A Victory Twice Itself

Hermione awoke to the familiar scent of an infirmary. Her head hurt; her entire body hurt in fact, with aching muscles and legs that felt like they had been put through an industrial press, and what must be a cracked rib from where Harry had landed-

Harry.

In a moment she was back in that chamber, cradling her dying friend to her chest. She could feel the warmth leaving his body, her hands growing cold at the touch. She shivered, and drew a great breath as she felt the urge to scream, but her rib failed her. She coughed; the pain that brought sent her into a spasming fit, her broken body torturing itself.

"Miss Granger!" someone cried, placing their hand on her shoulder a second later. "Otium doloris!"

The pain retreated somewhat, allowing Hermione to control her breathing again, though she felt an urge to hyperventilate for reasons other than physical pain.

Harry. Harry's dead. He died in the chamber. I couldn't save him. Someone came and saved me, but I couldn't save him. What must they have thought when they saw his body, laying there under the cloak… When they saw… under the cloak… What if they didn't find him? Is he still down there?

"Harry," she croaked out, unable to say anything more.

"You need to focus on your own recovery, dear. You can't do anything for Mr Potter in this state."

I couldn't do anything for him when I was healthy. And now no-one can do anything for him.

She tried to get up, to leave; infirmaries were for people who wanted to heal. Her effort amounted to a pathetic flailing of one arm.

"No need for that, child. Rest. You can see him in a few days."

They found him. That's good, but…

"A few days?" Hermione puzzled, focusing better as the pain fully receded. "How long was I sleeping? Is the f-funeral so soon?"

"What funeral, dear?"

"Harry… He… Huh?"

"Oh!" her attendant gasped. "Oh, you wouldn't know! Oh, honey, he isn't dead! He was very badly injured, but I'm told he'll pull through."

The woman's words made no sense. No sense at all. Hermione's own head was messed up enough, without this woman putting more confusion into it.

"Don't lie to make me feel better!" Hermione shouted at her. "I know he's dead; I was there! I felt him.. I heard his… He died!"

The hand on her shoulder was joined by another taking her hand.

"One could argue he died, but he isn't dead."

"So… he's a ghost?" she puzzled groping for some explanation, and if she was honest, the chance to speak to Harry again. Ghost Harry would still be her best friend. She wouldn't leave him to sulk in a bathroom like poor Myrtle.

"Heavens no, dear, he's very much alive in the normal sense. His heart had stopped, but they managed to bring him back."

"No, that can't be right… He was gone for so long… minutes, even before I… and however long it took for someone to find us… Brain death sets in after…"

Hermione knew plenty about the death of nerve cells, having some herself, and there was no way the nurse wasn't lying to her. No amount of magical bullshit could reverse brain death. No way, no how.

"You may know your medicine, child, but no need to worry about brain death; the doctors said he'd only been gone a minute at most when he was found, and Dumbledore brought him back right away."

Now she was just wrong. Harry had been gone for minutes even before Hermione lost consciousness under his body, she was sure of that much.

"A minute… No, you're not listening, he was gone for too long! He should be dead! He's dead! I couldn't save him and he's dead!"

"Magic," Albus Dumbledore interrupted from somewhere across the room, "is a most wondrous thing, would you not agree, Ms Granger? What a muggle would call impossible, and in their own way be correct, can be accomplished with the wave of a wand."

"Dumbledore! Why is she saying Harry's alive?"

"Why, because he is."

His tone was so soft, so comforting, she could almost believe it.

"What did you do?"

"Me? Very little; a simple revival spell was enough to welcome Harry back to the land of the living. Perhaps a better question is, what did you do?"

"I… Nothing… I couldn't do anything."

"Is that so?" Dumbledore mulled as he approached. "Is that why a boy who was found, by your account over ten minutes after his 'death', came back so readily? Why in those minutes his soul had made so little movement away from its body - a body still cradled in your arms?"

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying you are quite right in asserting that, by all rights, Harry should have died in that chamber, yet for reasons unknown he did not. It seems you were the only one conscious and with him; I was rather hoping you would be able to explain how you managed to cheat his death?"

Hermione shook her head at the next set of words which made no sense to her. Cheat his death?

