Saviour to the Saviour of the Wizarding World Isn't All It's Made Out to Be (1/2)
Title: Saviour to the Saviour of the Wizarding World Isn't All It's Made Out to Be
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Hermione/Ron (secondary pairing). Brief mentions of past Harry/Ginny, and a mention of past Harry/Cho you’ll miss if you blink.
Summary: When Harry appears to have gone mad after the final Battle at Hogwarts, it's up to an unexpected ally to save him and resolve the root of the problem.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Angst. Definitely angst. A little bit of foul language. And it shifts POV (you get four of them for the price of one).
Epilogue compliant? Opening scene takes place three months after the Battle of Hogwarts, and entire fic takes place within a short time period after that (so ‘nope’).
Word Count: 15,858
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: This little fic is about six times longer than I’d planned, and about three times shorter than the story wants to be (time constraints). What can I say? The prompt caught me and wouldn’t let go. Also, I cannot thank my beta enough. mathnerd kept me sane, put up with my flailing and ranting, and performed her beta work in remarkably short time, rearranging her plans to suit my needs. There aren’t words to describe how amazing she is. This was originally written for the 2010 hd_smoochfest .
Hermione sat very still, willing her foot not to tap. Once she had that mastered, she concentrated on keeping herself from fidgeting with her work robes. There. Much better. At least she had control of something.
To her left, Ron was doing all the fidgeting Hermione would not allow herself. He caught her looking at him. "What's taking so bloody long?" he muttered. "If this was so serious they had to pull us both from work, then shouldn't we be told why we're here?" His irritation only partially masked his concern. He wasn't stupid. She knew he had a good idea of why they were sitting in this office, waiting for a Healer to come in and speak to them.
For her part, Hermione was terribly afraid she knew exactly why they were sitting in these uncomfortable chairs. Not two weeks after Voldemort had been defeated, Hermione had convinced Harry to update his emergency contacts with his job and with the hospital, just in case. Auror training wasn't exactly a safe engagement. And part of her had been a little surprised, yet pleased, that Harry had chosen both her and Ron as his contacts. It made the most sense, he told her, rubbing the back of his neck. They were the two people he trusted most in the world, and Ron would certainly let Mrs Weasley and the rest of the family know what was wrong. Hermione had nodded, wondering how much of it was Harry wanting to avoid any potential fuss Mrs Weasley might bestow upon him if he were sick or hurt. Harry had never liked a lot of fuss over him, and that had only increased in the last three months.
Now she was busy replaying the last time she had seen Harry over in her head. He hadn't been well, though she'd tried telling herself it was probably just the exertion of Auror training. After all, Ron came back to their new flat looking positively spent now and then. But the more she made herself look at it, the more she saw how much she'd been purposefully ignoring. The weight loss. The deep purple circles under his eyes. The way his wand hand had shaken when he'd made them some tea during her last visit to the flat he was renting while he figured out what to do with Grimmauld Place. And the way he'd trail off in the middle of a sentence, as if he'd forgotten he was even speaking. Something about that last was so incredibly disturbing, and that’s where her mind insisted on returning.
"Miss Granger? Mr Weasley?"
Hermione's head snapped up as the Healer entered the office. She shook his offered hand, but Ron looked furious and ignored the gesture. "Will someone finally tell us why we're here?"
The Healer looked unabashed. "Of course, Mr Weasley. I didn't mean to keep you waiting so long. We just wanted to make sure we had all the facts before we said much. No need to make this any worse than it already is."
"Than what already is?" Ron nearly shouted, while the Healer shut the door behind them with a quick flick of his wand.
"You're both listed as the emergency contacts for Harry Potter." Hermione's worst fears danced in her head before she resolutely silenced them. "He was found this morning-"
"What's happened to him?" Ron interrupted, and Hermione threw him a glare to let him know that if he didn't stop interrupting, they'd never get the whole story.
The Healer, who had yet to introduce himself, directed his attention to Hermione, whom he seemed to figure was the more level-headed of the two. "As I was saying. He was found this morning, in his home, by a member of the Auror training squad. He'd missed his examination time. If it were anyone else but Mr Potter, I'm sure they would have let it go as a case of nerves or a deliberate ducking out of the program. But being who he is, Kingsley Shacklebolt sent someone to check on him personally."
He stopped there, and this time it was Hermione who spoke. "Well, what's wrong with him? You keep saying he was found. He isn't...?" She forced herself to say it, if only to keep the illusion that she was in control of all that was happening within her. "He isn't dead, is he?"
"No, he's alive," the Healer said with a look that did not seem to agree with this bit of good news. Ron let out a harsh sigh, and Hermione glanced over at him and moved her hand just slightly. He saw the movement and took her hand in his, nearly crushing it. She didn't mind. "He's alive, but he's not himself. He was found on the floor of his bedroom, rocking and muttering. He wouldn't respond to the Auror who found him. He's been here nearly four hours now, and he doesn't respond to anything we do or say. The few words he has managed to say have been utter nonsense."
Hermione felt the world grow a little paler, and she shut her eyes and breathed deeply for a moment. She knew she should have asked him what was wrong on her last visit, but she'd been sure Harry would have brushed it off. How many times over the years had he insisted he was all right when he clearly wasn't? "Can we see him?"
The Healer hesitated for a moment. "I'm not sure-"
"We're practically his family," Ron said quietly, and the change in his temperament was startling. "Maybe seeing someone he's close to will help."
There was silence a moment more before the Healer nodded. "Very well. But please, understand that he's unwell. We'll keep him here to see if we can't understand his condition more fully and help him as much as possible. We're not sure if it's his physical body or simply his mind that's affected. All we know so far is that it's not poison or a curse."
Hermione wondered if they had considered something in the Muggle psychology field. Soldiers had come back from war changed, a result of the emotional trauma of fighting and battle-related stresses. Surely, something like that was known to the Healer. She made a note of it to talk to him about it after they saw Harry. Maybe all he needed was a familiar face or two. "Take us to him, please." She rose, hand still held tight in Ron's grip, as the Healer led them out of his office. Harry had to be all right. They could snap him out of it.
~*~
Ron kept hoping he'd wake up and find it was all a dream. He'd been prepared for a rough day from the moment he dragged himself out of bed. Today was their first practical exam in Auror training, and while he'd been fairly sure he would pass, he wished he'd had a little more of Hermione's skill when it came to revision, or even simply retaining what he'd been taught without the need for notes. If he hadn't had her help to prepare, well, who knew how it might have turned out?
He hadn't slept well at all, worried that he'd get his wrist flick wrong in a crucial spell, though his time with Harry and the others in the DA had turned out to be quite useful. Or maybe he'd fail the physical portion of the exam. He'd finally relaxed a bit when Hermione had come into the kitchen, put on the kettle, and made him eat something against his protests. She sent him off for the morning with a kiss and a reassurance that he'd do perfectly well and the day wouldn’t look so bad from the other side.
And honest to Merlin, he thought she'd been right. No large mistakes, and his time on the running and obstacle course had been within acceptable limits. But he'd no sooner showered and changed into clean robes for another lecture on defensive techniques when a wizard he didn't recognise came into the Aurors’ locker rooms and told him he was to go straight to St Mungo's. His heart had stopped for a brief moment until he was told that Hermione would meet him in the lobby there. She was okay then. If it was someone in his family, he'd be meeting his parents, or perhaps one of his siblings. But if they were both being called, then that meant it was probably...Harry. He Apparated into the hospital lobby, only worrying afterward that, in his distress, he might have splinched more than an eyebrow.
"Hermione?"
She had whirled around at the sound of his voice, throwing herself into his arms. "Ron! You're here!"
"What's going on?" He held her tightly, in part because he knew she wanted him to, but also because being closer to her made him feel better.
"I don't know. No one will talk to me. I'm afraid it might be..." But she didn't say what she was afraid of, and Ron didn't need her to. After a moment, she stepped out of his embrace. "We're to wait here. Someone will be with us shortly. They’ll tell us all they know." He had simply nodded and wondered why they didn't know anything yet, and what could have gone so wrong that they were pulled from their jobs.
He didn't feel any better now that he had some answers. They'd been given a brief rundown of how Harry had been found and finally allowed to see him. Ron wondered which was worse-not knowing what had happened, or seeing it for themselves. Hermione had walked calmly through the door to Harry's private room, but Ron didn't miss the falter in her step when she saw Harry sitting in a chair, staring into nothing.
They'd tried to communicate with him, tried talking to him, tried a brief bit of physical contact, but Hermione had pulled away after a quick hug. Later, when they were at home trying to prepare dinner, she'd whispered that it had been like touching an animated corpse or shell of a person-not an Inferi, exactly, but definitely not like someone they'd shared so much with. Ron had looked up from the salad he was putting into bowls and she'd burst into tears. He couldn't blame her. He felt a little like crying himself. Seeing Harry in his current state was horrifying, and he hoped the Healers could put him right soon.
He sent Hermione to wash up before they tried to eat and told her that he'd Floo call his family and let them know what had happened. Hermione had scrubbed the tears away from her cheeks. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I'll do it. It's what he was thinking, wasn't it, when he put us down as contacts?" Hermione nodded, and Ron bent down over their fireplace, tossing in a small pinch of Floo Powder and calling out for the Burrow.
He'd caught his father passing by the fireplace, and some part of Ron was grateful for that. He was holding it together, but he wasn't sure if he could do that if he'd had to talk to his mother. He still vividly remembered what it had been like to see Hagrid carrying Harry's body up to the castle, that moment when they'd all been quite sure Harry was dead. This wasn't the same, Harry was still alive, but Ron couldn't help but think of the other instance just the same.
"Is there anything we can do?" his father asked quietly when Ron was done.
"No. We just have to wait and see what the Healers say."
"What about visitors? You know your mother-"
"No, I know, Dad. But Hermione and I... Say whatever you have to, but keep Mum away. Harry wouldn't want her to see him like this, to worry. Not after everything else." His mind drifted to Fred. He knew Harry still felt personally responsible for that death, amongst others. "Once he gets a little better, it should be fine." If, a part of his mind whispered. If he gets better. "Tell her the Healers don't want to distress him, or won't let visitors in, or something."
"If you think it's best, son, I'll do that."
"Thanks. And Dad? Could you tell the others for me? I-I need to talk to Hermione some more." He really didn't think he could relay the story to the rest of his family, and his father didn't make him say it, seeming to understand perfectly well.
"Of course. Let us know if you hear anything more."
"I will. And Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Love you." He had never been big on saying the words, but things had changed in the aftermath of the war. It now seemed vitally important to let his family know how much they meant to him.
His father paused, still kneeling at the kitchen fireplace. "Love you too, son. Take care of yourself."
Ron pulled his head out of the fire and walked to the bathroom to see if Hermione was okay. He heard running water, which meant she was likely splashing cold water on her face, and turned back to the kitchen to place their small meal on the dining room table. He was just pouring two glasses of ice water when he heard his sister's voice come through from the fireplace. "Ginny?"
"Ron! Dad just told us all what's happened, and I just... I need to talk. Can I come through?"
"'Course."
She was standing before him a moment later, eyes red. "Oh, thank Merlin. What's wrong with Harry? Dad didn't say much, just that he wasn't well and isn't to have visitors yet."
Ron took a look at her face and tried to decide how much to tell her. Why hadn't he thought of this? Of course Ginny would want to know more than he had told his father. She'd always had feelings for Harry. And those went both ways, didn't they?
He ended up telling her everything. He expected her to be upset, yes, but he didn't expect her to go so pale and tremble like that. "It's all my fault," she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"What's your fault?"
"Whatever's happened to Harry. I saw him two days ago, and I yelled, and, and-"
Whatever else she might have said was lost in sniffles and sobs. She buried her face in Ron's shoulder, and he patted her back awkwardly. "Oh, Gin. I'm sure it wasn't your fault."
