A/N: *All the typical disclaimers apply*
I started writing this (and posting a bit of it) in my LJ and on my Yahoo! Group months ago. I fell out of favor writing it as I got busy and the muse left. However, the arrival of HBP and the "Delusional" interview has reignited the muse and I finished it short order.
As I began writing this long before HBP came out anything you may read within it has not been influenced by Book 6 (although I find myself in the "beyond" again as it opens with the canon couple). Well, I might amend that to say the last half of chapter 8 and the Epilogue are post-HBP and "pirate cheese" ensues…I'm sure you won't mind.
All parts herein have been shredded and reconstructed by my awesome betas and friends, Cheeringcharm and Danielerin. I pay special devotion to DE here as she's left our fandom but still agreed to give this the once over for me *hugs DE.* Jane, you will be missed on PK, LJ and abroad - and as testament to the friendship we've forged and the consideration I have for you…
This one is for you.
Vicarious Leigh
Nightingale
By: Vicarious Leigh
Chapter One: The Price of Heroism
"Go ahead and say it, Ron!"
Although his back was turned to her, Hermione could see him stiffen as he stared through the windowpane.
"What am I supposed to say?"
"What you've been dying to say for the past six months!" Hermione blasted. Her eyes watered as she fought the vibration in her voice. "That you want out," she continued. "That I'm not the person you fell in love with and you didn't ask for the lifetime of misery you're destined to have with me!"
Ron turned and met her glare. She stared at him from the dining table and awaited his reply. She could tell from his hesitation, however brief, that she'd been spot on in her assessment. It burgeoned her determination to carry out the plan she set forth a week ago.
"Is that what you think?" he replied.
"I know it." She leaned back against the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She wanted him to run to her side and tell her she was wrong. She wanted him to tell her all they needed was their love and that nothing else mattered. She wanted him to argue with her, to prove the spark still existed.
He paced the floor in silence. That's when she knew.
She couldn't blame him. When he admitted his feelings for her, just over a year ago, she was a different person. They were students then, enjoying their last year at Hogwarts and pretending they were normal teenagers with normal best friends. But, pretend as they did, reality was a stern reminder. Hermione couldn't argue the fact that Harry's final battle with Voldemort changed her. It changed them all. She watched Ron pace in awkward silence before her and drew the courage to carry out the logical decision.
"I'm leaving, Ron." His footsteps fell silent. He leaned forward, his back to her, and braced himself against the countertop.
"Why?"
"You know why," she replied. "This isn't working. If you're too stubborn to say so, then I will," she added. His head dropped between his shoulder blades. She wiped a tear from her eye before he had the sense to turn around. A bludger-sized lump lodged itself in her throat. She drew a breath to steady her voice against the words she'd wanted to say for six months.
"I'm sorry, Ron."
"When?" It was the first time she heard his voice warble since she picked this row. Although she expected the question, she didn't want to answer it. To do so betrayed the secret that she planned the end of their relationship weeks earlier.
"I can leave tomorrow," she whispered.
He turned around and met her eyes with the question stamped along his brow. He didn't need to ask. "I signed on a flat last week. It was ready yesterday."
He closed his reddened eyes and drew a breath. She couldn't take his expression. She found sudden interest in a loose thread from her sleeve and fought to keep the tears at bay. She wanted to leave. She wanted to run from the flat and crawl into a hole, but she couldn't.
Ron beat her to it.
His long stride crossed the floor in three steps and the dishes shook in the cabinets as he slammed the door behind him. She buried her face in her hands and released an anguished cry as her shoulders bobbed up and down.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
*
Hermione wiped a tear from her eye as the sun streamed through the windows of her bedroom. She looked to the clock on her bedside table and wondered how long this would last. How many mornings would she rise at the exact same time? How many nights would she relive their last conversation? How many times would she find herself surprised that the diamond ring no longer sat on her left hand? She growled aloud and threw her hands over her eyes.
