Chapter XII
Quid Pro Quo
Quarantine sucked. Being couped up in a makeshift room at the far end of the infirmary wasn't all that bad, and the company was decent enough since Ron had got a hold of himself, but there were major downsides. For one, Hermione couldn't access the library to read up on werewolves, although Lupin was there to talk to if she got desperate enough to suffer through the glumness which had descended upon him. Worse, she couldn't use her turner. Until the quarantine ended, she was living the same time as everyone else, which was not only a waste, but also bound to ruin her already strained body clock.
Also, Dean Thomas snored like a trooper with two noses, and Pomfrey wouldn't allow them to silence anyone's bed, in case they needed attention in the night. The only good news since the attack was that, following extensive checking for open wounds and layering of protective charms, Pomfrey had allowed the quarantined to mingle amongst themselves. So come the morning, it was no surprise to Hermione that her mood was taking a nosedive into irritability.
"It simply does not make any sense," she whisper-ranted at Harry, whose bed she was perched on. "It makes no damn sense at all! First of all, why would he go for the third year boys' dorm? He was a Gryffindor wasn't he; he would know which dorm is which. Secondly, why attack Ron and then run? He could have slaughtered everyone in that room if he wanted to, so as he didn't we can only assume he did not want to. But if he wasn't there for the third years, and he wasn't coming for you, what did he break in for? What else could he possibly want in Hogwarts?
"I don't kn-"
"Thirdly, I don't believe he is a werewolf. Think about it: He wasn't one in school; and Professor Lupin should have known if he became one before Azkaban; so the only time he could have been turned would be since he broke out. But as an animagus, he can be immune to lycanthropy anytime he wants or needs to; to become a werewolf, he would practically have to seek one out and shove his arm in their jaws! But why would he? He can already turn into a giant dog; what does he possibly gain from lycanthropy, let alone what it costs him."
"So the attacks… you think that was just his animagus form mistaken for a wolf?"
She nodded, glad Harry was following her logic; always good to use a sounding board for ideas you come up with at four in the morning with a freight-train snorer distracting you.
"If it was him at all. The locations don't match up with someone stalking the castle - they've moved too far south - and besides; since when is the Prophet to be taken for its word? It could easily be another wolf taking advantage of the situation, to blame their crimes on Black."
"None of this means he isn't a werewolf though."
"Occam's Razor, Harry. Given what we know, it's simpler for him not to be, so…"
And that logic isn't wishful thinking at all.
"We still need to stay in quarantine though, right?"
She let herself fall back against the headboard. "Right. We can suspect, but we won't know until the next moon; February twenty-sixth. Twelve days. Happy valentines, by the way," she grumbled.
Not that she'd had any sort of plans for the day - not that she'd bothered with any such thoughts since the not-date with Justin - but it still felt somehow suckier to be miserable on such a day.
"Huh, so it is. You didn't even get me a card," Harry jested.
"You didn't get me one," she shot back; being irritable wasn't enough to keep her from rising to his jibes.
"Was I meant to?" he asked, sounding deeply uncertain. "I thought they were for, you know, couples? Or people who want to be couples, I guess."
"They are, usually. However, I hear some of the girls send them to each other with nice words in them. Just friends, being 'sappy and girly'."
As if Lavender needs an excuse to be that.
Harry snorted. "I don't think I do sappy and girly."
"Girly, no," Hermione agreed, tapping her cheek in mock thought. "But sappy…?"
"Oi! I am not a sap!"
"Yet you sent me a Christmas present in custom-scented paper. Face it, Harry, you're a big softie."
And that effectively ended that conversation. Not that that was a problem; there were bigger concerns than Harry's personality quirks to be thinking about, such as Black being able to get into the castle whenever he pleased, and the slim possibility of being a werewolf. A blind, muggleborn werewolf.
At least it comes with better hearing and sense of smell. So there's that.
"This can't really be necessary, can it?" Harry asked Remus – titles had gone out the window within an hour of their shared confinement.
"Lycanthropy can be extremely infectious when the appropriate precautions are not taken, especially in the early stages. But, in this case, I would have to agree."
"So why are we cooped up in here?"
