Whisper To Me
Drabble One – Saviour
Healer Granger had not been having the best of shifts before patients 25a and b had arrived, but they were really the icing on the cake.
Even though she knew who they were, Hermione had wanted to save them. Hermione wanted to save everyone, and that was why she worked at St. Mungo's. She knew it was her own twisted way of compensating for the lives lost during the war, the friends she had not been able to keep alive, and she knew that this was probably, in the eyes of a psychiatrist, deeply unhealthy, but she didn't care.
The brightest witch of her age did not need anyone to tell her what to do.
And so the bushy-haired young woman had worked through the night, trying to save the couple. Cleaning and healing wounds, running tests, trying to stem the flow of blood. It was quite a slow night (the two patients had been the only ones attacked before the old Death Eaters were apprehended by aurors) and when she had nothing else to do she would watch the little family through the windows of the private ward. Later she rushed about trying everything in her (amazingly comprehensive) knowledge that might prevent the gradual shutting down of their vital organs and then, once it became painfully obvious that nothing could be done, making the couple as comfortable as possible.
As the sun rose on a new day, t he man and woman slipped away.
At the end of her shift, when the room had been cleared and the necessary paperwork completed, there was just one man left sitting in an old, quite dirty chair in the ward where his parents had died. Hermione couldn't just watch a person suffer, especially not one who had been through so much already. She stood in front of the blond man, clutching some patient files tightly to her chest, and waited. He said nothing, only kept staring straight ahead, blankly, in a way which was much worse than the sobbing and yelling and loud, audacious grief which Hermione heard every day. She shifted her weight and spoke quietly,
"I'm so sorry, Malfoy."
"No, you're not," the Slytherin commented matter-of-factly, continuing to gaze into the middle distance.
"Yes, I am," she whispered, taking a seat beside him. It was almost comical how much this argument mirrored those they had had at Hogwarts - 'yes, you did', 'no, I didn't', 'yes, you did' until the bell rang for the end of class or house points were deducted by an exasperated teacher.
Finally the blond snapped out of his daze and turned to glare at her, eyes shining.
"No, you're not!" he yelled. "Don't even pretend! No-one is, not you or any of your oh-so-righteous little friends! You think I don't know that the aurors could have gotten there quicker, would have gotten there quicker if it had been anyone else?!"
"If the aurors are still biased assholes, it's not my fault! I wanted to save them, you know I did. I wanted to save your parents like I couldn't save Teddy Lupin's or Harry's. I promise." She whispered the last word and the young man didn't miss the significance of it. He seemed to have calmed down a little and was just watching her in a manner akin to a lost and desperate child hoping the adult could tell them how to get home. Hermione had started to cry; she tried not to think about the war.
She held out her hand, palm up.
Draco looked down, and then back up at her. Without ever breaking eye contact he place his much larger hand in hers and the tears began to splash down his cheeks.
Hermione wrapped her arms around him and he leaned into her warm embrace as she hesitantly began to stroke his hair.
They stayed there for two hours and the Gryffindor let her mothering instincts take over. She rocked Draco in her arms and made gentle shushing sounds, and gradually his desperate sobs faded into shuddering breaths and hiccups, and then into long, deep breaths, and finally into sleep.
When Draco awoke the next morning he was in an unfamiliar but comfortable bed, with the sun streaming into his eyes. As he stumbled out into the hallway and tried to make sense of where he was he could distinctly identify bacon mixed in with fresh flowers and sunshine and a little bit of washing powder. Following the smell he entered a kitchen and, upon seeing Hermione busying herself filling two plates with scrambled eggs, he realised the tiny witch must have managed to levitate him home with her.
"Pepper?" she questioned, looking up at Draco and bestowing upon him the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.
Many weeks later, as Draco watched, half-amused, half-concerned, as Hermione fell asleep in her soup during dinner at an outrageously expensive restaurant, he wondered for the millionth why she put up with the long hours and asked,
"Does it get you down?"
"What?" Her head snapped up and she brushed soup out of strands of her hair, embarrassed.
"Seeing the people who… don't make it."
He was sorry he'd asked as he watched the Gryffindor's face crumple into an expression of absolute sorrow.
She nodded,
"Every time." Her voice cracked and Draco took his girlfriend's hand, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles over her alabaster skin. He murmured,
"I want you to know, that sometimes it's not the patient you save."
A/N: I hope you liked it :D
This was based on the comment under a postcard that a nurse had submitted, saying how sorry they were that they couldn't save all of their patients. The comment said that sometimes it is not the patient you save, but a bereaved family member.
Please review and let me know if you like this idea … and check out the Postsecret website!