/
How many days has it been? Ron wondered, musing how quickly time overall, yet how slowly each individual day, had passed since Hermione had fallen into what Andromeda called sleeping draught withdrawal.
As Ron sat tiredly, slumped in one of the two upholstered chairs by Hermione's bedside, he wondered what it must feel like to be in a prolonged state of in-between, a state between dreams and wakefulness, as Hermione was, as Andromeda and some medics from St. Mungo's had attempted to describe it.
Ron imagined it must feel like being underwater, reaching for the surface, close enough to know that the open air was just above your fingertips, yet somehow unable to break through.
He shivered at the thought.
Andromeda and a few healers from St. Mungo's had been by to perform diagnostic assessments on Hermione. Harry, Ron, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger had wearily stood back to let them complete their work.
While Mr. and Mrs. Granger were both medical professionals themselves, though Muggle instead of magical, Ron saw how difficult it was for them to watch their daughter be poked and prodded, albeit with gentleness, as if she were some sort of test subject, and not their daughter.
They'd given her something called the Wiggenweld Potion. Andromeda explained the potion was usually used to help someone wake up from taking magically induced sleep, but in cases of suspected sleeping draught withdrawal, it was used only to help confirm or deny the diagnosis.
"So will this potion wake her up?" Ron asked, not really understanding.
"If she truly is withdrawing, the potion won't wake her up," one of the healers explained.
"And if she isn't in withdrawal?" Mrs. Granger asked.
"It might wake her up."
"So.. what you're saying is… this test can't even confirm for sure if Hermione's in withdrawal?" Harry asked incredulously.
"Correct," the healer affirmed.
Ron thought it all sounded a bit pointless.
As if sensing the thoughts of everyone in the room, Andromeda explained, "At any rate, this potion should help her sleep more peacefully. It can't hurt."
But the opposite had been true, as Hermione began, nearly immediately, jerking fitfully in her sleep, as if having a nightmare.
Andromeda and the other healers had crowded around her again, casting spells that were ultimately deemed more effective at calming her, as Hermione once again stilled.
"Very atypical response," one of the healers had said disconnectedly, as if discussing a test subject, and not a living, breathing person, "indicative of experimentation for certain. Have any of you discovered what she was experimenting with yet?"
Harry had nearly lost it then, barging his way through the group of healers to stand close to Hermione, brandishing his wand, necessitating Andromeda and Mr. Granger's intervention.
Ron would pay anything to see the look on that healer's face again, having been told off by none other than Harry Potter.
Needless to say, the healers had not been back.
But the other potions and spells Andromeda administered seemed to help Hermione achieve a more restful state, at least most of the time.
Andromeda and the healers affirmed that the best thing for everyone else to do to help Hermione emerge from the in-between-ness, caused by what they could only assume at this point was sleeping draught withdrawal, was to talk to her.
Ron was beginning to think this was something they just told family members, to make them feel like they were helping, when there was actually nothing anyone could do.
Ron certainly felt uncomfortable talking to Hermione while she was in this state, in part because he was accustomed to her having so much to say, but more so, of course, because it was incredibly difficult to see Hermione bedridden and unmoving for so long.
He remembered Hermione's Basilisk paralysis, during their second year, when she laid unmoving, in much the same way as she was now. He couldn't help but think that paralysis seemed so much less- scary- than this withdrawal.
Maybe because he was younger then, or maybe because his relationship with Hermione had changed, or because there was more uncertainty now… or maybe it was all of it together.
Ron wished Hermione had just told him she hadn't been able to sleep, maybe he could've helped.
When Harry, Hermione's parents, Mr. Weasley, or Andromeda filled the other, currently vacant chair in the room- which happened to be nearly all the time- Ron didn't do much of the talking.
Today, however, Harry, again, was visiting McGonagall, Flitwick, and Slughorn at Hogwarts, to do more research to figure out just what Hermione had been experimenting with, and how it could be interacting with whatever curse Bellatrix had cast.
It had been like something out of a strange dream, that first day of Hermione's withdrawal, when Harry had returned from Hogwarts after imploring the help of McGonagall.
Harry had returned to the Grangers,' with Slughorn, Flitwick, and McGonagall in toe, to sip tea in the Grangers' contrastingly Muggle sitting room.
Slughorn had examined Hermione's scar, waving his wand over her unmoving body, he'd swept the floor with a brush and dustpan for fragments of ingredients ("All right there, Weasley?" He'd asked, noting he was being gaped at. Apparently Ron was finally worthy enough after the War for the professor to recall his name correctly, although Ron doubted he'd ever be worthy enough to be invited to the Slug Club).
Flitwick energetically bounded about the stacks of books in Hermione's room, looking for clues, while Crookshanks nipped playfully at the hem of his robes.