"Because the recent attacks have everyone on edge, the ministry more than anyone. No doubt our esteemed minister is breathing down the headmaster's neck, and Dumbledore knows when a fight is not worth taking."
"Bollocks. He just enjoys sticking me in places where-"
"Harry, please," Hermione interrupted, "we are in here for just as long whether you complain or not, so can you please give it a rest? Save it for the people who deserve to suffer it."
"What's your problem?" he snipped.
"My problem? Do you mean other than the fact I may now be a werewolf? Other than not being able to get any decent sleep, or - well, even if we were let out, they've" - she waved a piece of paper in her hand, one of the letters their friends were allowed to send in (an infuriatingly one-way system) - "you know what, never mind."
Jeez, she's in a worse mood than I am. And this is only day three…
Ginny was terrified for her brother. The snarky part of her, the part which remembered all the crap he'd put her through over the years, wondered if it wasn't karma showing her sick sense of humour; Ron had always wanted to have something his brothers didn't. The snarky part could fuck right off and keep its opinions to itself, because she couldn't wish lycanthropy on her worst enemy.
Well, no, Tom would be welcome to it.
Stop thinking about him.
Still, as much as her heart went out to her brother, it was her friends she had been writing the most to the past week. They were easier to talk to, even when they were giving as much back as she usually got from Ron (not that it was their fault). And besides, they should know what people were saying. They should be prepared for the odd looks and snide comments when they came out.
'Harry,
Wanted to warn you there's a rumour going around. People (Slytherins) are saying Hermione's a wolf already, and that you are too because the two of you… you know. Luna says it can't even transfer that way, (how would she know?) but I don't think that's the bit you're going to be annoyed about. Know that the rest of us are here for you, and we know better than to believe the bollocks the snakes have been telling the Prophet.
I saved all their stupid articles; thought we could have some fun burning them together. Maybe the smoke will get those dumb guard trolls they put on the tower to piss off - or at least burn the stink out of my nose.
Tell Hermione I got her spare quills working on those books like she asked. See you both soon.
Ginny.'
The day of reckoning was upon them; after the longest twelve days of Hermione's life it still managed to sneak up on her. An hour before moonrise, they were separated about the otherwise emptied infirmary; each had a cage - a fucking cage! - in which to transform, or not. Lupin had been shifted into the office for the reason only he, she and Pomfrey knew; the excuse given to the others was a lack of space for another cage, which was patently false, but nobody gaslighted like the matron so it was accepted. Hermione didn't know whether to be disappointed Harry wasn't more suspicious, or relieved, so she focused on being pissed off instead.
Fucking ministry. Fucking prejudiced, bigoted, stupid people! It's one night a month, and they treat us - them - please not us - worse than animals.
She even banged her head getting into her cage. Did Dumbledore just chuckle at me? I thought he was here to get those who don't turn out to safety, not to laugh at my misfortune. Arsehole.
The next hour was torturous. Harry was trying to reassure her, as Dean and Seamus were doing for Ron, but the words were flowing over and off her like water. No words could change what was or was not. He kept telling her it wouldn't change anything if she was, but it would. Maybe he would try to stay friends with her; maybe he would manage to, for a time. Eventually peer pressure and the stigma of associating with a werewolf would push him away. That was surely the worst part of lycanthropy - not the one night per lunar month, but the loneliness of the other twenty-seven. No wonder so many chose to form and run in packs, where they would be accepted for who they were.
But what pack is going to take a blind muggleborn?
"The moon is rising," Dumbledore announced solemnly. "Best of luck everyone."
Hermione tensed. Lupin had told her, quietly, that it was better to relax and let what happened happen - fighting only made it hurt more - but something felt wrong about that. No, I am going to fight. Even if it hurts; even if it is pointless. I will not go gentle.
It was that, or panic. So she rolled into a ball, pulled her arms tight across her chest, gritted her teeth and waited.
Her skin started to itch. And she waited.
And waited.
The bolt on her cage door clanked. Someone was laughing; ringing peals of joyous relief and disbelief.
"Miss Granger, you may come out now."
"Headmaster? Am I-"
"Perfectly healthy."
"And the others?"
"Everyone is well. Even Mr Weasley is very much himself, as you can hear."
