It was close to three o'clock. The Healers said Hermione would wake in a few hours' time as the Muggle drugs faded. While they could've used a Reviving Spell, they thought it best to give her a few more hours of untroubled sleep.
After speaking lowly with Ron and Mrs. Weasley, Lakey departed. Harry briefly thought of doing the same—there would be significant follow-up from Hermione's attack—but the thought of leaving St. Mungo's...it was impossible.
Yet, he couldn't stay here. He couldn't watch Mrs. Weasley fuss with Hermione's regrown hair. Or watch the Healers walk slowly past their room, trying to catch a glimpse of the famous wizards inside. But most of all, he couldn't watch the deep and guileless anguish on Ron's pale face, the manifestation of everything Harry could not let himself show.
"I'm going to find food."
Only Ginny turned to look at him. "Do you want me to come?"
"No," he answered too quickly. "Stay here with Ron…"
She glanced at her brother as he fiddled unseeingly with the end of Hermione's blanket.
"All right," she said, hesitant. "I'll send word if there's any change. If you see George in the lobby, tell him we're here. Ron said he'd be coming shortly."
Harry nodded and moved into the hallway. A small gathering of Healers scattered quickly, pretending to read their charts or chatting with one another. Harry barely glanced at them and turned down the nearest empty corridor.
He watched the white marble floor pass beneath his feet, its blankness the perfect canvas upon which to imagine Hermione's colorless and tranquil face. How very small and fragile she had looked on that Muggle hospital bed. How easy it would've been to think...
He shook his head and other images gathered in his mind, long buried: a mute Death Eater, purple flame, and Hermione crumpled to the floor...
When Harry looked up, he was in a deserted hallway. A sign hung over a nearby double-door: The Janus Thickey Ward. It was the long-term care ward that Harry had visited once in his fifth year after Arthur Weasley was bitten by Voldemort's snake, Nagini.
The Visitors' Tearoom was one floor above, if Harry remembered correctly. But, instead of turning, he approached the gleaming doors and peered through their small windows. He could see nothing, really. But, just as Harry turned away, he was nearly knocked to the ground as someone pushed through the door.
"Chief Potter?" Healer Waltham exclaimed as Harry regained his balance. "Is everything all right? Has there been a change with Counselor Granger?"
"Er, no. I was just walking…" he mumbled, feeling stupid.
Waltham didn't seem to notice Harry's discomfort. "That's good. I was checking on the patients in our extended stay ward," he said. "In fact, I was just attending to the Camerons. I believe Counselor Granger visited them this morning before her…incident."
"The Muggle family?"
"Yes," Waltham said, putting on a solemn air. "I'm afraid there hasn't been much improvement."
"Oh?"
The Healer paused. "I could show you, if you like? If you have the time."
Harry thought fleetingly of the tearoom and food, but the idea of eating still felt very abstract. Harry had helped transport the Camerons to St. Mungo's, but he'd never formally met the family.
"Er, all right. I don't have long…I have to return to the Ministry," he lied, following Waltham as he pushed through the doors again.
Inside, Harry looked around the spacious ward, which was filled with natural light from two high windows in the ceiling. It was almost completely empty, save two patients at the far end. One was asleep and the other was reading the Daily Prophet upside down.
But Waltham was leading Harry to the opposite end of the ward. There, two sets of white curtains cordoned off the last quarter of the room. Waltham separated these and ushered Harry inside.
At first, Harry thought he'd accidentally walked into someone's sitting room. The white walls were plastered with Muggle pictures, some in frames, but many more taped to the walls. A Persian rug was on the floor and a Muggle television was tucked into the corner. Four beds took up the rest of the space and Harry caught a glimpse of a young girl laid out on the closest bed. Something like a foamy, blue mosquito net surrounded her.
Harry didn't have a chance to examine the curiosity as Waltham was directing him to two other beds. An older man looked up quizzically at the Healer.
"Dr. Waltham? What's this?" the Muggle asked, setting down what appeared to be a crime novel.
"Walter, you have a visitor," the Healer said slowly like he was speaking to a child. "This is Mr. Harry Potter. He's a very important man with the Ministry I was telling you about. He's come to see how you and the family are doing."
Harry thought this was a bit much considering it was an impromptu visit, but he held out his hand.
Walter had a strong, warm grip. His light blue eyes—Harry noticed with a jolt—had an odd cast to them, as if covered by a milky film.
Next, the Healer directed Harry to the bed adjacent to Walter Cameron's.
"And this is his wife, Theresa."
Harry shook her hand as well. He got a faint whiff of clean laundry and lilies. She had light brown hair streaked with gray.
"It's a pleasure," Harry said awkwardly. The woman also had a milky gaze and Harry wished he could stop staring.
Harry often berated himself for being unable to interact perfectly with Muggles. After all, he had been raised as a Muggle and though the word "raised" didn't quite capture his upbringing with the Dursleys, he liked and respected the few Muggles he knew. Yet, interacting with them, after decades of living as a wizard, always made Harry somewhat uncomfortable, like meeting an estranged second cousin.
"What a handsome man," Theresa said, smiling absently. "We've had so few visitors, Walter."
Her husband nodded earnestly. "Very few."
"Only Counselor Granger visits," Waltham explained. "We haven't been able to inform the Cameron's relatives about their condition, which would be quite hard to explain to Muggles even if it wasn't against the law."
Walter laughed to himself at the Healer's words. "There's that word again! Such a funny word."
Growing increasingly uneasy, Harry asked, "What is their condition exactly?"
The Healer sighed. "We're still testing the limits of the damage the Camerons sustained to their memories. None of them remember the attack, but there are other, more troubling lapses. For instance, Theresa doesn't always remember she has two children. Sometimes she only remembers her oldest, Nicole. Walter occasionally seems to forget his occupation. He's a banker…like the goblins at Gringotts," the pureblood explained more for himself than for Harry.
"Just like a goblin!" Walter said proudly.
"Is it permanent?" Harry asked lowly.
"Hard to say," Waltham said, matter-of-fact. "We're giving them daily tonics and fiddling with the amount of Memory Potion in each dose. It's been rather difficult, actually. Muggles don't seem to respond well to our treatment. It must be something about their biology. We have several Healers consulting on the case but, at the moment, we're at a loss as to how to restore their memories."
"Direct counter-charms don't work?"
"Not in the slightest. If Theo Callahan attacked this family, he may have used a memory charm so severe as to be irreversible in Muggles. We've never had a case like it, so we're doing the best we can."
"How long will they have to stay here, then?" he asked, trying to avoid Walter's dreamlike gaze.
Waltham sighed again. "I wish I could give you an answer, Chief Potter. If this is an inalterable condition, they may not be able to function in Muggle society. If Mr. Cameron doesn't remember his occupation and Mrs. Cameron doesn't remember both her children…it will be quite impossible for them to return to their normal lives."
