Eighteen
Day: 1431; Hour: 6
"How have you been doing? Really." Harry says this in a tone that reminds her he knows her too well for lies.
It is late, perhaps too late, and Ron had retired to the bedroom not ten minutes ago. He had complained loudly about the lack of curtains to block the early morning sun as well as the lack of a lock on the bedroom door. It made Hermione wonder just what sort of places the two were used to living in, and if there had been any bitter sort of resentment creeping up her throat it was torn away by the reminder of how well the night had gone. It was all nostalgia followed by stories of what they had missed since they saw one another last, and they all were very good at pretending that it didn't bother them not to have been there in the first place.
Hermione had felt an explosion of warmth inside her gut when she first heard Harry's voice behind her, and it had only grown and spread like fire inside her since. She had gotten so used to trying to forget, she hadn't really known the true measure of how much she missed them until she could once again see Ron's blushing face and Harry's sheepish grin. Suddenly she missed them all at once, beyond any need she had had before until it was a suffering ache, and it was at the moment they were standing in front of her. She could now touch them, and see them, hear them, smell them; a sensory explosion of their friendship, and she felt like she wanted to cry, laugh, scream and spin in circles while jumping until they sat her down and gave her a proper head exam.
"How is anyone doing?" She shrugs, knowing it is best to avoid this conversation because it only leads to very bad land.
Like the, why did you leave me, or maybe, more importantly, how, because she doesn't think she could have ever been the one to walk away first. She almost wants to ask those dark, icky questions that will not do for this time in their lives - what am I to you, and why is Ron the one, and what more could I do to be the better friend, and why wasn't I the one that was good enough? Why wasn't it me you wanted there with you? She wanted to know if this place between them filled with memories of the past would ever be filled up with something more, or if those memories would fade with the passing of different directions and all one would see is that dark, deep, unrelenting chasm she sometimes peers into while alone and feels inside her gut. She wants to tell him that sometimes it feels like she doesn't count, and she wants to be cruel and tell him it's because of him, and Ron a little too because Harry was the choice he made, and not her. She wants to admit she feels selfish, and she doesn't know if that's so wrong anymore.
And she also wants to grab him and shake him and demand for him to take her with him. Because she has heard the gossip, because she feels the shadows creep closer to her bed at night, because she knows what is coming and despite their presence she also knows they are not here to take her back with them. Even though it was always supposed to be the three of them, and she, unlike him or whoever makes up his mind for him now, has not decided on another way. He'll say something like, you're still fighting the war, and she'll say, but not with you, not really. Then he would say something like, Hermione, please, or that doesn't matter. And she would like to tell him that it does matter, it matters very much, because in all her thoughts and dreams and fear and circumstances of imagination and possible outcomes since she first met him until now, Hermione Granger has always lived or died standing next to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.
She wants to ask him if he left her because he has other intelligent people to do her work for her, and why she was so replaceable; if someone else stands on his left while he has kept Ron so tight on his right; if it was always supposed to be him and Ron, and why it was; if she should just accept these things, and how.
"That's not what I asked," he says softly, flinching when he sips from his tea because he put too much sugar in it.
Hermione breathes two, three times, and gets hold of her mind. It is too easy to be hurt here, and much harder to be strong - she has never been willing to accept what is easy. Harry has enough without her adding to it. After war, that is when you are supposed to lick your wounds, and there would be years for that. Not now. They are still here, now, aren't they? And for her. That should say enough. And she loves them, and there would be no changing that. They were all doing what was best for the cause, or something, and if people's feelings got hurt it was trivial. Or supposed to be. Perhaps for those who don't have to feel them.
"I'm doing fine." And maybe her voice is too thick.
"Hermione," he says this like a whispered plea and it jerks her eyes up to his before she allows them to.
