characters are the creation and intellectual property of j. k. rowling. no profit is derived from this work of fan fiction.

rated PG-13
 
 

the unspeakable universe: the waiting room
 

November 2008
 
 

The corridors of St Mungo's had a particular smell. It wasn't quite a hospital odour, or at least, not the kind of Muggle hospital odour that Hermione knew. It seemed to consist of a million things: Madam Pomfrey's infirmary, Snape's dungeons, the Riddle House, where they'd found Dumbledore's body at the end of sixth year, the network of rooms beneath Malfoy Manor.

It was a miasma of every bad memory she had, as though a particularly eccentric architect had decided to create a building inspired by the Dementors. Or perhaps no institution could be reliant on Malfoy money for too long before becoming tainted.

Ron was waiting for her in a chamber near the intensive care ward. He smiled when he saw her, but his freckles looked stark against his pale skin, and from the way he was holding himself, she guessed that some of his ribs were broken. She didn't offend him by drawing his attention to it, but she was careful when she hugged him.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

"An hour. Maybe a little more."

"I came as soon as I could."

"I know."

He kissed the top of her head and let her go. It was almost a decade since their brief affair had ended, but time had healed those wounds, and others, and they were finally able to really be friends again.

"Have you contacted Sirius?" she asked.

"Yeah. He's on his way -- I had to talk him out of crossing the Atlantic on a Firebolt 500."

"A Portkey would be more efficent."

"That's what I said, but you know him -- he'd rather leave immediately and take the long way round than wait a few hours for a shortcut." Ron flexed his fingers. For the first time, Hermione saw blood under his fingernails. "What about Lupin?" he asked.

"He's coming as soon as he can get away. Neville, too."

"Probably not a good idea for the whole Hogwarts staff to abandon the school to crowd around his bedside, eh?"

"Something like that. Professor Snape said he'd come with Remus."

Ron scowled, but said nothing. Snape had earned the right to be there, had paid for it with blood, bone and honour. Even Sirius recognised that, however reluctantly. But she could never suppress the twinge of pain she felt when she saw Snape in Dumbledore's place at the staff table. She'd watched the Sorting this year and realised that now, only the staff could remember another Headmaster.

Ron shifted in his seat. This little chamber was better appointed than most hospital waiting rooms, but the St Mungo's hospital odour still hung in the air.

"How much time would you say we've spent waiting for Harry to regain consciousness?" he asked suddenly.

"Months. Years."

A few days at the end of first year, a few months at the end of seventh, all the times in between, all the times afterwards. It all added up.

"What happened to your hands?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, those." Ron looked at them as if seeing the blood for the first time. "There was a cliff. Harry went over -- I managed to grab him."

"You're lucky he's not bigger. He'd have pulled you over, too."

"Yeah, three cheers for Aunt Petunia's starvation diet."

They were still for a long time.

"I feel so useless!" Hermione said suddenly.

"What, 'cos you're teaching and we're out fighting?"

"Yeah." Ron smiled a little and shook his head. "What? You don't think I've locked myself away in some ivory tower?"

"No. You're as much an Unspeakable as we are -- and if the Department wanted you to go on active duty, you'd take it. Same as all the others at Hogwarts."

It was scary, sometimes, to realise how many of the Hogwarts staff were also employed by the Department of Mysteries.

Scary to think that the wizarding world, hardly a democratic society to begin with, had placed its best school in the hands of a secretive organisation like the Department.

Scarier, almost, to think what would happen if the school and its students weren't protected by the most powerful, highly trained and subtle witches and wizards available. Hermione still had nightmares about Professor McGonagall's assassination, not three months after she'd become Headmistress. She'd never understood why McGonagall hadn't been part of the Department, but she was certain that Snape's ongoing survival was partially due to his training. And to his native cunning, you had to give him credit for that.

"Look, you don't want to be out there," said Ron. "If the Junto managed to get to Hogwarts -- not that I think it's likely, but the Death Eaters did, eventually -- anyway, Hogwarts is the centre of the United Kingdom's magical society. It needs to be protected."

"I know." And she did know, but knowing in her mind was a different thing to knowing in her heart, as much as she liked to believe otherwise. "I just--" She paused. "I just ... sooner or later, Harry's going to get himself killed."

Ron glanced away. "I know."

"And if I'm at Hogwarts, and he's out -- wherever ... Ron, what if I never get to say goodbye?"

Ron pulled a tissue from his robes and began cleaning the blood out from under his fingernails. He didn't say anything, and Hermione knew that he wouldn't. What could you say, after all? She knew why he lobbied the Department and the Auror's College to have a permanent place in Harry's team, and she knew why Sirius had been reluctant to accept the transfer to the US Department of Magic, and why so many people were hesitant to leave Hogwarts, where at least they could be sure of being in the loop.

Ultimately, they were all waiting for Harry to die.
 
 

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