Originally Posted: March 26, 2006

Title: The Space Between
Author: sdk
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Harry, Hermione
Rating: PG for upsetting themes
Genre: Gen, Angst, Friendship
Length/Word Count: One-shot, 1547
Summary: Hermione's here. Harry's not so sure about himself.
Notes: Written for the challenge community 7spells on LJ. My prompt was in the room where women come and go. Thanks to my lovely beta, quite_grey!
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.


The Space Between


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

Hermione would never admit defeat.

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

Hermione would want to know.

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

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

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


***


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

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

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

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


***


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

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

Hermione never says a word about it.

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

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

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


***


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

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

Then they are alone again.

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

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


***


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

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

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

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


***


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hermione—”


--Fin--









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