In Between Dreams

Chapter One – Falling Down

[From the pages of Hermione's diary…]

May 14th, 1996

The war is over and yet... I cannot be happy about it. Our side has suffered heavy losses from which we cannot ever hope to recover. And it is not over. Many of the Survivors wage internal battles I can hardly believe or begin to comprehend. Many other Survivors have yet to regain consciousness; it is probably for the best that they do not witness what their world has become in their absence. At least it works for now. At least until we have a chance to rebuild.

Some, who did not participate in the Battle, or the preceding raids, have elected to start reconstruction on the castle, and the surrounding environs damaged during the aforementioned events. Hogwarts may never again be the same enchanted entity as it was before the war, but perhaps it will still be a welcome, if not somber, respite to those who survived it.

It is a slow start, but a start nonetheless, and I encourage it. If nothing else, it will grant those able few a sense of purpose and involvement denied them in the final confrontations.

-IBD-

As the only patient capable and coherent enough to walk, I have been charged with the task of tending to the less seriously injured here in the Hospital Wing. Mainly, I am responsible for dispensing potions, and for feeding those who cannot feed themselves. Any other time I am left to my own devices, and when I am not looking for better treatments and possible cures, in books that Dobby has surfaced for my purposes from what's left of the Library… or when I am not writing my thoughts here... I spend most of my idle time watching over those who seldom get visitors. And I wait. For what, I do not know.

Madam Pomfrey is coming... I must depart; she has that harried look about her that typically means she is in need of a second (and third) pair of hands.

-IBD-

I have not slept nor have I spoken since the battle ended. I have not been sleepy – exhausted, yes, but never sleepy. And even if I were, well... I fear that, in sleep, the memories I have of battle will be all the more monstrous and distorted than the realities they parallel.

As for the other, I find that there are no words of comfort anymore that can provide it, and no words of change that can give rise to it. And, I am not the only one who prefers notto speak. Harry endures in equal silence, however, for more tangible reasons – his vocal chords are still recovering. Madam Pomfrey assures him that the loss of his voice is only temporary (and also the least of his concerns), but he is not complaining. In fact, he confessed to me in a letter last night that he would rather be mute at the moment in place of facing the press and their insatiable thirst for knowledge.

Specifically, he fears being forced to spread the knowledge of some things he would rather not divulge, that would put him at their mercy for an indeterminate amount of time. I paraphrase, but the essence is there. Things that would shed rather an unattractive light over the Chosen One (Merlin, he'd kill me twice over if he heard me reference him as such). He is too weak to be strong on the matter – if he were physically capable, at this moment; it would take far less than Veritaserum to garner a full and unbelievable confession from him. That is what he fears the most, although he refuses to admit it.

-IBD-

I do not make it habit to listen idly at doors, but often one has the prime opportunity to overhear something of interest, and the curiosity outweighs any probable consequences from being discovered.

And so it came to pass that I heard that the Prophet has been itching to get a story from one of us Survivors for days now. Pomfrey even mentioned something I had not managed to notice, myself, moving between wards – they had already tried breaching security and authority to get said first-hand accounts, in the flesh. Dumbledore has repeatedly told them, as he reiterated to Pomfrey, then, that at the end of the memorial service for the Fallen those who wished to talk on the war could come forth, voluntarily. Until then, he would have none of it; the incessant scavenging from media vultures was never something he fancied.

He went on to say that he would no longer tolerate reporters hovering around hisschool determined to act as vultures, picking at the remnants of the wounded and dying. He would simply not allow it. I could not figure how he meant to bar them from entry – the school boundaries themselves were broken and most anyone could freely come and go as desired – but I knew he meant to do something, and that it would be at least marginally effective, as always. He was not as daft as any medium portrayed him, and I was certain he would make that apparent, sooner rather than later.

Pomfrey alerts me unwittingly with her shoes that my eavesdropping may soon be discovered, so I amble off under the pretense of checking on patients.

-IBD-

A break, at last. As it so happens, I tend to start checking on patients, for something to do when I feel far too idle, and shortly thereafter the pretense falls away and I become thoroughly engaged. I could have been a Healer, in another life.

Getting back to before, I recall a few stilted conversations where Dumbledore had tried to hear pieces of our stories, should we be ready to tell them. He never pushed, at least not too hard, to hear them told. Dumbledore, for one, understands how painful it would be to discuss everything to include the war, the raids, the personal loss of life and human decency, and all else, so he has not forced us to talk. Yet.