There was a round of congratulations, muted only by the news that the students would be staying the night so as not to disturb their fellows. Pomfrey declared with absolute authority that Professor Lupin had fallen asleep in her office and nobody was to disturb him either (Hermione doubted they could if they tried; she could feel the strength of the wards from across the room). Everyone else was too busy being not-a-werewolf to question or care, but Hermione's heart went out to him. Even on wolfsbane, the wolf would be agitated in a place it did not consider safe territory; he was in for a rough night.
And somewhere out there, in the darkness, there might be someone in for far worse. Someone was killing with the moon. Hermione was increasingly convinced that someone was not Sirius Black.
Morning. Harry rubbed his gloriously human eyes with wonderfully non-clawed hands, and rolled over to check Hermione was still equally human. Without his glasses he could only make out a mountain of fuzz, consuming the pillow on which its owner lay, but that was enough. A werewolf couldn't have that much hair, could it? If it did, would it be all over? Would werewolf Hermione look like a…
He didn't know what to describe the mental image as, but it was hilarious and adorable.
"You awake?" he whispered.
The fuzz-monster shifted until a sliver of red was revealed under it.
"No," it sighed. "I am very much asleep, thank you for asking."
"Right. Everyone else is up and gone," he said, glancing around to check he was right - I should really put my glasses on - "so we should probably…"
"I'd rather stay here," she grumbled. "You go on, see your friends."
"Huh? I… I don't want to go without you."
That that wasn't entirely obvious to her was a sad sign of how many cracks he had left in their friendship.
"Go on. I'll be fine."
He put on his glasses and caught the frown marring her face. "Why don't you want to-"
"Drop it, Harry," she ordered, the sleepiness gone from her voice in an instant. "Just… go on."
There were times it was best not to argue. This felt like one of those times.
"Uh, right. So, I'll see you later." He was up and dressed in no time - some learned habits were useful. "Twins'll probably throw a party in the common room."
"Have fun with that."
He stopped where he had just begun to walk away.
"Why does it sound like you aren't going to be there?"
"Three guesses."
"What's wrong?"
He had to wait almost a minute for her reply, as she sat up and focused on brushing her hair into the slightest semblance of order rather than talk to him. He tapped his foot to let her know he hadn't gone anywhere - and wasn't about to either.
"I don't want to talk about it," she huffed.
"Hermione…"
Her hands went to her blindfold, shifting it even though it was perfectly in place already. "No," she said, forcibly. "I am not telling you."
Whatever it was, she obviously needed to get it off her chest, whatever she said, and who better for that than Harry?
"I can help!"
She pushed her pillow over her face and let off a muffled scream, before throwing it to the floor. "No you can't! Not with this."
"At least let me try."
"Ugh, why are you so stubborn? Fine. You want to help? I could do with a hug. A really big, comforting hug. Maybe another kiss on the forehead, that was nice. Can I get one of those?"
Harry scratched at his neck. Should have seen that coming.
"Thought not," she grumbled, her body tensed with anger; her voice soft with disappointment.
He tried a different angle. "I thought we were trusting each other."
"Oh, you did, did you?" - Ok, that's just pure anger. Oops - "Why? Because I got to know what you look like? Because you did something everyone in Gryffindor and half of bloody Hufflepuff did without complaint? We both know who did all the trusting in that exchange."
Now hang on.
"That's not fair. Not after-"
"Isn't it? Is it not!?" - Hermione rose to her feet, and Harry backed away until he bumped into a bed - "Let me tell you about not fair, Harry Potter. Not fair is having to be told how pretty the sunset is tonight, and enduring it only because I used to love them so much I cannot - will not - accept that I might never see another."
Her foot met the pillow, and she punted it across the room. The room which was beginning to feel awfully hot.
"Not fair is having to trade away my biggest secret just to know what my best friend looks like, when, might I remind you, everyone else gets that for free! So do not presume lecture me on what is, and is not, fair!"
Harry rising annoyance was gone; faded out of existence in the shadow of Hermione's.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
"You had best be!" she thundered, stepping right up to him, her pointed finger finding his chest.
"I shouldn't have asked that of you."
"You didn't," she fumed - then her shoulders dipped. "I went and gave it up, imbecile that I am, and for what? For what?"
"Then I should have stopped you."
