December 27th, 2004
My grandfather had a replica of a human heart in his study: life-like, with delicate veins–so thin and fragile–against the glass chambers.
"That's the aorta, the superior vena cava," he'd say, tracing my fingers along the ridged surface. "Your heart has its own electrical system that coordinates its rhythm." He'd place my hand against the bottom, where the sculpture sloped into a V. "How it beats and how frequently. All that muscle memory, coordinating to keep you alive...a bit like magic."
He kept the heart in a glass cabinet, right next to a homemade nameplate–Dr. Granger written in my rainbow crayon scrawl. I snuck in one day; I loved his study, all its diagrams and oddities. I had the heart in my hand, held up to the window so I could watch the sun filter through, when he walked in. Startled, I dropped it––all those veins, the chambers, shattered at my feet.
"I broke your heart," I said, voice pitched in alarm. Seven-year-old me fisted her gingham skirt in her hands.
There was a flicker of a smile on his face, edged against the disappointment. "That's alright," he said after a beat. "Come"–he reached for my hand–"you'll just have to help me fix this mess."
That's what I thought about when they showed me mum's body. The pieces inside her, eroded into a mess I couldn't fix. Her heart: the electricity zapped, the magic gone.
I barely remember how it unfolded. Lying in bed with you, laughing at something you said, and then the trill of my cell phone that made us both jump. No one ever called me on it. No one except the hospital had my number.
Then there's a swath of black in my memory: all the sounds and colors blotted out. The next image I have is the phone clattering to the ground, your hand on my wrist. Did I speak? I remember sounds, the blur of fabric as I struggled to get dressed. Your fingers grasping at my shirt and the flush of anger against my skin- what the fuck are you doing, Draco?
"Your shirt," you said. "It's not buttoned correctly." Your fingers slotting the tiny disc through the holes, the slight shake in your hands I'm sure you didn't want me to see.
I apparated us to the alleyway behind the hospital; my hands fisted in your sweater so tightly I found a thread of red stitching in my nail afterwards.
Dr. Marron stood in the middle of the hospital room, alone. He had his hands clasped in front of him, body positioned right in front of mum's bed. When he saw us, his shoulders dropped, and he looked down before meeting my eyes. I'm sorry," he said. His sadness–how overt and obvious it appeared–made me furious. Mum's face was pale and drawn but if I squinted, she looked like she always did in the hospital: on pause.
Dr. Marron spoke, the drone of his voice replacing what used to be the thump thump thump of her ventilator. Did I yell? I want to say I didn't, but I remember the pressure of your hand on my shoulder, the squeeze of fingers along my neck, a kind way of trying to help me calm down.
Dad made these noises, this whining, hiccuping sound that hurt my ears. And I'm ashamed to say: I just wanted him to stop. That's what I remember most, not the sorrow, which was there, but the fury: that I was too late, that I couldn't fix it.
I'd let myself slip back into something comfortable with you these last few weeks, tried to build a fortress between us and everything else. All that time wasted, smothering myself with hope, when I could have spent it helping them.
What a terrible thing to say. I know, but I'm trying to be honest here. I need you to know why I did what I did, why I said all those things. Why I broke the thing we'd only just started to fix.
A woman came in and asked for mom's organs: her pancreas, intestines, corneas.
"The viable organs," she called them. The ones that hadn't been eaten away, she meant.
We left with a ziplock bag: mum's watch and pearl earrings shifting against the clothes she had been wearing when admitted. You murmured something to Dad; I saw your hand on his shoulder, his nod as he tried to wipe the tears on his face. I couldn't bear to look at him.
When we finally arrived home, you tugged on my wrist, guiding me to the bathroom. It was the same sequence as in Susan's office: I was immobilized, and you tried to take care of me.
My skin burned with anger, and as you started to undress me, I pushed your hand away. Your jaw clenched. Not angry, resigned.
"I'll be outside," you said, an echo from just a few weeks ago. "Call me if you need anything."
The water scalded, but I sunk into it. I stayed there, head floating above the surface, until my skin pruned, the water turning frigid around me. The bag containing her possessions sagged on the marble counter, and I wondered what mom thought about when she died.
December 30th, 2004
I found the anger easier than the grief. There's a muggle poem I read once; grief arrives as a guest with a suitcase. But that's not true. He brings a house with him; he moves you in, erasing everything you've built. You sleep in his bed. He makes you a stranger to your husband. He's everywhere.
