Senses
Balance:
"Equilibrioception or sense of balance is one of the physiological senses…"- New World Encyclopedia
"Balance is the result of a number of body systems working together." - Wikipedia
It has been over a year since Harry has been to that pub, and little has changed. The same noisy exuberance greets him when he opens the door; the same yellow warmth is splashed about the worn wooden floors and paneling; the air is filled with the same aromas of liquor and greasy food. He shakes snow out of his dark hair, and winces, as some of it trickles beneath the collar of his cloak.
Little has changed, and yet, everything is different. Things have been altered in such profound and fundamental ways that he is at a loss over how to define them. He is almost surprised to see the same people laughing and enjoying their evening, realizing that the monumental shift in his life has affected them not at all.
He sees the familiar flash of red hair, in the same booth in the back, but this time, Ron is alone - and so is he.
Harry weaves through the crowd, unwinding his scarf, and clears his throat awkwardly as he arrives at the end of the table, standing at the elbow of the youngest Weasley son.
Ron flicks his eyes upward at Harry; something indefinable flashes in them. There seems to be an insurmountable wall between them, or a fathomless chasm… or perhaps both at once.
"Harry."
"Ron."
The silence stretches out like some kind of molasses candy. It is so absolute that Harry feels like the noise from the rest of the pub is assaulting him, pounding against all of his senses until he is overwhelmed. His fingers tremble as they move to rest against the table top in what he hopes is a casual way. He hopes Ron has not seen the outward signs of his nervousness.
He waits momentarily for an invitation, but then sits anyway, once it becomes clear that Ron is not going to give him one.
"Where's Hermione?" Ron asks succinctly. Harry manages to make his shrug and the removal of his cloak part of the same gesture. He folds it over the back of the booth behind him, and a few pieces of ice slide off of the material and fall to the floor, melting quickly.
"I don't know," he adds unnecessarily. Ron's look of disbelief is eloquence itself.
"She's never late."
"I asked her to be late. I needed to talk to you first."
This catches Ron's attention. The glance they exchange is teeming with unspoken conversation. Ron slings one arm along the back of the booth; his lips twitch bitterly. The other hand gropes restlessly for an ale that has not yet arrived.
"Bloody hell."
Harry drops his gaze. His hair wants cutting again; the fringe of his bangs flops over the edge of his glasses. He feels the color rise into his face, as the blood pounds in his ears. He is going to need a Headache Potion after this night is over; of course, Ron knows; it must be written all over my face, and when in the hell did this pub get so loud?
"When?"
The abrupt question jerks Harry's attention back in Ron's direction. He doesn't need to ask to what Ron is referring, and so he doesn't dissemble.
"I asked her yesterday."
Ron swears colorfully under his breath.
"Listen, Ron - " Harry's voice is beseeching. He spreads his elbows wide on the table's surface, which is worn to a shiny smoothness by years of use. His posture is one of near-supplication.
"Listen to what, Harry? What could we possibly have left to say to each other?"
"We were friends once…" Harry flinches at the sound of his own voice. He is pleading, and this irritates him. His throat is tight, and his head is really beginning to ache. He lifts his head to catch the eye of a nearby waitress, flicks his fingers in their direction, orders two drinks.
"Once," Ron concedes. "And that was before you decided to get involved with my wife."
"Ex-wife."
"It hardly matters - "
"It absolutely matters! You aren't married to her anymore!"
"She was out of bounds, Harry! Our families were too close, too interconnected, and you - you went and broke my sister's heart, and went after Hermione. You could have any woman in the world, and you went after Hermione."
Harry is miserable. The anger/rejection on Ron's face is stabbing at him like a thousand icy needles. This building is not a haven from the wintry chill outside. He mumbles something that Ron does not catch.
"What was that?"
"I said, I didn't ask for any of this to happen. I can't explain how, only that it did. Believe me, I realize how much easier it would have been had I fallen in love with anyone else in the world besides Hermione. If it could have been different, Ron, I swear - "
The waitress brings the tankards, sets them down on the table with two solid clunks, slides one in front of each of them. The two men barely notice.