She laughed at that; a bitter, callous bark. "Like you could."
"Well then I should have looked away!"
Not that seeing it changed anything for me. Not that knowing was any worse than not.
"Perhaps you should have! Maybe then you wouldn't expect me to bare my soul anytime you ask me to."
It was a struggle to keep his voice calm, but she needed him to. "I'm not asking for that."
"Yes you are!" she accused, turning away from him.
"OK, so I am, but only because I want to help you."
"You don't get to help! You haven't earned the right to help me! A month ago you wouldn't even fucking talk to me! You haven't given me reason to trust you, not like I did for you. Where do you" - he grabbed her arm and span her back around - "Hey, let go!"
He knew exactly what he should do, he just wasn't sure if he could- No. No, bugger that. Am I a Gryffindor or not? Do I want her trust or not. Fuck can I; should I?
Though she fought him, he pulled her hand to his left arm; up under his sleeve. Under the long sleeves he made a point of never drawing any attention to when he wore them no matter the weather. No one had bothered to ask him about that.
Hermione would have asked, had she the chance to notice.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, though she had stopped struggling.
Harry planted her palm firmly on the inside of his forearm. Let her ask.
"Giving you your damned reason."
Hermione stopped fighting when she realised he was drawing her into his personal space; into his bubble of safety. Under his clothes, even. Onto his skin. The soft skin of his forearm; the spot where hair didn't grow; the spot where a long lump marred him. Multiple lumps, running across like a furrowed field; like something had ploughed his skin.
Carved.
"Harry," she gasped. "Harry, what is this?"
"Shut up." - she could hear how strongly he gritted his teeth - "Just shut up and focus, alright? I don't want to talk about it. Fuck, I don't want to be doing this at all."
He released her hand, and she ran it slowly up his arm, searching for the end of the horrible field. She found it just shy of his elbow.
"Harry, these are-"
"Yes."
She ran back down; they started only an inch above his wrist. There must be…
"How many?"
"I don't know."
How could you not know? How could you lose count? How… how could you bear not knowing?"
"Are you counting?" he demanded.
She was. "Is that a problem?"
Tension rippled through his muscles. "I guess not. Just, don't tell me how many. I don't want to know. Why do you?"
Isn't it obvious, Harry? You're the one who explained it to me: "Every inch."
She finished her counting: Twenty-three. Twenty three bad enough she could feel them. How many more that she couldn't? "Every detail."
Her left hand moved to his other arm, though she feared how high the count might climb.
"So I never-"
The field was different here; the carving not the same. There were a few lines across, but they suddenly didn't matter. They had been crossed off by a larger ridge, one which ran straight from wrist all the way to elbow.
"Oh, Harry." - he tried to pull away, and this time it was she who held onto him - "You could get this healed."
"No, I can't."
"Of course you can, just go to Madame Pomfrey and - oh. You don't want to show her. Well, we can still fix it. I know a lot more healing than your average third year; I can sort a bit of scarring."
A bit of scarring. What a stupidly inconsequential name for… for this. How many years did he plough this field? How young must he have-
"No you can't."
"Yes," she enthused. "I can."
"It won't work."
I know he isn't questioning my skills, so: "Why not?"
"I don't want to talk about this."
"Fine, but if you won't give me a reason not to, then I am going to try."
How could I not?
"Knock yourself out," he sighed, rolling up his sleeve.
She brought her wand to the ridge, lining it up with her fingers, and ran along its length. "Sana infindo."
And there, just like trying to heal Ron, was the vicious intent of another wizard's magic fighting her; causing her healing spell to slide off and fall apart. She tried again, forcing more into the spell, pushing past the barrier; on the other side was a gaping void, consuming her power and giving her nothing for it.
"See?"
"But that's… That's what my scars do. How did you get…?"
She probed the barrier again; there was something familiar about it: The way it oozed like viscous fluid, then hardened when pressed. She had felt magic like that before somewhere; before she even learned how to feel for it. But where?
"Said it wouldn't work. Would've been nice for you to just believe me."
With his interruption, her tenuous grasp on a spectral memory was gone. Why did I not file that memory away?
"Oh don't be like that," she snipped. "You cannot possibly imply no-one has ever tried, and then expect me to accept it is not possible."
