Chapter Forty-Two: The Hope Healer
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It was chemo day. Numbers day.
She woke up early. Harry was still comfortably snoring away, but her eyes had flickered open in the predawn light. And after all the snoring, and the rustling of bedsheets, and the leaden weight in her stomach, she couldn't quite close them again.
Ella sighed and rose wearily from the bed, stifling a yawn. Snowy grunted in annoyance and rearranged himself onto her vacated pillow as padded into the bathroom.
Her reflection in the mirror was ghastly. Dark shadows had etched themselves onto the pale skin beneath her eyes, as if they had taken up permanent residence.
She stepped into the shower, hoping to find a bit of warmth there. Let the hot water drench her until her fingers wrinkled like prunes. And still, the warmth didn't seem to reach past her skin. It didn't matter how scalding she turned the water or how long she stood there. Her stomach was still tied in cold knots, and the air in her chest felt much too tight to breathe.
It would be all right… wouldn't it?
It had been two weeks since she'd seen the number. Hannah had chosen not to test in the midweek, and she had no idea if the Act-D was working. It all boiled down to today. To that one little draw which felt like it would decide everything. She thought she might break under the pressure. Might simply melt away beneath the hot water and let it wash her away. Down, down beneath the streets and into the eternal darkness.
How many more times would she cry in this Merlin-forsaken shower?
The water pooled around her feet, washing over her toes. She glanced down, her foot brushing against something soft. A tangle of brown.
Her stomach clenched. Wordlessly, she raised her hand, brushing her fingers through her wet curls, her motions turning more and more aggressive as more brown strands clung to her palm. So many of them, until there was a ball of hair in her hands nearly the size of a bludger.
It looked like a bloody dead rat.
She threw it angrily away and it smacked against the tile it slid down to float in the pooling water. Brushed against her leg. With an angry sigh, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.
It took ages for the steam to clear enough that she could see her reflection in the mirror.
The loss wasn't noticeable.
She turned her head, observing her hair from every possible angle. No, she had been blessed with impossibly thick hair. Hair that had driven her wild for years even as it helped her gain a foothold on the elusive role of Hermione Granger. Though it had been her talent that had cinched it in the end. Or maybe it was destiny. But either way, it was hair that she had hated and loved and hated and loved again. Hair that had paved the life she knew. That had led her to Harry.
And now it was hair that hid her secret from the world. Hair so thick, it was impossible to tell that some was missing.
At least for now.
She twirled it silently between her fingers as she sat in Hannah's waiting room. It was just one of those things — she knew she shouldn't, because every time she touched it, more hair seemed to come away in her hands, as if she were some kind of walking hair trap. And yet she couldn't seem to stop. Couldn't shake the feeling that if she simply let go then the entirety of it would vanish.
Beside her, Harry quietly reached over and took hold of her hand. She lowered her arm. Tried her best to stay still. To not shrug him off so she could run it through her hair once again.
It was just hair. Only hair.
It was only hair…
She drew in a shuddering breath.
The room was stifling, the air stale and heavy. It settled in her chest; a solid weight she could barely breathe through. And despite the warmth, gooseflesh coated her skin. Harry squeezed her hand, but it did nothing to dispel the miasma swirling around her. Even Hannah finally appearing to call her name didn't touch it.
She stood on shaking legs and followed her silently, barely aware of Harry beside her. Past the waiting witches. Down the long windowless hall. Into the bland and sterile exam room. Except for that transfigured armchair, already waiting for her. She shuddered.
"How are you doing?" Hannah asked.
And she had nothing to say. So she said, "Fine."
Fine.
So she sat in her chair and stared down at her hands as Hannah poked and prodded her with her wand. Tried to keep herself from shaking.
She wasn't dead, so she was fine, right? No fevers, no pleurisy, no unbearable fatigue. All fine. What was a little bit of hair? Hannah couldn't even tell, could she?
Nothing to complain about.
"Ella," Hannah said, and Ella glanced up, flushing slightly.
"I'm fine," she repeated, a bit stubbornly.
"I'd say so. Your numbers are at 89."
She blinked. Hannah was smiling. Beside her, Harry made some sort of noise, but her ears didn't seem to be working properly and she couldn't decipher it. She pinched her arm. It hurt. She could definitely feel pain in her arm.
"What?" she croaked.
"Your HCG is 89, Ella," Hannah repeated. "You've had a 70% drop."
"Oh my god!" Something that felt distinctly different from all the pain and darkness leapt through her chest. It took her a moment to recognize the feeling. Excitement. Hope. She whirled to face Harry, who was ginning at her. "Did you hear that?"
"I heard it," he agreed, smiling brightly.
"That's amazing!" She turned back to Hannah. "89?"
"89," Hannah confirmed. "It's a fantastic drop. You're responding very well to the dactinomycin."
"Really?" she whispered, not quite trusting herself to believe it.
