Chapter Two: Fingers
Hermione's dreams were more like memories, these days.
While her fingers curled into the pillow beneath her head, Ron sat at the breakfast table, shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth as if half-starved. She slid, laughing, into the seat opposite, her hands around a steaming mug of loose-leaf tea, and he smiled at her with warm eyes while the radio crooned in the background. Outside, the morning sky was amber, and plants curled delicately around the window frame, passing intricate shadows over Hermione's skin as they wafted in the breeze. Ron studied her face as someone who had known her for years, and he asked her about her work.
He pulled her hand to his across the table, and she was content.
But her cheeks were wet when the creak of her bedroom door woke her from this memory, and her vision filled instead with Ron's silhouette in the light from the hallway, staring fixedly at the wall above her head.
She sat upright, pulling the sheets to her chest as if he was a stranger. "Ron? What is it?"
He was silent for a long time, eyes never leaving the wall.
"Are you… do you need something?" Her eyes flitted to her alarm clock. 05:17.
Ron nodded. Then shook his head.
She swallowed. "Why don't you go back to bed?"
No change.
Alright. It looked like her Wednesday morning was starting now.
The house was always quiet in the mornings. It was still dark outside, and the chill from the kitchen tiles shocked the soles of her feet when she wandered down. Some almost-forgotten longing for tea flared minutely in her belly, but she summoned instant coffee from the cupboards instead, and the fancy tea leaves lay untouched, hidden behind chipped mugs and granulated sugar. She didn't bother with tea these days. She needed the caffeine too much.
The plants on the windowsill were brown and withered, and Hermione wished she had remembered to water them. She briefly considered making Ron some eggs, but the last time she had tried, he had taken a bite while it was still too hot, and subsequently dissolved into a tantrum that lasted two hours. So with a flick of her wand, she sent bread spinning into the toaster instead, turned her back on the first flickers of sunrise outside, and busied herself preparing for the day.
Ron seemed so content fiddling with the stack of coasters on the table that Hermione assumed he was having one of his better days. Between that, and his happy babbling, and the way he ate his toast without complaint, she didn't even think twice when she crossed to the small, old-fashioned television set in the corner, and flicked it on. Before the accident, she had pitched the idea to Ron, and though initially reluctant, he had ended up quite enjoying some of the 'silly Muggle shows' that Hermione liked to watch in the mornings.
So she didn't expect the alarming crash and the way that Ron scrambled to his feet with a yell.
His eyes were round with horror at the vivid, dancing pictures on the screen, at the noise blaring from it, and Hermione swore loudly, running to turn it off, but it was too late. His plate was in shattered pieces on the floor, the crumbs strewn around him, and his freckles standing out like scars against his reddening cheeks.
"Shush, shush, it's okay-" she tried, but he was lashing out now, arms swiping in blind confusion, and Hermione hated the way he didn't know his own strength, because he accidentally caught her in the shoulder with such force that her eyes watered before she could lunge for her wand.
A subtle Impedimenta, performed before he could notice, helped slow him, and then his fists moved like treacle as she reached for him, wrapping soothing palms around his wrists and praying that today was a day where he would tolerate her touch.
This had happened before, of course, but usually she was better at predicting when he could cope with the stimulation of Muggle technology. She must have been distracted today, not as aware as she should have been, and the guilt of it throbbed with the pain from her shoulder.
Ron crumpled forwards, jabbering nonsensical words underneath his breath while she consoled him. And as the minutes ticked by, his voice slowly calming, Hermione found herself unable to take her eyes off the broken plate on the floor.
"That's it," she said softly.
"I heard a dragon roar," he mumbled.
Hermione almost sighed with relief when she dropped Ron off at the Janus Thickey ward at the start of her shift, and it made her clench with shame.
Work was a welcome distraction, and she threw herself into every consultation, every ward round, as if it could help her forget. When her lunchbreak came, she yanked her Neurological textbooks out from her locker and began poring over them for the millionth time.
Idiopathic Limbic Disorder: An umbrella term for a group of unspecified disorders affecting a variety of cognitive functions including but not limited to behaviour, memory, learning, and motivation.
ILDs most commonly occur after a physically and/or mentally traumatic incident involving magical interference with no identifiable counter-spell. They are characterised by the absence of observable morphological change in the structure of the limbic system, which makes these conditions unsuitable for treatment through indirect (wand-mediated) surgical repair. Symptomatic regulation through sedative potions and lifestyle changes may improve patient wellbeing.