Ron had seen a lot in his short life, but that day had been unlike anything he'd ever witnessed before, and, he knew, would likely ever see again.
As admittedly unexpected as it had all been, Ron was pleased someone had thought to involve his professors (in fact he rather wished he'd thought of it himself, or Harry'd at least brought him along). Most of all, he was relieved that such a qualified team was working to help Hermione.
When he wasn't at her bedside, Harry went most of his time researching at Hogwarts.
If Ron had to admit, he knew he wouldn't be much help in the research department.
But Andromeda explained that it would help to talk to Hermione, and he knew he could do that.
"What should we talk about today, Hermione?" Ron asked aloud, uncomfortably.
Mr. and Mrs. Granger were taking care of some business at their practice, Andromeda was sleeping, prepping for a night shift at St. Mungo's, and Teddy was with Mrs. Weasley at the Burrow, where she was frantically beginning preparations for George and Angelina's wedding, which they'd unexpectedly announced two days ago… that they would be married, on Christmas Eve, and could they have the wedding at the Burrow.
Ron was thankful he hadn't been there when George and Angelina made the announcement to his parents, but from his mum's subsequent behavior, he could tell she felt a mixture of outrage at the short notice, confusion as to the rush, and pure joy at knowing that another one of her children (and George, no less, who lost his other half less than a year ago) had found a lifetime partner.
Despite the circumstances, Ron couldn't help but find some solace in needing to be somewhere besides home, remembering how his mother had acted just before Bill and Fleur's wedding.
Ron shuddered.
Of course, Ron was also happy for his brother, who was still not himself after Fred's death. Ron knew George would never be the same, none of them would, but, although he'd never say it aloud, he was glad his brother could find love and happiness, even during such a difficult time.
He was also glad that Ginny would be home from training any day now, and she would no doubt be roped into wedding preparations.
Poor Ginny, Ron thought with a smirk.
"You're the one who usually has to wake me up," Ron mused aloud to Hermione, with humor in his tone, knowing what a 'deep sleeper' he was, particularly at the most inopportune times.
"Hermione- uh, George and Angelina are getting married. They just decided, I guess. The wedding's going to be on Christmas Eve."
Ron raised his eyes up from his feet, and saw Hermione, still unmoving.
"They came by the other day, to talk to me and Harry, and to see you. They told us they would wait, until you were awake, for the wedding, but- I hope it's okay, Hermione, we told them not to wait. That you wouldn't want them to wait."
Ron watched Hermione's chest slowly rise and fall. He wished she would wake up.
"You'll be awake by then, though," he assured himself.
While Hermione continued to lay dormant, Ron perceived the sound of someone arriving, perhaps via apparation, just inside in the Grangers' back garden. Turning himself in his chair to peer around a window curtain, he saw a familiar voluminous mane of blond hair move toward the front door.
It was Luna, who had also been by once before, who Ron had forgotten said she would stop by again.
Ron clamored down the steps into the front hall to let her in. As he swung open the back door, he immediately noticed that Luna's hair was significantly more unkempt than usual, falling every which way out of a loosened plait. She had a smear of dirt across the bridge of her nose, and two matching patches of mud staining her overalls, one on each knee.
"Ron," she said airily as she gave him a hug, unknowingly depositing a combination of earthy grime and water from the bottoms of her bright yellow boots onto the Granger's wooden floor.
As she stepped back and took off her coat, Ron noticed a number of scratches and what looked like bite marks on her forearms.
Noticing his stare, Luna said, "Oh, don't worry about those, they're quite lucky actually, gernumbli bites."
"Right," Ron said, having learned it was best to just go with the flow where Luna was concerned.
"But I suppose I should clean up the mess," Luna gestured toward the floor, vanishing the miniature swamp she'd managed to create with an easy brandish of her wand. She also took a moment to carefully heal the raw scratches on her arms.
Ron noticed she purposefully left a few bite marks behind and shook his head with a chuckle.
"Should we head upstairs then?" She continued merrily.
"Upstairs? Why?"
"To see Hermione, of course," Luna said, as if she didn't notice Ron's absentmindedness.
"Hermione. Right." He felt like an idiot. He wondered why he was so distracted.
As they made their way up the stairs, Luna informed, "You know, Ron, sleep is very important."
If Ron hadn't been so tired, he would have caught - even appreciated- that Luna was making a snarky joke, trying in earnest to cheer him up, but all Ron could now think of was the sense of irony lurking somewhere in the fact that while all he wanted to do at the moment was sleep, all he wished Hermione would do was wake up.
Understanding why her humor had gone unnoticed, but unable to control feeling a bit put out, Luna promptly changed the subject as they entered Hermione's bedroom, "I'm happy for George and Angelina."
"Yeah, me too." Ron agreed.
"It was quite sudden, don't you think? But that's not a bad thing."
Ron merely nodded.
"I'm going to help with the preparations."
