2
Waking

The black of unconsciousness lifted as Harry's voice, faint and faraway, pulled Hermione to focus.

"Wake up. You've slept more than enough."

Hermione blearily opened her eyes, her lids twitching as she took in the mint-green and cream colored walls, feeling like she hadn't slept for weeks. Her mouth was dry, metallic. Every breath made her chest ache.

"Good evening, Unspeakable Granger," said Harry, in a voice honed by his years of professorship at Hogwarts. With his ever-messy jet-black hair and vivid green eyes, narrowed on Hermione's from where he stood at her bedside, he was the one Hermione wanted to see least and most out of her friends. His jaw twitched. "Ready to explain?"

Hermione winced at his expression. She pushed herself up into a seated position against her pillows, arms wobbling with the effort. Harry handed her a cup of water when she was situated.

Her only viable explanation would be a breach of her non-disclosure contract signed upon her employment at the Department of Mysteries. Even still, it wouldn't be enough for any of her friends, let alone Harry. What could she say? Don't worry. I've only been trying to resurrect your godfather, and I may or may not have sent my soul into the Veil to try and find him in the beyond.

Hermione did the next best thing after she drained her cup. "It's an occupational hazard, Harry."

He scoffed and shook his head at his feet before piercing her again with those green eyes.

"Just like if Ron is hexed on a mission, if Ginny took a wallop from a Bludger during a game, or if you caught a stray jinx during class."

"You say that as if we don't actively avoid taking those risks," said Harry. "We don't willingly bleed out in the Department of Mysteries and deteriorate into a condition so serious that we have to be brought to St. Mungo's and have our emergency contact summoned by Portkey, Hermione, for Godric's sake."

Hermione tried to swallow the wad of panic in her throat. Bleed out? She glanced down at the faint, pale scar on the meat of her thumb, wondering how she could've bled out from such a small cut.

"Would you like to try again?" asked Harry, cocking an eyebrow. "What possessed you to think you didn't need blood anymore?"

She constructed her best poker face, half her brain already working out how she managed to drain herself so severely. "My job, Harry."

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Last time I checked, your job involved books, not bloodletting rituals."

"Harry—"

"Yes, yes, you can't tell me, but whatever the hell your job is and requires, is it done? Have you proven what you wanted?"

Hermione fiddled with the cup in her hands, watching the single drop slide around the bottom, twisting to make sure it made a complete circuit.

"You were out for two days," said Harry. "You were unconscious and almost completely drained of your magic when you were found. Your Healer had to induce a coma to make sure your body and magic could fully recuperate."

Hermione's hands began to tremble. The gravity of the situation was settling in—her health and what magic she'd brought upon herself. Her shaking hands were stilled when Harry took the cup and replaced it with his fingers.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, meeting his anxious eyes. "I'm trying to do something good here."

Harry met her gaze and pinned it down. "How good can it be if it's at the risk of losing you?"

A sharp knock on the door made Hermione jump. Harry sighed. The door swung open, and a pale, pointy nose preceded a pale blond head, bowed over a green folder.

Healer Draco Malfoy looked up and briefly made eye contact with Harry and Hermione, nodding as stiffly and politely as she'd ever seen him. His cool, grey eyes rested on Hermione, and his jaw clenched as if he itched to say something obscene or snarky, but he sucked on his teeth and turned back to his file. He then pulled his wand out and waved it around her general area. She glowed purple for a moment before the color warmed into a pleasant green.

"Good news," said Malfoy, speaking to his documents. "Your magic is fully intact and ready for a fresh wave of abuse."

"How did you end up in charge of my case?" blurted out Hermione. She tried to keep her tone mild, but she'd just woken up from a two-day coma. Tone control wasn't high on her list of priorities.

One of Malfoy's pale eyebrows rose. "I'm the on-call Healer for injured Unspeakables. I work a specialized branch of Spell Damage that deals with experimental, arcane magic," he continued blandly, sensing the onslaught of questions building under Hermione's glare. "I signed my own non-disclosure agreement with the Department of Mysteries, so whomever I treat for whatever reason will remain classified." He glanced at Harry. "Emergency contacts notwithstanding."

The on-call Healer had been an important section of her orientation during her Unspeakable training. However, why they would choose Draco-sodding-Malfoy was beyond her.