He looks very tired now, dragged down and out, and suddenly and all at once he is not the boy she used to know. In her mind, when she thinks of him, she sees the face she knew and saw every day four years ago. Before the war was a 'war', before he left; and she searches for the reminder of these things on his face whenever she sees him again because they make her hold tighter to the past, to what grounds her. But time has gone, and war has raged, and somewhere Harry Potter turned into a man when she wasn't looking. She feels older now too, her skin more used, and her hand meets his across the table and squeezes too hard when he wraps his fingers around hers.
When the hell did they grow up? When did Harry ever earn the right to look at her like he lived long enough to learn the secret of the world and it was too bad to tell her? When had his hands become so big, his face so sharp and shadowed since the morning shave, his features pulled into an understanding grief instead of teenage angst? And why did this realization feel like she was swallowing a golf ball? Oh, she is crying. How absurd.
He knocks the chair over when he stands and tugs on her as he sidesteps the table, pulling her to her feet and into him. He smells like the woods and breakfast and fire smoke, and she is swallowed up inside his arms.
"You know, I didn't want either one of you..." he whispers into her hair, and the fact that he says this of all things makes her think he knows or that it has bothered him to leave her behind. "Ron wouldn't have stayed... done something stupid... know how he is."
"It's okay."
"Is it?"
She's not sure. "Yes."
He pauses, his face burrowing deeper into her hair, and she sways a little against him, both of them squeezing so hard they can hardly breathe but neither seem to care. "Will it be?"
"Yes, it will be. I promise. Yes, yes, yes." She nods her face against his shoulder and wipes her tears off on his shirt, feeling stupid and something else.
"I'm sorry," they both say this at the same time, and they laugh oddly because it's not funny but it sort of is.
"Just promise me, swear to God, you'll come back."
He doesn't say anything. She pushes herself tighter to him, having expected as much.
Day: 1431; Hour: 16
Ron gives her a kick in the bum and when she turns to give him a sappy smile he puts his hands up and takes a slow step back. Rolling her eyes, Hermione whacks him in the arm. The git put on a show, but he would probably puff his chest all up if she started crying.
"Watch out, mate," Ron whispers to Harry, slowly stepping around her, "danger, danger. She could blow at any mom- oh, shit. Hands on hips."
"What was that? Don't ever tickle a sleeping dragon?" Ron snickered at Harry's comment just like he did all through Hogwarts, because he is a pervert and always will be.
She pulls them both into a hug, refusing to let her mind go from this moment to the first one they are gone. For a moment, four arms wrapped around her, Ron swaying them, Harry huffing mint candy into their faces, it is just the three of them and nothing has felt so right.
"Be careful," she tells them.
"You too."
"Be damn careful."
"I love you two."
"Love you."
"Honestly," Ron huffs, then stops, suddenly serious like he just remembered. "Love you too. We'll see you soon."
"Of course." They all pretend her smile isn't watery, and that the boys don't stare at her like they suddenly want to lock her away in their trunks until the end of the war. "If you need me..."
"We know."
And then they are gone before it can get harder than it already is. Hope has still emerged to tint her thoughts though, and every second that ticks away she is waiting for them to come back to either get her, or stay.
Day: 1434; Hour: 11
"Do you notice it?"
She shakes her head and shrugs once Seamus finally speaks, standing still at the stove. "What?"
"This house...this house was packed two days ago. Today, there's three of us. Justin just got back from the house in Glasgow, and told me he had been alone. Alone. Where is everyone?"
Hermione's eyes widen, falling to the table. She moves her spoon in the tasteless soup, and then pushes the bowl away. "They haven't left for...that yet."
"How do you know?"
Because I'm not there. "I just know."
He shakes his head, lets out a caustic laugh, and leaves the room.
Day: 1436; Hour: 1
When does war end?
For some, it is directly before or directly after Hermione is woken in the middle of the night, Justin's hands shaking as he pulls on her shoulder. The words fall in broken, stuttered vowels of excitement and nervousness, his eyes wide and his voice clogged. They are the ones who believe it is over once The-Boy-Who-Lived is The-One-Who-Conquered, and finally fulfills his revenge, destroying the Horcruxes and killing Voldemort.