You brought me my meals in bed. You checked on me throughout the day. You slept in the guest room. Or did I banish you there? I keep saying you did this, you did that so I can avoid revealing what I did: nothing. I slept. I cried. I stared at the ceiling. I wished I had a time-turner so I could go back and undo those spells, take back those potions. Leave my parents in Australia, happy. Alive.
The light drifted through the open doors of your study. My throat hurt, raw from sobbing into the pillow. I wanted a cup of tea, and I didn't want–didn't know how–to ask you for one. The steps creaked under my foot, and our eyes met through the gaps between balusters. I had one hand on the railing, the other clutched to my chest. You had one end of your reading glasses perched against your lips, chewing on the tip–a nervous habit.
Your eyes were wide and alert: hopeful. You opened your mouth, fingers tightening around your glasses, like you wanted to coax the words out. When they didn't come, I stared down at my feet and kept walking. Near the bottom step, I heard the light clatter of metal dropping against wood.
I passed by your study on my way back upstairs; you had your head in your hands, glasses splayed near the edge of the table, like you had tossed them.
December 31th, 2004
The fireworks fractured against the sky, pulling that violent shade of red and green, colors bleeding into the white drapes of our bedroom.
My head pounded, skin bristling against the miasma of sight and sound. Nausea crept against my throat, slick and desperate. I wanted so badly for you to hold me. Why did I lock the bedroom door?
You were staying in the guest bedroom, the one right behind ours. A faulty design, we used to joke. Was that the sound of your crying or the echo of mine?
January 6th, 2005
"Happy New Year, Dad."
"Oh, yes," a feeding tube trailed into his nostril, the plastic taped against his cheek; the nurses said he had stopped eating. "It's a new year."
I reached for his hand. His fingers looked swollen, the skin dry and rough. I wanted to say sorry, but for what? For not coming sooner? For killing Mum? For all the events leading up to this?
I felt the nurse's eyes on me when I left his room. The nurse who's scared of me. She looked down at her clipboard when I caught her gaze, but when I saw my reflection in the elevator door, I knew what she was looking at: my untamed mountain of hair, sallow stretched skin, the purple circles under my eyes.
I felt her eyes on me again, and my hand formed a fist in my trousers, fingers wrapped around my wand. When the elevator doors opened, I jumped. A man emerged, looking at me in quiet surprise. I passed him and pushed the button for the ground floor. As the doors closed, I made eye contact with her again; the bottom of my wand peeked out from my pocket, and I shoved it down so violently the tip bruised my thigh.
January 8th, 2005
We started eating dinner together again. I thought that was progress, but silence punctured our meal; even the slurp of our soups sounded obscene.
"How was your dad today?" You finally asked.
I stared at the specks of chicken bobbing in the soup; you had been cursing earlier in the kitchen, and its edges were burnt, charred pieces of skin flaking off.
"He stopped eating. They put in a feeding tube."
You had your spoon halfway to your mouth; it hovered in the air for a beat before you put it down. "I'm sorry."
I don't know what I expected–what I wanted–you to say, but I felt my spoon slip from my grip, the metal clanging against the porcelain bowl with such force it bounced onto the floor, smearing a blotch of golden broth between our feet.
It was an accident. I was surprised. I didn't mean to. Or did I? I don't know, Draco. I was just so tired.
January 10th, 2005
Dad's still not eating. I still don't know what to say to you. Susan wrote to us, but I didn't have the words.
January 15th, 2005
Muffled voices drifted through the door of Dad's hospital room, and I paused for a minute, straining to hear before giving up. A man sat in my chair, suitcase lounging near his feet. He wore a charcoal gray suit, and when he stood up to shake my hand, I remembered his name was David or Michael. Dad's solicitor, the one who handled legal matters for his dental practice.
"Hermione," Dad croaked. "I wasn't expecting you so early."
"What's going on?"
David or Michael shuffled some papers lying on the table and Dad and him shared a nod before he gathered his suitcase and walked past me, dipping his head politely.
"Hermione, I need to talk to you about something."
"Why was your solicitor here?" I blinked, rooted to my spot by the door.
"Sweetheart, sit down. We have to talk."
The chair was still warm from the man's body, and my skin recoiled against it. Dad's eyelids drooped, the edges gunked with rheum.