"But I told him that it wasn’t working out, that he didn’t seem to care about me any more, and I just wanted him to leave and not try so bloody hard at something that was hopeless.”
Ron was stunned into silence. He hadn’t been aware anything had been off between the two of them. “What do you mean?” he finally managed.
“Ever since the war, everything’s changed. At first, I thought it was just because we’d lost so many people, you know, but I don’t think that’s all of it. Harry and I, we just can’t seem to make it work. He used to look at me like he thought I was beautiful, but I haven’t seen that look more than twice since the final battle. He just got so quiet, and when I asked what was wrong, he’d tell me he didn’t want to talk about it, that I wouldn’t understand. And then it just got weird. What I said to him probably set him off. I’ll never forgive myself if I caused this. Even if we didn’t love each other like we thought we did, he didn’t deserve most of that.” She broke down crying again, and when Hermione entered the room, Ron shot her a desperate look. He tried, he really did, but dealing with such deep and painful feelings weren’t his strong suit.
Without a word, Hermione crossed over to them and led Ginny to the sofa, where she listened to everything Ron had just heard. Taking that as his cue to leave them to their girl talk, he disappeared to the kitchen and put on the kettle, only returning to hand Ginny and Hermione cups of tea. Hermione was murmuring quietly to Ginny, her hand on his sister’s knee. Whatever she was saying looked to be having the effect of calming her, and ten minutes later, Ginny was stepping back into the green flames, apologising for intruding.
“What was it you said that calmed her down?”
“It wasn’t any one thing, I don’t think,” Hermione said, sipping at her previously untouched tea. “But I did tell her that I was fairly certain whatever’s happened to Harry isn’t her fault. He hasn’t been well since not long after the battle.”
Ron sat beside her on the sofa. “I know. I keep thinking I should have done something about it before this. I noticed it during training. His reflexes… Well, you know how he’s always been so quick, so good at all the defensive spells. His timing’s been off, and so has the intensity he always had for the work. Someone mentioned in the locker room that he probably finds it boring, seeing as he’d defeated You-Know-Who so many times, and common criminals can’t compare, but I know that wasn’t it. We just never talked about it. Though it doesn’t sound like Ginny had much luck when she tried.”
“No, it doesn’t.” After finishing her tea, Hermione rose from the sofa. “We’re not doing ourselves any good fretting about it. Let’s eat something and see how things look tomorrow. The Healers will have something figured out soon.”
Ron nodded. But as they lay in bed that night, his nose buried in her hair and his arms wrapped around her, one of his favourite positions, he wondered if the next day would bring any more answers, or hope. They could all use some of both.
~*~
It had been nearly three weeks, and against her best efforts, Hermione felt herself losing hope. It wasn’t so different from the period just after Ron had left them in the forest (or, as Ron called it when he was feeling light-hearted, their ‘camping trip’). Back then, she’d told herself things would be all right, and some part of her had always believed it. She found that faithful part of herself a little smaller than last time.
She and Ron had made visits to St Mungo's a part of their regular routine. They stopped by several times a week to visit Harry, who had yet to notice they were there. The healers, Healer Bledsoe at their head, still couldn’t pinpoint a cause for Harry’s condition. Given everything she and Ron had told them (including Ginny’s tearful confession), they were inclined to believe that there was no one specific incident that had rendered Harry essentially catatonic. Rather, it probably had something to do with the stress Harry had been through for the last seven years. The news didn’t make it any easier to accept. Hermione had spent what Ron told her might be an indecent amount of time researching similar Muggle medical cases. But whereas Muggle doctors prescribed psychoactive drugs, wizarding Healers had quite different views on treatment. Healer Bledsoe thought that the best course of action was to simply let Harry rest, positive his mind was doing what was best for itself, and that when he was ready, they’d see a change. His insistence in the matter, without any evidence to back his claim up, set Hermione’s teeth on edge.
Ron rejoined Hermione this Sunday afternoon after breaking for lunch while Harry was fed. They tried to time their visits to avoid these periods. Though he could be sustained on potions if necessary, the Healers preferred to have Harry eat normally. ‘Normally’, however, consisted of someone feeding Harry like he was an infant. He’d chew and swallow if something was placed in his mouth, and supposedly that was an indication that he wasn’t as far gone as they feared. But seeing their best friend reduced to this level of dependency was heartbreaking.
“Look, Harry, Ron’s back,” Hermione said, trying to keep a smile in her voice, no matter how false it felt on her face. Though Harry had never acknowledged them, both Ron and Hermione spoke to him as normally as possible. They had no way of telling if he could understand them, but Hermione wasn’t ready to accept him as completely gone. “He passed his exam on arrest procedures, did he tell you? One of the top scores in the class. I’m sure you’ll do just as well when you return to training.” She bit her lip. Would that day ever come?
She chatted about the Weasleys and how much they all wished he’d be able to join them for a family dinner soon. Ginny, Arthur, and Molly had stopped by to visit Harry, but both Weasley women had left in tears. Arthur had pulled Ron aside and said something, and Ron had returned looking glummer than ever. But Molly asked about Harry often, waiting for the day when he’d be better and could be integrated into all the family functions in the same way Hermione was, family in all but name. So she prattled on about what everyone was doing, in the hopes that it’d bring Harry back.
In the middle of an update about little Teddy Lupin, a commotion broke out in the hallway. Harry flinched, and Hermione patted his hand. “I know, Harry. Some people can be so rude.” There were more raised voices, and before Hermione could ask Ron to tell whomever was in the hallway to keep the noise to a minimum, he clattered out of his chair and dashed into the hallway.
He returned a moment later, hauling a familiar and quite displeased form into the room. “Unhand me, Weasley!” Draco Malfoy spat at the same time Hermione exclaimed, “Ron, what on earth are you doing?”
“Shut up both of you and look,” Ron said over both of them, gesturing toward the bed.
Startled at being spoken to this way, Hermione could only do as ordered. Miraculously, Draco did the same. She turned to look at Harry, who had been vacantly staring at the wall to the left of the room’s window since they had arrived. His gaze had shifted toward where Ron was still standing with his hand gripping Malfoy’s arm. Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “Potter?”
For the briefest of moments, Harry’s face lost that blank ‘sleeping with his eyes open’ look and something like awareness flickered across his features. Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Did you see that?”
“Of course I did,” Ron said, and Hermione thought that he looked equal parts elated, confused, and disturbed. It made for an interesting expression. “He’s been doing for that for the last few minutes. He even flinched a moment ago. Why do you think I dragged him in here?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to Malfoy. “Had to test my theory.”
“Will someone kindly tell me what you’re on about?” Malfoy exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “And why hasn’t Potter said anything? Shouldn’t he be demanding I butt out of your affairs?”
Hermione spared a moment to register that Ron’s observational skills were definitely improving with Auror training, before she looked up at Ron for guidance. He shrugged and she sighed inwardly. “Harry hasn’t said anything in weeks. He didn’t show up for work one day, and they found him pretty much like this.”
Malfoy just stared. “He looks like someone who’s been given the Dementor’s Kiss.” He shuddered and a vaguely troubled look flitted over Harry’s face.
Hermione wondered how many of the Malfoy family’s acquaintances had seen that particular fate in the last few months. Malfoy’s own father had escaped that sentence, with Harry to thank. Of course, as he was now serving a five year sentence in Azkaban anyway, Hermione wasn’t positive Lucius was exceptionally grateful at the moment. Making the decision to be polite in an awkward situation, Hermione attempted a smile. “Why is it you’re here today?”
“As you’re already aware Weasley manhandled me into the room, I assume you’re inquiring as to what brings me to St Mungo's. I’m here to pay a visit to Greg Goyle’s mother.” He said it as if challenging them to say something of his intentions.
“Oh.” Hermione thought it an oddly polite thing to do, but then again, old families like the Malfoys and Goyles had strict social guidelines. “Is Goyle here with you, too? Or are you meeting up with him later?”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “A bit beneath you, isn’t that, Granger?” She couldn’t tell if he was more angry or hurt.
“I’m sorry, isn't what beneath me?” She fought to control her temper. It wouldn’t do to fight in front of Harry.
“Asking a question like that after all The Prophet’s printed about it. I’d almost expect it from Weasley, but-“
“Watch your mouth, Malfoy, or you’ll be glad you’re already in hospital,” Ron warned. “Besides, neither of us reads The Prophet any more. What are you talking about?”
A little of the hatefulness on Malfoy’s face disappeared. “Greg killed himself last week.”
Hermione was at a complete loss for how she was supposed to feel. On the one hand, Goyle had spared no effort to do the three of them in while they searched for the diadem. On the other, the loss of a life, after all the other losses the wizarding world had sustained… And he had had family and friends, people who mourned his passing. Malfoy was only one of them. She took another look at his pained face and made her decision. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know you had been friends a long time.”
Ron gaped at her. Shock showed plain on Malfoy’s face for a few moments before he composed himself. “Thank you, Granger. Look, while we’re all being adults, I have something I’d like to say to you three.” He paused and gestured to Harry, who was once again staring out the window. “Can he hear us?”
“We have no idea.”
“Oh. Well, then I’ll speak to you two.” He looked unsure of himself, and Hermione wondered who exactly this was standing before them. She’d never really seen Malfoy like this. “The last several months have forced me to re-evaluate certain beliefs and assumptions, both about myself and the world at large. I owe my life to Potter, many times over. And also to you two, I think.” He rubbed his lip with the back of his wrist. “It was one of you that yelled something like that before striking me while invisible, wasn’t it?”
Ron flushed. “I seem to recall something like that, yeah. It’s true, though.”
“I’m not disputing the validity of whether or not my life was spared that night. I know full well it was. It’s not quite the same as me not identifying you all after the Snatchers brought you in. What I’m trying to say is that I owe the three of you a life debt-Potter especially.”
Hermione shook her head. “No. I don’t accept the life debt. I won’t hold that over anyone’s head. Ronald?”
Ron cringed upon hearing his full name on her lips. He took one good look at her face and sighed. “No.”
Malfoy’s jaw clenched. “That’s not how it’s done. I need to be able to-”
It was Ron who cut him off. “You think you owe us?”
“I know I do, Weasley. I don’t like the fact, but a fact it remains.”
“Then come out into the hallway. We have something to discuss. But not here.”
“Why in Merlin’s name-”
“Give me two minutes, Malfoy. Two minutes, or I’ll spend my life reminding you of your debt after all.”
Malfoy opened his mouth to object, then snapped it shut. “Fine. After you, Weasley. Coming, Granger?”
Hermione looked up at Ron, who indicated she was to be part of this conversation. With growing curiosity, she got up from her chair. “We’ll be back in a moment, Harry. We’ll say goodbye before we leave for the evening.”
Ron waited until the door to Harry’s room was firmly shut before drawing a deep breath. “I don’t want a life debt. The war’s over. I want to move on. As, I’m sure, do you. Right?”
Malfoy nodded warily. Where Ron was going with this, Hermione had no idea.
“I’d rather you did something else to repay your debt. Two things, really. I want to try an experiment. The Healers haven’t been able to get Harry to respond. Not a flinch, not a look, not a sound. You, however, have. I want to know if it’s a fluke.”
“Elaborate, Weasley. And that’s one minute down.”
“Harry heard your voice-at least, I think that’s what happened-and looked toward the sound. And there were honest-to-Merlin facial expressions in response to a few of the things you said. Not everything. But when there’s been nothing for weeks…” He raked a hand through his hair. He needed a hair-cut, Hermione thought absently, while she thought through what he was saying. She reached his conclusion shortly before he said it. “When we go back in, we’ll say goodbye. Hermione and I first. Then you. And if he reacts to you but fails to do the same for us, I want you to come back. Visit him. Talk to him. At least until he’s better enough to tell you to get lost or decide if he wants to accept that life debt rubbish.”
