EXIT

22. LACQUER BLACK

22. LACQUER BLACK

I actually get through it without occluding myself.

Granger is unconscious for almost forty-eight hours and I hold her in my arms for precisely forty-six hours and thirty minutes. The first time I leave her hospital bed, I do so only to take a quick shower and replace my blood-soaked combat gear with clean workout clothes. After that I'm consistently with her (apart from a few sporadic, unavoidable visits to the bathroom) while the trauma room outside the door to her private room grows quiet. Peace and calm gradually return to Resistance headquarters.

Lovegood stops by every so often to check Granger's vital signs and perform the diagnostic spells, just as she promised. Blaise visits once and brings me a book that I don't even look at. Five rebels are dead, he tells me that much. Among others, Padma Patil and Angelina Johnson, to name two of the victims I know personally. Knew. They will be buried within the next few days. After getting this devastating news off his chest, Blaise stays for a while, albeit mostly silent. The fact that he refrains from commenting on me being in bed with Granger shows me how sad he is. After an hour or so he squeezes my shoulder and leaves the room without another word.

Blaise and Lovegood aren't our only visitors. Ginny regularly provides me with meals and looks a little less suspicious each time she pops in. And eventually even Potter shows up. However, he confines himself to standing in a corner of the room with his arms crossed and looking at Granger with concern. Weasel-Weasley doesn't come. I don't question whether it's his own decision or whether the others simply won't let him in.

For my part, I stare almost constantly at the ceiling, only occasionally turning from left to right and back again to relieve my protesting back, and dwell on my dark thoughts.

Granger was bloody right. In his wrath at our, or rather my, betrayal, the Dark Lord is unpredictable. We urgently need to make progress to prevent more people from dying. I feel more responsible than ever and slowly but surely it's becoming unbearable.

When Granger first moves, we are both on our sides and her back is against my chest. One of my arms is under her head, the other is wrapped around her, but luckily both of my hands are clearly visible on the mattress in front of her. Nevertheless, I quickly close my eyes and do what I seem to do best these days: I pretend to be asleep.

It's not at all like that one morning in the tree house. Today, I purposely give her more time. No fake coughing, no yawning. I feel her body stiffen as she realizes the situation she's in. Still in my more-or-less embrace, she slowly turns to face me. It suddenly occurs to me that she has absolutely no idea whose face she's about to look at, and my heart starts beating a little faster. But I stay perfectly still, keep my eyes closed and mentally brace myself for the punch (or at least the slap in the face) that's likely to come.

What happens is... nothing.

It must be several minutes where she just lays there and silently stares at me. I can imagine the face she's making — furrowed eyebrows, flared nostrils, trembling lips — but I don't dare blink and look at her to see if I'm right, even though the urge to do so is almost overwhelming.

And then Granger does something I definitely didn't expect. Something that makes my carefully scraped-together indifference of the last two days collapse like a house of cards.

She scoots closer and leans into the warmth of my body.

It takes a lot of self-control on my part not to gasp in surprise.

She's not really snuggling up to me, not quite hugging me, but I can feel her cheek press against my chest as she takes a few deep, long breaths. She stays in this position for a few minutes that feel more like hours before she pulls away and lifts the blankets.