"That's rot, Harry. Both of you made it pretty clear what you wanted that day in your flat. To get shut of the entire Weasley clan as fast as you possibly could. No matter what the fallout would be."
"That's not true," Harry's voice rises with each word. "You were the other part of us. We didn't want any of this to happen. But I love her, Ron. I. Love. Her. And we can't change that, can't undo it, can't erase it. It simply is. She's one of the best things that has ever happened to me. And… and…" Harry seems to run out of steam, and takes a healthy gulp of his ale.
When he speaks again, his voice is very quiet, his eyes impassioned. He wants Ron to understand, but is not sure that he ever will.
"Ron, we're getting married. It's going to happen. Do you think we'd go back now - after this media circus, reporters camped out in the bushes, spying on us wherever we go? We told the children last night. And they were already starting to come around - well, everyone except Al. My kids love Hermione, and Rose and Hugo have always liked me. It shouldn't be so hard."
"That's exactly why it's hard, Harry! How d'you think it makes me feel - knowing that you were once my brother-in-law, and now you're going to be their stepfather? You're going to see them more than I am! You're going to - you're going to sleep with my wife!"
Harry clears his throat in a strained manner that indicates that the future simple verb tense Ron has used may no longer be accurate. He leans his forehead into one hand and sighs, as his fingers toy with the stainless handle of his mug. He has only had half of the tankard, but the stress and the noise and alcohol are combining to make him light-headed.
"Perhaps you should have thought of that, before you cheated on Hermione. I highly doubt that any of those women were excessively worried that they were going to sleep with Hermione's husband."
"You can try to blame this all on me, Harry." Ron's smile is bitter. "But you can't explain away the fact that you dropped Ginny like a weighted Bludger as soon as Hermione was free. How long were you in love with her? How long had you been waiting?"
"I… I don't know, Ron." But he shakes his head to negate Ron's knowing smirk. "Ginny and I had been slowly self-destructing long before I knew about your and Hermione's … problems. It would have come to an end sooner or later, whether you and Hermione divorced or not. And I never lied to you. That night in the forest with the sword - I told you I loved her like a sister. And it was true…then." He quaffs the last of his drink. "But she's not really my sister, is she, Ron?"
"She never was," Ron points out, still trying to make him admit to something covert.
"No," Harry sighs. "I suppose not."
"You'll see how it is," Ron continues after a moment, his voice casual and conversational, the most natural he has sounded up to this point. "You'll see - this wasn't all me. She's not perfect - there are things - you'll start to drive each other mad, just wait." He points a sage nod in Harry's direction.
"Ron, I know `how she is'. I've known her since we were eleven. And all of those `things' - they're part of what makes her Hermione. You knew them all going in, same as I did. There - there's a difference between loving someone in spite of their differences, and loving someone because of their differences. I'm not here to serve as an indictment of your failed marriage, Ron, any more than Hermione is the reason for mine. But I love her very much, and I want to row with her," he mimes using oars, "not against her… you understand?"
There is a quiet clearing of a feminine throat, and they both look up to see Hermione standing there, hands clasped over the patent leather handle of her bag. How long she has been standing there utterly unobserved, Harry has no idea, but her eyes are shiny with unshed tears, and she looks at him with a look that is all for him. She is still dressed for work, wearing a crisp white blouse and a skirt of a tiny black and white hounds-tooth pattern that makes Harry's eyes cross to look at it too closely. He thinks that maybe he shouldn't have anything else to drink, but the waitress is right behind Hermione, bringing seconds without having to be asked.
Harry slides over to let Hermione sit next to him, and helps her remove her snow-damp cloak, laying it atop his. His hand lingers on hers, his thumb brushes across her knuckles, and the quick glances she slants at him up through her eyelashes is enough to make him dizzy. He struggles to remember that Ron is present, and perhaps they should try to be sensitive.
Harry knows he has failed at being circumspect, when he looks up to meet Ron's gaze, which immediately drops to the ring newly adorning Hermione's hand. It is an antique setting, bearing three central diamonds surrounded by smaller matching stones and set in some kind of emerald inlay. It is a far cry from the diamond chip Ron gave her more than fifteen years ago, the one she'd refused to get rid of, even when they could finally afford something fancier. Ron's face has always been an open book, but is now curiously hard to read, a volatile mixture of betrayal, jealousy, and regret.
