Maybe Next Year

by Heptagon

I should mark down the date, she mused. Perhaps it was a "Give Daphne Flowers Week" that I was not aware of.

Maybe Next Year

"I don't actually need to work," she said, "my family has a lot of money, so I could just sit at home and do nothing, or travel the world and spend it at my leisure, but I've tried them both and neither suits me. I like keeping busy. I also kind of like helping out, but don't tell anyone I said so. Might ruin the reputation."

She chuckled a little, then continued earnestly, "And it's a very useful profession, too. All this learning of spells, it might come very handy one day or another. That's why they let me work here. Because it's always a good thing to have a Healer close by.

"Of course, they think I'm a big bossing everyone round type here. My family's very good at bossing others around. If they knew I'm more of a coffee-fetcher goo-cleaner, they might reconsider letting me do an actual job, mingling with all sorts of ordinary people. But I'm not going to tell them, and you'd better not say anything either."

She looked at the motionless figure in the bed, and sighed, "Actually, I wish you would say something. Anything. I wish you would just wake and tell me to shut up. Or tell my parents that I'm not a big-shot Healer, ordering everyone around, but a lowly intern, doing all the mucky jobs and talking to unconscious strangers. Not that I consider you a stranger, Mrs Spanner, with all these little chats we've had, but I just wish you would wake up and talk back, or tell me to go away and stop annoying you."

She was not very surprised when Mrs Spanner did not wake up and tell her to go away. According to her chart, she hadn't woken up or told anyone to go away for thirteen years. Which did not mean she might not do it one day. Maybe today, maybe next year, maybe tomorrow.

"All right, Mrs Spanner," she said, standing up from the bedside chair, "I will see you again tomorrow. Stay well, and get better. And do try to wake up, if you can."

She had barely left the room when she heard her name being called, and rushed off to fetch coffee or clean up a mess. Nobody here liked her very much. None of the healers did. Whether it was envy or political views, she did not know, and didn't care enough to find out. She rather liked doing all these small unimportant jobs because this way there was no fear that she might accidentally kill someone; her actions had little to no impact on the world surrounding her, and that was the way she liked it. Although she did hope that one day the patients she had these little chats with would wake up and tell her to go away and leave them in peace.

Maybe today, maybe next year, maybe tomorrow – that's what the Healers had told her. The way they had said it, there had been one more maybe.

She did not have her own office in the Hospital, but she had managed to earn a desk. It was a little way off the main reception area, but still every once in a while people wandered over to her to ask for directions, hope, or compassion. There was someone at her table even now, their back turned towards her as she crept closer, trying to assess the situation before she arrived. It was a man, leaning over or resting upon the table, but when she started to slip past him and behind the desk, he turned around abruptly and walked straight into her.

She took a quick step backwards and regained her balance. She caught a glimpse of flowers on her desk behind it, then looked at him as he started to apologize for his clumsiness.

His face was familiar. She had seen him before. Here. But also elsewhere. Tilting her head to one side, she let him continue for a while longer, instead of politely telling him to stop, sending him a smile and taking part of the blame upon herself. She did none of this, not before she had managed to place him.

"That is all right, Mr Longbottom. It was none of your fault. I am very sorry for startling you," she said and sent him a dazzling smile.

He looked more awkward and bewildered now that he had a moment ago. She looked past him at the flowers again,

"These are very beautiful. Are they for your Mother?"

An expression of fright and flight passed over his face, but only for a moment, and was then replaced with firm determination. His voice fluttered the tiniest bit as he gave the reply,

"No, Miss Greengrass. These are for you."

It was her time to be surprised now. She hadn't expected him to know her name. She had rather hoped that he didn't, and it was alarming to find out that he did. But the flowers told a different story. He was many things that she knew – brave, loyal, kind – and he might have been many things that she did not know, but he was not the type of person to give flowers to someone he loathed. She knew people who would do that. He was nothing like them.

She realized she had been smiling at him all along, as was her way of dealing with surprises and unexpected situations. But she'd been staring at the flowers, and now she turned to look at him. She'd always thought he was most adorable while lost in confusion.

"Why me?" she asked. "You hardly know me." And if you know anything more, it certainly cannot be good, she finished in thought, though none of it was reflected upon her face.

"I… I've seen you around here," he said, almost defensively. "You… talk to people."

She continued staring at him. The accusation was true, she did talk to people. Most people did. Except the silent ones. She'd barely managed to think that, when he elaborated,

"To your comatose patients, I mean. You talk to them."

"The silent ones," she repeated. She had never thought that her talking to them was a praiseworthy thing. Of course she wanted them to wake up, but she did so very little for them. She helped herself more than them, by pouring out her heart and mind. Of course she hoped that one day it might work, but so far she had woken no one.

She certainly did not deserve the flowers. But he had said he had brought them for her.

"I do not talk to your parents," she said, regretting the words as soon as they were spoken. "Not because I don't want to," she hurried to explain, "but I am not yet as qualified as to take care of them."

Because they are raving maniacs and I am unable to restrain them without hurting them, the words rephrased themselves in her mind, and she gave up another explanation, lest she say something even worse.

But he smiled at her, and it was beautiful. He was beautiful.

"He told me I am doing an angel's work, but at that moment he was my angel. I felt… I felt… I cannot even describe what I felt, but I don't remember anyone ever making me feel like that by simply smiling at me.

"And he said that every time he comes here and catches sight of me, his day brightens up. Yes, that's what he said, I am not lying. I didn't think people actually said things like that outside of the kind of romance novels I haven't read since my teenage years. I was a bit of a sappy romantic back then, but I've outgrown it now. Or so I thought, at least. But the way he looked at me… oh, Mr Ackerman, I wish you would wake up so that someone could look at you the way he looked at me… or to tell me that I am nothing but a silly girl.

