The Long and Winding Road - Part Six
Weeks passed, and the cold snap in the air soon melted to warmth and light in the spring months. Purple crocuses nosed their way through the crumbling earth, and red tulips blinked shyly from the flowerbeds. The cherry trees in the Hogwart's grounds blossomed, and couples were often seen whispering sweet nothings to each other in the long grass, pink petals swirling past and wreathing their hair. And all the while, Draco Malfoy returned to the sick bay at every opportunity he got. He made a pretence of doing his homework at Hermione's bedside, whilst doing nothing but staring through mists at Hermione's sleeping figure. He vaguely understood Madam Pomfrey's emphatic words of reassurance. Hermione's disease had been diagnosed relatively fast, which greatly increased her chances. He daydreamed through lessons, staring out at the cruel sunlight through the window, casting a golden tinge on the world. Everyone around him were carrying on their daily lives, rose-tinted. He felt black and charred on the inside. He was oblivious of the teachers casting a blind eye to the missing homework and the lack of attention, and he had no idea that they discussed him for hours amongst themselves, unable to understand how one Gryffindor girl could make this untouchable Slytherin boy feel so wretched.
The truth was that Draco had grown closer to Hermione in a few weeks, than he had to anyone else in an entire lifetime. This ordinary, haphazard girl, with long brown hair and doe eyes, and Muggle parentage. This girl, with no obvious sexuality at all, only love and kindness and cleverness, had ensnared him… and his heart. And though he had coated her with the same black, thick tar that he used for all Muggle-borns and Gryffindors, the moment he set eyes on her, and he had only really known her for under a month, he loved her. And it was the most incredible, frightening, wonderful and painful experience he had ever had. And he realised it was an emotion he had never before felt.
Knowing that he could so easily lose all that he had discovered turned his heart to ice, for to lose her would be indescribable agony. Hermione had slept a lot over the past few weeks, her face growing progressively paler, and her body progressively thinner. Madam Pomfrey had brought in a wizard doctor from St. Mungo's to help treat her with a cocktail of drugs. Right now she was fixed up to three drips, a machine monitoring her white blood cell count. The white nightdress she was wearing was almost the same colour as her skin. Draco ran his hand down her face, tracing her features with one fingertip. Hermione's eyes blinked open for a second, then quickly shut again, a small smile on her lips. Draco saw through that at once. He knew she was in a lot of pain, and felt very, very weak. He felt too tired to cry, and the pain ran too deep for tears. All he felt was numb longing and fear, willing her with every ounce of strength to get better. But he knew in his heart that it wasn't going to happen.
*
Ron had left the hospital wing twenty-four hours after being admitted. Physically fine, he had been discharged, and went straight to his dormitory room that day. The other four had been in lessons, which he had felt very grateful for. He quickly gathered up his belongings, and shoved them haphazardly into his battered old brown velvet suitcase, which had most of the plush rubbed off it. Ron had dragged it out of the room, and down the main staircase. He had managed to find the Hufflepuff wing in the castle, and had found Justin Finch-Fletchly in the seventh year dormitory. They had a spare bed in the room, and so Ron had moved in. He spent his days avoiding Professor McGonagall's psychiatrist chats, and avoiding Harry.
Harry had spent the next few days simply living on auto-pilot; living for the end of the day when he could get into bed and sleep. It was only in dreams that he could escape his thoughts that ate him up with guilt. As much as he wanted to switch off the light and pull the covers over his head permanently, Draco's words always crept into little niches of his mind, and haunted his waking hours.
"I don't know what's been going between you and Ron recently, and don't bother telling me that it's nothing, because it's quite plainly obvious that's not true. But what ever it is, get it sorted out, Harry. Life's too short."
Life's too short… life's too short. Harry hated to admit to himself, but Malfoy was right. Ron could easily have succeeded with his suicide attempt. Harry knew perfectly well that he had been the final factor in a long line of things, the factor that had tipped Ron over the precipice into mad desperation. So desperate that he thought the only place of peace he could find was death. Perhaps it had been a cry for help; Ron hadn't really wanted to die… but even so.
