Hours

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR; I only borrow her world for fun.

Author’s Note: This is a fic that I began months ago and finally managed to finish, due in no small part to the inspiration provided by the brilliant Lori’s writing.

Enjoy!

Hours

Some hours before…

There was no time for all the words she wanted to say, no time for anything at all really.

There was only time for a look, a fleeting press of hands.

“Harry—be careful!”

Only three words but those three words had to tell him everything she wanted to say but couldn’t—everything she knew he understood.

“You too.”

He gave her a last, serious look and then he was gone.

~

Hour 1

“Miss Granger, please! You must rest and stay in bed while I make sure you haven’t suffered any internal damage and to give your body a time to heal!”

The girl didn’t listen, only continued to struggle to get up. “Harry—how’s Harry? I’ll be fine, just tell me how he is!”

“Miss Granger! Kindly lie down before I forcibly tie you to the cot and make you stay there! We will inform you of Mr. Potter’s condition once we know it for certain.”

The threat made its way through Hermione’s panic-fogged brain and she subsided, although her worry didn’t. She did lie back though. “Harry… And Ron?”

“Mr. Weasley should be fine. Now, you must rest and preferably sleep for at least a few hours.”

~

Hour 3

She rested but she could not sleep.

Her thoughts tumbled over and over in her head, jumbled up and confused but all of them centering around Harry.

Harry and that last look he’d given her. Harry and the horrible, ghastly pallor of his face when she’d seen that brief glimpse of him before being bustled away to her own cot. Harry and all the feelings that remained unspoken, as yet, between them. Harry and the little touches, little moments, here and there over the past few months… Harry, Harry, Harry…

~

Hour 4

“Hey.”

“Oh Ron! Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” He gave her a careful hug and sat down beside her cot. “You?”

“I’m fine but I’m staying here under the threat of being Stupefied by Madam Pomfrey if I try to get up. Have you seen Harry?”

“Not yet, they wouldn’t let me past. There’s a horde of Healers from St. Mungo’s hovering around.” Ron hesitated, fidgeting with a fold of her blankets and addressed the floor rather than her face. “Do- do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Yes.”

Her answer was so certain that Ron gaped at her. It completely belied her obvious tension and worry and he knew that frown on her face too well to fully believe her calm.

She met his gaze for a minute before her confident façade crumpled ever-so-slightly. “He has to be. He just has to be…” she said in a whisper.

Ron met her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, his voice equally soft.

~

Hour 7

She was finally released from the increasingly-irksome prison of her cot and she hurried, fear and worry and love lending speed to her feet and making her exhaustion immaterial, to behind the hastily-set-up curtains which closed off Harry’s cot.

Madam Pomfrey and a handful of St. Mungo’s Healers were still hovering around the cot, frowning and murmuring to themselves.

“How is he? He- he will be okay, right?” Her voice was sharp, higher than usual, and cut through the air with startling precision.

She waited, tensely, hardly aware of Ron moving to stand beside her.

The Healers each looked at the other, looking supremely uneasy, until as one, they all turned to look at Madam Pomfrey.

“We- cannot say,” she finally admitted softly. “Physically, his injuries are not that severe but mentally… His mind seems to have slipped into some sort of stasis, a coma, if you will, and we cannot know if he will ever awaken or if he does, whether his mind will be whole and unharmed.”

The rest of her words after the initial ‘We cannot say’ seemed to fade into the odd buzzing in her ears as for a moment, her vision blurred, the world going gray, and she felt herself sway, her mind backing away from the horror of it all.

No… Not Harry… He had to wake up… he had to be fine… he couldn’t wake up and not- not be himself… he had to… Not Harry… Nononononono, oh no… Not Harry, not Harry…

She felt Ron’s hands gripping her arms and heard his concerned voice. “Hermione!”

She fought, struggled, succeeded and straightened up. “I’m fine,” she assured him, her voice wavering only the slightest bit.

She looked back at the Healers and Madam Pomfrey who were now regarding her with some concern and rallied her strength. She would not—she could not—simply collapse now.

Harry would be fine. He had to be. She clung desperately to that belief, that faith. He could not have come through all these dangers, relatively unscathed, only to succumb now. He would be fine…

“I’m staying with him.”

It wasn’t a question for permission but a simple declaration of intent. For a moment, Madam Pomfrey looked like protesting but then she met Hermione’s eyes and seemed to see the implacable determination in them and gave in.