"Really." Hannah clasped her shoulder. "You're doing great."
She nodded, not quite able to find the words. Her cheeks hurt, and she realized she was grinning. The feeling was unfamiliar.
Doing great.
She hadn't been doing so great that morning, or at any point over the last fortnight, really.
But she was certainly doing great now! The coldness in her stomach had dissipated as abruptly as if Hannah had magicked it away. She felt warm. Light. Her body strumming with excitement.
Eighty-nine.
That was amazing. The Act-D was working! It… wasn't impossible that there was a finish line — a thought she was suddenly brave enough to entertain. Hannah wasn't just a healer. She was a hope healer. Ella smiled. She couldn't stop smiling.
"89," she repeated to Harry, as Hannah continued to scan her with the wand. "Harry, it's working!"
"I know," Harry said, squeezing her hand. "It's bloody fantastic."
"Yes, it is," Ella agreed. "It bloody is!"
"How have you been feeling?" Hannah asked, finally lowering her wand and facing Ella. "Aside from fine."
"Not bad," Ella said truthfully, still talking around her grin. "Really. I was only a little nauseous in the beginning, and then excellent." She considered mentioning the hair in the shower. Decided not to. Who cared? Her numbers were dropping. What was a little hair?
Hannah nodded, crossing her arms as she considered her.
"So go on, chemo me!" Ella said, in a significantly bubblier voice than anyone had likely ever used to say, "chemo me" before. Not that anyone else had probably ever said it.
Hannah smiled. "I will. But your platelets and neutrophils are a little low, I'd like to address that first."
"What do you mean, low?" Ella frowned, some of the happiness seeping out of her. The grin finally slid off her face, and Harry squeezed her hand again as she leaned forward. "How low? It won't delay my treatment, will it? Because with that great drop, I—"
"Don't worry," Hannah said quickly. "We'll stay on schedule. But I'm going to give you a Blood-Replenishing Potion. That should address the drops. I'd like you to drink it tonight, and then I want to see you on Monday for a quick visit, just to make sure it's working."
"All right," Ella hedged. That didn't sound so bad. Surely better than the accounts she'd read in her support group where treatments were delayed under similar circumstances. It was a shame that there wasn't a simple solution like this for Muggles. But she could hardly start a black market for potions on the forum.
Right?
"What are you grinning about?" Harry asked.
"Nothing." She shook her head for emphasis. "Is that all?"
"That's all," Hannah said. "So if you're ready, we're going to go ahead and get started."
"I'm ready."
She settled comfortably into the chair, watching as Hannah prepared the Act-D. As she magicked the line into being, drawing it out just like last time. As it stretched from the floating bag to burrow into Ella's chest, just below her collarbone. The faint tingling of the disinfection minty taste of the Quelling Draught. And then there was nothing left to do but start the slow drip of the chemo.
Hannah stepped out of the room after it was done, leaving them quite alone, and Ella drew her eyes away from the slowly yellowing line and turned to Harry. He didn't speak. He merely learned over and kissed her, long and hard enough that she briefly wondered if they'd be the first idiots to do it while chemo was happening. But then he drew back, shattering all her silly fantasies, and grinned.
"You broke a hundred."
"Forget that. I broke 90!"
"It's all about the 80s," Harry agreed, grinning.
Ella laughed. "Are we still talking about my numbers?"
Harry reached out and gently brushed a stray hair off her face. "Absolutely. And how you're kicking cancer's ass."
"Mmmm." A tiny strand of fear twinged in her stomach, dampening the excitement. "Let's not jinx it though, all right?"
"All right." Harry leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers. "But, El?"
"Yeah?"
"You broke a hundred."
"I did." She let her head rest against his and closed her eyes. And tried to find hope in the darkness.
The changes she noticed were subtle.
Mostly, she was tired. She was tired on Friday night, and she reckoned it was because she had insisted on teaching. But she was still tired the next day. And the next. Not fatigued, not as Hannah had warned. She could get out of bed. Pad to the kitchen. And then the sofa. And that's where she spent the entirety of the weekend. Lounging around and chugging Hannah's Quelling Draughts because she was endlessly nauseous. Four hour intervals didn't seem to do enough, so by Saturday afternoon, she had it down to three. She'd never manage to hold down her water otherwise (forget food), and Hannah had stressed that eight cups daily was important.
By Sunday, had managed to nibble on a salad, much to Harry's relief. And on Monday, she finally left the sofa behind long enough to see Hannah, who was pleased with her new bloods. Ella was pleased too, but the trip took most of her energy. It was Wednesday before she felt human again.
There were things on her to-do list. Preparations for class, just two days away. Another letter from Snape to answer. Things she ought to do.
She didn't do them.
Instead, she stepped into the brilliant spring day blooming outside. The sun was glowing across a gorgeous blue sky. The wind fresh and breezy, rich with the scent of flowering bluebells and wisterias. It whispered tantalizingly with promises of better days. And as she walked through the flowering streets with color peeking through every crack and crevice, it was hard not to believe it.
