Chapter Twelve
Harry sat in the waiting room with his elbows on his knees, his back hunched, and his hands holding an undrinkable cup of tea. St. Mungo's was a place of sadness for him. He thought of all the people that ended up there, and how it was always, directly or indirectly, his fault. There was Mr. Bode a while ago, who was killed by a Devil’s Snare clipping. Mr. Weasley was there last year. Professor Lockhart . . .
Not to mention, this was the place where Harry first heard that Voldemort could access his mind. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, no, and St. Mungo’s wasn’t a pleasant place.
Especially now that he had caused Hermione to be there. He didn’t protect her. He was selfish, and only tried to protect himself. What kind of friend was he?
Hermione was on the floor for spell damage. She was recovering, but still quite unconscious. They allowed Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to see her first; then they summoned her parents. They, as Muggles, were given special permission to come see their daughter. Ron was waiting to see them as they walked out. They didn’t even notice him. Tears stained their grief-stricken faces, and their eyes remained permanently out of focus. Harry saw them too, but didn’t know what to say. What could he say? ‘Sorry Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I didn’t mean to almost kill your daughter’?
After Hermione’s mum cried on her husband's shoulder for a minute, she straightened and looked around. Her eyes caught sight of Harry, and to Harry’s regret, she began to move towards him. Harry was prepared for the worst bout of screaming. Instead, she pulled him into an overzealous embrace. “Thank you so much for being there for my baby,” she sobbed. “I’m so happy you were there. Who knows what would have happened without you.”
Harry was speechless for a moment. “Mrs. Granger, don’t thank me, please. She got hurt because I didn’t protect her well enough,” he said as his eyes started burning.
He saw Mr. Granger approaching. Mrs. Granger looked at him with sympathetic eyes. “Darling?” It was a request for his help.
“Harry. It was a difficult situation for the both of you. We know you did your best against that Death . . . food . . . thing. We will never hold you accountable for someone else’s doings. Now, please understand our gratitude. Time was important here, and you helped immeasurably with that. Thank you.”
He looked back at Mrs. Granger. She smiled weakly at him. “Welcome, I guess,” he said finally. She gave him a gentle hug, once again. “Chin up, Harry.”
“You keep an eye on our Hermione, eh?” said Mr. Granger with a wink.
“Uh, sure.”
They smiled and walked away, arm in arm, with Mrs. Granger resting her head on her husband’s shoulder.
After her parents left, the healers allowed Ron in to see Hermione, though she was still unconscious from an anesthesiatic spell. Until that time, he had been hovering near her door, hoping to catch glimpses of her. He now had burn marks across his torso, but he was unconcerned with them. When his mind wasn’t occupied with his girlfriend, he spent his time shooting venomous looks at his (former?) best friend. He knew Ron blamed him. Harry understood his pain, and his concern. There wasn’t much to say, except he was sorry, but that phrase seemed so petty, he hadn’t bothered with it.
He was in there about half an hour. He then came out, sullen and angry. He caught sight of Harry, and stormed at him. “Why didn’t you protect her?” he shouted. “You knew they would hurt us - hurt her - to get to you! Or was it that you weren’t thinking about her?”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He genuinely thought Malfoy would go after him. He usually left everyone else out of their confrontations - excepting the Department of Mysteries. Ron continued, apparently as angry with his silence as he would have been if Harry yelled at him. “You never think about how it bloody sucks being your friend, sometimes, do you? Too busy on your pity trip, I imagine!”
“You want to talk about pity trips, Ron?” shouted Harry, quite glad to be on a subject he had a defense for.
“No,” he interrupted, “but Hermione woke up, and for some stupid reason, she wants to talk to you! I don’t know why, because I sure as hell don’t!”
She’d awakened? Harry’s curiosity overcame his quickly spent anger. He wondered if it was coincidence, or if somehow, Ron had brought her out of her long sleep. He stood slowly, and sulked all the way to her door. His spirit broken, he faltered at the door handle. What would she say? What if there was more to the spell than the slashing? What if she hated him too? “It’s all my fault,” he said, though believing it slightly less after talking to her parents.
He turned the handle, and tried to close the door as quietly as possible, but found the room’s only occupant was Hermione. He saw her lying on the bed, a sleepy smile on her face. It was the smile Harry always imagined he would see on a benign angel’s face. He shuddered when he saw the giant, gauzy bandage covering her abdomen through her meager gown. It appeared to be newly changed, but already, blood was appearing through the material. “I’m pretty,” she said with a light laugh.