"Thanks, Luna. That'll be great," Ron said sincerely.
"I think your mum needs it." Luna's choice of tone wasn't lost on Ron, and he laughed.
"Oh, I hope you don't mind, but I've owled Neville about Hermione. He said he'd like to come by tomorrow. I offered to help him get here, if that's all right."
Ron felt badly that he hadn't owled Neville much since the summer, he wasn't even sure what his friend had been up to, but he was lifted by the thought of seeing one of is best mates again soon.
"That's great! Harry will be pleased to see Neville, too."
"I bet Neville will be happy to help with the wedding, too, if your mum wants more help. He seems to have a way with plants," Luna offered, thinking of wedding decorations.
Ron nodded as he sat back down in the worn armchair by Hermione's side. Luna continued to stand, but moved closer to Hermione's bedside.
"So- uh, why were you all muddy?" Ron asked.
"I've been extracting saliva all day."
Seeing Ron's nauseated expression, she continued, "Gnome saliva! It's perfectly safe if you know what you're doing," as if Ron had been particularly concerned about the safety of saliva extraction, rather than its inherent repulsiveness.
"It has many advantageous properties."
"I know it's a bit distasteful of me to collect their saliva without explicit permission…"
Ron watched as Luna pulled a small, clear glass vial out from a pouch fastened to a ribbon around her neck. It was filled with a translucent green liquid.
"… but it's for a good cause,' Luna said, looking down at Hermione, who slumbered peacefully now.
"You're planning to-"
"Spritz this over Hermione, of course. To help her withdraw from her withdrawal."
Ron felt like arguing and halting Luna's plan, feeling it was ridiculous, and having an inkling that Hermione wouldn't want to be spritzed with any form of saliva, gnome or otherwise; however, he remembered that Luna had proven him wrong so many times in the past, in the most natural, yet surprising, and above all, selfless ways.
Ultimately, Ron recognized that she'd obviously worked all morning, and perhaps the night before in the garden, to do what she could for her friend in a way she believed may help.
"So, you think this will wake her up?"
"No, no… but it may help her along. At the very least, it should help her sleep more peacefully. I noticed she seemed to be having nightmares last time."
Ron ran his fingers through his hair and sighed, "Spritz away. Saliva spritz… saliva spits- spritz… there's a joke there somewhere."
Luna laughed, and he did too.
Is Luna's humor rubbing off on me? Ron allowed himself to wonder, watching his friend methodically mist saliva over Hermione's extremities.
Nope. Definitely just tired.
"I know this isn't necessarily something the medics would do at St. Mungo's… or the infirmary at Hogwarts… or any other medical place of official repute, actually, but my Dad's done extensive research on the Gernumbli. You can ask Harry, we talked about it once."
Ron scoffed at the picture of Harry attempting in earnest to listen to Luna and Xenophilius Lovegood discuss the fantastic properties of gnome spit.
But the knowledge of all the trouble, and pain, Luna had gone through with the gnomes to do whatever she could to help a friend endeared Ron, and even more, made him appreciate Luna for her ability to believe in good, in possibility, especially in the unlikely, even when things seemed so uncertain.
Maybe, he reasoned, if he had been a bit more like Luna, Hermione wouldn't be in trouble.
"You may want to avoid the garden at the Burrow for a while. Let them… calm down," Luna informed smoothly.
"I don't know… the garden might need one last pruning before the wedding. I'm sure Neville and Harry'd be glad to help. Or Ginny. She'll be home for her break soon," Ron grinned diabolically.
"George will be home, too," Luna noted.
"Even better."
Ron and Luna laughed aloud again, together, and if either of them had been looking, they would have seen Hermione smile.
/
/
To siphon an experimental potion, one must first be in full awareness and understanding of both the dormant and active effects of each applicable ingredient, and the knowledge of how the individual effect of the particular…
Harry felt like he was going cross-eyed.
The blurry glasses don't help, he thought dryly, having been unable to magic them completely back to normal.
I should have Flitwick take a look at them, I guess.
He started the sentence again, perhaps for the fifth time.
To siphon an experimental potion, one must first be in full awareness and understanding of…
Harry looked up from the heavy tome, Modern Minglings: A Text on the Contemporary Relationships of Potions and Charms, and sighed at the stacks of similarly-sized books piled about him, in McGonagall's empty Transfiguration classroom.
McGonagall originally offered Harry her headmistress office, generally unoccupied as of late, as she continued to prefer the cozy quarters near the Gryffindor common room she'd occupied for years as a professor.
Harry was acutely aware that said office had not so long ago been Dumbledore's- and Snape's- so he'd politely declined, and asked for another location to begin his work. He knew the familiar room would be more of a hinderance than a help, particularly to his mental state.
