Unlike a Sister (Harmione)

Chapter 29: The Proselyte

A pale grey light pushed through his eyelids. He opened them, the room coming into focus sideways. His glasses were cutting into the bridge of his nose and, slowly, he sat up.

Ron was asleep beside him, his long legs folded against himself. Mr. Granger was snoring softly on the other couch. Alex and Phrygia were gone. On the far side of the room, Mrs. Granger had not moved, her head cradled in her arms on the bed. The pale tongues of fire still hovered over Hermione's head and hands, almost invisible in the morning sun.

Harry stood, glancing out the windows. There were still people outside. They milled about the street, laying flowers and reading the cards and signs. There were hundreds of bouquets at the gateway now, layered upon one another like roof shingles. He knew the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes would be having a time of it. To all appearances, St. Mungo's was supposed to be an abandoned department store and the street was still moderately trafficked by Muggles.

Harry turned away and moved soundlessly towards her bed.

Diotima still sat on her low stool, quite lost to everything as she swayed in a breeze only she could feel.

Then, Harry looked at Hermione's legs.

He closed his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out.

They were whole again. The char was gone, the bones straightened. And while still heavily scarred, the flesh, the muscles, the sinew had all reformed on the bones like boughs bearing new life. They were her legs again.

Harry felt something bright and massive welling in his chest. He wanted to fall to his knees and embrace this slight woman of such power. The only thing that stopped him was the fear that he would break her concentration.

Dazedly, he came up to her bed. She slept peacefully, lips parted. Her regrown curls spread over the pillow like a shambolic diadem and the pale winter sun touched the curve of her cheek like a caress.

Looking down at her, Harry had the odd impression of layered memory.

How many times in his life had he seen her like this?

Petrified with wide, glassy eyes.

Wincing as she touched a hand to her ribs, taking ten different potions a day.

Lying unconscious in Bellatrix's arms, a knife pressed to her throat.

Her faint breath in a Muggle hospital, head wrapped in bandages.

And now this. The worst of them all.

How many times was he responsible for her pain?

"She heals," said a quiet lilt behind him. He didn't have to turn to know it was Phrygia.

Harry nodded, blinking quickly.

"I cannot thank you and the Mother enough," he whispered roughly.

Phrygia said nothing, coming to stand beside him. She watched Hermione's serene face.

"It is hard, no? Not being with the one you love."

Harry's breath caught in his chest. He looked at her. Was he really so obvious?

But her pale green eyes held no accusation, only a calm sort of knowing. She seemed older than her years, then.

"Yes," he murmured.

"I prepare for it every day," Phrygia whispered, touching her stomach. "We have five moons left together. It will never be enough."

Harry looked back to Hermione's pale face, the large bruise on her temple like ink spilt on parchment. "Can you not leave? If you really wanted?"