Losing
"...and starting for the Chudley Cannons, we have Podeski, Sanchez, Carlson, Salini, Salini, and the league's top keeper and Captain of the English National Team...RONALD WEASLEY!" the commentator announces over the roaring crowd.
I'm sitting in my usual seat in the top box among a spray of red-heads wearing orange rosettes and waving Cannon pennants. Looking to my right brings to my attention that one-third of the trio is conspicuously absent. Harry's seat is empty, which isn't all that unusual; Harry has this strange tendency to be late to all of Ron's games. I'm not one to worry though. He always shows up at the perfect time, so mostly, Ron can't tell that Harry's lying when he says he caught Ron's start-of-the-game save.
The referee blows his whistle and my eyes turn back to the goalposts, leaving all thoughts of Harry in the dust.
ยช
Two hours and a Cannon win later makes me realize that my cheering buddy was a no-show. On the field, Ron clambers off of his broom stick and is instantly surrounded by rabid fans. Somehow, his eyes find mine and his eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. I shrug, silently telling him that I have no clue where Harry is. It takes about forty-five minutes for the hype to die down, and as I hug Mrs. Weasley good-bye, Ron appears at my side.
"Maybe he got held up at work," he suggests.
Well, I think, that wouldn't be the first time.
After the final battle, Harry, like most of us, wasn't sure what to do for the rest of his life. We had gone into battle not planning to come out, but gradually, each of us had to find our calling. Harry's, we all figured, was obvious. `The Boy Who Lived,' `The Chosen One,' `The Man Who Defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named;' someone with a title list like that was destined to be an Auror to fight villains 'til the end of his days.
I should've known though. Since when had Harry Potter ever been predictable? No, he stunned everyone by venturing into the medical field. With the help of my trusty old time-turner, Harry completed both magical and muggle training that would have taken decades, in the span of four years, graduating close to the top of his class in both schools. Even though he was offered many positions at St. Mungo's, he chose to start at the bottom of the ladder at St. Vincent's Children's Hospital in London and is now the facility's youngest Chief Resident.
It didn't come as a surprise, however, to find that Harry would be working in the Intensive Care Unit. Of course Harry Potter, with his outstanding hero complex, would want to be in the thick of things, helping people when hope was hard to come by.
Eventually, after signing a few autographs and a few more hugs, Ron and I head home, chatting about the game, to find Harry's silver Mercedes in the driveway. We share a knowing look before dashing through the front door and up two flights of stairs to Harry's floor. Opening the door, we walk to the only lighted room.
Harry sits at the dining room table, clad only in his loose-fitting chinos and his old, black-rimmed glasses, pouring over file upon file of paperwork. His eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are tearstained, but I don't ask any questions and I can tell Ron is uncomfortable. He doesn't handle any sort of emotional situation well.
"Er...mate?" he asks tentatively.
Harry doesn't even look up when he answers, "What do you want, Ron?"
Ron stiffens at his best friend's sternness. "You...er...you weren't at the game...and we just..." his voice trails off and Harry's shoulders sag.
"I'm sorry," he replies, looking up for the first time and now I'm sure that Ron knows what's up. This has only happened once before; that was the first time Harry couldn't save one of his patients. "I just lost track of time-"
"It's alright, mate," Ron assures, and I can tell that the tension is getting to him, so I motion toward the door, silently telling him he can go. I wait until he shuts the door behind him before I pull out the chair next to Harry's, sliding into it and laying my hand on his bare shoulder.
"Who was it?" I ask softly.
His eyes clamp closed, as if to hold back tears. He swallows, and in a voice I can barely hear, "Allie."
The air rushes out of my lungs in a sharp exhale, and I lean my head against the cushioned back of the seat.
Allie was Harry's first special case. She had been brought in from the ER for internal bleeding. Harry, who was on duty that night, took charge of her. After exploratory surgery, Harry and his team found the cause; her lungs had been lacerated in the car crash that had brought her there. Her parents were divorced; her father was in prison serving a fifteen-year sentence for money laundering and possession of cocaine and her mother was drunk when she picked Allie up from day-care when she hit a van head-on. Allie only just survived, while her mother passed away. After having one lung removed and the other cleaned up, she was admitted into the Intensive Care Unit under Harry's constant watch.
Allie stayed there for seven months, and it didn't take long for Harry to fall in love with the tiny three-year-old girl who had already stolen the hearts of everyone in the ward. At the eighth month, she was moved to the Permanent Care ward and was put on a donor waiting list to replace both of her lungs. Harry meanwhile, continued to visit her before and after his shifts for the past year. He slowly became the closest thing she'd ever had to a father, bringing her presents on her birthday and teddy bears on Valentine's Day. He even got a court order to take her from the hospital to our flat for Christmas last December. I can still see her black-curl-framed face gazing in awe at our ten foot Christmas tree...
Harry takes off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose and I take this time to quickly scan the files in front of him. All the papers dictate what he ordered to be done on Allie in her nearly two years in his care. I can tell he saw me looking, because he offers, "I thought that maybe I did something wrong. I wanted to see if I should've done something different-"
He stops mid-sentence when I close the open folder and slide the pile to the other side of the table.
"Hey!"
"You don't need to stress yourself out like this. There's nothing you can do now, Harry. You can't change the past."
He turns away from me, fixing his gaze on the table top. It takes a few moments for him to move, and all he does is take off his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose again, but at least he's reacting to this. I'd be more worried if he didn't show any emotion.
