35 minutes
Was it possible to grow close to someone—close enough to maybe, perhaps, develop some feelings for them along the way—if you'd only talked to them for 105 minutes?
"I still think you should take weekends off."
Hermione sighed and nodded, willing her errant thoughts away as she answered. "Perhaps…but this one case was just too important for me to do that. I'm glad it's solved, though; if I see his face again it'll be too soon."
His laugh made her look up from the pot of tea she was cradling on her hands, making her stare at the figure of the man sitting opposite her on the other side of the couch. He was wearing comfortable hospital clothing, and had a similar cup but filled with coffee instead. Everything about the image she was currently being witness to was so deliriously normal that she could almost ignore the way his body appeared ghost-like, transparent in a way that made it possible for anyone to see beyond him with some capacity.
"You say that about all of your cases, Hermione," Harry shook his head and brought the cup to his lip, taking a sip before continuing. "You're going to tire yourself out if you keep doing that. Promise me that you'll take at least some days off?"
Hermione took a sip from her own mug before her gaze turned to the little chronometer propped on the small table in the living room. The numbers read 0:00:58 and were rapidly decreasing, so she turned back to her friend and nodded.
"Yes, yes, I promise," She rushed out. "It's your turn now, though, how have you been?"
Harry sighed tiredly, and left his cup on what Hermione assumed was a table on his time, since the dish disappeared out of nowhere. "They've been doing more tests and analysis, but so far nobody has been able to do something about my organs, well, eating themselves, I guess."
"They must be able to do something, though." Hermione grimaced.
Harry shook his head. "I can see it in their eyes. I'm a lost cause, Hermione, and I know you know too." He gave her a sad smile. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here, talking to this version of me instead of looking me up whenever you are."
"You could be an old man of 178 now," Hermione shrugged, trying to keep the conversation light but somewhat failing. "As far as I'm concerned, this you is much more fun than 178 year old you."
His chuckle made her smile slightly, but her heart remained heavy with the medical update he had given her.
"I don't think I'm going to make it to 30, let alone 178," He mumbled. "Still…it was a nice thought."
He was right, of course; Harry had long suspected he would die young. There was just…something…about the way Hermione answered the questions about his future that clued him to the fact he hadn't lived a full life.
"Do you still…I mean…" Hermione stopped, hesitant.
"I don't want to know," Harry blurted out. "No, I—I don't want to know. It'll make all of this worse. I just want to hang out with you…is that okay?"
When Hermione's eye returned to the chronometer, the time read 0:00:26, and she felt her throat constrict in such a miserable way it surprised her she didn't broke down right then on her living room.
"Yes, of course it is," Hermione spoke with a shaking voice, but tried to mask it. "I'm very glad you're here, Harry."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," She answered, nodding and smiling. Her eyes looked unusually bright. "You've been—you're my best friend, Harry, truly, and I…think I would've been able to love you."
His eyebrows rose and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously on his throat as he processed the weight of her statement, and she sipped quickly from her cup to keep the tears at bay.
"You're so…great, Hermione," He answered instead. "I'm not good with words but… knowing you have been the best one hundred and five I've had in a long time," Harry's smile grew in size and emotion. "…you're going to do great things in your life, I know it."
His eyes turned to his left, presumably where the chronometer on his time was sitting on his bedside table. Her chronometer read 0:00:09.
"…I would've been able to love you, too, how could I not?" Harry whispered, and his eyes met hers. "I hope you keep your promise. Take care of yourself, okay?"
The beeping of the chronometer indicated the last five seconds of the time they had, and Hermione used it to blow her friend a kiss and repeating the same three words she had said previously.
When the time hit 0:00:00, Hermione watched as Harry's body faded into nothingness and left her with nothing more than cold tea and a broken heart. Her magical calendar that hung over the fireplace also beeped one time, before its pages shuffled themselves and the day changed to Saturday, January 1st, 2022.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o0o
The first time she met Harry, Hermione had been sitting on her front porch watching and constantly cursing the fireworks.
His voice had startled her out of her mental rant and, after freaking out about a young man appearing next to her out of thin air and trying to hex him unsuccessfully, she had been hit with a sense of familiarity after staring at his face.
His answer of 'I don't know. I'm supposed to be taking my medication' when she asked about what was happening unsettled her in more ways than one, but she found herself interrupted by his questions and, after answering some of them, had no time to question him further before he faded away, and she was left with a strange feeling.
A trip to Flourish & Blotts confirmed her farfetched suspicion: that the man she had traded words with was Harry Potter, long dead hero of the Second Blood War. His round frame glasses, green eyes and forehead scar were too distinct to mistake for something—someone—else.
Armed with exactly five different books, Hermione waited on her bedroom the 31st of December of 2020 with a sense of dread and anticipation.
What if she had imagined everything the year before? She had learned the ins and outs of the rise and fall of Voldemort, and Harry Potter's pivotal role to the war on her History of Magic class.
All her doubts melted away when, out of nowhere, Harry Potter himself materialized next to her, sitting. Having had time to prepare herself, Hermione was able to realize that his body wasn't…solid.
"Are you a ghost?" She blurted out.
Harry's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "I'm not dead yet, woman!"
The words yes, you are got stuck on her throat, but she warily nodded to his statement, confusion swimming inside her head.
"Then why do you look so…transparent?"
"You're the one looking transparent," He had retorted. "I'm as good as always! The Healer just checked me."