"But these flowers, they are very beautiful, are they not? Even you have to admit that they are. I'll leave them here so that when you do wake up, you can see them and agree with me. You'd simply have no other choice."

She smiled at him, then at the flowers, and then at the memory of the giver of the flowers.

She often did night shifts. They were a lot less interesting than they may have sounded to some. Since her silent ones, too, needed time to rest from her incessant babble, she spent most of her nights in some corner behind a book. Sometimes she studied new spells, other times she filled out charts and other tasks that had been left upon her. Most of the time, however, she read for her own amusement. Nothing very silly, but exciting enough to keep her up.

She stopped at the front portal of her Cottage, wrapping a scarf round her neck with one hand and looking through her bag with the other, to make sure she had everything for another dark and tedious night. She opened the door with an elbow and pushed it open with her hip, shuffled through her things for another moment, and only then turned around to see where she was going, to stop short at the sight that greeted her, at the figure standing at her door.

There was no need to recall anything, to place anyone. This man she knew.

"Malfoy," she said with little grace.

"Greengrass," he replied in his sleaziest voice, bowing his head with exaggerated courtesy.

It suddenly occurred to her that Draco Malfoy was on top of the short list of names of suitable husbands her parents had drawn up for her. It occurred to her that her mother would have jumped with joy at seeing him at her doorstep, and then fainted in horror at seeing the way she looked, and the way she looked at him. She suppressed a giggle, and raised a brow, in a questioning suspicious manner.

"Draco?"

"Daphne," he returned, and continued to look as if he was up to no good.

She told him as much, adding the quip, "You have the expression of a Weasley."

He cringed, "If you insist upon insulting me thus, I might not give you what I have for you."

"You have something for me?" she asked, wondering if it was just another insult. It was not. He held out his hand for her – the one he had been hiding behind his back until now – and in this was a long-stemmed blood red rose, its thorns glistening with gold.

"Why?" she asked, hardly remembering that she had asked a similar question before in a similar situation.

"Because a beautiful lady deserves a beautiful flower," he said smoothly. "Even if she keeps throwing insults at me."

"What do you want?" she demanded bluntly.

"You were searching through your bag before. I can safely say there's at least one thing you have left behind: common courtesy."

She stared at him for a long moment, then spoke, "I'm sorry" and nothing more. No excuses. No explanations. No jokes.

She took the rose and held it to her, missing the narrowing of his eyes as he continued,

"I am prepared to forgive and forget, Miss Greengrass. But only on one condition."

The rose had no scent. But it glittered with gold dust all over. "What condition?"

"That you come have dinner with me."

She blinked. "Tonight?"

He laughed, "No. Not tonight."

She raised her eyes and fixed him with a glare, letting him know she had read out the insult from behind his words. He winked and graced her with a well-calculated smile. It was not beautiful, but it did thrill her.

"Tomorrow?" he offered.

"Yes, tomorrow is," she began to accept before he changed his mind, only to remember something. "Oh, I cannot. I've made plans with Astoria. But I can cancel them. I will cancel them."

"I sounded like a love-sick teenager before her object of worship, and he knew it."

She was telling the story to Miss Marbles, and it hadn't got any better. Neither had Miss Marbles, so far.

"Can you believe it, I actually did a little happy dance when he'd gone. And that's not the worst of it," she said gloomily. "The worst is that even now, several hours later, I still get shivers of excitement when I think of it. I mean," she paused, threw a conspicuous look round the room, and bowed closer to the young woman in bed, whispering, "I'm going out with Draco Malfoy! I'm going out with Draco Malfoy!"

She repressed a foolish incomprehensible wish to do her happy dance again, allowing herself a soft giggle instead.

She leaned back and smiled, "I'll come and tell you all about it tomorrow. If I get down to earth by then. But perhaps it all goes horribly wrong.

"It probably will," she mused, "if I don't get over this fan girl feeling." She shivered and sighed in defeat.

"But what can a girl do, when he appears at my doorstep like that, presenting me with a blood red rose? You have to admit, that behaviour would sweep you off your feet, as well."

She looked at Maria Marbles, imploring with her eyes, "Wake up! Wake up, so there could be a man in your life to make you shiver with pleasure and squeal in happiness."

"It is a beautiful rose, is it not?" she said, pointing at the flower. "It is not actually the rose he gave me, I didn't dare bring it here, lest it be confiscated as a weapon. It had thorns you could probably murder someone with. I wonder if anyone has ever been killed with a rose. Plants are very dangerous, they taught us that at school. Anyway, I added a little golden glitter to give it the appearance of the original, though in my case it's just golden glitter. I'm ready to bet my six months' wages that his was sprinkled with real gold. It's just like Malfoy, always boasting with his wealth. I have wealth, too, but do you see me handing out golden roses?"

She stared at the rose and smirked, "And there went the fan-girlishness. If only I can fend it off tonight, when he takes me out to dinner."

She got ready with half an hour to spare. By that time, some of the excitement had returned. Well, most of it. But tonight she was presentable. Tonight she was beautiful. She considered leaving her common courtesy behind – when you had great beauty and great wealth, you were allowed to have sharp thorns, hadn't that been his point? But, she chuckled, she was just a simple girl, a part-time intern that nobody took very seriously. Somehow the femme fatale image did not suit her very well. Had it ever? She wondered. She'd definitely tried it out once.