"I don't understand; I didn't do anything. I was so… so powerless!" she cried bitterly. "I just let him die!"

"And yet he is not dead," Dumbledore reiterated slowly, "which rather implies you did not let him die at all."

"I didn't save him."

"Then pray tell who did?" he gently challenged.

"I don't know! He survived You-Know-Who once, maybe that magic saved him again!"

"An interesting hypothesis, but one I have already ruled out. You see, on that fateful night Harry was saved by an act of sacrificial love, when his mother gave her life to protect him. It protected him only from He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named; it would not have saved him from the injuries the basilisk inflicted. That would have required an entirely new act of such magic."

Her mind put two and two together. The trouble was it came back with five.

"Are you saying I...? But I clearly didn't sacrifice myself…"

The bed creaked as Dumbledore used it to lean closer and said, "the sacrifice is, perhaps, not so important as the love."

Hermione's brain did a double-take at the idea that maybe she was responsible for some kind of life-saving magic. Then it upgraded its confusion to a triple-take as the final word seemed to echo in the room.

"But.. I don't love Harry."

"No? Is he not a dear friend?"

"Yes, but-"

"And is friendship not a form of love?"

"Well I suppose, but it's not like being in love, is it?"

"And I trust you are comparing it to your many experiences in both regards?" he said with mirth.

Hermione blushed. "So you really think I did some sort of 'love magic' to save Harry?"

"I have, quite frankly, entirely no idea what you did," Dumbledore admitted easily, "only that it was not nothing, and that love is as good a reason as any for your friend's soul to have remained by your side."

"That makes it sound as if he loves me."

"Does he not? Are you not his friend, as he is yours?"

"Yes, but… he's not really… he doesn't do all that emotional stuff."

"No, no of course not," Dumbledore chuckled. "Other than rushing off into a basilisk's lair to save one friend, and then placing himself between it and another; but such anomalies can be ignored, I'm sure."

"You really think he loves me?"

"You will be able to ask him for yourself soon enough. Although I would caution you to be careful with the word 'love'; boys of a certain age are ever so inept at discussing such matters with clear heads."

"He is alive, isn't he? Truly?"

"He truly is."

Her next heartbeat threatened to punch its way out of her chest, as what they were telling her finally sank in at the emotional level. Harry was alive, and…

"Oh!" she cried. "What about Ginny, is she…?"

"Perfectly with us, and recovering with her family."

"Thank God!"

"I think she might be inclined to thank her friends instead," Dumbledore corrected with a mirth that died between one sentence and the next. "There was, unfortunately, one casualty in your valiant rescue effort."

Hermione barely born elation died like it had struck a brick wall.

"Lockhart," she murmured.

"An investigation into his death was launched when it was found that the venomous bite which killed him did not come from any basilisk. Madam Bones herself wishes to speak with you at the earliest opportunity. But, for now, you look as though you need more rest. I shall tell her to come by tomorrow."

His voice was receding as he spoke; his footfalls were silent.

"Headmaster!" she called, hoping he had not yet reached the door.

"Yes, Ms Granger?"

"Could you get a message to Harry?"

"I do not believe he has woken yet, but I could certainly leave a note at his bedside."

"If you would? Could you just write…"

It would be three days before Harry noticed a slip of parchment folded up on the bedside table. How didn't I see that? It's right where my glasses were… Oh, right. He lifted it, gingerly, and unfolded it to find just four words. Despite not being in her signature misaligned script, he knew immediately who they were from; the proof that she was safe brought a much needed smile to his swollen lips. The words themselves helped as well, as he couldn't remember much of his near death experience but knew exactly why she had chosen them. He knew why he had chosen them; he had thought them his last words, and there had been this one thing he wanted to tell her. One thing he needed her to know.

'You were brilliant too.'

The comfort of her words was enough to take him back into the blissful, drug induced sleep from which he had only just awoken.

The first day Harry was awake - once a nurse came round and realised as they apparently hadn't expected him wakeful for more several hours - was quite chaotic. There was always someone at his bedside, waving a wand or pushing a potion down his throat. He drifted in and out of consciousness, waking up at one point with a tube feeding into his arm; they'd cut a hole in his sleeve to get to his skin, rather than roll them up, which he appreciated even if his addled brain couldn't quite remember why that mattered. He might have figured it out if the funny animals swimming around in the ceiling hadn't started calling his name and distracted him until he woke again with the tube gone.