"How is everything going?" Hermione asks the loaded question, after she orders a butterbeer. Her eyes move from Harry to Ron, gauging the tension level, testing the waters.
"Congratulations on the upgrade," Ron says snidely, over the rim of his tankard. It is unclear whether he is talking about the ring or the husband. High color washes over Hermione's cheeks, and Harry's shoulders shift suddenly. Ron figures he is holding her hand underneath the table.
"Ron…"
"Spare me the over-protective bit, Harry. I've seen it before. " He stands unevenly, using the table to brace himself, and slides sideways from the booth. "Allow me to wish you all the best… from a distance. I can't handle it, okay?" He is addressing Hermione now. "I couldn't handle being married to you, and I can't handle your being married to someone else - especially if that someone is Harry. I'm sorry."
He sounds sorry. And the three of them look at each other as one, each of them thinking the same thing: so it has come to this. The Trio that rumor, celebrity, lies, attacks, terror, flight, fear, distrust, and war could not break has been torn asunder.
Ron turns away first, and moves toward the exit with a curt nod of farewell. Harry follows his movements through the crowd for as long as his pounding head can stand it. Hermione murmurs a broken "Good-bye" after he is much too far away to hear it.
The noisy pub almost seems like a sacrilege.
***
They pull apart when the soft tapping on the door heralds its imminent opening, but Harry knows Ron has seen them as he enters, has seen their worry, their weariness, their self-blame. Harry feels as if he has aged a decade in three hours, feels that his wife is the only thing keeping him upright.
There is an awkward pause, as the two men contemplate each other for the first time since that bitter parting at their old pub. Ron's eyes flicker down to the silver band on the fourth finger of Harry's left hand, but he does not comment.
"George took the other sprogs down to the cafeteria," he informs them in the same breath that he asks, "How is she?" His blue eyes are watery and gentle, his gaze drifting over to light on the stark, white hospital bed like thistledown. His nostrils flare slightly, taking in the astringent odors of medicinal potions and Sterilizing Serum. Harry supposes that even magic cannot keep a hospital from smelling like a hospital.
Harry's face is white with strain, and his jaw works as he struggles to formulate a response. Hermione's arm is still wound through his, and he draws strength from the contact.
"She hasn't awakened yet. The burns were third-degree. The Healers say there may be permanent damage to her right hand. She may never have full use of it again. And they don't know how much of her sight she'll retain in her right…" A sob begins to knot itself up in his throat, and he can't complete his sentence. To cover his emotion, he stands too quickly, and sways on his feet, his eyes closing as the dizzy spell washes over him and ebbs away.
He moves to the side of the bed, and gazes down at the prone form of his little girl, the right side of her body swathed in potion-soaked bandages, her hair a vivid sunset brushstroke across the barren whiteness of the pillow. She shimmers beneath his gaze, as though he is seeing her at the bottom of a clear pool of water. But that thought dances too close to death, and his knees nearly buckle, as he clutches at the metal bed rail for support.
"What happened?" Ron's voice is low with horror. His glance darts between Harry and Hermione, and it is she who takes up the narrative.
"We - "she stumbles awkwardly over that telling word. Her eyes are a tawny gleam beneath her lashes, as she darts an earnest glance at Ron. "We'd taken the children to the carnival… you know, the one that rotates through Diagon Alley every summer? Hugo and Lily wanted to watch the show… something went wrong - a spell exploded. Part of the awning caught fire, and - and fell…" Restlessly she stands, and paces in a small circle, twisting and wringing her handkerchief in her tense fingers.
"It wasn't your fault," Harry interjects gently at her obvious agitation.
"I should have been there," she whispers, her voice high and clear, though brittle with her effort to keep it under control. "I shouldn't have left them."
Harry moves to her side. His hand skims over her hair, her cheek, her shoulder, her arm, and lingers briefly over her mid-section before he seats her in the chair she has vacated. He whispers something in her ear, and it is as if Ron is not even in the room.
