Disclaimer: HP still belongs to JKR, because unfortunately copyright laws don't take into account whether she deserves it or not.
Author's Note: This is something like an AU of this AU version of H/Hr's future. It's not really part of this series because I don't have any intention of putting H/Hr through this, in my world. It was only written to get out some RL angst. And I was going to make it a purely angsty story but then I decided that I may as well take advantage of my god-like powers in my fics and give H/Hr the happy ending which did not happen in real life.
Dedicated to the memory of J. Phil Neilan and to his wife, Mary.
~
Not the End
Matt Lindsey was a smart man. He was young-not that young, as he was reminded every time he noticed the gray generously mixed in with the brown of his hair-smart and confident. He had finished at the top of his class in Hogwarts and then the Healer's Academy afterwards.
He was, some people thought, possibly the best Healer St. Mungo's had.
But nothing had ever told him how to do this.
He did not know how he was going to walk out of this room and tell Harry Potter that he didn't know-that he could not promise anything…
Dear Merlin! Even in his thoughts, he couldn't put it into words! This was his job-but it had never before appeared to him as daunting and impossible as it did right then.
How was he going to tell Harry Potter?
He knew-as everyone did-how much Harry Potter loved his wife. And even if he hadn't known before, he certainly would now after seeing Mr. Potter's face in this past long week of waiting and worrying.
And now…
Harry Potter was, Matt had no doubt, probably the most courageous wizard alive. And Matt cringed at the thought of having to go outside and break this news.
He washed his hands with ostentatious thoroughness, looked once more at all the various monitors in the room and then checked them again as if he thought her condition might have changed in the past few seconds, glanced around the room searching for something-anything-which needed to be done, anything to avoid leaving the room but there was nothing.
He couldn't avoid it any longer.
He took a deep breath, mentally bracing himself, trying to bring to mind the calm, comforting, professional speech he used in times like this, and then he opened the door and stepped outside.
Mr. Potter spun sharply in his pacing to face Matt-and every last word died in his throat. And he saw that he need not have worried about what to say. There was no need for words. Mr. Potter's gaze took one look at Matt's expression and Matt knew he knew.
(So much for his calm, professional mask, some corner of his mind thought peripherally.)
Matt automatically, unconsciously, took a step back, flinching from the intensity-the savagery-of Mr. Potter's expression-and his eyes!
"Don't tell me that!" he snapped. "You can't tell me that! I don't believe it!" his sentences were short, staccato, his voice harsh in the silence of the private corridor. For a moment, his throat worked and then with a strangled sound, he pushed his way into the room with enough force as if he needed to break a brick wall down to get through the door.
Leaving Matt shaken and stunned and moved by a surge of sympathy so strong it nearly knocked him off his feet.
Great gods! Matt suddenly wondered if this was what the late, unlamented Tom Riddle had felt like when he had faced Harry Potter for the last time so many decades ago. And for the first time, he realized why so many people spoke of Harry Potter with respect, yes, but also with a healthy dose of fear.
He hadn't been able to understand it, really. The first time he'd met Harry Potter, he'd been struck more by how very normal, almost mild, Harry Potter seemed. There was nothing overt to show that he was a hero who had saved the wizarding world several times over. Oh, it was generally clear after spending any amount of time in his company that he was a powerful wizard but there were other powerful wizards who didn't strike the least bit of fear into people's hearts. Mr. Potter didn't aggrandize himself or boast or threaten or in any way seem anything other than a polite, good-natured sort of fellow. Not that he was meek but he seemed perfectly willing and able to accept other people as equals and treat them as such. Indeed, Matt had been rather disappointed after first meeting Harry Potter to find that the hero didn't seem like much of a hero at all.
But at that moment, with all of Mr. Potter's social mask stripped away, Matt had seen and, for the first time, felt a flicker of fear. And he finally saw and understood what people feared in Harry Potter. It wasn't that they thought he would harm them but it was still the sense-the knowledge-that he could harm them. In that brief glimpse, he saw at least some of the power Harry Potter had-and was uncomfortably, tremblingly, aware that at the moment, he was little more than a grain of sand compared to this terrible Fate that seemed about to snatch the wife Harry Potter loved so much away.