He tossed and turned that night, staring up at the ceiling, watching shadowy shapes merge across the room from clouds drifting happily by the window in their star-spattered sky. How had he got himself into such a mess? He was torn with emotions, and of course there was the constant yanking at his heart because of Hermione. He could lose both his best friends in one fell swoop.
I'll go and see her tomorrow morning, he thought to himself decisively. But the sliver of moon winked at him as a dusty cloud drifted past it, uncovering yellow-white light. The beams fell straight onto Harry's bed, and though he buried his face in his pillow, sleep escaped him.
Sighing in annoyance, he threw the duvet off the bed, and padded silently across the room to grab his dressing gown. He walked along the dark corridors; the only sound audible to him was that of his own breathing. Harry jogged up the staircase to the hospital room, and carefully turned the handle on the door.
The sick bay was a large room, with huge bay windows covering all of one wall. It was much lighter than the rest of the castle at night, and the starlight shone onto the white, white beds. He padded softly over to where Hermione was sleeping. She had thrown her duvet off in her sleep, and was lying exposed in her thin cotton nightdress, only the starlight cloaking her. Harry sat down next to her. He had planned just to sit and look at Hermione, but his presence must have woken her, and Hermione stirred.
"Harry!" she whispered, forcing her sleepy eyes open. She looked at her watch. "It's the middle of the night!" she said incredulously. Harry noted how weak her voice sounded.
"I'm sorry I woke you," he whispered, leaning close so she could hear. "I just wanted to come up and see you. I couldn't sleep."
"How are you?" she breathed. Harry nearly laughed. It struck him as both hilarious and tragically sad that Hermione should ask him how he was, when she was lying there in a hospital bed, slowly but surely slipping away. He felt a hot prickle of tears in his eyes, and blinked hard.
"Not so bad," he said. "How-"
Hermione cut him off. "Yeah right, Harry," she said. "What's happening with Ron? It's to do with him, isn't it? You know why he tried to commit suicide, I just know it."
Harry gripped the sides of his chair very hard until his knuckles turned white, and tried to steady his breathing. "I don't want you to be worrying about it," he said weakly.
Hermione raised on eyebrow at him, frowning. "Harry," she said forcefully. "If you think it's something worth worrying about, then I have to know. I'll worry more if you don't tell me, and imagine all kinds of dreadful things. Tell me, Harry."
"Harry!" she exclaimed, and Harry turned his face away, feeling pathetic.
"Don't look at me," he muttered. Hermione propped herself up on her elbows, and tried to reach for him.
"Harry, please!" she said. "It's me! You don't have to be embarrassed about getting upset with me! We've been friends for seven years, for God's sake."
Harry turned back slowly, and hugged her. As Hermione's cheek brushed against his skin and Harry felt her lips press on his flesh, he shivered. They had gone out together in the sixth year, for about three months. Hermione had broken up with him angrily, accusing him of having an affair. It was true that he had been very distant during their rather brief relationship, though perhaps for different reasons than the ones Hermione had in mind. He had been going through a sexuality crisis, not knowing what he was or what he wanted. It was so stupid. He had been alienating Ron for being gay, and yet he had been convinced he was homosexual himself last year. It had been so confusing; not knowing what to do or where to turn, and all the while having Hermione wanting a relationship, as after all she was quite entitled to. He had since discovered that many teenagers, particularly boys, go through a stage of thinking that they're gay and it just passes. And it had. But Harry realised that for some people the feelings never go away, a fact that he had conveniently ignored with Ron. He had locked that part of him, that stage of him life, away in an untouchable part of his mind, filed under lock and key. And now the lock had been opened, and all those thoughts came tumbling out once more.
Hermione sat back on the pillow, and Harry regarded her silently. He knew that there would always be a part of him that loved Hermione, a love that was more than just friendship. But it could never come to fruition. He didn't make Hermione happy, and now she had found someone who did…
Harry took Hermione's slender hand, and talked and talked, explaining the events of the past few weeks. She remained silent for the entire time, simply listening and nodding. And then, Hermione spoke.
*
Harry walked back to bed slowly, savouring the memories and the words. He knew what he had to do in the morning, and it was going to be one of the hardest things he'd ever said. Saying sorry, and admitting that you're wrong is always hard, no matter how much anyone denies it. Humans are proud creatures.