Harry lowered his voice, slightly alarmed Waltham spoke so cavalierly in front of the Camerons. "Well, surely she remembers everything that's happening now?" he whispered. "Can't you just tell her she has another child?"
"I wish it were that simple," Waltham answered. "On the days when she doesn't remember her son, Duncan, well… she acts very violently towards him. She won't even allow him to be in the same room as her, so we've been sending him to the children's ward every time that happens. Of course, the boy is very upset. He still remembers who is mother is…"
Harry's mouth felt dry. He tried to think of a response to Waltham's words, but nothing filled his mind but a distant memory. Neville Longbottom's parents died five years ago. In the end, they'd been in an advanced state of dementia and could neither feed nor care for themselves. Neville took the parents who did not recognize him back to their ancestral home and stayed with them until they passed. Harry had attended the small funeral. Not many people remembered the horrible crime that had befallen Frank and Alice Longbottom so many years ago.
"But they're functional…" Harry pressed.
"Yes," Waltham replied easily. "We're hopeful we'll find some solution. Even partial memory restoration would be a success."
"I reckon this means they can't testify," Harry said to himself.
"Testify?" Waltham laughed. "Muggles testify against a wizard? I've never heard of such a thing. Is it even allowed?"
It wasn't. The proposal to allow Muggles to testify in wizarding courts was briefly considered in the lead-up to the controversial passage of the Muggle Protection Act in 2008. It was quietly abandoned, however, when reformers realized there wouldn't be enough support and it was traded for some other provision.
Harry looked back at the Muggle couple. Mr. Cameron had re-immersed himself in his book. Mrs. Cameron, however, was staring across the room at the unconscious girl, a lost expression on her face.
Waltham followed her eyes as well.
"Oh, yes," the Healer said, striding to the other pair of beds. "I haven't introduced the children."
Passing the girl, Harry's eyes landed on the last occupant in the room: a young boy of eleven sitting up on his bed. He had light brown hair with flecks of gold. His face was pale and small, making his eyes appear larger and brighter than normal. They were lovely eyes though—blue like his father's, but with flecks of sea green. And unlike his parents, there was no filmy cast to his eyes.
"Duncan," Waltham said to the boy. "I'd like you to meet Harry Potter. He's come to check how you're doing."
"Hello, Duncan," Harry smiled, extending his hand.
The boy didn't respond. He glanced at Harry's face before he ducked down, hiding his eyes behind his shaggy fringe.
"He can be very shy," Waltham explained to Harry. "Counselor Granger is the only one he opens up to. He remembers more of the attack than his parents, though still very little. He told Counselor Granger that on the night of the incident, he and his sister heard shouting downstairs. They knew it wasn't an argument between their parents because they could hear a stranger's voice. His sister wanted to call the Muggle Aurors, but Duncan ran downstairs. That's all he remembers."
As Waltham spoke, the boy had crept underneath his covers so as to hide his face completely.
Harry turned from the bed, so as to give the child some privacy. "What else has he forgotten?" he asked quietly.
"Very little else," the Healer smiled. "He knows exactly where he is and what's happening around him. He also seems to remember everything from his past, apart from the attack. I am most hopeful about his recovery. Even if the others do not improve, Duncan can likely reenter the Muggle world, assuming they find a suitable family for him."
"He must have godparents?"
"Perhaps, but we're not in a position to find them, are we? We can't inform his godparents why Duncan would need to be adopted. The wizard-Muggle liaisons at the Ministry have also never handled an adoption in the Muggle system before. Simply hasn't come up. I truly don't know what'll happen to him."
Just then, both men heard the crisp sound of a page turning beneath the covers of the boy's bed. Harry turned, curious.
"Duncan?" Harry asked gently. "What have you got there?"
The boy grew still under the sheets. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Mrs. Cameron looking in their direction.
Harry cautiously seated himself on the edge of the bed. "Show us. It's okay."
Slowly, the sheets slid off the boy's head, revealing a rather large book bound in handsome leather. Looking more closely, Harry was surprised to find it was a magical medical book.
"What's this now?" Waltham said sternly. "Where did you get that, Duncan?"
"I-I found it, Dr. Waltham," the boy said. There was real fear in his voice. "I-I found it in the lib-library."
"I've told you the medical library is off limits."
The boy said nothing. He stroked the book absently, almost lovingly. On the page he had open, Harry could see a moving diagram of a wizard brandishing his wand over a broken leg. The leg was snapping in half and healing itself in a perpetual loop.
"Can you...can you see that it's moving?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
Duncan looked confused at the question and followed Harry's eyes to the diagram.
"Yes," he answered sullenly.
"Really? I didn't know a book's magic worked on Muggles…"
Something changed in the boy's face. "Why wouldn't it work?" he snapped. "I can see just like any of you!"
"Calm down, boy," Waltham said, an edge in his voice Harry hadn't heard before. "Mr. Potter was simply asking you a question. Apologize to him right away."
"There's no—" Harry started, but Duncan slammed the book shut.
"You can have the book," he said angrily. "I won't apologize."
"You're being very childish, Duncan. Mr. Potter is a very important person."
"He's being childish, calling me that stupid name," the boy hissed under his breath. If Harry hadn't been sitting right next to him, he might not have heard it.
"What name?" Harry asked, entirely perplexed.
"That name," the boy grumbled. "That name you all use here. Muggle. Everyone says it. It means we're stupid, right? Me and my family. That we aren't like you."
Waltham coughed uncomfortably. Harry stared at the boy, a feeling like shame rising in his chest.
"What d'you like about these books, Duncan?" he asked after a moment.
The boy shrugged, but eventually said, "I like the pictures and how they move."
"What do you think about what's written in them?"
The boy relaxed more. "I like it a lot," he mumbled. "It says lots of funny things, and incantations, and spells. I didn't think all that was real before."
The corner of Harry's lips twitched. Twenty-six years ago, he might've had the same reaction.
"Be that as it may," Waltham was saying, "you'll have to return the book, Duncan. It's needed for the real Healers. And you aren't to go wandering outside of the children's ward anymore."
"But no one talks to me there…" the boy whispered.
Harry closed his eyes to keep from snapping at the Healer. Harry could only imagine what Duncan must be going through—parents and sister incapacitated, a mother who didn't recognize him, a violent attack upending every routine and comfort of his former life. Going to the library was probably his one refuge, a thought that could only remind him of a woman unconscious in her bed several floors away.
"Do you like Counselor Granger, Duncan?"
The boy's face lifted and, for the first time, he smiled.
"Oh, yes," he replied instantly. "She's wonderful. She brought us our telly and all these pictures. She's the only one who comes to visit and she's so…" He stopped.
