A/N: Thanks for the reviews & follows. More Tom in the next chapter, I promise!
~oOo~
When Hermione opened her eyes, she half expected to see the old magazines and dental floss adverts of the surgery's waiting room. Instead, she was staring up at a vaulted ceiling. The generic bitter smell of healing salves and potions was in the air; combined with the white sheets covering her, the location was plainly the hospital wing. Pale morning light was filtering through a window behind her, which was strange, because hadn't she been on the way to the Halloween feast?
She swallowed hesitantly, as her throat felt dry and scratchy, and this brought on a bout of familiar coughing followed by a spasm of chest pain.
The coughing had evidently alerted someone, because footsteps began approaching. A plump woman, perhaps in her fifties, appeared through the gap in the curtains surrounding the bed.
"Ah, Miss Granger – you're awake." Hermione was not sure if she was supposed to respond to such an obvious statement – the woman had a kindly face, though something about her manner suggested she had much more important things to do than stand around chatting. She replaced some of the vials on the bedside table and opened the window wide before speaking again.
"I'm Nurse Jeffries," she said, in a solemn tone that somehow served to warn that bad news would immediately follow. "I'm afraid that you're really not well. You're going to be here for quite a while."
Hermione wondered how long quite a while was, but settled for saying, "What happened?"
The nurse clicked her tongue with displeasure. "What happened, young lady, is that you collapsed in the dungeon corridor. You should have come to me a long time ago – your friend Tom says you've been coughing for weeks now."
Several things about that were ringing alarm bells, but she was too tired to query it now. "I thought it was just a cold," she said lamely.
"A cold! Sweet Merlin. You've got tuberculosis, girl, which I'd have thought might have occurred to you given your poor father. We've had to have the whole rest of the school tested for it."
The nurse's displeasure with her barely registered. Instead, she remembered Death's letter, and the phrase burial at the Sanatorium. Of course, she had thought it was a bit strange at the time, but had been too busy being generally upset and angry to give it another thought. Her brain now helpfully supplied that a sanatorium was a special hospital for TB patients.
Nurse Jeffries was still talking; something about having everyone traipsing through the hospital wing for a week, and thankfully none of them had contracted it after all.
Hang on. A week?
"What day is it?"
The nurse raised her eyebrows, obviously a bit irked at being cut off in mid-sentence.
"Wednesday. November the ninth."
Hermione was not really at her mental peak, but she did still remember the date of Halloween. The older woman regarded her shocked expression with a hint of amusement.
"Yes, you've been here for nine nights already - I've had to keep you under a strong sleeping potion to stabilise you. You need nourishment and fresh air now to give your body the best chance to fight the disease."
The wind coming in through the window was already making Hermione shiver viciously.
"What do you mean? Can't you treat it?"
The nurse frowned, and it occurred to Hermione that she probably ought to have known more about the thing that apparently killed her own father.
"I'm afraid there is no treatment, dear, even with magic. We've just got to let nature take its course."
This was the singular least comforting thing Hermione had ever heard, which was particularly impressive considering that she was now immune to dying. Nurse Jeffries was bustling around her again, saving her from trying to make a reply.
"I need you to get out of bed, if you can, so that I can weigh you." Her body felt leaden as she tried to sit up and slide her legs out from under the covers. Stepping onto the scales seemed to take all of her energy.
"Just about four stone and thirteen pounds. Hop off, then. I'm going to send a house elf up with some breakfast, and it's extremely important that you eat as much as you can. We need get some weight on you."
She managed to nod vaguely as she sunk back onto the bed, the nurse plumping the pillows and helping her to sit upright.
"It- it's so cold, please, can I have a blanket?" The air hitting the back of her neck gave her the sensation of being sat in a freezer.
"I'm sorry, dear. I know it feels terrible, but it will help. Breakfast will warm you up."
Breakfast was bacon and eggs and toast, eaten in tiny nibbles under the watchful eye of Tiggy the elf, and it utterly did not warm her up. When the nurse returned with a sleeping draught, she took the proffered oblivion gladly.
~oOo~
The next time Hermione awoke, the room was in shadow but for a slice of bright moonlight filtering through the still-open window. A clear sky meant the temperature was glacial and she burrowed deeper under the covers.
In the silence, with ten days of sleep behind, her mind began to feel sharper. She thought about Ron and Harry, all of her old Professors and classmates, her Mum and Dad. Every time somebody here mentioned her deceased parents, she felt oddly reassured – after all, her real parents were not even born yet.
Her fictitious father had died of tuberculosis. Her fictitious father. And yet, here she lay, with a burning chest pain and terrible cough and wasting away with an illness that was undoubtedly real. This presented her logical mind with a series of options. Number one: she had just happened to catch TB, by coincidence. This seemed about as likely as aviating farmyard animals. So, number two: she had genuinely caught it from her 'father' (when?) or number three: she was given it on purpose, when she became eleven again.
A back story so watertight that she had been given a deadly disease merely to corroborate it?
