked back at her. Her jaw was set and her indignant expression etched itself into the subtle lines of her face.

“Good bye, Harry,” she said with a mechanical smile.

Not having thought of a better reply, he fell victim to social acceptability. “Bye, Hermione.”

As he closed the door behind him, he heard her fall apart.

5. Enough

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?”

6. Harry and the Healer

Chapter Six: Harry and the Healer

Harry closed the door behind him as Hermione rolled onto the sidewalk. He jiggled the handle to ensure he’d locked the door and trotted to catch up with her.

“Another beautiful day,” he remarked.

“Yes, it…oh!” she exclaimed.

“What?!” Harry asked.

“I forgot to lock the door!” she answered, digging her key from her handbag.

Harry’s heart returned to its assigned location as his shoulders slumped. “Merlin, Hermione! If you keep scaring years off my life, I’m going to drop dead from a stiff wind.”

Producing the key from the bottom of her bag, she turned back. “I’ll admit this is not the best neighborhood in London,” Hermione said, pushing herself back down the sidewalk. Harry reached out and grabbed the handle of the chair before she slipped out of reach. “Harry!”

“Relax.” He smiled. “I locked it.”

“Oh.” Her brows furrowed. “Thanks,” she replied as he stepped behind her chair and walked toward the tube station.

“Which brings me to another question,” he said. She looked at him over her left shoulder and used her right hand to shield the sunlight from her eyes. “Why are you living in muggle London? More specifically, this part of muggle London?”

She turned back as he waited for a reply. “The foundation I work for does well to accommodate my…needs,” she began. “But the pay is exactly what you’d expect for someone in my position.”

“I would expect someone in your position to employ their own goblins to manage the finances.”

“Don’t patronize me, Harry.”

“I’m not,” he rebuked. “Hermione, you were Head Girl at Hogwarts. You scored higher in charms than any witch in the last 752 years. I’d say you’re overqualified for any job with ‘assistant’ in the description.”

“Well, some things have changed,” she said, dropping her eyes to the sidewalk.

“And some things haven’t,” Harry countered. “Hermione, you are worth so much more than this,” he said, waving a hand to the haggard surroundings.

She didn’t answer.

That’s when he realized the magnitude of his mission. In an instant, he understood that the greater disability resided in her head, not her legs. She either lacked the spirit to argue or didn’t believe she was worth the argument. Either way, he didn’t accept it. The Hermione he knew wouldn’t settle for mediocrity. She wouldn’t accept anything less than her best effort.

She would never let him push her when she could do it herself.

He let go of the handles and stepped to her side. He answered her before she could ask. “I have no idea where this bloke’s office is. I reckon you can lead the way.”

Hermione did not look convinced. Her eyes lingered on his for a moment before she dropped her hands to the wheels and began pushing herself along. Harry stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and ambled alongside her. He reveled in the tangible silence that befell them. Part of him wanted to make her angry – wanted to see his Hermione launch a verbal assault.

It didn’t happen.

Within minutes they turned down an unassuming side street and she rolled to a stop in front of an abandoned storefront. Harry looked through the murky glass to the forgotten shelving inside. A battered wooden sign hung from the doorway and demarked this establishment as the once solvent “Novelty Notions and Fabric Shoppe.” Given the similarities between this storefront and those marking the entrance to St. Mungo’s, Harry wondered if it was an alternate entry.

Hermione rolled to the tarnished door and tapped a brick three times with her finger. As she did, a curtain of sparkling light slid over the door and she rolled through. Harry followed, feeling a shiver slip up his spine as he crossed the threshold.

They passed by a nurse’s station and continued down the corridor until it opened into a large room. The floors were covered in polished hardwood with a spattering of colored mats scattered about the room. All manner of equipment peppered the walls. To his left, whole sections of the floor moved as if on a conveyor. Beyond that a small pool, with still water, sat beneath the corner windows.

“Hermione!” Morgenstern’s voice called as Harry heard her roll away. He turned to see Morgenstern bend and embrace Hermione in her chair. “How are you today?”

“Fine,” she replied, still hugging him.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded and Morgenstern stood up with her clutched to his chest. Her legs dangled, lifeless, beneath her. He turned around and carried her to a pile of multicolored mats. Settling her upright between them, he took off her shoes and set them along the wall. Harry looked behind him and found a comfortable waiting area just outside the door. It was equipped with several books, magazines, the wizarding wireless, a leaping fireplace and several squashy chairs. He looked back at Hermione. She answered Morgenstern’s questions as her fingers played across a red bolster. Harry noticed their camaraderie. He couldn’t help but feel like an intruder. Just as he resigned himself to the waiting area, he saw Morgenstern’s hand move to her thigh.

He changed his mind.

“What about here? Anything?” Morgenstern asked.

Hermione shook her head. “It’s the same. I can feel the heat from your hand and a little tingle here and there, but nothing more.”

“What about mobility?”

“Also the same.”

“Just the two toes then?”

Hermione nodded. Morgenstern’s face faltered as he sat back. He tented his fingers under his nose and looked at Hermione with a smile that did not meet his eyes. He gave a fleeting glace to Harry and returned his eyes to her.

“What?” she asked with a voice that knew the answer.

“Hermione,” Morgenstern began. Harry, sensing the severity of the conversation, knelt next to Hermione, longing to reach across the inches and grasp her hand in his. “It might be time to change our focus.”

“You mean give up!”

“No, I mean move on.”

Hermione’s jaw fell open in amazement. “Move on?” she scoffed. Harry looked at Morgenstern. His eyes were still fixed on Hermione. “How am I supposed to move on when I can’t move at all?!”

Throwing caution to the wind, Harry reached across the distance to take Hermione’s hand. She glared at him and batted his hand away. “You might be giving up on me, but I will not!”

She knocked the left-hand mat away and flipped over onto her stomach. Both Harry and Morgenstern jumped toward her as she dragged herself across the hardwood floor.

“Hermione,” Harry said.

“Leave me alone, both of you. I have work to do and if you won’t support me, I’ll do it myself.”

Harry was dumbfounded. He stood next to Morgenstern as they watched her pull herself onto a nearby machine. “I’ve been dreading this conversation,” Morgenstern lamented.

Harry looked up at him in question as the healer shook his head in defeat. “I should’ve said it long ago, but her determination is contagious.” He scoffed. “I thought I could produce the miracle she’s been hoping for.”

Harry looked back to Hermione, working the machine with her arms as it moved her legs in synchronization. He felt Morgenstern’s eyes on him and turned back to the healer.

“It’s my fault,” Morgenstern said.

“What’s your fault?”

“Her accident.” Morgenstern crossed his arms over his chest and studied her progress on the machine. “I haven’t been honest with her. I’ve allowed her to think that she might regain control of her legs,” he drew a breath, “and I know that isn’t going to happen. I haven’t had the heart to tell her.”

Harry’s heart sank. He spent the last thirteen months believing that what she’d told him before he left could happen. Her declaration that she would walk again sustained him over his sabbatical. It was the caveat his guilt demanded. It was the light at the end of a self-deprecating tunnel.

It was the light Morgenstern just extinguished.

The guilt he labored to keep at bay snaked through his chest and settled like a weight on his heart. She would not walk again…and it was his fault.

“If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

“What?”

“That curse was meant for me. I should be the one on that machine. I didn’t see Malfoy. I wasn’t even looking for him.” Harry squeezed his eyes closed and hung his head. “I can still hear her scream.”

***

“Harry! Wait!” Hermione’s voice begged from behind.

He didn’t hear it. He didn’t want to. He knew what she would say and he was not in the position to hold back or regroup. Ron was missing and there was one person responsible. His scar hadn’t stopped tingling since Ron disappeared from the fourth floor corridor. He was battling time and the realization that any moment his forehead could explode in agony and leave him without the brother he’d never had.

“Harry! This could be a trap! Please wait!” Hermione panted as she labored to keep pace with him.

“There’s no time!” Harry replied, stuffing the Marauders Map into his back pocket. He couldn’t bring himself to voice the fear pounding in his chest.

