I don't own anything!

Chapter 6

I Miss my Parents

18th July, 1998

There was so much more to do than she had imagined. The call for volunteers had been productive; at least fifty people had shown up on the first day, and there were more and more every day. None of them seemed to be discouraged by the amount of work to be done; if anything, it was just the opposite. They threw themselves into their task, as efficient and motivated as she could have hoped for. That first day, right after the Battle, spent writing down everything to do with Harry hadn't been wasted. She had kept the list and organised everything with it, ticking off things as they were completed, writing ideas and question marks beside every item. The collapsed wall on the third floor was a problem. It was difficult to find volunteers to go into the Forbidden Forest to uproot damaged trees and plant new ones. But overall, things were progressing at breakneck speed.

The most difficult day had been when the painting experts had come to take down several canvases, deemed as irreparable. Many people had openly cried then, and it had wrenched her own heart to see them go. But they had cheered up by the end of the week, when the Fat Lady had honoured her house and agreed to stay. There had been many ups and down like that, failures followed by victories. It had been balanced just enough to give everyone enough heart to go on, and go on they did.

She worked herself half to death, but it was worth it. In just a few weeks the school had been Transfigured. It was being restored to its former glory, and she was behind it all. How could she explain to anyone how warm the feeling that gave to her was? Mrs Weasley worried about her (as though the poor woman didn't have enough to worry about already). So did almost everyone she talked to, even in passing (Are you sure you're all right?). But they were wrong, every single one of them. There was nothing to worry about. This work was what gave her strength, what gave her the courage to get up in the mornings. It gave her a purpose and filled the emptiness in her heart.

Harry understood. He was the same. The scrawny eleven-year-old she had met on the Hogwarts Express was now taller than her, straightened up instead of beaten down by experience, and there was a look in his eyes that made him seem older than he really was. More driven and efficient than any of the others, he was a role model to most of them (but did he even realise it?). Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived (they said the Saviour now), bodily taking on every task she could throw at him and getting it done more quickly than anyone else. He intimidated them, and they feared and admired him at the same time. But even the Saviour couldn't keep up this pace for long, and it was starting to show in his strained expression and drawn face. She worried about him, but she tried not to let it show because she knew it would only irritate him (I said I'm fine!).

She was starting to feel the effects of it herself. Too much work, not enough rest. She couldn't sleep at night (did she even want to?). At first, she tried. But she quickly found that sleepless nights were better than nightmares, and she avoided her bed, instead sitting at her desk all night, planning the next day's schedule – who would be doing what and how. And then there was the subject of food, which made her feel sick just by looking at it. She had always had a healthy, if not tremendous appetite for the food the Hogwarts elves cooked for them, and she might have worried if it hadn't been a common symptom. Harry and Ginny didn't have much appetite lately, and even Ron didn't finish his plate anymore. Eating seemed futile.

But, she told herself again, squaring her shoulders, it was worth it. Worth it to see everyone working side by side after the war, everyone putting aside their disagreements and grudges (she had just seen Lee Jordan talking with Imogen Lanarl) to do something productive. The Slytherins had been the biggest surprise. She hadn't been expecting any of them, but four had shown up: Zabini, Nott, and the Lanarl twins, who were two years younger. At first, they had stuck together, but then they had spread out and almost blended in (a remarkable feat considering that Nott's father was a Death Eater). Harry had simply frowned and ignored them; but she could see him tense up and feel for the wand up his sleeve whenever Nott was in the same room as him. And she was sure Nott noticed, too. Even just now, from her vantage point at the top of the Astronomy Tower, she thought she could see Nott working alongside two other wizards, long past Hogwarts age. There was something satisfying in the sight, even though, like Harry, she had a hard time shaking the feeling of suspicion he inspired in her.

She wondered what they would have done if Malfoy had shown up. But that was a ridiculous thought, because neither Malfoy nor his parents had been seen since the end of the war. They were keeping a low profile, and given the charges weighing against them, it wasn't surprising. (But Nott's family would also soon be facing a trial, including the boy himself.) (How did she know that?)

"Hermione?"

She turned, saw Luna, and smiled at her friend. "Yes?"

"A new load of supplies has just arrived... They aren't sure where to put them, the room we've been using as storage is full."

