Every week I checked to make sure he was still alive. He never saw me. I didn't exactly try to make my presence known either. It was never about me really, but I felt like I owed him something. Unable to repay a debt so huge. So instead I visited St. Mungo's. At first I never ventured further than just outside his door, looking in through the small window and seeing his long frame lying on the bed. As time passed I dared to go in. But only after making sure he was sleeping first, or unconscious. If he was fully awake I never stayed longer than a few minutes outside his door. I never spoke. Words were useless when push came to shove. What could I say anyway? I don't blame you for what your aunt did. Thank you for helping Harry. It all seemed… inconsequential somehow. Meaningless really. I had been visiting him regularly for three months and then he got better. He was awake every time I got to his door, every week. It made me bitter, a sick monster in my stomach yelled and stomped on the ground like a child, screaming: why did you take it away from me? Because if he was awake I couldn't visit him anymore. It was stupid. I knew. But still it had become a routine. It had relaxed me, having somewhere to be every week. I had looked forward to it. It was a reprieve from the funerals. From the quiet dinners at the Burrow where no one dared speak a word because it might remind people of how it used to be. Anything could trigger it. A tiny thought, a small "can you pass the potatoes" could have you remembering something silly Fred would have said. It was a reprieve from the immense guilt every time I held little Teddy. None of this was fair but his little eyes and brightly changing hair-colour haunted me the most. I had decided, one night after not visiting at all for a whole week that I would visit him one more time and then call it quits. This wasn't healthy and I knew that too. I had to stop, it was stalker-ish really. So, I made a plan, a step-by-step guide to my last visiting day.
That morning I got up and dressed in my fancy muggle pantsuit, it made me feel more on top of things, like I had control over something. It gave me the courage I'd been lacking for a long time. My heels clicked on the street as I jogged over to the coffee cart and got myself a latte, double this time around. On the way, I bought a single pink rose, it smelled comforting. Determined I walked down the hall toward his room and was thankful when peering in that it was empty. I opened the door, cautious that he might still be inside but out of my line of sight. Nothing. Going up to his bed I pulled up the chart and read what the doctors and nurses had scribbled most recently. He would be discharged soon. It was a good thing I decided to stop this, it would have driven me mad coming here every week and then one moment he wouldn't be here anymore. This was good, getting closure. I conjured a thin, long vase on the food-tray beside his bed and placed the pink rose there. It looked nice. I lightly touched the tousled bedding before turning to leave.
"Granger."
His voice was light, breathier than anything I had ever heard from him before. But I hadn't really seen him, not really been anywhere near him for so long. I couldn't get myself to look up into his face. The man I had an image of lying in the bed behind me was frail, weak and ill. It was not the boy who had taunted me in school. Yes, I knew how that sounded. I had made quite a good delusion of him in my mind. I knew that the real thing could never be what I had glorified him to be. People don't change like that.
"That for me?"
I could hear the smirk in his voice. Amazing how things didn't change. I should have known better. It was stupid of me to come here. Pushing my feet forward I headed to the door, promising myself to let the tears fall when I was outside. His arm grabbed mine, surprisingly strong for someone that had been bed-ridden for months.
"Granger?"
Gods his voice was soft. This couldn't really be him, could it? Had he ever spoken to me directly before, ever? I couldn't recall a time except to insult me. I wanted to steel my expression, make it the cool mask he could but I had always worn my heart on my sleeve. That hadn't changed. So instead, I simply prepared for the sneer on his face and willed away my tears. He didn't really deserve them, did he? Looking up I saw that I had been wrong. The sneer wasn't there. Not even a smirk. Just a curious, uncertain look. His hold on me slackened. I didn't trust my voice. Who was he? The man I had come to visit and made up into something fantastical, or the boy who had taunted me for years? Or maybe someone completely different.
"Thank you," he said.
What did he have to thank me for? What had I ever done for him? Loathed him for his hatred, for his prejudice. Judged him as he had judged me. Physically hurt him one year. Discredited him and blamed him for all the wrongs in my life at one point. He had never deserved that of course, but an angry, grieving teenager did whatever emotion drove her to.
"D'you want to get a drink? Talk for a bit." He gestured to the crutch in his hand, something I hadn't noticed till now. "Cafeteria drinks aren't ideal but with this I can't go much further anyway." I simply stared, it was like my voice grew wings and decided to fly far far away. "Please?" He finished and I numbly nodded my head. His arm linked with mine and he walked me to the cafeteria, half in a daze.
Orange juice in hand we sat opposite each other on uncomfortable hospital benches. I took small sips here and there, the tang settling on my tongue but not bringing it to life.
"Why are you here Granger?"
I shook my head. I didn't have an answer any more than he did. I had never really known why, it was just something I did. Brought me some kind of comfort, I guess. Stableness in a crumbling world. His hand reached over and a finger grazed the back of my hand and I dared to look him in the eye. His touch scarred my skin, making an invisible mark only I could feel and it rest there and spread because his hand stayed on mine.
"Why are you the only one that visits me? After everything…" He shook his head, blonde locks falling almost to his eyes and I wanted to push it back. A stupid thought. "I don't deserve it, Granger. I would have thought you and Potter and Weasley meet up and laugh about the justice of me being left alone in this world. Getting what I deserved for my wrongdoings." Here he took a breath, shoving his hair back only tangling it more. "So, why? The nurses say you're here almost every week. I know it's you too," he said with a smile. "Your hair is unmistakable, even when described. Maybe I'm delusional and you're visiting someone else this entire time and I'm probably making more out of this than it is. Being cooped up in here is doing wonders for my psyche," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Please just tell me, put me out of my misery and remind me of my place." He looked into my eyes, and his hand squeezed mine. "Being crushed under your shoe as the filth I am."
My tongue loosened from the roof of my mouth and I shook my head. How could he think so low of himself? After all those years of being kind of the world he had finally been knocked down, not only a peg but lower than the ground. He saw himself as filth. He saw himself the way he had demeaned me to be; made for the mud. But that wasn't what he was. Wasn't where he belonged. The fact that he thought that showed he had changed. Right? God, could I even depend on my own thoughts anymore? Maybe I had gone completely crazy after everything. I wanted to convince myself that he wasn't real, but the grip on my hand, the warmth of his touch was all too real.
"I know you don't want to be here," he said after a silence that stretched too long for his bravery to hold on. His hand retreating back to his empty juice glass. "I forced you to sit with me, I'm sorry. I don't deserve an explanation, I know."
My hand reached over and took his again, greedily seeking his warmth. My hands had been empty and cold for too long. It felt right to hold something so warm, so real.
"No," I said, finally, as my voice returned. Wanting to convey my feelings, the strange urge to tell him everything without really saying a word. To tell him in short terms that I now saw him, maybe not for what he was, but for what he could be. For what we could be. "You deserve so much more."
Author's note: Writing prompt from a random sentence generator: "I checked to make sure he was still alive." The characters are not mine, I simply write about what could have been, all rights go to J.K. Rowling. Enjoy.