Harry knew where Ron was staying; it was quite obvious as Ron now spent all of his free time surrounded by the Hufflepuffs, who had adopted him, in a strange sort of sense. He got into bed quietly, and pulled the duvet over him once more. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.
*
"Dean! Take a hint! Go away!" Lavender threw herself angrily onto her bed, smothering her face in her pillow.
"Why are you being like this?" Dean shouted angrily. "Why do you ignore me? What's happened - have I done something?"
Lavender rolled over to face him. Dean's pathetically crushed face irritated her further. "Just leave me alone," she hissed. Dean didn't move, he just looked at his feet, and shuffled them. Lavender felt a bubble of anger rise up in her throat.
"Dean! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ROOM!"
Dean walked silently to the door, and then turned to look back. "You've changed," he said. "You're not the person I used to know."
Lavender giggled into her duvet. Too right, she thought to herself. I've grown up and left you behind. And I'm not just Lavender Brown anymore. I'm Lavender Brown… plus one. She rolled over, and laid a tentative hand on her stomach. It was slightly rounded now; not noticeable under her clothes, but she could definitely feel the difference.
She had read a million books and stories in magazines about teenage girls getting pregnant, and every single one of them had wanted any escape from the situation. Abortion, adoption, whatever it took. It was strange, but once the initial hysteria and shock had worn off, there was a small corner of herself that was piping up; "Lavender! Keep the baby!"
It was the most natural thing in the world, and she had encountered many pregnant women in her lifetime. It had never seemed strange or incredible to her then. But the sheer notion that this tiny life was developing inside her, seemed at the least, ludicrous. How could there be another person growing slowly in her very body? Lavender put her hand back on her stomach. But there was no mistaking it. Her breasts had started to grow fuller and rounder already, and her stomach looked curved and taut.
But she was seventeen. The baby was due in about October, she had worked out. She would have left Hogwarts by then. She would be five months pregnant at the end of the school term. Could she disguise the pregnancy up until then? Surely people would notice the size of her at five months. The shame of being expelled, as she surely would be if they found out, would just be too great.
Lavender imagined taking her NEWTs, sitting at the desk writing on her exam papers like all the others, feeling this child kicking inside her. She had gone to the library the other day. Surprisingly, there had been a section on Human Biology, and having selected a likely looking book, Lavender had whisked it away under her jumper. Soon books wouldn't be the only thing she would be hiding under there.
The book had been very interesting. At eight weeks, which was where she was at now, the foetus was said to be an inch long, and had all of its organs developed. Lavender pored over the picture of eight weeks. The thing in the picture looked very odd. It was like a cross between an alien and a fish. The head was huge in proportion to the body, and the eyes were already visible. The fingers were all developed, and Lavender thought she could see tiny gills on the side of the head.
Lavender sighed, and threw the book under her pillow. She had always been very much pro-choice, finding abortions quite acceptable. But now she had this tiny human, this baby growing inside her, she started to see things differently. There was no way that anyone was going to kill her baby.
*
Ron looked at Harry for what seemed like hours, in mute silence. He could see Harry swallowing nervously, awaiting his response.
"The truth is," he said softly, causing Harry to bend forward to hear him. "I think I've always loved you; I just didn't know it… or let myself realise it until quite recently. I can't tell you how hard it was to watch you flirt with Ginny and have strings of girlfriends - including Hermione, for heaven's sake! It so painful; and I longed to tell you. I just dreaded what you would say…"
Harry looked down at his knees. "Couldn't you just have told me, instead of suddenly kissing me like that? I would have reacted quite differently if you-"
"I know," said Ron. "I know. But I heard you call that boy of the Quidditch team a pouf for being crap as a Keeper, and I just couldn't do it. Do you really think I planned to just kiss you like that? It was entirely spontaneous… a spur of the moment thing. Of course I regretted it the moment I had done it, but it was too late then. All I could do was hope that you wouldn't take it too badly. Of course you did. Anyone would."
"Don't make excuses for what I did, Ron," Harry muttered darkly. "But… you have to accept the fact that I'm not gay-"
"No," said Ron, smiling a little. "You love Hermione."
Harry jerked up as though he had been shocked. "What?" he breathed, knowing even as he said it that Ron was quite correct. He inwardly cursed his shrewd observations. "What do you mean?" he stuttered, trying to cover himself.