So for the moment, Harry takes some comfort in the fact that he excused from talking about the Final Battle, and his role in the events leading up to its commencement. He also wrote me an explicit promise that he would tell me everything, all that he has been obligated to withhold this past year, as soon as his throat heals enough to allow him to talk again. Our friendship remains strong, even now, in the darkest of days... even as we grieve for the Fallen, we have some communal well of strength to draw upon.

Pomfrey, to her credit, has not forced a story out of anyone, either. She feels it would slow the healing process, to have to revisit such fresh mental wounds over again. So although she does not understand my absolute silence, no one does, she respects it, knowing that I will understand and follow her directives and assist her where it is needed. I think she realizes it is a trade-off. Deal with the know-it-all's weirdness, and in turn, get a competent assistant.

-IBD-

Ron has yet to wake up. Like many others he sleeps fitfully, with random bursts of consciousness, but they never last long enough for them to mean anything good for his recovery. Mrs. Weasley keeps a constant vigil at his side, though for what purpose she does not say. I imagine she waits, as the rest of us wait. Only she waits, I think, for that burst of consciousness that means he is coming back to the world of the living, for good.

I hope she does not have to wait in vain for much longer; I see that it hurts her to watch her sons struggle to heal. And Ginny, too, worries over them, in an oddly maternal way; I see the resemblance between Ginny and her mother so much clearer now, in retrospect, than I ever have previously.

Ever since Madam Pomfrey told them of the possibility that familiar voices could rouse him, they have been reading to Ron, and praising his heroics, in hopes of coaxing him into awareness. So far he seems to be improving, if only on a subconscious level. He seems less distressed in sleep, anyway, and the potions he has been given are starting, at long last, to take some measurable effect. Any improvement is welcomed at this point.

I can tell that it pains Harry, as well, to see the rest of us alongside him in the Wing suffering in this manner, knowing that he can do nothing to ease it. He is far too selfless to desire a reprieve from it. Further, I think he feels deserving of the suffering, he feels he has no choice but to endure it. None of us have the choice any longer, we all must simply endure. It becomes irresponsible to do otherwise while others around us – friends, family, and well-respected professors – lay dying.

-IBD-

Now that the wards of the Wing have been sufficiently fed and dosed, I can settle down to write some more. This really has been less of an escape for me, and more of a way to release that which I cannot say aloud, in a more productive way than obliterating random inanimate objects. This has its charms, believe me it does, it just is not an accessible form of stress relief this afternoon.

I spend a lot of time here in the newly-commissioned Intensive Care Ward of the Hospital Wing. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall transfigured an archway for it, like that preceding Diagon Alley, to afford those within it a spot of privacy. And for the sake of security, the only ones allowed to magic it open are Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore.

All other visitors, including Healers, have to be escorted in by one of the two. This poses no problem, since visitors are exceptionally rare to this area of the Wing, and most Healers take residence in here with their patients. It is easier for them this way. Oftentimes, I notice that the Healers emerge for air and sustenance only as their charges sleep.

They have been here every day for the past week, without complaint, to administer treatments to the gravely injured. If you can call it administering; generally, they do their best to keep these Survivors comfortable, which they do achieve, with varying degrees of success. But in this time I have come to realize that no array of counter-spells or potions can heal some wounds. Some just need time, and others, well... they may never heal.

-IBD-

For the most part, I write here in the seclusion of the Intensive Care Ward. It is much quieter here and it is less likely that I will be interrupted. Especially since I have taken to sitting at the bedside of Professor Snape. He does not mind, or at the very least, he chooses not to protest if he does. I often wonder if my lack of "inane chatter" has him stunned into silence. Or, perhaps, he is as exhausted as the rest of us. If not more so as a result of his consistent duplicity.

I can see him now for whom he truly is, and despite our past differences, I respect him for it, even if no one else does. Especially if no one else does. They cannot possibly understand why I have spent every night since the Battle ended watching him sleep. Someone needs to watch over him, and seeing as nobody has yet relieved me of this responsibility, I am led to believe that I amthat someone. Not a soul visits him, save for Professor Dumbledore and myself.