Making a conscious effort not to grind her teeth, Hermione took a deep breath and schooled her entire being as she cleared her throat and unclenched her jaw. "Thank you, Healer Malfoy," she said, "for your kind assistance and…care."

Looking deeply unsettled, Malfoy nodded curtly. "Eat full, regular meals for the next few days, get regular rest, and for the love of Circe, remember that bloodletting is no longer a common remedy for anything." And he strode right back out the room, not sparing either of them another glance.

Hermione didn't even have a chance to inhale before Harry hauled up a small bag and tossed it onto her lap. "Get dressed. You're coming to Grimmauld Place with me."

Hermione shook her head. "I have too much—"

"Food to eat to make up for being in a bloody coma, Hermione," snapped Harry. "I'm going to say this just once, and you're going to listen as well as you did in school. You're going to promise me that you're going to take care of yourself like you took care of me and Ron when we were kids. I will not hesitate to tell the rest of the Weasleys what you've done as well as take it up with the Minister. I have no doubt that he will put you on probationary status if he doesn't transfer you out straightaway."

Hermione stared at him, eye twitching. "Are you threatening me—"

"Yes! Since you have no qualms needlessly putting yourself in threatening situations anyway!"

Harry ferried Hermione through the Floo to Grimmauld Place, putting her squarely under Teddy's watchful eyes, Jamie's stalker-like tendencies, and Ginny's unsettling combination of wry knowledge and casual attentions. Harry didn't need to return to his post until Sunday evening, either, which left Hermione under the uncomfortable care of the Potters.

Even if she was only spooning another serving of rice onto her plate, she could feel Teddy's watchful gaze, occasionally flitting from deep green to warm brown to a startling shade of amber. Jamie could not get enough of his Aunt Hermione, often latching onto her leg as she walked from one room to the next or clambering onto her lap so he could get a firm grip on her curls, babbling all the while about anything.

While her interactions with the children were quite nice, it was Ginny who set Hermione's nerves on edge the most. The Lady Potter always displayed a great sense of maturity and good humor, and she'd picked up a pleasantly terrifying bevy of skills from her family that made her an even more formidable mother. While Molly Weasley hovered and nagged until she wheedled out what she wanted, Ginny sat back and found what she wanted through other means. Hermione could not fathom what those means were, and it worried her more than Harry's threats.

Ginny may not have known the circumstances of Hermione's visit to St. Mungo's apart from a work-related injury—Harry being the only one privy to the barest explanation because he alone was Hermione's emergency contact—but the knowing, almost-scolding look she gave Hermione over the dinner table showed she knew more than enough. Hermione half-expected Ginny to skirt around the topic, but the only nudging and coercing the redhead had done involved nudging Hermione to the table for at least two servings per meal and coercing her children to eat their vegetables.

"Erm, Hermione, can I ask you something that you'll be genuinely truthful about?" she'd asked only a few minutes into the meal. "D'you think there's too much salt on the pork chops?"

"Hermione, would you do me a favor?" she asked, putting her utensils down and folding her hands under her chin. "Pinch Teddy's cheek for me?"

"Hermione, for Merlin's sake, how many times do we have to tell you?" She sighed and thumped her hand on the table. "Dessert is just as much a necessary part of the meal, so you have to eat it. You need the sweet to counteract the salt on this pork chop anyway, good Godric."

Hermione had the feeling that Ginny was purposefully saying nothing so that Hermione would feel compelled to spill it all once the tension was high enough. But there was nothing to say. So she played with the boys, read two novels, ate meals, and lived several relatively boring days with the Potters.

The one instance that brought her project crashing back to the forefront of her mind was on her fifth and last night in the house. Ginny, Teddy, Jamie, and she were sitting by the fireplace. Jamie had toddled over to Hermione and had begun pointing at all the pictures on the mantel and listing them off. When he reached one of the pictures, Teddy had huddled closer to Ginny and Jamie had gotten much more excited.

"Gampa Jame, Gamma Willy! Then Unca Moony and Unca Pad!"

"There's one more, Jamie," said Ginny. "Uncle…?"

"Unca Feet!"

Hermione was torn between laughing at Jamie's pronunciation and frowning at Ginny's pointed reminder of the smallest Marauder.

Ginny did not miss it. "Not talking about him doesn't erase him from our history. Even though we knew him as a reprobate, James and Lily and Sirius and Remus all loved him. He was family once."

Hermione pursed her lips but remained quiet on the matter.