The second day he was much more present, though most of it was still spent sleeping; one of his nurses explained magical pain potions didn't conflict with morphine, so he was on a considerable dose of both. He didn't see why; he wasn't in any pain at all, although his forehead did itch under all the bandages, and try as he might he couldn't seem to move his legs at all. At least he had found Hermione's note that day. His addled brain couldn't decide what was more important; legs or the note.

The third day he woke to a lower dose of painkillers and feeling in his legs, and rather wished he hadn't. After his screaming brought a healer running to sort that out - whatever they did, he woke up two hours later in much more manageable pain but still with his head clear of heavy potions. He took that as a good sign, as did the staff of St Mungo's, who signed him off to be returned to the Hogwarts infirmary under Pomfrey's care. No one ever explained the reasoning behind moving him, but he wasn't complaining as they slid his bed through the massive fireplace floo.

Madam Pomfrey was there waiting for him, wheeling him down to the end and erecting privacy screens, even though the infirmary was empty - completely empty. Neville and Colin weren't there, but the beds were, which was either good news or terrible. Pomfrey caught Harry's look, smiled broadly, and nodded at him, which was enough.

Then she took it upon herself to be the first healer to actually explain to Harry the extent of his injuries, and the treatment he had been receiving.

"Your sciatic nerve was entirely crushed," she told him suddenly as she was running a diagnostic sweep, "along with significant damage to your lower vertebrae as a whole, which is why you couldn't feel your legs to begin with. One kidney was perforated, so you'll be on a very strict dietary plan while it heals. The worst injuries were a whole plethora of internal bleeding sites. All in all you're extremely fortunate to be with us, young man."

"That sounds bad," Harry agreed.

Healing was definitely not his forte.

"It was. But that isn't all," she said, her tone shifting from stern and business-like to soft and sympathetic. "There were a number of injuries we were unable to heal fully. Where the basilisk venom contacted your skin, you'll have a number of permanent scars. The splash to your forehead had burned its way completely through to your skull, and Doctor Miguel theorises it was only instinctive magic on your part which prevented it reaching your brain." - Harry reached up to feel it, but his head was still bandaged - "You have a number of lesser flecks as well, all across your face and chest, although thankfully none worse than the average dragonpox scar."

Madam Pomfrey gave him her best reassuring smile, forced as it was, and reached a hand out to him; when he flinched away it stopped and hovered just above his arm.

"Your entire body was put under healing magic in some form or another. While we were there, we tried to patch up everything we could, but some injuries" - she looked pointedly, and sorrowfully, at the arm she was almost touching - "refused to heal, despite our best efforts."

"Thank you for trying," Harry muttered, disappointed but unsurprised.

His luck was just like that when it came to certain things.

"You need more rest," Pomfrey advised as she finished her scans. "Should you require any other assistance, do let me know. " - he noted her eyes hadn't left his arm for some time - "Any at all."

"That's alright, madam," he assured her with a weak smile he didn't feel, "I'm ok."

"Miraculously," she murmured darkly as she left him to get some sleep.

Harry laid back into his pillow, pulled the covers up over his body, and had, for a myriad of reasons, a good long cry. He was healed - mostly. He was alright - relatively. His friends lived. Given all he had been through, he wasn't going to be greedy and ask for any more than that.

When Pomfrey finally relented to Harry having visitors, two days later than he felt was necessary, there were quite a few well-wishers, even after narrowing it down to those with a real claim to seeing him first. He found out about this when they came surging through the infirmary doors all at once, forming a buzzing crowd around the foot of his bed. He smiled broadly, taking in the faces of friends he had briefly thought he would never see again, especially happy to see Neville and Colin among them. But his eyes skimmed over them all as he searched for one in particular.

He found her at the back of the pack, walking in slowly, making no fuss even as her hands trembled. She looked good; not half the pale waif he presumed he was, even though a basilisk had fallen on her as much as him. There was a little patch of red skin on her cheek that had not been there before, a scar persisting despite the magical healing she would have received. He hoped it wouldn't bother her, as he hoped he wouldn't come to be bothered by his own new markings.

