CH 4

She settled into a routine. Sitting, waiting, sleeping, screaming. The fire boy, Ron, he called himself, visited her frequently. At first, he came alone would come and sit and wait with her. She waited for the ringing to go away, for some sense of familiarity to return, for the happiness the voice had promised her. Fire boy seemed to be waiting for something else, she wasn't sure what. Sometimes he asked her questions. Was she in pain, did she need anything, did she mind that he came? As time passed, he asked other questions, what did she remember? Did she know what curse hit her? Was there a flash of color? He asked these agitatedly, reading from a crumpled piece of paper. When his voice rose, the ringing in her head sharpened and she would hide back under her blankets. He would sigh, apologize, and leave.

As time passed, he brought other people with him. He introduced her to a plump woman in grey, her white apron being wrong in her hands. Madam Pomfrey he called her. She was a healer he told her; she could help take away the pain. That night Madam Pomfrey came back with a dark purple liquid. She promised her sleep with no dreams. She greedily took the vial and drank.

Fire boy – Ron – brough more people. People who wanted to know how she was, wanted to talk about happy memories. They tried to laugh, but sadness in their eyes was too heavy. She knew it was her that made them sad, she didn't know why. At first, she tried to mimic the way the stretched their mouths, baring her teeth the way they did. After the mother one, Molly, cried at her attempt, she stopped. Another fire boy came to visit Ron, his called himself George. He was kind and did not cry at her.

"Hello, 'Mione," he smiled at her, dropping himself down into a chair haphazardly. She attempted to mimic the smile, and his broadened. "I see you even have a smile to bestow upon me, your lowly servant". Pleased with herself, she dared a question.

"Where is the other one?"

His smile dimmed a bit, a furrow forming between his brows. "The other one?" He pointed at Ron. "Ron's right there. I know I'm the more dashing brother, but he must be just visible to the side of my magnificent, marvelous self." He winked at her, smiling again. She smiled back, shaking her head.

"I see him. But you are alone, you should be in a pair. Where is the other one?" She thought hard. "Your …. copy?"

George's eyes widened. "…Fred?" He said slowly, "My twin?" She nodded vigorously, excited. And then slowed, as the light dimmed from George's eyes. At her stillness, George looked up and shook himself, but his smile no longer lit his eyes. "Fred decided he had enough of this world, and is off having adventures without us, love. But he would have been a smug bastard about you remembering him." The light sparked again, the heaviness in the air seemed to lift. "Can you imagine, Ronikins, if Fred was here being the remembered one? He would have gloated for ages!"

"I can hear it now, 'Tough luck lads, you can only aspire to be as memorable as I am to a lady such as Hermione!'" Ron laughed as he lowered his voice to mimic the absent brother.

George winked at her, "Of course I would then have to remind my dear brother, that it was I who sparked the memory, and he was only an afterthought."

Ron, still lowering his voice, scoffed and said, "'You are only the prelude to my genius, my dear George. But I'll let you take solace where you can.'" George laughed and Ron bowed. She smiled and wondered if this was happiness.

The following weeks had highs and lows. Some visitors just talked, others came and went without saying a word, hovering, watching. Ron was always there. The worst visits were when they cried. Ron would usher them out of her room, and then he'd sit by her bedside and try to coax her out of the blankets.

"It's not your fault, you know," he said as he sat cross legged at the foot of her bed, picking at the loose threads in the blanket. "They haven't had room to feel in so long, sometimes it just leaks out of them." She peaked out of her net at him, he continued to stare at the blanket.

"Why doesn't it leak out of you?" even though her voice rasped out at a whisper still, he jumped startled, and she flinched but didn't retreat. She had decided long ago that he wouldn't attack her.

"Maybe it's because I have the emotional range of teaspoon," Ron shrugged and smiled a bit wistfully. In the back of her mind, she heard a whisper, Can't you imagine what she must be feeling? ... Just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon!... then faint laughter, a feeling of contentment, of purpose if not safety. "You ok, Hermione?" Ron looked at her as if he'd said her name a few times. She stared at him.

"Emotional range of a teaspoon…" she whispered. Ron shrugged and grinned.

"That's what I've been told, no leaking for me."

"Did I … did I tell you that?" Ron stilled; his eyes searched her face. And slowly he nodded.

"Yes… do you remember? Do you remember anything else?" His eager face began to swim in front of her. Her head ached, the room seemed to spin, she closed her eyes, and the darkness came.

Blood dripping, flowing out of the gaps between his finders as his hand fisted around the long gash. Shouts in the distance. Flashes of light, green and red.

"Don't worry, it's just a flesh wound, love," the voice whispered.

"You're leaving a blood trail for them to follow, let me heal your hand." She heard her own voice echo.

A resigned sigh, sounds of cloth tearing. "There, no longer leaving a trail. We have to get out of here now, I'll let you heal it once I know you're safe."

"Stubborn prat."

"Come on, Granger. That's one of my most charming qualities. Coast is clear, let's go."

Even after she woke up, she felt the ghost of a hand in hers.