~~~
Harry staggered over to Hermione's cot and collapsed into the chair beside it, more because his legs had given way than because of any conscious decision to sit down. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, his chest feeling as if it was being crushed under the weight of his suffocating dread.
With a shaking hand, he touched his fingers to Hermione's pale cheek, caressed it, sifting his fingers gently through her hair.
She was so terribly pale-and she might be dy-his mind stopped short, backing away from the unthinkable. He would not think it; he could not think it! It wasn't going to happen!
"Darling, please…" he finally managed to whisper brokenly. Please don't leave me, Hermione…
He bent and kissed her unresponsive lips and something about the stillness of her broke through the dam he'd so carefully built up around his emotions and words-broken and intense and not entirely coherent-rushed out of him in a torrent of feeling.
"Hermione, you have to get better. You know you do. I can't go on without you; you know that. I don't know how to live without you, don't know how to be without you. Please, love, you can't leave me, can't leave the kids. I can't take care of them without you. I'll spoil them terribly; you know I can't resist any of them. And without you, who's going to help Emily study for her N.E.W.T's and Andy with his O.W.L's? I can't do it. You'll be lucky if they don't both get nothing higher than a P if you leave them to me. I need you." His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. "I need you, Hermione. You know that. You can't leave me. You can't. You just can't!" His voice broke on a choked sob and he lowered his forehead to hers as he fought back the sobs rising in his throat.
He couldn't lose her. He couldn't. She was everything to him; he didn't know how to function without her. She was his best friend, his better half. She made him strong; she gave him courage; she kept him sane.
"God, Hermione, how can you expect me to go on if you leave… You have to get better; you're going to get better! I'm not going to let you go. I can't let you go…"
Harry broke off his ramblings only at the sound of a soft knock on the door that preceded Emily's venturing into the room with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
"Daddy?"
For a fleeting second, years faded away and Emily was once more a little girl and then he blinked and he returned to the present, to see his very grown-up Emily-he still couldn't believe she was already 17; when had that happened anyway?-calling him by the name she hadn't used basically since starting Hogwarts, except for a few very rare occasions.
And his heart broke again at the sound.
"Yeah, sweetie," he said softly, closing his arms around her as she almost threw herself at him in a quick movement that betrayed all her fear. He held her tightly-his little girl who'd grown to be nearly as tall as he was, this darling eldest daughter of his… And for a fleeting second, he forgot all his soul-searing fear for Hermione in his love and concern for Emily, the silent comfort and strength he insensibly received from her.
After a minute, though, she drew back. "How is Mum, Daddy? The Healer didn't tell us anything, really."
Harry looked at his daughter, seeing the way her lips were pressed together as they did when she was holding back intense emotion and trying not to cry-the same way Hermione did. She looked so much like Hermione, slightly different cast to her features, but other than that-and, of course, her green eyes-she could have been Hermione's younger self.
And Harry's courage failed him. How could he say the words when he himself couldn't face the reality?
"Mum's going to be fine," he managed to say and hoped desperately that he sounded convincing-hoped, too, that he wouldn't turn out to be lying. It had to be the truth; anything else would be unthinkable.
Emily hid her flinch, fighting back the urge to scream or cry or do anything like that, feeling a touch of real terror touch her heart like a cold hand, for the first time thinking, Mum's going to die!
She could hear it not only in her father's tone, that sounded too falsely confident to her ears but more from his face-his eyes. Her father looked as if he'd aged a decade in the past few hours, his face haggard, his eyes bleak. She knew he hadn't really slept at all in the past week but this-the way he looked now… For the first time she could remember, her father looked… frail… Even that one time years ago when he'd been so badly wounded, he had looked ill, certainly, and injured-but even then, he hadn't looked this delicate. Even then, somehow, she realized now, there had been something of his usual presence, an impression of strength and power, with him that made his pallor all the more startling. (Only recently had she realized that this was what made her father different, what made his presence so comforting.)
Now-for the first time-he looked frail. Whatever was in his bearing or his manner that contributed to the impression of strength-and she still didn't really understand it-it wasn't there anymore.