"Harry. I know. I'm your… best friend, it was quite obvious." He sighed, and stood up suddenly. "There are some things that don't elude even little old me." He paced the length of the room, then suddenly threw his hands up in the air in exasperation.
"All I was asking for was a bit of compassion, Harry. I wasn't expecting you to like the idea, but I did think that you might try to understand. I know it was hardly the best way to tell you, but I always thought, once you'd calmed down…"
Harry twiddled his thumbs. He wasn't very good at all this touchy-feely stuff. "I'm sorry Ron," he said quietly, feeling this was the best way to consummate the conversation.
Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "And that's supposed to make up for it?"
Harry bristled. This wasn't how it was meant to go. Ron was meant to accept his apology unfailingly, and everything would be back to normal again. Well, sort of. Harry realised he had watched too many daytime soaps with Dudley in his childhood.
Ron was deftly knotting the tassel on the four-poster into a knot a boy scout would be proud of. Harry watched him, irritated.
"Look," he said finally. "Hermione's ill. Very ill. And she might… there's a possibility she…" He couldn't say it. In one sense none of this felt real, but in another, it was choking him with its grim reality. Ron wasn't looking up. He was still knotting the damn tassel.
"Jesus, Ron! Hermione's got Leukaemia! We have to keep up some kind of pretence of friendship, for her sake at least. I've said my piece, and if you can't accept it, then the responsibility lies with you. All I want is for Hermione to get better. And if… if she doesn't… then she shouldn't be worrying about us when it happens."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Draco was in his dorm. Aconite, his smoky-grey cat was wandering around the room, mewing. He was ignoring her. It was late May. As the months had passed, and the weather grown warmer, Hermione had not shown any sign of improvement. Though her state had only deteriorated very slightly in the passing weeks, it was enough to give Draco the excuse to slouch into further misery. Even Goyle and Crabbe were becoming annoyed with him.
Then, on May the first, something unexpected happened. The sun had actually struggled out from behind the clouds, and was shining valiantly. This, though incredible in itself, was nothing to match what was about to become.
Draco stared morosely out of the window into the blinding glare. He felt irritated by the bright blue sky and warm breeze ruffling his hair. How dare the weather be so cheerful? He squinted at the sky. A dark, round shape seemed to be hurtling towards the open window. He stood up, curious.
A tiny Scops owl, the sort that was used for very short-distance deliveries tumbled into the room. It had a note attached to its leg. Draco ripped it off hurriedly. The piece of parchment had a scrawled brief message on it in an untidy hand:
Draco - Come up to the sick bay immediately.
Madam Pomfrey
Draco's heart beat very fast. This was it. What he had been dreading for months and months. Hermione had died in the night. He got shakily to his feet, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He went to the door, and half-walked, half-ran down the corridor and up the many flights of stairs.
Stop it! he was telling himself inwardly. She might want you for anything. Anything at all. His logical side, as usual, did not win.
"Oh God, oh God," he cried outloud as he rounded the last corridor. "I never said goodbye to her. Oh God…"
He dreaded what he was going to see when he opened that door. Would she still be in her bed, covered by a white sheet? He had never seen a dead body before in his life. I bet my father's seen loads of dead bodies, he thought as he walked slowly up to the familiar oak-panelled door. Stop it!
His hand rested on the door-knob. He braced himself, trying to bite back tears. Draco flung open the door… and his mouth hung open in shock.
Madam Pomfrey was seated by the bed, spooning up some onion soup from a blue porcelain bowl. Hermione was sitting up, propped up by pillows, and dressed in a blue sweatshirt and grey tracksuit trousers. She shot Draco a smile as he stepped slowly into the room.
"Hermione!" he said incredulously, and looked to Madam Pomfrey in amazement.
"Come here, Draco," she said, and patted the chair next to the bed. "We've got some good news."
Draco sat down, and took Hermione's hand. She smiled at him. "I'm in remission," she said.
*
Hermione improved rapidly in the following weeks. She was allowed to go back to her dormitory to live in, after many begging sessions with Madam Pomfrey. She started to return to her lessons, starting with one double a day. Parvati and Lavender had been given the task of making sure she didn't over-exert herself, and they delighted in not letting her do any homework. Everyone was very pleased with her progress.