That was it. Everything that her wizarding medical education could give her. She had read those two paragraphs so many times that she could cite them aloud. In short; no one knew how or why Ron was suffering the way he was. There was no counter-spell. Surgical or medical treatment was non-existent. And all she had was the bland reassurance that maybe if she gave him enough calming draughts or left him in a padded room, he might just be alright.
She hated it.
It was the ugliest side of magic. There was a reason the Longbottoms had never quite recovered, after all. It did things to the brain that all the medical expertise in the wizarding world couldn't understand.
And the worst thing was that no one knew what had happened during his accident.
Hermione snapped her textbook shut. She had spent the two years since it happened, desperately seeking advice from medical professionals around the world. And she had vowed to keep doing so until she found a way to cure him.
She would not give up.
She refused to.
After her third coffee of the day, another hundred re-reads of all the information she could find about Ron's condition, and enough food to make up for what she knew was likely to be another half-hearted dinner that night, she was straight back into another series of consults. And when she saw the name of her first patient, her lips fell into what felt like the first true smile of the day.
She stepped through the door and locked eyes with Draco, lounging comfortably against the wall by the reception desk. "Your turn," she beamed, and he shouldered his bag to come with her, bandaged finger on clear display.
"Alright, Granger? How are you?" he asked.
"That's my question," she grinned, welcoming him inside and closing the door behind them as her eyes roved over his silver hair and steady smile. "This is just the five-day check-up for the paperwork, right?"
"Yeah," he answered, plopping into the seat and holding his bandaged finger out for closer inspection. "Though it's a bit of a waste of time, if you ask me."
She tutted, slowly unravelling the bandage. "You'd be surprised. Sometimes these things like to kick up a fuss again right when you let your guard down."
There had been something in the thimble's venom that had been resistant to healing spells, but patience and the slow-release therapeutic pad she'd applied had clearly done the trick. His finger was almost entirely healed, the ring of toothmarks still a little red and swollen, but vastly less noticeable than before.
He was watching her when she looked up again, and she grinned as their eyes locked.
"Look, just as I suspected," she told him, lightly squeezing the pad of his finger. "You require an amputation."
He rolled his light eyes. "It was funnier the first three times you made that joke."
"I disagree," she smirked. "I like teasing you. It's one of my main sources of entertainment."
He stared fixedly at his finger for a moment, a small smile at his lips.
"Right," she said.
"So… is that it?" he asked hesitantly.
She chewed her lip.
It was clear that her work was almost done, that he required no more than a quick signature on his paperwork, but something in her roared that this was the first conversation she'd had with a friend in while, and she was suddenly absurdly hesitant to send him away. "I could… I could bandage it up again for you, if you like?" she suggested. "Just for another two days?"
"That sounds great," he said instantly. And she smiled.
Hermione got to her feet and bumped her bruised shoulder against a shelf as she did so, wincing and letting out a louder 'ow' than she had intended.
Draco's face was instantly a picture of concern and he was on his feet in a moment, curse his Auror reflexes. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing," she said quickly, turning to grab her materials from a drawer. "Just a bruise."
The silence was damning.
"It's fine, Draco."
"Did it happen again?"
She didn't answer as she sat back down, pulling him into his seat and carefully pressing a breathable therapeutic pad over the wound. He let out a small hiss.
"Hermione-"
"Please, leave it," she said. "You know he doesn't understand. It's not his fault."
He stared at her, and his brow creased with concern. "You need some support."
Her gut roiled in shame. "I'm more than competent at looking after him," she snapped, flicking her wand to tighten the bandages around his finger until they yanked too hard, and he winced.
"Blast," she muttered.
He watched her in silence as she removed the bandages and started again.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I don't mean to be short with you."
"It's fine," Draco murmured. "I know you're protective of him."
She nodded, not looking up from his finger.
"But you do deserve some time off, at least," he continued.
She stilled. "I can't," she said desperately. "He needs me."
"He doesn't even know who you-"
"Enough," she said sharply, heart pounding, and Draco closed his mouth. She cast a final sealing charm to finish the dressing and leaned back, breathing hard, eyes guarded. "Did you need me to sign something?"