And the thought darted into her mind before she could stop it: if Mum-if anything happens to Mum, Dad couldn't survive…
She'd always known her father loved her mother deeply. Her parents' love for each other was one of the immutable facts of her existence, one of those simple certainties of life that she could rely on, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, like the turning of the tides and the changing of the seasons. She hadn't stopped to think much about it-there wasn't much need to think about something that never changed, like the rising and setting of the sun, after all.
But now, looking at her father, she knew her father couldn't live without her mother. He could not do it. She knew he would try-for her sake and for Andy's and Sabrina's sakes-he would try and she knew better than most the danger of under-estimating her father. But he couldn't go on without her mother. He might not die physically but somehow, at that moment, she knew that a large part of him, his heart and soul, would die with her mother.
Oh dear Merlin!
Emily looked down at her mother with eyes that would fill with tears in spite of all her efforts at keeping them back and then kissed her mother's cheek. Please, Mum, you have to get better. You have to. You can't leave us yet; you can't leave Dad. We can't do without you so you have to get better. Mum, please…
"Where are Andy and Sabrina?" her father asked quietly, his voice sounding somewhat clogged with emotion.
"They're waiting with Uncle Ron." She hesitated and then added, knowing there was no point in hiding it as her father would see it, "Sabrina's crying on Andy's shoulder."
"Yeah, ok," was all her father said but it was enough.
Emily hugged her father, paused, opened her lips to ask if he was going to come home to rest and then stopped, knowing the answer already. He hadn't gone home for more than a change of clothes in the past week; he wasn't going anywhere tonight. She fought back another wave of tears, pressing her lips tightly together to hold back the sobs, and then left so Andy and Sabrina could go in. (St. Mungo's rules prohibited more than two or three visitors at a time in a room for those patients who were so severely ill or injured.)
Sabrina flew into Harry's arms the moment the door opened, flinging herself at him with a choked cry. "Oh, Daddy!"
Harry wrapped his arms around his daughter, shutting his eyes against the tears he refused to cry in front of his children. He didn't open them until he felt more in control, to look at his tall, young son.
Harry released Sabrina and hugged Andy, a real hug for the first time in years, before Andy drew back.
"How is Mum doing, Dad?" he asked quietly.
"Will Mummy be okay, Daddy?" Sabrina asked at the same moment, her voice quavering slightly in spite of her visible efforts to control it.
Harry forced a reassuring smile for Sabrina's benefit. Call him crazy-but when his daughter-well, really, any of his children-looked at him like that, he was quite willing to promise anything and everything. He would have promised her the moon if she'd asked for it then, would have promised to bring her the proverbial pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, anything. "Mum's going to be fine, I promise."
Hermione, don't you dare make a liar out of me or I'll-I'll… I don't know what but you won't like it.
"Okay, Daddy." Sabrina managed a wavering little smile, in spite of the tears still in her eyes, and Harry almost heard his heart break again at the simple trust in her voice and her expression. At 12, Sabrina had outgrown the stage of thinking that he could do anything and was always right-Harry was resigned to that now, not happily, but resigned to it, thanks in no small part to Hermione-but at that moment, with all her fear that made her seem so much younger, some of her unwavering faith in him returned, he could see. Because he told her that Hermione was going to recover, she believed him-and her unquestioning faith broke his heart.
Andy had moved over to Hermione's bed and was looking down at her with the expression on his face that Harry knew meant that he was trying very hard not to break down, trying to be strong.
He looked up at Harry. "She will be okay, right, Dad?"
Harry nodded, his throat clogging again and he had to swallow hard before he could say, "Yeah."
Andy nodded silently.
Sabrina bent to kiss Hermione's cheek and Harry heard her choked whisper, "Get better soon, Mum."
Oh, Hermione, how can you even think of leaving us when we all need you so much? You can't leave us, can't leave me…
He opened his lips to tell Sabrina she should go home and try to sleep-he could see the dark circles under her eyes, the tears on her lashes and her cheeks, and hated to see her look so tired-but before he could, Andy spoke up. "I'll take the girls home to sleep for a while, Dad."