"I'm through wallowing," she declared to the silence of her simple flat. She dropped her arms and winced as her elbow collided with the spine of the book she read when she fell asleep. She looked at the book, glanced at her wand lying on the bedside table, and turned a speculative eye toward the loo. "That's it," she remarked. "Today is the day."
She pushed herself up on her pillows and slapped the book closed. She closed her eyes and drew a breath. Without opening them, she engaged in the same ritual she enacted every morning since reclaiming her independence. She wrapped her right hand around the bedpost and pushed her legs off the bed with her left. She pulled herself up and opened her eyes. With her destination in sight, she let go of her four poster bed and willed herself to do the one thing she hadn't done since the fated battle with Voldemort…walk.
Apparently, today wasn't the day.
Throwing her arms out, she tried to break her fall. As it was, she only managed to pull the coverings from her bed…and the book with it. As she collapsed to the floor, the heavy tome crashed into her forehead from above. Dancing lights blurred her vision as she squeezed her eyes closed. Tears of frustration threatened to break loose as she lay on the floor with a throbbing headache. She didn't want to cry. She refused to feel sorry for herself. So, she did the next best thing. She opened her eyes, grabbed the book (Alternative Healing: the Muggle Approach) from its place on the floor, and threw it across the room.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit!" she screamed. Her voice echoed from the walls as she punched the floor in frustration. She pushed herself onto her stomach and looked up toward the chair at the foot of the bed.
When she first learned of her paralysis, she took her prognosis for granted. After all, she was a witch. The healers at St. Mungo's were among the best in the wizarding world. She operated under the assumption they would wave a wand and mutter an incantation and she'd be normal in a matter of seconds. In the months that followed, she chastised herself for not realizing the importance of her location. She didn't wake up in Hogwarts' hospital wing, and she never stopped to consider the ramifications of being placed in the spell damage ward at St. Mungo's - not that it did her any good.
She was surprised to note the lacking progress of the wizarding world in relation to accommodating those with impaired mobility. Her spirits sank lower as she looked up at the throne she'd been relegated to for the past thirteen months. It was not unlike a muggle wheelchair in many respects. However, despite their lack of progress in healing neurological damage, the wizarding world did manage to improve upon the muggle accommodation. The enchanted chair reacted to a wave of her hand. She only pushed it herself during her morning "strolls." Furthermore, it was charmed to ascend staircases and rise from the floor to help her reach whatever she needed. But that was a feature, much to her healer's dismay, Hermione didn't use. She abhorred flying on a broomstick in top condition. She certainly wasn't going to fly a chair around the room when she couldn't feel, or control, anything below her waist.
Since her release from St. Mungo's, she kept regular appointments with Healer Morgenstern. He tried new spells and potions each time she met with him but nothing helped. She left every session feeling as dejected as when she arrived - more so because she had to withstand the disappointment stamped across Ron's face. In an effort to find her own cure, she used her newfound position in charms research to her advantage.
The foundation that employed Hermione accommodated her condition. They awarded her full access to their research facilities and assigned a hearty owl to bring her the volumes she requested at any given time. They allowed her to work from home and submit her reports via the same method. After a week on the job, the poor bird required medical attention to treat exhaustion. When her supervisor offered a replacement courier, Hermione declined. After all, Hedwig was left to her care and bored stiff. She seemed to take Hermione's assignments as a personal challenge to prove the last bird was below standard. Thanks to Hedwig, Hermione never missed a deadline or the opportunity to research her own cure.
She brewed her own potions and cast her own charms. Either due to embarrassment or the real possibility that her efforts would end in failure, she never told Ron of her endeavor. It was a good thing, too; none of her attempts garnered significant progress. That was when she began reading about muggle techniques in physical therapy.
She was desperate to try anything and everything she read. Most of her efforts ended with bruises or cuts. For as much as the books illustrated what to do, it was difficult to accomplish the task alone. On more than one occasion, Healer Morgenstern cast suspicious glances toward Ron and asked veiled questions about whether there was "anything she needed to tell him about her fiancé." It took Hermione months to realize Healer Morgenstern thought the bruises were coming from Ron.