"So what?"
"Beautiful…" the boy whispered, his cheeks coloring.
Harry almost laughed. "She is, isn't she? Well, Duncan, she's a very good friend of mine. I've known her since I was your age."
The boy looked at Harry with newfound respect. "D'you know when she'll be back?"
Harry hesitated. "I dunno. I'll ask her, okay? And maybe next time we'll both come to visit. We'll bring you more books, so you don't have to nick them from the library. How does that sound?"
The boy's eyes flashed greedily. He could see why he and Hermione got on. "That'd be great! Thank you, Mr. Potter."
"Finally some politeness out of you," Healer Waltham coughed behind them. "Chief Potter, if you'll come with me, I'll tell you about the girl's condition."
Standing, Harry smiled at Duncan and followed the Healer to the bed closest to the curtains.
"Nicole Cameron. Fifteen years old," Waltham said. "We've kept her in a magical coma since we collected her from the Muggle clinic. We ran several diagnostic spells on her brain and found portions of her frontal lobe had been severely damaged. This includes the inferior frontal gyrus, which controls speech. We have a Muggle doctor consulting on the case. He calls the area Brogga's area or Broca's area? I can't remember. In any case, the damage may have severe repercussions on her speech, motor skills, and her ability to recognize those around her."
"Have you tried waking her up?" Harry asked quietly, aware that Duncan was straining to hear every word. The blue haze surrounding Nicole's bed obscured her face, but Harry could see light brown hair and a small frame.
"We did, once. It's hard to say whether she fully regained consciousness. Her eyes did open, but she was unable to speak, though it looked as though she was trying. She did seem to recognize her brother though. So, that's reason enough to remain hopeful."
"So what're you doing to help her?"
"Well, we are hoping to replicate some of her brain matter that was lost in the attack. That's what this blue spellwork is for. It keeps our spells in a highly concentrated area so they can act on the subject repeatedly. Of course, we're having the same problem we have with the others: Muggles don't respond well to magic."
"Is it…do you think they should be shifted to a Muggle hospital? Surely this sort of thing—brain damage—happens to Muggles. Don't they have some resources to—?"
The Healer cut him off with a derisive laugh. "Chief Potter, I think these Muggles are rather lucky to be with us rather than in one of their hospitals. They cut into people's heads over there and sew them up like dolls. It's practically medieval."
"Yes," Harry whispered, annoyed, "but you said the Muggle doctor saved Hermione's life with just those techniques…"
"Perhaps, but had there been a Healer on the scene, Counselor Granger would've been cured in an instant. Instead, she had to go through some ghastly procedure. It's a miracle she survived and you were able to transport her here…"
Harry's teeth ground together, the image of Hermione in the Muggle hospital overwhelming him once more.
"Besides, these Muggles have sustained a magical injury," Waltham went on, "which suggests a magical cure. I'm very hopeful that we'll see progress as we refine their potion dosage."
When Harry was silent, Waltham said jovially, "That's really the whole of it, Chief Potter. I can take you down to Counselor Granger's room if you like. It's been nearly an hour. She may be coming to."
Before passing through he curtains again, Harry looked back at the Muggle family. Walter Cameron was absorbed in his book, scratching his head absently. Nicole was immobile as always, her chest rising and falling peaceably. Mrs. Cameron was gazing at Harry, her eyes eerily foggy. She gave him a hesitant wave. Last, Harry's eyes landed on Duncan, who was watching Harry closely. Harry gave the boy a wide grin and cheerful wave goodbye. The boy smiled as well, his greenish-blue eyes crinkling in the corners. The magical book was still clutched in his arms.
Hermione's room was more crowded than ever. George had arrived with his wife, Angelina, and several more Healers stood in the corner.
"Harry," Ron called urgently from Hermione's side. "Come see. She's been moving around a bit. We think she's going to wake up soon."
Pushing forward, Harry could see that Hermione was indeed stirring. Her delicate brows had drawn together and her fingers were curling and uncurling.
"Healer Waltham," Mrs. Weasley said worriedly, her hands on Ron's shoulders, "should we wake her? It's been long enough, surely?"
Waltham pressed to the front of the tight knot circling the bed and let his wand hover over her troubled face. A faint pink glow emitted from the wand and Waltham smiled.
"Yes, yes," he said. "It will do no good to fret over her like this. I'll go ahead and wake her."
Waltham flicked his wand. "Enervate!"
Her whole body shuddered as she came to. Then, her eyes shot open and flitted across the swarm of faces above her.
"Wha—" she mumbled. Her eyes landed on Ron first. "R-ron? What's—"
He picked up her hand again. "It's all right, love. You're fine. You're in St. Mungo's."
"St. Mungo's," she repeated faintly. When she saw Harry, however, her eyes widened.
"Harry!" she cried, jolting forward only to have Healer Waltham ease her back down. "We had an appointment! I'm so sorry! I—"
In another context, Harry might've laughed, but the relief coursing through him was staggering. Blindly, he reached for her other hand.
"Don't worry about that," he said. "There was an accident but everything's fine now."
"Accident," she echoed, eyes searching his face. "I—I was just heading to your office…"
Healer Waltham cleared his throat. Hermione turned her head.
"Counselor Granger, I'm Healer Waltham, the Head Healer assigned to your case," he said in a much kinder voice than he'd used with the Camerons. "It appears you sustained a pretty nasty head trauma this morning. You were taken to a Muggle hospital until Chief Potter located you and brought you to St. Mungo's…"
Hermione stared. "A Muggle hospital…?"
"Yes. The Muggle doctors performed admirably, given the circumstances, but, fortunately, as I said, Chief Potter found you and transported you here."
"Harry transported…" she said, turning back to him. "Harry. What's going on?"
He hesitated, glancing around the room. Everyone's eyes were trained on him, awaiting an answer.
"I'll explain everything," he whispered before turning to the larger group. "I'm going to have to ask everyone to clear the room. This is an official matter of the Auror Department."
The Healers exchanged sulky looks, as though denied a delicious treat, and filed out slowly. After wordlessly clapping him on the back, George left with Angelina.
"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, "surely you can have family in the room? I don't want to leave Hermione at a time like this."
"Just a few minutes, Mrs. Weasley. Please."
His mother-in-law sighed and, patting Hermione's knee under the blankets, said, "I'll be right outside, dear. Come along, Ginny."
"Harry?" his wife said, looking at him incredulously.
"I'm sorry," he said, not really meeting her eyes. "Only a few minutes, Gin. I promise."
Finally, it was only them. Harry, Ron, and a very confused Hermione.
"Do you really need me to go too, mate?" Ron asked. He hadn't moved from his chair and was still holding Hermione's hand.