But it would come out eventually, her choice of work, that is. Everything would come out eventually. And it would completely destroy her femme fatale image, should she choose to play the part. It was a good reason to go another way, better than the real reason – that she'd grown quite fond of the poor plain Healer-in-the-making self. But it was alright to like being poor and plain when she was neither; if she'd truly been the part she played, she wouldn't have liked it much.

With such deep thoughts she passed the time before his arrival, trying not to dwell upon that, or how long it had been since her last real date, lest the urges to squeal and giggle and worship the ground he walked upon should return. She felt an acute bundle of nerves when he finally arrived – fashionably late. She wondered if she could, or should, pull off a display of "Oh, are you here already? Give me ten more minutes, I'm not quite finished yet". But it was a risky business playing tricks on Malfoy, especially if she wanted to keep her date. It had been a really long time since her last one.

So she sighed and went to meet him, smiling with what she could only hope was cordiality and politeness, not worship and endless admiration. He gave her flowers, paid her compliments and took notice of her possession of refined behaviour.

The evening started off very well. He took her to dinner to one of those fancy, expensive places, which are yet surprisingly cosy and informal. The food was exquisite, the music was excellent, the atmosphere was splendid, and her shoulder tickled from where he had casually touched it – casually, but not accidentally. Her body was on fire, and so was her mind – in her imagination she giggled, and squealed and somersaulted, but outwardly she managed to appear calm and collected; to a certain point at least.

So far they had discussed their mutual friends and acquaintances, he'd asked her about her current occupation and she had dodged the truth, letting him assume she worked in her family business. He then went on to talk about his own doings, all that he had achieved and all that he would achieve in the future. He had a lot of plans; he also had a lot of fortune, land and real estate all over the world, and the influence over many important people. According to him, he knew everybody who was anybody.

She found her thought slipping towards the sleeping ones. To him, they were nobody. It would not become Mrs Malfoy to work part-time in the hospital, speaking to those very likely never to speak back. Mrs Malfoy could give large sums of money to the hospital if she wanted, and perhaps it would profit the hospital and its patients forever more than one woman whose help had little result. Of course it would. She was meaningless. She did nothing for them. Was that not one of the reasons she did it in the first place?

She had remained pensive for too long; she realized by the pause in the conversation that this was the part where she was supposed to say something. She glanced at him for help, and found nothing but indignation in reply. He had a right to be annoyed, her behaviour was not beyond reproach.

"I'm sorry," she said, and tried to lessen the harm done with a beautiful smile. "My mind ran away from me for a moment."

She thought she detected a note of recognition in his expression, as if this had not been the first time and she the first person that had found the lengthy recite of his wealth and connections less than exciting. She was wealthy and well-connected herself, though not to his extent. Ironically, she recalled the family pride and its great contradiction – on one side the fact that there was someone better and wealthier and more reverenced than them had to be haughtily ignored, on the other every effort had to be made to connect themselves by anyone that matched the description. You are the best and you thrive to be better.

Draco Malfoy matched the criteria to the point. Her family would have been over the moon with the opportunity to join their bloodline with his. She should have been over the moon as well, come to that. And she was excited, was she not?

He inquired after her runaway train of thought. She shrugged, smiled, and replied, half-honestly, "I'm just wondering why me and why now. You are, forgive me saying this, a catch to any offspring of the old families. You have a wide variety to choose from."

"Not as wide as I had thought," he replied casually, and this time completely inadvertently. It was not meant as a compliment, but a sad fact. She felt her curiosity rise.

"Why, have you found none of them to your liking? No one worthy of you?"

"Yes," he said, smirking, "I've found them all quite beneath me."

She gave him an indulgent smile, "You flatterer."

"I have not told you I exclude you from them."

In a second, she went through a dozen possible answers. "Is it not the time for you to tell me that?"

"Maybe next time," he promised, and she sent him a real smile of happiness.

"I'm still floating on a cloud, you know?" she told Maria next evening. "It started off wonderful and then it got even better. He took me dancing next. None of this jumping up and down nonsense, but true ballroom dancing. I enjoyed every second of it. Though when I think of some of these new dancing moves" – she gave a conspiratorial wink – "I can't help but feel a bit disappointed.

"But on the whole, it was a very good date. My skin still tingles from where he touched me. Oh!"

She fell into a daydream and stayed there for several moments, in fact, until a nurse came to usher her out of the room, as it was time for Maria to rest. She stood up to leave,

"And look at these beautiful flowers he brought to me. Nothing sharp or deadly about them this time."

That night, as she sat at her desk, dividing her time between a pile of papers, a book of adventure, and delicious memories of the day before, she wondered, for the first time, of the peculiar coincidences of the week. Nothing remarkable had happened to her for a while, and now, suddenly, in the same week, two of such incidents. Curious. And the week was still young. How young, she realized only a few hours later.

It happened in the most drowsy time of the night. It were the wee hours before the first light of dawn, and the halls of the hospital were as empty and quiet as if they belonged to a house deserted. She sat at the table, half asleep, a quill loosely held in her fingers, staring without seeing at the open pages of her book. She felt as if the whole world was in repose, that even time itself had stopped, when suddenly BANG!

She started upright, upsetting a pile of papers and snapping the quill in half. For a moment she believed it had all been in her dream, but then the ceaseless clamour and racket reached her ears. She looked up – two figures were staggering through the doors with obvious effort. Their voices reverberated through the corridors and echoed back, making the noise sound twice as deafening. But the clamour was just a background to her vision of red – blood, blood, blood dripping on the pristine clean white floors.