“Uh, what?” he asked, bewildered (and secretly hoping her brain hadn’t been addled).
“I look pretty in this ensemble, don’t I? Only the best designers in Italy were allowed to create my hospital gown.”
“I guess so,” he said, with little appreciation for her humor. He sat heavily in the chair already beside her bed. “So, uh, you talked to Ron, I see.”
A serious look covered her face. “He’s scared, Harry. Don’t be angry with him.”
“I’m not, really. He hates me more than anything.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He just feels powerless, and this is the first time Voldemort really hit him where it hurts.”
“Okay,” he said lamely.
“About the other day…” she said, testing the air, “I froze. I don’t know why. My wand was still in my pocket, and I didn’t even try to grab it, even when you two were dueling. I’m so sorry, Harry,” she said quietly. “I was useless . . .”
“But why did you freeze? I mean, you fought with me in the Department of Mysteries. You were great. You’re always calm.”
“Not always. I was panicking that night, too. You pretty much told us what to do. But a few days ago, it was just him and us, and it’s never been us two, and someone like him. There was nothing to break, no doors to lock, nothing to throw. It was me, you, and a brick wall.”
Harry thought through all their adventures. The only time Hermione had been the only one with him, was when Umbridge was around, and while she was evil, she wasn’t throwing hexes at them. First year, the tasks. She wasn't there at the end. Second year, she helped in figuring things out, but it was just him and Riddle. Third year, she stood up for him, yes. She was brilliant with the time-turner stuff, and she called away Lupin, but she didn't fight him. Fourth, nope, all him. Fifth, Department of Mysteries . . . she did have orders. She came up with the curses herself, of course, but she had all her friend to help too. It was rarely ever just her and Harry.
Then it dawned on Harry. Hermione never felt the pressure to be a savior before. Confronted with a situation she wasn’t used to - as a leading heroine - she froze. She was good, calm, collected, and brilliant, but even she got too scared sometimes.
He grabbed her clammy hand and held it in both of his. “I know it was bad for you. You don’t have to be around me, if you don’t want to. I understand if you don’t want to be put in that position again-“
She’d stopped tearing up. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said gently. “I’ll be better soon. The only thing to be done about it is practice. Could you just, like, stomp on my foot or something the next time it happens?”
“I’m not going to stomp on you,” he said.
“Harry, please? Can we do some kind of training then? Anything? I can’t be useless! I can’t sit around and let everyone else decide what happens to us. I have to help. You’re the only one that can help me.”
“You’re not going to freeze again. Everyone has a moment of weakness-“
“Not me. You never do.”
“I do all the time. Loads of weak moments.”
“Please, Harry? Promise me?”
Harry thought for a moment. He looked into her desperate eyes. Hermione really couldn’t stand failure, he realized. He was touched by the fact that she was willing to risk so much by remaining his friend. He regretted any bad thought he’d ever had about her.
“I promise,” he said, feeling a little mushy.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he smiled tenderly. “You’re a fighter, Hermione, I’ve got to give you that. And I think we’d be lost without you.”
She only smiled in response.
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Hermione drifted off to a light sleep while Harry smoothed her hair back from her forehead. She seemed to like it, and it seemed to soothe her. The freshly changed dressings had only gotten worse since he came in the room. They probably would need changed again soon. His eyes welled up a bit as he looked at the blood. He looked around the room, and didn’t see anyone, and so, let a tear or two fall. He hated himself for failing her.
He wouldn’t let it happen again, though. He’d try to help Hermione, but he wasn’t ever going to let something like this happen again.
He hated being the Chosen One. It felt like a sick cosmic joke. He looked at her hand. Taking hold of it, he kissed it and held it to his forehead. He leaned forward and let all his self-pity and hatred drain out onto her hospital blankets. “I’m sorry . . .” was all he could whisper aloud.
Ron stealthily watched Harry through the window in the door. He was surprised to see his best friend treat Hermione so tenderly. It was too sad of a moment for Ron to feel jealous. He wondered privately if he was too hard on him. He saw Harry lean forward onto the bed, looking emotionally spent.
Ron felt terrible for harassing Harry. It was more of a misplaced aggression. Ron felt guilty for leaving his girlfriend behind. "I just took Ginny and ran," he thought, feeling miserable and selfish. Harry appeared to have fallen asleep, so Ron turned and walked back to the waiting room hunched over, the same way Harry walked out.