Hermione is herself was taking it one day at a time. She was starting to feel annoyed and almost suffocated by all the attention that Draco lavished on her. She could see that Harry and Ron were putting up some kind of front for her benefit, and though it didn't fool her for a second, she was touched that they had thought to do so.
Every day, Madam Pomfrey would to see her and check on her progress. She knew that the school nurse was not at all happy that she wasn't staying in the hospital wing, but Hermione had had enough of that place for a lifetime.
Her parents had given her a Muggle laptop computer for her birthday the previous year. At the time, she had been amused with their choice; she honestly couldn't really see much use for it. It worked only sporadically in the strange force fields of Hogwarts, and though she had taught herself to use it, and occasionally used the word-processing program to type things up, it had mainly gathered dust.
On her umpteen-day of loneliness whilst all the others attended their lessons, Hermione dug it out from her cupboard in a fit of reminiscence. She turned it on… and it did nothing. Hermione sighed, and shook it up and down a bit. The picture flickered into focus. She clicked on the internet icon, though she did not really know why she did so.
She went onto a search engine, and typed in 'Leukaemia'. It brought back a lot of results, and slightly bewildered, Hermione clicked on one at random. The first paragraph told her things that she already knew from Madam Pomfrey; it was a disease of the blood, where the white blood cells dwindled so greatly in number that they were unable to fight off any viruses or bacteria that entered the body.
She scrolled down, looking for new information. The disease is more common in children, who, thanks to the increases in modern medicine, have a far greater survival rate than adults.
When she read that, Hermione hand went automatically to her hair. She had only had two courses of chemotherapy when they discovered that she was in remission, so there was only a small bald patch at her crown. But every day more fell out when she brushed it. It was stupid to care about your hair when you're so ill, but it did matter. It mattered a lot. Hermione had taken to wearing a stupid purple baseball cap that Lavender had given her, with 'Rugby Players Do It with Funny Shaped Balls' written on the front. Professor McGonagall had not been very approving when she saw it.
Hermione snapped out of her daydream when her eyes focused on the word 'remission'. Leukaemia patients sometimes go into remission, only to come out again after a few months and rapidly deteriorate. Described as a 'swan song' of good health, this can be a sign that they are not going to get better again.
Hermione rocked back in her chair, breathing hard. She knew it. She just knew it. She had been sure that there were things that, as a witch, Madam Pomfrey did not know about Leukaemia, and she had been right. Shit.
Hermione did not feel panicked, as though she had almost been expecting it. Slowly, deliberately, she turned off the laptop and put it away. She lay back on her bed, and ran her hands though her falling-out hair.
*
Weeks passed, and Hermione kept her secret to herself; not even telling Draco. The seventh years that took Herbology were due to set off on a four-day field trip to Cornwall to study the rare aquatic plants there for their NEWTs coursework. This meant both Harry and Ron would be leaving, along with Goyle and Crabbe amongst many others. Harry was concerned about leaving Hermione, but she told he not to be an idiot, and they left early that morning.
"It should be good weather for them," Hermione said blandly to Draco, sitting on the floor in his dormitory.
"Mmm hmm," he replied distractedly. Draco was staring out of the window. It was nearing dusk, and the darkening sky was casting a smoky tinge on the school grounds.
"Do you remember when we met?" he said suddenly.
"What, in the first year?"
"No… I mean when we really met. It was in the Quidditch shed; that freezing cold night. You were being all pious and holier-than-thou, and I was just being a bit of a wanker."
Hermione laughed. "You've changed," she said. "You're not like that now."
Draco came and sat down next to her. "Thank God you came into remission," he said softly, and kissed her hair. Hermione pulled away.
"Draco," she said suddenly, not looking at him but watching the sun dip down in the rose-pink sky. "I haven't done all the things I want to do. I haven't graduated from Hogwarts, or been to Africa on safari, or drunk cold coconut milk on a Caribbean beach. I haven't… read all the books I want to read…"
Draco laughed. "Trust you. Only you would… why are you saying this, anyway? There's plenty of time; you've got your whole life! Hermione?" He realised that she was crying silently into his shoulder.
