Disclaimer: I don't own HP, sadly!

A/N: First off, I just want to give a huge THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed!!! I can't believe you guys are so great. It really, really made my week. :)

Anyway, here's chapter two - sorry if it's a bit short. I've already got the third one written, so expect updates on a weekly basis, okay? Okay, sounds good.

"You ready to go?" Seamus asked the Attending.

A man dressed in formal, dark blue robes stood next to him, holding half of a stretcher. He was one of three attending nurses sent by St. Mungos to help The Order deliver Agent 21 to her hospice. The man nodded softly and shifted the weight of the handles to a more comfortable position.

Seamus straightened the collar on his own robes before ringing the doorbell. He couldn't believe it had already been a week since he had seen Ron – since he had stood here, on the man's porch, about to deliver the shock of his life – and wondered how their intended meeting would go.

Ron had caved in an hour after Seamus gave up. He had fallen asleep for a pinch, awakening to the sound of Ron's voice agreeing to the deal. They went over a plan and eventually, Ron edged his way out of the bathroom looking as if he had lost a pint of blood. He was shaky and snappish and rude, but Seamus didn't mind. He had finally found a place for Hermione to recuperate in peace and quiet, with no threat from The Shop at all.

Seamus smiled as a small craving voiced itself in the back of his head: how he wished Harry was there with him. Harry could deliver her, calm Ron down, and sort the whole mess out. Harry could do anything. He shook his head, frowned, squared his shoulders, and waited.

The door swung open and Ron backed away from the entrance slowly and silently. Seamus looked over his shoulder at the three men and cocked his head, a motion to say 'let's go.' The group of men walked in without speaking and Ron led them upstairs to his bedroom. He only had one bed and that would be for Hermione to use. He had already configured the coat closet into a makeshift guest room for himself.

Seamus lagged behind in the doorframe and watched as the men carefully placed a limp, lithe body upon the neatly made bed. The curtains were drawn on the windows above the bed, but small rays of moonlight crept through the fabric and lay lazily across her pale face and skinny limbs. One of the nurses covered her with a quilt, then turning to help the other two set up a medicine table.

His head snapped up when he heard the floorboards creak behind him. Ron was standing a few feet behind him at the top of the stairs, looking haggard and weary.

"You're doing a good thing," Seamus assured him, his past anger completely vanquished. Now he only felt sympathy for the man standing in front of him.

Ron nodded solemnly. "I have to," he answered quietly.

Seamus silently led them down the stairs and into the kitchen. He helped himself to the pot of hot coffee and poured an extra mug for Ron. As he handed the cup to his comrade, Seamus asked, "Did anyone stop by or let you know what you're supposed to do or how any of this is going to work?"

Ron shook his head, accepting the mug as if it were offered to him by a stranger. He stared at it, seemingly amazed. "I got an owl that told me I'd be paid monthly for her expenses, but that was it."

Seamus nodded, feeling an incredible sense of pity for Ron. He didn't know all the details, but he knew that after the war ended, Ron and Hermione had grown very close. It ended badly a year later and she had gone undercover – he never heard from her until the past week. Considering Ron's unforgiving qualities and Hermione's determination to stay hidden, Seamus guessed that whatever transpired between them must've hurt them both very badly.

"Well, yeah, you'll get a sum for her food and dress," he validated Ron's statement and went on. "Hermione sleeps all day. She's not in a coma, but we keep her in one for the time being. She's hurt," he sighed heavily, "she's been hurt very badly. Her body can't cope with staying awake and managing to heal itself at the same time."

He dug into his pockets and produced a list. He held it out in front of him, taking a sip of the coffee. "This is a list of the medication she's on right now – mostly it's just a sleeping draught, a calming draught, a healing draught, a weekly bath in murtlap –"

"I studied potions intensively… for years," Ron snapped softly, "I know how to care for everything. I know all my advanced charms. I'm not a buffoon – I don't need a list."He waved away the scrap of paper and walked across the kitchen, his feet shuffling softly beneath him, the mug still hot in his grasp.

"I know," Seamus sighed, knowing how intelligent Ron actually was in the field of healing. It was his specialty and probably the reason Hermione had chosen him as her Contact Number One.

"Just tell me the hexes they hit her with and what she's taking right now. I know what to do after that," Ron mumbled, dumping his drink down the sink and nestling the small of his back against the edge of the countertop.

Seamus studied his friend in his state of stupor. Ron was a tall man – a very tall man – standing at six-five. He had rust-colored hair that was usually kept extremely short and vibrant blue eyes that shone out over his mass of freckles. But now, somehow, Ron seemed muted. His slump reduced him to a smaller man. His pallor was pale, his eyes dull, and his hair non-existent. He was wilting.

"She's not going to improve for several weeks," Seamus began again, the paper still lying between his fingers. "So the routine is pretty simple. You won't have to feed her much – just make sure she stays comfortable."

"I know what to do," Ron repeated in that strange, calm manner. He studied the floor. "And I will."