"Hermione wasn't feeling well," he explains. His eyes meander over to Lily again, and he seems very far away, seeing the cacophony and the chaos of the carnival, the whirling sections of color and sound, the overwhelming smells and ceaseless bustle, before it all turned into terror.
"There was a bin at the back of the crowd. I got dizzy… and hot. I thought I might get sick." No one is sure to whom they are trying to make justification. "I was only steps away. I could still see both of them."
"You couldn't have cast Aguamenti faster than anyone else did." Ron tries to absolve her.
"The awning was charmed to be waterproof in case of rain. The flames were magical. It took entirely too long to get her out from under it. James, Al, and Rose wanted to go their own way, and Harry was changing some galleons for them. I was supposed to be watching - " She is almost babbling now, her gaze distraught and distracted. Harry makes an involuntary move toward her, but checks it. The tension oozes into the room, basilisk-like.
Ginny enters the room, sliding inside with hardly a sound, the way a swan glides noiselessly through a lake. She takes in Harry and Hermione with one contemptuous sweep of her eyes, and goes to her daughter's bedside. Harry watches her features quiver like disturbed water, as her hands lightly skim over the bandages of her face, her shoulder, her arm, afraid to touch them, afraid of hurting her further.
She does not look at Harry, but asks him,
"Is she out of danger?" Her shimmering hair falls across her cheek, a veil, a barrier between her and the man she had once called husband. Harry reflects that the temperature in the room seems to have dropped considerably.
"For now." He has to clear his throat, before he can speak. "Barring infection or side effects from the potions - she's on quite a few." He repeats the bleak information about Lily's hand and eye. Ginny bites back a sob.
Harry feels Hermione fidget in the chair, and knows she is only seconds away from fleeing the scene entirely. He places one hand across her arm, willing her to realize that this was not her fault.
"Can I expect this inattention to resolve itself after the honeymoon period is over, or are visits to St. Mungo's going to be the norm now?"
"Ginny - !"
"Spare me the excuses, Harry!" She spits the words at him like bile.
"It was an accident. There was no way anyone could have known the spell would ignite."
"From what I understand, there was not an adult within arm's reach of Lily… an adult who could have moved her away, or cast a preventive spell. What kind of parent allows that to happen?" Her cutting glance at Hermione needs no additional explanation. Harry has not seen Hermione look so lost since that Christmas even when she admitted she missed Ron, but he also knows that she is not one to crumple so under fire, unless she too believes that Ginny is right.
"I see we've been doing our research." His voice is caustic and biting, and he sees the protest flit across Hermione's face, as if she is not worth fighting for.
"The well-being of my children is very important to me."
"I never said it wasn't!" He glances at Hermione's tense face, and then down at Lily. The Weasleys watch as Harry visibly tries to calm himself, and he is rewarded with some subtle relaxation in Hermione's countenance and posture. For her, Harry adds, "You've always been a good mother."
His ex-wife blurts a startled, "Thank you," before she can stop it. The hostility in her brown eyes melts into curiosity as she regards the two of them. Harry can feel her probing gaze, as she tries to suss out what draws them together. See? He wants to say, like a triumphant five-year-old in a schoolyard tiff. There is no anxious subservience, no pedestal, but no exuberant, trampling disregard either. The scales do not tip too far in either direction. Hermione and I - we… balance.
"Mrs. Potter," the healer jolts Harry from his introspection, as he enters the room with his attention focused on the leather-bound folder in his hand. He nudges the door closed with the heel of one foot.
Hermione and Ginny respond in unison, and Hermione colors violently at the healer's puzzled reaction. Ginny looks almost murderous, and Hermione face flames even more vividly, when it becomes apparent that the healer is referring to the second Mrs. Potter, handing her the file on recent Burn Reversal Spell developments from down in the Experimental Magic department.
Hermione almost looks contrite, as she takes the portfolio, her eyes dropping to the toes of her comfortable walking shoes. It is so utterly unlike her that it sort of shatters Harry all over again, as if the little girl in the bed weren't enough all on her own. Heedless of the Weasleys, he takes her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and pulling her adjacent, so the support can be mutual.