If Ron dies, it’s my fault.

“Harry!”

This time she grabbed his arm and held on for dear life. The gesture trounced his fraying nerves.

“What’s the matter with you!?” he barked. He spun around as she drew herself to her full height. “You’re supposed to be in love with Ron and you’re content to let him die?!”

“I am not content to let him die!” Her eyes flashed. “But you can’t save anyone if you’re dead!”

The hair on Harry’s neck stood at attention. “Well, I do have a ‘saving-people’ thing.”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw. “Now is not the time.”

“Too bloody right it’s not.” He turned on his heel and sprinted through the corridor toward the Quidditch Pitch. Having apparently given up, she raced alongside him without further argument. As he ran down the final staircase leading to the front lawn, he understood that he should apologize to her… and he would…later.

They burst through the main doors and the pitch came into view before him. He saw the swirling bolts of color rising from the stadium. His heart hammered against his chest. His scar tingled…it didn’t burn. There was still time. He wasn’t too late.

“Harry!” Hermione screamed. He felt her hands grasp his upper arm and thrust him out of the way. As he crashed to the ground, time stopped. From his peripheral vision he saw the tousled blond hair of Lucius Malfoy. He saw his face obscured by a dark hood and he saw the light resulting from a sickening black curse. He saw it spiral toward the place where Harry had been – the same place Hermione threw herself into.

He heard his voice echo through the midnight air. “NO!”

The curse hit her in the small of her back. Her face contorted in agony a split second before her voice filled the air with an excruciating wail. She crashed to the ground at his feet and lie motionless.

“Hermione!”

The back of her shirt was torn open and the blood poured from her singed skin. He pushed the hair away from her face and saw the pain etched in her unconscious expression. Visions of Cedric Diggory exploded in his vision. She looked the same.

That’s when he realized she was dead…and Malfoy was laughing.

Only Rita Skeeter ever possessed the audacity to ask Harry what it was like to kill Voldemort. Harry always appeared humbled by the question. Not surprisingly, this reaction only increased the image of a stalwart hero who would not disgrace his opponent.

It was a façade he never intended to establish – one more log for the hero-worshiping bonfire that followed the defeat of the Dark Lord. In truth, he couldn’t have answered Rita’s question if he tried.

The look on Hermione’s face, and the realization that she was right to be cautious, was the last thing about that night he could remember.

***

“But she wasn’t dead,” Morgenstern’s voice broke the silence.

Harry blinked a stinging tear from his eye and looked across the room. Hermione moved to a bright green mat and, with her back toward them, worked with an exercise ball. “No,” he replied. “She wasn’t.”

“What’s the next thing you remember?”

“Waking up in the hospital wing,” he offered with nonchalance. “My bed was screened from the infirmary but I could sense someone in the bed beside me.” He looked down at the floor, unable to keep his eyes trained on her any longer. “I heard him talking to her, encouraging her to wake up – to get better.”

“Ron,” Morgenstern offered.

“Ron.” Harry drew a breath and looked up. “I don’t know how it happened, but everything changed,” Harry harrumphed. “Somewhere inside I understood what she’d done for me. She thought she was giving her life for mine and I believed the same. I was ecstatic she was alive…that they both were alive. But seeing them together, as I had for months, was different. He held her hand and brushed the hair away from her forehead.” Harry returned his eyes to the floor in front of him. “That’s when I realized she didn’t need me.”

“That’s why you left.”

Harry nodded. “Not that the other excuses weren’t valid. But I could’ve dealt with everything else if…” He paused. “If things were different.”

“Things are different now,” Morgenstern said.

Harry felt his heart flip in his chest while the guilt churned in his stomach. He knew he shouldn’t be happy that Hermione and Ron’s relationship had ended. Regardless of his desire, he couldn’t leap at the chance. It was too soon. And for as much as he adored Hermione, she showed little indication that she felt anything but friendship in return.

Harry’s eyes traveled up Morgenstern’s tall frame. Morgenstern crossed his left arm over his stomach and the fingers of his right hand played at his chin while he watched Hermione. His eyes sparkled as she tossed the exercise ball to the side and picked up two hand weights from an adjacent rack. His expression was not lost on Harry.

“Things are different now, aren’t they?” Harry remarked. “Why am I not surprised you noticed that?”

Morgenstern looked at Harry, raising his right eyebrow in speculation. “As I told you before, I care for her physical, as well as emotional, well-being. I’d be remiss if I didn’t notice.”

“She’s hard not to notice. After all, she is beautiful,” Harry said, trying to press Morgenstern for a confession.

“Yes, she is.”

“And single,” Harry continued.

“Yes, she is.”

“So, what are you waiting for?” they chimed together.

The growl in Harry’s voice gave way to bewilderment. He stepped back from the healer and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “What am I waiting for?” Harry asked.

He didn’t get the next sentence out before Morgenstern fell to laughter. The absurdity of it annoyed Harry. “What’s so funny?”

Morgenstern gathered himself and turned to Harry. “You are. You’re blissfully obtuse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Harry barked.

Morgenstern looked between Harry and Hermione and wiped a tear from his eye. “Harry, I’m not interested in competing for Hermione’s affection,” he chuckled. “Not that I don’t adore her, of course, but if I had any interest in a relationship I’d be asking you to dinner.”

7. A Lesson in Love

Chapter Seven – A Lesson in Love

“Honestly, Harry! I can’t believe you thought Adam was interested in me,” Hermione chastised.

“What else was I to think? It’s not difficult to tell he has feelings for you.”

“But it is difficult to tell he’s gay?!”

“Well,” Harry blustered. “Yes! It is!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed herself along the baskets of produce. She stopped at a bushel of oranges and began inspecting a large Valencia. “Men,” she muttered under her breath. “Must they all be stolid?”

“What did you say?” Harry asked.

“Stolid,” Hermione responded, tossing the orange into a bag. “Indolent…obtuse…daft,” she continued as she turned around to face him.

“Obtuse?” Harry questioned.

“Yes, ‘obtuse.’ Shall I spell it for you?”

“No,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I find it interesting that you used the same word Morgenstern did. Do you spend your therapy sessions reading from the dictionary of obscure words?”

“It’s not obscure.”

“Fine.”

Hermione was grabbing for an orange just beyond her reach. Harry plucked it from the basket and handed it to her. “If I’m so obtuse, what great flashing signal did I miss?”

Hermione dropped the orange in a bag and handed it to Harry. “You say that like there’s only one.” She pushed herself toward the baked goods and pointed to the top shelf where the Walker’s Shortbread was stacked. Harry took one from the shelf and dropped it into the basket hanging on his arm.

“So?”

“Well, for one thing he’s attractive.” Harry’s brows furrowed. “He’s a healer and he’s not married. His wardrobe is meticulously well-appointed and he owns more shoes than Imelda Marcos.”

“Who?”

“Honestly, Harry, would it kill you to pick up a book once in a while?” She plucked a box of Taylors of Harrogate tea bags from the shelf and handed it to Harry. He cut his eyes toward her and snapped the box from her hand.

“So he’s attractive, although I have no idea how that qualifies you for the other team, and dresses well. Hell, Hermione, you could be describing Draco Malfoy for all I know.”

She looked at him over her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow.

“What?! I’ve only been gone a year, what the bloody hell has been going on around here?!”

Hermione failed to suppress her laughter. “Obtuse, Harry. Malfoy is not switch-hitting. He doesn’t meet any of the remaining criteria.”

“Which is?”

“Well,” Hermione gave Harry a thoughtful look. “Malfoy’s not sensitive. He’s not perceptive to a woman’s feelings. Nothing about his personality encourages you to bear your soul to a complete stranger. He doesn’t laugh at your jokes, remember your birthday, or make you feel like you’re the only person in the room when he’s with you.”

Harry couldn’t argue the point about bearing one’s soul. He didn’t realize he’d told Morgenstern the story of Hermione’s injury until after he’d finished. However, not wishing to appear swayed by her description, he replied, “Might I mention that most men don’t notice any of the criteria you just mentioned.”