Gently, so as not to startle him, I take his hand and tug him up from his chair leading him to the couch. I sit down and he sinks next to me, collapsing against the back. We sit in silence for a few moments, and then he shifts sideways on the couch, pulls me toward him so that I'm sitting in between his legs, wraps his arms around my waist, and buries his face in my hair.
"Hermes," he says, his voice muffled.
"Hmm?"
He lifts his head and sits his chin on my shoulder with a sigh. With the innocence of a child asking if there really is a Santa Claus, he whispers, "Why does everyone I love die?"
My finger, which has been tracing spiral patterns along his thigh, stops. I've always known that this question would come one day, but I've hoped that I wouldn't be the one obligated to answer it. I let out a sigh of my own, pulling one of his hands from my waist to hold it in both of mine.
"Everyone dies someday, Harry."
"I know, but why does everyone have to go so...fast?"
"I dunno," I respond.
My fingers run against his palm. His skin is weather-worn and rough with calluses on his middle fingers where his tools rub during surgery. I've always loved Harry's hands, perhaps because I've seen all that they can do. It never ceases to amaze me that the hands that vanquished the most powerful dark wizard in a century are the same ones that perform heart surgery without the slightest tremble or hesitation.
"But she was so young," he says.
Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, but I know I can't let them fall. I have to be the strong one this time.
"Maybe..." I say, "maybe God needed another angel..."
I know that Harry's never had any sort of religious background, but this is the only explanation I can think of and it brings some comfort to me, at least.
"Yeah," he replies, his voice strained, "that's probably it."
I twist my head around to get a better look at him. The rings under his eyes are darker than usual and his normally peachy-tan skin is pallid.
"You need to get some rest, Harry," I tell him, getting off his lap and bringing him to his bedroom.
Harry's room is immaculate; everything is in its place. I'm still not sure if that's a trait acquired from living with the Dursley's or from being a surgeon. I let go of his hand and turn down his duvet cover, revealing the creamy, white satin sheets underneath. I grab his hand again and push him onto the bed, which at the moment, looks drudgingly inviting. He takes off his belt and his glasses, placing his wand on the nightstand, and slides soundlessly under the covers. I place a kiss to his forehead before heading to the door.
"Hermes," he calls, making me turn back.
"Yes, Harry?"
He sits up a bit, timidly stretching a hand out to me, the dust of an embarrassed blush settling on his cheekbones. "Will you stay with me? At least until I fall asleep?"
I stare at him, and for a moment, I can see the eleven-year-old boy I met on the Hogwarts Express thirteen years ago that had never known love or comfort. I smile gently. I can't deny the man anything when he looks like that.
"Of course."
His green orbs shine with gratitude as I lie next to him, pushing his shoulder slightly so that he lies down on his back. I prop myself on my side on one elbow, one hand cradling my head, the other lazily running its fingers through his hair. For a second, the image of the paperwork piled up in my study waiting to be filled out flits through my mind, but I shove it away. He's more important.
Harry's eye lids flutter for a few moments before finally closing. He doesn't fall asleep right away though. It takes about half an hour for his breathing to even out and his face to relax. This is the first time in a long while where I've actually seen him at ease. His nights are usually plagued by nightmares and his days, by illness.
I'm seriously debating slipping under the covers with him when my trained ears detect the sound of footsteps. They pad heavily to the closed door, stop, then the door cracks open and Ron sticks his head in. I raise a hand, signaling for him to come in, and he literally tip-toes across the room to Harry's bedside. Ron takes a seat on the edge and glances concernedly over at Harry.
Instantaneously, I'm jolted back to a similar scene a few years back.
Ron and I, along with Harry, are in the same position, but the surroundings are completely different. Instead of being in Harry's bedroom, we're in a hospital room. The smell invading our senses is that of strong anti-septic potions instead of the clean, airy smell of our flat and the possibility of losing one of our own hangs like a thick shroud between Ron and me.
Ron's left wrist is in a brace, his only long-standing injury. I'm still in my hospital gown and slippers, balancing on the tip of the seat of my wheelchair. It had been four and a half weeks since Voldemort's defeat, and while the wizarding world was rejoicing, Ron and I had been thrust into a feeling of unreality. Neither of us had left the hospital since we first arrived. Ron had been asked to visit the Burrow to celebrate the Dark Lord's downfall with the twins and his parents, but had declined to stay at Harry's bedside with me. I was still in the hospital for `observational purposes.'
Harry had shown signs of consciousness a little more than three hours before that point; his eyes seemed to crack open and one hand tightened weakly around mine. Ron and I had been waiting anxiously ever since. The two of us had just shared a sidelong glance at each other when a strangled groan came from the boy between us.
Harry's fingernails dug painfully into my palm as his grip became almost unbearable.
"Mate?" I heard Ron mutter.
Harry's eye lids flitted open, only enough for us to see a bit of his jewel-like emerald irises. He swallowed with difficulty, then rasped, "Hermes?"
"Right here," I answered quickly, "you did it, Harry! Voldemort's gone, and Ron and I are both here."
The ghost of a smile appeared on his face.
"So sleepy..." he murmured, his eyes sliding shut.
"Sleep then, Harry," I cooed, brushing his bangs away from his face.
"Sleep?" Ron said incredulously, "He's been asleep for four weeks!"
I slapped his arm and we laughed for the first time in a month.
My memory slips gradually into a dream as I sink into the soft warmth of Harry's mattress. The sun begins to set, casting the room in an orange glow. By then, I'm in such a deep sleep that I don't notice Ron shut off the lamp, pull the covers over my shoulders, and leave the room.
A/N: Tons of cyber hugs to all of you who reviewed! All your comments meant so much to me. Please keep them coming...
-->