This pack of friends vied for his attention, all bringing their own vocalisations of goodwill and desire to know he was doing ok, but when Hermione arrived they parted wordlessly to let her through. That, Harry thought, was how he knew they truly cared for him; they knew what he needed of them before he had to ask.

But Hermione knew what he needed even when he claimed the opposite. Hermione had charged headlong into mortal peril at his side, without a word against such recklessly Gryffindorish action, because he needed her to. More, even; she had encouraged him as his own courage was flagging. The expression on her face promised an earful once they were alone, and he didn't know whether it would be for acting the idiotic hero, or expecting for a single second she might let him do it alone. He'd take the lashing either way, if only to know things were alright; to know she was alright.

"Harry," she said, her voice cutting through the rest like chaff. To anyone else, she would have sounded mad. Harry could tell she was actually closer to laughing, or crying, or both. "If you ever die on me again, I'll leave you like that."

"I thought I did a good job of dying," he quipped back, equally serious sounding, willing her to break first. "Very noble, I was."

"Very stupid. Blasting a basilisk in the mouth at that range? Terrible technique."

"I thought your tactic for avoiding its gaze was inspired," he shot back, relishing in the scandalised noises the others made.

"One of us had to go in there prepared," Hermione opined, unaffected.

"I was perfectly prepared. I had my last words picked out and everything."

"You did not. You would have said something ridiculous if you had."

"No, I didn't," he admitted, yielding to her unbeatable poker face - having unreadable eyes was cheating, really. "I just said what I needed to."

"Yes, you did," Hermione whispered, breaking into a beautiful smile. "Thank you."

Harry didn't reply, because no reply was necessary. Giving Hermione the last word was a better thanks than any words he could come up with, so he laid back and smiled at the ceiling, enjoying the moment of peace, surrounded by friends who felt like family. He felt he could spend the whole summer that way; compared to his other options, he would if he could.

The peace was shattered by Ginny appearing right beside his pillow, staring at him like she was meeting her childhood hero. She was, he supposed, but he thought she'd got over that early on in the year - about the time he took 'her' spot on the quidditch team, if he had to put a date to it.

"Heya Harry," she whispered reverently.

"Um, hi Gin."

She shivered slightly as he said her name. Clearly not over it then. Damn.

"Has anyone told you how absolutely brilliant you are?"

Harry glanced at Hermione, and saw a hint of a smugness tugging at her lip.

"Yes they have," he answered.

"Oh," Ginny deflated momentarily, "well they're right, because you are. You're my hero! You saved me from... from him."

Oh God now she's never going to get over it is she? I actually had to go and save her, didn't I? What are the chances next year there'll be a new one her ridiculous books on the shelves? They'll probably call it Boy-Who-Lived and the Basilisk, or something stupid. Or Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

It should have Hermione Granger in the title, by all rights.

"Yeah, uh, what was with all that?" Harry asked.

"Oh it was horrible," she moaned, grasping her head protectively. "He got in my head, right in my head, and he was... the healer says he was possessing me, only it was still me, I just couldn't... Oh I tried to tell you so many times, but when I told Neville he took over and..."

She turned to the boy in question with wide eyes, "oh Neville I'm so sorry! You tried to help me and I, I..."

"Gran says I shouldn't b-blame you for anything," Neville shakily assured her. "You're as much a v-victim as I am, she says, and I agree."

Ginny seemed not to know what to do with such complete forgiveness; she continued talking but flicked her head wildly between Harry and Neville as she did.

"Then he, he completely took over my body, it was like I was watching but I couldn't do anything, and he made me go to the chamber, and when I saw Myrtle I thought maybe the same thing happened to her and that was how she died so I screamed, even though He didn't want me to."

"We heard," Hermione said.

"That's how Harry and Hermione knew where to find you," Luna confirmed.

"And then you came running to rescue me," Ginny breathed, finally deciding, much to his chagrin, that Harry deserved her full attention.

Only he wasn't having any of it.