“Not the straight ones.”

“So, we’re all obtuse?”

She answered with a consoling smile. “In short. He’s perfect. He’s handsome, intelligent, well-financed, he’s sensitive and charming, he’s approaching thirty years old…and he never talks about women, nor is he involved with one.”

“And that makes a man gay?”

“It does if you’re Adam Morgenstern.”

“Hermione,” Harry said. “I’d like to be the first to announce from the rooftops that you are wrong.”

“How do you mean?”

“I managed my share of N.E.W.Ts, so by someone’s standard I am intelligent. My Gringotts vault qualifies me as well-financed and I’m not involved with anyone. Unless I fail to be either charming or sensitive,” he glanced at her with raised eyebrows, “then I should’ve pounced on his offer for dinner.”

Hermione found interest in her change purse.

“Hermione!” Harry yelped.

She snapped it closed and rolled herself to the counter where a frazzled clerk appeared less than amused by their distracted conversation. Harry emptied the basket on the counter as Hermione rummaged for the proper denominations. “It’s not that you aren’t sensitive or charming,” she recanted.

“But?”

Hermione growled as she dug for the remaining coins the clerk’s open palm demanded. Harry slipped a hand into his pocket and exchanged the money in the clerk’s hand for a galleon. Dropping the coins back into Hermione’s change purse, he hooked the bag on the back of her chair and pushed her through the door into the gleaming sunlight.

“But,” she began, appearing to lose her train of thought.

“But what?” he reiterated.

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s just different…it’s obvious.”

“I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

“Sadly, no. But if it’s any consolation, I think you and Morgenstern would make a smashing couple.”

Surrendering to defeat, he replied, “If you’re a good girl, I’ll invite you to the wedding.”

Harry smiled as he pushed her back to her flat.

I’ve missed that laugh.

***

Hermione flipped through the two rolls of parchment unfurled on her desk. She’d sat at this desk for three hours and had little to show for the effort. She glanced at the tome that lay open on the desk for twenty minutes. She read the same paragraph for the fourth time.

Her self-imposed deadline for this project passed days ago. The accident cost valuable time. While the head charms wizard from the University would not notice her research was just on time, rather than a week early, Hermione would; and it unsettled her.

Truth be told, she spent her days that way…unsettled.

She grabbed another book from the bottom of the stack and turned it to the first of several flagged pages. As she focused on the theory of refracted spell light she heard a page flip behind her.

Her train of thought derailed again.

She wanted to be angry but couldn’t muster the energy. After all, Harry had been the perfect gentleman. Upon their return home, he put away the groceries whilst she settled herself at the desk. He never asked the question, seeming to know her intent. He grabbed a book from her private library and flopped on the sofa to read. He’d been there ever since.

He never interrupted her. He never bothered her with chuckles, snorts, or thoughtful reflections of the book he’d perused. He left her to her work without the slightest intrusion.

Flip.

Hermione buried her hands in her hair and grabbed it by the roots. Harry made it a point to be so thoroughly invisible that she couldn’t think of anything else. Without daring to look at him, she noticed everything. He’d moved from resting on his left hip to his right. He’d fluffed the pillow under his arm seven times and distractedly covered himself with her favorite knitted throw. Twice he’d pulled it under his chin and smiled at the passage he read and not once had she managed a complete sentence without noticing the tang of his airy cologne wafting through the flat.

“Why don’t you call it a night?” Harry’s voice erupted in her ears as his hands suddenly massaged her shoulders.

Startled by the contact, she wondered when he’d crossed the room. The fragrance of his cologne, once muted by the distance between them, invaded her senses as he worked a knot from her shoulder blade. “I should finish this,” she replied, letting her eyes droop closed.

Harry chuckled. “Hermione, I don’t claim to know what you’re working on, but you don’t appear to be breaking any records getting there.”

“Harry, I have a deadline to complete this report.”

“One I’m sure is still two weeks away.”

She couldn’t fault his intuition. However, his estimation was off by 22 hours and 12 minutes. She dropped her chin to her chest and relished in the feel of his hands on her shoulders. She’d missed the feel of a man’s hands on her body and missed Harry’s company even more. Just as she began to chastise herself for the thought, she realized he’d stopped.

Her eyes popped open as he scooped her from the chair and carried her to the sofa. He laid her down in the place he’d occupied and draped the throw across her. “Rest,” he ordered. “I’ll make tea.”

He walked toward the kitchen as she settled into the pillows that radiated his warmth. She drew a deep breath and realized the familiar vanilla scent she adored about this throw had been eclipsed by another scent…one she dared to admit she loved more…Harry’s.

When did that happen?

She watched him from the sofa as he rattled around in the kitchen. For the first time, the necessity of having her pots and pans in the lower cupboards wasn’t a bad thing. She buried her face behind the throw, peeked through the knitting like a child who’d just happened upon the Christmas gifts a month early and watched Harry bend over to fetch a saucepan.

“Hermione?” he questioned, turning around to face her. She straightened up on the sofa, cleared her throat, and busied herself picking invisible lint balls from the throw.

“Yes?” she replied with manufactured nonchalance.

“Er,” he began. “Where is…”

“What?” she replied, regaining her composure and meeting his eyes.

“Er,” he fumbled again. “I…”

“You what?”

“I can’t remember.”

They stared at each other across the room, neither finding the appropriate words to ease the companionable silence. Harry’s face broke into a lopsided grin and he turned back to the cooker, humming a tune she might have recognized if Harry hadn’t been singing it.

She dropped her head along the sofa and closed her eyes fisting the blanket in her fingers and reliving the clandestine fantasy of Harry’s hands roaming her body in the bath.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry’s voice interrupted as she felt her legs rise into the air.

“Er,” she said, clearing her throat. “Nothing.”

He settled onto the sofa and draped her legs across his lap. He twisted toward her and raised an eyebrow. “I was just thinking about getting cleaned up a bit before dinner,” she continued.

“Oh.” For reasons she didn’t understand, Harry’s cheeks flushed and he looked away.

“I mean,” she countered, listing the logical reasons for his reaction in her head. “I could wait until after dinner.”

“No, no. I’ll wait. It’s no problem,” he replied. Hermione couldn’t help but notice the tension that filled the air. What she couldn’t understand was the reason behind it.

***

Splash.

Harry slapped the book closed and tossed it on the table. His eyes found the sliver of light streaming under the door to Hermione’s bedroom. He followed it as far as he could see, knowing where it led, and what it cast its warm glow upon.

Hermione. In. The. Bath.

When he brought her home from St. Mungo’s, he hated the time she spent in the bathtub. Whilst she stayed behind the door, his mind raced through any number of manufactured crises that threatened her well-being. His hands grew sweaty and his heart raced with the memory of what he’d found the first time he opened the door.

Now they were sweaty for a different reason.

After her last appointment with Morgenstern, the logical barriers his conscience erected crumbled. She received a clean bill of health and all doubt about Morgenstern disintegrated. From that point on, Harry couldn’t turn off his imagination. He couldn’t stop the images that erupted in his mind. The nightmares of finding her drowning in the bath evaporated and he found himself remembering the smooth texture of her skin, the firm curve of her breast, the way his lips felt upon hers.

You’ve got to pull yourself together!

He draped his arm over his eyes and let his head fall back on the sofa. He rubbed his palms over his trousers in an attempt to replace the memory of her skin with something else…anything else. It didn’t work. The more he ran his hands over his thighs, the more his subconscious replaced his palms with hers.

Realizing what a bad idea it was to imagine her hands anywhere near his trousers, he leapt from the sofa and paced the floor. Her handwriting caught his attention. He stopped in front of her desk and picked up the parchment lying on the topmost book.

The vade mecum regarding this spell is the equanimity with which the caster must enchant the object. In order to produce a substantive aegis, the spell must be cast with the proper symmetry of dictum and composure.