Harry looked at his best friend and felt his resolve waiver. While the details of Hermione's attack were now part of an AD investigation, Harry had no real justification to keep Ron, the spouse of the victim, from the room. No justification apart from a deep, irrational compulsion to be alone with Hermione, to confirm for himself that she was well, that she was speaking, that she'd come back.
"No, it's all right," he eventually said. "But I'm going to have to ask that we keep the full details between the three of us, for now."
"Ah, so a new thing for us," Ron quipped quietly.
Harry smiled slightly despite himself.
"Would you both just please tell me what's going on?" said Hermione impatiently.
Harry conjured a chair for himself and pulled it towards Hermione's bed.
"The first question is for you," he said. "What's the last thing you remember about today?"
"The last thing?"
"How about starting when you left the house?" he suggested gently, having taken countless victims' statements over the years. "It was just after I told you to meet me for lunch at the AD."
"Oh, right," she said, recollection dawning on her still overly pale face. "Well, after that I went upstairs and got dressed. I apparated to the Ministry. I spoke with John. I read through the Callahan case file again. Then, I decided I would come…here, actually. To St. Mungo's. I wanted to visit the Camerons in the extended stay ward."
"The Camerons?" said Ron. "Who're they?"
"The Muggle family Callahan attacked," Harry answered and Hermione smiled faintly at him.
"I visited with them for maybe—I don't know—forty-five minutes?" continued Hermione. "It was around then that I realized I was going to be late for our appointment, Harry. I should've just apparated back to the Ministry, but…"
"What?"
She looked embarrassed, but also somehow resolved. The faintest wash of color returned to her cheeks.
"Hermione. What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything! I went for a walk, okay?" she said, indignant. "When I left the Camerons, it was just about noon. I figured there was no harm in being a few minutes late, so I decided to walk back to the Ministry."
"Walk?" Ron repeated, as though he'd never heard the word. "Why?"
"Well, because..." She removed her hand from Ron's and fidgeted with a speck of fluff in her regrown hair. "I thought it might be my last chance to do something like that. At least without a security unit in tow. The Ministry and St. Mungo's are eight blocks apart. Is it really so bad to want to enjoy one last moment alone? The weather was beautiful and I reckoned you wouldn't mind waiting, Harry. So, I just...walked."
Harry suppressed a smile. Their Hermione—so independent, so hardheaded. Considering she'd only find a paranoid best friend and a team of bodyguards awaiting her at the Ministry, he could understand the desire to postpone the inevitable.
Still, he would have to be harsh.
"Hermione," he said very firmly, "you just received death threats. What on earth made you think walking around without protection was a good idea?"
She glared at him. "Please, Harry. It was a Sunday in Muggle London. It was daytime. It's not like it's a particularly dangerous part of town either."
"You had death threats," he repeated, suddenly angry. "Can you understand that?"
"Of course!" she said, the color growing brighter in cheeks. "But it's not like anyone was going to attack me there!"
"Well, that's exactly what fucking happened, Hermione. You were attacked."
"What?" she sputtered. "N-no I wasn't!"
"You were," Harry growled, a heat rising up his neck. "Someone threw a brick at your head. You were knocked unconscious and bled out on the pavement until some Muggles found you and got you to hospital. Apparently, your brain was swelling and the doctors cracked open your skull to save your life. So yes, you were fucking attacked and I was the one who had to find you like that!"
He was breathing hard through his nose. He had wanted to break this gently, but it had come out in a rush.
Hermione stared at him, stunned. Slowly, she raised a hand and gingerly touched her head. She winced.
"A brick?" she said eventually. "How do you know it was thrown at me? It could have fallen or—?"
"Something was written on it," Harry murmured, hating what would come next.
"What? On the brick?" Ron said.
"Yeah."
"What did it say?" said Hermione.
He looked down but spoke clearly. "Muggle cunt."
A pulsing silence met his words. It was Ron who reacted first.
"What?" he hissed, getting to his feet. "Those bastards. Those fucking pureblooded psychoes—"
"Ron, please," Hermione said calmly. "Is that all? No other details?"
"The words were burnt into the brick with a spell. The AD is running tests. We should have more information soon."
Hermione nodded. Ron was fuming, vibrating like an electric current. Looking at him, Harry again felt that odd stirring of envy.
To Hermione he said, "I need to know the exact last thing you remember."
Hermione swallowed and nodded. She stared hard at the blankets. "I was walking rather fast but I remember glancing at the shop windows. I got to Ludgate Square, at least, because I remember passing that pub we used to go to. I ducked down a side street right by there; it was a short cut. I think...I think the last thing I remember is a Muggle camera shop. There were cameras in the window. Yes, that feels right. I can't remember anything after that."
"Did you see anyone approach you?"
"No, not at all. The street was deserted. I'm sure of it."
"You have no memory of being hit?"
"No. No, I don't think so."
"Did you hear any sounds? Did you hear anyone apparate?"
She shook her head again. "The street was very quiet. I would have heard someone apparate."
"Maybe an invisibility charm, then," Harry muttered to himself. "Or a Disillusionment."
"That would mean whoever it was was following me for some time," said Hermione uneasily.
"Maybe," Harry agreed. "Maybe when you left St. Mungo's. That's the only significant cluster of wizard activity in that area."
They fell silent. Absently, Harry picked up her hand again.
"Why are you smiling?" she asked after a moment.
Harry hadn't realized he was, but answered honestly. "I was just thinking you are so getting a security detail now."
"Ha ha," she said sarcastically. "What d'you want? Want me to say you were right?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
She rolled her eyes but smiled fondly at him. She squeezed his hand.
"What do we do now?" Ron said, sitting down again.
"Well, I'd better get back to the office," said Hermione, straightening herself on the pillows. "I've already lost most of the day—"
"You're not going back to work!" Harry and Ron shouted together.
"You're going home to rest while I finalize your security arrangements," added Harry.
"Are you a Healer?" Hermione scowled. "Who said I needed rest—"
Harry didn't wait for her to finish. "Healer Waltham!"
The door snapped opened and the Healer strode inside with Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, George, and Angelina in tow.
"Yes, Chief Potter?"
"Does she need rest?" he demanded, waving a hand towards Hermione.
Waltham hesitated, glancing between Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who had a plaintive expression on her face.
"You should rest, Counselor Granger. I'd suggest taking tomorrow off to let the bruising go down…"
Harry looked at Hermione, not bothering to hide his smugness.
"But what if I didn't, Healer Waltham?" Hermione pressed. "I'd be fine, right?"
Waltham chuckled. "Someone's eager to return to work, are they? I'd suggest one day off nevertheless, Counselor."
Downcast, Hermione looked back to Harry. "I won't miss work tomorrow," she said quietly. "If I do, everyone will think it's because of the Prophet editorial."
