Hermione raced in through the main door, the skirt of her dress rising a few inches above the knee as she sprinted with all her might. There were hundreds of people at the hospital that evening, possibly thousands, and they were all there to visit loved ones. Voldemort had been eradicated but the war raged on, and the casualties were insurmountable. Those who sustained incurable and unfixable injuries were viewed as lucky, because at least they survived. The simple fact that St. Mungo's was busy, was looked at as a good thing, because that meant that enough people had lived to fill those beds, those corridors, and those waiting rooms.
She almost wished she was one of them, waiting at her loved one's bedside, with a gentle hold on their hand as they drifted in and out of sleep. She found comfort in the notion, because the truth was, the man she loved wasn't in St. Mungo's. In fact, no one knew where he was … if he had survived the battle, at all.
"Madam Pomfrey!" Hermione blurted, stumbling to a halt as she entered the room. It was a single room located on the fourth floor of the hospital, which was usually reserved for spell damage injuries, but the recent influx of patients left the hospital in a state of disarray. It was first come, first serve … in and out … on to the next … a Healer's wet dream or worst nightmare depending on their skill level.
There was a group of nurses surrounding the bed, passing bandages and working in a cohesive unit as Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts Nurse, assisted in whatever way she could. The school was temporarily closed due to the battle that had taken place. Most staff members had flocked to St. Mungo's to help — Pomfrey amongst them.
On the bed was a patient whose face, hair and abdomen were hidden under dozens of bandages, indicative of injuries that went beyond dittany.
Pomfrey fixed a look at the door as Hermione approached, the tiredness in her old eyes overshadowed by a sudden twist of grief. "Miss Granger, I'm sorry but …"
"This isn't him," Hermione uttered, looking down at the bandaged wizard, the size and shape of his shoulders, the length of his neck, the absence of freckles in places where they should have been. She slammed her eyes shut and slowly backed away. The hope that had burst through her chest when she heard word of an unidentified male on the fourth floor, vanished into thin air.
She couldn't believe it.
She refused to accept it.
"Two months, three weeks, and five days …" the young witch voiced, too tired and too numb to be angry. It happened so many times, she couldn't even cry. Not a tear. Just emptiness. "Ron has been missing for two months, three weeks, and … and … five days."
Pomfrey closed her eyes with unspoken guilt. It wasn't her fault. She was a Healer, not a Death Eater. She was meant to fix and cure patients, but there was no cure for a patient whose whereabouts were unknown.
"I'm sorry," Hermione then said, wiping the only tear that seemed to surface. "This isn't your doing."
"Miss Granger, if I could give you a vial of Sleeping Draught …"
"No, thank you."
"Restless nights will only work against you," Pomfrey furthered. "Please. It won't take a moment. I have a vial ready for you already."
Hermione opened her mouth to object but the school nurse disappeared through the door before she could utter as little as one word. Pomfrey was absolutely right. The insomnia worsened with each night. She was lucky to get in a couple hours of rest, let alone a minimum of eight.
The sound of Pomfrey's footsteps grew distant, and with that, Hermione looked to the young man on the bed. He was wrapped up and bruised in various places, but a closer look at the narrow slit over his eyes, left her muscles tight. She could see his eyelashes. Instead of the bright orange for which she had hoped, his eyelashes were pale blond.
"Oh, good. You're still here. I half expected you to have disappeared the moment I left," Pomfrey voiced, having returned with a large vial of Sleeping Draught. "One drop a night should be good enough but I would recommend two for —"
"Do you know who this is?" Hermione asked, facing the older witch.
Pomfrey stopped in her tracks. "I'm afraid I do not," she answered, coming to the patient's bedside. "He was found early this morning in an abandoned, middle-class home. No wand, no Apparition license, not a single piece of ID. We have no hope of identifying him until his facial injuries are at least partially healed."
Hermione listened in silence, the bright light in the room flickering as it started to rain outside. "How long will that take?"
"It could take weeks … or it could take months," Pomfrey offered. As a Healer, she had to be vague. Guarantees were simply broken promises in disguise.
"Right," Hermione nodded. "I … I should probably get going, then. I promised my parents I would spend the night at home."
Pomfrey looked to her with worry, the way adults were known to do. "Where have you been staying if not at home, Miss Granger?"
"Nowhere," she said, pocketing the Sleeping Draught on her way out.
The rain was relentless.
It hammered down on the rooftop of the Granger residence, as Hermione curled up by the fireplace. Crookshanks was nestled on her lap, and Harry sat opposite them. The Dursley family hadn't yet returned from their hideout, not that Harry would've wanted to stay with them again, and The Burrow only reminded him and Hermione of the Weasley's were either dead or missing. Fred and Ron. Neville, Luna, and the others, had all started to rebuild their lives, but Harry and Hermione couldn't, not without the heart and soul of their trio.
"We'll find him," Harry assured her with a hopeful glint in his eyes. Some days it was a bright and powerful glint, and some days it was nothing more than a flicker. In that exact moment, it was somewhere in between.
Hermione stroked Crookshanks' fur, having no words to speak, nothing to say that she hadn't a million times already. She was spent. Every idea, every location, every possible scenario had been repeatedly debunked over the past few months. Most of their friends had started to mourn Ron as soon as they found out he was missing.
It wasn't a ridiculous conclusion to draw, as most bodies that hadn't been recovered from the Hogwarts grounds, had likely disintegrated in one of the many explosions during battle, but Hermione's gut told her something else. Ron had been with her the entire battle; there was no chance he had strayed that far once it was over. He, along with the rest of his family, had huddled around Fred's body in the aftermath. Hermione and Harry hung back to give them space. Ron eventually wiped his eyes and broke away from his family, explaining to them and to his best friends, that he needed a few minutes to himself.
They didn't question it or think to follow when he left — but they should have.
Hermione thought relentlessly of that day, of that moment, of the last time she had seen him, and replayed it over and over again until everything else faded into the background. The memory and the regret consumed her so wholly that it took four whole weeks for her to muster the energy to find her parents and bring them back from Australia.
She almost wished she hadn't — not yet, anyway. The moment she found them and sat them down to sort their memories out, they bombarded her with questions that she didn't have the answers to and demands that she couldn't meet. It wasn't as simple as following her parents orders anymore. She wasn't a young girl anymore. She had survived war. Whether they chose to believe it or not, their daughter was a different person now.
"I've been meaning to tell you something," Hermione voiced. "I went to St. Mungo's today and … and I think I … in fact I'm quite certain I …" She looked to sofa where Harry sat and watched his head droop. It was a comforting sight to say the least. The only other person she knew, who had as much trouble falling asleep at night as her, was Harry. Without another word, Hermione rose from her spot and draped a blanket over Harry, motioning for Crookshanks to follow her as she then tiptoed up the stairs and into her bedroom.
It was much the same as when she had left it, only emptier. There were hardly any clothes in the wardrobe, and no photographs tacked to the walls. She had altered it that way in case any Death Eaters came looking for her the previous summer. The less evidence of her, the better.
Crookshanks curled up in his own little bed in the corner, and immediately went to sleep. The soft purr of this breaths filled the silence as Hermione sunk down on the foot of her bed.
It was soft and familiar.
She leaned back, trainers still laced and day clothes still on. With great restraint, she kept from escaping through the window, and instead uncorked the potion that Madam Pomfrey had given her, knocking back two large drops. Given her size, the affect it had on her was almost instant. In a matter of seconds her eyelids began to flutter shut, heavier and heavier until the dreams she had been running away from, swallowed her whole.