“And if he doesn’t respond like you expect?” Malfoy asked slowly, his brow furrowed.
“Then you never have to come back. I mean, if you want to say to him what you said to us on your own, if-I mean ‘when he gets better, that’s your choice, and you can do that on your terms.”
“Hm.” He sighed. “Your loyalty rivals that of the staunchest Hufflepuff, you know that? Very well. He saved my bloody life when he could have left me, even though I intended to-well, never mind that now. You said there was another part to the forgiveness of my debt to you?”
Ron smiled softly. “Yeah. No matter if I’m right or wrong when we leave here tonight, this part stands. This civility thing we’re all trying? It extends past today. You see us in public, you’re polite. No more calling me Weasel, no more calling Hermione any of the filth you’ve called her in the past. I won’t call you a ferrety git.” Hermione wondered if he added ‘aloud’ to that statement in his head. “I’m not saying we have to be friends, or go out of our way to interact. We’re all equals, yeah?”
Malfoy appeared to consider it. After a moment, he snapped out of his contemplation. “That was your two minutes.” But instead of striding away as Hermione expected, he turned around and stopped at the door to Harry’s room. “Time to say goodbye, then. You two first.”
Hermione stepped in first, pressing the tip of her wand and uttering a simple spell at the door, the staff’s way of keeping unwanted visitors out of Harry’s room. Harry was still sitting up in bed, his hospital gown twisted around his shoulder. He didn’t turn to look at her, even after she called his name. She wanted him to respond so desperately. “It’s getting late, and it’s a work night, Harry. Ron and I should get home, but we’ll stop by after work tomorrow. I was thinking of maybe bringing some flowers, or maybe that Quidditch book you like so much…” She trailed off. It wasn’t as if he read, or did anything other than sit or stand for long periods of time in the same position. Once, he’d rocked softly in place on the floor until they’d left. Nothing they did stopped him, and Hermione didn’t want to know how long he might have continued like that. She squeezed his hand again, noting how cool and dry his skin felt. She missed the warmth of his awkwardly-given affection. “Sleep well, Harry.”
“We’ll definitely be back tomorrow, mate. Soon as I change after work. Tomorrow’s a duelling day, and last time, my robes were singed. I’ll try not to smell like a campfire.” Ron shrugged and turned back toward Malfoy. “Your turn.”
Malfoy nodded, taking two careful steps closer to Harry’s bedside. “When you’re ready, I’d like to have a discussion with you.” There was no response, and Malfoy sighed. “All right then. Goodbye, Potter.” Harry sighed deeply, and Hermione flailed her hands at Draco, urging him to do something more. “Can you hear me?” Nothing. “If you can hear me, blink.” Harry did nothing for a moment, but then shut his eyes, keeping them shut tight. Malfoy turned back to them. “What does that even mean? He didn’t do what I said.”
“No, but he did something,” Ron pointed out. “It’s more than he’s done for us. Harry!” he called, raising his voice. “Open your eyes.” He waited. “See? Nothing.”
“I still don’t see what this proves,” Malfoy muttered. “If Potter wants to-”
“Look, he’s opened them,” Hermione whispered, cutting him off. “Oh, Harry, I know you’re in there.” She caught Malfoy’s gaze and held it. “Whether you see it or not, he’s responding to you. Will you come back?”
Malfoy nodded. “Yes. As per our agreement. I’m still not certain, but I’ll give it one more try. We’ll discuss it further after that. I intend to hold up my end of this agreement.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said, unable to think of anything else. They headed toward the door. “Can you be back here at seven tomorrow evening?”
He nodded. “Seven is manageable. I’ll meet you in the lobby then. And Weasley?”
“Yeah?”
“I do hope it didn’t escape your notice that I’ve not once called you ‘Weasel’ tonight, even before your proposal.” And with that, he spun around and walked down the hallway.
“He may not be so cruel, but he’s still a bastard, isn’t he?” Ron murmured into Hermione’s hair. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her for a brief moment.
“I’m not sure that will ever change,” Hermione said, fighting the small smile that wanted to come to her lips. Harry had responded. “Come on. I want to find Healer Bledsoe and let him know what’s happened. This could be what we’ve been hoping for.”
~*~
Draco wasn’t sure why he had agreed to this. True, it was an interesting alternative to having a life debt hang over his head. His first few visits had been conducted with Weasley and Granger in the room, but as they both had day jobs and he did not, he had taken to stopping by in the middle of the day.
“You know, if you’d just snap out of it, this wouldn’t be so creepy,” he muttered one day. Potter paused in his rocking back and forth on the bed, face turned ever-so-slightly toward Draco’s direction. Draco sighed. He was starting to notice that Weasley had been right about at least one thing-Potter did seem to respond to Draco’s voice, though no one else’s ever seemed to register.
“No, Potter, please stop rocking,” Draco found himself pleading a moment later. “It’s weird and it’s…depressing,” he continued, finally able to put a name to the feeling. This time, Potter ignored him completely. “What the fuck happened to you?” Draco whispered, running his hands through his hair. How could this man-this boy-sitting before him be the one to defeat the most powerful Dark wizard in history, when he couldn’t even care for himself properly now?
Draco repressed the urge to shake Potter by the shoulders and stood up instead. He’d been here nearly half an hour-that was more than enough to fulfil his obligation for the day. He moved a step closer to the bed and attempted to look Potter in the eye. “If this is just a ploy for attention, I’ll have you know it’s wildly unsuccessful. Your friends, the hospital staff, and your contacts within the Ministry have somehow managed to keep this little episode out of the press.” Potter’s glasses, which had been steadily sliding down the bridge of his nose as he rocked, finally slid off the tip of his nose and fell to the blankets. That was the only response Draco got. Potter’s face looked even emptier without the ridiculous round frames.
Draco’s voice softened. “Listen, Potter. Not a lot of people know you’re here, but most of the ones who do are worried sick about you.” He didn’t particularly enjoy Weasley or Granger’s company, but it was painfully obvious how distraught they were over Potter’s condition. They looked more miserable as time went on. Draco knew a little something about misery. There was no longer anyone he wished that kind of pain upon. “Get better, would you? I can’t properly apologise to you like this.” Before he knew what he was doing, he put a hand on Potter’s shoulder. The other boy ceased movement immediately at the touch, turning his naked face up in Draco’s direction. Draco dropped his hand, but Potter continued to stare. It appeared as if he was actually looking at Draco instead of looking through him, but that was most likely an illusion.
“Here,” Draco said hastily, trying not to feel as though Potter was staring into the depths of his soul. He picked up the spectacles and placed them carefully on Potter’s face where they belonged. It made him look almost normal, as if he was simply daydreaming while sitting in Professor Binns’ History of Magic lesson.
Once the frames were settled into place, Potter smiled and hummed tunelessly to himself. Draco took that as his cue to leave. Pausing at the door, he looked over his shoulder. “Good day, Potter. Weasley and Granger should be by this evening.” Not that you’ll even notice, he thought with a surprising amount of bitterness. He stepped into the hallway and took a deep breath as he secured the door. What was wrong with him? First he felt sorry for Weasley and Granger, and now he was happy to see something that looked like an actual emotion on Potter’s face. He tried to shrug it off as just relief at feeling as though there was an actual human being in the same room with him. That must be it.
~*~
When Draco arrived at St Mungo's for another one of his visits two weeks later, he stepped off the lift to find a crowd standing outside Potter’s door. Something like dread filled his chest and plummeted down to his stomach, lodging there heavily. His steps slowed. He was still a considerable distance off when Granger looked up and spotted him, gesturing him over frantically. “Draco!”
He walked toward her stiffly, wondering when she had started using his given name. “Granger. What’s going on?”
She turned a red, tear-streaked face up at him and the dread he’d been feeling twisted sharply into something that made him feel ill. But then a radiant smile broke through her expression. “It’s Harry. He’s awake.”
Draco was so relieved that Potter hadn’t snuffed it that he didn’t bother pointing out that Potter hadn’t exactly been asleep. Awake, yes, but not present. And what was he doing feeling relieved? Well, he couldn’t very well get Potter to accept his apology if he were dead, now could he? That must be it. “Well, then I should let you all be. I’m sure you have-”
“You’re not going to leave, are you, Malfoy?” Weasley asked, his face incredulous. “No, scratch that. You’re not leaving. You wanted to talk to Harry, and now he’s able to answer to whatever you have to say. You’re staying.” And with that, he dragged Draco inside the room much the same way he had the evening Draco had come to visit Goyle’s mother.
Once all the shoving was over and Weasley seemed sure that Draco wasn’t going to bolt from the room, Draco tried to make himself as invisible as possible. The Weasley girl was sitting at Potter’s bedside, tears streaming freely down her face. Draco felt uncomfortable watching her display of emotion. And in a room this small, he couldn’t even tune out her words.
“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she was saying, her nose almost the same colour as her hair. “I didn’t mean all those things I said.”
Potter sighed from his place in the bed. He sounded more tired than anyone Draco had ever heard. “Yes, you did, Gin. But don’t worry about it. I understand. And you were right about it all.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was awful.”
“No, you were honest. There’s a difference. At least we figured it out now. I don’t have to waste your time. Best this way.”
“It’s not your fault you weren’t the same person I always imagined. None of us is as good as a daydream, I guess, especially not the daydream of a young girl.” Her soft laugh was a little bitter, and Draco was reminded of something Pansy had said to him once, late one night. More broken wishes and trampled dreams. “Still friends, Harry?”
“Always, Ginny.”
She bent down to kiss Potter on the cheek and Draco nudged Weasley. “Honestly, I’ve got no business being here. I’ll just slip out-”
“Will someone please tell me what on earth he’s doing here?” Potter’s voice rose over Draco’s harshly whispered protests and the room fell silent.
“Er…” Weasley said after a moment.
“Oh, honestly Ron,” Granger sighed, stepping aside so that Draco could no longer hide behind either of them. “Would everyone mind stepping outside for a moment? There are some things Harry should know.”
“Not you, Malfoy,” Ron said, grabbing Draco by the back of his robes as he attempted to follow the departing Weasley clan out of the room. Draco was really getting rather annoyed with Weasley’s habit of manhandling him around at his convenience.
As soon as the door had closed behind everyone else, Granger turned to Potter. “Harry, I know the Healers have probably asked you this, but what do you remember about your time here in hospital?”
Potter shook his head minutely. “Actually, I don’t think they’ve asked that one yet. They just keep asking what sent me over the edge. And honestly, Hermione, I don’t remember much. I had no idea how long I’d been here until they told me. It was like…” His face scrunched up with the effort of thinking. Never was particularly good at it, Draco thought from his place beside Weasley. “It’s white noise. Like when the signal on the telly goes out and all you see is snow. There were points where I could almost see some of the picture through it, or hear the dialogue, but it never quite came in.”
Draco shared a look of confusion with Weasley, whose own was tinged with sympathy. “Gone a bit mental,” Weasley murmured sadly.
Granger shot Weasley a death glare. “It’s a Muggle thing. He’s making perfect sense.”
“I still want to know what he’s doing here,” Potter reminded her, raising his voice and gesturing with a toss of his head. “And why you made him stick around. He’s not why I’m here, is he?” Suspicion clouded his features and Draco rolled his eyes. Typical Potter.
Granger looked up at Weasley, then at Draco. “Who wants to tell him?”
“Tell me what?” Potter exploded, flailing his hands about. Draco amended his earlier thought. This was typical Potter. “Why can’t I remember why I’m here? And why is Malfoy standing there with you two, looking concerned? I didn’t hit my head while the two of us were shagging or something, did I?”