"I asked David to come today so I could gather and compile the documents-"
How did he even call David? That's what I wondered. Who brought him his cell phone? How did he find the energy? Why didn't he ask me first?
"–you'll need. He has a folder with everything: bank accounts, investment incomes, and our will."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Hermione," he exhaled, but the air choked against itself, sputtering out in two jerky sighs. "We have to discuss end-of-life preparations."
"No," I stood up, clutching my bag tight against my hip. "I refuse to do that."
"–we can't avoid this any longer–"
"–I'm not having this conversation–"
"Hermione," his voice rose above its usual whisper. Immediately, he dissolved into a coughing fit. When his hand dropped from his face, I froze; blood speckled the lines of his palm. As he tried to wipe it off, I jerked forward, rushing to hand him a tissue and cup of water. I steadied him as he leaned forward to drink, and his hand shook, sending a stream of water between my fingers, onto his gown.
"Hermione," he rasped, lips shiny. "I'm granting you power of attorney."
"What?"
He clutched the paper cup, its sides creasing so that the bottom seemed ready to collapse. "When the time comes, and I'm no longer able to make my own decisions, I need you to make them for me."
Chastened, I nodded. My thumb bled from where I splintered the skin.
He rubbed at his eye, leaving a splotch of red skin behind. "Sweetheart, I'm tired."
I nodded. "Okay, we don't have to talk about this now. I can go. Let you rest–"
"No, Hermione. I mean, I'm tired of being in pain."
I inhaled; all the oxygen left the room.
"When I'm put on life support, I need you to be able to discontinue care–"
"Absolutely not. I will absolutely not–"
"I'm not asking you. I'm telling you what I–"
"–Dad, how can you even ask–"
"–This is what I want. I miss your mother."
"This is an impossible decision! I–"
"Hermione, you cannot play God."
I lost my words, mouth shutting with such force I bit into my tongue, the metallic taste of blood seeping into my gums. His breathing stuttered and stumbled in the room between us, overpowering all other sounds. My cheeks dripped, salt mixing with the tang of blood in my mouth.
"Do you blame me?" My voice sounded foreign, sutured together by a blend of incredulity and bitterness. "For mum, for everything? Are you trying to punish me?
His face froze, mouth parted, and then it seemed to contract: the feed tube jostling as his nostrils shrunk and his eyebrows knitted together. "Sweetheart, no–"
"I can't play God because I already tried once, with your memories, and look what happened." I swept my arm out, and let out a low laugh. "Look what I did."
"That's not what I meant–"
"I don't expect you to forgive me, but what you're aski–"
"You didn't let me finish-"
"If you're angry, I understand, but please, please," my voice cracked, deflating from the high ground on which it teetered, "don't make me do that."
"Sweetheart," he patted the mattress; his fingers twitched against the bedsheets. "Come here."
When I didn't move, he inched his head sideways, beckoning me forward. I sat on the edge of his bed, trying to make myself as small as possible, and he tugged at my blouse– grip feeble, the fabric already slipping through his fingers–until I laid down, careful not to disturb the wires spidering off of him, woven around his torso and arms like arteries.
He ran a hand through my hair; his nails were so long they scraped against my scalp, catching in the strands. I winced, pressing my face into his shoulder.
"What happened in Australia was difficult–"
I let out a sob, burying my face into the scratchy fabric of his hospital gown. His other hand arched around my shoulder, palm squeezing my upper arms.
"–but Hermione there is no universe, no life, that your mother and I would want where you couldn't be our daughter."
He pulled away slightly, nudging my shoulder until I looked up at him. "Do you hear me, Hermione? There is no world in which I'd want to forget my beautiful, brave, brilliant daughter."
"Mum was so angry," I babbled; I could feel snot dripping onto my chin. "She didn't even want to speak to me for so long–"
"Shhh," he pushed back a few curls stuck against my cheek. "It doesn't matter now. You have to forgive yourself, sweetheart...and you have to let go."
"I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to let you go."
"I know." I clutched the front of his gown, like holding it could keep him there longer; his voice was whisper soft: "But you have to try."
My body curved into a question mark, knees pulled up and spine rounded, shoulders shaking with my sobs. He murmured something, too low for me to hear, and I closed my eyes, just for a beat. The next time I opened them, I was staring at Dr. Marron's bright blue ones.