"Harry started it," said Ginny, sighing heavily. "He's entirely too forgiving, of course, but I couldn't ignore his point."

"Albus Severus, of all the names," muttered Hermione, shaking her head.

"They were both good men—"

"So was Remus. So was Cedric Diggory, Mad-Eye Moody, and even Colin Creevy."

Ginny grimaced. "He's really got his heart set on it."

"He's entirely too forgiving."

"You know, for someone who was raised in an unloving home, he's got a big heart," said Ginny fondly. "Biggest capacity for love and forgiveness that I've ever seen."

Hermione looked back up at the pictures on the mantel, of family and friends so close they were practically family anyway. There was a cringing Neville, sandwiched between Fred and George at the grand opening of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Ginny held an infant Victoire away from Ron and George, who'd just discovered washable markers, while Bill laughed and Fleur glared from the background. Molly and Arthur held a baby Jamie between the two of them. Charlie had Victoire tucked under one arm, Jamie in his other, and Teddy on his shoulders, while Percy stood nearby, ready to catch one. Then there was the picture of a toddler Teddy crawling all over Hermione on the floor until he emerged through the hair on the top of her head and grinned widely. Ron was repeatedly hit on the head with a stuffed elephant and rabbit by Victoire and Teddy as Jamie sat on his neck and slobbered all over his cheek.

And then there was James and Lily, incandescently happy in their wedding photo, with a laughing Sirius, a grinning Remus, and a blushing Peter in the background. And then there was Harry, Ron, and Hermione, with the innocent eleven year old smiles. And then there they were again, a year after the end of the war, taken from a distance as they sat underneath the much more docile Whomping Willow, laughing. And then there was Harry, his grin so wide that it seemed to reach out and hug Remus and Sirius even tighter than his own arms already did.

"He deserves more," murmured Hermione, feeling the emptiness crawling up her throat.

"He thinks he's got it all right here and now," said Ginny, smiling softly.

Later that night, after the boys were tucked into bed and the two women had shared one last cup of companionable tea, Hermione lay awake in the guest bedroom, staring unseeingly into the darkness, running through all of the explanations of why she almost bled out in the Death Chamber and the potential of her having gone into the void and caught a tagalong on her way back.

She had genuinely enjoyed the time off. It was nice to read people's expressions and gestures rather than translations of archaic theory. Listening to real voices and conversations warmed her more than the disembodied whispers of the Veil.

But the project plagued her. The picture of Harry with his father's two best friends haunted her. It hurt to see that no matter how many people Harry surrounded himself with, there were almost as many ghosts. She saw them echo in Teddy's eyes and in Jamie's carefree nature.

Then there were the tendrils of fear that her last experiment had bigger repercussions than just draining her blood and magic. She half-expected to return to the Veil and see a tear through the misty fabric, visible proof of how badly she'd mucked up everything. Clearly, she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere along the process since instead of bringing a certain someone back from the dead, she'd nearly joined him.

She knew her theory of life's lack of opposition was the key to opening the doorway of the Veil, but for all intents and purposes, she had no idea what the keyhole looked like, let alone where it was. She was trying to solve an arithmantic formula told in riddles that necessitated an answer in iambic pentameter hieroglyphics.

She and a lot of others had seen it coming, quite honestly. Her friends had been proud that she'd gained such a respected and prestigious position, but they all worried about the very same risks that landed her in St. Mungo's—obsession. Even Arthur had taken her aside when she'd announced her new position and pled that she keep her head and heart in the right place.

It wasn't until she lay there in the darkness, in forced occupational exile, that she realized her head and heart were in what she thought was in the right place. Arthur had meant "right" to be on the ground, on what was important and valuable. She'd meant "right" to be just, to be moral and fair. Arthur wanted her safe and to seize the second chance at life they'd all been afforded. She wanted those who'd been unfairly stripped of their lives to have the true second chance to live it.

Oh, the importance of semantics.

No matter how hard she glared at Ron when he said it, he was right. She was a bleeding heart. From S.P.E.W. to Neville Longbottom; to the orphanage where she'd donated all her Order of Merlin, First Class earnings; to the Lupin Werewolf Effort; to the very project into which she was putting so much blood, sweat, and tears. When she loved and cared, she loved and cared from the bottom of her heart, and if that meant she'd bleed 'til her last breath, then so be it.