Seamus nodded, standing by his friend. He placed a hand upon Ron's skinny shoulder. "She needs you… and all of us at The Order thank you greatly, Ron. She probably wouldn't survive if it weren't for you."

Ron nodded slightly, his head wobbling upon his neck.

"She's sleeping right now, o'course," Seamus continued, "You probably won't have to see her until tomorrow afternoon. She needs that murtlap bath-"

"I get it, mate," Ron repeated, finally looking Seamus in the eye. "I understand you." His eyes shut and his hand ravaged quickly over his sunken face. "I just don't know how I'm going to get through this. If it were anyone else…"

His voice trailed off into nothingness. The two men stood in the cramped kitchen of Ron's flat and listened to the footsteps above them. They heard the muted voices of the nurses and the soft dragging of furniture legs against the honeyed oak floors. It seemed calming, soothing, to both of their minds. A tranquil peace settled on the friendship between them – Seamus realized that Ron was just being Ron, but had manned up in the end. Ron understood that Seamus was just doing what The Order wanted him to do, but still held a minute amount of resentment towards him.

Seamus and the St. Mungos staff left a little while later. Ron closed the front door quietly, the list of Hermione's daily schedule – and those to come – clutched in a cold fist. He watched them shuffle down to the corner of his street and apparate, and then went directly to the kitchen to pour himself a large glass of brandy.

Sitting nestled in his living room chair, Ron watched the fire crackle and dance. He sipped the alcohol and reveled in its warm aftertaste. He thought of his guest sleeping soundly in his bed upstairs. He sat unmoving for an hour or so, before setting the half-empty glass on the floor and hesitantly climbing the stairs. He felt sufficiently numb enough to endure whatever sight was held behind his bedroom door. Once his hand was on the knob, twisting it lightly, Ron realized he was about to see Hermione for the first time in two years. He stopped immediately.

What would she look like? The last he saw of her, she was a small thing guising a very powerful body. Her eyes were a dark green and her hair swirled down to her waist. He still remembered the way it swished the last day they had been together – the way her soft curls had discretely moved against her face as she turned to walk out the door to go to the market. She had been dressed in her jeans and jumper, her hair let down in all its glory, a brilliant smile beaming from behind her soft, red lips.

And then she had simply vanished.

Ron's hand hurt as he griped the knob tightly, the edges of the glass cutting into his palm. He turned it with a jerk and the door fell open in front of him. His first couple of steps were cautious and clumsy – as if he were entering the room for the first time.

Actually, the room had changed since he had been in there last. The usually small room had doubled in size. There were windows lining every wall with heavy curtains drawn over them. There was a fireplace against the main wall, crackling and dancing just like the one he had been sitting in front of minutes ago. His bed had been pushed against the wall to his right – into the corner. The bureau was in the other corner, two suitcases sitting next to it. To his left was his desk and another – new – table with bottles and rags adorning it.

A list was tacked to the fireplace – more instructions, Ron guessed, about how to care for a woman he had known practically his entire life. He cursed internally and stepped fully into the room, a new rug under his bare feet. He barely noticed.

Ron was almost scared to look at the body occupying his bed. He hated everything there was about Hermione Granger, but his curiosity slightly muted his anger for the time being. He was more interested in knowing what had happened to her – had she grown? Had she shrunk? Faded? Or simply become more beautiful?

He felt a burning sensation flow through his face as he approached the stranger, his chest expanding and contracting alarmingly fast. Soon, Ron was standing close enough to the bed to reach out and touch her – to stroke what was left of her hair, to smooth the blankets covering her broken body, to grasp her frail hand and press it to his cheek. But he did none of that – instead, he merely stared. Open-mouthed and still, Ron looked upon the woman he once knew.

Hermione had not shrunk, had not grown, had not faded, and had not become more beautiful. She was still the same physical body he knew. Ron recognized her petite, rose-colored mouth, set nose, and arched eyebrows under all the bruises and stark-white bandages. He instantly discerned her dark lashes and amazingly tiny ears poking out from beneath her gruesome façade. Hermione was still Hermione, albeit the bleeding lip and broken nose. She had a settled, assured face – Ron assumed that she still retained the same endearing and hard mindset she had left with.

Then, Ron was crumpled on the ground, crying. His legs were twisted beneath him, his arms thrown over his head, his face contorted horrifically. She was so small, just lying there, looking as if she was supposed to be there, so sure of herself even in so much pain. He couldn't believe that she was really back. He had just imagined it as a dream before – but now he had tangible proof of her existence.

Ron wept for a while. His great gasps and heaves settled into useless whimpering and coughs. He held his face in his hands, feeling his tears drip through his fingers and puddle on the floor. Then, he got up and walked to the guest room, his mind devoid of any rational thought.

He promptly fell asleep.

A/N: Did you like it???? It's kind of hard writing when there's only one concious person in the whole story. :/ It gets better, though.

Please leave a review - suggestions are welcome. :)

Love, Katie