As much as Harry avoided that room, and even under the circumstances, he was glad to be back at Hogwarts. He didn't realize just how much he missed the school until he stepped foot in the Great Hall a few days ago.
This time of year, the hall was decorated with Christmas trees of unfathomable height (thanks to Hagrid, and his lumbering in the Forbidden Forest), adorned with glowing ornaments right out of a storybook (thanks to Flitwick and McGonagall's handiwork).
The floating candles only served to create a visage of additional merriment and warmth. The sight made Harry wonder if Hogwarts was the only true home he'd ever know.
It's not really home though, Harry conceded, not without Hermione and Ron.
But now, his feelings of personal incompetence drove those observations far from his mind.
At least Slughorn, Flitwick, and McGonagall've managed more luck, Harry thought, in a feeble attempt at optimism.
Based on the professors' assessment of the recently used books in Hermione's room, the ones not neatly put away on her bookshelf, they had confirmed that yes, Andromeda's suspicions were likely true, that Hermione had been experimenting with sleeping potions.
This had not dampened the mood though, as they also agreed, after closely analyzing Hermione's scar, it was unlikely that said scar was cursed.
"On the surface, yes, the scar might appear to be cursed, but that is the thing with scars… they can be quite deceiving, especially one as… as cruel, as Hermione's. We can't be entirely certain, Mr. Potter, not while Hermione still sleeps, but it does not appear as if her scar is truly a sign of a curse," Flitwick had explained.
That had given them all some relief, albeit small. Harry'd had enough of cursed scars, that was for sure.
Again fueling Harry's optimism, Slughorn and Flitwick had some luck with their excavation of Hermione's room, having collected odd bits and particles from Hermione's floor and desk. Harry recalled Slughorn's dustpan, Flitwick's excited exclamations as he used tweezers to transfer specimens into jars, and Slughorn's affirmations of, "Right, right, then. Perhaps…"
It was progress, Harry knew, but no one still seemed to understand just why Hermione appeared to be going through sleeping draught withdrawal.
"We can hope," Andromeda had explained to Harry, Ron, and Hermione's parents, "that she was trying to stop taking the potion, and she just…. didn't wean herself off correctly. Usually when that's the case, and a person hasn't been consistently taking sleeping draught too long, the withdrawal lasts only a few days or weeks to a few months, at most, and she will likely wake up on her own in time."
Somehow, Harry didn't think the brightest witch of their age would be so careless with sleeping draught, but he allowed himself to hope that he was wrong.
His mind returning to his own work, which Harry ascertained had been much less successful, he could feel anger begin to grow inside of him.
He realized how helpful Hermione's direct guidance would be right now, and feeling that it was, at least in part, his fault she couldn't be there, his fault that she was in a withdrawal to begin with.
Again, he tried.
To siphon an experimental potion, one must first-
A sharp pain pulsated through his skull. He couldn't remember when he'd last slept more than the ten minutes he'd unwillingly spent yesterday, when he'd fallen asleep headfirst in a book. Again, Harry's anger rose, sickened with himself, not just for this time, but for all the other times he hadn't helped his best friend.
To siphon an experimental-
He was getting nowhere.
Harry slammed his fists down on the surface of the old wooden desk, his chair skidding backwards behind him as he stood up in frustration.
A burst of unchecked magic recklessly and uncontrollably emanated from him, as if he were ten years old again, sending books and papers violently streaming through the air, to crash on the floor and empty desks, against tall window panes, and past the nose of one very astonished Minerva McGonagall, just as she walked through the doorway of the classroom.
"Mr. Potter, what is the meaning of this!?" She exclaimed.
Seeing Harry's drained expression, she immediately softened. The young man was exhausted, from lack of sleep of course, but more from guilt, which, she knew, resulted in a very specific kind of fatigue.
She recognized Harry's guilt from the moment he arrived at Hogwarts, asking, pleading, for her help, which had been unnecessary, of course, as she would, without hesitation, do anything to protect and support her students, past or present.
McGonangall also observed that Harry looked quite lost, and fearful, reminding her of when she'd watched him anxiously await his moment with the Sorting Hat.
With books strewn about the room, all Harry could do was look unseeing about him, barely registering the disruption.
With a balance of as much firmness and kindness as she could muster, she said, "Mr. Potter, I must insist that you get some rest-"
"Professor, Headmistress- I can't. There's so much to do."
"Now, I know that somewhere inside your head is some sense, and this sense understands as well as I do that you're no help to anyone like this," McGonagall gestured toward the explosion of reading material.
She idly mused how peculiar it was to speak to Harry on such a personal level. She knew she would grow accustomed to it, as she had with some former students over her many years of teaching.
Although Harry certainly looked older than his age these days, whenever she saw him, it was often difficult for her not to visualize the slumbering baby she and Albus had once left on the Dursleys' doorstep.