If there was anyone likely to think such a thing was a good idea, it would naturally be Death.
"I hope you're pleased with yourself." She spoke quietly, to the empty room, to the universe in general, in the way one might speak aloud to a deceased friend on the offchance of them being able to hear. There was a pause, in which she took a drink from a glass of water on the bedside table.
A small object caught her eye as it floated down from somewhere above, coming to rest on the sheets covering her stomach. She reached for it with surprise, which rapidly gave way to incredulity and then resignation but surprisingly little anger. Her eyes, having adjusted to the moonlight, could just about make out the writing.
Merlin, sometimes called the Prince of Enchanters, was the most famous wizard who ever lived. He is best known as a member of the court of King Arthur, but little is known about his life.
The idea of Death leaving a calling card seemed quite reasonable – if a little cliché – but the idea of that card being literally a card, a chocolate frog card, was ludicrous at best. She had no idea what to make of it, just rolled her eyes and turned it over idly. On the other side, luminous familiar handwriting covered the picture of Merlin.
Never underestimate the power of the ultimate proof.
~oOo~
By the third time Hermione awoke in the Hospital Wing, on Thursday morning, the novelty had well and truly worn off. She was frozen and uncomfortable, everything hurt and there was absolutely nothing to do to take her mind off it. The Merlin card was gone, and she might have thought she had imagined the whole thing if it weren't for the belief that her subconscious could never come up with something so stupid.
After Tiggy had once again supervised her eating breakfast, she asked the little elf if she knew where her belongings had been left. Madness was a real possibility if she had to spend the whole day in bed without a book.
"Miss Hermione is supposed to rest," said Tiggy, clearly in a state of some conflict.
"Were you told not to bring me my things?"
"Mistress Jeffries says Miss Hermione must not to be straining herself, or she gets poorly." The tips of Tiggy's ears drooped downwards, and she wore a desolate sort of expression, shuffling her tiny feet. Hermione could not bear to upset her.
"Oh. Never mind. Perhaps you could ask Nurse Jeffries if she thinks I can have a book to read. Just for a while. Only, there's nothing to do here." Tiggy's expression brightened slightly.
"Tiggy will ask." The elf disappeared with the breakfast tray, and she was once again left alone with her thoughts.
Perhaps the time here was a blessing in disguise; going to classes had been extremely tedious, after all. After everything else that had happened, this was a picnic really. No use getting upset about it. Just have to make the best of it, use the time wisely. No books at the moment – think – just think, as should have happened first before diving headlong into the library.
Hermione had always had the tendency to throw herself into research with the blindness of the over-eager, berating herself later on for not considering the problem more carefully before beginning. She simply struggled to dampen her initial enthusiasm long enough to think things right through, even though she knew it would likely save time in the long run.
So, that morning for the first time, she closed her eyes and simply thought. She thought of Tom Riddle, of his childhood and his motives and his future. She thought of the powerful families, the Malfoys and Lestranges and Fawleys and Macmillans. She thought of politics, the Wizengamot and Grindelwald and Hitler. She thought of Dark magic and defence, charms and curses, of the nature of power. She thought of Hogwarts, the Chamber of Secrets, the merpeople and the centaurs and the house elves. She thought of duels and outcomes and the passage of time and the nature of dying. She thought of Death and chocolate frogs and the Hallows. She thought of horcruxes and sea caves and giant snakes and the sword of Gryffindor. She thought of Hogsmeade and secret passages and the room of requirement and vanishing cabinets.
Tiggy and the nurse came and went, believing her to be asleep.
When Hermione finally opened her eyes, she felt a kind of peaceful clarity that she had only previously experienced in the surgery waiting room – while dead. The future was uncertain, but she could prepare. At the top of the list: make a Marauder's Map. Become an animagus. Remove horcrux books from the library. Find the Deathly Hallows. Develop wandless magic. Develop non-verbal magic.
It was probably a bit too much work for this afternoon, but she would get right on it.
~oOo~
Thursday became Friday and Friday became Saturday, and Hermione began to grow restless. The pain in her chest was perhaps a little better, and she had gained a pound which seemed to please the nurse. Encouraged, she had asked how much longer before she could go back to lessons.
"Dear me," came the response, delivered with an expression which was perhaps meant to be reassuring, "it's going to be several months at best, until you're not contagious. The last time someone caught it here, they were sent home for nearly two years. The headmaster's been talking with your uncle, though, and in light of your circumstances it's been decided that you can stay with us. The teachers are going to send up your homework once you're a bit better – we'll make you your own little space up here."
There was a touch of forced over-positivity to the speech, which spoke a very loud subtext. If you ever get better. If you don't die first. Hermione had no idea how to respond. Eventually she said:
"Can I have my things back now? I'm feeling better, I won't overstretch myself."
The nurse considered for a moment – perhaps deciding whether she was close enough to death's door to be eligible for some version of oh-okay-what-the-hell-you're-going-to-snuff-it-anyway.