Ginny shifted uncomfortably at his side.
"They won't think that," Harry said to her gently. "Once people hear about the attack, there'll—"
"No one will hear about the attack, Harry!" she cried, alarmed. "That can't happen!"
"The AD has to file paperwork. People will find out."
"Well—well don't file it in my name," Hermione pleaded. "Say it was some unidentified witch who was attacked or—or...something. Please don't let it come out."
The room went silent. Harry looked at her steadily for a long moment. Distantly, he felt Ginny's eyes on him.
"I'll make you a deal," he finally said. "I'll make sure your name is disassociated from the attack. In exchange, you take tomorrow off."
"That—that doesn't address the problem of people thinking I'm laying low because of the Prophet."
"It's that or people finding out you were attacked," he said plainly, "which I personally think everyone should know."
"You would want that," Hermione seethed. "You would want everyone to know Hermione Granger was knocked out by a brick."
He was surprised how much her words stung. "No," he said quietly. "I'd like everyone to know you're getting a security detail so they don't fuck with you."
She stared at him, and then something softened behind her dark eyes.
"All right. A half-day off."
"Hermione."
"A half-day," she said again, with finality. "I'll go in after lunch."
Harry opened his mouth, but Ginny interjected. "It's settled then," she said. "Ron, you should take Hermione home so she can rest."
The ginger nodded and moved to help Hermione out of the bed. She brushed him off, however, and swung her legs over the side. It was at that moment Hermione realized she was naked, save her Muggle hospital gown.
"Where are my clothes?" she said, looking at Healer Waltham.
"They were taken to the AD," Harry replied.
"Er—all right." Her cheeks seemed to glow under the glaring hospital lights. "I reckon I don't need them to apparate home." She looked around again. "Where's my bag? My wand?"
"Your bag's also at the AD," said Harry.
"And my wand?"
"It wasn't in the bag?"
"No," Hermione said, something like panic creeping into her voice. "I keep it in my coat."
"I'm sure it's with your clothes then."
She still looked worried. "Could you check somehow?"
Harry nodded, already summoning his Patronus to send to Durkheim. The giant silver stag charged from the room almost too fast to see.
George and Angelina moved forward.
"We'll let you get settled then, Hermione," her brother-in-law said, kissing her cheek. Angelina embraced her tightly.
"Thanks," Hermione mumbled, embarrassed, over Angelina's shoulder. "You really didn't have to come."
"Don't be ridiculous," Angelina scolded gently. "We're so glad you're all right."
"I'll head home too, dear," said Mrs. Weasley. "I left Hugo and Lily with Xenophilius. Merlin knows what they've gotten up to!"
After another tight hug for Hermione and a smothering kiss for Ron, she left with George and Angelina.
Then it was just Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Glancing furtively, Hermione tugged the thin paper gown down her exposed legs and Harry felt another kind of heat rise up his neck.
Thankfully, in the next moment, a luminescent silver stallion shot into the room. Durkheim's patronus.
"Chief," Durkheim's voice said from within the silvered wisps. "I personally searched through all the evidence taken from the scene. No wand was found."
The patronus faded into nothingness and Hermione stared at the spot.
"My wand," she said, voice trembling slightly. "Harry, what happened to it?"
Harry groaned softly. "It could still be at the hospital, I reckon."
Hermione swallowed. He could see real panic in her eyes.
"I'll go back and get it," he said quickly. "I know what your doctors and nurses looked like. I remember where your room was. I'll just go back and summon it."
"Thank you!" she sighed with relief. The paper gown inched imperceptibly up her thigh.
Harry moved his eyes back to her face. "And I'll even do it on only one condition."
"Condition?" she repeated, eyes narrowed.
"You'll take the full day off tomorrow."
She glared at him once more, but eventually shook her head in defeat.
"You win, Harry Potter. I'll take the whole day off if you get my wand back. But," she said, smiling dangerously, "you have to invite the doctor who treated me to dinner. With all four of us."
"What?" Ron and Ginny said in unison.
"Er, why is that necessary?" said Harry.
"You said the Muggle doctor saved my life. Surely, you can invite him or her to dinner so I can thank them."
"But they were obliviated," said Harry. "They don't know who you are."
Hermione shrugged, eyes glinting. "You'll just have to be creative, won't you?"
Ron and Ginny stared at Harry, as if silently pleading for him to make Hermione see sense.
But Harry laughed. "Fine. What date should I tell him?"
Hermione thought for a moment. "My birthday. September 19th."
"Hold on," Ron interjected. "Why are we getting involved in all of this? Hermione, just say you'll take the full day off and Harry will get your wand. There's no need to have dinner with a bunch of Muggles."
"I agree," said Ginny firmly.
"This isn't about my wand, Ron," Hermione said determinedly. "I want to meet the doctor who saved my life. I'd invite him to dinner regardless. Harry is just saving me the trouble."
Ron sighed, exasperated. "Fine—Hermione's taking a day off and we're having Muggles over for dinner. Wonderful."
"I'll go to hospital early tomorrow," Harry said. "Then I'll come by your place with the security detail."
"Perfect," said Hermione, sliding off the bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor. As she stood, Harry could see the outline of her body through the thin material of the gown.
"Let's go, darling," Ginny was saying, tugging on his arm more insistently.
Harry nodded and, a moment later, they disapparated.
They landed in the foyer of Clymene Court. Ginny dropped his hand rather purposefully and moved towards the kitchen. Harry's brows drew together, but he followed, a dull ache in his stomach finally pressing to the front of his consciousness.
Moving to the cupboard to fix a sandwich, Ginny sat at the table and began flipping through that morning's Prophet.
As he removed the bread, Ginny said, "You're all right now, aren't you?"
He glanced at her before shrugging.
She continued to look at him.
"What?" he said blankly. "Hermione's safe. She'll be getting a security detail. It's fine."
Her expression didn't change. "You were very detached until she woke up."
"Detached?"
"Yes. You barely spoke to anyone."
Harry laid out the bread. "I had a lot to think about obviously."
Ginny raised her brows and turned back to the Prophet.
"What are you on about?" he said, annoyance pressing at the corners of his eyes.
"I don't know," she said lightly, still looking at the paper, though there was a curious edge in her voice. "Just seems like you have tunnel vision when it comes to her."
Harry frowned. "She'd just been attacked."
Ginny didn't respond, opening the Prophet to the sports section. Harry finished assembling his sandwich and sat across from her, the Prophet between them. The headline from the Callahan article glared down at him.
"Are you going to speak to Selwyn about the Callahan coverage?" he asked, referring to Edwin Selwyn, the editor of the Daily Prophet.
Ginny lowered the paper slowly.