There was but a second's delay, not hesitation, but necessary to raise her from her half-slumber. Then she was on her feet and at the side of the bleeding figure, helping the other to carry him to a chair nearby. She caught fractions of their conversation – "Help him! Help him! I'm fine, really, it's nothing. Stop the bleeding, you have to stop the bleeding." The last of it was sound advice – she had to stop the bleeding.

She wasn't really qualified to do such a thing. She should have gone to fetch someone else. But the sensation still intense of her being the only one in this deserted place, backed up with the cries that sounded earth-shattering to herself yet brought no else to the scene, the sight and touch of the warm blood dripping, they all gave her a feeling that there was no time and no aid.

And she had been taught the spell. They had practiced it on mice, but it had felt so cruel to the poor animals, that when she went home, she practiced it on herself instead. Little cuts to her left forearm sounded like nothing, and only when she had healed them all perfectly did she try out with slightly deeper ones, and when those too had been satisfactory dealt with… she saw no harm in it, until one night when Astoria had come for a visit and found her in a pool of her own blood.

It had scared the daylights out of her sister, and smacked some sense into her. After that she went back to small shallow cuts.

But she remembered the spell, and there was no time, and no one else to help her. So she grabbed her wand and did her best, and when the rest of the Healers arrived running – not more than ten seconds later – she had managed to heal several of his wounds. Funny thing, though, she realized afterwards, sitting and staring at her bloody hands, nobody had pushed her aside, not at first. They conjured a stretcher and lifted him upon it, all the while she was still closing up his wounds. It was only when they had taken him into an operating room that she had been left on the other side of the door, with his terrified friend, who kept saying his name over and over again – "Harry. Harry. Harry."

She had no idea how long they stood there, before she regained her bearings, remembered her place, and showing him back to the waiting area, offered what console and encouragement she could think of. Then, reluctant to leave him alone, she took a seat near, yet not right beside him, and sat there, blood drying on both of their hands. It was only after more people appeared – "Ron! What happened? Where's Harry? How is he?" – that she left the hall and went to wash the blood off.

In the bathroom she reflected upon the incident. Had she done all that she could, and had she done it fast enough? There was certainly some room for improvement, but she had not been completely useless either. And even if she was not yet qualified to deal with awake patients, they could hardly blame her for trying to save a life. Not that it mattered much if they sacked her, she could still come here and talk to her sleeping friends during the visiting hours. And she had made an impact. If not on him, if the Healers would have saved his life all the same without her interference, or if he'd already been gone too far for any aid, it had made an impact on her.

She felt an urge to know if he would be fine, or if there was any way in which she could be of help. Yes, he'd be fine; no, they didn't need her, they had it all under their control. She went back to the table to pick up the pile of papers she had upset and put them back in order. The patient's friends and family were not there when she arrived; they'd probably gone to see the wounded.

She took the broken piece of quill and bent over the paperwork, carrying on from where she'd left off before. She was nowhere near finished, when she heard the call "Oi, you there!", and since "you there" was practically her middle name here, she looked up in expectance. But it was only the man she had seen before, helped, sat with, and consoled. He was looking relieved and purposeful.

"Yes?" she replied with a tired smile.

"Come with me. Harry wants to see you."

She stood up. If Harry wanted to see her, she would be seen by this Harry. Somehow, she'd grown so accustomed to obeying orders in this place, that she didn't even think about it. Had she thought, she would have gone anyway. She wanted to see with her own eyes that Harry was fine.

He looked well. He was already sitting up on the bed, leaning against pillows, and his expression was full of life and energy. He turned towards them when they entered the room, and the people around his bed stepped aside to make room. There was something very familiar about them.

"Hi," said the patient. "I wanted to thank you. For saving my life. Ron said you were of great help and very kind to him."

She smiled and nodded and gave the polite reply, "I'm glad I could be of assistance," and then, in a sudden bout of guilt, added, "Though what I did was very little. You should thank Healer Robbins, he did the most part."

Healer Robbins had a nasty temper and tended to be quite rude and disrespectful towards her; the moment the words were spoken her guilt was replaced with anger and regret. She made an effort to swallow both, and said with all sincerity,

"I'm very glad to see you healed and well, Mr…?"

"Erm… Potter."

She became aware of being the receiver of many curious gazes, more so now than before. She noticed that among the crowd by the bed, there were several redheaded people. She looked back at the patient – the messy black hair, brilliant green eyes, and yes, part of the famous scar visible.

Harry Potter. She'd just saved the life of Harry Potter. And even if she hadn't, he was thanking her all the same. Harry Potter was thanking her for saving his life. Such end to this bloody adventure she had not anticipated. She reflected about it a moment, then said,

"Harry Potter. I guess it does not happen often, people asking for your name."

His sheepish smile said it was an occasion rarer than he'd liked it to be.

She didn't apologize for her failure of recognition. She didn't offer an explanation, and she definitely did not mention their having gone to school together. He was not to only one who valued his anonymity.

"Well, thank you again, Miss…?"

She made as if she didn't notice the question mark at the end of his sentence. She only nodded and smiled and turned to leave the room. But the exit was blocked.

"Harry, are you alright? I came as soon as I heard of it… oh. Miss Greengrass."

She looked at his suddenly flustered expression. It seemed such a long time ago, the day he had given her flowers and the smile more precious and beautiful. She recalled her feelings of that moment, and seeing him standing in front of her restored part of the sensation.

"Hey, Neville," said Harry, "I'm fine. All patched up and ready to go."

"Greengrass?" said the man she now recognized as Ronald Weasley. "Hey, wasn't there a Death Eater named Greengrass? Harry, do you remember?"