Hermione moved closer to the bed, looking down at Harry through eyes that were blurred with tears that she hastily blinked back. He was so pale, so still…

She reached out with one hand to grasp one of his, lying so limply beside him on the cot, squeezing it, willing some of her strength, her spirit, her life, into him, if it would help him. Willing him to return to her…

~

Hour 11

She lost all track of time except what she could vaguely guess at from the comings and goings of the Healers from St. Mungo’s as they switched shifts.

She hardly moved except to breathe and shift positions every so often when she felt herself getting stiff.

And still, she waited. Waited and watched. Waited and watched and hoped…

~

Hour 12

Ron returned. “Hermione, you’ve been here for hours. You’re going to make yourself sick or something. Sit down, eat something, get some rest. You can’t just stay here.”

He hesitated and then added, very quietly, “He doesn’t know you’re here, you know. It won’t matter if you leave for a while.”

She turned to him almost fiercely, her eyes flashing for a moment with all her usual determination, all her usual intensity. “He might know. He might—and I’m not leaving.”

Ron gave up for the moment, cowed into silence by the sheer force of her will. He stayed beside her, also watching Harry, for a while and then he left, with a last glance at her.

And still, she waited. And watched and hoped…

~

Hour 13

Ginny came.

“How is he?” she asked as she made her way to the other side of Harry’s bed.

“No change,” Hermione answered succinctly. She wasn’t sure she could talk about it, about Madam Pomfrey’s grim prognosis at any length; if she did, if she tried to force the words through the lump of emotions clogging her throat, she felt, sensed, that the dam she was keeping around her feelings and her fears would come tumbling down.

“How long have you been here?”

“I’m not sure.”

For a long moment, Ginny’s eyes met and held hers before they fell to focus once more on Harry’s unconscious face.

“I still care about him too.” The words were quiet, subdued.

“I know.”

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Yes.”

Ginny glanced up at her. “How can you be so sure?”

“I have to believe it.”

Ginny bent and brushed her lips against Harry’s cheek.

And then she left, with a last glance at Hermione. And Hermione understood, somehow, that Ginny had, finally, given up on Harry.

Not because of her but because of who and what Harry was. Ginny couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t cope—and somehow, she’d realized it, accepted it.

She tightened her grip on his hand, so still and so cold.

And she waited.

~

Hour 15

Ron brought some food and a cup of tea which she ate and drank automatically, not tasting the food but knowing she had to.

And she waited.

~

Hour 16

His hand was colder.

Was it really? Or did it only seem that way?

She could feel the fear, the panic, clawing at her mind, all her worst nightmares fighting to take over. She fought them back.

She bent, kissing him, hard and quick, on the mouth before brushing her lips against his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids.

“You have to get better,” she whispered fiercely into his ear. “You have to. Don’t you dare even think about dying, Harry. You can’t leave me; you can’t!” Her voice broke on a suppressed sob and she swallowed hard, pushing the tears back.

She had to be strong, had to stay here, for Harry. For Harry’s sake.

And so she waited and watched and hoped.

~

Hour 18

“Miss Granger, really, this is most unnecessary. You must get some rest. You’ll be notified immediately if anything changes in Mr. Potter’s condition. Now, please, go and get some rest.” Madam Pomfrey’s tone sounded harassed and was insistent.

“I’m fine, Madam Pomfrey. Really. And I have to stay here. I won’t leave him.”

“Miss Granger, I must insist--”

“Let her stay, Poppy,” interrupted another voice, Professor McGonagall’s.

Hermione stood up, turning to look at the Headmistress, although she retained her grip on Harry’s hand.

Professor McGonagall looked down at Harry for a long moment, an unreadable expression flitting across her face, before she looked up at Hermione, her gaze softer than Hermione had ever seen. “Yes, you may stay with him as long as you wish to.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“I will trust your judgment not to let yourself get ill, however,” McGonagall added.

“Yes, Professor.”

And with a “Very well,” Professor McGonagall left the Infirmary, her steps brisk as if to deny her fleeting moment of sentiment.

And Hermione stayed behind to wait and to watch and to hope.

~

Hour 20

Her eyes had started to burn a little, her vision beginning to seem blurry, from not having slept in so long so she closed her eyes.

Closed her eyes and let herself drift for a few moments, let herself picture Harry’s face and his smile, hear his voice and his laughter in her mind…

“Hermione. I’m sorry; I tried but I don’t know if I’ll get through this. I’m sorry, love…”

“No!” She was jerked out of her state of hovering somewhere between sleep and consciousness to the sound of her sharp protest.