"About the Callahan coverage," she repeated dryly.
"Yes. About how Hermione was covered in that article," he said, nodding at the front page, "and in the editorial."
"I see. And you'd have me say what exactly?"
Harry stared at her for a beat.
"I'd ask him why they picked out her more radical-sounding quotes," he said like it was obvious. "The editorial is different. How was it even cleared for publication?"
Ginny paused, as if unsure where to begin with him. She eventually said, "I'm a sport editor, Harry. I can't tell the other sections how to write their stories."
"But you agree the coverage was skewed, right?" he pressed, irritated she looked so unmoved. "That editorial was the most blatantly anti-Muggle filth I've seen since the nineties."
"Please," Ginny scoffed. "Don't be dramatic."
"You think it was fine?"
"I don't agree with anything he wrote," she said, "but it wasn't out of line with his previous editorials. Just because he's turned his focus on Hermione doesn't mean—"
"This isn't about Hermione."
"Oh, it isn't?" she laughed. "By all means, tell me what we're talking about then."
Harry scowled, genuinely angry now. He breathed deeply through his nose before saying, "This is about violent rhetoric in a mainstream publication. This is about putting public officials in danger."
"Funny how you're so keen on this topic now."
"Oh, stopping beating around the bush, Ginny. Tell me what you want to tell me."
She stared at the ceiling, as though searching for patience.
"It's what I said before," she said tightly. "It's your tunnel vision about her."
"My tunnel vision. About Hermione?"
"Yes, who else?" she snapped.
"You're going to have to explain 'tunnel vision' to me because I don't know what you're on about," he said acidly. "Tell me how I'm not supposed to react when my best friend nearly dies."
"It's not about not reacting!" she cried. "It's about realizing that other people needed you too today. Ron was a mess. Mum was beside herself. But you disappeared and only pulled yourself together when she woke up. Then, you talked to her like Ron and I weren't even in the room."
"That's—that's not," Harry sputtered. "You're being ridiculous. I was focused on getting her statement, on getting her wand back. And you're deflecting. There's a clear link between what was in the Prophet today and Hermione's attack."
Ginny wiped at her nose. "What happened was horrible. But there's always going to be madmen out there who'll take things too far. The difference between you and me is I'm not going to ask journalists to stop being journalists just because you see some link—"
"Then what would you do to protect Hermione?" he spat.
"I'd do exactly what you're doing!" she cried. "Give her a security detail! That's exactly what should be done!"
Harry turned away, disgusted she failed to see what he could see so plainly. A loud silence followed. After a moment, however, he heard the distinctive sound of water hitting paper.
Horrified, Harry turned to find Ginny was crying. As if in a nightmare, he stood and knelt by her chair.
"Please don't do that," he said shakily. He pulled her hands away from her face and brought her to him. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."
He always apologized first. Their marriage was like that. She was not weepy like other girls so, when she did cry, it frightened him greatly...especially when he was the cause.
"I needed you too, you know," she whispered into his jumper.
"What?"
"I was scared, too. I wanted to be with you, to help you through it. But you couldn't even see me."
Harry touched her hair. "That's not true, Gin. I'm—I'm sorry if I was distant. It's only because I had a lot on my mind, not that I didn't appreciate you being there. Really, please. There's no reason to be upset."
Ginny sniffed loudly and nodded.
"I'm sorry too," she said. "I know everything today must've been horrible for you."
He nodded but said nothing. After a moment, he stood and took his plate to the sink. He wanted to return to the subject of the Prophet's coverage but sensed he would get nowhere with that tonight. Instead he asked, "should I pick up Lily from your mum's?"
"I'll do it. She has some leftovers for us for dinner."
"Oh. Great."
Giving him an apologetic smile, Ginny scooped up the Prophet and moved towards the stairs. Harry listened as her footsteps faded and the great house grew still. He released a slow breath and absently pressed a hand to his face, which was very warm. He waved his wand at the sink and a sponge sprung to life to do the washing up.
Glancing at his wand, he remembered Hermione would be without one tonight...probably for the first time since they'd shared one...in a frozen forest long ago...
Again, unbidden. The golden forest, the slab of stone returned like an unwelcome apparition. Mixed in with his usual preoccupation of her lips was a new image: bare legs under a flimsy gown.
The Muggle morning commute was in full swing when Harry apparated into an alley near the Royal London Hospital the next day. Peering at the blue-glass structure, Harry thought the hospital much improved to his eyes, perhaps the effect of visiting when he wasn't in the grips of searing terror.
Once inside the reception area, the difficulty of Hermione's task presented itself anew. How exactly was he going to find Hermione's wand? How was he to invite a doctor to dinner with a patient he never remembered treating? How did he even know Dr. Srinivasan was working today?
Hesitant, Harry moved towards the information desk. The same elderly woman was manning the computer.
"Excuse me," Harry said awkwardly, "is Dr. Srinivasan available?"
The woman barely looked at him. "Dr. Amar Srinivasan?"
"Yes. Is he in today?"
"He is, but you'll need an appointment," she said, peering over thick glasses.
Harry had gotten the information he needed. "Er, right," he said. "Don't have one of those. Thanks so much for your help."
The woman eyed him skeptically but called the next person in the queue.
Harry pretended to drift towards the exit. Once he was shielded behind a particularly large artificial plant, he disapparated. He landed lightly in the hospital room that had haunted his thoughts for twenty hours. It was blessedly empty. The bed was freshly made, the curtains still drawn.
"Accio Hermione's wand!" he whispered, careful not to let the charm reach beyond the confines of the room.
Nothing happened.
He tried the spell several more times and waited. It wasn't here.
"Shit."
Harry padded towards the closed door and looked through the window. Two doctors strode past, holding coffee. Several nurses stood around a large counter further down the hall. Harry quietly opened the door and slipped out. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked towards the nurse's station, hoping he came across as a typical visitor. He had dressed more like a Muggle for this visit: jeans and a black long-sleeve he usually wore on runs at the Auror Training Centre.
Feet from the nurse's station, a tall British-Indian doctor emerged from the adjoining hallway. Harry stood dumbfounded by his luck.
"Dr. Srinivasan?"
The doctor turned. "Yes, can I help you?"
It was obvious he didn't recognize Harry.
"Er, yes," he said, thinking quickly. "I'm a relative of one of your patients. She was discharged recently, but she lost something at the hospital and sent me to find it."
"That's a question for the lost-and-found," he said, already turning. "It's on the third floor."
"It was a rather important item," Harry said desperately. "I wonder if you saw it?"
Looking slightly annoyed, Dr. Srinivasan said, "All right. What was it?"
Harry laughed inwardly. This would be fun.
"It's hard to explain. Er, it's like a small piece of wood. It has intricate carvings on it."