Blinking away the glassy sheen that warmed her eyes, Hermione swallowed and chuckled to herself, wondering at her own sense of duty. She wasn't trying to resurrect all those who they'd lost during both bloody wars, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't want to. Hell, she'd probably haul Cedric Diggory's arse back to life if she could manage it.

That had been the turning point in her childhood—that was when it all had begun to spiral out of control. The isolated explosions of conflict during her first, second, and third years had paled when the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament began the domino effect that rumbled through subsequent school years. And it made her want to bring Cedric back most out of them all, as if his death could turn it all back around.

He was a Triwizard Champion. He was chosen out of the entirety of Hogwarts to represent the school, and though he died, he was remembered as one of Hogwarts's best and brightest. He was a brilliant wizard, a talented seeker, and a good man. But that was what made it so much worse. He died not because someone loved him or hated him too much; he died simply because someone didn't care. Instead of going out a hero or standing up for something or someone, he was collateral damage. He was an unsuspecting bystander, and there wasn't much pride to be taken from that. And Cedric deserved more.

Hermione was roused from her musings when she heard a voice call out.

Had she been in her office back in the Department of Mysteries, perhaps it wouldn't be as worrisome. But as she was in Grimmauld Place, with a woman and two small boys, with Harry away at Hogwarts, hearing an unfamiliar man's voice in the house immediately had her leaping out of bed with her wand aloft.

Footfalls silent on the carpet, she crept out of her room, glancing up and down the empty hallway. There wasn't a soul. She crossed the long corridor, listening intently for the voice—until she heard it again, this time clearly from downstairs. It was a man's voice, but she couldn't distinguish what he was saying.

Hermione made her way back down to the ground level, goosebumps sprouting on her arms and raising the hair on the back of her neck. After the war, Grimmauld Place had been heavily re-warded, laden with new enchantments not only because Harry had chosen to return to his godfather's ancestral home or because of the lingering threats of revenge, but also because of Harry's increasing sentimentality. Even years later, the enchantments held strong and true, which would make intruders highly unlikely.

She scoured the living room, the sitting room, the foyer, and the dining room before she finally reached the kitchen, where she heard the voice again—this time emanating from the empty fireplace.

"Oh, dear," she breathed, lowering her wand.

The inkling she'd had upon exiting her room and finding no one had steadily bloomed into a disappointing and genuinely worrying conclusion.

Ginny hadn't woken up, which meant she likely hadn't heard the voice. Ginny wasn't a heavy sleeper, but neither was she a sensitive, light sleeper. If she woke up in the middle of the night, it was either because of a need to use the restroom or intuition and a sense that something was off.

Uncaring that she was dressed in one of Ron's old shirts and ratty, flannel sleep pants, Hermione took a pinch of Floo powder and stepped through. She didn't need to call out her destination; she was certain of exactly where she was being led.

The voice didn't call out again—even as she crossed the Atrium, entered one of the elevators, and rode it down to the ninth level of the Ministry of Magic, stepped through the right door in the circular room, and strode through the corridor to the innocuous wooden door at the end of the hall.

Hermione walked through the door and waited at the top of the steps, which led down to the stone dais in the middle of the Death Chamber, the whispers that saturated the room even louder than before. She froze. She wasn't sure if it was her mind seizing up her nervous system or her muscles themselves refusing any sort of involvement.

The silvery mist of the Veil no longer billowed from the stone archway, but was rather clinging to a figure with broad shoulders and a straight nose. It was as if a filmy curtain was draped over the tall, youthful man.

"Hello?" he called again, silencing the whispers as if their collective voices coalesced into his.

The door behind Hermione closed with a thud that swiveled his gaze to her, allowing her a better view of his features. They broke out into a symmetrical grin outlined perfectly in the mist. The cool temperature was still as mildly uncomfortable as ever, but the way Hermione's heart raced made heat flare across her skin.

He was exactly as she remembered him.

Those broad shoulders had once been emblazoned with his last name as he soared across the Quidditch Pitch, hurtling after a fleck of gold amidst thunderous cheers. The thick, chestnut brown hair was silvery, but had once glinted gold and red in the sunlight. Hermione hadn't seen him often, even though they had lived in the same castle for almost four years, but he was unmistakable as she stumbled her way down to the Veil in a daze.

"Hermione Granger," said Cedric Diggory. "It's bloody fantastic to see you again."