A/N - A little sad fic inspired by one of Ziv Navoth's short stories in Nanotales. You might recognise the first sentence if you've read it.
DISCLAIMER - Believe me, if JK posts on FF then it ain't under Mr Super Czar.
The Last Good Day
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It was the last good day of the year.
He should have noticed when he arrived that there was something wrong. The nurses hadn't said anything to him when he walked through the wide double doors; they had simply looked at him in a sad, pitiful kind of way, like they expected he would never be happy again. He had pushed gently through the milling crowd of reporters, well-wishers and friends from school to reach the main desk. The receptionist behind it didn't even look at the roster of patients, she had simply spoke a simply two words.
"Room forty-eight," her voice was monotone but with a side of sympathy that gave it an edge. He nodded thickly, his body slowly turning numb. He followed the white-washed corridors until he saw the rich mahogany wood door that was embossed with the black number '48 Ward B'. He took a deep breath.
His hands were shaking. Why? He couldn't remember them shaking earlier when he had entered the hospital, or at any other point during the day. The warmth of a hand soaked through his clothes and he turned, his arms and back ramrod still straight. A familiar mop of rust coloured hair accompanied by puffy, red eyes filled his vision. His friend took a step back to allow the rest of his family – all with the same distinguishing brilliant red hair – to come into view. They all had the same morose look on their faces and the majority of them were crying. The only exception to this group was a boy – no, a young man – whose hair was jet black; his eyes a hazel brown, like his mothers, but appeared to be several shades darker than they were, mainly due to his gaunt face and defined cheekbones. He vaguely remembered the red haired girl, sister to his friend, describing him as an 'ethereal beauty'. The boy, despite it being his mother on the other said of the door, did nothing to dissuade this description, his black clothes and dyed hair only serving to accentuate his pale skin.
The older man tilted his head at the boy in recognition, but the seventeen year-old said nothing and did not return his gesture. He simply glared fiercely at the impossible white wall across from him like he was burning a hole through it. The older man turned.
His hands had resumed their shaking and became increasingly more violent as he turned the handle of the hospital room, quietly shutting the door behind him as he stepped in. He had yet to turn around. He sucked in antiseptic air and turned to face his best friend.
Her face was impossibly pale, the same colour as the sheets that lined her bed, and her hair, once wild and bushy with a life of its own, was limp and lifeless. His breath caught in his throat as he watched her eyelids flutter open, her eyes searching for the new source of noise that mingled with the various machines. The brown orbs, still as bright as they were on the train that day, found his emerald ones and the corner of her mouth tilted upwards. He wasn't sure how, but he suddenly found himself standing next to her and was gripping her bony hand tightly.
"Hi...you look...I wish...Scott has gotten better looking than me." He tried to force a smile and he succeeded but it was obviously fake. Luckily she didn't notice. She winced as she tried to move. He picked up on what she was doing and he moved quickly into an empty uncomfortable chair nearest the bed and scooted it close to the bed. His fingers intertwined with hers.
"He is...very handsome, isn't...he?" her voice was laboured and cracked from disuse. It would be that moment that Harry Potter would remember as the moment his heart snapped into a thousand pieces, forever crushed and wasted in his chest. She gave a sad smile as his eyes watered and found the ground. He looked back at her, his eyes clear once more.
"I am so sorry. I-I had no idea it would be like this..." she shushed him quietly and Harry would not doubt it if someone told him that it took every ounce of strength she had to do it. She took a deep breath and began to speak.
"You've been gone for...a very long time. My o-own...fault, really. What was I...thinking? R-Running after Dark M-M...Marked wizards l-like...you or Ron. It was al-always you two that liked...that. Not me...Should have s-stayed in the l-l-library." A little pitiful soft snort of laughter escaped her. He gave an encouraging smile but he knew deep down that it offered nothing to the obviously dying woman. His heart broke a little more and a voice in the back of his head that sounded remarkably like that of Draco Malfoy whispered snidely, 'Where's that Gryffindor courage you held so tightly to now, Potter?'
"Scott seems to be...taking this remarkably well." She smiled at the mention of her son's name.
"Yes...He is s-so brave. I think...I think he will be...the biggest...the biggest thing I regret...l-leaving. I do love him so very much," she said this without stuttering or failing, "He is the m-most amazing boy...so smart...despite who his father is...was." She smiled sorrowfully once more. Their eyes met but Harry could not hold the gaze for long. He closed his eyes tight, wanting to believe that if he could close them tightly enough then he could block out the world around him – he could block out the beeping machines and charms and other assorted medical things, and the rackety sound of her breathing, and the horrid but unmistakable sound of camera flashes outside the door of a grieving family. He began to talk, his eyes still closed.
"I wish I had come back sooner. I wish I hadn't left point blank. I wish I had come back to tell you just how much I love you. I wish I had been there that night to stop Dolohov. I wish I had been there when Scott was born instead of gallivanting about in the forest looking for Tom-pissing-Riddle. I wish I...had done something other than what I did." He stopped his tirade and looked back up at her.
Her eyes were still on him but...they were glassy and unfocused. It was then that he noticed the unsteady rise and fall of her chest had stopped altogether. It was then he realised that the girl who had once accused his best friend of having the emotional range of a teaspoon had gone somewhere he could not follow. She was dead. And he had sat there talking of 'what ifs' and 'maybe somedays'. The machines, which seemed to know who their patient was, had simply switched themselves off instead of beeping incessantly. Terminal patient privilege he supposed, so as not to disturb the dead.
Harry emerged a few minutes later, his eyes red and raw. The others caught one glance at his tear-streaked face and immediately they knew. Hermione Jane Granger, mother to Scott Sirius Arthur Granger, was no longer behind that door. After a moment of stunned silence, the media frenzy whipped up and suddenly flashes and whirrs and shouts were coming at them in rapid fire. The son in question merely clenched his jaw, turned on his heel and punched the nearest reporter in the face, knocking him out cold and drawing the intense crowd to a halt. All eyes swivelled to him and crowd quickly backed off. The young man looked mutinously at the entire Weasley family and Harry. He sneered at them with such malice, he would have mad his father proud and then proceeded to walk, his hands stuffed roughly in the pockets of his black jeans, back down the halls. The sound of the large metal doors scraping against the floor and then slamming back against each other with astonishing force echoed through the entire hospital.
Nurses and various Healers were suddenly a rushing blur around him as Harry stood in the corridor, oblivious to everything around him.
It was the last good day of the year.
A/N - Scott's dad is a Death Eater, you can decide who. Might put up a prequel or something but its a one shot that is trying to get me back into the spirit of writing.