"Actually, Hermione's the one who went running. Me and the professor were slow off the mark." Especially the professor, bloody coward.

"Hermione...?" Ginny murmured.

"Say, what happened to Lockhart? Not like we went back for him..."

He trailed off as he read the expression on their faces, most notably the look of total mortification on Hermione's.

"Oh," he said simply, which seemed to sum it up.

"Yes," Hermione said, confirming the worst.

"Well, uh... I guess that serves him right?" Harry ventured, hating the words even as he said them but not knowing what else to say - or what needed saying.

"Well who cares about him, you saved me," Ginny wrested control of the conversation back. "And I just wanted to thank you properly."

All of a sudden she looked nervous, casting her eyes down and biting her lip. Harry leant toward her slightly, almost subconsciously, as he tried to figure out what was up with her.

And for his friendly concern he was rewarded with a disgusting, wet kiss on his cheek.

"That's for saving me," Ginny squeaked, "now I need to see the mind healer, excuse me, got to go!"

She fled the scene of the crime, pushing Neville to the side to make good her escape and leaving Harry in a state of shock.

"Blimey," Colin whistled.

"Sorry 'bout her," the twins said in unison.

"She has quite the nargle infestation still," Luna lamented.

"What happened?" Hermione asked. "Seriously, what did I miss?"

"Gin kissed Harry," Neville explained.

"She what?" Hermione exclaimed, capturing Harry's feelings perfectly.

"Right on the cheek," George added.

"Looked like she was aiming for his gob," Fred amended.

"Where does she..." Hermione muttered darkly. "I mean really, the cheek of that girl!"

The whole group turned to look at Hermione like she'd grown an extra head, even as Harry was silently cheering her for being the one who got just how horrible he was feeling in that moment. Hermione apparently sensed the attention, and shrugged theatrically.

"Where's my kiss?" she quipped weakly. "Maybe I want a kiss for being terribly brave and heroic."

"Well, Harry's still here," Luna chimed in.

Harry shot the girl a betrayed look, to no effect.

"Don't you dare," he growled, not taking any chances.

"Oh, Harry, you know I wouldn't."

"Promise?" he asked.

Not taking any chances whatsoever. Being kissed is horrible!

"I promise Harry. No kissing you without your permission," she laughed lightly.

There was something about the way she phrased it which caught his attention, but he was in no state nor mood to unpack why. He focused on the part where she wasn't going to be assaulting his face with her own and reckoned that was good enough.

"Can I get in on the action?" Angelina piped up, though thankfully it was clear she was joking.

"Sod off," Harry shot back, wiping away the gross slime Ginny's mouth had left on him.

"Who says I was talking to you?" she joked, hooking an arm around Hermione's shoulder. "Sounds like the real heroine's right here."

"Thank you Angelina, but I'm equally unavailable," Hermione giggled.

With Angelina's proposition the focus shifted away from Harry and onto the person he agreed deserved the lion's share of the praise, which suited him perfectly. He needed a chance to get over his slobbery trauma, and the absurd things it had done to his heartrate and blood pressure. It wouldn't do to lash out at his friends in his righteous annoyance, and he supposed he needed to bring that under control before he saw Ginny again, because in the grand scheme of things... well, an unwanted kiss was nothing compared to a basilisk.

He was still unravelling his emotions when Hermione was abruptly called away by professor McGonagall, who pushed an envelope into her hands and ushered her out, striking up a conversation in hushed tones. Hermione went reluctantly, Harry noted, and he had to worry for her.

It must surely be about Lockhart. She'd killed the professor, hadn't she, with her summoned snake? He'd tried to wipe their memories, and then she'd...

Holy shit, my best friend actually killed a professor.

A/N:

Turns out he was only mostly dead. I didn't want to fall back on the Fawkes ex machina, and ended up somewhat writing my own Deus ex machina in its place. Although I think mine is more a Chekhov's Gun, except the gun was introduced in actual canon. Chekhov's time-travelling, dimension hopping Gun?

Minor spoiler for those who read the reviews:

Damn it dammyd... figuring out the cloak before I'd even told you Harry survived. I wasn't trying to hide it per se, but... grrrr. Take your imaginary internet cookie. ;)