"Hermione," Dr. Marron said, touching my shoulder gently. I could tell from the rhythm of Dad's chest against my shoulder that he was still asleep. "It's time to wake up."
Harry's voice bounced around in my head, his disapproval slamming into my skull as I scanned the entrance of St. Mungos. Penelope had once mentioned she enjoyed walking home. I hoped that was still true.
I caught a glimmer of blonde hair before she emerged, adjusting the strap of her crossbody bag as she turned onto the street. Right before the intersection, I grasped her elbow, and she swung around, hand fisted in the pocket of her wool coat.
Her eyes widened. "Hermione," she said. Her shoulders slackened for a beat before tensing again. "What are you doing here? Are you following me?"
"I really need to speak with you."
"I have nothing further to say to you. I already said everything that needs to be addressed in my letters."
She turned to leave, and my arm shot out. She flinched back, an almost imperceptible twitch in the muscles of her neck. It struck me for the first time that maybe I frightened her.
She tried to edge back again, and a frisson of panic shot through me. "Mum's dead," I burst out.
She froze; her profile faced me, chest rising on a sharp inhale. A beat passed, and she said, voice low. "I'm very sorry for your loss."
"I don't need you to be sorry," I snapped. Immediately, her lips thinned, and I exhaled, dropping my arm. "I'm sorry… I just–I really need your help."
"Hermione, we've talked about this. There is nothing to suggest that the disease is of a magical origin–"
"That just can't be true… I am begging you." My voice cracked, and her eyes flicked downwards. "If you just give me something–anything– I will leave, and I promise I will never bother you again."
A car horn sounded behind us, the driver flipping up one lone finger at a jaywalker before swerving to the right. Penelope opened her mouth once, and then closed it, twisting the material of her gloves between her hands.
"Please," I repeated. "Anything."
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and low; embarrassed, almost. "There's a wizard who applied for a grant with us, a few months ago. He"–she licked her lips, looked up–"he wanted to research the effect of magic on muggles. In particular, he was interested in seeing if magic could be used to cure diseases they haven't been able to eradicate: cancer, dementia, autoimmune disorders," she pronounced the words fluently, and I remembered she was muggleborn too. "He called it revolutionary. A bit of medical magic for the muggles, so to speak." Her inflection changed, the corners of her mouth dragging down. "But in order to do that, he needed muggles to experiment on. He had this idea for a potion, but he needed to test it out–" she broke off.
"What happened?" My heart beat a quick staccato rhythm against my breastbone. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"
"Because," she gave me an incredulous look, "the whole experiment was inhumane. To flood muggle patients with magic to see the potential curative–" Her jaw snapped shut.
Something sour crawled up my esophagus, coiling around my next words. "That's what you've been thinking the whole time, isn't it? How inhumane using magic on muggles is."
She looked away. When she opened her mouth again, her tone was softer. "Hermione, I am genuinely very sorry for your loss, and I wish I could help you–"
"Do you know what the muggle doctors call my parent's case?" My voice lurched up, the syllables split with tension. "Unusual. Unique. Interesting." Magic crackled at my fingertips, and I shoved my hands into my coat pocket. "No one can figure out what is wrong with them. Please, Penelope. I am asking you for a thread."
The wind blew the curtain of her blonde hair into her face, hiding her expression. My chest tightened; the dull roar in my ears grew louder the longer she stayed silent. Finally, she reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of parchment. As she handed it to me, I saw her mutter something under her breath, felt the spark of wandless magic curl around the parchment. "I believe he's doing research at a muggle university now."
The light turned green. While I stared at the missive clutched in my palm, she spun around and hurried across the street.
At home, I unfurled the note, imprinting the name into my memory: Cardric Heatherstone. I could feel the pull of the parchment in my study as we ate dinner. It beat, like a human heart, calling to me.
You stared at me throughout the meal; at one point, I looked up to see your eyebrows furrowed, knife hovering above your cut of steak. You were staring at my hands, fingers so jerky the utensils kept striking the plate.
"Do you want me to get you a potion?"
I thought of the sweet haze of the purple liquid, the ones the healer had prescribed me to help calm my nerves. I didn't like using them; they made me feel fuzzy, like all my thoughts had sunk to the bottom of an ocean.
You waited, and I took a sip of my water. "I'm fine," I said. I could feel the thump thump thump of the letter pounding in my head. "Just tired."