Harry read the sentence four times before he gave up.

At least she was productive.

Harry flopped into the chair and rubbed the burgeoning headache from his temples. Although he spent the last few hours tucked under a blanket on the sofa, he hadn’t relaxed. Not wishing to disturb her, he had pulled a book from her shelf and sat down to read while she worked through her research.

He had no idea what he read.

In fact, he was certain he hadn’t read anything. Sure, he flipped the pages at regular intervals; he had to or she’d get wise to his real endeavor – watching her. It seemed every time he tried to focus on a paragraph, she’d cock her head to the side or twirl a lock of hair around her finger. She chewed on her quill. She pulled at her hair. She buried her eyes in her palms. She released sighs of frustration when she couldn’t find the answer and he’d watched every gesture from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t remember the title of the book he’d been “reading” and hoped she wouldn’t engage him in a literary discussion over dinner. He couldn’t tell her a single detail of the text, but he could describe the intersection of her neck and left shoulder blade in explicit detail.

If he wasn’t such a coward, he could tell her how he felt about her as well.

“Harry?” her voice interrupted. He jumped from the chair, heart pounding, and spun around. Her eyes went wide with shock. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Harry willed his heart to stop hammering against his ribcage and caught his breath. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “I didn’t hear the door open.” He tried to look nonchalant, but it was difficult as he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Her hair, still damp from the bath, was gathered at the top of her head. Swirling tendrils fell from the butterfly clip and grazed her shoulders. She wore a silken burgundy tank with a plunging neckline and matching lace trimmed shorts. The light reflected along the length of her smooth legs and his senses were overcome with the vanilla extract from her bath lotion.

If his jaw dangled at the floor, she didn’t seem to notice. Drawing a deep breath, her eyes fluttered closed only to open again. “Dinner smells wonderful, Harry. What are we having?”

His eyes wandered along the v-neck of her lacy blouse. Where the fabric joined together he could see the crease between her breasts diving southward under the material.

“Harry?”

He snapped himself to his senses. He knew she’d said something; he only wished he’d heard what it was. “Er…”

“Are you feeling all right, Harry?” she asked.

“Of course!” his voice cracked. “Fine.”

She studied his expression and he felt the heat climbing under his collar.

Change the subject, Potter!

“Are you ready to eat?” he asked, hoping she hadn’t realized what he’d been looking at.

“Yes, I’m starving!”

“Great!” he exclaimed, grateful she’d taken the bait. “I made lamb chops.” He rubbed his hands together and started to move behind her. As he grabbed the handle of her chair, her fingers grazed the back of his hand. He froze.

“If you don’t mind,” she whispered. “I’d like to sit at the table with you.” She turned her head and looked toward the chairs around the table.

Harry’s insides fluttered. “I don’t mind,” he replied.

Hermione’s face brightened with a warm smile and she extended both her arms toward him. He stepped to her side and slipped one arm under her knees while the other snaked around her back. She looped her arms around his neck and he lifted her from her chair.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her skin felt like silk against his arm. The fragrance of her perfume eclipsed the seasoned lamb chops she’d complimented earlier. She was so close…close enough to…

“Harry?” Hermione interrupted. Harry’s eyes rose from her lips to her laughing eyes. “Your arms are going to give out if you keep standing here.”

“I could stand here all night.”

Hermione looked away.

“No,” Harry responded, dipping his head to catch her eye again.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she whispered.

“I know exactly what I’m saying, Hermione.”

“And what is that?”

He turned to the sofa and sat down, settling her onto his lap. He caught her arms before she could cross them over her chest. Her eyes, already glistening with tears, met his. The words…paragraphs…soliloquies that he’d practiced ad nauseum for weeks were as far from his reach as the stars peppering the night sky. His mouth bobbed open and closed in search of the words he couldn’t speak.

Shaking her head, Hermione looked away. “Don’t do this to yourself, Harry.”

“Do what?” he croaked.

She laced her fingers through his and drew a breath. “Harry, you have your whole life ahead of you. You can do anything.”

“You can do anything!” he interrupted as she shook her head in protest.

“Maybe that was true before,” she began. “But…”

She continued to prattle on with the same excuses Harry heard since his return. She’d discounted her worth as a woman, a witch and a human being all because she could not walk from one room to the next. It boiled the blood in Harry’s veins. He didn’t care that she couldn’t walk. He wasn’t in love with her ability to stand on her own two feet.

He loved her for her perseverance and strength of character. He loved her for the determination she refused to abandon. He loved her infernal logic and dogged quest for knowledge. He loved the girl he’d met on the train and the woman he’d come to know in the years that followed.

He loved her. And of those practiced speeches, those were the only words that remained the same throughout every attempt and the only words he could remember now.

“Hermione, I’m in love with you.”

Her diatribe fell silent at his interruption. Her eyes widened and her jaw fell open as she stared at him in disbelief.

“I,” he launched his explanation.

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” Hermione interrupted with an indignant fire flashing behind her eyes.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Accio chair!” she growled, throwing her hand toward the chair that sat only a few feet away. It twitched at her command.

“Immobulus!” Harry responded, stopping the chair in its tracks. Hermione snapped her head around and glared at him. Before she could open her mouth to curse him, he did the only thing he could think of…the one thing he’d wanted to do for weeks.

He kissed her.

He could tell she was not willing to let go of the argument she’d expressed so pointlessly. Her lips were tense against his and she struggled to push away from him. He curled one hand behind her head, snaked the other around her back and pulled her body toward his.

She continued to fight his advance, now pushing her palms against his chest. Harry was overcome with the dreadful realization that no matter his love for her, it might not be enough. Just as he resigned himself to letting her go, he noticed her palm against his chest was no longer pushing him away. It was fisted in his shirt and her lips softened against his. Emboldened by the endless possibilities that flooded his mind, he tilted her head to the side and opened his mouth against hers.

She did the same.

It was all Harry could do to maintain his composure. She wrapped her arms around him and moaned as their tongues met. Her deep tone of voice, shrouded with the same desire racking his body, sent a chill up his spine. His heart pounded against his chest and he felt light-headed. Before he knew it, he’d leaned her back onto the pillows and slid down beside her. Gasping for breath, he pulled away and propped himself on his left elbow.

Her lips glistened with his kiss and her chest heaved in harmony with his. “Harry,” she whispered.

“No,” he replied, pressing his finger to her moist lips. He didn’t want to hear the objection. He didn’t want to think about what would happen next with their friendship. He didn’t want to apologize for not letting her go when she fought against him. All he wanted was to lie here, pressed against her side, and relish in the throbbing of his lips and the remembrance of hers.

As he closed his eyes, he felt her hand clasp around his. With resignation he allowed her to move his finger from her swollen lips. He’d run out of time. “Hermione,” he began. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“No, you don’t.”

His eyes popped open and he looked down on her. “Yes, I do. I know you better than I know myself. I know you have a hundred questions and I probably can’t answer half of them…”

“I only have one question,” she interrupted.

Harry’s jaw, still open from his argument, snapped shut and his eyebrows knitted together. “One?”

Hermione ignited a fire in Harry’s chest as she ran her index finger along the buttons of his shirt. “Would you be terribly disappointed if we used a reheating charm on those lamb chops?”

Harry slipped his hand under her silk tank and watched her eyes flutter closed as he replied, “What lamb chops?”

8. The Birdman

Chapter Eight: The Birdman

“Harry?” Hermione whispered as she dragged her fingers along his arm.

“Hmm?” he mumbled with his face buried in the crook of her neck.

“Why did you leave?”

Hermione spent the last hour with her back snuggled into Harry’s chest, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapped around her. She felt the serene rise and fall of his chest against her and listened to his breathing as it tickled the skin on her shoulder. At her question, however, his sedate demeanor vanished. She felt the tension flood through his arms and she couldn’t feel him breathe at all.

“I told you why,” he replied, clearing his throat.

“No, you didn’t,” she answered. “You said that you needed to get away and you felt like you were locked in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“You remember that?”