Granger blanched, Weasley turned a bit green, and Draco wondered why of all possible scenarios in the world, Potter had come up with that one. He had never thought of Potter in that way, though he supposed the other boy did possess a body that was nicely toned by Quidditch, and he wasn’t really-no. He would not have thoughts like that. It didn’t matter that his libido hadn’t had any sort of outlet in far too long. Thinking of Potter that way was simply too much.
“Um, guys?” Potter said in a small voice. “That’s not what…?”
His question made Draco realise that no one had bothered to answer the first time. He cleared his throat and tried to dislodge the thought of Potter soaping up in the shower from his mind. “Hardly. I don’t know what exactly put you in here, but it wasn’t me. And being here wasn’t my idea. I was minding my own business out in the corridor-”
Weasley snorted. “Shouting at staff, more like.”
Draco just glared at him and reminded himself that part of the agreement, the part he still had to keep to, involved not throwing around insults. “I was minding my own business, when Weasley here approached and persuaded me to come sit with you. And by ‘persuaded’, I mean he grabbed me by the robes and hauled me in by force.”
A smile twitched at the corner of Potter’s lips. “And that was how long ago?”
“Twenty-seven days ago.”
Granger shot him a curious look at his response, and Draco met her gaze, daring her to say something. So what if he knew exactly how long it had been? He knew that Granger must have been keeping tabs as well, out of concern, most likely. He’d never tell her-tell any of them-that his visits to Potter had broken up the lonely monotony that had become his life. His debt to Weasley had gotten him out of the Manor, and he’d almost felt as though he was serving a purpose-especially on the days Potter had seemed most responsive.
“And why are you still here?”
“Weasley and I have-had-an arrangement of sorts. I was asked to visit, to keep you company and talk to you until I could say to you what I had said to them.”
“Wait. Talk to me? From what everyone’s said, I was as responsive as a houseplant. Why bother?”
Draco watched Granger fidget. Potter didn’t mince a lot of words, and he seemed to be good at asking questions no one could, or wanted to, answer. “Because, Harry, he’s the only one you would respond to,” she said at last. “No one else seemed to exist for you. But when he spoke, you’d look in his direction. You’d make facial expressions. And once, when he and Ron were going at it, you actually laughed at something he said.”
Draco remembered that incident quite clearly. The words he’d thrown at Weasley had been forgotten, but the sound of Potter’s laugh was stuck in his head, innocent and perfectly amused and pleased, like the laugh of a small child. Granger and Weasley had snapped their heads around to look at Potter so quickly it was a wonder they hadn’t broken their necks.
“But why?”
Weasley shrugged. “No one knows. But it doesn’t matter now. You’re better. The Healers will let you come home in a couple of days, and they’ll let you come back to training soon, I’m sure.”
Potter gave Weasley what Draco gathered was supposed to pass for a smile. It looked much more like a grimace. “Yeah. Can’t wait. Hey, look, I know you’re all relieved, and it was nice of your whole family to come down, Ron, but I’m really tired. You two should head back to work. I’m just going to nap. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“If tonight’s too early, we can stop by after work tomorrow,” Granger said quickly. “You can rest tonight, and tomorrow we’ll see what they say about discharging you.” She bent down and gathered Potter in an embrace. “You’ll be all right?”
“Of course I will.” Potter’s voice was muffled by a mound of bushy hair, but Draco didn’t think he sounded as sure as his answer was meant to make Granger believe. “Thank you both for being here.”
“Don’t mention it, mate,” Weasley said as Granger finally released Potter from her grip. He looked uncertain for a moment, looming over the bed, before he reached down and clapped Potter on the shoulder. “We’ll see you tomorrow evening. It’s good to have you back amongst us.”
“I’ll just be leaving, myself,” Draco said as the other two stepped out the door. It was awkward to watch these displays of emotion, when he clearly didn’t share in whatever the little trio had. He’d never be a part of their lives, intertwined so tightly they’d never be separated. The most he would do is nod to them in Diagon Alley, or on the platform in King’s Cross, as they all sent their respective children off to school.
“Wait, Malfoy. Stay a moment.”
“Didn’t you just kick out your two best friends and a host of Weasleys so you could sleep?” Draco graced him with his best raised-eyebrows look.
Potter shifted guiltily, plucking at the covers pulled over his hips. He avoided the question, not looking up. “You said you had something to say to me, didn’t you? Something you already said to them?”
Draco went stiff. He’d been waiting weeks to have this conversation. So why did he want to hold out and push it to a later date? “I do have something to say. But it can wait. I’ll come back another time.”
Potter stopped his fiddling with the pills in the woven fabric of his covers. “You’ll come back?”
“Yes. What I have to say… Well, it has to be said. But right now might not be the best time. I’m sure your Healers would hex me if I caused you to relapse due to shock.”
“You think you’ll shock me, Malfoy?”
Draco thought that the concept of Potter’s hearing him apologise might just be a bit more shock than the St Mungo's staff would care to have thrown at their charge. He couldn’t keep a small smile from his lips. “You never know.” He looked Potter up and down, really seeing a difference in the body he’d been spending time near for the last few weeks. The other Potter could have been an enchanted wax figure. This Potter was real. Fragile and a bit pathetic, maybe, but real. “You look awful, you know.”
Potter let out a soft laugh, as if it escaped him before he’d been able to think about it. “Thanks for that bit of honesty.”
“Why’d you ask your friends to leave, if you aren’t really going to sleep?” Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He’d been wondering it, but that didn’t mean he actually had to ask the question.
Surprisingly, Potter answered. “I know they mean well, but I can’t…I just can’t. It’s so obvious how upset they were, how relieved they are, and how they think that whatever was wrong with me is over, and…”
Draco took a step toward Potter’s bed. “And it’s not, is it?”
Clamping his eyes shut, Potter shook his head. “No. I don’t think it is.”
Pity squeezed at Draco’s chest. He looked so damned forlorn sitting there in that rough blue gown. Like a lost little boy who’d given up finding his way home. “Want to talk about it?”
Potter shook his head firmly. “No. I don’t.”
Relief trickled through Draco. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if Potter had said yes. “All right.”
“Since you were already planning to stay and visit, would you do something for me?” Potter asked after a moment of awkward silence.
Seeing as how he owed Potter a life debt, Draco thought that he should at least consider whatever favour Potter might ask. “What is it?”
The other boy looked down at his knees and resumed plucking the balls of lint from his blanket. Hadn’t anyone ever taught him not to fidget? “Just sit here and talk until I fall asleep.”
Draco blinked. What an odd little request. He’d much rather have total silence as he prepared to sleep, not have someone blather at him. “Talk?”
“Yeah. I’m fucking exhausted, but my brain won’t shut up. Maybe if you keep talking, I can ignore it long enough to sleep. I don’t care what you talk about. Wait, scratch that. We have something in common. Talk about that.”
Casting around inside his head for what that might be, besides the Dark Lo-Voldemort making their lives miserable and which bits were hidden beneath their robes (and he really didn’t need to be thinking about Potter’s bits, thank you), Draco came up with nothing. “Talk about what?”
“Quidditch,” Potter said, giving him a look like he was just as dense as Cra…well, it didn’t do to speak ill of the dead, especially when they’d been friends for so long. “You follow it, right? Talk about the season, or why you prefer your favourite team, or good matches you’ve seen. Will you do that?”
Draco considered it. It was a small favour. And he didn’t have anywhere to be. He tried to sound put upon. “I suppose I could.”
Potter settled into his bed and Draco moved into a nearby chair, the one the Weasley girl had been occupying when he had walked in. Once Potter’s eyes were closed, Draco began to speak of the recent rumours that someone on the Harpies was dosing herself with something that wasn’t Felix Felicis, and might even be a Muggle concoction. He smoothly transitioned into a one-sided debate over the best strategies for playing in inclement weather, beginning to warm up to his subject. Maybe Potter would learn something.
When he paused in his little monologue nearly twenty minutes later, a soft snore escaped Potter. Draco chalked it up to exhaustion rather than commentary on his oratory skills. He stood up, stretched, and took a last look at Potter before leaving. He was on his back, snoring softly, glasses slightly askew. Draco rolled his eyes. “Speccy git,” he murmured. He reached over carefully and removed Potter’s glasses, placing them on the bedside table. When Draco closed the door behind him, he paused. How odd that Potter had eschewed his friends in favour of asking Draco to stay instead. His reasoning had a tinge of sense to it. His friends expected certain behaviours, and the stress would be on Potter to fake it. Draco expected nothing from Potter one way or another in a situation like this. A small, unamused laugh broke free of him as he walked down the corridor, causing a trainee healer to throw him a suspicious look. He ignored her. How disappointed would his father be to find that Draco’d been privy to a moment (several, in fact) of Potter’s weakness, and had done nothing to exploit it?
Draco found he didn’t much care.
~*~
A scream sliced through the air and Harry catapulted into consciousness, breathing hard. It took him a moment to realise the scream had come from him. The realisation did little to calm him. His head pounded and his stomach churned. He fumbled for a bottle in the drawer of his little bedside table, retrieving it gratefully. But when he removed the cork and tipped it back, not a single drop of potion trickled out. Empty again. And it had been his last bottle.
With a shaky sigh, Harry swung his legs out of bed. It was light out, and without his glasses on to see the time, he had no idea what time of day it was. His sleep had been erratic since being released from St Mungo's. In fact, it hadn't exactly been regular while he was there, either. He'd had one good night of hard sleep, the afternoon and evening of when he'd finally come to, but everything since then had been total shite. He didn't tell Hermione, even though she'd asked. She seemed to believe him. And that was all he really wanted at the time.
He shuffled his way to the shower, hoping that a good long turn under the hot water would help things. Sometimes it did. When he found he had to stop and sit halfway through, shampoo running slowly down his back, he tried to push the worry to the back of his brain. He'd been exhausted since...well, he couldn't quite remember. At first, he had thought it had been from the strenuous schedule of Auror training. But now that he was back home and under orders to take it easy for a bit, he didn't think that was the case. And the dreams certainly weren't helping.
This one had been much the same as the one the night before. He'd used the Resurrection Stone and walked willingly into the Forest, same as he had done a few months ago. But this time, though the ghosts of his past walked alongside him, they brought no comfort with them. It had been the loneliest walk of his life. And Voldemort had cast the killing curse, same as before. He'd 'woken up' naked at King’s Cross again, but he couldn't remember the conversation with Dumbledore. In fact, he couldn't remember if there had been a conversation, or if he'd wandered around, lost and alone. Eventually, he'd come back to his body. Narcissa Malfoy had been forced to check on him, and he remembered the heady combination of her perfume and her fear, mingled together on the night air as she bent close, a sure sign he must be breathing, at least a little. But this time, he hadn't been able to answer. When she'd declared him dead, Voldemort had cast a Cruciatus, only this time, he'd felt it. White-hot fire ran through his body, making him wish he had stayed dead. The pain stretched on for ages. And while a sobbing Hagrid carried his body back to the castle, Harry slowly realised that it wasn't an effort to keep still-rather, it was impossible not to.
When Hagrid laid him down, he'd heard the screams from his friends, classmates, and teachers, identical to the ones he'd heard that night. And when the time came for him to stand for their final confrontation, he couldn't. His body didn't respond at all. Not a finger twitched. Not an eyelid blinked. He was forced to lie there and watch while Voldemort killed them all, slowly, painfully, and without a shred of mercy. And he couldn’t even cry out their names.
It wasn't always this dream, but it was always something equally horrific. He hadn't been able to stop Voldemort after all. He had failed when they had all been counting on him most. It played out in a dozen different ways, each full of failure and disappointment and blood. And if they didn't stop soon, Harry had the feeling he might just take matters into his own desperate hands.
