Chapter 27 - The Long Wait
Hermione woke up to the sound of her pager's alarm. It would be 5am, just an hour after the last Emerg patient that needed her care was transferred to the ward. She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, trying to remember where and which bed she had managed to crawl into when she decided to get some rest. As she recalled where her aching feet foolishly took her, she hoped the sound of her pager going off did not wake him.
Sitting up on the old comfortable recliner, she opened her eyes and tried to focus in the dimly lit room. The sudden smell of strong coffee expedited the return of her mental alertness and she instantly saw a cup of hot steaming java being offered to her. So much for hoping.
"Good morning," she heard his voice, and a searing pain cut through her chest, unexpectedly.
"Good morning. Thanks," she replied as she reached and took his offer.
Their fingers grazed incidentally and that had new meaning, evoking a yearning to have them touch a little bit longer. With care, she willed her eyes to meet his warm gentle gaze. That hurt as well. She wondered how long this was going to last. She came to his room to watch him sleep and see how she felt about him. As she sat there in the dark she was surprised by how she had no anger and thought that was a good sign. She was merely disappointed and it was funny in a cruel sort of way that both of them felt the same way about each other post-Roy.
"You had quite a night," Harry sat beside her. "Ron and I were watching from the gallery."
"It was unreal," she shared. Talking about work was easier, "We were fortunate we didn't lose anyone."
"What happened?"
"An accident. The potion factory apparently got a shipment of unfrozen Ashwinder eggs and it inadvertently came in contact with skrewt fire-expelling end cuttings and Peruvian instant darkness powder."
"That must have been quite an explosion," Harry would know what such an interaction would result in but had a frown in his face she guessed what he was thinking.
"It was and yes, it was a definite violation of a few Ministry statutes on possession and handling of dangerous materials," she added, "Kingsley's got someone on it already. Don't you even think about working until you're fully recovered."
"I wasn't," he denied but she knew otherwise, "Fine. I was, a little bit. But I am fully recovered. I'm able to get up and walk on my own this morning. I made you coffee."
She was shaking her head, unable to remain serious. Just the way he said it tugged at her heartstrings.
"Unless you plan to serve Death Eaters coffee at work, I think you need to be able to do much more than that."
"Oh, I feel that I can do much more than that." he replied in a casual way that reminded her so much of Roy a few mornings ago and she blushed before she could tell herself not to. "Delilah did warn me about this."
Delilah? This? For a moment she thought he was flirting with her then she happened to glance down and realized something.
"Oh, the potion side effect."
"It's not painful. Just uncomfortable."
"The strengthening potion affects all muscles including those ones," she said to him, professional and to the point, making a valiant effort not to look, "For obvious physiological reasons it is worse, or some would say 'better', in the mornings. The potion actually has recreational uses."
"I can certainly understand why," he replied, "Delilah knows of some remedies and said she might be able to help."
That skank! Ginny was right; she was a flirt! If she wasn't a good Healer…
"But I'd rather not wait. Can you do something about it?"
She could but if she did what she knew would help it would be totally inappropriate on so many levels.
He seems to think it's a big, big problem.
It's a big problem all right but you're so not helping.
"There is a suppressing draught but the risk of an adverse reaction to multiple potion use is not worth it. You could stop taking the strengthening potion but you definitely need it. You can, um, relieve yourself once in a while but if you'd rather not do that or can't, the only thing you can do is not to think stimulating thoughts."
Hermione tried to tell him plainly, thinking that was so easy for her to say. His arousal was sparking provocative ideas of her own.
"We should talk about something else," he hurriedly suggested.
"Good idea," she quickly agreed, as relieved as he was, and his choice of 'something else' effectively doused their growing discomfort.
"So, Ron's going to be a Flamer."
She acknowledged with a sound as she sipped coffee. The fact that Ron did that for her had not sunk in yet.
"You can stay in London and continue your work here."
"I could."
"That's a good thing, right?"