She saw from his look that at least Neville Longbottom found the remark tactless, and hurried to soften the blow, to his best effort,

"That was probably someone else. Miss Greengrass is a very kind and good-hearted person."

Somehow this situation and these people got to her. For a moment it seemed as if they were back at school, and it was this sudden lapse of reality that made her turn round and snap,

"You are thinking of my uncle, Augustus Greengrass. The Ministry did take him to questioning, but all charges against him were dropped due to lack of evidence."

"Or abundance of coin," someone muttered. They were probably right, too. The fire in her died as soon as it had appeared. It had been a long and exhausting night.

She shrugged, ignored the comment, and walked away, leaving the bunch of Weasleys and Potters to make their own amusement. She was a little irritated about the fact that Mr Longbottom's illusions of her might have been shattered, and he would never give her flowers and smiles again, but she would be able to bear it. She had another to receive flowers and smiles – or smirks – from.

She hadn't got far when the wretched Weasley ran after her, "Oi! Greengrass!" She ignored him and walked on, but he caught up with her soon enough.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said. You are not your uncle, and you are right, he was not convicted of anything. And you helped Harry. So I'm sorry."

She stared at him for a long moment, mostly out of exhaustion. Then she nodded curtly and would have walked on, had he not stopped her for a second time.

"He asked me to dinner," she confided in Mrs Beatrice Spanner. "To show his regret for upsetting me and appreciation for what I did for his best friend. Dinner! With his friends and family! Me, dining with the Weasleys!"

She shook her head, thinking about her last dinner out. What would Draco say if he knew she'd been asked to dine with the Weasleys? What would he say if he found out she had tried to save the life of Harry Potter? That must have been the worst of bad manners in his eyes.

"I could have declined. I should have done so, I wanted to. But… I was tired and he was annoying. And, after all, it's just a dinner. It is not the beginning of a beautiful life-long friendship, that I can assure you of. Still, dining with the Weasleys…"

She shook her head.

"I have to go now, Mrs Spanner. Healer Edwards asked me to assist her tonight. Before it was just fetch me that, and do this, and take care of all my paperwork, but now… I can only hope it was because of my keeping a clear head and acting quickly at the hour of need, and not because Harry Potter thanked me for saving his life."

She sighed, "It's probably the latter. I now get it why Draco hates him so much. I have tried to earn myself some proper respect and appreciation for my skills for months, and in walks Harry Potter, utters a word, and all the doors fall open for him. It's damn irritating.

"Not irritating enough for me to miss the chance, though. So I'll see you later, Mrs Spanner. And remember, if you could just try and wake up, then you, too, might end up being asked to dinners you do not want to go by people you do not like. Is that not reason good enough?"

The day of the dreaded dinner, she had the morning off. The evening too, so she had no other excuse than the traditional problem of not knowing what she should wear. She settled it with the traditional answer and went shopping, amusing herself with forming the question in her mind, "What should I wear to a dinner with a bunch of people I don't know who do not like me very much and have the history of being poor yet now include members of power and influence?"

Of course, it was all one big excuse. She had garments to wear to her enemy's triumph and to her own demise, perhaps more in number than to a cosy get-together among friends. But even so, this was the middle ground, the grey area. She wasn't supposed to turn up in an outfit that said in big sparkling letters, "I'm so much better than you that it's beneath me to point it out" or "Of course I am everything you have always wanted to become and never will" or the laconic "Worship me".

Well, she could, but then it would be a long, long evening. She wondered if it was actually expected of her, and how many people she might disappoint by a different course of action. She was tempted to play the part. But dressing haughtily meant behaving haughtily, and that sounded troublesome.

Shopping, too, was bothersome. But it had done the trick – she had wasted several hours. Now, a glass or cup of something to pass a little more, and then it would be time to go back home, get ready, and attend the dinner.

She couldn't deny, although if asked, she would have, that in truth she was a little excited about the evening. It was an event, an adventure. It was something to endure, and then fondly remember the endurance. It was a thing to recall in terms of "I did it!", an item to tick off in the long list of life. Something to think about, perhaps talk about, to shake head about and laugh.

She shook her head now. She'd been in a weird mood ever since she'd saved – not really – Harry Potter's life. But no, it had begun even earlier, when Neville Longbottom had given her flowers. Ever since then, a string of strange events had happened to her, some more pleasant than others, and she had no doubt tonight would be one more such event.

But it was not yet tonight, and before she could recall the dinner as a fond memory, she had to get through it. She set these thoughts away and looked around for a place that could serve her a glass or cup of something, when a familiar face in the crowd caught her attention. Her reaction was automatic – first, a slow wide smile lit up her expression, then her hand was lifted, and she cried out in delightful surprise – all this happened without any thought on her part. Had she given it any thought, however, she would have done everything in the same exact way.

"Theo!" she cried again, waving to him, and when he stopped and scanned the crowd, she made her way up to him, and stood before him, beaming.

"Daph," he said, returning the smile.

"Hey," she spoke softly.

"Hey yourself. Haven't seen you for a long time, have I?"

She shook her head, "Too long."

When the words were spoken, she realized how true they were. At school, Theodore Nott had been her partner in crime, although theirs had been not much beyond sitting in the corner and commenting on other people. Theo had always been a quiet observer, standing on the outside, and looking at others too busy with their lives to notice him. If he'd made any remarks, they had passed silently to himself. Until one day she had got tired of everything, and sat down at his side, only she had not been able to keep quiet. And from that day onward, they were sitting in the corner, together, observing others, and exchanging comments, often snarky and cruel. It was much easier to pass judgement on other people's lives, so they'd never bother to analyse their own.