~*~Continue to part two!
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Hermione/Ron (secondary pairing). Brief mentions of past Harry/Ginny, and a mention of past Harry/Cho you’ll miss if you blink.
Summary: When Harry appears to have gone mad after the final Battle at Hogwarts, it's up to an unexpected ally to save him and resolve the root of the problem.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Angst. Definitely angst. A little bit of foul language. And it shifts POV (you get four of them for the price of one).
Epilogue compliant? Opening scene takes place three months after the Battle of Hogwarts, and entire fic takes place within a short time period after that (so ‘nope’).
Word Count: 15,858
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: This little fic is about six times longer than I’d planned, and about three times shorter than the story wants to be (time constraints). What can I say? The prompt caught me and wouldn’t let go. Also, I cannot thank my beta enough. mathnerd kept me sane, put up with my flailing and ranting, and performed her beta work in remarkably short time, rearranging her plans to suit my needs. There aren’t words to describe how amazing she is. This was originally written for the 2010 hd_smoochfest .
Hermione sat very still, willing her foot not to tap. Once she had that mastered, she concentrated on keeping herself from fidgeting with her work robes. There. Much better. At least she had control of something.
To her left, Ron was doing all the fidgeting Hermione would not allow herself. He caught her looking at him. "What's taking so bloody long?" he muttered. "If this was so serious they had to pull us both from work, then shouldn't we be told why we're here?" His irritation only partially masked his concern. He wasn't stupid. She knew he had a good idea of why they were sitting in this office, waiting for a Healer to come in and speak to them.
For her part, Hermione was terribly afraid she knew exactly why they were sitting in these uncomfortable chairs. Not two weeks after Voldemort had been defeated, Hermione had convinced Harry to update his emergency contacts with his job and with the hospital, just in case. Auror training wasn't exactly a safe engagement. And part of her had been a little surprised, yet pleased, that Harry had chosen both her and Ron as his contacts. It made the most sense, he told her, rubbing the back of his neck. They were the two people he trusted most in the world, and Ron would certainly let Mrs Weasley and the rest of the family know what was wrong. Hermione had nodded, wondering how much of it was Harry wanting to avoid any potential fuss Mrs Weasley might bestow upon him if he were sick or hurt. Harry had never liked a lot of fuss over him, and that had only increased in the last three months.
Now she was busy replaying the last time she had seen Harry over in her head. He hadn't been well, though she'd tried telling herself it was probably just the exertion of Auror training. After all, Ron came back to their new flat looking positively spent now and then. But the more she made herself look at it, the more she saw how much she'd been purposefully ignoring. The weight loss. The deep purple circles under his eyes. The way his wand hand had shaken when he'd made them some tea during her last visit to the flat he was renting while he figured out what to do with Grimmauld Place. And the way he'd trail off in the middle of a sentence, as if he'd forgotten he was even speaking. Something about that last was so incredibly disturbing, and that’s where her mind insisted on returning.
"Miss Granger? Mr Weasley?"
Hermione's head snapped up as the Healer entered the office. She shook his offered hand, but Ron looked furious and ignored the gesture. "Will someone finally tell us why we're here?"
The Healer looked unabashed. "Of course, Mr Weasley. I didn't mean to keep you waiting so long. We just wanted to make sure we had all the facts before we said much. No need to make this any worse than it already is."
"Than what already is?" Ron nearly shouted, while the Healer shut the door behind them with a quick flick of his wand.
"You're both listed as the emergency contacts for Harry Potter." Hermione's worst fears danced in her head before she resolutely silenced them. "He was found this morning-"
"What's happened to him?" Ron interrupted, and Hermione threw him a glare to let him know that if he didn't stop interrupting, they'd never get the whole story.
The Healer, who had yet to introduce himself, directed his attention to Hermione, whom he seemed to figure was the more level-headed of the two. "As I was saying. He was found this morning, in his home, by a member of the Auror training squad. He'd missed his examination time. If it were anyone else but Mr Potter, I'm sure they would have let it go as a case of nerves or a deliberate ducking out of the program. But being who he is, Kingsley Shacklebolt sent someone to check on him personally."
He stopped there, and this time it was Hermione who spoke. "Well, what's wrong with him? You keep saying he was found. He isn't...?" She forced herself to say it, if only to keep the illusion that she was in control of all that was happening within her. "He isn't dead, is he?"
"No, he's alive," the Healer said with a look that did not seem to agree with this bit of good news. Ron let out a harsh sigh, and Hermione glanced over at him and moved her hand just slightly. He saw the movement and took her hand in his, nearly crushing it. She didn't mind. "He's alive, but he's not himself. He was found on the floor of his bedroom, rocking and muttering. He wouldn't respond to the Auror who found him. He's been here nearly four hours now, and he doesn't respond to anything we do or say. The few words he has managed to say have been utter nonsense."
Hermione felt the world grow a little paler, and she shut her eyes and breathed deeply for a moment. She knew she should have asked him what was wrong on her last visit, but she'd been sure Harry would have brushed it off. How many times over the years had he insisted he was all right when he clearly wasn't? "Can we see him?"
The Healer hesitated for a moment. "I'm not sure-"
"We're practically his family," Ron said quietly, and the change in his temperament was startling. "Maybe seeing someone he's close to will help."
There was silence a moment more before the Healer nodded. "Very well. But please, understand that he's unwell. We'll keep him here to see if we can't understand his condition more fully and help him as much as possible. We're not sure if it's his physical body or simply his mind that's affected. All we know so far is that it's not poison or a curse."
Hermione wondered if they had considered something in the Muggle psychology field. Soldiers had come back from war changed, a result of the emotional trauma of fighting and battle-related stresses. Surely, something like that was known to the Healer. She made a note of it to talk to him about it after they saw Harry. Maybe all he needed was a familiar face or two. "Take us to him, please." She rose, hand still held tight in Ron's grip, as the Healer led them out of his office. Harry had to be all right. They could snap him out of it.
~*~
Ron kept hoping he'd wake up and find it was all a dream. He'd been prepared for a rough day from the moment he dragged himself out of bed. Today was their first practical exam in Auror training, and while he'd been fairly sure he would pass, he wished he'd had a little more of Hermione's skill when it came to revision, or even simply retaining what he'd been taught without the need for notes. If he hadn't had her help to prepare, well, who knew how it might have turned out?
He hadn't slept well at all, worried that he'd get his wrist flick wrong in a crucial spell, though his time with Harry and the others in the DA had turned out to be quite useful. Or maybe he'd fail the physical portion of the exam. He'd finally relaxed a bit when Hermione had come into the kitchen, put on the kettle, and made him eat something against his protests. She sent him off for the morning with a kiss and a reassurance that he'd do perfectly well and the day wouldn’t look so bad from the other side.
And honest to Merlin, he thought she'd been right. No large mistakes, and his time on the running and obstacle course had been within acceptable limits. But he'd no sooner showered and changed into clean robes for another lecture on defensive techniques when a wizard he didn't recognise came into the Aurors’ locker rooms and told him he was to go straight to St Mungo's. His heart had stopped for a brief moment until he was told that Hermione would meet him in the lobby there. She was okay then. If it was someone in his family, he'd be meeting his parents, or perhaps one of his siblings. But if they were both being called, then that meant it was probably...Harry. He Apparated into the hospital lobby, only worrying afterward that, in his distress, he might have splinched more than an eyebrow.
"Hermione?"
She had whirled around at the sound of his voice, throwing herself into his arms. "Ron! You're here!"
"What's going on?" He held her tightly, in part because he knew she wanted him to, but also because being closer to her made him feel better.
"I don't know. No one will talk to me. I'm afraid it might be..." But she didn't say what she was afraid of, and Ron didn't need her to. After a moment, she stepped out of his embrace. "We're to wait here. Someone will be with us shortly. They’ll tell us all they know." He had simply nodded and wondered why they didn't know anything yet, and what could have gone so wrong that they were pulled from their jobs.
He didn't feel any better now that he had some answers. They'd been given a brief rundown of how Harry had been found and finally allowed to see him. Ron wondered which was worse-not knowing what had happened, or seeing it for themselves. Hermione had walked calmly through the door to Harry's private room, but Ron didn't miss the falter in her step when she saw Harry sitting in a chair, staring into nothing.
They'd tried to communicate with him, tried talking to him, tried a brief bit of physical contact, but Hermione had pulled away after a quick hug. Later, when they were at home trying to prepare dinner, she'd whispered that it had been like touching an animated corpse or shell of a person-not an Inferi, exactly, but definitely not like someone they'd shared so much with. Ron had looked up from the salad he was putting into bowls and she'd burst into tears. He couldn't blame her. He felt a little like crying himself. Seeing Harry in his current state was horrifying, and he hoped the Healers could put him right soon.
He sent Hermione to wash up before they tried to eat and told her that he'd Floo call his family and let them know what had happened. Hermione had scrubbed the tears away from her cheeks. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I'll do it. It's what he was thinking, wasn't it, when he put us down as contacts?" Hermione nodded, and Ron bent down over their fireplace, tossing in a small pinch of Floo Powder and calling out for the Burrow.
He'd caught his father passing by the fireplace, and some part of Ron was grateful for that. He was holding it together, but he wasn't sure if he could do that if he'd had to talk to his mother. He still vividly remembered what it had been like to see Hagrid carrying Harry's body up to the castle, that moment when they'd all been quite sure Harry was dead. This wasn't the same, Harry was still alive, but Ron couldn't help but think of the other instance just the same.
"Is there anything we can do?" his father asked quietly when Ron was done.
"No. We just have to wait and see what the Healers say."
"What about visitors? You know your mother-"
"No, I know, Dad. But Hermione and I... Say whatever you have to, but keep Mum away. Harry wouldn't want her to see him like this, to worry. Not after everything else." His mind drifted to Fred. He knew Harry still felt personally responsible for that death, amongst others. "Once he gets a little better, it should be fine." If, a part of his mind whispered. If he gets better. "Tell her the Healers don't want to distress him, or won't let visitors in, or something."
"If you think it's best, son, I'll do that."
"Thanks. And Dad? Could you tell the others for me? I-I need to talk to Hermione some more." He really didn't think he could relay the story to the rest of his family, and his father didn't make him say it, seeming to understand perfectly well.
"Of course. Let us know if you hear anything more."
"I will. And Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Love you." He had never been big on saying the words, but things had changed in the aftermath of the war. It now seemed vitally important to let his family know how much they meant to him.
His father paused, still kneeling at the kitchen fireplace. "Love you too, son. Take care of yourself."
Ron pulled his head out of the fire and walked to the bathroom to see if Hermione was okay. He heard running water, which meant she was likely splashing cold water on her face, and turned back to the kitchen to place their small meal on the dining room table. He was just pouring two glasses of ice water when he heard his sister's voice come through from the fireplace. "Ginny?"
"Ron! Dad just told us all what's happened, and I just... I need to talk. Can I come through?"
"'Course."
She was standing before him a moment later, eyes red. "Oh, thank Merlin. What's wrong with Harry? Dad didn't say much, just that he wasn't well and isn't to have visitors yet."
Ron took a look at her face and tried to decide how much to tell her. Why hadn't he thought of this? Of course Ginny would want to know more than he had told his father. She'd always had feelings for Harry. And those went both ways, didn't they?
He ended up telling her everything. He expected her to be upset, yes, but he didn't expect her to go so pale and tremble like that. "It's all my fault," she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"What's your fault?"
"Whatever's happened to Harry. I saw him two days ago, and I yelled, and, and-"
Whatever else she might have said was lost in sniffles and sobs. She buried her face in Ron's shoulder, and he patted her back awkwardly. "Oh, Gin. I'm sure it wasn't your fault."