Hermione turned her head and looked up at him. “How could I forget something like that? You led me to believe your notoriety caused you to be uncomfortable here.” She looked at her fingers, threaded through his, and relaxed into the pillow. “Now I’m not so sure.”

He didn’t respond.

They lay there in silence, their arms and legs a blissful tangle of devil’s snare. Convinced his lack of response was an affirmative answer, she closed her eyes and tried to block out the infernal logic that demanded she send him on to greener pastures.

“I didn’t lie.”

Hermione’s eyes popped open and she twisted around to look up at him. “What do you mean?”

He tucked her tighter against his chest. “I did feel like I was locked in that cupboard. It was my place, no one else’s. It was the loneliest place on earth, but it was mine. No one would bother me there. No one would seek me out, or talk to me, or check to see if I was alive. It was just me…only me.”

“That’s a terrible place.”

“But for all its faults, it was a place I could go to shut out the world…to escape it for a while.”

“So leaving here was actually like returning to the cupboard?”

“In a way, I suppose it was.”

“But you were trying to shut me out…to escape me.”

“Not only you.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes closed and drew a shaky breath. “I knew.” She shook her head. “I knew the day you told me you were leaving. I actually thought you were going to tell me that you had feelings for me,” she scoffed, “right until you said you were going away.”

“You weren’t wrong.” Harry chuckled aloud. “You’re never wrong.”

“Yes, I am.”

He shifted on the bed and gazed at her. “Well, perhaps about all things Quidditch. You aren’t the sharpest tack on that subject.”

“I was wrong about Hedwig.”

“Hedwig?”

“I considered all manner of avicide with regard to that feathered traitor.”

Harry laughed. “Traitor indeed! She should be knighted by the Hufflepuffs for her loyalty.”

“She didn’t stay with Ron when I moved out, did she?”

“No.”

She nodded with begrudging assent. “That still doesn’t explain how you got the key to my flat. None of my spare keys are missing.”

“One of them is.”

Hermione shook her head. “I checked! I only have two spare keys to this flat and they’re both exactly where I left them!”

“You only have two spare keys in the flat, you mean.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue and stopped just as she gathered her breath. Her chest deflated like a child’s party favor and she slapped a hand over her eyes. “Mum.”

“Mum,” he echoed.

Hermione shook her head. “I should’ve known. She wasn’t remotely surprised that you had returned. I reckon she got used to it while I was unconscious at St. Mungo’s.”

Harry dipped his head and kissed her shoulder. “You’re not angry?” he asked with a hopeful tone.

“I should be bloody riotous! It just proves that neither of you believe I can take care of myself. She’s never believed it, and you…”

“…wanted to ensure you were safe while I was gone,” Harry interrupted. “And you said you should be angry. That implies you aren’t,” he finished without stopping for breath.

Hermione cut her eyes toward him and tried to contain the smirk on her face. “Well, it did prove somewhat useful, didn’t it? Had you not been an effective conspirator, I’d still be swimming at the bottom of my bathtub.”

“Not something I like to think about,” Harry whispered as he leaned back into the pillows.

“So, how did you find out about Ron and me?”

“Well,” Harry hesitated. “Your mum and I made arrangements before I left. Should anything happen that she felt I needed to know about, she would send Hedwig after me.”

Hermione scoffed. “I’d given mum and dad a spare set of keys a week before I moved out.”

“Your mum had the letter and the key ready when Hedwig arrived. The rest, you know.”

Hermione turned her head and pushed herself onto her side. Harry’s arm curled around her back and pulled her over so she could rest her head on his chest.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Hermione whispered.

Harry pressed his lips to her head and mumbled, “I promised you I’d come back.”

“Where did you go?”

Hermione felt him shake his head as he tightened his grasp around her. “It’s not important.” She raised her head and met his eyes intending to argue the point. He interrupted her before she could get the words out. “What’s important is that I’m back…and you’re safe. Nothing else matters.”

Hermione laid her head back down on his chest. Content to agree with him, for the time being, she closed her eyes and let the rhythm of his heartbeat lull her to sleep.

***

“He came down to the store last night,” Rachel whispered across the counter.

“Who!? Bird Man!?” Tracy responded. Rachel nodded as Tracy’s eyes brightened and she folded her arms over the Formica countertop. Pushing her soda aside she asked, “What did he buy?”

“Same thing he always does.”

“What did he say?”

“Same thing he always does.”

Tracy’s face fell as she grabbed her soda drink and sucked on the straw. Rachel laughed and pushed a plate of fresh-baked cookies in front of her friend. “Here,” she giggled. “Have one on me. Chocolate always makes me feel better.”

Tracy snapped a cookie from the plate. “Like you have anything to feel sore about! That makes the second month in a row I’ve missed him!”

“The way he is, you may never see him again.”

Tracy glared. “Thanks.” She chomped down on the cookie and propped her cheek on her hand. “He’s so mysterious.”

“And hot.”

“Shut up!” Tracy laughed, pushing her friend’s arm off the counter in front of her. They dissolved into laughter as Rachel made her way down the counter to old man Harvey who’d requested his third order of steak and eggs.

“Please tell me you aren’t drooling all over that bird-watching weirdo again,” a male voice chided as he stepped out of the back room.

“He’s not a weirdo, Sammy,” Tracy responded.

“No weirder than you are, twit,” Rachel snapped as she passed Sammy behind the bar.

“Right. He buys the shack up Old Laurel Cliff that isn’t fit for a Grizzly to live in, has no running water, no electricity, no phone…I don’t know how he gets down here half the time. Have you ever seen him in a truck?” Sammy retorted.

“So, he’s a little mysterious! Maybe he likes nature. Maybe he has a cell phone, who knows?” Tracy argued.

“Right. The guy goes months at a time without being seen in town and you think he has a cell phone?”

“How do you know he hasn’t been somewhere else in town? There are other places besides this old dive,” Rachel said.

Sammy rolled his eyes. “When Mrs. Lattimer died, it dropped the town population to 209. If that weirdo foreigner was in town, what self-respecting citizen of Eagle’s Peak, Wyoming, would keep it to themselves?”

Rachel dropped her dish towel and stalked around the counter to an open box on the floor. Crouching over it she began stocking the dusty shelf with the latest shipment of canned goods from Rock Springs. “Yes, God forbid anyone in this hole keep their gossip to themselves.”

“You know,” Sammy said in a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned over the counter toward Tracy. “The Sampson boys put out a premium for information.”

“What?!” both Tracy and Rachel chimed together.

Sammy broke into a smile and crossed his arms with a satisfied gloat. “Word on the street is that Adam and Tommy are going to go up there tonight and do a little recon.”

“Word on the street?” Rachel scoffed. “What the hell do you think this is? New York City? There is one street! Go outside and have a look, Sammy, it’s the one that gets all muddy during a hard rain.”

“Sammy, are you ever going to get off this big city kick of yours?” Tracy asked.

He looked her in the eyes and replied, “Maybe I’ll get off my ‘kick’ when you stop swooning over the weirdo foreigner’s ass.”

“Not likely,” Rachel muttered from the far end of the aisle. Tracy giggled and Sammy’s face darkened.

Tracy took another bite of her cookie and smiled. “Well, I can’t wait to see what Doc Robinson has to say about Adam and Tommy. Haven’t the last four attempts to break in on the birdman ended in a trip to his office?”

“Don’t you mean the last five?” Rachel said, returning to the front of the store, tossing the empty box into the back room and leaning against the counter.

“Shut up,” Sammy growled. “I got those welts from rock climbing!”

“You’ll have to show me how to rock climb with your ass,” Rachel chided. The girls dissolved into laughter as Sammy stomped through the old mountain mercantile toward the front door.

As he slapped the screen door open, he barked, “When I get to the city, I’m never coming back to this hole – or to you!”

Rachel continued to laugh, “Two months without mom’s cooking and you’ll be begging for a hot meal!”