"Did you start a business of teaching people how to live properly?" he asked.

"Alas," she sighed dramatically, "it's still just a hobby. And you? Do you sell your witty replies?"

"Sometimes I do," he said, "but I am getting paid for my observing skills."

"Oh yes, I heard about your Private Spy," she said, laughing, "is business any good?"

"It's good until people remain suspicious about their closest friends and greatest enemies. In other words, it's always good."

She nodded in agreement.

"It was good seeing you, Daph."

"Wait," she clutched at his arm reflexively, "I'd like to see more of you. I'd like to hear more of your snooping and sneaking. Let's have a glass or cup of something and recall the good old times."

"It would be my pleasure," he said without a smile, "but I am busy right now. Snooping and sneaking, as you put it."

Her disappointment must have shown on her face, because he continued with,

"However, if I'll be a good and busy snoop for a couple of hours, I might be able to get the evening off."

"That would be wonderful," she had already said it and smiled, when her memory caught up with her and reminded her of other things that were nowhere near as wonderful as this. Again she must have been an open book, and to him, of course she was.

"Some other time then," he said and turned to go. But she stopped him and spoke without the first thought, "No. You can come with me. There's this dinner I've got to attend, but you can come with me."

There was something in his look that made her add, "If you want to. If you've got nothing better to do."

"Better than sit with you and make fun of everybody else?" he asked, suddenly lifting a hand to her face, to push a curl of her hair back behind her ear. No shiver of pleasure went through her, but there was a warm glow and other memories floated to the surface of her mind. Memories not of corners, and observation and critique, but of dark deserted hallways, empty classrooms, and once even a broom closet. Memories of another sort of crime committed.

She wasn't given much time to dwell upon her memories, because the next moment the hand was withdrawn and presented to her, now holding a paper flower in it.

"You should wash behind your ears more often."

"You and your tricks," she breathed in delight and took the flower. She shouldn't have been much surprised when, upon her trying to smell it, the thing exploded in a shower of sparks. But she was startled, and jumped, and cried out, and for a moment felt indignation at him for laughing at her.

"No, I think not," he said then, tilting his head and giving her a curious look; and when her face fell, he produced another flower that did not shatter and elaborated, "I've got nothing better to do tonight."

When time came to attend the dinner, she was full of anxiety, yet would not have missed it for the world. She had stopped herself from analysing her feelings, afraid of what might rise from the depths, content with the surface facts – that she was going to spend an evening with Harry Potter and his friends, but that Theo would be there, too, at her side, and it was good seeing him after such a long time.

At least she hoped he'd be at her side, even after she'd confessed what she had, quite accidentally, forgotten to tell him before. But he hadn't asked a single question about the dinner, about where it was to take place and who else had been invited.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and felt satisfied with her amiable appearance. Tonight she was the Healer who had saved Harry Potter's life, and not an haughty heiress that believed his kind far beneath her. If they had expected something else from her, they would be disappointed.

Theo, by his looks and words, was not disappointed. "You look nice."

"What an original compliment," she laughed. "But thank you all the same."

"You haven't told me where we're going," he remarked.

"You haven't asked."

"That bad?"

She shrugged, "Probably not. We're going to the Burrow."

"That's an odd name. Though strangely familiar."

"That's where the Weasleys live," she said, "I'm going to have dinner with them and Harry Potter."

He stopped, turned her to face him, and gave her a long penetrating look, "You're serious."

She couldn't but laugh in reply. "It's a weird little story."

"I'm overflowing with curiosity."

"I sort of saved Harry Potter's life," she confessed.

"Really?"

"No, not really. If I hadn't been there first, half a dozen other Healers would have done it instead. His life, if in any danger at all, was saved the moment he arrived at the hospital, so it was his friend who dragged him there that he owes thanks to. Not me. I was just… there."

"Don't you know, dearest Daphne," he said, stepping closer to her, "that being in the right place at the right time is the most precious, the most coveted skill in the world?"

He drew back almost instantly, thinking of the words she had spoken, "Other Healers? You're a Healer?"

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

"I'm just surprised."

"Are you?" she asked, scrutinizing his expression, "I thought you knew me through and through."

"Perhaps I did once," he smiled at the remark, "but I haven't seen you for a while, and you look different now."

"Different how?"

"You are introspective."

She continued looking at him, trying to figure out what he'd meant. He caught her gaze, and smirked.

"That's what I meant," he said. "Before you would have asked me right away what I'd meant. But now you think about if first."

"That's what you meant? That I think before I speak? I'm just older and wiser, Theo. I've grown up."

"I'm not familiar with this older wiser you," he spoke.

"You mean I'm no longer a transparent sheet of parchment to you?" she asked, half-joking. "It's good to know that."

"Is that so?"

But she shook her head. It wasn't so. She had been somewhat annoyed with the fact of his knowing her so well back at school. And she had thought the opposite a relief just a moment ago. But the second the words had been spoken, she realized their being dead wrong. She had missed him, everything about him, and perhaps more than anything else, she had missed him knowing her so well.

He didn't comment on her reply. Instead he said, "You've asked me to dine with a bunch of Weasleys and Potter?"

"There's still time for you to remember that there is something very important you have to go and do right now," she told him, feeling suddenly a bit too introspective.

"And miss such a dinner?" he asked, dramatically incredulous, "not for the world."

She smiled at him in relief and gratitude.

