The Space Between by shellydkitty

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 25/11/2007
Last Updated: 25/11/2007
Status: Completed

Hermione's here; Harry's not so sure about himself. (Written pre-DH)




1. One-shot
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Harry blinks his eyes and stares at the plain white tiles directly above his bed. He wakes and
sleeps and wakes again to the same sight, ugly ceiling tiles, uniform and slightly dirty. He thinks
of counting them, to see if their number changes from day to day, but that would be admitting
defeat. That would be admitting that all he expects out of the rest of his life is keeping vigil
over these stupid tiles, making sure they never change.

Hermione would never admit defeat.

Harry's not sure how long he's been here; the days seem endless. He can't move or
speak; he can't even feel his arms or legs, and sometimes he thinks they might not be there
anymore. He was panicked at first, then angry and sullen; now he's decided it doesn't
matter. If they're there he can't feel them, can't move them, so there's no point
in knowing.

Hermione would want to know.

Even though he feels like he's been staring at the same ugly white ceiling forever, he
thinks he remembers a time when he couldn't see, when it was black and he thought he was dead.
He wasn't scared or upset; he just kept waiting for his parents to show up, or for Sirius to
suddenly appear. That time, now, seems like a dream, and he wonders if it was. If it wasn't, if
he really was dead, he wishes he could have at least caught a glimpse of his parents before being
pulled into this room with the ugly ceiling tiles. But maybe, he thinks, maybe he is dead still,
and this is hell.

Hermione would be able to tell him. He wishes he could stop thinking of her.

He thinks he can hear her voice, but he figures he's just going mad. But other times, there
is the ghost of her touch on his arms and his hands, and sometimes, only sometimes, there's a
pale blur, haloed by darkness, in front of the ceiling, and he feels the cool press of lips against
his forehead; his eyes close and he concentrates on the phantom kiss, trying to make it real. And
then he thinks this must be hell.

***

He doesn't remember when it happened, but slowly, he's becoming aware of people in the
room with him. Sounds, too—quiet footfalls, the creak of a door, or a whispered spell as a wand
presses against his temple. He can feel the tip of the wand, but it seems too delicate, a trick of
his imagination; he still questions every day whether or not he's going mad.

Until he hears Hermione's voice, clear as the first day he'd met her.

“Oh, here's something you might be interested in, Harry; it says here that Oliver Wood has
been made Quidditch captain for Puddlemere United.” There is a rustling of paper. “I didn't
even realise that they had Quidditch captains on the professional level. I'm sure Ron knew
though.” She pauses, and he feels her hand on his; her touch seems stronger than before, more real.
“Ron's coming to visit you tomorrow. He feels really bad he hasn't been out here more,
but—”

Her voice fades even as he struggles to say awake and all is black again.

***

It goes like this for days, maybe even weeks. She comes, she sits, she reads; sometimes
she's silent and he can hear knitting needles clacking together. He wonders if she's trying
to free the house elves again now that Voldemort is dead.

Harry discovers he's at St. Mungo's, thanks to snatches of conversation he catches from
Healers passing in and out of his room. He even hears Gilderoy Lockhart's annoying voice
occasionally, though it's muffled; Harry figures he must be in the long-term ward. The ward for
people who don't go home.

Hermione never says a word about it.

Ron visits sometimes, but it's not often and Harry can tell by the cadence of his voice that
he's uncomfortable. He doesn't blame Ron. Harry's uncomfortable too. But Hermione nags
and Ron says, “He can't hear me anyway, it's useless to say anything,” and Hermione is
dragging him out of the room; he hears the door slam and angry whispering follows.

Harry wishes they wouldn't row over something as stupid as this. He doesn't blame Ron,
but he is grateful that Hermione is here. Listening to her read him a novel or simply chatter about
the latest research with the Wolfsbane potion soothes him. He's not sure he could have made it
this far without her.

The Healers are moving him around now, sitting him up in his bed, exercising his arms and his
legs; they may have always done this, and he just slept through it. It seems odd to be sitting up,
though, and he wishes Hermione would move to the foot of his bed, instead of staying steadfast by
his side. He can't see the door from his position, and when she leaves, he's robbed even of
the sight of her bushy hair.

***

His birthday arrives and the entire Weasley family comes to visit him, along with Hermione. He
wonders how he looks, lying there as they sing him happy birthday; he can't move his lips, but
inside he's beaming.

He might have fallen asleep; the next thing he knows, everyone is shuffling out the door, Mrs.
Weasley the last, ruffling his hair and kissing his forehead. But Hermione is still here, sitting
by his side. Mrs. Weasley tells Hermione she should get some rest; Hermione promises to try.

Then they are alone again.

She takes his hand and he hates that it's a limp, useless thing. “Did you have fun, Harry?”
she asks, but her voice sounds funny. He hears a sniffle, then her forehead is on his thigh and
she's shaking; he's so happy that he can finally see her that it takes a moment for him to
realise she's crying. Almost ironically, he thinks, that even when he was whole, he was rubbish
with crying girls, but then at least he could awkwardly pat her back or squeeze her shoulder or say
something stupid like, “Everything's going to be okay.” His chest is tight and he watches
helplessly until she sits back up, once more out of sight. He hears one more sniffle, and her chair
is sliding across the floor.

“Goodnight, Harry…I'll see you tomorrow.” She kisses his temple. “Happy Birthday.”

***

Someone is sitting next to his bed, but it isn't her. He knows this despite the fact that he
can't turn his head, because he's memorised her scent, lavender with the hint of something
he can't describe. She's not here, in his room, and he can't remember the last time she
was. Had it been only a day? A week? A month? He loses track of time so easily.

Someone is speaking, but he doesn't hear them, too distracted by her absence.

She's moved on, he thinks, given up on him, and he doesn't blame her. Could he talk, he
would have told her to go and start living her life a long time ago. He aches for her; he feels
guilty, but he can't help it.

He hears someone whisper her name; he doesn't recognise his own voice.

***

The next time he wakes, the frantic energy nearly overwhelms him. The door opens and someone
rushes in. The scent of lavender drifts by and he knows Hermione's already in his room. He
feels relief for the first time in days (weeks? months?).

“Are you sure you heard him speak?” she asks, and he can hear the urgency in her tone. He
wonders what she's talking about.

“Yes,” one of his Healers answers, “it was just a whisper, but it was definitely your name.”

Then he remembers. He remembers his cracked lips forming her name, and before he can think any
further, she's sitting on his bed and he can *see* her; he revels in the sight of her,
though her brown eyes are watery. His chest hurts again, and he hopes she doesn't cry.

“Harry…” she whispers and he desperately wants to answer. “I know you're in there, I know
you can see me. Fight this…I know you can fight this…just...please, come back to me.” A tear rolls
down her cheek and he longs to brush it away; he needs to wrap his arms around her and hold her
close, but even as he strains, his brain shouting at his muscles to move, his hands lay dead.

“Please…” she whispers again, and he's trying, he's trying so hard, trying to remember
how he said her name before, gathering all the strength he can muster, but she's starting to
move away, wiping her eyes, her face twisted in disappointment, and his chest hurts so bad that his
heart must be breaking.

And just before she moves to leave the bed, he flings every bit of his will to the nerves in his
hand, and somehow, it's enough; it hurts, like needles prickling his skin, but he *moves*.
She stills, staring at his barely-twitching finger, then her eyes trail hesitantly to his face as
she inches her hand along the mattress. He manages to hook his finger over hers; he breathes her
name.

“Hermione-”

*-Fin-*

**Notes:** This was written pre-DH for the 7spells community on LJ. Special thanks to
quite_grey for the beta.

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