Harry again looked, as if lost, about him, and realized that he may have taken a step backwards with his research, especially after his outburst. He realized that he hadn't really made any gains over the previous two days- but the thought of trying to sleep seemed utterly insensitive, with Hermione being as she was.
"Professor, I can't-"
"You must."
"But Hermione-"
"Ms. Granger is in good hands, the most capable hands, in truth. Professors Slughorn and Flitwick are working diligently to solve this puzzle. They've also enlisted Professor Sprout, if I'm not mistaken."
"I just- I just wish I had done something before it got to this point," Harry ran his hands through his disheveled mop.
McGonagall softened, hearing Harry's tone, seeing that he'd yet again placed the weight of the world on his own shoulders.
"Mr. Potter… I'm not saying there is nothing you could have done to prevent Hermione's current state, because there is not one person on this planet who hasn't, in hindsight, seen what they may have done differently, to prevent or alter some outcome. In hindsight, we all see our mistakes."
Harry didn't think any other part of his being could ache, but there it was, gnawing at his heart, from the inside out. He felt his chest constrict.
"But I will say, since there is nothing we can realistically do now to turn back time-"
Harry's eyes perked up. The time turner, he thought, rather maniacally.
Seeing the idea in Harry's eyes, McGonagall continued, with increased firmness, "Since there is nothing we can do now to turn back time, to alter the past in such a perfect way as to prevent Hermione's current outcome… without most assuredly disrupting something else…"
"…what you can do, Mr. Po… Harry, going forward, is to protect your friend in any way possible… which you've always seemed to do anyway, on that thought, but, in choosing my words more carefully… in going forward, perhaps learn from what you haven't done in the past. Perhaps pay more mind to what you may have neglected."
Harry nodded, fuzzy as to how he was comprehending any of this at all, but felt that McGonagall's advice agreed with steps he was already trying to take. Her advice reminded him of the words Snape had spoken in his dream.
"You'll be better for it," finished McGonagall.
"Hermione will be better for it," Harry softly corrected.
McGonagall smiled. "I see you've already begun."
Harry nodded, and felt a surge of gratitude for his professor, someone he knew, now more than ever, he could always count on.
"And should you ever feel the weight of your thoughts is getting the better of you… I encourage you to use the Pensieve, to help you think a little more… more clearly."
Harry nodded, immediately thinking of Snape, and the photo album that remained unopened in his room at Andromeda's.
"Thank you."
McGonagall turned to leave, but paused.
"Oh, and Mr. Potter, when Ms. Granger does return to us, and is feeling well again… well, let's just say I have a more long-term plan for her consideration… if she accepts of course."
Somehow, Harry's lopsided grin made the dark circles under his eyes wholly less prominent.
/
/
It was late when Harry arrived at the Grangers' home.
He knew he should have gone back to Andromeda's to try to get some rest, and to see Teddy the following morning, but he hadn't checked on Hermione since the evening before, busy with his work at Hogwarts.
Harry couldn't stop himself from feeling a bit odd entering the Grangers' alone, in the middle of the night, when he'd never even set foot in the house prior to very recently.
I won't be able to sleep anyway, Harry admitted to himself.
The house was quiet, except for the pattering of Crookshanks' paws reverberating from the floor above. Crookshanks was too large to be stealthy, but he certainly was intelligent, a trait that was to be expected in any pet of Hermione's.
As Harry draped his coat over his arm and headed upstairs, he saw two gleaming eyes stare back at him from the top step. It seemed as though Crookshanks was waiting for him, but Harry knew that he was merely performing his duty, keeping watch at one of his many posts, maintaining close tabs on anyone and everyone who dared get close to his Hermione.
In a feeble bid to win the beast's favor, Harry managed to scavenge some treats from Hagrid's hut.
As Harry leaned down to offer the fuzzball a treat, that cat's ears peaked in interest.
Harry ventured a light pat on Crookshanks' head and said, "Good cat. You've been protecting Hermione… more than I ever could."
"That's not true, Harry."
Harry nearly fell backwards down the stairs at the tired, quiet voice coming from the dimly lit hallway. It was Mr. Granger, emerging from what Harry presumed was the bedroom the man shared with his wife, feebly attempting to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes.
"Mr. Granger, I- sorry to wake you-" Harry sputtered, his heart still racing in surprise.
He noticed Crookshanks was gone, likely back to his post at Hermione's bedside.
"If I'd been asleep you might've woken me, but…"
Harry nodded in understanding, and they both quietly headed down the hall, toward Hermione's room.
"You're too hard on yourself. Hermione's well-being is not your sole responsibility. None of us knew what was going on, not even Ron."
Deep down, he knew that Mr. Granger was right, but Harry also knew now that he hadn't been the friend to Hermione he should've been, not just after the war, but for years.
Harry considered what Mr. Granger said, and began to think about Ron.