A mediwitch bustles in, the very epitome of no-nonsense efficiency, and refills some of Lily's potion vials, while the healer - Harry has blanked on his name - gives them further instructions, as well as both positive and adverse signs to watch for. The part of Harry's mind that can function under duress is filing the information away somewhere, but the rest of him is focused on listening for each steady breath from his daughter, feeling Hermione's fingers fidget nervously between his, and watching Ginny coolly watch his wife.
When the healer and his assistant exit the room, it is as if they have taken a Tension Dispelling Charm with them. Ginny lays one hand on Lily's fiery head, stroking it lightly.
"I don't want her around my children. It's obvious that she doesn't have enough regard for them to give them the same care she would her own." Ron and Harry sputter in angry unison, negating the vile implication.
"This could have happened to - " Harry begins, but Ginny cuts him off.
"Nothing happened to Hugo."
Ron throws his hands up in the air. "I don't believe this, Gin! You're picking this fight now? Look at them, for Merlin's sake!"
Hermione is visibly struggling to keep her composure, and when she weaves on her feet, Harry disentangles her other hand from the bed rail, and walks her back to the chair. As she sits, he is watching her, with carefully measured concern that has not -quite - crossed into alarm.
"That's right, she's not feeling well," Ginny bites. "What's wrong with her?"
Harry says nothing, not trusting his own emotions if he does speak, but just stares at Ginny, arching his eyebrows. He crosses his arms over his chest, and does not break the gaze, until she sodding well gets it.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" It is Ginny at her most withering, and Harry reflects that he has seen this Ginny quite often since the divorce, and he wonders where she was when they were married.
"Ginny, d'you think that you could - maybe just for today - you know, grow up a little. This is your daughter here, you know." This, surprisingly, comes from Ron.
"That's rich coming from you, Ron. When was the last time you saw Rose and Hugo?"
Ron is incredulous. "Yesterday!"
"Can both of you please - ?"
"Mummy?"
The small, lost voice has the effect of a Petrificus on the four adults. Hermione comes back to the bedside, watching Lily with near-trepidation, as if she fears censure from her as well.
"I'm here, angel." Ginny forces a smile, though tears clog her voice. Lily has to crane her neck; Ginny is standing on her blind side.
"We're all here," Harry adds roughly. Lily carefully rotates her gaze around the bed, taking in each of them in turn.
"Uncle Ron," she smiles, as he playfully tweaks at her toe beneath the sheet. "Hermione. Daddy." The fingers of her left hand snake their way in between their clasped hands, so that they are sandwiched over Hermione's and under Harry's. She winces as she tries to shift her position slightly. "Where are James and Al?"
"They're with Uncle George. They'll come and see you in a bit." Harry thinks his voice almost sounds natural, but he doesn't think Lily is fooled.
"Did the fire hurt my eye?" She moves as though she'd like to explore the bandage with a hand, but her right arm is immobilized, and her left hand is clasping his. Harry feels his throat tightening painfully around a sob.
"Yes, love, but you're going to be just fine," Ginny asserts tremulously. Lily's eyes are fluttering closed.
"'M glad you're all … here," she sighs, and is asleep again so quickly that it makes Harry's heart stop, until he sees her even breathing.
And four pairs of eyes lift in unison and roam from one face to the next, as four vertices on a square, four cardinal points on a compass. The components are the same, thought the alignments have shifted, and it is clear that -whether they'd like to or not - they cannot escape each other.
… between what is right, and what is easy, Harry thinks wearily. And it seems that his ex-wife has read his mind, because she suddenly stammers,
"I'm sorry for what I said, Hermione. It was uncalled for." Hermione smiles and offers a nod of acknowledgement, clearly not trusting herself to be able to speak tearlessly.
Harry's eyes widen in surprise, and he manages a gruffly sincere, "Thanks for coming, Ron," to cover his emotions. Ron's face creases with the barest hint of a smile, as he watches his sleeping niece.
"Thanks for letting me know."
The tension has not gone, but it has eased somewhat.
It is a beginning.
The End
Hope you enjoyed it. This chapter got a little more talky than I would have liked, but there you go. You may leave a review on your way out, if you like!
--lorien.
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