Sammy stalked down the gravel road continuing to mutter about his elder, and only, sister. Perhaps she had no greater ambition than to take over the family mercantile, but he did. He wasn’t one to be held back…tied down. He looked over the rugged landscape of northern Wyoming and drew a breath of mountain air. He closed his eyes and the tension began to ebb from the base of his neck.

An eagle screamed overhead and Sammy’s eyes popped open to follow its course. Not surprisingly, it was headed for Old Laurel Cliff, the home of the infamous foreign birdman that had become the bane of his existence.

He cast a glance back to the mercantile. Its broad wooden porch was littered with mismatched rocking chairs. His mother decorated the front with a variety of hanging baskets that were also for sale. The rickety sign mounted to the roof, reading “Addison’s Mercantile,” weathered over the years in the same way as the rest of the wood sided building.

He could see the glimmer of Tracy’s blond hair cascading over her shoulders as she continued to laugh, probably about him, to his sister Rachel. He’d known Tracy since Rachel’s first day of kindergarten. He was hard-pressed to remember that day, as he was only three, but he’d been told the story enough times, it became a part of his memories whether he wanted it to be or not. Although he didn’t acquiesce to the idea that his naked meandering through the carrot patch was the reason she didn’t notice the grown man in front of her, he couldn’t be sure.

“Maybe if I had some fancy accent and claimed to be writing a book about birds she’d notice me,” he mumbled to himself as he kicked a rock down across the gravel parking area.

His mind wandered through their friendship over the years. Without realizing it, his feet carried him away from the mercantile and toward the overgrown trail that led to Old Laurel Cliff. He thought to turn back, remembering his last trip to survey the “birdman’s” property, until a snowy white owl streaked overhead. He’d never seen a white owl in Eagle’s Peak.

He watched the owl glide toward the dilapidated cabin and ran up the trail after it as quickly as he could navigate the underbrush. Knocking twigs and limbs out of his way, he was determined to sink the birdman at his own game. If he was the ornithologist he proclaimed to be, he would be outside the cabin, studying the owl and taking notes. If he wasn’t, then Sammy’s theory that he was a reclusive British crackpot would be confirmed…and he could claim victory in the face of the two unnerving women at the bottom of the trail.

His steps slowed as the cabin came into view through the trees. Sammy watched each step to ensure the errant snap of a felled twig would not alert the birdman to his presence. He stepped over a log and ducked behind a rusty oil drum that looked as old as the mountain itself. Peering over it, he saw the owl, perched on a branch just outside the door. It was mere feet from the shack and yet the birdman didn’t appear.

“Some great birdman,” Sammy whispered aloud. “He doesn’t even know it’s there.”

Feeling burgeoned by the birdman’s lacking skills of observation, he slid around the drum and crept toward the window at the back of the cabin. Kneeling under the sill he stretched up to peer through the hazy pane of glass.

“He is crazy.”

The owl was perched in plain sight of the open door, yet Eagles Peak’s notorious hermit couldn’t be bothered to notice. He scrambled around the room, tossing things into a trunk with such celerity they seemed to pack themselves. He snapped the trunk closed and stuffed an envelope into the back pocket of his jeans. Sammy couldn’t help but notice the cabin was as spartan as it had been before the birdman bought it. It had only one room with a wide porch that overlooked the peak. The stove, clearly broken, had not been repaired and the old refrigerator sat, unplugged, on the porch beyond. As Sammy pondered how the man had eaten these last few months, he realized his prey had stopped moving.

Heart pounding in his chest, Sammy felt his stare upon him through the window. He drew his eyes to the immobile figure standing in the open doorway and began formulating excuses for whatever ailment was about to befall him. Oddly, he saw the birdman in a way he’d never seen him before…smiling.

The birdman’s eyes gleamed brighter than the Wyoming sky and before Sammy could think to explain his presence on the Old Laurel Cliff property, he winked at him…and disappeared.

Sammy blinked his eyes and pressed his face to the glass but the birdman was gone. He ran around to the shack’s front porch to see a snowy white dot fading into the horizon. Shaking the thought from his head, he popped his head into the shack. Nothing. The birdman was gone. And suddenly, Sammy wanted nothing more than to spread the news to Tracy.

***

“Didn’t anyone know your name?” Hermione asked as she rolled through the park with Harry by her side.

“No,” he responded, stopping to pluck a stargazer lily from the flower bed near the pond. He handed it to Hermione. “They’re my favourite,” he explained as she took the flower from him.

“I imagine they are,” she replied with a smile. She slid the stem behind her ear and continued to push herself along the sidewalk. “So, why did they call you the birdman?” she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“And here I thought you only asked the questions for which you had no answers.”

“When do I not have the answers?”

“Then why ask the question?”

Hermione hesitated, finally deciding to be truthful. “Because I want to hear you say it.”

Harry’s footsteps fell silent and he stuffed his hands into his pockets. She stopped and turned to face him, for once glad that her vantage point was lower than his and he couldn’t avoid her gaze by staring at his feet. He drew a breath and looked at her. “They called me the birdman because every minute of every day I watched the skies for Hedwig. I knew when she came to me, I could return to you.”

Hermione felt the shiver radiate down her arms. She wasn’t sure if she was seeing the love in his eyes now, or the passion in them from last night, but she didn’t care.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Hermione whispered.

Harry nodded. He looked over her head to the park bench behind her. “This is as good a place as any, don’t you think?” Without further conversation, he walked over and sat down.

Hermione rolled to his side and locked the wheels on her chair. Folding her hands in her lap she watched a mother duck waddle into the pond with four fluffy ducklings splashing in behind her. They sat in silence, neither seeming to know where to begin.

“Hermione,” Harry’s voice resounded over the gentle breeze. “You have to know how I feel about you.”

“I do,” she responded. She did know how he felt. He’d told her as much the night before, but more important than words during sex, she felt how he felt. That was something that didn’t come to her often.

“Then you know that none of this matters to me,” he continued, waving his hand over her chair. Hermione couldn’t help but roll her eyes; it had become such habit these last thirteen months. “But that does,” his voice hardened.

Feeling her ire she cut her eyes toward him and replied, “What does?”

“That.” He adjusted his position on the bench to look at her directly. “The Hermione I know and love is in there somewhere. She doesn’t roll her eyes and shrug off my feelings. She’s the one who always kept a watch for me. She’s the one who confiscated my Firebolt because she thought it was dangerous. She’s the one who stood in my face and refused to allow me to run off to the Department of Mysteries without first adhering to her infernal logic. She’s the one,” his voice warbled, “who threw herself in front of that curse with no mind for her own safety.”

“So what does any of that have…”

“She’s not the one sitting in front of me now who thinks she’s worthless because she can’t walk,” Harry interrupted.

Hermione fell silent. Harry leapt from the bench and jammed his hands in his pockets. Pacing in front of her, his mouth bobbed open and closed as he searched for the words.

“Harry, you deserve someone….”

“Who what?!” Harry spat. “Someone who can walk? You don’t get it, do you Hermione?”

Hermione felt her brows furrow with confusion. “What’s to get, Harry?”

“You are in that chair because of me!”

Hermione threw her hands in the air. “Oh, please let us have another guilt party for Harry Potter!” she spat. “I told you, this was my choice!”

“Exactly!” Harry exclaimed. He dropped to his knees in front of her and Hermione was startled to she his green eyes darken with misty tears.

“Hermione,” he choked, “I’ve never had anyone love me before. I don’t know what that feels like…I’m not sure that I know how it feels to love someone.” He took both of her hands in his. “All I know is when I look at you, I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but imagine what my life would be like with you…and without you. And when I see you in this chair, something inside me hurts.”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered as she wiped a tear from his cheek.

“No,” he continued, wiping the other cheek with the back of his hand. “It doesn’t hurt because I feel guilty. I don’t. I know this was your choice. I never asked this of you. That’s what hurts.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hermione, you chose to give your life for me. You didn’t think about it, you didn’t make a chart of the advantages and disadvantages. It was your gut instinct and you did it without thinking of the consequences to yourself.”