For work, yes; continuing to see so much of him, not really. Their close proximity was already stirring memories of her night with him and it was difficult to not think about what it would have been like had she known. Moving would have been a great excuse to stay away from him.
"It is," she said to him then joked, "I hate packing and moving."
He laughed somewhat, "Ron is unconvinced you're happy about it."
"Really?" she frowned, not realizing she had been so obvious even Ron picked it up.
What Ron had done completely surprised her. He always said he was going to be a Cannon forever and agreeing to play for the London team was never an option. It was one of his wedding gifts to her, he said, so she wouldn't have to leave St. Mungo's.
Ron should have told her first before making such huge decision. He was certainly making things more difficult. Even coming last night to make sure she took a break, waiting for hours until she could, without a complaint, then sitting with Harry up in the gallery were all quite strange. She must have not been paying attention but since when did he become so thoughtful and interested in what she did?
"Well, I didn't see it coming. I was so looking forward to being a Cannon wife."
The sarcasm wasn't lost on Harry. He had heard her rant too many times about her impending membership to that club.
"You shouldn't marry him," he repeated what he said to her yesterday. "Even if you learn to love him a second time, what's different that you won't lose the feeling again? Seriously, you're thinking about it too much."
She guessed that the fact that she had not called off the wedding was misleading. The truth of the matter was she wasn't thinking about it anymore, even though Ron's recent behaviour was making her feel extremely guilty about what she had decided to do. And while in the heat of the moment, when she found out about Roy and was being pressured by Ginny for a response about Ron, she might have considered briefly going ahead with it just to spite Harry, it did not take long for her to calm down and realize that her breaking up with Ron was not connected to Harry being Roy.
If it were not for Ron being in the midst of Quidditch playoffs she would have told him already and Hermione was resolute that Ron would be the first to know. She heard herself saying to Harry the same thing she did Ginny.
"I know you mean well and I appreciate the concern, but I really don't want to talk about it anymore."
"What is it that you can't talk about?" he said with a hint of frustration in his voice.
Hermione looked at him and said with finality, "Harry, let it go. Trust me, okay? I'll do the right thing."
And for the first time, she wondered if this concern about her apparent path to unhappiness meant more to him than she thought. Of course, if it did then he would have told her by now that he was Roy Hunt, and that she shouldn't marry Ron because she should be with him. Yes. She was losing it. Again.
"You're right," Harry finally relented, "I should trust you. You always do the right thing."
"Well, almost always," she smiled sheepishly, remembering Roy.
"Yeah, almost always," he smiled back.
Hermione recalled what made her decide to sleep with him. No wonder Harry did not sound too distressed about her sleeping with another man.
"What?"
She must have laughed. It was tempting to tell him but accepted the fact that they would never share a laugh about the humorous moments of that night.
"I just remembered that day when you were shot, at the hospital, they thought I was your wife," she watched his reaction as she said it and kicked herself for setting herself up to be more hurt than she already was. "It seems funny now."
"I actually heard that," he replied, with a strange amused expression she had never seen before.
"You did?"
There was no need to panic, yet.
"It sounded intense. Anyway, thanks for stepping in and being my next of kin."
"That was nothing."
It was just nerve-racking when they asked her permission to cease trying to get him back from clinical death. She refused and was quite glad that she wasn't thinking like a Healer at that precise moment in Toronto.
"You were crying when that machine stopped working."
"You're my friend, you were dying. I got a bit emotional," she admitted, it wasn't totally improper.
"You said something."
"About?" she asked, holding her breath.
"Something about there being so much to tell me. Do you remember?"
"It was a very distressing time, Harry."
She did recall and she would never forget. The overwhelming need came over her as she thought he was indeed about to die and it had to be said. She told him that she loved him, that her life would never be the same without him. Then she told him she loved him, again. What if he heard all that? That would still be friend appropriate, wouldn't it?
"Here's a thought. Pretend that I'm about to die. What would you like to say to me?"