"Supplies?" she repeated, searching her mind. "You mean the stones? I... we'll just leave them outside for now, okay?"

"I'll tell them," Luna said, smiling warmly – if a little wearily in Hermione's opinion. "By the way, Imogen wants to see you."

She furrowed her brow. "Again?"

Luna had struck up an odd friendship with the girl, the more pleasant of the Lanarl twins, but Hermione found her somewhat irritating. She was friendly enough, but worried incessantly. She had a constant stream of questions ready for Hermione, all of the What if? sort and all pessimistic to some degree.

"That's what I said," Luna said. "But I told her you'd come down. She'll probably be in the Great Hall." Her gaze searched Hermione's. "Look, I can tell her you're not available –"

"No, no," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I'll come. Lead the way."

"Okay," Luna said, setting her hand on the rail that spiralled down the steps. "And before I forget, Harry was looking for you, too."

This time, it was all Hermione could do not to let out a sigh. It's worth it, she had to remind herself as she started to head down the stairs. Luna spoke the entire way, her voice lacking that dreamy quality as she relayed information on progress and problems encountered during the day. Hermione took mental note of everything, knowing she would have to write it down quickly or it would slip her mind. (That was happening more and more frequently now.)

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed when they reached the second floor. "I was looking for you. This –"

His lips moved, but no words came out. Nothing but a garbled mess, mingling with Luna's stream of information. She blinked twice, faltered, lost her balance and caught herself on the rail. Harry's face twisted in concern. She was tired... so very tired. Why did she notice this only now?

Her foot slipped on a step.

It seemed an eternity before the fall registered, and then there was a sickening crack as her head hit the ground. Then nothing.

Harry was pacing the waiting room, going five steps in one direction, then spinning around and going five steps in the opposite direction. The other wizards kept shooting him dirty looks, but he ignored them. It was a way to calm his nerves; besides, so long as he annoyed them superficially, they might not think to see his scar. He'd rather filthy looks than whispers.

The door opened, and he rushed to the Healer, a weary-looking man with intelligent eyes and long white hair.

"What happened? Is she going to be all right?"

"She's going to be just fine," the Healer assured him. "The blow to her head was less important than we thought. She only fell because she was going to lose consciousness anyway. She'll have a light concussion, but otherwise, her head should be fine. She'll have to rest for a couple of days, though. She woke up, but we put her back under sedation to ensure her a better sleep. She'll be able to leave the hospital in a couple of days."

"She fainted? Why?"

"Well," the Healer said, eyeing him over small wiry spectacles, "She seems to have collapsed from overexertion."

"Overexertion?"

"Too much activity, Mr Potter," the Healer said gently.

One of the waiting wizards raised his head sharply at the name.

"The rest will do her a world of good. Hasn't she seemed stressed out lately?" He waited patiently for an answer, and when none came, he didn't press further. "She's also suffering from a beginning of malnutrition, so she'll have to be careful with how much she eats for a while. And I'm pleased to say that's all."

"That's all?" Harry repeated.

Overexertion and malnutrition. The words rang in his head. She'd exerted herself too much. And she had been working herself to the bone, as Mrs Weasley had put it. Why hadn't he listened to her?

"You seem tired as well, Mr Potter," the Healer said. "May I suggest a medical examination –"

"No, thank you," he said, a little too quickly.

He knew what the nurses would find, he thought, looking down at his hand. His fingers were bone-thin. Overexertion and malnutrition. He'd been spending every waking hour with Hermione. He'd been feeling weak these past few days; he could have lost consciousness instead of her. He'd concealed his headaches and blurred vision with care. Hermione had probably been doing the same.

"Mr Potter," the Healer said again.

This time, the waiting wizard's searching gaze found the scar it was looking for. He locked eyes with Harry for a fraction of a second, but Harry was the one who looked away first, to turn his attention back to the Healer.

"She should suffer no long-term repercussions, but it is my duty to inform you of the risks her behaviour puts her at. Malnutrition is a very important risk factor for diseases. Please be sure to tell her that. Naturally, we will, as well, but sometimes a friend's advice is worth more than a Healer's words. And perhaps you would do well to keep an eye on her sleeping habits as well."