I have also begun to give him the potions he requires, not because he asked for them, but because I discovered he was not getting them to begin with, a few days ago. Madam Pomfrey must have assumed that the Healers in charge of his care were monitoring and treating Professor Snape, but she was mistaken in her assumption. They expend all their effort ignoring his presence here, and tending to others. They treat him as a contagion, curling back their lips in disgust if they are forced within meters of his bed for the benefit of another patient. Which makes me ill, but then...what can a witch do, Brightest of Her Age, or no?

They cannot fathom how his contributions to the war helped save us all. He is a war hero, though he would most certainly strangle me with his eyes if I spoke that particular truth aloud. Anything to liken him to that of a foolhardy, heroic Gryffindor is enough to put him up at arms. Even in his infirmed state, I'd wager.

I played witness to some of it, through faded memories that somehow emerged, untarnished, after decades of secrecy, and yet... I cannot speak of it. Not to him or to anyone else; it is his burden to bear, after all, his story to tell, should he ever find someone worthy enough to confide in. I can only hope he will turn to Dumbledore when the time is right.

Can I dare to hope he might offer up a tale to me, instead? I shouldn't dare it.

-IBD-

Supper, or what passes for it here, has been rationed around. Those who cannot feed themselves have been fed, painstakingly one by one, and the others are managing well enough on their own. Ron is fed by a mixture of magical and Muggle technology – he receives his nourishment via potions, transported by a tube that stretches all the way down to his seemingly-bottomless stomach. It makes me sad, but I haven't the energy to cry.

Now, as I write, I sit upon the window ledge in the main ward of the Wing and use what light filters down from the moon to guide my unsteady hand, and I rest the injured side of my face on the cool windowpane to alleviate its discomfort. Madam Pomfrey is fretting over something, pacing softly through the rows of beds as to not startle her charges. She never paces; however, she is not one to voice her distress to a mere student, especially not to one that refuses to ask what is troubling her so deeply.

She keeps flicking glances toward the Intensive Care Ward, then back to me. It makes me uneasy, but I refuse to show it. I just watch her display with cold indifference; I learned, from the master of deception, Snape, that it is more favorable to feign ignorance until one has a source of leverage adequate enough to sway the outcome in one's favor. At this I have become adept, and far too quickly. Professor Snape would be proud if he knew that. Or, perhaps, he would be disappointed. Who knows?

And besides, it is far easier to pretend to be disinterested and unknowing if it becomes the truth. She retreats to her office, having officially resigned herself from pacing, and Harry sneaks a questioning look to me from across the ward. I merely shrug and return to my half-empty page. On to business, then.

The war is won, and yet… I cannot be happy about it. 'Won' is such a misnomer, but it goes with the territory, I suppose. We lost more innocents to the cause than I can count, lost more of our souls committing such atrocities that have become second nature to the Death Eaters over time. We lost all that we held sacred and dear, as if for some reason we expected, foolishly so, for some sanctity to be preserved, thinking that perhaps it would be spared out of respect. Not so, I am afraid.

All that we have won is the right to a temporary reprieve from the constant upheaval we have adopted in our lives these past several months. And that will only remain strong provided that none of the remaining Death Eaters has a thirst for leadership.

-IBD-

My thoughts redirected… I wonder what has led Madame Pomfrey to be so vicious, to her own potions stores nonetheless; in search of something, I assume.

I lift my head from the previously chilled glass to turn and gauge the problem. Instantly, my body protests this unorthodox angle, yet I pay it no heed, and I continue to watch, unbidden, as Madam Pomfrey roots through her stores, looking for something that is apparently more vital to her than her patients' continued sleep.

A fair few stir in their covers, and pile pillows atop their heads to muffle her uncharacteristically inappropriate volume. All at once, her fervent motions cease, and the slump in her shoulders leads me to believe that her search proved fruitless.

[After,] she pivoted on her heel toward me with determination. My body then decided to evict me from the window ledge. In my shock of being caught watching, and at such a strained angle, I ended up falling onto the hard, stone floor. I did not suppress the cry of pain that this elicited, and her issue was all but forgotten as she rushed over to examine me, and to return me upright once more. I did not thank her, but I would have, had I felt like speaking then. I had allowed too much to slip, as it was, giving voice to my pain.

She kept a sharp eye on me for a few minutes longer, and urged me into a bed that was meant to be mine, from the off. I did not sleep.

A/N: Revising & hoping to keep it going. I might take this one in a different direction than I had initially planned. Wish me luck.