"But I told him that it wasn’t working out, that he didn’t seem to care about me any more, and I just wanted him to leave and not try so bloody hard at something that was hopeless.”
Ron was stunned into silence. He hadn’t been aware anything had been off between the two of them. “What do you mean?” he finally managed.
“Ever since the war, everything’s changed. At first, I thought it was just because we’d lost so many people, you know, but I don’t think that’s all of it. Harry and I, we just can’t seem to make it work. He used to look at me like he thought I was beautiful, but I haven’t seen that look more than twice since the final battle. He just got so quiet, and when I asked what was wrong, he’d tell me he didn’t want to talk about it, that I wouldn’t understand. And then it just got weird. What I said to him probably set him off. I’ll never forgive myself if I caused this. Even if we didn’t love each other like we thought we did, he didn’t deserve most of that.” She broke down crying again, and when Hermione entered the room, Ron shot her a desperate look. He tried, he really did, but dealing with such deep and painful feelings weren’t his strong suit.
Without a word, Hermione crossed over to them and led Ginny to the sofa, where she listened to everything Ron had just heard. Taking that as his cue to leave them to their girl talk, he disappeared to the kitchen and put on the kettle, only returning to hand Ginny and Hermione cups of tea. Hermione was murmuring quietly to Ginny, her hand on his sister’s knee. Whatever she was saying looked to be having the effect of calming her, and ten minutes later, Ginny was stepping back into the green flames, apologising for intruding.
“What was it you said that calmed her down?”
“It wasn’t any one thing, I don’t think,” Hermione said, sipping at her previously untouched tea. “But I did tell her that I was fairly certain whatever’s happened to Harry isn’t her fault. He hasn’t been well since not long after the battle.”
Ron sat beside her on the sofa. “I know. I keep thinking I should have done something about it before this. I noticed it during training. His reflexes… Well, you know how he’s always been so quick, so good at all the defensive spells. His timing’s been off, and so has the intensity he always had for the work. Someone mentioned in the locker room that he probably finds it boring, seeing as he’d defeated You-Know-Who so many times, and common criminals can’t compare, but I know that wasn’t it. We just never talked about it. Though it doesn’t sound like Ginny had much luck when she tried.”
“No, it doesn’t.” After finishing her tea, Hermione rose from the sofa. “We’re not doing ourselves any good fretting about it. Let’s eat something and see how things look tomorrow. The Healers will have something figured out soon.”
Ron nodded. But as they lay in bed that night, his nose buried in her hair and his arms wrapped around her, one of his favourite positions, he wondered if the next day would bring any more answers, or hope. They could all use some of both.
~*~
It had been nearly three weeks, and against her best efforts, Hermione felt herself losing hope. It wasn’t so different from the period just after Ron had left them in the forest (or, as Ron called it when he was feeling light-hearted, their ‘camping trip’). Back then, she’d told herself things would be all right, and some part of her had always believed it. She found that faithful part of herself a little smaller than last time.
She and Ron had made visits to St Mungo's a part of their regular routine. They stopped by several times a week to visit Harry, who had yet to notice they were there. The healers, Healer Bledsoe at their head, still couldn’t pinpoint a cause for Harry’s condition. Given everything she and Ron had told them (including Ginny’s tearful confession), they were inclined to believe that there was no one specific incident that had rendered Harry essentially catatonic. Rather, it probably had something to do with the stress Harry had been through for the last seven years. The news didn’t make it any easier to accept. Hermione had spent what Ron told her might be an indecent amount of time researching similar Muggle medical cases. But whereas Muggle doctors prescribed psychoactive drugs, wizarding Healers had quite different views on treatment. Healer Bledsoe thought that the best course of action was to simply let Harry rest, positive his mind was doing what was best for itself, and that when he was ready, they’d see a change. His insistence in the matter, without any evidence to back his claim up, set Hermione’s teeth on edge.
Ron rejoined Hermione this Sunday afternoon after breaking for lunch while Harry was fed. They tried to time their visits to avoid these periods. Though he could be sustained on potions if necessary, the Healers preferred to have Harry eat normally. ‘Normally’, however, consisted of someone feeding Harry like he was an infant. He’d chew and swallow if something was placed in his mouth, and supposedly that was an indication that he wasn’t as far gone as they feared. But seeing their best friend reduced to this level of dependency was heartbreaking.
“Look, Harry, Ron’s back,” Hermione said, trying to keep a smile in her voice, no matter how false it felt on her face. Though Harry had never acknowledged them, both Ron and Hermione spoke to him as normally as possible. They had no way of telling if he could understand them, but Hermione wasn’t ready to accept him as completely gone. “He passed his exam on arrest procedures, did he tell you? One of the top scores in the class. I’m sure you’ll do just as well when you return to training.” She bit her lip. Would that day ever come?
She chatted about the Weasleys and how much they all wished he’d be able to join them for a family dinner soon. Ginny, Arthur, and Molly had stopped by to visit Harry, but both Weasley women had left in tears. Arthur had pulled Ron aside and said something, and Ron had returned looking glummer than ever. But Molly asked about Harry often, waiting for the day when he’d be better and could be integrated into all the family functions in the same way Hermione was, family in all but name. So she prattled on about what everyone was doing, in the hopes that it’d bring Harry back.
In the middle of an update about little Teddy Lupin, a commotion broke out in the hallway. Harry flinched, and Hermione patted his hand. “I know, Harry. Some people can be so rude.” There were more raised voices, and before Hermione could ask Ron to tell whomever was in the hallway to keep the noise to a minimum, he clattered out of his chair and dashed into the hallway.
He returned a moment later, hauling a familiar and quite displeased form into the room. “Unhand me, Weasley!” Draco Malfoy spat at the same time Hermione exclaimed, “Ron, what on earth are you doing?”
“Shut up both of you and look,” Ron said over both of them, gesturing toward the bed.
Startled at being spoken to this way, Hermione could only do as ordered. Miraculously, Draco did the same. She turned to look at Harry, who had been vacantly staring at the wall to the left of the room’s window since they had arrived. His gaze had shifted toward where Ron was still standing with his hand gripping Malfoy’s arm. Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “Potter?”
For the briefest of moments, Harry’s face lost that blank ‘sleeping with his eyes open’ look and something like awareness flickered across his features. Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Did you see that?”
“Of course I did,” Ron said, and Hermione thought that he looked equal parts elated, confused, and disturbed. It made for an interesting expression. “He’s been doing for that for the last few minutes. He even flinched a moment ago. Why do you think I dragged him in here?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to Malfoy. “Had to test my theory.”
“Will someone kindly tell me what you’re on about?” Malfoy exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “And why hasn’t Potter said anything? Shouldn’t he be demanding I butt out of your affairs?”
Hermione spared a moment to register that Ron’s observational skills were definitely improving with Auror training, before she looked up at Ron for guidance. He shrugged and she sighed inwardly. “Harry hasn’t said anything in weeks. He didn’t show up for work one day, and they found him pretty much like this.”
Malfoy just stared. “He looks like someone who’s been given the Dementor’s Kiss.” He shuddered and a vaguely troubled look flitted over Harry’s face.
Hermione wondered how many of the Malfoy family’s acquaintances had seen that particular fate in the last few months. Malfoy’s own father had escaped that sentence, with Harry to thank. Of course, as he was now serving a five year sentence in Azkaban anyway, Hermione wasn’t positive Lucius was exceptionally grateful at the moment. Making the decision to be polite in an awkward situation, Hermione attempted a smile. “Why is it you’re here today?”
“As you’re already aware Weasley manhandled me into the room, I assume you’re inquiring as to what brings me to St Mungo's. I’m here to pay a visit to Greg Goyle’s mother.” He said it as if challenging them to say something of his intentions.
“Oh.” Hermione thought it an oddly polite thing to do, but then again, old families like the Malfoys and Goyles had strict social guidelines. “Is Goyle here with you, too? Or are you meeting up with him later?”
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “A bit beneath you, isn’t that, Granger?” She couldn’t tell if he was more angry or hurt.
“I’m sorry, isn't what beneath me?” She fought to control her temper. It wouldn’t do to fight in front of Harry.
“Asking a question like that after all The Prophet’s printed about it. I’d almost expect it from Weasley, but-“
“Watch your mouth, Malfoy, or you’ll be glad you’re already in hospital,” Ron warned. “Besides, neither of us reads The Prophet any more. What are you talking about?”
A little of the hatefulness on Malfoy’s face disappeared. “Greg killed himself last week.”
Hermione was at a complete loss for how she was supposed to feel. On the one hand, Goyle had spared no effort to do the three of them in while they searched for the diadem. On the other, the loss of a life, after all the other losses the wizarding world had sustained… And he had had family and friends, people who mourned his passing. Malfoy was only one of them. She took another look at his pained face and made her decision. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know you had been friends a long time.”
Ron gaped at her. Shock showed plain on Malfoy’s face for a few moments before he composed himself. “Thank you, Granger. Look, while we’re all being adults, I have something I’d like to say to you three.” He paused and gestured to Harry, who was once again staring out the window. “Can he hear us?”
“We have no idea.”
“Oh. Well, then I’ll speak to you two.” He looked unsure of himself, and Hermione wondered who exactly this was standing before them. She’d never really seen Malfoy like this. “The last several months have forced me to re-evaluate certain beliefs and assumptions, both about myself and the world at large. I owe my life to Potter, many times over. And also to you two, I think.” He rubbed his lip with the back of his wrist. “It was one of you that yelled something like that before striking me while invisible, wasn’t it?”
Ron flushed. “I seem to recall something like that, yeah. It’s true, though.”
“I’m not disputing the validity of whether or not my life was spared that night. I know full well it was. It’s not quite the same as me not identifying you all after the Snatchers brought you in. What I’m trying to say is that I owe the three of you a life debt-Potter especially.”
Hermione shook her head. “No. I don’t accept the life debt. I won’t hold that over anyone’s head. Ronald?”
Ron cringed upon hearing his full name on her lips. He took one good look at her face and sighed. “No.”
Malfoy’s jaw clenched. “That’s not how it’s done. I need to be able to-”
It was Ron who cut him off. “You think you owe us?”
“I know I do, Weasley. I don’t like the fact, but a fact it remains.”
“Then come out into the hallway. We have something to discuss. But not here.”
“Why in Merlin’s name-”
“Give me two minutes, Malfoy. Two minutes, or I’ll spend my life reminding you of your debt after all.”
Malfoy opened his mouth to object, then snapped it shut. “Fine. After you, Weasley. Coming, Granger?”
Hermione looked up at Ron, who indicated she was to be part of this conversation. With growing curiosity, she got up from her chair. “We’ll be back in a moment, Harry. We’ll say goodbye before we leave for the evening.”
Ron waited until the door to Harry’s room was firmly shut before drawing a deep breath. “I don’t want a life debt. The war’s over. I want to move on. As, I’m sure, do you. Right?”
Malfoy nodded warily. Where Ron was going with this, Hermione had no idea.
“I’d rather you did something else to repay your debt. Two things, really. I want to try an experiment. The Healers haven’t been able to get Harry to respond. Not a flinch, not a look, not a sound. You, however, have. I want to know if it’s a fluke.”
“Elaborate, Weasley. And that’s one minute down.”
“Harry heard your voice-at least, I think that’s what happened-and looked toward the sound. And there were honest-to-Merlin facial expressions in response to a few of the things you said. Not everything. But when there’s been nothing for weeks…” He raked a hand through his hair. He needed a hair-cut, Hermione thought absently, while she thought through what he was saying. She reached his conclusion shortly before he said it. “When we go back in, we’ll say goodbye. Hermione and I first. Then you. And if he reacts to you but fails to do the same for us, I want you to come back. Visit him. Talk to him. At least until he’s better enough to tell you to get lost or decide if he wants to accept that life debt rubbish.”