Her eyes searched his still face, listened to his even breathing.

Was his hand colder than it had been? Was he paler than he had been? She didn’t even know anymore, her fears and her hopes warring within her and her only comfort lying in the rather grim fact that none of the magical monitors set up around him showed any change in his condition, whether for the better or the worse.

Her hands were stiff and a little sore from having held his still one for so long but she refused to let go. In some small, irrational way, she almost felt as if her grip on his hand might be the only thing keeping him in this world, keeping him from slipping away entirely and if she let go, he would go too.

~

Hour 24

Ron was there again, hovering uncertainly beside Harry’s cot.

Madam Pomfrey and the Healers finished their whispered consultation and then Madam Pomfrey turned back, her expression grim.

Hermione’s physical strength failed her. If she hadn’t already been sitting down, she knew that she’d have collapsed. There was a high whine in her voice, almost drowning out what Madam Pomfrey said, but not quite. Not enough. She wished it had drowned it out; she didn’t want to hear it but it made its way into her mind, searing her consciousness, her heart and her soul with its significance.

“Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, it’s now been a full 24 hours and there’s been no significant change in Mr. Potter’s condition.” A pause and then Madam Pomfrey began again, her voice sounding rather as if she were repeating a memorized speech. “The longer he is comatose like this, the greater is the possibility that he… might not wake. I’m sorry but it would be remiss of me not to warn you that you may have to prepare yourselves for the worst.”

Prepare yourselves for the worst.

She was going mad; she knew she was going mad. Her brain was beginning to fly apart at the seams, thoughts whirling, whizzing around in an insane rush. Prepare herself… Just two words, two simple words, but at that moment, she simply could not wrap her brain around them, could not understand it. Prepare herself…

And for a split second, she found the phrase, prepare herself, terribly, bitterly funny.

She laughed a harsh, strange laugh that had Ron staring at her and Madam Pomfrey frowning. Anger bubbled up from somewhere inside her, anger she hadn’t known she felt or was even capable of feeling, with everything in her consumed with fear as it was. “Prepare myself?! Prepare myself? How? Prepare myself? I can’t; I won’t! Prepare myself to lose him, the person who’s been the basis of my entire life? How can I prepare to lose part of me? Prepare myself! I don’t know how to live or who I am without him anymore; I can’t prepare myself! I won’t! He can’t go; I won’t let him go!” The torrent of feeling, putting into (rather hysterical) words all the feelings she hadn’t quite put into words before, confessing all she’d just begun to acknowledge to herself, ended abruptly on a choked sob.

She was vaguely aware of arms going around her—Ron, his face ashen and his eyes red-rimmed—and for a moment, she clung to him, her chest heaving with dry sobs. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” she found herself babbling. “He’s everything… I can’t let him go…”

In spite of everything, though, her hand retained its grip on Harry’s hand.

She was peripherally aware of Ron’s hands patting her awkwardly on the back. “I know,” he said soothingly, his voice sounding hoarse and unlike himself. “I know.” He didn’t say anything more, didn’t tell her that Harry would be fine. He couldn’t tell her what he didn’t know himself.

But as Ron knelt there, he could only marvel at the strength of the bond between Harry and Hermione, that Hermione, of all people, could just fall apart like that. He’d known, of course, that Hermione loved Harry but he hadn’t imagined just how intense the emotion was. He’d never imagined that Hermione could simply fall apart as she had; this was Hermione, after all, who, he sometimes thought, had single-handedly kept Harry from going insane this past year when everything seemed to be going to pieces around them. Hermione, who had nagged and bullied and persuaded and cajoled them into never giving up and because of that, actually managing to find and destroy the horcruxes and then face V-v-vol—You-know-who. But now, with Harry so still and so pale and possibly gone for good—Hermione fell apart. He’d realized that Hermione made Harry stronger, that something about just having her with him gave Harry some added reserve of strength and will but somehow, he hadn’t realized that it went both ways. That somehow, in some way, Hermione needed Harry too, that her strength and her will and her courage was, oddly, because of Harry, that Hermione was able to be strong because she had Harry. Now, with the possibility that Harry might leave for good, Hermione’s strength failed her.

Even as he thought it though, he felt her stiffen, as she summoned some last reserve of will from somewhere inside her, and then she sat up, pulling away.