An involuntary nervous laugh came from within her, and she almost snorted her coffee. He was asking, maybe he didn't hear her after all. She quickly came up with emergency evasive maneuvers, lame ones.
"I don't know, Harry. This is way too early to be doing this."
He laughed with her but with seriousness, insisted, "Come on. You said there's so much to tell me. Tell me one thing."
"It's different," she was smiling, embarrassed at what she had gotten herself into and not prepared to say exactly what she wanted to tell him. And if there was so much to tell him then, there was definitely more to tell him now. "It's very different when you're actually dying."
"Don't you think it's wrong for you to hold back until I'm about to die? I could step off the curb today, get slammed by a bus and you won't get to tell me."
That was graphic. Of course he made sense. It was a foolish game that people played. Might as well admit to that.
"You're quite right and it's really stupid to wait but I still can't tell you. How about I tell you when we're 60?" she proposed, thinking by then all this would not matter.
"What if I don't get to live 'til 60?"
"Let it be an incentive to stay alive then."
She was only half kidding about that, sometimes horrified by his risk taking behaviour. His signing up to be an Auror was a good thing except for the dangers she knew he would be more than willing to take.
He persisted, "If it's important enough for you to tell me as I'm dying, it should be more important for you to let me know while I'm still alive."
"Harry, it's embarrassing and it'll be awkward. I can't tell you."
"This is me. You can tell me anything."
"I hate to break this to you but that's not true," she had to be honest about things she could be honest about.
"Will it be less embarrassing if I do the same?"
"Are you telling me that you have something similar to tell me?"
"Loads."
This was unexpected. She couldn't tell if he was teasing or serious. He looked serious.
Harry continued, "Perhaps we should start being more honest with each other."
Hermione thought that was rich coming from him. Or maybe he was going to confess.
"Really? Then you should have no problem going first," she challenged without sounding threatening.
She noticed the hesitation as she awaited his answer. He was thinking about what to say and for someone who had 'loads' to tell, he couldn't come up with one to tell her, either. There was no reason to get her hopes up.
Her pager sounded. She was needed urgently in the Spell Damage Ward.
"I have to go," she made her empty coffee cup disappear and got up. Sensing that he felt bad, she tried to make him feel better, "Don't worry about it. I can relate. It is easier said than done."
"It's not that I don't want to," he tried to explain. "Can we do this later? I mean, sooner than we turn 60, maybe in a few days?"
"That sounds good," Hermione answered. Strangely, it gave her something bright and cheery to look forward to and could not resist saying to him, "Until we do, maybe you should watch out for that bus when you step off the curb."
He nodded and smiled as she left to attend to a patient.
She was curious about this being-more-honest-with-him proposal that he had. Doing it after calling the wedding off and after telling Ron he gave up his career with the Cannons for nothing sounded like splendid timing to her. It would be like spring cleaning, an emotional cleansing. Who knows? She may even go totally mad and tell him the entire truth.
The rest of that morning flew by quickly. By the time she had endorsed her last critically ill patient to the Healer taking over, it was 10:00am. Tired and sleepy, she went home, flopped on bed with her eyes closed, wondering if Harry heard her confessing that she loved him, wishing fervently that when she woke up, it would be the day after the Quidditch Finals.
More than one could ever imagine, Hermione was rooting for the Cannons.
XXXXXXXXXX
19 February 2006 - London Auror Office - 2 p.m.
"Thanks Harry," Kingsley said to him as Harry changed in prison clothes, "But are you sure you're well enough to do this?"
Delilah did discharge him from care earlier that day. He had to continue taking the muscle strengthening potion for another two days but if he could walk out of St. Mungo's under his own power, he should be well enough.
"I'm fine."
Doing something was better than moping at home, and thinking about Hermione and Ron. Not 12 hours ago, he almost gave in to the temptation to tell her he loved her. Didn't he say he would wait until after the Finals? Trust her to do the right thing? Ron was distracted enough as it was.