“And if he doesn’t respond like you expect?” Malfoy asked slowly, his brow furrowed.
“Then you never have to come back. I mean, if you want to say to him what you said to us on your own, if-I mean ‘when he gets better, that’s your choice, and you can do that on your terms.”
“Hm.” He sighed. “Your loyalty rivals that of the staunchest Hufflepuff, you know that? Very well. He saved my bloody life when he could have left me, even though I intended to-well, never mind that now. You said there was another part to the forgiveness of my debt to you?”
Ron smiled softly. “Yeah. No matter if I’m right or wrong when we leave here tonight, this part stands. This civility thing we’re all trying? It extends past today. You see us in public, you’re polite. No more calling me Weasel, no more calling Hermione any of the filth you’ve called her in the past. I won’t call you a ferrety git.” Hermione wondered if he added ‘aloud’ to that statement in his head. “I’m not saying we have to be friends, or go out of our way to interact. We’re all equals, yeah?”
Malfoy appeared to consider it. After a moment, he snapped out of his contemplation. “That was your two minutes.” But instead of striding away as Hermione expected, he turned around and stopped at the door to Harry’s room. “Time to say goodbye, then. You two first.”
Hermione stepped in first, pressing the tip of her wand and uttering a simple spell at the door, the staff’s way of keeping unwanted visitors out of Harry’s room. Harry was still sitting up in bed, his hospital gown twisted around his shoulder. He didn’t turn to look at her, even after she called his name. She wanted him to respond so desperately. “It’s getting late, and it’s a work night, Harry. Ron and I should get home, but we’ll stop by after work tomorrow. I was thinking of maybe bringing some flowers, or maybe that Quidditch book you like so much…” She trailed off. It wasn’t as if he read, or did anything other than sit or stand for long periods of time in the same position. Once, he’d rocked softly in place on the floor until they’d left. Nothing they did stopped him, and Hermione didn’t want to know how long he might have continued like that. She squeezed his hand again, noting how cool and dry his skin felt. She missed the warmth of his awkwardly-given affection. “Sleep well, Harry.”
“We’ll definitely be back tomorrow, mate. Soon as I change after work. Tomorrow’s a duelling day, and last time, my robes were singed. I’ll try not to smell like a campfire.” Ron shrugged and turned back toward Malfoy. “Your turn.”
Malfoy nodded, taking two careful steps closer to Harry’s bedside. “When you’re ready, I’d like to have a discussion with you.” There was no response, and Malfoy sighed. “All right then. Goodbye, Potter.” Harry sighed deeply, and Hermione flailed her hands at Draco, urging him to do something more. “Can you hear me?” Nothing. “If you can hear me, blink.” Harry did nothing for a moment, but then shut his eyes, keeping them shut tight. Malfoy turned back to them. “What does that even mean? He didn’t do what I said.”
“No, but he did something,” Ron pointed out. “It’s more than he’s done for us. Harry!” he called, raising his voice. “Open your eyes.” He waited. “See? Nothing.”
“I still don’t see what this proves,” Malfoy muttered. “If Potter wants to-”
“Look, he’s opened them,” Hermione whispered, cutting him off. “Oh, Harry, I know you’re in there.” She caught Malfoy’s gaze and held it. “Whether you see it or not, he’s responding to you. Will you come back?”
Malfoy nodded. “Yes. As per our agreement. I’m still not certain, but I’ll give it one more try. We’ll discuss it further after that. I intend to hold up my end of this agreement.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said, unable to think of anything else. They headed toward the door. “Can you be back here at seven tomorrow evening?”
He nodded. “Seven is manageable. I’ll meet you in the lobby then. And Weasley?”
“Yeah?”
“I do hope it didn’t escape your notice that I’ve not once called you ‘Weasel’ tonight, even before your proposal.” And with that, he spun around and walked down the hallway.
“He may not be so cruel, but he’s still a bastard, isn’t he?” Ron murmured into Hermione’s hair. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her for a brief moment.
“I’m not sure that will ever change,” Hermione said, fighting the small smile that wanted to come to her lips. Harry had responded. “Come on. I want to find Healer Bledsoe and let him know what’s happened. This could be what we’ve been hoping for.”
~*~
Draco wasn’t sure why he had agreed to this. True, it was an interesting alternative to having a life debt hang over his head. His first few visits had been conducted with Weasley and Granger in the room, but as they both had day jobs and he did not, he had taken to stopping by in the middle of the day.
“You know, if you’d just snap out of it, this wouldn’t be so creepy,” he muttered one day. Potter paused in his rocking back and forth on the bed, face turned ever-so-slightly toward Draco’s direction. Draco sighed. He was starting to notice that Weasley had been right about at least one thing-Potter did seem to respond to Draco’s voice, though no one else’s ever seemed to register.
“No, Potter, please stop rocking,” Draco found himself pleading a moment later. “It’s weird and it’s…depressing,” he continued, finally able to put a name to the feeling. This time, Potter ignored him completely. “What the fuck happened to you?” Draco whispered, running his hands through his hair. How could this man-this boy-sitting before him be the one to defeat the most powerful Dark wizard in history, when he couldn’t even care for himself properly now?
Draco repressed the urge to shake Potter by the shoulders and stood up instead. He’d been here nearly half an hour-that was more than enough to fulfil his obligation for the day. He moved a step closer to the bed and attempted to look Potter in the eye. “If this is just a ploy for attention, I’ll have you know it’s wildly unsuccessful. Your friends, the hospital staff, and your contacts within the Ministry have somehow managed to keep this little episode out of the press.” Potter’s glasses, which had been steadily sliding down the bridge of his nose as he rocked, finally slid off the tip of his nose and fell to the blankets. That was the only response Draco got. Potter’s face looked even emptier without the ridiculous round frames.
Draco’s voice softened. “Listen, Potter. Not a lot of people know you’re here, but most of the ones who do are worried sick about you.” He didn’t particularly enjoy Weasley or Granger’s company, but it was painfully obvious how distraught they were over Potter’s condition. They looked more miserable as time went on. Draco knew a little something about misery. There was no longer anyone he wished that kind of pain upon. “Get better, would you? I can’t properly apologise to you like this.” Before he knew what he was doing, he put a hand on Potter’s shoulder. The other boy ceased movement immediately at the touch, turning his naked face up in Draco’s direction. Draco dropped his hand, but Potter continued to stare. It appeared as if he was actually looking at Draco instead of looking through him, but that was most likely an illusion.
“Here,” Draco said hastily, trying not to feel as though Potter was staring into the depths of his soul. He picked up the spectacles and placed them carefully on Potter’s face where they belonged. It made him look almost normal, as if he was simply daydreaming while sitting in Professor Binns’ History of Magic lesson.
Once the frames were settled into place, Potter smiled and hummed tunelessly to himself. Draco took that as his cue to leave. Pausing at the door, he looked over his shoulder. “Good day, Potter. Weasley and Granger should be by this evening.” Not that you’ll even notice, he thought with a surprising amount of bitterness. He stepped into the hallway and took a deep breath as he secured the door. What was wrong with him? First he felt sorry for Weasley and Granger, and now he was happy to see something that looked like an actual emotion on Potter’s face. He tried to shrug it off as just relief at feeling as though there was an actual human being in the same room with him. That must be it.
~*~
When Draco arrived at St Mungo's for another one of his visits two weeks later, he stepped off the lift to find a crowd standing outside Potter’s door. Something like dread filled his chest and plummeted down to his stomach, lodging there heavily. His steps slowed. He was still a considerable distance off when Granger looked up and spotted him, gesturing him over frantically. “Draco!”
He walked toward her stiffly, wondering when she had started using his given name. “Granger. What’s going on?”
She turned a red, tear-streaked face up at him and the dread he’d been feeling twisted sharply into something that made him feel ill. But then a radiant smile broke through her expression. “It’s Harry. He’s awake.”
Draco was so relieved that Potter hadn’t snuffed it that he didn’t bother pointing out that Potter hadn’t exactly been asleep. Awake, yes, but not present. And what was he doing feeling relieved? Well, he couldn’t very well get Potter to accept his apology if he were dead, now could he? That must be it. “Well, then I should let you all be. I’m sure you have-”
“You’re not going to leave, are you, Malfoy?” Weasley asked, his face incredulous. “No, scratch that. You’re not leaving. You wanted to talk to Harry, and now he’s able to answer to whatever you have to say. You’re staying.” And with that, he dragged Draco inside the room much the same way he had the evening Draco had come to visit Goyle’s mother.
Once all the shoving was over and Weasley seemed sure that Draco wasn’t going to bolt from the room, Draco tried to make himself as invisible as possible. The Weasley girl was sitting at Potter’s bedside, tears streaming freely down her face. Draco felt uncomfortable watching her display of emotion. And in a room this small, he couldn’t even tune out her words.
“I’m so sorry, Harry,” she was saying, her nose almost the same colour as her hair. “I didn’t mean all those things I said.”
Potter sighed from his place in the bed. He sounded more tired than anyone Draco had ever heard. “Yes, you did, Gin. But don’t worry about it. I understand. And you were right about it all.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was awful.”
“No, you were honest. There’s a difference. At least we figured it out now. I don’t have to waste your time. Best this way.”
“It’s not your fault you weren’t the same person I always imagined. None of us is as good as a daydream, I guess, especially not the daydream of a young girl.” Her soft laugh was a little bitter, and Draco was reminded of something Pansy had said to him once, late one night. More broken wishes and trampled dreams. “Still friends, Harry?”
“Always, Ginny.”
She bent down to kiss Potter on the cheek and Draco nudged Weasley. “Honestly, I’ve got no business being here. I’ll just slip out-”
“Will someone please tell me what on earth he’s doing here?” Potter’s voice rose over Draco’s harshly whispered protests and the room fell silent.
“Er…” Weasley said after a moment.
“Oh, honestly Ron,” Granger sighed, stepping aside so that Draco could no longer hide behind either of them. “Would everyone mind stepping outside for a moment? There are some things Harry should know.”
“Not you, Malfoy,” Ron said, grabbing Draco by the back of his robes as he attempted to follow the departing Weasley clan out of the room. Draco was really getting rather annoyed with Weasley’s habit of manhandling him around at his convenience.
As soon as the door had closed behind everyone else, Granger turned to Potter. “Harry, I know the Healers have probably asked you this, but what do you remember about your time here in hospital?”
Potter shook his head minutely. “Actually, I don’t think they’ve asked that one yet. They just keep asking what sent me over the edge. And honestly, Hermione, I don’t remember much. I had no idea how long I’d been here until they told me. It was like…” His face scrunched up with the effort of thinking. Never was particularly good at it, Draco thought from his place beside Weasley. “It’s white noise. Like when the signal on the telly goes out and all you see is snow. There were points where I could almost see some of the picture through it, or hear the dialogue, but it never quite came in.”
Draco shared a look of confusion with Weasley, whose own was tinged with sympathy. “Gone a bit mental,” Weasley murmured sadly.
Granger shot Weasley a death glare. “It’s a Muggle thing. He’s making perfect sense.”
“I still want to know what he’s doing here,” Potter reminded her, raising his voice and gesturing with a toss of his head. “And why you made him stick around. He’s not why I’m here, is he?” Suspicion clouded his features and Draco rolled his eyes. Typical Potter.
Granger looked up at Weasley, then at Draco. “Who wants to tell him?”
“Tell me what?” Potter exploded, flailing his hands about. Draco amended his earlier thought. This was typical Potter. “Why can’t I remember why I’m here? And why is Malfoy standing there with you two, looking concerned? I didn’t hit my head while the two of us were shagging or something, did I?”