Despite her protestations, she never convinced Morgenstern that Ron was a perfect gentleman, if only because Hermione continued her efforts to heal herself and he was never an active participant in her therapy sessions. She couldn't resist the compulsion as she felt tingles in her ankles on two occasions. She continued because she convinced herself it was working. It had to work.
"Morgenstern," Hermione harrumphed. She looked at her watch and sighed. She had an appointment in an hour. It was the first appointment without Ron. She reached up to the bedside table and pulled her wand down. "Accio chair."
***
"Hermione!" A dark-haired young man perked up at the sight of her rolling into the room. He was a well-dressed man a few years her senior. His hair always fell in place and his blue eyes sparkled like the glinting sunlight off the North Sea waves. He hopped from his chair with a wide smile and crossed the room.
"Good morning, Healer Morgenstern," she replied. He waved his hands in front of him as if he were batting away a swarm of gnats.
"Thirteen months, Hermione! Thirteen months I've been telling you to call me Adam," he swooped around behind her and pushed her chair across the hardwood floor. "You are, without doubt, the most stubborn witch in London."
"So I've been told," she answered. The chair drew to a stop and Morgenstern dropped onto a large exercise ball in front of her.
"You seem glum this morning," he began. "Is something the matter?" Before the question finished issuing from his throat, he looked over her shoulder toward the door. His brow furrowed as he continued to search the room.
"He's not here," she said. His eyes returned to hers and he gave her a supportive smile. "I left," she continued before he could interject. "It wasn't fair to him."
"Not fair to him?" he scoffed. "Hermione…"
"Please, don't," she interrupted. "I don't want to hear how this wasn't my fault. I don't want to hear that I'm the same person inside or how he should love me for who I am." She looked at him with glaring eyes. "You've said all of that before. The truth is this…" she waved her hands over her chair, "does matter."
Morgenstern didn't reply. "He's barely started his life," she mumbled. "Maybe if things had been different it would've worked. But this wasn't what he signed up for." She dropped her forehead into her hand. "I couldn't do that to him."
"You picked a fight so he could break up with a clear conscience," he said. Hermione's head shot up from her hand. Morgenstern laughed. "Honestly, Hermione, you think I can't see through you?"
"Well, I…"
"Enough of this depressing chatter," he interrupted. "I'm interested to try some of these alternative healing methods you suggested. Let's get started."
Thankful for the change of subject and an activity to occupy her thoughts, Hermione worked with the healer for ninety minutes. They ran the gamut of physical exercises from her textbook. Morgenstern never helped her move from station to station, rather he encouraged her to get herself from one place to the next, even if she had to drag herself there. The one time he did let his "drill sergeant" guard down and suggested the use of her wand, Hermione told him off and pulled herself to the next station out of spite. When they finished, she was exhausted. She heaved herself into her chair and let out a fatigued breath.
"Hermione, how are you getting home?" he asked.
Her head was laid back against her chair and her eyes were closed. "Well, you see, I have this chair," she quipped. The silence that greeted her compelled her to open one eye. Morgenstern crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot against the hardwood floor. "Oh, lighten up," she argued. "I can get along just fine."
"You're knackered, Hermione. I worked you too hard," he lamented.
"Nonsense," she replied, closing her eyes again.
"Why don't I summon someone to help you home," he offered. "Where's that white owl that's always following you around?" The question got Hermione's attention and her head rose up. She hadn't seen Hedwig since she'd moved out of Ron's flat.
"I imagine the little turncoat elected to stay with Ron," she sneered. "I haven't seen her since I left." She dropped her head back against the chair. "Betrayed by a bird," she scoffed. "What next?"
"But, I thought it was your owl?" Morgenstern questioned.