"Yes, do that," Harry managed, putting a hand briefly on Andy's shoulder, wondering when Andy had grown up so much.
Harry gave Sabrina a tight hug before pulling back, holding her face between his hands as he met her eyes. "Mum's going to be just fine, I promise."
Sabrina nodded, looking terribly young, and then they left.
Harry turned back to Hermione, grasping her hand in his and willing her to move, to open her eyes, willing her to recover.
Did you hear that, Hermione? I promised Sabrina you'd get better; you're not going to make me a liar to our daughter, are you? You can't do that.
"Harry…"
Harry rounded on Ron with a glare at the pity and despair in Ron's voice. "Don't!" he burst out. He could see Ron's sorrow etched on his face and his soul shuddered away from the sight. "She is going to get better!"
Ron swallowed hard and nodded. "Right," but his tone carried no conviction, or rather, it carried conviction of the opposite kind.
"Don't say it," Harry warned sharply. "Don't even think it! She's going to be fine!" He forcibly softened his tone, reining in his frayed temper. "Just… just take the kids home for the night."
"You're not--" Ron began and then stopped, thinking better of it.
"I'm not going anywhere," Harry said with quiet certainty.
Ron nodded, gripped Harry briefly on his shoulder in a mute gesture of sympathy and then left, leaving Harry alone.
Harry never forgot that night, the seemingly-endless hours of tense waiting and watching, the minutes and hours bleeding into each other. His only awareness of time passing was in the regular visits of one of the Healers to check on Hermione.
He touched her cheek with caressing fingers, brushing her hair away from her face, brushed his lips against her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her cheek, her lips. He held her hands in a firm grip, as if he could somehow infuse his strength, his life, into her. And all the while, he watched her, hardly dared to blink in case something would change and he'd miss it.
She was so pale, so utterly still, it hurt him to see it. It was as if her soul, her spirit, all that made her Hermione, had already left and there was only the physical shell left behind…
And he began to talk to her almost without knowing it, words spilling out of him in stops and starts, soft and husky with pent-up emotion and stress and terror.
"Hermione, come on, wake up. You have to get better; you can't leave me. Please don't leave me. You know I can't do anything without you so you have to get better. You have to. Please, love, come back to me… I need you to come back; you have to get better. Please…"
There was no change and his tone shifted. "Come on, Hermione, if your intent was to scare me, you've succeeded so now you can get better. You have to get better. I've promised the kids that you'll be fine. You don't want to make a liar of me, do you? You can't leave us. Don't you dare even think of leaving me and the kids, Hermione. I'm not going to let you go. You can't leave me; you can't!"
His voice broke and he swallowed hard, continuing on in his rambles, his voice gravelly with unshed tears. "Hermione, darling, please… Don't leave me. I can't do anything without you. You know that, know-it-all that you are, you know how much I need you." He stopped short on a sob that he choked back-he wouldn't let himself cry. He was afraid if he did, the moment he let go like that, he'd never be able to stop and he needed to be strong for his kids, needed to be strong, especially now when Hermione wasn't…
His head went down so his face was buried in her pillow, his hair mingling with hers. If ever he'd doubted how much he needed her, after this past week, he'd never doubt again. It wasn't so much about the things she did or even things she said; it was just her, just being with her. Something about her presence just seemed to recharge his soul and after a week without her, he felt as if he was constantly on edge, on the verge of going outright insane. If this went on any longer, people would find him curled up in a ball in fetal position, rocking back and forth in a corner of a dark room. Without her, nothing worked…
Without her…
The phrase seemed to slash at his heart. Without her…
Pure panic at the very possibility of it took a hold of him. He started up, grabbing her hand in both of his and just barely managed to refrain from shaking her bodily. "Come on, Hermione! You have to get better! That's an order! Do you hear me?" He stopped. "You know you hate being ordered around so get better so you can kick my arse into next week. Hermione! You can't leave me. Don't you dare even think about leaving me like this! I'll never forgive you if you leave…" His voice broke again, the desperation that had fueled his little outburst leaving him as abruptly as it had come, and he slumped down, again fighting back the tears.