"Well, I think it's a bit soon still… maybe in a couple of days, if you put on another pound." She wavered, looking undecided. "Erm, the house elf was offering, I think, to read to you."
The older witch's opinion on house elves and reading was very easy to determine, and Hermione couldn't help herself from narrowing her eyes.
"Please tell Tiggy that that would be very nice." Nurse Jeffries looked surprised and affronted, but made a sort of nodding gesture before bustling away.
It was barely a minute before the little elf appeared, clutching a well-worn copy of a book Hermione would recognise anywhere. She felt a rush of affection and the familiar sadness at how so many other people seemed to treat the creatures.
"Tiggy! Oh, it's lovely to see you. Is that Tales of Beedle the Bard?"
Tiggy nodded enthusiastically, and hopped up onto the chair by the bed. The book, though not particularly large, completely obscured her from view when she opened it. The sight was comically endearing.
"There were once, three brothers. who were. trav-el-ling. along a lone-ly. w-winding road at. T-. T-"
"Twilight," said Hermione, gently.
"Oh! Bad Tiggy, stupid Tiggy. Tiggy will-"
"No!" she interrupted. "No, Tiggy, I'm sorry. It was lovely reading. I was just trying to help. Nobody gets it right all the time."
A little snout appeared over the top of the book.
"Miss Hermione likes Tiggy's reading?"
"Of course I do. It's very kind of you."
There was a pause, punctuated by tiny sniffling sounds. Hermione considered all the things she knew about house elves, before saying carefully,
"Tiggy, I'd really like to see the pictures. Would you mind sitting up here next to me?"
Tiggy's big green eyes looked thoughtful, but then she carefully clambered onto the bed and opened the book out between them.
When the elf began to read again, slowly, Hermione made sure to look happy and didn't interrupt even when some of the words got mixed up or came out a bit wrong.
"-and then he. gree-ted. Death as an. old. fri- friend. and went with him. Gladly. and, as. e- equals. they de-part-ed. this. life."
Tiggy took lots of big breaths and looked very proud of herself.
"Thank you," said Hermione, after a while. "That's my favourite one."
"Tiggy's favourite too!" Then she added, thoughtfully, "The other elfs is saying it silly. Saying it not real."
"Do you think it's real?"
Tiggy looked uneasy, as if she might be about to be laughed at.
"I think it's real," she reassured. Tiggy grinned.
"Tiggy hears stories, about student who has special cloak. Tiggy goes to look. Bad Tiggy, sneaking about in wizard's things. Tiggy had to put out kitchen fire with bare hands."
Hermione winced.
"It's normal to be curious," she said, trying to calm the elf down. "It was Fleamont, wasn't it? Fleamont Potter. I won't tell anyone."
Tiggy's eyes went wide, and she gave a tiny nod before shutting the book and clambering down from the bed.
Just before she turned to go, she looked up sheepishly and said, "Tiggy reads to Miss Hermione again tomorrow?"
Hermione smiled.
"I'm already looking forward to it," she said, and found it to be entirely true. Tiggy disappeared, beaming.
~oOo~
Reading with Tiggy quickly became the highlight of each passing day, and she found that after a few sessions the elf would let herself be corrected and started to get noticeably better. Hermione felt an almost unreasonable amount of pride, and again wondered why more wizards did not acknowledge the intelligence of their servants. Sometimes she scolded herself for spending time with Tiggy instead of doing something more obviously useful, but it just felt important somehow.
In the last week of November, the first blizzard of winter arrived through the open window. Hermione felt a vague hope that she might be allowed to close it, but no such luck; Nurse Jeffries simply cast a charm to repel the snowflakes. The manic shouting of the season's opening snowball fight drifted up through the frozen air, and for a while she allowed herself to succumb to her own loneliness. It was a sensation far sharper than any symptom of the disease.
A scattering of snowflakes had made their way onto the flagstone floor before the repelling charm was cast, and as she watched they began to rise and clump together. It was strange, but she always found pure magic easier to achieve when very upset or stressed. She focussed hard, willing the little pieces into a ball. When this did indeed happen, her excitement must have dropped her concentration because the ball fell back to the floor with a tiny crunch.
Her energy felt totally drained by that minor force of will; it was not clear whether it was entirely due to the illness or merely lack of ability or practice. In her mind's eye, a giant wave crashed over a tiny boat with a deafening roar. Tom's power was so much greater than hers, and though she had plenty of other advantages over him, she was desperate to catch up. Hogwarts taught spells, and she was good at them, but what she needed more was magic. A deeper understanding of magical power in all of its many ancient forms. There was an endless amount of work ahead; a heavy burden to bear, alone.
Outside the hospital wing, school life continued as it always had done. Almost nobody even remembered the small, quiet girl who had gone away. None ever visited. Hermione spent her days planning and thinking and learning, trying to be grateful for the peace. Not for the first time, she wondered what the future would hold.
~oOo~