“I know,” she replied, shaking her head with the confusion that had not been alleviated.

“No one has ever loved me like that.”

They both fell silent.

“Yes, they have,” she replied.

“My mother doesn’t count.”

“Harry!”

He shook his head. “I don’t mean it to sound that way, but she was my mother. It comes with the territory. I’ve never been surprised from what I know of her that she would’ve given her life for mine.”

“Why not?”

“Because she was supposed to love me.”

Suddenly, Hermione understood.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, tightening the grip on his hands.

“You didn’t have to love me. You chose to.” He chuckled. “Dumbledore once told me that our choices make us who we are. You look in the mirror and see someone crippled…someone incapable of being who she was a few years ago.” Harry shook his head and smiled, an errant tear trailing down his cheek. “I see someone who loves me. I see this chair…and I see you sitting here…and I can’t forget that you loved me enough to choose this life; that you chose it for me.”

Hermione’s vision blurred as the tears welled in her eyes. “That’s why you left,” she squeaked.

Harry nodded and looked away. “I couldn’t stand it. Every day when I looked at you I crumbled inside. I loved you so much, but…”

“But I was with Ron.”

“And I wasn’t strong enough.” Harry’s head fell in shame. “I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

Without thinking she reached between them and wrapped her arms around him. He returned the gesture, burying his head in the crook of her neck. “I left you when you needed me because I was selfish…the one thing you weren’t. Please forgive me,” he added at a whisper.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she replied. “I love you.” He tightened his embrace around her.

He pulled away, gathering himself. “Hermione,” he cleared his throat. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help you. I’ll do whatever you want to do. But please understand that I don’t see this chair as a hindrance to our relationship. I see it as the embodiment of it.”

“Love conquers all?” she replied with a smirk.

“Love conquers all.”

***

9. Epilogue

Epilogue

“Rise and shine, pumpkin flower,” Harry announced as he slid the curtains apart to reveal a blazing sun.

Hermione grabbed a nearby pillow and ducked her head beneath it. “You know I hate it when you call me that,” she growled.

Through the pillow she heard him chuckle. His arms slid behind her back and knees as he lifted her from the bed. “I know,” he grinned. “That’s why I insist on doing it.”

Hermione flopped over in his arms. “But I don’t want to get up,” she moaned. “Just five more minutes, please!”

Harry laughed as he continued to carry her to the loo. “Nope, you promised.”

“Well, enjoy it now Mr. Wizard. Give me a few more months and you won’t be able to pick me up anymore,” Hermione scoffed running her hand over the nascent bulge in her belly.

“Nonsense,” he replied with a Cheshire grin.

“What is that look for?”

“Wingardium leviosa!” he chimed as she floated from his arms toward and through the doorway to the loo.

“Harry Potter! Put me down this instant!” She caught a final glimpse of him as he winked and the door snapped closed. Growling in frustration she barked, “Remind me, again, why I married you?!”

“Because you love me,” his muffled voice sing-songed through the door.

“Love you,” she muttered, grabbing the vanity and pulling herself to the sink. “I’ll show you what I’d love to do,” she continued. “I’d love to turn your favourite chair into a Venus fly trap, that’s what I’d love to do,” she babbled on while bobbing up and down in front of the mirror.

“You know, some experts have suggested talking to yourself is one of the initial signs of insanity,” Harry said as he popped his head through the door and handed her a fresh towel.

Hermione nearly choked on her toothbrush. “Like anyone believes Gilderoy Lockhart! He’s….”

“Insane?” Harry interrupted as he ducked back through the door and pulled it shut. She could hear him laughing all the way to the kitchen.

She picked up her wand and pointed toward the bathtub. The faucet turned on and the bath oils dumped themselves into the running water. Tossing the towel on the floor next to the tub she pulled herself over the porcelain edge and mumbled, “Gravitius.” Dropping into the warm bath water, she settled her head against the terry pillow. “Why in the world did I agree to this?” she whispered to herself thinking about the day to come.

In the 6 months since their marriage, Harry pestered her about learning the levitation charms for her chair. Hermione always equated such charms with her abysmal ability to fly a broomstick and therefore had no interest in flying about the flat. It wasn’t long before she noticed a pot, a book or her favourite quill placed just beyond her reach. For as much as she argued the point, Harry never confessed to anything. But Hermione knew him – and he was a terrible liar.

So after an evening with Ron and Emily, which still took a bit of getting used to, and a bit too much Bailey’s, she’d made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

*

“Harry, really. We live in a first-floor flat. Everything I need is well within reach. There’s no need for me to learn how to fly this chair around like some blasted magic carpet. Besides, you take wonderful care of me!”

“Hermione, I’m not always there to take care of you. I have a job; I’m gone from the flat for the majority of the day. I just want to know that you can take care of anything that comes up.”

“Of course I can,” she retorted.

“But…our circumstances might change one day…and then…well,” he stammered.

And they were back to that. Hermione rolled her eyes, knowing full well where Harry’s thoughts had wandered. They hadn’t left that place since he met Neville and Luna’s daughter at St. Mungo’s. Needless to say, Celestine captured Harry’s heart in less than five minutes and he’d been hard-pressed to muster a coherent thought since then.

“Oh, all right,” Hermione announced, stopping Harry dead in his tracks. “I’ll make a deal with you.” Harry raised an eyebrow as Hermione folded her hands in her lap. “Should the day come that our circumstances do change, I promise I’ll try the spells. Happy?”

“Delirious,” he smiled.

*

Hermione’s fool-proof plan failed to produce the results she was looking for.

*

“I have good news for you, Hermione,” Morgenstern announced as he swirled his wand over her abdomen.

“What,” she mumbled, still clutching a cool towel to her forehead.

“You’re perfectly fine.”

“Fine? What medical school did you attend? I’d like to check their credentials. Look at me! I’m doubled-over, I’m heaving my stomach through my ear. I’m hardly ‘fine!’”

“No, but you are pregnant.”

Hermione scrambled to sit up in the chair. Morgenstern grabbed her arm before she fell backwards and pulled her to a sitting position. He looked virtually incapable of containing his laughter – which she didn’t find funny in the least.

“Pregnant!” she exclaimed. “How is that possible?!”

Now Morgenstern was laughing. “Well, you see the bird flies from flower to flower…”

“Adam!” Hermione blasted. “This is hardly the time for jokes!”

“Hardly the time? Hermione, this is a wonderful thing! You should be jumping for joy!” Hermione scowled at him. “Okay, bad choice of words.” Her face softened. “All I’m saying is you should be happy about this. Harry is going to be over the moon.”

“But I didn’t think I could have children because of…well, you know,” she stammered.

“Hermione, just because you can’t feel your lower body doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.” Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Your reproductive organs weren’t damaged by the spell, your spine was. The nervous connection between your lower body and your brain was severed. All that means is you cannot make your lower body do what your mind wants it to do. The actual organs and muscles are as healthy and operable as anyone else’s,” he explained.

Hermione wondered why she’d never thought of it like that before. But it made perfect sense. She looked up and caught her healer’s eye. “So I’m going to…I’ve got a…”

Morgenstern laughed again. “You’re going to have a baby. Harry’s baby, unless there’s something you’d like to tell me,” he winked.

Hermione scoffed and punched him in the shoulder. “Of course it’s Harry’s baby!”

Laughing, he replied, “Then I’ll give you this potion for the morning sickness, which is a healthy sign by the way, and fetch your husband from the waiting room.”

*

Hermione downed the goblet as Morgenstern left the room and hoped she’d find some appropriate way to share the news with Harry. In the minute that passed between Morgenstern’s exit and Harry’s arrival, she decided not to tell him right away. This was a moment she’d resigned herself to never having and wanted to be sure it was an announcement to remember.

Although Morgenstern appeared confused when she made no announcement, he played along and saw them both from his office. It wasn’t long before Hermione crafted the perfect plan and used Harry’s time at work to her advantage.