But the uncertainty was killing him. If she stayed with Ron he was already thinking of the stupid things he would have to do and it was driving him crazy. Not knowing exactly was frustrating and he was really curious what it was that she wasn't telling him, those words that she said to him as she thought he was dying. He wanted it so much to be the same thought he had about her.
When he saw her sleeping in his room, he struggled to rein in his desire to join her. Harry missed her, touching her, kissing her, more so now that he knew how it felt with her than when he was clueless before. He was almost certain that his undisciplined muscle group that did not escape her notice was the way it was not so much because of the potion he was drinking. No, he did not want to spend time thinking about her and not be able to do anything about it.
The Quidditch Finals could not come soon enough and the Cannons absolutely had to win.
Work was a great escape and he happened to be at the Ministry moving into his carrel that afternoon when loud, very creative profanity came from within Kingsley's office. Dean, on loan from the Hit Wizard Office, was already at the minimum security prison as Roy Hunt but the Auror trained to relieve him backed out. A sudden long term illness came up. As Mad-Eye would say, they did not make Aurors like they used to. Harry was to replace him.
"Be extremely careful. A few of Waxball's Squib recruits for the Toronto mission have already died of mysterious causes. If Roy was going to be rubbed off it would be during the transfer or within forty-eight hours of it," Kingsley reminded him.
A techie implanted a tracking device into his left forearm as he took the Polyjuice pill and instantly transformed into Roy Hunt.
"The wards between a couple of unused shelves within the prison library have been temporarily disabled and we'll Portkey you there the first time. You're to switch with Dean and he'll come back in the morning. There will be a few Aurors there and they will make themselves known. Any questions?"
"They know you sent me in his place to Toronto. They'll be expecting this."
"That's why we don't think they will try anything," he replied, "But they might and we could get lucky."
Or they could. He remembered what Hermione said about stepping off the curb. This wasn't exactly heeding her warning about watching out for that bus.
"Any word on Floyd?"
He had discovered the text message on Roy's Toronto issued phone and instantly realized who those cryptic notes he kept crumpling into Quaffles were from. Floyd and likely, Floyd's associates, knew he was Roy.
"Not a trace of him. Do you really think Floyd is here in London?" Kingsley asked him.
"Unless he's sending all these notes and messages from Toronto, which I doubt," Harry replied.
"The Toronto MLE didn't find those phials that you said existed," Kingsley told him the bad news.
"They should be able to find a collaborating witness easily. The room had at least twenty people in it when Floyd took it."
Kingsley gave him an apologetic look, "Not one. And Toronto isn't investigating into the matter further. Their experts said that such a potion only exists in legend. It would be pretty hard to keep a lid on something like that."
His face grew hot as he heard this. How could it be that not one person recalled seeing the phials? Something was definitely not right. It was a cover-up likely involving a Ministry insider and it stunk to high heaven.
"They think I made this up?!"
"No, they don't," Kingsley tried to calm him down, quite aware of his volatile temper, "They think what you remember about the incident may have been altered by your near death experience."
"Great! That makes me feel loads better. They're not saying that I'm a liar, I'm just crazy!"
Harry vented on his boss. He was extremely irked about the mere suggestion that the incident could have altered his memory. In the first place, Floyd drank the potion way before he was injured. And secondly, he did not want anyone making light of his thoughts as he was painting the Ghoul floor with his blood.
"Look," Kingsley took him aside and said to him firmly, "You know how it works. It's nothing personal. You can work the lead and find the evidence but without proof we can't do much."
He calmed down. Kingsley was right. He was annoyed at Floyd for tracking him down and seeking some form of revenge but more importantly he had to find evidence that this potion existed because its existence had serious implications.
The switch went without a glitch. By nightfall, Harry as Roy was deeply entrenched and mingling with Hunt's fellow low-lifes. He had his wand on him most times, disguised within a pack of cigarettes, and a single anti-Polyjuice pill, just in case, rattling by its lonesome in a prescription bottle. It was a good thing that the MLE made certain Hunt's prison mates were not from his old hauntings because while Harry and Dean knew who his associates were, it would have made things more difficult had they had to prove over long periods of time that they were really Roy.