“Will you be okay?” he asked lamely.

She nodded, not looking at him but looking at Harry. “He has to be okay, Ron. He’s going to be fine,” she whispered.

Ron swallowed hard so he could speak through the sudden constriction of his throat as he, too, looked at Harry. “Yeah.”

And so Hermione’s vigil continued.

~

Hour 29

Did she dream it? Imagine it?

In that strange realm between life and death where Harry hovered and as she herself drifted between sleep and full consciousness, did her soul somehow reach out to his?

She couldn’t see him but she knew he was near. “Harry! Oh Harry, where are you?” The words spilled from her desperately, not sure if she expected an answer or if she were simply speaking to herself, but then she heard him.

“Hermione… I’m sorry.”

Fear sharpened her voice for a moment. “No, Harry, don’t you dare. You have to live. Please,” she felt sobs building in her throat and clogging her voice. “Please, Harry, come back.”

“It hurts, Hermione. It’s so hard…”

“I know, Harry. I know. It is hard; living is hard but you can’t give up, Harry, you have to come back. For me, Harry. You have to live. For me…”

She waited and then, in a mere whisper of sound, she heard his answer. “Yes…”

And she smiled.

~

Hour 35

Her faith and her hope had faded, the long hours of waiting wearing them down. Faced with the stark reality of Harry’s pallor and his stillness and the long minutes and hours that passed, she found it harder to believe that her dream—her vision—had not been merely a product of her own hopes and wishes.

Slowly, insidiously, doubts and despair crept into her heart. “Oh, Harry…” she whispered, hot tears stinging her eyes, as for the first time ever, she tried to accept that he might not return. That she might never again see him smile at her or hear his voice—that she would never be able to tell him she loved him…

And then it happened.

At first she thought she’d imagined it, the barest twitch of his finger in her hand but then she felt it again.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared, not daring to breathe or move.

Very slowly, his eyes fluttered open. She knew the moment he saw her because his eyes cleared a little, became a little less shadowed.

“Hermi’ne,” he murmured, his lips hardly moving, the word so soft it was barely a breath of sound.

“Yes, Harry, I’m here.”

His finger twitched again and she knew he had tried to tighten his grip on her hand.

“Stay,” he mumbled as his eyes closed again.

“Yes,” she managed to say through the tears of relief and joy welling up inside her.

She bowed her head until her forehead was resting on his hand. “Thank you,” she whispered in the most fervent prayer of her life and she wasn’t sure who she was thanking, the fates or him for returning to her.

But it didn’t matter.

Harry had awoken; he had come back to her—and that was all she needed to know.

~

Hour 41

Harry had returned to consciousness fully just over an hour ago, an hour that had been filled with the Healers bustling around him, with Ron hovering over Harry and trying to contain his heartfelt relief behind a veneer of calm good humor, with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley coming by to shake Harry’s hand and to weep, respectively, with Ginny coming by to brush her lips against his cheek and tell him, “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

And through it all, Hermione had stayed there. They had not had a chance to talk since he’d awoken.

(She was aware, finally, of her own bone-deep exhaustion from having been awake for the better part of the past two days but she could not sleep, could not leave him, until they’d spoken. She wanted to tell him all she needed to tell him before she left his side for the first time, filled with an irrational fear that if she did leave and go to sleep, she would wake to find that she had dreamed it all, that he would relapse, or something else would happen.)

They had not spoken but every once in a while, their eyes would meet and hold, and for a fleeting moment, everything and everyone else around them would fade away…

And now, finally, they were alone again.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her and he finally said, quietly, “You look exhausted.”

She managed a smile. “What did you expect when we haven’t known if you were going to pull through or not for hours?”

He sobered, his eyes darkening. “I almost gave up,” he admitted. “I wanted to give up… But then I heard you calling me and I knew I had to live. I had to come back because you were waiting for me…”

She tried to smile through the tears in her eyes but only managed a slight twitch of her lips. “Harry…”

“I love you,” he said softly, simply, not so much as if it were a declaration of something new but more as if he were simply confirming something she’d already known. And she had known it…

“I love you too,” she whispered.

Their gazes met and melded in a long moment before his eyes flickered down to her lips.

Her breathing suspended, the entire world seeming to pause, to hold its breath, before slowly, so slowly, she lowered her head…

And their lips met in a kiss that heralded the beginning of the rest of their lives.

~The End~