For others, they rejoice at the achievement, while Hermione throws her clock into the wall, wondering why she was not there to take her spot as she has always been meant to do. For others, they think of the dead and injured instead, as Hermione does when she sits trembling on her bed, and wondering about her friends. For them, it is not over until they have counted their losses, and until the Death Eaters are no longer there to count theirs at all.
Justin enters the room again to see her crying, but he knows they are not tears of sadness, nor joy, but of relief. It is close to being done now, she knows. It is so close to being over. And Harry has lived, Justin told her.
Harry is alive.
Day: 1436; Hour: 3
She arrives at St. Mungo's with a fire burning inside of her that causes her whole body to shake. The outside of the building was swamped with press and security was tighter than she had ever seen it. They let her up to the third floor almost reluctantly, but there is nothing in the world that could stop her from getting there and she was sure they knew this.
"The healers are in all of their rooms right now. No one is allowed to have visitors."
"I need to see them to know how they are!" she yells, her frustration palpable. "I'm not leaving until you let me in to those rooms!"
"No offense, Miss," a guard lowers his voice, leaning toward her, "but not a single healer has the patience to deal with you, and you need to let them do their jobs before there are more casualties."
Hermione looks as if she might wrap her hands around the thickness of his neck and feel him choke against the palm of her hands. "Then give me a list."
"There are no lists." He stands upright, raising his eyes to above her head, blowing her off.
"Bullshit! Give me the fucking list!" Hermione's voice cracks and there is an ugly swaying in her knees that makes her thing she is going to blackout.
She takes a huff of an inhale, the prelude to crying, when he ignores her save a twitching at his temple. Her hands clench and unclench, but there is no getting herself under control as she stalks off to the waiting room.
Day: 1436; Hour: 12
Hermione spent the night annoying the hospital staff and drifting in and out of a light sleep when the emotional exhaustion proved heavy. It was nine hours after she arrived that she woke up with a gasp and Lupin standing over her.
She goes to hug him but he puts up a bandaged hand, wincing already at the thought. Justin is standing to her left, mumbling another apology under his breath. Lupin looks paler than normal, oddly frail, and this frightens her.
"I'm fine, I'll be out of here by tonight if I have my way."
"You should get as much rest as you can -" Seamus tries, but is cut off with a sharp look from Lupin.
"There is too much work that needs to be done, and I'll... Moody is dead."
Several sharp breaths combine into one loud sound in the waiting room for two different reasons. One, Moody, their seemingly invincible leader, was dead - though, this is war, and Superman does not ever exist here. They stopped being naive enough to think so a long time ago. Two, they were about to get The List, and every hope they had hung on to not just over the night but over these years was about the be validated or dashed away forever.
"Who else?" Lavender asks when it doesn't seem Lupin is willing to carry on, or anyone else is daring to ask.
"I'm not sure. All I know is by first hand accounts, and the few I've seen or have heard are here. We've lost Lee Jordan, Mandy Brocklehurst, Terry Boot, Sharon Livora, Hannah Abbott, Don Keets," he pauses, finds Hermione's eyes, they breathe, "Neville Longbottom."
There is a sob that rips itself from her throat before she is even aware it is there. "What?"
The word does not even sound like a word at all, just a gurgle of saliva and grief, and suddenly she can not breathe. Someone's hand is on her shoulder and it connects her back to the ground, and settles her into the reality.
Lupin looks down for a moment, compartmentalizing, tucking it all back into that dirty, ugly section of their souls they reserve for the savageness of war. But Hermione can't, and does not, because all she can feel is a pain shooting up along her bones, and she is shaking with it.
She shoves her fist inside her mouth, her teeth clenching to the skin at her knuckles, and her whole body is throwing itself violently to the sobs that are quiet, and deep, and hurt. Her mind goes through a thousand moments that his face had once stood before her eyes, and they play like a flipbook of memories that she holds to her heart as if nursing a wound. Oh, Neville, Oh, Neville, Oh, Neville, and she does not believe it, because this is not real.