The evening turned out to be a lot stranger than she had expected, and she had expected it to be strange. There had been the initial awkwardness, of course, and some following awkwardness, but on the whole, the little house was so full of people that soon enough they became just two in the crowd. Whenever someone remembered them, the crowd dispersed, and there was an occasional hush, but all this passed when someone else caught the central attention.

She felt like she was back at school, sitting in a dark corner of the dungeons, and listening with derision as Pansy was turning some frivolous topic into a life or death question. Except that here was light and laughter and so much merriment, that instead of derision there was surprise and not a bad surprise.

She glanced across the room and caught sight of Potter's best friend receiving a kick and a look, and she was just able to avert her eyes when someone else's fell upon her. She hadn't been listening to what the Weasley was saying, but this gave her a very good idea of its nature.

"They are a rowdy bunch, aren't they?" Theo whispered into her ear and she gave a start, because he'd disappeared from her side a little while ago and she hadn't heard his return.

"Where have you been?"

"Found myself a quiet corner to observe this lot. A less noisy corner, I should say."

"They're not so bad," she said, frowning.

"Come with me," he said, and she stood up and followed him into the kitchen.

"Why a Healer?" he asked her there, choosing a spot where they could not been seen from the other room.

"It's a useful profession."

"Useful?" he repeated.

"Don't you think so?"

"It is useful. I just didn't imagine you doing something for the sole reason of it being a useful thing to do."

"I told you I've grown up."

"What about your dream of telling people how to live their lives?" he asked, jesting, but she replied with all seriousness and sincerity,

"I'm telling people how to live their lives daily. I tell them, lying unconscious as they have for the past year, or two, or twenty, I tell them to wake up and get a life. I tell them to wake up so that they could be given flowers to, and smiled at, and touched, and taken out dancing, and asked to dine with people they have never particularly liked, and be able to feel all that surprise, and delight, and excitement, and anxiety, and awkwardness, and merriment, and happiness, as I have over this past week. I tell them to wake up all the time, every day, but they won't listen to me. They never listen to me."

Overwhelmed with her sudden confession and only too conscious of all the things she had said, she walked away from him and stopped at the sink where dozens of dirty dishes were in the process of getting washed and jumping into a huge pile of clean tableware. She concentrated on this movement of plates and cups and cutlery, trying to push any other thought away from her mind. Soon enough push came to shove, and then she herself was being spun to face him.

She looked at his expression with wide eyes, opened her mouth and uttered, "I." But there she stopped, because she didn't know what else to say, and the way he kept looking at her, brought forth a wave of feelings she did not want to analyse.

But then he bowed his head and kissed her, and all thoughts flew out of her mind. It was… she felt… something indescribable. It was hot and cold, dark and light, confusing and clear, foreign and familiar, all at the same time. It felt as if she'd returned to a place she'd once known to its every nook and corner, and now, after all the time that had passed, it looked, at first sight, strange and alien and changed, until she realized it was everything it had once been, while she herself had changed. It was coming home without ever leaving it. It was discovering something that had never been hidden. It was…

… good. Very, very good.

She wrapped an arm round his neck to keep him from leaving. From what she could read from his movements, he was not going anywhere. He held her tight and strong; she leaned against something solid behind her and tried to pull him even closer.

It was everything she could have ever wished it to be, and when it was over, it took her several moments to overcome the feelings of it, although most of them never left her for a long while. But when she once again felt in control of her body and movement, she looked up and locked her gaze with his. She didn't even try to speak this time, looking alone was good enough for now. He was so close she had trouble seeing him properly, so she leaned back a little and placed her free hand upon a cold solid surface to steady herself. As she did so, her elbow knocked against something, and she felt a pain go through it, but very dimly as she was too occupied with feeling other things.

"Theo," she whispered, and was about to smile at him with all the joy she had inside her, when another, intruding voice called, "I'll get them myself." It barely managed to distract her, but he took it as a cue to extract himself from her arm and move away a couple of steps. Disappointed, she reached out, turning towards him, but before she could read the reply from his expression, something hit her in the back, hard. She started, jumped, grabbed hold on the counter to steady herself, and caught a glimpse of a shaking tower of dirty dishes cleaning themselves, before it tilted over and crashed down, raining plate after plate upon her. She tried to jump away, but it was too late – there were pieces of broken china at her feet, she stumbled upon it and lost her balance, landing on the floor atop the sharp fragment, dishes still in the air above her, unable to resist the gravity.

She didn't know how long it took before the rain of porcelain finally ended, but at one point it did, and she found herself sitting in a puddle of soapy water, aching at several places and bleeding from a few, with the whole Weasley family and friends standing at the doorway, staring down at her, and stifling their laughter. She stared back for a while, until it dawned on her that she should be dying out of embarrassment. She wasn't and didn't become so.

"… and they lived happily ever after," she read, sighed dreamily, and closed the book.

"That was a fairy tale," she explained, in case Maria had not understood, "they tell us such stories, and then they say, that was just a story, in real life such things do not happen, no one gets to live happily ever after. But what they don't tell us…"

She leaned closer to the bed and continued in half-whisper, "Is that real life is filled with fairy tale moments, hidden so well that most of the time, we do not recognize them. Let's take an example – a perfect fairy tale kiss, often accompanied by sparkles and birdsong. The kind of kiss that can raise the dead, wake the sleeping.

"You could do with one such, couldn't you?" she remarked sadly. "A true love's kiss. Did you ever have a true love? If so, he has forsaken you, and therefore couldn't have been a true love in the first place. Or perhaps he's lying in a bed very similar to yours, and no one comes to visit him, and no one comes to talk to him, and he's all alone, waiting for you and your saving kiss.