Although he couldn't place any more blame on Ron than he could on himself, Harry wondered if maybe Ron and Hermione had not become as close as he thought.
Shouldn't Ron have suspected something? Harry wondered, without blame or anger, his genuine confusion mounting. Isn't he her- her boyfriend now?
The word sounded so odd in Harry's mind, 'boyfriend.' It was even more odd to consider Ron and Hermione with labels like 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend.' Those were words for regular teenagers, teens who were not busy hunting and destroying parts of an evil wizard's soul.
I guess that's us now though. Teenagers.
Harry was still figuring out who he was now, now that the war was over, and who he wanted to be… what he wanted to do. But he knew for sure- the label, teenager, certainly did not apply to him.
Standing in the narrow strip of soft light emanating from Hermione's room, Harry saw Mr. Granger study him for a moment. Harry found himself wondering if that was how he studied people's teeth during their visits, and thought his clients might be a bit put off by it.
"You're still getting used to Hermione being with Ron."
Although he was taken aback by Mr. Granger's subject change and intuition, Harry nodded. It was something he tried not to think about, but could not deny that it was still strange to consider his best friends "together," especially in moments like this, when Harry was reminded that it seemed as if nothing had really changed between the pair.
Harry was surprised at how openly he was speaking to Mr. Granger, a man he really didn't know, about these things. Maybe it was his newfound resolve to not take the people in his life for granted, especially his best friend.
Or maybe I'm just so tired I don't have the energy to keep it all in, Harry thought dryly.
Harry also wondered if the parents of the friends of other people his age talked in such ways as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and now Mr. and Mrs. Granger, did with him.
Probably not, Harry figured, knowing that his childhood and adolescence had frequently experienced shortages of guidance, a known shortage the adults in his life often seemed to try to make up for.
Where the Grangers and the Weasleys were concerned, however, Harry didn't mind. In fact, as he grew older, he grew more appreciative of this type of guidance.
Harry knew he needed it now.
Hermione's father sighed. Harry couldn't tell if Mr. Granger approved or disapproved of Ron and Hermione's relationship, in fact, he couldn't tell what the man thought of his daughter and only child dating Ron Weasley.
"It's been an adjustment for us all. Hermione never talks about it, and when we try to ask her about Ron, or the war, she becomes upset. She's never had a- a boyfriend before…." Mr. Granger spoke the word just as Harry imagined it in his own mind, like the name of a food with a displeasing smell, a food he'd never seen nor heard of, but was now expected to eat, without question.
"But that's just the tip of the iceberg. Everything's been an adjustment since we got our memories back."
Mr. Granger continued. "We try not to push her, and maybe that's where we failed. Maybe she needs to be pushed… I can only imagine what the three of you are going through after everything that's happened, but maybe it's better to pry so it comes out, so it doesn't fester…"
Mr. Granger continued. Harry got the feeling he had a lot to get off his chest.
"As Hermione got older, Jeanne and I felt more and more useless. Hermione told us less and less, and now she tells us nearly nothing, just enough to restore our memories to get us back here, where we left off, the basics. We didn't know what to do when we got home, and we certainly haven't a clue now."
Harry met Mr. Granger's gaze, and saw that he was desperate to help his daughter. Harry hoped that he conveyed the same feeling, that he wanted to help her, more than anything.
"I- I could tell you…" Harry started.
Mr. Granger smiles weakly, "It's not your place Harry, but thank you. I think… I think it needs to come from Hermione."
Harry nodded in understanding, and replied, "I'm going to try too, to talk to her more, about… things, when she wakes up."
Harry wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to talk to Hermione about- about relationships… but he was certainly ready to talk to her to figure out how to help her, in any way he could.
Harry looked through crack created by the open door, and saw Hermione's chest slowly rising and falling, still asleep in her bed.
Mr. Granger opened his mouth as if to again reassure Harry that he had already done so much, that Harry had always been a good friend, the best of friends, to his daughter, but he knew trying in this case was pointless.
From Hermione's letters over the years, Mr. Granger knew there was no changing Harry's mind, especially where his resolve was concerned.
Silently, Mr. Granger gestured with a nod of his head for Harry to enter Hermione's room. Harry expected him to follow inside, but when he turned to say something, Mr. Granger was gone.
Harry still didn't fully understand what he'd done to earn Mr. and Mrs. Grangers' complete trust, to be alone with their daughter in her room, but he accepted it enough to appreciate it.
As Harry turned to walk toward Hermione's bed, a small lamp doing its best to illuminate the large desk on the other side of the room caught his eye.
The blast from Harry's spell, the one that had obliterated the now-mended bedroom door, had not long ago left the area in disarray, but now the desk was tidy, as Harry imagined Hermione usually kept it, after Mrs. Granger worked to achieve some sort of organization, all while cautiously avoiding disturbing any object that could potentially serve to help in the investigation of Hermione's withdrawal.
