I need to call Ted. I want him to visit him. We must not joke with a possible concussion, I want to make sure that everything is fine.
I don't find him at home, he is surely at the hospital. I look for him there and when he gets to the fire called by a nurse, from his face, I know he already divined something.
'You or him?' he only asks.
'Him'
'I'm coming'
Not even five minutes later he is the fireplace, with his healer uniform still on.
'What happened? Where is he?' he asks purposefully.
I explain the situation leading him into the living room. He gets his wand straight away and cast different spells and charm against his head.
When he stops, he looks at me and his hair from white and blinding it was, starts to fade in a grey. Almost at the same time I spot the same alteration in his eyes; from light they are, I see a shade of a darker blue from the pupils speckling the hyriids. And witnessing this transformation that is so usual with him, I'm not sure why, dread creep over me.
But he only says tranquil 'I don't know, Hermione. I think he is fine, but you forget I'm not a qualified healer yet. It would be better to take him to St Mungo, he should stay there. He left too soon. His healer asked me to bring him back'
'You know he will never agree, and we can hardly take him without his consent, he would go mad, and we cannot risk it. I don't want them to shut him in labelled as insane'
'He is not very well either…'
'No Ted, we are not taking him there, that's final.'
And unfortunately, we cannot allow any healer inside here either because of the Fidelius as Ted very well know.
He looks at me grim, his wand dangling limply from his fingers, and I grant him through that silence that yes, he should be taken to St. Mungo and yes, he is on the good path for insanity but that doesn't' change my resolution. I know how they would treat with him, and it would only worsen his situation.
I believe Ted knows it too thereby he doesn't insist. He passes a hand in his grey hair, getting darker by the minute, sighing, and watching him sleeping, dismayed.
'I don't know… I don't know what's best. In any case don't give him any sleeping potions. Stun him if you must'
This exchange pains me. I cannot believe we are talking about the Harry that only at Christmas, not even a couple of months ago, was laughing and joking with George, playing with Sunrise and kissing Ginny.
We are treating him like a dangerous, unpredictable wild animal.
'I'll make some tea' I say wearily to ease the moment, heading to the kitchen 'Do you fancy a cup?'
He answers in the affirmative and follows me, glancing worryingly in Harry's direction a last time, before to leave the room.
'Don't you have to go back to St Mungo's?'
'No, my shift was about to end anyway'
A wretched uneasiness envelops us. I busy myself with the tea and none of us spoke until the cups with the fuming drink are in front of us.
I found myself not able to meet his gaze, so I stare fixedly at my cup. I feel his enquiring eyes on me and, damning myself in the meanwhile, I cannot help but blush.
I hear a sigh coming from him 'I knew it…' he says 'Oh, Hermione…' he murmurs shaking his head.
The blush gets more intense, I blort out in my defence 'I know. I'm sorry! But he is…' and I tail off unable to continue the sentence. I try again with same energy 'And I'm…' but I cut this sentence too. He is what and I'm what? I cannot find a way to complete those sentences not even in my head.
'I understand' Ted says dejected. Apparently, he, unlike me, knows.
'But, Hermione, this is very wrong. Far from me to lecture but you are definitely not helping him and overall, you are putting yourself in a potentially dangerous situation'
I stop a second in my shame to appreciate the fact that a whippersnapper of barely twenty-three is indeed lecturing me, a woman of thirty-eight.
'I'm sorry to be harsh with my words but I must. You are aware that he is not in love with you, and I seriously doubt he will ever be?'
I nod and I feel inspite myself my eyes moist.
'And do you realise that having intercourses with you he is only trying either an escape from his grief or worse still, pretending you are Ginny?'
This truth, so brutally slapped to my face, is indeed painful and staggering. One thing is to know it deep down but wallowing in denial, and another is having it so utterly confirmed by a third clear mind party.
I try to speak but my voice fails me, so I simply nod again.
'Do you realise then, in the long run, how this situation will affect you and him?'
With an act of extreme boldness, I find my voice to answer more or less composedly.
'Ted, I assure you, I know. I very well know what I'm doing and what I'm risking. But this is my only shot for happiness…' he cuts off my sentence 'This is not going to be happiness, Hermione; it will bring you to a secure misery'
'This is the closest I can get' I reply steadfast, I still didn't look at him not even once, I'm not that bold to encounter those eyes that will make me perceive how wrong I'm behaving.
The only thing in my field of vision are his long fingers on the handle of the cup that he hasn't still brought to his mouth.
'I know I will pay for it. But I prefer this now that nothing ever'
'What about him? Did you think about him? The effect that this can have on his mind?'
Yes and no. Yes, because I still want to believe that, despite what Ted thinks, perhaps he could learn to love me and, perhaps, that would cure him. And no, because I don't want to admit what Ted is wanting me to realise.
A silence follows. The cup is finally lifted, and while he is sipping from it, I can almost hear his brain working under the influx of my words. I glance briskly at him; his hair almost black now is a bit longer, as usual when he loses himself in thoughts. He pushed them back wistfully and I reflect on how bizarre this whole thing of swinging of colours by the mood is. It makes impossible to live in the muggle world. I wonder if he ever tried to check it or if he indeed care. I try to remember if it was the same for Tonks but I cannot recollect.
'Won't you tell anybody, will you?' and pronouncing this request I feel like a six-year-old girl who has been caught in a mischief and is begging one of his parents not to tell the other.
'Of course, I won't, Hermione. Why should I? There is too much at stake. I don't even want to imagine Ron's reaction in finding out'
No, me neither. He'd be capable to kill both me and Harry.
Am I really so reprehensible? I'm afraid I am.
