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The next week or so is something I know I should remember, but can't hold it. It's like a rope, a rope being pulled from the other end, and I am just letting it fall through my fingers. Like sand in an hour-glass, time trickles by, with nothing remarkable to make it any different. Only when I sit in the consultants office do I comprehend for a moment exactly what is happening to me.

I'm sixteen, fo God's sake. Sixteen. And I know before he even opens his mouth that that's it. From here on in, my life will change.

"Granger? Hermione Granger?" The nurse looks around, and zeros in on me and my mother. "The consultant will see you now." Five women stare at us. I wonder if they know which of us Hermione is. The door clicks closed behind me. It sounds like the final drum beat before the execution.

"Ah, Hermione, take a seat. You too, Mrs Granger." I reach out and take my mother's hand. I feel like I'm drifting, like I'm in a little boat in the middle of the ocean, with no hope of reaching land again, with no hope of ever getting back to solid ground. My mother is like my life belt, my one chance to reach port again. I cling to her hand tightly, as tightly as I can, wondering crazily that if I hold her tight enough, I will be alright. "Your biopsy results are back, Miss Granger."

"Just say it, please," I whisper. My voice is cracked and hoarse. When was the last time I had a drink? I don't remember.

"I'm sorry. It was positive. You have advanced breast cancer. You need to start treatment immediately."

It's like a bullet. It embeds itself in my heart. I know it will nestle there until I die, or until I'm cured.

"What are my chances?" It's mechanical. Emotionless. Again, something stops me crying. I set my chin. I'm going to be brave about this. I'm going to stare Death full in the face, I'm going to fight him. If I can't cry, then I will be very controlled, very calm. I will handle it. I will face this. I don't say I'll beat it, but damn, I'll fight it.

"Miss Granger -"

"Just say it. Please."

"Slim. If you don't have the treatment, you won't see Easter. If you do, there is every chance you will recover."

"What does "treatment" involve?" I'd taken the advice of my GP, and not looked it up on the Net, even though I'd badly wanted to. He'd said it would only scare me.

"Chemotherapy, radiotherapy. It is also a possibility we may have to perform a mastectomy. You should prepare yourself. And as it is inadvisable that you wait for treatment of any kind, I wrote to a unit in Scotland. It's just outside Edinburgh. They specialise in young cancer patients. You can claim, the Government would relocate you. If you stay here, it will be nearly a month before you can even begin your treatment, and, frankly, the quicker you begin, the more chance you have of surviving this."

"My son - he is at university there. He has a house. We can go immediately."

"I can telephone the hospital now, they can sort everything out tonight. They can book Hermione in almost immediately."

I push my chair back and leave the room quietly. I can't listen to that conversation. Dad and Danny look at me.

"Daddy, I think you ought go in." He walks past me.

"Is it -"

"Yes. Yes. God." I sink into a chair outside the consultant's office. I put my head in my hands. Now, now the tears flow. Now I cry. Because now, it's real. I can't deny it now. Nothing I can say, do or think will make this not real. Nothing I can say do or think will make this all some hideous nightmare.

I have cancer. The word grows inside my head, getting bigger, bigger, glowing red, and I hear laughter in my head, screaming, mocking, cackling laughter, like the word enjoys my acceptance of it. Jesus. What kind of sickness is inside me now? I, I who has never gotten so much as a head cold. Cancer. Christ almighty. I repeat inside my head, the words of the Lords Prayer, seeking comfort in the familiar words. But what would await me in the afterlife? Is there even one? This word, this terror, now it even has me questioning my faith? No. No. I cannot, I will not, I cannot let it take my faith too. It might take my life, and I'm staring Death in the face now. And so, I will not let it have my faith to. I reach out blindly, and my brother grasps my hand.

"Pray with me, Danny?" Through his tears, through mine, we recite the Lords Prayer aloud together. When we both fall silent, I add a plea, not for my life, but for the impact this will have on my family. I plead with God to save my family from the absolute worst of the impact. It's my fight, not theirs. I ask for strength to fight alone. I ask for strength to shield them. I ask for the strength to make this exclusively my fight, not anybody else's.

Dear James

I'm writing this on the road, and I'll post it in Scotland. I'm sorry I never had a chance to tell you in person. I'm moving, me and my family, up to Scotland. There's a reason, but I'll save it for now. I should have called, but I didn't want you to have to hear the last words I say to you be bad news. I'm hoping to take away the worst of the blow by writing it - coward that I am.

I have to tell you now - we may never see each other again. We aren't going to Scotland to be closer to Danny, as you may imagine. No, we're off to Scotland because of me. And look - a tear -drop. I promised myself I wouldn't cry. But now I am. Oh, James. How do I put this into words? Is it possible? But I have too, because you of all people, you need to know. I'm going to ask you to tell the club. Break it as gently as possible, please. I'll give you my address in Scotland - but please don't give it to anybody else.

I've - well. I found a lump. In my breast. It's bad, James. It's really bad. I have advanced aggressive breast cancer. We're going to Scotland so I can start treatment immediately. I've cut my hair off. It's really short. I'm hoping that keeping it very short will mean I don't go completely bald. Not for vanity: but because I don't want my family to have to watch me suffer obviously. It'll be hard enough for them. I'll be going to school here: I'm going for normal. My family don't need to see me be able to do nothing but sit at home, staring at the nothingness, waiting for whatever might happen.

Pray for me, please?

I love you,

H.

I stare out of the window of the service station. Cars drive by on the motorway, speeding along in the summer sun, and I hear the music from some of them, because their windows are down and the music is pounding. I muse on how free they all seem.

"Hermione?" I jerk out of my reverie. "Do you want anything to eat?"

"No thanks, Mum. I'll just have a glass of Diet Coke."

"Are you sure, honey?"

"Positive. I just don't fancy food right now."

The waiter smiles at me when he brings the drinks over.

"I like your hair. It suits you short." I blink. Then I smile.

"Thank you," I murmur. He smiles at me again and then goes back to his post at the counter.

"You know, Spikes, he's right. You do look kinda cute," a boy on the next table says. His mother cuffs him round the head.

"I'm sorry, dear," she says to me. "He forgets it is rude to make personal comments."

"It's fine," I say, blushing. "It's cool."

But all the nice comments can't make me stop feeling self-conscious. I feel like the word "cancer" is tattooed on my forehead. It's like I'm carrying a big bag with a dollar sign on it, wearing a balaclava. I feel like I scream cancer. I don't feel like me, Hermione, anymore.

I feel like cancer.