As Harry drew near, the glow of the light gently reflected off of the desk's surface, revealing the imprint of random, scattered rows of Hermione's neat penmanship.
He ran his fingers over the impressions as he imagined Hermione sitting here, bent over essays assigned over winter break, or Hermione sitting casually on a bright summer day, writing a letter to him, the windows pulled open wide, a warm, sluggish breeze capturing a bit of her hair.
The visualization made him feel abruptly and inextricably possessive, protective, and appreciative. The feeling hit him like a ton of bricks, and as he continued to examine the objects adorning Hermione's desk, the feeling only grew.
As one who knew her would rightly imagine, stacks of books littered the majority of the surface of Hermione's desk, piles containing information from a wide range of topics from history to potions, and labeled with varied titles from A Witches Guide to the Ancient Runes of Great Britain to Pride and Prejudice, a title which Harry recognized as Muggle in origin.
There were other likely objects- quill and parchment, ink and pencils, all neatly lined up and stored in rectangular trays.
What caught Harry's eye were the more personal affects; a small trophy whose plaque read "Spelling Bee Champion," a figurine of a snowy owl, a scarf woven with threads of crimson and gold (a small 'HG' embroidered in one corner), and a framed picture of himself, Ron, and Hermione.
In the picture, the three were walking side by side, outdoors in their school robes. All three were laughing heartily, Ron nearly bent over, wiping tears from his eyes, and Harry and Hermione beaming at one another over Ron's head.
Recognizing the candid photograph likely as one of Colin Creevey's, Harry gingerly picked up the frame in both hands, as if disturbing the item would somehow erase the memory, somehow disrespect the boy who'd taken the photo.
Harry didn't know much about photography, anything really, but he recognized that the photo was far from perfect. The color was off somehow, real life didn't look that bright, and some things that probably should've been in focus were blurred.
Harry wished he could remember the details of the captured moment, but nothing came to him. He couldn't remember the last time he or Hermione looked that carefree.
He was glad Colin had encapsulated it.
Maybe he figured how much Hermione'd need to be reminded of happier times, Harry thought.
The brightness and blurriness, although imperfect, accurately portrayed just how Harry felt about his now hazy memories of less complicated times.
He appreciated the photo a little longer, watching the figures of himself, Ron, and Hermione continue to laugh and joke with each other. The images of Ron and Harry jokingly shoved one another, knocking Harry's broom, which he had been holding, to the ground. Hermione gave Ron a playful smack on the arm, rolling her eyes in Harry direction.
Merlin, I wish she would wake up.
The blurriness of the image began to spread and increase in intensity, and it took Harry a long time to realize that it was not the photo itself, but the newly formed tears in his eyes.
As much as he longed for the type of carefree moment captured in Colin's photo, if given the choice, he wouldn't choose to go back, not now, not after all that had been sacrificed, including Colin himself, and all that had been overcome.
Harry didn't know much of what he wanted for his future, as he hadn't ever really allowed himself to consider it before.
Now that the war was over, for a start, he hoped that he, Ron, and Hermione could slowly edge through the haze, toward those types of moments again, that the fog of fear, uncertainty, and loss will dissipate to let joy and life grow in its place.
Harry roughly wiped his eyes.
He placed the frame carefully back on Hermione's desk, unsure if she would like him looking at her things without being there herself. But his new conscious effort to try to get to know his best friend better, and his growing feeling of possessiveness or protectiveness (or whatever it was, Harry couldn't determine), won out, and he continued exploring her desk.
He rotated the owl figurine in its place to better see its face, and smirked in satisfaction at the lack of presence of any tawny owl, cat, toad, or rat figurine on the shelf.
Harry wondered if maybe Hermione had bonded with Hedwig more than he'd ever given notice.
He leaned forward with smiling eyes to better appreciate Hermione's spelling bee trophy, unsurprised that her academic achievements were likely as numerous throughout her Muggle education as magic.
Having moved closer to the desk, Harry could now see a delicate chain in a small tray next to the trophy. It was a bracelet adorned with a few small metal flowers of a light purplish-blue, a color that reminded Harry of the dress Hermione wore to the Yule Ball.
Most would consider it relatively uncommon for a man to recall the details of a female friend's clothing, but the way Hermione looked the night of the Yule Ball, and how the events of the evening had unfolded, had made an impression on Harry.
He wondered why neither Hermione nor her parents appeared to own a framed photograph of Hermione from that night.
While that evening had been entirely unpleasant for Harry, the image of Hermione in her dress, dancing freely and unabashedly (and surprisingly deftly) with Victor Krum, was certainly that night's redeeming factor.
Harry certainly did not see it that way at the time, but he could now.