"No," Hermione replied, fighting through a yawn. "I've been taking care of her for a friend."
"Where's she?" he asked.
"He," she clarified, "left after I was released from St. Mungo's." For as much as she worked to avoid it, Morgenstern's question compelled her to think of the one person she'd tried so hard not to think about.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Well, then it's a good thing I'm the one in charge." He waved his wand and his jacket flew across the room. He threw it around his shoulders and smirked. "You can tell me all about him while I take you home." If she'd had the energy, she would've rebuked the offer. However, as she had no choice in the matter, she told Morgenstern about the last time she saw her best friend.
***
Hermione felt the weight of her visitor depress the mattress next to her. Warm fingers brushed along her cheek as her eyes fluttered open. Not surprisingly, she was staring upon the face of her best friend; the same friend who'd been attached to her bedside for over a month.
"You know," she began. "You'll start a scandal with as much as you've been hanging around." He chuckled to himself and kissed the back of her hand. "I wanted to thank you for helping Ron and I get settled into this flat," she said.
"It's the least I could do," he mumbled. She recognized the expression on his face. It was the same one she saw every time he visited her.
"Harry," she lamented. "How many times must we have this discussion?" The muscles along his jaw line worked methodically and his eyes did not meet hers. "What happened to me was not your fault."
"I know," he whispered.
"Look at me," she implored. His eyes met hers as she squeezed his hand. "I don't care what the healers at St. Mungo's say," she continued. "I will walk again." A tear escaped his eye as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead.
"I know," he repeated as his lips brushed her skin. He sat back and stared at their hands, intertwined on the bed, as he ran his thumb across the back of her hand. He was pensive this afternoon; it didn't escape Hermione's attention.
"There's something else," she pondered aloud. Harry didn't reply. The silence became unnerving as a litany of worst case scenarios began to play in her mind. "Harry, what is it?"
He looked between her eyes and their clasped hands several times. He drew a breath and looked away.
"Hermione, there's something I've wanted to tell you. I think it's the right time." Her heart dropped to her knees.
She'd wondered about his feelings for her. In all honesty, she'd wondered about her own feelings for him. While Harry supported her relationship with Ron, something in his demeanor never convinced her he was accepting of his role as "third wheel." Perhaps it was the fact his smile never met his eyes, or the stolen glances when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Maybe it was the fact he hadn't left her side since she crumpled to the floor under the pain of Lucius Malfoy's curse. She wasn't sure what made her think Harry harbored feelings for her, but this was not the time to spout confessions. They'd just unpacked the last box in the flat Ron acquired for himself and Hermione.
She opened her mouth to stem his words before they could roll off his tongue; she didn't get the chance.
"I'm leaving."
"What?!" she exclaimed.
"Hermione," he whispered. "I don't know if you'll understand this. I'm not sure that I do. But, I have to go."
"Go where?" her voice warbled.
"I don't know," he scoffed. "I just know I have to go. I'm not sure what I'm doing or where I'm going anymore. The days run into each other and I can't tell when one starts and one stops. I can't go out in public without being mobbed. I can't get away and I'm going insane locked up inside. I've got all the freedom in the world and I feel like I'm stuck in that bloody cupboard under the stairs." He raised his eyes to hers and tried to laugh. "You're the logical one; I guess I was hoping you could tell me if I've gone mad."
Hermione wanted to do just that. Ron began his new job at the Ministry two weeks ago and Harry saw to her care while Ron was at the office. Aside from the fact they were best friends since she was eleven, she grew accustomed to seeing him everyday. If Harry left, she'd be alone…the one thing she feared the most. She thought to say these very words when her eyes met his.
He looked lost. The expression on his face reminded her of the little boy she met on the train. He bested the most powerful dark wizard in a millennium, but it was obvious he continued to wage a battle within himself. She couldn't bring herself to voice her selfish concerns. It was time for Harry to put "Harry" first, and he needed permission to do so.