*

Hermione placed a vase of stargazer lilies on the dining table and wrung her hands together with anticipation. Harry would be home any minute. Rolling to the cooker, she checked the Brunswick stew a final time and turned the heat down.

“Yum! Something smells fantastic!” Harry’s voice called from behind her. She heard the door close and his bag fall to the floor under the coat hook. As usual, she felt his arms wrap around her from behind mere seconds later. He nuzzled her neck and gave her a kiss. “Hi,” he said. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine, Harry. Morgenstern said it was nothing to be upset about and he was right.” She looked up and smiled as he kissed her on the cheek. “Get settled at the table; dinner’s ready.”

Without argument, Harry set himself at his place and pulled the napkin off the plate. “Erm, Hermione?” She looked over and saw him inspecting his rather tiny silver spoon. “Was there some catastrophic use of shrinking spells in the flat today?”

“No, why?” she kept her voice as level as possible.

“Either this spoon has been charmed, or I got a lot bigger at work today.”

Hermione rolled over to the table and plucked the spoon from his hand. “Oh, that. That’s not yours.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together. Hermione took the spoon and went back to the kitchen. As she brought the stew to the table she waited for the inevitable question.

“Who’s spoon is it?”

“I found it at a thrift. I thought Luna would like it for her collection.” Hermione smiled at Harry as she scooped the stew onto his plate. “Tuck in while it’s hot.”

Gratefully, and according to plan, Harry hadn’t pressed the subject any further. But she’d done enough to plant the seed of interest and waited to see how long it would take for it to blossom.

It didn’t take long.

“So, I saw Neville today,” Harry said without looking up from his plate.

Smiling inwardly, Hermione replied, “Did you? How are Luna and the baby?”

“Fine!” he replied. “He had new pictures and took the better part of fifteen minutes making me watch Celestine roll over. I guess that’s the prerogative of any new dad though, eh?”

“I guess so,” she answered. For as much as she’d planned to drag this out over dinner, she realized she’d never make it and cut to the chase. “Well, you could always show him your pictures.”

Harry’s fork clinked against his plate. “What pictures?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Hermione replied with manufactured innocence. “Morgenstern dropped by today to check on us.”

“I thought he said you were fine.”

“He did.”

“Then why did he need to check on us?”

Hermione couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped her lips. “Not ‘us’ as in you and me, silly.” She pulled a few moving ultrasound pictures from her robes and pushed them across the table toward Harry. “’Us’, as in your wife and your daughter.”

She leaned back in her chair and absent-mindedly ran her hand over her stomach as the colour drained from Harry’s face. What she originally thought was cute turned to concern when she didn’t see him breathe.

“Harry?”

“M…my…my daughter?” he stammered, unable to take his eyes from the somersaulting blob on the ultrasound.

“Your daughter.”

He pushed his plate to the side and reached across the table with a trembling hand. Pulling the pictures toward him, his face broke into the widest grin she’d ever seen. “I’m going to be…to be…”

“…a father,” she finished, rolling around the table to where he sat. She stopped her chair in front of him and was shocked to see a tear rolling down his cheek. “Harry, you’re supposed to be happy,” she whispered, feeling a bit like Adam Morgenstern.

He snapped his head to hers and met her eyes. “Happy?!” he exclaimed. In one lightning quick motion, he leapt from his chair, pulled her out of hers and spun them around in circles. “I’m ecstatic! I can’t believe it! I don’t know what to say! I should…I can…I need to…”

“You need to stop spinning me around before I retch all over you!” Hermione exclaimed, squeezing her eyes shut and willing her stomach to stop swirling.

“Oh, right!” Harry replied and set her back in her chair. She couldn’t help but laugh. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Harry this happy. “Hermione,” he said at a whisper. “There’s no one else in the world I’d rather share this with.”

Hermione smiled. “Well, I should think you’d like to share it with a few people. I wish I could make that happen for you.” Harry nodded in silence. ”If it’s any consolation, I haven’t told anyone besides Neville.” Comprehension crossed Harry’s face. “I’m sure my mum and dad would love to hear the news if you’d like to tell them.”

With watery eyes, Harry pecked her on the cheek and leapt from the chair toward the phone. Hermione relished in his enthusiasm for the rest of the night. He phoned her parents first and spent the rest of the evening with his head in the fireplace. Hermione laughed as she saw Mrs. Weasley’s arms erupt through their fireplace as she tried to hug him through the fire. After an hour of storytelling and well-wishing, he flopped next to her on the sofa and he ran his hand over her stomach.

“Tired?” she laughed.

“Exhausted. Did I actually eat dinner?” he answered.

“No.”

Harry shrugged. “We could always use one of those reheating charms,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

She slapped his shoulder and tried to push him off of her. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Now you sound like Filch.”

“Well, you just lost any chance for getting me in the mood!” she responded as her face contorted in disgust.

They broke into laughter together and Harry curled his arms around her waist and laid his head on her stomach. “I love you, Hermione.”

“I love you, too.”

*

Hermione hoped in all of his excitement he would’ve forgotten about their deal. He didn’t. She hoped it would’ve taken longer than 48 hours for him to act on it. It didn’t. So here she was, being strapped to Harry on the front of his broomstick.

“Harry, is this really necessary? I’m not learning how to fly a broom!”

“No, but you are learning to fly. If you’re going to be successful at it, you need to get over this fear you have of it.”

“Fear! I’m a Gryffindor for heaven’s sake. I’m not afraid!”

At that moment, Harry pulled the handle of his Firebolt up and Hermione screamed as they climbed into the air. She opened one eye and saw Morgenstern standing where they had been, grinning like an idiot. Harry leaned forward against her back and they flew circles around St. Mungo’s courtyard. Hermione gripped the handle as hard as she could and closed her eyes.

“Loosen your grip, Hermione,” Harry’s voice echoed in her ear. “You’re in control of the broom, not the other way around.” She opened her eyes and felt his hand peel her fingers from the handle. “Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly,” she replied, not entirely sure if that was the right thing to say at the moment.

“Then close your eyes,” he directed.

“But, should I…”

“Trust me.”

Hermione closed her eyes and forced herself to think only of his hand over hers and his chest pressed against her back.

“Imagine you’re a bird…a nightingale.” Hermione pictured the bird in her head. “When you fly, you’re free. You can go anywhere…do anything.” She felt his hand press hers to the left and right. She felt the wind in her face as they climbed higher and moved faster. “You try it.”

His hand left hers and her eyes popped open. “Remember, you’re the nightingale, Hermione.” She looked down to see the rooftops of buildings and St. Mungo’s courtyard nothing but a green square below.

“I’m the nightingale. I’m the nightingale,” she repeated to herself, moving he broomstick from side to side. She had to admit it was liberating to be out of her chair. She didn’t feel weighed down or smaller than everyone else. Up here she was an equal.

They flew together for several more minutes before returning to the ground to begin practicing the charms specific to her chair. Although she was still uncomfortable with the thought of flying her chair around, the idea was less foreign to her than it had been. With practice, Morgenstern assured her she would be flying like a chaser in no time. After two hours with the healer, Harry and Hermione left St. Mungo’s and headed home.

“Why am I not surprised the ‘birdman’ chose to use a bird analogy up there.”

“It seemed fitting. Besides, everything I said was true, don’t you think?”

Hermione nodded. “Why a nightingale? Why couldn’t I be an owl?”

“I got the chance to read while I was away. One of the things I read was a story about Florence Nightingale and the effect she had on her patients,” Harry explained.

“Ah, the Nightingale effect. Morgenstern takes great pleasure in telling me he has the same effect on women.”

“That’s rather unfortunate for him,” Harry laughed.

Hermione twisted in her chair and looked up at Harry. “So, you think I fell in love with you because you nursed me back to health?”

“No,” Harry replied without delay. “But Madam Pomfrey thought to dedicate one of her infirmary beds to me for how often I stopped by there. And through all that, there is one person – one voice that I heard every time I was there…yours.”

“Really?” Hermione whispered.

“You’re clever enough to be an owl, but you’ll always be my Nightingale.”