the lucky one

promises

Bright light streams in through the large bay windows of the infirmary, a triangle of warm sun spilling over Miranda's hand. They are in the Hospital Wing. Miranda is curled up next to Harry at the foot of Hermione's bed. Her ankle had been mended in a trice by Madam Pomfrey, the only remaining memory of the night was a fading bruise at the side of her shoulder. Madam Pomfrey had told her it was a magical wound, from one of the spells she'd been struck with, and would thus take more time to heal. Ron is in the bed beside them, listening intently to Hermione as she reads the Daily Prophet.

"There you are, Harry, I knew they'd drag you into it somehow," says Hermione, looking over the top of the paper at him.

Harry hums absentmindedly, stroking Miranda's hair. His chest is strong and secure behind her, and Miranda relishes the feeling. She gets very few moments of happiness these days.

"He's 'the Boy Who Lived' again now, though, isn't he?" says Ron darkly. "Not such a show-off maniac anymore, eh?" He helps himself to a handful of Chocolate Frogs from the immense pile on his bedside cabinet, throws a few to Harry, and rips off the wrapper of his own with his teeth. There are still deep welts on his forearms where the brain's tentacles had wrapped around him.

"Yes, they're very complimentary about you now, Harry," says Hermione, now scanning down the article. "'A lone voice of truth . . . perceived as unbalanced, yet never wavered in his story . . . forced to bear ridicule and slander . . .' Hmmm," says Hermione, frowning, "I notice they don't mention the fact that it was them doing all the ridiculing and slandering, though. . . ."

Miranda laughs, then winces slightly, putting a hand to her ribs. The curse Dolohov had used on her, though less effective than it would have been had he been able to say the incantation aloud, had nevertheless caused, in Madam Pomfrey's words, "quite enough damage to be going on with." Miranda has to take about ten different types of potions a day, and has seen these walls far too much for her liking. It's alright, though. Harry comes to visit every day, and Hermione and Ron have been trapped in here with her. Besides, focusing on her own recovery is much preferable to the alternative.

"So anyway," says Hermione, sitting up a little straighter and clutching her head at the movement, she really had lost a lot of blood, "what's going on in school?"

"Well, Flitwick's got rid of Fred and George's swamp," says Harry. "He did it in about three seconds. But he left a tiny patch under the window and he's roped it off —"

"Why?" says Hermione, looking startled.

"Oh, he just says it was a really good bit of magic," says Harry, shrugging.

"I think he left it as a monument to Fred and George," says Ron through a mouthful of chocolate. "They sent me all these, you know," he tells Harry, pointing at the small mountain of Frogs beside him. "Must be doing all right out of that joke shop, eh?"

Miranda leans back against Harry, looking up at him, "So has all the trouble stopped now Dumbledore's back?"

"Yes," says Harry, "everything's settled right back down again." His manner is quiet, almost subdued. She knows he met with Dumbledore yesterday, but she's not going to pry. If he wants to tell her, he will. Still, Harry smiles at her, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her shoulder. He understands what she's going through better than anyone; they're both orphans now. But they are not alone.

Finally, the following Sunday, three days before the term ends, Miranda, Hermione, and Ron are rebased from the care of Madam Pomfrey.

The castle seems very quiet, even for a Sunday. Everybody is clearly out in the sunny grounds, enjoying the end of their exams and the prospect of a last few days of term unhampered by studying or homework. Miranda is finding it hard at the moment to decide whether she wants to be with people or not. Whenever she is in company she wants to get away, and whenever she is alone she wants company.