"No," she replied. "I don't think you're mad." His face relaxed and she continued. "You've been through so much - so much more than any of us could imagine. With a few notable exceptions," she couldn't help but smile, "you've never complained about it."
He chuckled aloud. "Like my entire fifth year at Hogwarts?" he asked.
Hermione reflected his smile and nodded. "I wasn't going to say it," she laughed. He echoed her laughter and Hermione's spirits lifted to see his face brighten. As quickly as the feeling came, it left. She had to ask. "How long will you be gone?"
He looked down at their hands and shook his head. "I don't know," he speculated. "However long it takes, I suppose." He looked at her with a serious expression. "I've wanted to do this for a while, but I couldn't leave you - not until I knew you were settled…and safe."
"What did Ron say?" she asked as he looked toward the window at the mention of Ron's name.
"I haven't told anyone else," he answered. Hermione nodded. Somewhere inside she knew Harry hadn't told Ron. She would've known about his plans if he had.
"Well, if you're going to go away, we're going to do it properly. Mrs. Weasley would hunt you down if you dared to leave without allowing her to cook a feast fit for the Royal Navy," Hermione joked.
Harry laughed and nodded. "Too right," he replied. "And that's one witch I wouldn't want to make angry." They smiled together and Harry kissed her cheek. "Thank you for understanding," he whispered.
"I have one condition," Hermione replied.
"What's that?"
"Promise me you'll come back," she answered with a trembling voice. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her to his chest. She fought to keep the tears from erupting as the reality of his words began to resonate within her.
"I promise."
Try as she might, the tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked; she would miss him.
***
"So that's it," Morgenstern asked as he lifted Hermione from her chair. "He just left?"
"Yes and no," she replied as she slung her arm around the healer's shoulders for support. "We met a few days later at the Burrow and had a farewell dinner. He said his proper goodbyes and promised to return."
"But he left his owl with you?" Morgenstern questioned as he settled Hermione onto her deep set sofa.
Hermione pulled the cardinal and gold afghan, which Molly knitted for her during her recovery, from the back of the sofa. "He said he didn't want to be held to writing letters. He claimed he was terrible with that sort of thing and didn't want anyone to worry about him when he hadn't written in ages."
Hermione tossed the afghan toward her feet three times in an attempt to fan it out over her. She was fighting the growing concern she was coming down with something. Her entire body felt cold.
Morgenstern pushed the table toward her and set a glass of water next to the books she'd stacked four high. He caught the afghan in midair and pulled it over her legs.
"So he chose not to write anyone at all," he clarified.
"Right," Hermione replied as she fluffed the pillow behind her head.
"Well, it's good that you're not fussed about it," Morgenstern said with a chuckle. Hermione stopped what she was doing and looked up at him. "You have quite a right hook." Hermione growled and dropped against the pillow. She'd punched it, more than fluffed it, but that was a typical reaction when she found herself thinking about Harry Potter.
Truth be told, she was furious with him. She hoped he would've made some overture to contact her. When her birthday passed without so much as a note, her confidence faltered. Now, almost a full year after he left, she resigned herself to the opinion that he wasn't coming back.
It was easier to get by that way.
"Do you need anything else?" Morgenstern asked as he straightened up.
"No," Hermione smiled. "Thank you for seeing me home."
"Not a problem," he answered, tossing his jacket over his shoulder. "I'll see you next week," he replied as he winked at her and left.
Hermione looked around her quiet flat and reached for the topmost book on the table beside her. She flipped it open to the page she'd marked and tried to read. It was an effort in futility.
Morgenstern forced her to spend more time thinking about Harry than she had in months. Now that she started, she couldn't stop. She remembered the last time she saw him - the look in his eyes and the warmth of his touch. She curled the afghan around her trying to reproduce the warmth she felt in his arms. She closed her eyes in concentration and tried to stifle the self-deprecating thoughts that convinced her he'd never return. It wasn't long before exhaustion overtook her. She drifted to sleep with the vision of his smile dancing across her memory.