"We're still finding out more, and will be for a few days I suspect, but you all need to get back to Headquarters." Lupin was back to business, because he had to be, because no one else would be.
"Why?" Justin is crying too, she realizes, but she can't look at him.
"Garret Ust and Ron Weasley are missing."
She is lucky for the row of chairs right behind her, or she would have collapsed to the ground instead. "Missing?"
"We believe they were taken. We want to organize everyone who is in decent health." Lupin sent quick glances around them. "I will be checking myself out of hospital at six tonight. I expect you to all be at Headquarters, and to have sent out an alert for all the wires to be there by seven."
"Yes, sir."
Hermione does not realize they have left until Lupin draws her attention up from the floor and she can see they are the only two in the waiting room. "We're going to find them. They are still alive - Ron is too important to not use for something, you know that."
"Yes," her response sounds weak, even to her.
"Harry isn't allowed visitors yet, but he'll be fine... I stole a look at his chart."
"What..." Hermione paused, cleared her throat, dropped the pretense. "What of Malfoy?"
There was a look that passed over Lupin's face, and though she couldn't care to know what it meant, it was soft. "Three-oh-six."
"What?"
"Room 306, Hermione."
Day: 1436; Hour: 13
It takes her a long time after Lupin has left before she can pull herself up from her seat. She must have been there crying for nearly an hour until she mentally kicked herself in the head. Neville had always just seemed... innocent, still, after everything. She had never thought he wouldn't make it to the end of all of this. But it wasn't the time to think about it, or mourn him, or close up and shut down. Ron still had to be found, this war still had to end for good.
All she could do now was store her losses in rows along her heart and wait for the end of everything to put them all where they belong. She could not think of them, she could only pretend that they never happened, not yet. Neville was just... Neville was in some safe house somewhere, sleeping away the morning, that was all, right? That was all, that was it, that's fine, he was finehewasgoingtobeokayyesbecausebecause. He was Neville. He was probably sleeping in, or taking a shower, or playing some game. But for her, there was work she had to do, and she knew that the last thing Neville, or any of the ones lost, would want for her to do is sit there and cry over them when what they had died for wasn't over yet. She wasn't going to make that sacrifice for nothing. She refused.
And she had to be strong for Ron. She had to find him, and she would. She would tear the world apart if that is what it meant. She could only hope that he was holding on, that he was doing okay, that he was strong - but she knew he was strong. As long as he kept his head about him, she knew he would be alright. And Lupin had been right, the Death Eaters weren't going to do anything just yet, not when they were short a leader and had Ron to gain something back. They knew what Ron meant to Harry (because Harry was the only one that mattered to the Dark, the rest of them have always been insignificant, and maybe to the Order too). He would alright, but they had to come up with a plan quick, and they had to all be in the right mind. She had to be in the right mind to help him, and damn it, she would be for him.
So she walked with a straight spine, hollow stomach, high chin, and blotchy face to room 306. She peeks her head around the door, finding him awake and looking at her as if he knew she was coming. Her heart hammers and wails against her chest, sparks of adrenaline taking off down the bones of her shoulders and arms. At least he is alive, and okay, and alive, and here. Hermione stands and stares at him, and maybe he knows she needs to because he doesn't come up with something snappy or anything at all. He just stares back, his eyes flicking across her appearance, and perhaps knowing why she looks a wreck.
She scratches her head and enters, feeling stupid though she doesn't know why. The knot is back in her chest again and she doesn't know the reason for that either, but suddenly she wishes Draco was the man she could go over and hug, and breakdown on, and to mumble every one of her sorrows and worries against the skin of his neck.
"Hey."
"Hi," he replies.
"You're a jerk," she sniffs, because she is bitter about not being told of the final battle, and she is a little angry with him for not telling her himself, and she needs to say something before she loses it.
"Well. I'm lying in hospital, and you can still find it within that black little heart of yours to insult me, I see. Where's the sympathy, Granger? The tears, and the wailing, and all that rot?"