"Or perhaps not. But you should still wake up, kiss or no kiss, love or no love. Because kisses, true fairy tales kisses, perfect in every way, better you could ever imagine, can happen to you in the most unexpected places at the most unexpected times. Maybe even in a small and messy kitchen next to a pile of dirty dishes. Not exactly the perfect scene for the perfect kiss, is it? Nevertheless…

She sighed. "Life's an odd little thing sometimes. Very odd."

Thoughtful, she shook her head. "I never wanted to… or perhaps I did. Perhaps I just never dared to want it.

"Here I was, working as a Healer's assistant," she went on telling, "Why? I do not know. After all, people do not become Healers to make as little impact as possible. I guess I did want to help. And I just didn't know how, or I feared that I would fail. So I didn't even try. Then in stumbled Harry Potter, bleeding, and I had no time to panic, no time to get scared, so I did help him. And then they suddenly saw me. Healer Edwards asked me to assist her. Asked! Me! And somehow I didn't mess it up. She said I have potential. She wants me to assist her again.

"And I think I will. I liked it, helping out, making an impact. Perhaps I shouldn't. Perhaps it's a slippery road that takes me to dangerous places, but I'm still going to tread it.

"Which doesn't mean that I will forsake you, my dears. No. Perhaps I shall annoy you a little less, but I'll keep it up, I'll keep it up until you tell me to stop. Not before.

"An odd little thing," she said, "Last week I was no one special. Now I am Healer Greengrass, and I have potential. Three very different men have given me their attention. And flowers. Why? Why now? See how fast life can change. Yours could, too. You just have to wake up. Huh, funny thing, though of course it's tactless of me to make the comparison. But I'll make it anyway, because I'm sure you'll understand. I feel as if… as if I've been sleeping, as if I've been asleep for a long time, never realizing that something was wrong, or that something was missing, or that something could change… that I could change it, that I even wanted to change it.

"Perhaps that's the reason you have not woken up yet. Because you don't know you can make a change, you do not know you can wake up, that you want to wake up. You like sleeping, it's good and nice and simple, and you do not know it could be any better.

"It can," she insisted. "I am maybe not yet wholly awake. But I'm getting there. I want to get there. I want you to get there, as well. But if you cannot, if you do not know how, I shall figure out how to help you. If there is a way, I'll find it, if there's not, I'll invent one. I am waking up."

She saw Neville Longbottom again in a few days. First, she observed him from afar. She had a vague memory of him at school, but he had grown up a handsome man, good, kind, and brave. And not from a bad family, either. She thought as much, staring at him, recalling his most beautiful smile, and how nice it had been, when he had looked at her, given her flowers and that precious smile.

She made a bold choice of going up to him and starting a conversation. But before she managed that, he had turned towards another, spoken to another, and smiled to another. Only now did she notice that there was a familiar bouquet of yellow tulips on the table of Healer Miriam Grenville.

Healer Grenville did not talk to the silent ones. But that didn't matter, because she helped people, saved them from death, cured them from diseases, healed their ailments. It might have been nothing, the flowers given to another, the smiles given to another. But it made an impact on her, and she turned around and left the room.

On her night off she went to see her sister, to apologize once more for cancelling their previous plans and hopefully spending a delightful evening together. But Astoria had other plans. Apparently she had a date. With Draco Malfoy.

At first, she thought it was a joke. She thought Astoria still resented being abandoned the week before, and therefore threw her own excuse right back at her. But Astoria said,

"Come and look for yourself if you don't believe me. We'll be having dinner first, and then we'll go dancing. Perhaps you and your friend went there, as well, and we'd accidentally bump into one another. Nothing strange about that, is there? So, shall I be seeing you later, sis?"

She promised nothing and had no intention whatsoever of going anywhere. Not just because it had made an impact, but she couldn't think of any friend to take with her to spy on her sister and her date. Then she realized that she did have one such friend, and going to spy on her sister was a very good excuse to go visit him, should she need one.

Theo, however, was not at home. She waited for him for a little while, then wrote a note and left. It might have been nothing. He was probably just out working, already spying on someone. But he didn't reply to her note on the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that, and she felt the impact.

"Well, never mind them," she later spoke, "what good would they be? If something happened to me, and I'd be here in your stead, lying in such a bed, in a deadly sleep, would they come to see me then, to sit with me and talk to me? I don't think so."

The words were said with hurt and resentment, and when she seriously considered the matter, she had to disagree with them,

"Of course, Longbottom would come and visit me, just like he visits his parents. But how cruel would that be, to have all of his loved ones here, with little hope of their ever getting better? No, I couldn't do that to him. And Malfoy, well, I suppose he would give large sums of money to the hospital to invent a cure. I don't think he'd come here very often, even if he did love me. I don't know, I guess it's not his fault, he just has to continue the bloodline. And Theo…"

She fell silent, staring in front of her, thinking back to the messy kitchen and piles of dirty dishes. Maybe fairy tales did not happen in the real life, after all, not even little pieces of them. Or maybe they just didn't happen to her. Maybe this was it, maybe the strange week was all she would get. Even Healer Edwards had asked another to assist her today.

"What do I do?" she whispered, lost, staring at the sleeping figure in the bed. In her imagination, she saw Maria sitting up and yelling at her, "You are alive! You are awake! You do something, anything, everything! You cannot fall back asleep!"

"No," she agreed. "I will not fall back asleep. I should mark down the date, perhaps it was a "Give Daphne Flowers Week" that I was not aware of. Maybe it will happen again. Maybe I will make it happen again.

"Maybe I'll do it tomorrow," she told her silent friend, "Or maybe next year…"