It didn't take her long to find what she was looking for. The salon was Muggle-owned, and not terribly busy. It wasn't yet eleven on Wednesday morning, so she wasn't surprised.
"I'd like a haircut," she told the woman at the door. "Is anyone free now?"
"Micah can take you." The woman nodded toward the far corner and Ella followed her gaze to see a fit, dark-haired man sitting in a swivel chair. His hair was nearly as long as hers, pulled back into a bun, and the edges of tattoos peeked out from beneath his sleeves. He stood as she approached, nodding in greeting.
"I want a cut," she explained, managing a smile. "Something short."
"How short?"
"Short. And badass. I'm tired of all this bloody hair. It's gotta go."
He seemed amused by that. "Anything specific in mind?"
She shook her head. "Go wild."
"You got it."
He led her to the hair washing station, and she leaned back into it, the coolness of the sink contrasting pleasantly with the warm water tickling her neck. She closed her eyes, until nothing but the water remained. The warmth of it. The rustling in her ears. Micah's fingers running through her long curls… for the last time?
She pushed the thought away. Buried it.
Micah's grip was firm, his fingers digging pleasantly into her scalp as he massaged in some floral-smelling shampoo. It was a bit funny — this tattoo-artist-looking-manbun-wearing man washing her hair with essential oils or whatever the Muggles used these days. She tried not to laugh.
"You've got a bit of hair shedding going on," Micah said conversationally, his voice muffled over the drumming of the water.
"Mmm." She felt a cold wave in her stomach. Pushed it aside. "Yeah. Trying out this chemo thing for a bit. Hair's not a fan."
Micah paused, his fingers resting on her scalp.
"So, I decided it was due time for a bitching haircut," Ella concluded.
The kneading through her curls resumed. "Luckily, bitchin' haircuts are my specialty."
She grinned. "Good. I'd hate to have to wait for it to fall out if they weren't."
Micah laughed and shut off the water. She followed him back to the corner chair, her eyes flitting to the mirror as she sat down. She had thought, after all that scrubbing and tugging, there might be a bald spot. Some chunk missing. But no, she still had hair. A little less than she was used to if she looked closely, but no one else would be any wiser. Plenty left to fall out on her. And she wasn't going to sit round and wait for it to happen. Dread every shower, or every touch of her hairbrush.
No, she was done with all that.
She let Micah work in silence as she watched the strands of hair fall away. So much hair. The entire floor was coated with it. Maybe when she was done with all this, and they destroyed Voldemort, and everything was all right… maybe then she'd grow it back.
"What do you think?"
She glanced up, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
"Wow," she said softly.
It was short. Madly short. Shaped into an obedient straightness she'd surely need magic to maintain. She lifted a hand to brush the back of her bare neck, where the edges of her hair creeped down. The sides were a bit longer, but only just. He'd given her side bangs. That was cool. She smiled tentatively, turning her head this way and that. It was cute. Trendy.
"Not too short?"
"No." She smiled wider. "It's perfect."
She traced her hand along the soft edges. The strands were layered and choppy. And if more fell out, it would only be choppier still. And when none were left to fall? Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.
She stood, brushing the last traces of hair away as Micah removed her barber cape. The stranger in the mirror did the same.
Micah briefly touched her shoulder on the way out. "Good luck with everything," he said genuinely.
"Thanks." She smiled, and stepped back out into the sunshine. The bell tinkled lightly overhead, fading as the door closed.
She hurried away, blending into the bustling crowd, still grappling with the enormity of what she had done. Was it mad? The sun felt warm on the back of her neck. Touching all the places her hair had once hidden. She turned, catching her reflection in a window, and paused to stare. The crowd parted, moving on around her. She was a rock in a swiftly flowing river. Too heavy to be carried along by the currents.
The familiar stranger stared back at her.
She tilted her head, and the stranger tilted hers in response. The stranger who wasn't really a stranger.
She stepped closer to the glass.
Things were different. There was no use pretending otherwise. Everything that had come had come, chipping away at her. Breaking her. And no matter how she'd tried, she couldn't seem to put the pieces back in quite the same way anymore. And now there she was — a stranger.
She smiled. It was a different smile than she was used to. But did that make it any worse? Did that mean it wasn't worth using anymore?
After all, she could hide the stranger away. She could force a smile, laugh when laughs were difficult. She could even charm away the falling hair. No one would ever know.
But that stranger? Perhaps she wasn't a stranger at all. Simply a fighter, dressed in battle scars. On the outside. The inside. Until she was unrecognizable, even to herself.
But she was still Ella.
And she was going to keep fighting.
She turned, stepping away from the window to fall back in with the crowd. She walked, her steps a little lighter. Heart a little more hopeful. All that hair had weighed a bit too much. It was a relief to leave it behind.