"Has anyone told you how annoying your endless optimism is?"
"On occasion. It is most enjoyable rubbing their faces in it later."
They both chuckled despite the situation.
"Yeah, well, no face rubbing this time. Especially when you won't trust that I know my scars better than you do."
"Yet only one of us knows how many you have," she contested. It was not the right thing to say in that moment; she tried again. "I do trust you Harry. I do."
"Just not with your secrets, clearly."
Hermione took her hand back, trailing it along his scar as she retreated. Reinforcing the memory. Never forget.
Then she leant in, placing her head against his collarbone. Revelling as, for all his words, his actions spoke louder; he did not pull away. He let her remain there, though it must have been so uncomfortable for him; he let her feel safe.
"Ask me anything," she whispered into him. "Anything."
They talked. For hours and hours they sat in that infirmary, both propped up on the headrest of the same bed, and barely a moment of silence came between them. They spoke of how Hermione had been a solitary child; how Harry's upbringing made hers seem heavenly; and how she couldn't go to Little Whinging and rearrange uncle Vernon's limbs, no matter how much she wanted to or how little Harry would have minded. They spoke of happier topics, their plans for the future; Harry was surprised to learn how his best friend was planning, in the vaguest sense of the term, to stage something somewhere between propaganda campaign and outright bloody revolution on the behalf of the poor enslaved elves, just as soon as she wasn't caught up in a hundred other things. They spoke seriously of Harry's chances at becoming a professional seeker, or auror, he hadn't decided yet and wasn't sure he would amount to either - Hermione beat him around the head with a pillow until he finally agreed that between his fame and exploits those doors were firmly wedged open for him.
Forgotten amidst the torrent of words and truths were minor concerns such as seeing friends, the twins' inevitable party, and breakfast. And all the troubles of the past few months. And lunch.
Hermione settled deeper into the spot she had found herself in, nestled up to Harry's chest, his arm around her shoulder; she had no clue how or when she had ended up so close, but she wasn't going to ask for fear Harry would come to his senses and move away. She didn't want him to go; didn't want to stop feeling the calming heave of his chest; to stop hearing the reassuring thumps of a heart which, the last time she was this close, had briefly ceased to beat.
So long as she could hear that gentle whumping, there would be something to cling to in the darkness.
"Hey, Hermione?" he whispered into her ear, moving her hair with his nose. "How did it happen?"
That was one topic yet to come up.
"My eyes?"
"Yeah."
There were still some things Hermione didn't want to share. Not that she would refuse, not anymore, but it would only bring the mood down; only taint another happy memory.
"That is not a pleasant story."
"Go figure," he snorted. "But I'd like to know, if it's alright?"
"You are not going to enjoy hearing it."
"Better to know though, right?"
Even if it hurts. "Alright then. Story time; make yourself comfy."
"I'm pretty comfy as is," he said, lightly squeezing her arm and pulling her in a touch closer.
And with that tiny motion - that extra inch - the memory took its rightful place upon a pedestal in the grand foyer of Hermione's mind. Nothing could ruin it now; every secret divulged, every scrap of trust shared, would only make it more beautiful.
"It started a little before Halloween…"
Hermione was not having a good week. Hogwarts was meant to be different; surrounded by others who were like her, she was meant to belong. But it turned out children were the same everywhere; they simply despised work, and those who buckled down and did it too. Even if that work was literally learning magic! The snobby purebloods she could understand, they had grown up in this world, never knowing the mundanity of not being magical, but her fellow muggleborns? After the awe of seeing the castle had worn off, and the joy of their first successful spell faded, they put aside their studies in favour of gobstones and wizarding chess.
Then they ridiculed her for having her priorities right. They called her a know-it-all for having read the textbooks beforehand - as if she was ever going to dedicate her summer to anything else. Even the potions professor got in on the act, though he treated everyone poorly save his precious snakes, so that didn't feel as personal.
What really stung was the mocking from within her own house - her own 'family'. Most of it stemming from the most blithely idiotic boy in class; a boy so stubbornly thick he made the one who exploded a feather seem bright. She tried to ignore him, but there was only so much she could take before she had to step in and help.
"No, no, no, you're saying it wrong. It's wingardium leviosa, not leviosah."