Granger blanched, Weasley turned a bit green, and Draco wondered why of all possible scenarios in the world, Potter had come up with that one. He had never thought of Potter in that way, though he supposed the other boy did possess a body that was nicely toned by Quidditch, and he wasn’t really-no. He would not have thoughts like that. It didn’t matter that his libido hadn’t had any sort of outlet in far too long. Thinking of Potter that way was simply too much.
“Um, guys?” Potter said in a small voice. “That’s not what…?”
His question made Draco realise that no one had bothered to answer the first time. He cleared his throat and tried to dislodge the thought of Potter soaping up in the shower from his mind. “Hardly. I don’t know what exactly put you in here, but it wasn’t me. And being here wasn’t my idea. I was minding my own business out in the corridor-”
Weasley snorted. “Shouting at staff, more like.”
Draco just glared at him and reminded himself that part of the agreement, the part he still had to keep to, involved not throwing around insults. “I was minding my own business, when Weasley here approached and persuaded me to come sit with you. And by ‘persuaded’, I mean he grabbed me by the robes and hauled me in by force.”
A smile twitched at the corner of Potter’s lips. “And that was how long ago?”
“Twenty-seven days ago.”
Granger shot him a curious look at his response, and Draco met her gaze, daring her to say something. So what if he knew exactly how long it had been? He knew that Granger must have been keeping tabs as well, out of concern, most likely. He’d never tell her-tell any of them-that his visits to Potter had broken up the lonely monotony that had become his life. His debt to Weasley had gotten him out of the Manor, and he’d almost felt as though he was serving a purpose-especially on the days Potter had seemed most responsive.
“And why are you still here?”
“Weasley and I have-had-an arrangement of sorts. I was asked to visit, to keep you company and talk to you until I could say to you what I had said to them.”
“Wait. Talk to me? From what everyone’s said, I was as responsive as a houseplant. Why bother?”
Draco watched Granger fidget. Potter didn’t mince a lot of words, and he seemed to be good at asking questions no one could, or wanted to, answer. “Because, Harry, he’s the only one you would respond to,” she said at last. “No one else seemed to exist for you. But when he spoke, you’d look in his direction. You’d make facial expressions. And once, when he and Ron were going at it, you actually laughed at something he said.”
Draco remembered that incident quite clearly. The words he’d thrown at Weasley had been forgotten, but the sound of Potter’s laugh was stuck in his head, innocent and perfectly amused and pleased, like the laugh of a small child. Granger and Weasley had snapped their heads around to look at Potter so quickly it was a wonder they hadn’t broken their necks.
“But why?”
Weasley shrugged. “No one knows. But it doesn’t matter now. You’re better. The Healers will let you come home in a couple of days, and they’ll let you come back to training soon, I’m sure.”
Potter gave Weasley what Draco gathered was supposed to pass for a smile. It looked much more like a grimace. “Yeah. Can’t wait. Hey, look, I know you’re all relieved, and it was nice of your whole family to come down, Ron, but I’m really tired. You two should head back to work. I’m just going to nap. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“If tonight’s too early, we can stop by after work tomorrow,” Granger said quickly. “You can rest tonight, and tomorrow we’ll see what they say about discharging you.” She bent down and gathered Potter in an embrace. “You’ll be all right?”
“Of course I will.” Potter’s voice was muffled by a mound of bushy hair, but Draco didn’t think he sounded as sure as his answer was meant to make Granger believe. “Thank you both for being here.”
“Don’t mention it, mate,” Weasley said as Granger finally released Potter from her grip. He looked uncertain for a moment, looming over the bed, before he reached down and clapped Potter on the shoulder. “We’ll see you tomorrow evening. It’s good to have you back amongst us.”
“I’ll just be leaving, myself,” Draco said as the other two stepped out the door. It was awkward to watch these displays of emotion, when he clearly didn’t share in whatever the little trio had. He’d never be a part of their lives, intertwined so tightly they’d never be separated. The most he would do is nod to them in Diagon Alley, or on the platform in King’s Cross, as they all sent their respective children off to school.
“Wait, Malfoy. Stay a moment.”
“Didn’t you just kick out your two best friends and a host of Weasleys so you could sleep?” Draco graced him with his best raised-eyebrows look.
Potter shifted guiltily, plucking at the covers pulled over his hips. He avoided the question, not looking up. “You said you had something to say to me, didn’t you? Something you already said to them?”
Draco went stiff. He’d been waiting weeks to have this conversation. So why did he want to hold out and push it to a later date? “I do have something to say. But it can wait. I’ll come back another time.”
Potter stopped his fiddling with the pills in the woven fabric of his covers. “You’ll come back?”
“Yes. What I have to say… Well, it has to be said. But right now might not be the best time. I’m sure your Healers would hex me if I caused you to relapse due to shock.”
“You think you’ll shock me, Malfoy?”
Draco thought that the concept of Potter’s hearing him apologise might just be a bit more shock than the St Mungo's staff would care to have thrown at their charge. He couldn’t keep a small smile from his lips. “You never know.” He looked Potter up and down, really seeing a difference in the body he’d been spending time near for the last few weeks. The other Potter could have been an enchanted wax figure. This Potter was real. Fragile and a bit pathetic, maybe, but real. “You look awful, you know.”
Potter let out a soft laugh, as if it escaped him before he’d been able to think about it. “Thanks for that bit of honesty.”
“Why’d you ask your friends to leave, if you aren’t really going to sleep?” Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He’d been wondering it, but that didn’t mean he actually had to ask the question.
Surprisingly, Potter answered. “I know they mean well, but I can’t…I just can’t. It’s so obvious how upset they were, how relieved they are, and how they think that whatever was wrong with me is over, and…”
Draco took a step toward Potter’s bed. “And it’s not, is it?”
Clamping his eyes shut, Potter shook his head. “No. I don’t think it is.”
Pity squeezed at Draco’s chest. He looked so damned forlorn sitting there in that rough blue gown. Like a lost little boy who’d given up finding his way home. “Want to talk about it?”
Potter shook his head firmly. “No. I don’t.”
Relief trickled through Draco. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if Potter had said yes. “All right.”
“Since you were already planning to stay and visit, would you do something for me?” Potter asked after a moment of awkward silence.
Seeing as how he owed Potter a life debt, Draco thought that he should at least consider whatever favour Potter might ask. “What is it?”
The other boy looked down at his knees and resumed plucking the balls of lint from his blanket. Hadn’t anyone ever taught him not to fidget? “Just sit here and talk until I fall asleep.”
Draco blinked. What an odd little request. He’d much rather have total silence as he prepared to sleep, not have someone blather at him. “Talk?”
“Yeah. I’m fucking exhausted, but my brain won’t shut up. Maybe if you keep talking, I can ignore it long enough to sleep. I don’t care what you talk about. Wait, scratch that. We have something in common. Talk about that.”
Casting around inside his head for what that might be, besides the Dark Lo-Voldemort making their lives miserable and which bits were hidden beneath their robes (and he really didn’t need to be thinking about Potter’s bits, thank you), Draco came up with nothing. “Talk about what?”
“Quidditch,” Potter said, giving him a look like he was just as dense as Cra…well, it didn’t do to speak ill of the dead, especially when they’d been friends for so long. “You follow it, right? Talk about the season, or why you prefer your favourite team, or good matches you’ve seen. Will you do that?”
Draco considered it. It was a small favour. And he didn’t have anywhere to be. He tried to sound put upon. “I suppose I could.”
Potter settled into his bed and Draco moved into a nearby chair, the one the Weasley girl had been occupying when he had walked in. Once Potter’s eyes were closed, Draco began to speak of the recent rumours that someone on the Harpies was dosing herself with something that wasn’t Felix Felicis, and might even be a Muggle concoction. He smoothly transitioned into a one-sided debate over the best strategies for playing in inclement weather, beginning to warm up to his subject. Maybe Potter would learn something.
When he paused in his little monologue nearly twenty minutes later, a soft snore escaped Potter. Draco chalked it up to exhaustion rather than commentary on his oratory skills. He stood up, stretched, and took a last look at Potter before leaving. He was on his back, snoring softly, glasses slightly askew. Draco rolled his eyes. “Speccy git,” he murmured. He reached over carefully and removed Potter’s glasses, placing them on the bedside table. When Draco closed the door behind him, he paused. How odd that Potter had eschewed his friends in favour of asking Draco to stay instead. His reasoning had a tinge of sense to it. His friends expected certain behaviours, and the stress would be on Potter to fake it. Draco expected nothing from Potter one way or another in a situation like this. A small, unamused laugh broke free of him as he walked down the corridor, causing a trainee healer to throw him a suspicious look. He ignored her. How disappointed would his father be to find that Draco’d been privy to a moment (several, in fact) of Potter’s weakness, and had done nothing to exploit it?
Draco found he didn’t much care.
~*~
A scream sliced through the air and Harry catapulted into consciousness, breathing hard. It took him a moment to realise the scream had come from him. The realisation did little to calm him. His head pounded and his stomach churned. He fumbled for a bottle in the drawer of his little bedside table, retrieving it gratefully. But when he removed the cork and tipped it back, not a single drop of potion trickled out. Empty again. And it had been his last bottle.
With a shaky sigh, Harry swung his legs out of bed. It was light out, and without his glasses on to see the time, he had no idea what time of day it was. His sleep had been erratic since being released from St Mungo's. In fact, it hadn't exactly been regular while he was there, either. He'd had one good night of hard sleep, the afternoon and evening of when he'd finally come to, but everything since then had been total shite. He didn't tell Hermione, even though she'd asked. She seemed to believe him. And that was all he really wanted at the time.
He shuffled his way to the shower, hoping that a good long turn under the hot water would help things. Sometimes it did. When he found he had to stop and sit halfway through, shampoo running slowly down his back, he tried to push the worry to the back of his brain. He'd been exhausted since...well, he couldn't quite remember. At first, he had thought it had been from the strenuous schedule of Auror training. But now that he was back home and under orders to take it easy for a bit, he didn't think that was the case. And the dreams certainly weren't helping.
This one had been much the same as the one the night before. He'd used the Resurrection Stone and walked willingly into the Forest, same as he had done a few months ago. But this time, though the ghosts of his past walked alongside him, they brought no comfort with them. It had been the loneliest walk of his life. And Voldemort had cast the killing curse, same as before. He'd 'woken up' naked at King’s Cross again, but he couldn't remember the conversation with Dumbledore. In fact, he couldn't remember if there had been a conversation, or if he'd wandered around, lost and alone. Eventually, he'd come back to his body. Narcissa Malfoy had been forced to check on him, and he remembered the heady combination of her perfume and her fear, mingled together on the night air as she bent close, a sure sign he must be breathing, at least a little. But this time, he hadn't been able to answer. When she'd declared him dead, Voldemort had cast a Cruciatus, only this time, he'd felt it. White-hot fire ran through his body, making him wish he had stayed dead. The pain stretched on for ages. And while a sobbing Hagrid carried his body back to the castle, Harry slowly realised that it wasn't an effort to keep still-rather, it was impossible not to.
When Hagrid laid him down, he'd heard the screams from his friends, classmates, and teachers, identical to the ones he'd heard that night. And when the time came for him to stand for their final confrontation, he couldn't. His body didn't respond at all. Not a finger twitched. Not an eyelid blinked. He was forced to lie there and watch while Voldemort killed them all, slowly, painfully, and without a shred of mercy. And he couldn’t even cry out their names.
It wasn't always this dream, but it was always something equally horrific. He hadn't been able to stop Voldemort after all. He had failed when they had all been counting on him most. It played out in a dozen different ways, each full of failure and disappointment and blood. And if they didn't stop soon, Harry had the feeling he might just take matters into his own desperate hands.
~*~Continue to part two!