Recognition dawned on the doctor's face and he looked curiously at Harry, as if seeing him for the first time.
"That's so interesting you mention that!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name?"
"Harry."
"Harry…?"
"Oh, right." Should he say his real name? Could Dr. Srinivasan somehow check it against the hospital's records? Was Hermione's name in one of their cursed computers?
He blinked and heard himself say, "Harry Weasley."
"And the patient's name? Was it your...wife?"
Harry greatly hoped the doctor asked that because it was simply a normal thing to ask. Not because the Obliviation charm had only been partially cast. "Er, yes. Her name's Hermione."
"Hermione," Srinivasan repeated, rolling the unusual name around his mouth. "Yes, come with me."
Harry followed, but the doctor stopped before the nurses' station.
"Sheryl, could you look up a patient for me?" Srinivasan said to one of the nurses. "Can you search Hermione Weasley? You're going to have to help us with the spelling, Harry."
Harry spelled her name with growing unease, berating himself that he'd overlooked those shiny, ubiquitous machines that seemed to store all Muggle knowledge. An AD taskforce was still developing protocols on how to deal with them. Wizards could, of course, destroy a computer with any number of spells, but they'd recently learned that Muggles stored information on intangible "clouds" and "networks" and not on single devices.
"Ah, yes!" Srinivasan said as the nurse pulled up her file. "Hermione Weasley. Your wife was in room 0466…she had a head trauma, which we were able to handle pretty well. Says she got thirty-four stitches, yikes! I don't know why I don't remember her case...Hmmm, this is odd—"
"What?" asked Harry, a little jumpy.
"Her file was never closed. It says she was admitted yesterday. She can't have been released yet, not with thirty-four stitches in her head…Yet, she's not here. I would've seen her on my round."
"No, no," Harry said quickly. "That can't be right. Hermione actually wanted to invite you to dinner to thank you for treating her but, you see, she's completely better now. She was admitted to the hospital several weeks ago."
"How many weeks ago?" Srinivasan asked, confused.
"Er..." Harry quickly tried calculate how long a Muggle doctor thought a Muggle might need to fully recover from a head injury. "A month ago?"
"Wow. Your wife's a remarkably fast healer."
Fuck.
"Yes, I suppose she is…" He watched the doctor's expression anxiously.
Thankfully, Dr. Srinivasan returned his attention to the computer. "Well, this must be a typo. It happens. You—er—won't tell anyone about this, will you?" he asked furtively. "Likely not cause for a lawsuit but..."
Harry laughed a little too loudly. "No, of course not."
The doctor nodded, grateful. He thanked the nurse and joined Harry on the other side of the counter.
"The reason I checked your wife's file was because I wanted to see if I had the right room." He guided Harry down the hallway. "You see, something strange happened yesterday. I somehow ended up in that same room. I'm not really sure what I was doing in there, to be honest, but then I saw exactly what you described: some sort of intricately designed piece of wood. It was very pretty. No one was registered to the room, so I knew it didn't belong to a current patient, so I simply pocketed it so I could show it to my son later. I left it in my locker here at the hospital." The doctor laughed. "How strange that I should find your wife's—item?—a full month after she was admitted here!"
Harry laughed tightly. "Just lucky, I guess."
Srinivasan pushed through a set of double doors and escorted Harry down a narrower hallway. They entered a mostly empty locker room where two other doctors were changing out of their regular clothing and into turquoise scrubs identical to Dr. Srinivasan's.
"Amar?" a dark-skinned woman said. "Who's this?"
"Don't worry, Grace," Srinivasan said, smiling. "This is just the husband of one of my former patients. Special case."
The woman looked suspiciously at Harry before she nodded and turned away. Harry followed Srinivasan to the closest row of lockers and watched the doctor fiddle with a padlock. A moment later, he removed Hermione's wand and Harry felt a wave of relief. He held out his hand.
But Dr. Srinivasan was rolling the wand between his fingers, studying it.
"Such an interesting looking thing," he said. "Do you mind my asking what it is? I like these leaf carvings on the side. It kind of reminds me of a magic wand, you know? But without all the sparkles."
Harry laughed very loudly. These Muggles were always much cleverer than he gave them credit for. He wracked his mind as to what in a Muggle household might resemble Hermione's wand. Absolutely nothing came to mind.
"It's—well—it's a family heirloom of sorts."
Dr. Srinivasam looked at him, clearly expecting more.
"It's just really important to Hermione."
The doctor's brow furrowed slightly before he shrugged. Harry's eyes widened as Dr. Srinivasan playfully swished the wand in the air before he placed it in Harry's hand.
"Well, I'm glad I could help you in recovering it, Mr. Weasley," the doctor said, closing his locker. "Now, I think you mentioned dinner?"
Smiling gratefully, Harry said, "Yes. How does the 19th work for you?"
Just after lunch, Harry Floo-ed into the sitting room of Ron and Hermione's home along with Yvain More and Cassiopeia Burke.
Shaking the soot off his robes, he called for his two best friends.
Ron came skidding into the room, holding a half-eaten piece of toast.
"Hey, Harry." Eyeing the two wizards behind him, he smiled. "So these are bodyguards, huh?"
"Yeah," said Harry, motioning the Aurors forward. "This is Cassiopeia Burke. She goes by 'Cassy.' And this is Yvain More. They are two of the AD's most talented young Aurors."
"Nice to meet you both," Ron said kindly, extending his hand.
Cassiopeia shook it politely, but Yvain looked star-struck and held onto Ron's hand longer than necessary.
"It's such an honor to meet you, Mr. Weasley," Yvain said enthusiastically. "I never in my life thought I'd-I'd meet you personally, sir."
Ron gave him an appreciative grin. "I'm going to like you."
Harry chuckled. "How's Hermione doing?"
"She's good. She's followed orders and hasn't left the house. Did you get the wand back?"
"Yeah and it wasn't easy," he said, grimacing .
"And the Muggle?"
"Coming to dinner on the 19th."
Ron pursed his lips. "That will be interesting…"
Harry paused. "Yes…er, Ron? There's one thing—"
At that moment, however, they heard footsteps on the stairs. Hermione appeared wearing her old Head Girl tee and pajama bottoms.
It was strange. Harry had seen her wear that faded shirt countless times, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from focusing on how the thin material clung to her small breasts. A dark bead of heat rose up his neck and he looked away.
He introduced her to Yvain and Cassy and Hermione shook their hands. "Pleasure," she said simply.
After a few minutes of small talk, Ron left to finish the Harpies game. Harry gestured for Hermione and the Aurors to sit.
"I'm going to walk you through the ground rules of how this works," he said to Hermione. "Yvain and Cassy will be on a twenty-four hour security assignment starting now. That means they will be available to you at any time of the day or night if you need to leave either the Ministry or the house. We only ask that you try to limit excursions after ten at night and before six in the morning.