Step in indeed; she had put her foot right in it. So it was she found herself drying off tears in the bathroom, muttering unpleasant words her mum would not have approved of under her breath into a mirror. She was so sick of letting people get to her.
Even the mirror was sick of the state she was in, its helpful advice on covering up mascara tear tracks turning to not-so-subtle suggestions that she find somewhere else to sob. She didn't have it in her to break the damn thing - she wasn't violent like that - but she wouldn't have minded awfully if someone came along and broke it for her.
Eleven towering feet and a thousand fleshy pounds of mountain troll was not the someone she had in mind.
The door was smashed in the same moment she noticed someone was on the other side of it - it barely missed her as it was catapulted across the room. The troll squashed its masses of muscle through the doorway, cracking the frame as it came, bringing an overpowering stench of rotten fish and sewage. The breath Hermione drew to scream had her retching instead - an action which cost her dearly.
A vicious spiked club took out the mirror before her, sending shards of glass into her face and the hands she brought up just too late to protect it. She stumbled back, fumbling for the wand in her pocket, taking her eye off her attacker. The foot impacting her thighs caught her unawares, and put her clean through the side of a stall.
Slumped against a toilet, her arm bent at an angle it was agonisingly informing her was 'wrong', she looked up at the cruel beast, wondering why it had come here; what she had done to deserve this; and where the adults supposed to protect her were. Its bellow answered none of her questions - only chased them from her mind.
Another swing of its club; what remained of the stall caught the blow, but shattered into a hundred shards. Time seemed to slow as they hurtled toward her face. With one arm mangled, the other stuck in her pocket, and her legs out from under her, there was nothing she could do. Helpless.
The pain consuming her face was like nothing she had ever felt before. It was so bad she couldn't see through it; her world turned black in an instant. There was more bellowing; the troll was revelling in its violence, prolonging her agony. Then shouting, human this time. The thuds of massive feet, each sending a shockwave jarring through her body, as if she were not suffering enough.
A voice, nearby; softer but panicked. She had no clue what it was saying; words were beyond her. All her mind could comprehend was pain; no room for anything else. A wrenching on her face, a flaring sensation as something was ripped away. The damp warmth on her cheeks becoming a fiery river, the voice panicking further - yelling now.
A feeling of power; desperate, unrefined power, coursing over her - into her. Unfamiliar emotions taking hold; taking over; exerting their domination over all that was right and natural. Her flesh warping, only a little; hot searing pain like someone took a welding torch to her eyes, just when she thought nothing could possibly hurt more. I'm going to die. Oh God I'm going to die.
And with the revelation; clarity. Transcendence of pain. The urge to fight, to push through, rallied, and yet… the darkness was so enticing. So easy to fall into; to surrender; to give herself to death.
When she awoke, it was to the critical care ward of St Mungo's hospital, and the arms of her terrified mother and father.
Harry opened his eyes as her tale drew to its end. The way she had told it, it was like he had been there. The way she talked of hanging on the edge of death was so gut-wrenchingly familiar, it was only the bizarre comfort of having her so close that kept him from shutting her out.
"I didn't even know it was Ron who cast on me until they thought to tell me, three days later."
"What spell was it?"
"Reparo," she snarled, beating a fist against his leg. "Bloody reparo. He tried to fix me like I was a cracked vase, and he didn't even think to put me back to how I was meant to be. All he did was stop the bleeding - bleeding he made twice as bad when he pulled out the piece of wood."
Harry recalled his first lesson on that spell, and in particular the way Flitwick had been extremely insistent it was not to be used on living creatures. "And the troll?"
"He distracted it; drew it into the corridor where McGonagall took it down. I never got to see it, clearly, but word is there wasn't much left. Not after she'd seen to me and went back for another round."
"Uhm, I know I don't have the whole story, but… it kinda sounds like Ron saved your life."
"No, what he did was completely botch saving me!" she protested with a slap to his chest; it should have made him flinch. "He used the wrong spell, and did a bad job with it, and overpowered his intent so much the healers can't reverse it without killing me. Oh, and when it was explained to him that the only known way for me to get my eyes back was for him to learn enough healing magic to fix the damage personally, do you know what he said? He said he 'wasn't into all that healing stuff, it sounds hard'. He refuses to give me my sight back, because it sounds like too much effort! And then he wonders why I never fell at his feet and thanked him for saving me!"