He remembered feeling happy for his best friend, and also envious that she was having such a great time. But it was all overshadowed as he sat, uncomfortable in his own skin, miserably humoring Ron's complaints.
Harry suddenly imagined himself dancing with Hermione, at George and Angelina's upcoming wedding. Maybe he'd give it a go this time, for her.
If she's even awake by then, Harry mused darkly.
If she wasn't awake by then, Harry knew exactly where he would be spending most of the event, right there, in Hermione's room.
He'd danced with his best friend one time, alone, on a cold night in the middle of a forest, to an unnamed warbled melody.
Harry pictured it in his mind, but he couldn't allow himself to ponder on it- it hurt too much.
Reality returning, he again focused on the flower bracelet, and he recalled that the Yule Ball had gone sour for Hermione as well, after Ron had, rather artlessly, let his far-from-kind opinions known to her.
I think that's a night we'd all rather forget, Harry thought glumly, embarrassed at the memory of what a terrible friend he'd been, how he hadn't stood up for Hermione.
Not that she needed it, Harry thought, recalling how she'd eventually told Ron off.
He shook his head determinedly, never again.
Harry then reached out to touch the tassels of Hermione's Gryffindor scarf. He thought maybe he had one of these lying around somewhere, perhaps stuffed in the bottom of his trunk at Andromeda's, and he chuckled dryly to himself at the manifestation of the comparison between Hermione's care and his carelessness.
Her scarf looked well-loved, while he was sure his was unraveling, if it was even still in his possession.
He lifted the scarf from its hanging place, and placed it over his shoulders, so the ends fell over his chest.
It was then that Harry identified a scent that was distinctly Hermione's. It smelled of warmth, and parchment, and something like cinnamon. He'd never noticed nor identified it before, but her scarf was pleasantly concentrated in it.
He tossed one end of the scarf over his shoulder, so it hung loosely around his neck, and took a deep breath as he relaxed himself into the desk's wooden chair. He tucked himself in, as if he were about to write a letter.
Again, he pictured Hermione sitting where he now sat, which was easy to do with the scent of her scarf just under his nose, and he tried to see through Hermione's eyes, to feel what she might have felt, sitting here before the War, planning to obliviate her parents.
He wondered if she felt alone then, an emotion Harry had often considered his personal shadow, and all he felt was more regret.
Hermione never asked for help, but was always the first one to offer it to Harry.
We should've helped her.
Crookshanks, who was curled up in the chair beside Hermione's bed, mewed, as if hearing his thoughts, seconding the sentiment.
Something came over Harry then, perhaps his new resolve or, the sudden swell of protectiveness for his best friend, all blended with his absolute exhaustion, something which prompted him to gather quill, ink, and parchment, and write.
The words flowed from the tip of the quill like water from a broken faucet- rapid, uncontrolled, and messy. Harry ran his free hand through his hair, while the white lines of the scar on his other hand, 'I must not tell lies,' glistened tellingly in the light.
What he wrote, while incoherent in places, certainly contained no lies, only resolve and promise.
Harry recorded his promise to himself, and to Hermione.
He recognized he was being a bit dramatic, but it was something he felt he had to do, to make himself accountable.
And Mr. Granger and McGonagall were right, he had to let go of his guilt, to focus all his energy on his resolve.
When he was done, he folded the parchment and placed it in one of the drawers in Hermione's desk. He didn't care if she found it before he could retrieve it.
In fact, he hoped Hermione would one day learn of his promise, and be able to tell him he'd made good on it.
Again, Crookshanks mewed, as if approving Harry's actions.
Harry then walked over to the kneazle, and reached in his pocket to retrieve another treat.
Crookshanks rapidly approved, taking the treat into his mouth, and swiftly leaping from his cozy spot on the chair, offering Harry his seat.
"Thanks, mate."
Harry was surprised when Crookshanks cautiously crept back onto Harry's lap, purring, curling up for sleep.
"All it took was a few treats, eh?" Harry asked aloud, petting the cat. Crookshanks only kept on purring.
But it wasn't just the treats (although those had gone neither unnoticed nor unappreciated) that got Crookshanks to again befriend Harry- it was his promise, and the way he still had Hermione's scarf wrapped around his neck, and the way he took her motionless hand in his own just before he fell asleep in the chair, whispering, "Wake up, Hermione, wake up."
While Andromeda's calming potions and spells usually helped Hermione sleep more restfully, in that moment, no potion or charm was strong enough to withhold a surge of Hermione's will.
By no coincidence, magic, sleep magic, emanated from her fingertips, as a blanket by the foot of her bed drifted slowly toward Harry, to land gently on his lap (leaving Crookshanks undisturbed, of course), covering his legs.
Sleeping peacefully now, Harry unknowingly settled more comfortably into the chair, and sighed in contentment, surrounded by the scent of warmth, parchment, and something like cinnamon.
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A/N: Thanks for reading!