And stayed that way, motionless, for he didn't know how long. He didn't sleep or doze-he was quite sure of that as he was always conscious, somehow, of the soft sound of her breathing, the vague humming noise from all the Magical equipment in the room-but an odd sort of calm settled over him, as if all the emotion had been drained out of him, leaving him empty of everything, empty of despair but also empty of hope.
And then it happened.
At first, he thought he was imagining it, dreaming it even, as he stilled, forgetting to breathe or blink, not daring to move as he waited and it felt as if the entire world paused for that endless moment.
And then, again, it happened. Just the slightest twitch of movement against his hand, barely a movement at all and if he hadn't been so focused on her, he might have missed it, but he felt it.
He jerked up, his eyes going from her hand in his-she'd moved!-to focus on her face. There was no change, though, and his heart fell, his throat tight with disappointment, but then he heard it, a slight shift in the sound of her breathing, and he bent closer.
"Hermione?" he breathed.
The next few seconds seemed to stretch on for an eternity before, very faintly, hardly more than a flutter of breath, he heard a sound he hadn't heard for a week now: her voice, barely a thread but he knew it.
He blinked back tears of relief this time and bent closer. "Hermione, love, I'm here."
"Harry…"
Only he could have deciphered his name out of the whisper of a breath that escaped her lips but he heard it and his heart leaped.
"Yes, love," he breathed and brushed her cheek with his fingers with a feather-light touch.
And slowly, excruciatingly slowly, since he had stopped breathing some time ago, he saw the slightest flicker of movement of her eyelids and then her eyes opened.
It seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort for her to lift her eyelids but she managed it, blinking once, slowly, before her eyes focused on him.
He tried to smile but didn't quite manage it. "Welcome back, darling," he managed to say, his voice hoarse from his knee-weakening relief.
A frown flickered across her face before her lips parted. "You… look… terrible…" she breathed, pausing as each word was dragged slowly out of her.
He smiled, in spite of the tears that would well up in his eyes. "And you look beautiful." He meant every word; in spite of her pallor and obvious weakness and her rather gaunt appearance, she was still-as always-beautiful to him.
"Liar," she mumbled drowsily even as she lost the battle to keep her eyes open and in another minute, he could tell that she was asleep.
Asleep but not unconscious and he knew she would wake up again. He didn't need to glance at the monitors around her to know that she had-miraculously-pulled through and was out of danger now.
He slumped forward, all the terror and dread and emotion that had been keeping him going vanishing abruptly, leaving him utterly spent and empty of everything except for his soul-searing relief. He rested his forehead against her pillow and breathed the most fervent prayer of his life, "thank you," and he wasn't sure if he was addressing the Fates or Hermione.
She would recover. His life wasn't over.
And finally, he allowed himself to cry.
He cried out all the fears and dread that had gnawed at his heart and soul in these past days, cried out his dizzying, euphoric relief, cried for all the worry for his children as well as for himself. He cried as he couldn't remember ever crying before, cried until he was half-ashamed of himself, but when his tears had stopped, he was calm, at peace for the first time in what felt like a very long time.
~~~
Matt stopped short at the door to Mrs. Potter's room, his gaze going from the monitors that showed she had turned the corner and would recover eventually to the bent form of Mr. Potter, wracked with sobs, no less intense for all their softness. He saw and understood in one second and in the next moment, had quietly closed the door, leaving the Potters alone.
There was no place for him in that room right now, no place for anyone else in the all-consuming intensity of Mr. Potter's relief, just as intense as his fear had been.
Instead, he turned to Floo-call Mr. Weasley with the good news, to do what was the best part about his job.
And as he walked, he found himself smiling, more glad and relieved than he could say or explain, to know that this vigil, in particular, had come to a happy conclusion. He didn't flatter himself that Mrs. Potter's recovery was due to his skill; in her condition, her life had, for a time that night, been out of all mortal hands and he could only thank whatever Fates had mercifully decreed that it was not yet her time. He could also only wonder if, somehow, in some way, the very strength of Harry Potter's love had been what had saved her, a love so strong it could have overcome the shadow of death.
Whatever it had been, he was immensely thankful.
This was not the end of the love story of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger Potter. And for now, that was enough.
~(Not) The End~