"He did save you though?"
"Bah. Professor McGonagall was all of a minute behind him, and he knew it. I would have easily lived for two - three if he left the wound alone. So, no. No, I would have been better off had he done what he usually does: Absolutely nothing."
"That… sucks." Harry said, for lack of better words.
"It does. It really does."
He tried to imagine waking up in the infirmary, unable to see, only knowing people were there for you by the sound of their crying. Would they be crying? Would they be too angry to cry; too righteously furious to leave room for any other emotion. I would have.
"How did you convince your parents to let you come back here after that?"
"They didn't want me to." - she chuckled and shook her head against him - "You should have heard the things they had to say to Dumbledore. But, in the end, the only chance I have of fixing this lies with magic, so… I overruled them. Besides, this was the only place I could talk about what actually happened - not like I could explain to a muggle doctor why reconstructive surgery wouldn't work."
"But, you don't talk about it?"
"No, I don't. I decided I wasn't going to let it define me."
Harry's scar itched. "Yeah, I know that feeling."
For the first time in hours, they spent some time in silence. The calm, companionable kind, broken only by a gentle gurgling in Harry's stomach and Hermione's light giggle as she heard it all too clearly from her spot on his chest.
On my chest. I don't even know when that happened, but… I don't mind it at all.
"Harry…"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"This," she sighed. "Just… this."
"It's alright."
"No, really. Much as you were a complete git about it, I broke a promise. You have every right not to trust me, and yet…"
"You don't need to thank me for that."
"Yes I do."
"Uh, then, I'm listening, I guess?"
"No. If I try to say it I'll only screw it up. So, I wrote it down instead. It's in my bag." She waved her hand in a direction that was not at all where her bag was.
Harry waved his wand the right way. "Accio Hermione's bag." Said bag thumped into his leg like a charging rhinoceros. "Damn that's heavy."
"Yeah," she mumbled, suppressing her laughter poorly, "I should do something about that. Anyway, it's easy to find; I addressed the envelope to you."
"You want me to go in your bag?"
Harry would readily admit he knew little about the fairer sex, but he'd picked up on their bags being sacrosanct somehow, like vestal temples into which no man could enter.
"That is the implication, yes."
Fair enough. He rustled around in her bag, trying not to look at anything other than what he was looking for - Merlin there's even more in here than I thought - until he found a tiny envelope in an emerald shade he recognised from the mirror. His name was on the front, in Hermione's signature scrawl, and printed over with braille.
"Found it? Open it up then." She sounded nonchalant, but he felt her tensing up, and the tremors through the bed as her foot started twitching. "Oh, uh, it's technically a late valentine. Not that that matters, but, but, you know what, I am going to stop talking now."
Harry broke the wildly-off-centre wax seal - Hermione had gone all out on presentation it seemed - and brushed aside some of her hair to make room for him to read comfortably. He must have imagined her purring.
The script was not from one of her special quills; she had written this letter by hand:
'Dear Harry,
This thing we share… To claim there are no words, is to be found wanting a dictionary.
- Something [pr] 3. A person or thing of consequence.
To believe mere words are enough, is to be found lacking a soul.
- Everything [pr] 2. All that is important.
There are words for what we have, but our actions speak the truth.
- Couple [n] 2. Two persons paired together.
Forgive me my trespasses, and I shall give you no more, nor less, than my love.
- Love [n] 1. A strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties.
3. Affection based on admiration.
8. Unselfish, loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another.
[v] 3. To thrive in or upon.
Yours,
The only girl you know who would quote the dictionary in a valentine.'
...
"Love?" he choked out. "I mean, we're, but…"
Hermione groaned. "Dumbledore warned me. He bloody warned me. Read the definition again, Harry."
He did what he always did when he was reeling; what Hermione told him to. And she was right; it made a lot more sense the second time around. But his heart was still doing backflips, for one simple, fantastic reason.
Somebody loves me.
A/N
And there's the second half of the pair of scenes which convinced me I had to write this whole damned story, just to have somewhere to put them. Mission accomplished; half a million words to go.