"None of us sleep very well," Harry said, surprised to hear himself saying the words out loud, "since the Battle."

"Yes," the Healer said. "Then perhaps a sort of..." He seemed sheepish. "It's not exactly Healing, now, is it? But if I might recommend seeing a wizarding psychiatrist, perhaps specialised in sleep deprivation."

"I'll tell her," Harry assured him, knowing he wouldn't and trying to keep a straight face at the idea of sending Hermione to a psychiatrist's. "But I doubt she'll go."

"Trying is the first step," the Healer said, and glanced back at the door. "I'm afraid I must leave, but she'll be fine, Mr Potter."

"May I see her?"

"She might not be awake," the Healer warned, "but feel free to come in, yes. The sedative should wear off in a little while, but she might not wake up immediately."

Harry followed him through the door, which led to a corridor with a dozen doors leading off to different patients' rooms. The Healer stopped at room 54773 and opened the door, letting Harry in before closing it again behind him.

Hermione was asleep, lying on the bed with her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open, looking as vulnerable as a child. Her hair was fanned out across the pillow, as tangled as it had ever been. She was wired up to half-a-dozen magical things (there really was no other word), one of which beeped ominously every five seconds. But she was asleep, and she seemed peaceful.

Why was it that he only now noticed the way her skin was drawn tightly over her cheekbones, the way her elbows were only sharp points and her wrists looked like they could easily snap in two?

Probably he should Floo the Weasleys now (should have done it already), but he didn't have the courage to do even that. He could have lied and told himself that he didn't want them to worry needlessly, but as it was, something else caused his decision. He knew, for one thing, that Hermione would have his hide. For another, he also knew that Molly Weasley's keen eyes would spot the identical symptoms in Harry himself and he would never hear the end of it.

Ron would have wanted to know, but it was better for him if he didn't. Hermione was going to come back in one piece, after a couple of days. Merlin, she would hate that, a couple of days lying around doing nothing. But it would probably be good for her, as the Healer had said.

Hermione stirred, and her eyelashes fluttered. Selfishly he reached out and stroked her face with one hand, knowing it would wake her up. It did, and she turned and smiled woozily up at him.

"Hey, Harry... what time is it?"

"Five in the afternoon," Harry told her, and almost laughed when her eyebrows shot up.

"What? Why did – " She looked around, and something like understanding flooded her features. "Oh. St Mungo's?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

He took one of her hands in his, staring at the stick-like fingers, the paleness of the skin. "You're sick."

"What? What do I have?"

"Something terrible," he said, deadpan. "You have two weeks to live."

She saw through him, though. "Stop, Harry, you scared me. What really happened?"

"You slipped and hit your head," he said, smiling. "The Healer says your brain will never be up to its full mental capacity again, but aside from that, you're going to be okay."

She squeezed her fingers around his hand.

"Ouch, stop that, it hurts."

"Serves you right," she said. "I'd whack you on the head if I had the strength to, but they drugged me, didn't they?"

"They said 'sedated.'"

"Same difference. Now will you tell me what happened?"

"You fainted," he said truthfully. "The Healer said you were undernourished and that you were doing too much."

"That's ridiculous," she said. "I haven't been training for a marathon. You were with me; I wasn't running around all the time."

"He also said something about sleep patterns."

She winced. "I'll admit to not sleeping well lately."

"And that's it, really. I haven't told Ron and Ginny; do you want me to?"

She shook her head. "I'll be fine, right? I don't want them to worry about me."

"They worry anyway."

"Well, they shouldn't," she retorted. "I'm perfectly okay. We should be worrying about them, not the other way around." Her eyes lost their focus. "Harry..."

"I'm right here."

It seemed a long time before she spoke again. When she did, her voice was soft and plaintive like a child's.

"Harry... I miss my parents."

He was quiet for a while. He thought of parents, of Mrs Weasley's warm hugs and Arthur's fascination for Muggles. He thought of the picture of Lily and James' wedding. He thought of Sirius' laugh, the real one that allowed you to see his tonsils. Of Hermione's parents, dropped off in Australia to fend for themselves and forget they ever had a daughter.

He squeezed her hand, warmly. "We'll find them, I promise."