"Oh, so a curfew then," Hermione couldn't help mumbling.
Harry chose to ignore that.
"You are not to leave the Ministry or your house without them. On a routine basis, they will apparate with you to the Ministry every morning. In the evenings, they'll escort you back to the house."
"And what if I go to your house or the Burrow?"
"They'll escort you to the Burrow. When you come to my house, just inform Yvain and Cassy. I've already told them there's no need to stand guard when you're with me."
She might've rolled her eyes slightly.
"Also, I'm setting up a more restrictive non-Apparation zone. No one will be able to directly apparate into the house. If they think of apparating into the house, they'll end up on the doorstep. That does mean that you and Ron won't be able to apparate from room-to-room anymore."
"I know what a non-Apparation zone is," said Hermione testily. "It's only the first chapter of Hogwarts, A History."
Harry's mouth twitched, but then he looked at the floor. "One last thing. I'd like to put an Apparation-tracking spell on you."
A pronounced silence followed. Hermione gave him a withering look, but there was something else in her eyes. Something like hurt.
"I'm sorry?" she said.
"An Apparation-tracking spell," he repeated. "It's just to make sure you don't apparate without first informing Yvain and Cassy."
She crossed her arms. "And I suppose you'll receive the notification of whether I've apparated without authorization?"
"Er, yes…is that a problem?"
She didn't respond. Instead, she turned to the two young Aurors.
"I'm sorry," she said brightly. "I don't usually do this when I've met people so recently, but would you excuse Harry and me for a moment? You might as well disapparate. It might take a while."
The two Aurors looked at Harry. He nodded curtly and Yvain and Cassy vanished.
Once alone, Hermione said, "You cannot be serious."
"It's necessary, Hermione."
"Why?" she demanded. "Because you don't trust me to follow the rules for my own security?"
Yes.
"It's just an additional precaution."
"That spell is for convicted criminals on parole!"
She stood and walked to the fireplace, her whole body seeming to shake like a pulse of electricity. Harry followed.
"I know it's not standard procedure," he winced, "but I'd really appreciate it if you'd consider it. For me."
He watched her eyes soften, just slightly. "You should've asked me like that. But the answer is still 'no.'"
He looked away, fiddling with a Muggle photograph on the mantel of Rose and Hugo with Hermione's parents.
"I can't go through it again," he whispered after a moment.
"What?" she said.
"I can't go through it again," he said, louder. "What happened yesterday...it can never happen again."
"Harry," she said gently, "it's all right now. Really, I'm fine—"
He laughed humorlessly. "You still don't get it, do you? You really don't understand what happened in that Muggle hospital. I thought you were dead, Hermione. You were so...I hadn't seen you like that since the Department of Mysteries."
She stared at him.
"You think I'm being extreme," he went on. "Maybe I am. But I know you, Hermione. You're not the same girl you were in school—so cautious, so careful to never break the rules. You're different now. And I know one day, there'll be a moment when you think you're safe, when you think everything is fine, and you'll let your guard down. And that's the exact moment you'll be in the most danger."
He looked at her and let the veil drop, for once. Let her see what the attack had really done to him.
"I need you to be safe," he murmured, letting his fear fill each word like an overflowing glass.
Hermione continued to stare at him for what felt an infinite moment. Then, she carefully reached up and placed her palm against his cheek. Harry closed his eyes at her touch. In the next moment they were embracing, neither sure who had initiated it.
"I'm sorry," said Hermione into his chest. "I'm sorry, okay? I wish you never had to go through that."
Harry took several steadying breaths, his face buried in her hair. She felt wonderful in his arms. Solid. Warm. The last time he'd held her like this was the day after their kiss. Time seemed to be like that now—he unconsciously pegged everything to before or after that kiss.
"Listen," she said, pulling back slightly. "I'll make you a promise. I'll follow all the rules to a tee, okay? It will be old-school Hermione Granger. I'll take those poor souls everywhere, I mean it."
He smiled faintly. "You'd better keep your promise."
She smiled. "What can I say short of an Unbreakable Vow? I promise, okay?"
"An Unbreakable Vow would be nice."
"Ha ha," she said lightly.
She released him and Harry immediately missed the warmth.
"Now, where's my wand?"
Harry retrieved it from his jacket. She took it gratefully, lowering herself to the couch to examine it from several angles. He sat next to her.
"You would not believe the...awkwardness I endured getting that."
"Yeah?" she smiled. "What happened?"
"Let's just say we're lucky your doctor didn't ask too many questions…"
"How d'you mean?" She lazily waved her wand and a few bubbles emerged from the tip.
"We thought we'd obliviated everyone who knew about your time in hospital, but there was that Muggle machine. It had a record of your stay."
"What machine?" Hermione said, interested. "Was it a computer?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"My parents have one. It seems terribly useful."
"Well, it nearly blew my entire story."
"Which was?"
"I had to tell him there must've been a mistake in your record and that you had actually been treated a month ago."
"And he believed that?"
"Yeah."
Hermione laughed and it sent a strange, warm ache through his chest.
"Well, good. Is he's coming for my birthday?"
"Yes. He's bringing his wife and son. The boy is Hugo's age. There's—er—also one more thing..."
"What?"
He couldn't seem to look at her. "When you were at hospital yesterday…I told...I told the doctor you were my wife. You know, just so they'd let me see you."
"Okay..." she said, confused. "But you obliviated him. He wouldn't remember that the second time you saw him."
"I know but I—er—sort of fucked up." He stared hard at the carpet. "In the moment, I...I wasn't sure what the computer would show, if he would've taken me to your wand if the story differed. So, I said I was your husband...again."
A moment's silence followed before Hermione burst out laughing.
"Are you serious?" she cried. "He thinks we're married?"
He grinned ruefully. "Basically."
"Oh, wow. This complicates things."
"I'm really sorry, Hermione."
There was something tender in her eyes when she looked at him.
"Don't apologize. I gave you a pretty impossible task. It's amazing it's come together this well."
"What're you two laughing about?"
They turned to find Ron standing in the doorway. Imperceptibly—as if they'd made a predetermined decision—Harry and Hermione leaned away from one another.
"Oh. Harry was telling me how he got my wand back."
"Oh yeah?" said Ron. "Harry told me the Muggle's coming to dinner."
"Yes," she said, glancing uneasily between Harry and her husband. "There's one thing though, Ron. Harry sort of...he sort of had to invent a reason as to why he was there to get my wand…"
"Yeah?" Ron grinned.
"And it may cause some confusion for our dinner party. Harry said…well, he said he was my husband."
Ron's pale brows drew together.
"I'm sorry. What?"