Not much was happening save for the shower proposal Harry had to not-so-graciously decline. He'd have a laugh about that with Dean at some point. The prisoners were ushered into the common room after dinner, where he found out Monday night was movie night. The feature presentation was 'Escape from Alcatraz'.
"They're playing mind games," the burly man to his right said to him as the lights dimmed and movie started, "They don't show anything else but prison break movies."
Harry did not reply but could sense the friendly guy and the bespectacled man on his left were buddies and had just made eye contact.
The man to his left whispered, "Are you Roy Hunt?"
"Who wants to know?"
"The boss lady wants to meet you."
Interesting, meet, not kill, yet. He focused on what Roy would say and do.
"I know a few of them boss ladies. Which one? A name would help."
"She hired Waxball to hire you."
"Oh, that one. Well, Waxball's dead, some colleagues of mine have been showing up dead, and she's obviously not dead. Why would I want to meet her?"
"She said to tell you not to worry about her. She's not interested in killing you," friendly guy whispered as the room fell silent.
"And that's supposed to make me feel better? What does she want?"
"You'll have to ask her."
"Tell her, thanks, but no thanks."
"Unfortunately, you don't have a choice."
A loud blast rocked the facility followed by instant lightless darkness. He could hear the scampering around him as the occupants tried to exit the room amidst panicky shouts from the guards to stay where they were and the wailing of sirens overhead. A few tried Lumos spells but that didn't work well. Peruvian instant darkness powder.
Harry felt his two new friends each take an arm and knew he would be taken to her. He would let them knowing Kingsley would find him and resisted transfiguring the cigarette in his hand just yet. It was big risk but he wanted to meet their boss lady.
"I'm ready," the man to his right said. "The wards should be down by now."
"Hold on, Roy, this will not be pleasant. On three," replied the other as Harry prepared to be Side-Alonged, "One, Two…"
Crack!
They were in a small, cold, dingy room, the sound of dripping water nearby. A single, dull, yellow light lit the centre of the furnitureless and windowless space, dust on the wooden floor white and thick.
"Leave him," a woman's wispy voice came out from the shadows at the corner.
Harry tried hard but could not see her face. Four more figures emerged, two in the front and two in the back, watching from under hooded cloaks, as the two who brought him Disapparated, likely back to prison.
They did not act like Death Eaters but there were similar bands of criminals always cropping up. And this boss lady was definitely not Lestrange; she would not be modest or exhibit reservations about killing a non-entity like Roy. As the tall man off to his right approached. Harry nonchalantly stuck his disguised wand behind his ear as he was searched; they now had the rest of his cigarettes and his pill container.
"Who are you?" Harry asked the woman in the shadows.
"The more important question is 'who are you?'" she replied, still barely audible.
And as she did, the tall man who had approached took his hood off, unveiling disgustingly slick black hair and a set of steel grey eyes full of open hatred. He should have known.
Floyd.
Before Harry could reach for his wand, he was hit by a binding curse and a mushroom cloud of dust erupted around him as he crashed on the hardwood floor. Floyd knelt down and sucker-punched him on the face so hard he immediately tasted blood, lots.
Now quite concerned for his life, Harry's mind went into overdrive, thinking of what to do if the Aurors didn't arrive soon. He figured breaking the binding curse would be the key first step. Wand.
From the corner of his eye he spotted it a few inches from where he fell. He tried to summon it by will, thought the situation called for something desperate, like learning a magical skill for the first time. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hatch a plan with Floyd's weight on him and the choking sensation he was beginning to have as blood pooled in the back of his throat. He could only watch as Floyd uncapped the pill bottle, forced the single anti-Polyjuice capsule into him, and covered his mouth and nose, snug and tight, with a rather large palm.
Harry struggled physically in his mind, wanting to move but couldn't. He needed air, and he needed it sooner as Floyd waited patiently, mocking him. The git wasn't going to let go until he swallowed the pill.