"In your imagination, I'm sure." She smiles faintly at her own comeback, and he gives her a sharp look.
She takes a moment to look over him, content that his mind seems to be in working order. His fingers are wrapped, likely broken, and a large bruise is swelling up the right side of his jaw. There's a smudge of black above the middle of his lip, and fading blue along the lines of his nose. There are three patches on his chest and stomach, two of them just beginning to spot red with blood, and his upper right arm is wrapped in gauze. His shoulder is bare, but covered with potions, gleaming a tinted blue.
"I've lost a toe."
"Liar."
He glares at her. "Why would I lie about losing a toe?"
"How the hell did you lose a toe, Draco?"
"Severing curse. Luckily enough it only hit me in my toe, or I might be laying here without a leg. I was running at the time."
"Jesus," she whispers, automatically looking down to where the sheet lays over the bump of his feet.
"I thought you would be off visiting Potter?" he says after a long pause.
She meets his eyes, now knowing that he knows about Ron, and possibly Neville as well. Which would be good, because she thinks he deserves to know, but does not think she can say it.
"They won't let me in the room yet," she answers, and looks back down at his feet.
"Ah."
She rushes her next words out, because she says them on a thought, thinking he deserves to hear them, but knowing it is probably not wise to say them. "I would come visit you anyway."
He looks at her from the ceiling. "Yes, I suppose you would take the time out to enjoy my suffering."
She doesn't know if he really thinks this is why, or if he is just trying to change the flow of the conversation before it hits uncomfortable foreign territory. She charges on anyway, recklessly, "I'm glad you're alive, Draco. That you're not hurt too badly."
He looks at her for a moment more, her heart jumping as she waits for his response, and then looks back at the ceiling. "Who else would you have to argue with?"
She takes this second out he provides, knowing he is as uncomfortable as she is now. Knowing that they do not have the room today for emotions they don't know what to do with or how to deal with, because there is already too much here in this hospital they don't want to face.
"Exactly. And the missing toe provides ammunition for the next month at least."
He swings his eyes back to her, smirking. "Does the rest of the world know how evil you are, or am I the only one privileged enough to be on the receiving end?"
"You get my special attention, I'd say." He leers at her and she blushes, realizing the double meaning. "Not like that."
"Either way, really." He shrugs, and the start of a grin freezes on his face as he shuts his eyes and exhales hard through his teeth.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Is it your shoulder?"
"I said nothing," he repeats, opening his eyes to glare at her, slowly relaxing back into the bed.
"If you're in pain, why don't you have any potions?"
"Because I'm not in pain?"
"Let me go get a healer."
"Granger, no. Don't even fucking think about it."
"Why? Draco, you're in-"
"Because I don't like them. They mess with my head, and I can't comprehend shit or see what's going on."
"You don't need to see. The war is over."
"No, it's not."
"I'm getting the healer," she tells him, turning back for the door again.
"No, I'm not taking another- Granger. Granger!"
He glares drowsily up at her not three minutes later, and she reaches up to brush his fringe away from his eyes. "You needed it."
"I'm going to shove pain potions down your throat when I get out of here, so you know what this is like."
"If I'm in pain, I'll be glad to take it. You're so unbelievably stubborn and thickheaded."
"Can't believe you did that."
"Go to sleep."
"I'm not going to sleep, you cruel little wench." But he closes his eyes when she runs her fingertips over them, and keeps them closed as she brushes circles and lines over the rest of his face.
He opens them to slits a few quiet moments later, the gray hazy and tired. His arm reaches up slowly, his knuckles brushing down her cheek, the pad of his thumb just edging the corner of her mouth. It is a tender touch she didn't expect, and though it is not arms wrapped around her or whispers of how it's going to be okay, it is from Draco and it is enough. Somehow, it is exactly what she needs.
It doesn't take long for his breathing to even out, and his lips to part in sleep. She watches him for a very long time before finally pulling herself away, placing the heavy green ring, the Malfoy crest, that she had found at the lake the day he left, down on his bedside table.