Silence reigned for a few seconds before Hermione spoke again, feeling as if she should fill the silence by introducing herself. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way. Twenty two years old, Gryffindor, Assistant Prosecutor."
He nodded, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter. Twenty two, Gryffindor, and current patient at Saint Mungo's."
From then on, both of them spoke of mundane things and theories for the odd situation that they found themselves in…until Hermione's clock chimed in the New Year and Harry faded into thin air, as if he had never been there in the first place. Doing a mental calculation, and promising herself she'd bring a chronometer next time, Hermione nodded as she wrote a note that only read 30 minutes, more or less and left it taped on her bedroom wall.
Harry had never left Hermione's mind, not really, and sometimes she would find herself thinking about him or would want to comment something with the young man, but always remembered that he only seemed to appear every December 31.
She did cross paths with someone important to him, though: Ronald Weasley.
Ron Weasley was a 41 year old man that had been the Keeper for the Chudley Cannons and who now worked as their coach. Hermione had stumbled upon him when, working as an Assistant Prosecutor, she had to travel to the Cannon's headquarters to interview them about their previous owner who was being accused of stealing funds.
She had been taking a break in the pitch when she saw the redhead walking about, staring at the grass and the hoops. She recognized him, of course: he had won and Order of Merlin, First Class for his part in the war, and was infamous for being the best friend of Harry Potter, who he had claimed more than once was like a brother to him.
Hermione had found herself with a need for telling him exactly what was going on, and thus walked over before her brain caught up to her body.
When Ron Weasley turned to her, Hermione took a breath and introduced herself briskly, putting her hand forth. "Good afternoon, Mister Weasley. I'm Hermione Granger, Assistant Prosecutor to the case…and I was wondering if I could speak with you for a brief moment."
Ron nodded and shook her hand. "Call me Ron, please…and if you have any questions about the case, I'm supposed to be the next one to be interviewed."
Hermione shook her head. "No, this is…of a more personal note." Looking around the pitch and feeling relieved that they were alone, she looked at the older man in the eye. "I know your friend, Harry Potter. We speak sometimes."
It took exactly seven seconds for Ron to scowl hard and glare at her. "This is entirely inappropriate and disrespectful, Miss Granger. I suggest you stop wasting my time and yours and get back to your job."
Hermione mentally slapped herself, realizing that commenting how she knew his dead best friend was not the best way to initiate a conversation. She cleared her throat. "You once covered his head in Hedwig's feather, gluing them with a special glue your twin brothers were testing."
Ron's movements froze before his eyes gazed at the whole pitch. His hand grabbed her elbow and the redhead dragged her over to the locker room, stopping once more to look at their surroundings before addressing her again.
"How do you know that? He never told anyone." He stated.
"He told me," Hermione answered, nervous. "He—We speak sometimes, in New Years. He just—appears, I guess, with me, and we talk for a about half and hour before he has to leave. I thought…I thought you'd like to know, if you wish for me to say something to him. I'd bring him to you if I would, but I think I might be the only one who can see him. Neither my magical friend nor my parents were able to." She cut herself off when she felt the hour-long ramble start.
Ron's eyes widened for a moment before grief and sadness crossed them, and it took him a moment to regain his posture. "Are you telling the truth?"
"I wouldn't lie, not about this," She stated. "I promise—I can tell you more of what he told me, if you want me to."
He shook his head. "No, I—I believe you." He stayed silent, and Hermione decided to give him the time he needed. After a minute or two, he nodded and released a shaky breath. "Just—If you can, just tell him one thing, please."
"Anything, I promise." She answered.
"Tell him he'd better be enjoying the afterlife, the git," Ron smiled sadly. "He needs to relax."
Hermione nodded, but suddenly found herself frowning. "You really believe me? That I see you best friend, who's been dead for twenty one years, every New Year's Day?"
Ron shrugged. "He's Harry. If there's someone out there who'd skip death for a few minutes to talk to someone, it'd be him. Merlin knows he was always getting himself into extremely odd situations."
Hermione accepted that, but there was still something else bothering her. "I don't think he knows, though…that he's dead."
"Then tell him to get enough sleep. He looks like a half cooked owl whenever he loses hours of rest."
Hermione covered up her snort as a cough and, after one last friendly smile, promptly left the coach to return to her boss, all the while memorizing the conversation.
When Hermione asked Harry what year it was, the third time she saw him, she was startled to hear his voice say '1999' for two reasons: his theory of them living in different times was correct, and it was such a fascinating manifestation of magic itself that she almost forgot about the other reason her heart skipped a beat.
He was living in 1999; Harry Potter only had about one more year before dying quietly in his sleep, when the clock would strike midnight on the 31st of July. Suddenly, all those minutes she had the privilege of spending with him seemed too little, ending too soon.
She suspected he knew, too; he had been more talkative than before, complimenting her on her job and her looks, and making loving noises to Crookshanks even though the half Kneazle couldn't see the ghostly visitant. He had been adamant, when Hermione asked him carefully, that he didn't want any knowledge of his future.
She respected that, of course, but her heart got heavier each day that passed after that New Year's Day, knowing that there was a possibility that she'd never see him again after the upcoming end of the year.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o0o
Keeping her promise, Hermione asked for the last week of December off of work and took the time to rest, read and enjoy her vacations with her friends and family.
When the clock hit 11:55 on Saturday, December 31 of 2022 and Harry was nowhere to be found, Hermione cracked open a bottle of firewhiskey and sat still on her couch, staring at the framed picture of the green eyed man that Ron had gifted her in July.