He paused, scanning her as if he could see past her skin into the guilt that ached within her bones. "Um," he said. "Not yet. If this bandage is supposed to last two days, why don't you come to the pub with us on Friday night? And you can sign me off then?"
She wanted to crumple into herself. And she knew Draco saw it, saw the fall in her fingers, dropping to her lap.
She desperately wanted to say yes. But whenever she left Ron with the Healers, whenever she took time away from him… the guilt ate her alive. Because it was a moment less that she was trying to heal him.
"Please," he said quickly. "We miss seeing you. You deserve a night away from it all."
And that was the worst. Because she definitely didn't.
"I'll think about it," she said.
His lips were a hard line, but his eyes softened. He reached out a hand and squeezed her own, and she felt the warmth of affection as if he'd wrapped her in an embrace. "I'll see you then," he replied.
And when he kissed her cheek and then left, she wished she could follow him.
That night, Ron was in one of his better moods.
He willingly ate his dinner, laughed when she accidentally got mashed potato on his nose, and let Hermione put him to bed early enough to allow her some time to herself.
He asked for the new dragon story again, but she managed to placate him instead with a book that his Healers had given her – something about a caterpillar that he had apparently been enjoying lately. She swallowed, settled herself at the end of his bed, and began to read.
A couple of pages in, Ron started to wriggle closer. When she broke off, he stared earnestly at her until she continued, and as soon as she did, he resumed his movements. And in a matter of moments, he was shifting to place a hand on her knee. And he laid his head down in her lap.
Her heart squeezed.
She dropped a hand to curl her fingers into his red hair, and he sighed with happiness.
When she took a step back from it all, it was… bizarre.
He was the boy she had once loved, the man she had once had a complex, adult relationship with. And now he was essentially a child. Unpredictable, quick to outbursts of emotion that he didn't understand. Magic and technology alike scared him. And until such time as a cure was discovered… he would need permanent care.
She knew he didn't recognise her. That he had no idea who she was, didn't understand that she was taking care of him because she had promised it to him. But he did trust her.
And it was moments like these, these small moments of childlike affection, that reminded her of the man she had promised to take care of.
She stayed there long after the end of the book, stroking his hair until he fell asleep.
Friday came quickly.
She was exhausted from her shift, and all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball, but she needed to get Ron home, and she needed to try and calm him enough to attempt shaving his rapidly growing facial hair, and she needed to write to a Dutch Healer who may have some promising news about a similar ILD case, and she needed to…
God.
She could feel the gravity pulling at her lips as she approached the Janus Thickey ward. In front of her was a clear display case, splattered with informational posters, and she found the curve of a fake smile in her reflection.
"Hey, Hermione!"
She looked up, and there was Harry coming out of the ward, his hands in the pockets of his Auror robes, his hair still as chaotic as ever. He smiled lopsidedly at her, and she felt the falseness melt from her expression.
"Harry," she said warmly, and stepped forward to sigh with relief into his shoulder as he surrounded her in a hug. "How are things?"
"I've just been to see Ron," he smiled. "And now I'm here to kidnap you."
She laughed softly. "Draco got you in on his plan, did he?"
"I'm afraid he did," he grinned, leaning back. "Are you coming?"
She peered through the circular windows in the ward's doors, where she could see the Healers guiding Ron towards the entrance.
"I should take him home," she said weakly. Harry's gaze followed hers, and she saw his expression fall softly, the same way her own heart sank every time she looked at the boy who had no idea who she was.
"Draco said he lashed out at you again," said Harry quietly, and her sunken heart contracted in her belly.
"He didn't mean to," she murmured.
"I know," he frowned. "But you're getting hurt. You told us last time that it wouldn't happen again."
"That was months ago-"
"It still happened."
She eyed the floor. "Thanks, Harry," she said. "Really. But I'm fine. We both are."
The Healers seemed to have noticed their hesitance, and paused with Ron for a moment, just on the other side of the doors. He didn't look in the least bit concerned.
"He'll be fine here for an evening," Harry said, placing a hand on her arm. "I've already chatted to his Healers. They said you've not taken a night off in two months."
It sounded so stark, hearing it like that.
She looked once more towards Ron, at the way he was chattering excitedly to himself.
"Please," said Harry.
It was one night. It would be okay. He would be okay.
"Alright," she said. "I'll come."
And knowing exactly how hard it had been for her to say yes, Harry hugged her again.