In her dreams, she was dancing with him. He clasped her right hand in his left as he twirled her around the dance floor. They stepped from one foot to the other as they glided over the moonlit parquet. They floated along to a classic Viennese waltz that Hermione heard her mother play over and over as a child. Even before the battle, she never learned to dance; now it was a dream tantamount to climbing Mount Everest.
But that was the thing about dreams…you could do anything…with anyone. However, it didn't take long for her body to remind her it was all a dream. She imagined a stabbing pain in her right thigh and the absurdity of it woke her from her musings.
She opened her eyes to find her hand rubbing her thigh where she'd felt the pain. Startled, she grabbed her leg with both hands, squeezing the muscles for any sign of feeling.
Nothing.
She dropped back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her mind was racing. Did she dream it all? Was it all a figment of her imagination or did something in her session with Morgenstern actually work? If that was the case, which of the multitude of exercises had been successful? She threw her arm over her eyes and growled in frustration before looking at the clock on the wall. She'd been asleep for three hours.
"Goodness," she said aloud, realizing she needed a bath in the wake of her exertions. She summoned the chair Morgenstern left by the door and threw off her afghan. She pulled herself into the seat and rolled to the bathroom.
With a few quick motions, she'd begun filling the tub and lit several candles her mother had given her. Although skeptical of muggle "aromatherapy," Hermione admitted there may've been something to it. With a swish and flick of her wand, the candles floated around the room in much the same manner they did in Hogwarts' Great Hall. She pulled her hair on top of her head and used the spells Morgenstern had explained in order to undress. After a few moments of wrestling with her socks, she slipped into the warm water and dimmed the bathroom lights so that hues of the scarlet sunset reflected on the wall across from the window. She closed her eyes and let herself remember her dream one last time.
She'd stayed in the bathtub so long she resorted to using a heating charm on the water twice. Taking the time for herself she often neglected, she lazed in the tub. She gave herself a facial, shaved her legs, and used fragranced bath oils to smooth and condition her skin.
She closed her eyes, as she'd done before, and thought of Ron as her hands brushed over the curves of her hips and the fullness of her breast. She tried to capture the sensation of having a man worship her body the way she always wished he would. She startled herself back to reality when she realized her hands were moving across her body to the vision of Harry's piercing green eyes, rather than Ron's blue ones. The embarrassment of fantasizing about her best friend was enough to encourage her from the tub altogether.
Hermione looked around the bathroom in search of her towel. She forgot to stack them on the floor next to the tub. "I am losing it," she lamented out loud. The towels weren't far away. She could reach them if she tried hard enough. She looked at the wand lying on the chair behind the tub and the towel rack a few meters away. It wasn't far. Maybe she had felt something. Maybe today would be the day.
She left the wand where it lay and braced her hands on top of the tub. Reenergized, she pulled herself up and locked her arms with surprising ease. A smile broke across her face as she looked toward the towels. They were so close. If she could just push off with one foot, she could stretch far enough to reach them. She leaned her body over the edge of the tub and let go with her left arm. She crossed her body with it and leaned out toward the towel rack. Her fingers were millimeters away from the soft white terrycloth; she could feel it. She was going to do it! She leaned a bit further, straining with everything she had. She just needed one little push with her foot to make it happen.
She drew a breath and willed her body to cooperate. She grabbed for the towel and with a yelp of victory felt the fabric against her fingertips. As she grasped for the towel with her left hand, her heart leapt to her throat. Her right hand slipped along the porcelain tub. She tried to stop her hand from sliding out from under her, but the bath oils coating her palm made that impossible. Time moved so slowly she could see the tub railing growing closer and closer to her head, but she was helpless to stop it. A searing pain shot through her forehead and an explosion of colored lights blinded her. The ceiling of the bathroom became wavy and the sounds of the street outside her window fell silent.
In the second that passed before she slipped into blackness she realized she was underwater.