"What is it?" He licked his lips nervously. She did not answer him, but instead carried on in the same tack.
"And what I want to do most in the world, is to love and be loved…"
"Well, you are!" Draco interjected. "I love you, and Ron and Harry do, and your parents-"
"…and to show you how much I love you."
Draco looked at Hermione, who was crouched low across his chest, suddenly weak once more. He had to play her words over and over in his mind before he understood.
"Are you sure?" he asked, and she nodded.
Draco picked Hermione up in his arms, and carried her over to the four-poster bed. He couldn't quite understand where all that had come from. But he didn't have time to think anymore, as Hermione put her arms around him, and kissed him, so softly and sweetly, that he felt as though he could cry.
The sun slipped below the horizon, and the room fell into darkness, lit only by the stars.
*
It was about five in the morning. Draco wasn't quite sure what had woken him, but he was suddenly wide-awake, and could not go back to sleep. Smiling into the darkness at the warm weight snuggled next to him, Draco carefully rolled out of bed, and tiptoed into the bathroom. He pulled the door to, and switched on the light. Draco put the lid down on the toilet seat, and sat on it, deep in thought. He tingled at the sweet memories he held on to. But he was puzzled at Hermione's words from last night. Why had she suddenly come-over all regretful like that? She was in remission now…
He sat on the toilet a few more minutes, turning the conversation over and over in his mind for any clues. But there were none. Quietly, he opened the bathroom door, and his jaw dropped in shock.
There, kneeling by his bed, was a pale silver figure. He or she had their back to Draco, and he stayed rooted to the ground with fear. The figure was bent over the Hermione's sleeping form, and appeared to be stroking her hair. Draco stumbled forward slightly. The figure immediately turned around. She was a woman; with long curly hair, and almond shaped eyes. Draco thought he could see wings tucked behind her long silk dress. She was made from silvery light, but entirely solid. She was certainly not a ghost.
Draco didn't feel afraid anymore as the woman's smile bathed him in a warm glow. She wasn't speaking outloud, but he could hear her voice in his mind.
"There's no need to worry about Hermione," she said. "She is being looked after."
"OK," Draco thought back.
"Please tell Harry that I love him very much," she said, and he nodded. The woman melted from the air into nothing, and it was then that Draco realised who she was. He got back into bed next to Hermione, who was still sleeping, feeling at peace.
When he woke up the next morning, Hermione was dead in his arms.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Draco tore the edge of the order-of-service with trembling figures, tears trembling on his eyelashes. The coffin was at the front of the church, covered with wreaths and flowers. He had been angry when he heard that the service was to be held in a church. He had known Hermione for the strong atheist that she was, but her mother had insisted, and there was really to be no arguing with her.
Mr. and Mrs. Granger sat at the front of the church, weeping quietly as the service progressed. Professor McGonagall was crying next to Dumbledore, who was dabbing at his eyes behind their half-moon glasses. Draco looked across the church to Harry and Ron, who were huddled together on the end pew, biting back tears. He knew that they both blamed themselves immensely for going on the Herbology trip and leaving Hermione. There was something he had to tell Harry afterwards.
All of the seventh year was crammed into the small church, along with quite a number of Gryffindors from other years. The congregation rose to sing. It was the final song of the service, and Hermione's favourite, Draco knew. A Muggle band that he had never heard of. He stood, and stared hard at the words, his vision blurring as he read them.
The long and winding road
That leads to your door
Will never disappear
I've seen that road before.
It always leads me here
Lead me to your door.
The wild and windy night
That the rain washed away
Has left a pool of tears
Crying for the day
I leave me standing here
Let me know the way.
Many times I've been alone,
And many times I've cried
In many ways you'll never know
How many ways I try
And still they lead me back
To the long winding road
You left me standing here
A long, long time ago
Don't leave me waiting here
Lead me to your home
*
Later, when the masses had returned to Hogwarts, and Draco had told Harry what he knew he much tell him, Draco knelt by the grave. He laid a white rose on the freshly turned earth, and sighed.
"Crookshanks has made friends with Aconite," he said. "I'll look after him for you."
The summer breeze ruffled his hair, and Draco knew he had finally run out of tears. "I'll see you then," he said softly. He got up, and started to walk down the road. It led to his home.
