All Wounds Heal In Time

A/N: So I read over this chapter again today. I can’t help feeling it’s a little dry but I’m satisfied enough with it now. Let me know what you think. On the advice of my partner I have included some dialogue! Yay. Thank you for my reviews, please keep them up I need them! Haha! Day four for y’all. ~ Marie

~ Day Four ~

Hermione moved through the kitchen, opening and banging shut cupboards and drawers as she put away her breakfast things. She was clattering and generally being as loud and angry as she wanted. She hadn’t lost her temper, though she could feel it bubbling deep down inside her stomach, ready to pounce at any moment. She took the time to count to ten silently in her head. After she felt a bit calmer, she walked across into the dining room, sitting down on one of the fine dining chairs to wait for the allocated time of her floo.

She had not been in the mood to apparate to her spot in the station over her last few trips to the Ministry. She hadn’t wanted to play at dressing up in her navy skirt suit today. Her head was buzzing, a constant hum seeming to overshadow all of her thoughts. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, she could feel them, tight and tired. She had hardly slept all night and unlike the previous morning her body felt every inch as tired as it was. She ached and she felt quite cold even though yet again the sun promised to blaze down on the capital.

The Ministry was the obvious choice of where she should look next, so she had taken the opportunity during her restless night-time hours to book a floo ahead of time, wishing now she had decided on a later time than nine fifteen. She yawned, and revelled in it, not even bothering to bring one of her fatigued hands to her face.

She twisted her head slightly. The doors leading to the sitting room were closed today, she did not know whether George was on the other side of them. When she had returned home, hot and frustrated, she almost wished he had been there as a target for her to vent her fury, but the house had been empty. She had tried to get an early night but only succeeded in spending many an hour fighting with her bedcovers.

A green flash caught her eye and she noticed the bright small flame had begun to burn in the bottom of the fireplace. As she stepped forward to take her floo, she heard the doors to her side open, a deep and sleepy voice say her name.

“Hermione?”

“George!” she turned, trying to talk to him, but it was too late, she had stepped forward too far and she felt now the green fire pulling her backwards into the hearth. She had only time to shrug and call “tonight!” in the moments before she twisted away in green and white flames. She didn’t know if he had heard her but she thought she had seen him nod once.

When she stepped through the dark marble fireplace into the Ministry, she was a little upset to see that it was still full of people despite it being quite a time after nine, and she wished for a moment she had tried to look a little more respectable rather than just pulling her black robes over the outfit she had worn yesterday. Her hair must look like a mess, she hadn’t restyled it at all. The moment passed however, and she was soon in the small kitchen area which lay just off the side of the office spaces where her desk was.

She stared at the steam rising up from her mug as she stirred the tea round and round with her wand. She preferred tea made in a teapot, but she didn’t bother with that here at the office, even though in reality it would not be any more of an inconvenience to her, magical abilities and all.

The hot sweet tea warmed her a little and she was glad of it. She felt a bit better and calmer inside, she didn’t feel the need to get angry quite so intensely. She wouldn’t let anything set her back. She was certain to find more out today. It wouldn’t all end in failure.

She sat at her desk while she drank her hot cup of tea, munching on a couple of biscuits from the communal tin in the staff area. They weren’t particularly exciting but they filled a gap. As she sat in her chair, swaying gently from side to side, her gaze settled on her desktop calendar. She realised that the month had changed, and she turned the page, revealing July.

July. She sighed, feeling just the slightest bit nauseous for a moment before it passed again. She hated July, she hated the memories of the battle, the anniversary parties, Harry’s birthday. But it was the one date she kept secret, her personal hell, which she hated the most. She saw it circled in front of her, the deep red vivid, only a few days away really.

She swallowed the rest of her tea, leaving the mug on her desk as she grabbed her things, heading for the place she intended to spend the next few hours at least.

====================

The smell was as strange as always, the deep underlying scent of paper, of course, but also other smells stronger and altering over the top. She didn’t really like the smell now she thought about it and her nose wrinkled slightly as she tried to adjust to it.

She didn’t really like the Ministry library, as much as she hated to admit it. Even so, it spoke against her deepest inclinations to dislike such a massive collection of books. However the whole affair seemed so unlike what she would usually classify as a ‘library’ that she felt few moral twinges on the subject.

All around there were people meeting, talking, working together, leaning over various tomes or maps or parchments. Their voices filled the space, weaving in and out, calling over each other. They stretched all the way up to a big glass dome which took up the majority of the ceiling space above her. There was a gallery on the next floor which circled the space around her too, and the main enquiries desk was situated here, in this copious space of the ground floor, lit by the dome above.

There was no doubting the contents of the library was awesome, ancient manuscripts mingling with the most up to date publications and journal articles, at the disposal of any young professional who journeyed into its depths. But there more to it even than that, a massive layout with obscure cataloguing systems which she had tried to understand yet which often, somehow, evaded her.

She could not begin to think that she had unearthed even half of the secrets that lay in this library, it was always surprising her. Often, sadly, in a disappointing manner. There seemed to be people everywhere, not outstanding numbers of them but still enough to ensure that she could never be alone, even in the imposing avenues of antique books. And, often, they continued to talk not loudly but relentlessly.

She would suddenly come upon an open area of tables, where quite large congregations of people would be, regardless of the time of day, all of them seeming to have made it there before her. Last time she had seriously used the library she had discovered a coffee shop hidden in it’s labyrinthine depths, with steam whistling and many academic young witches and wizards sitting around, sipping from impossibly large cups, nibbling on pastries.

Although she could see the advantages of such a space as a place to convene, to analyse research methods and collate ideas, when Hermione made her way through the weaving and changing sections of the Ministry library, she couldn’t help but fondly remember the silent, reverend libraries of her childhood. She eventually found her way to the section she had decided to start at, it being books on the science of Medics, and spent a while familiarising herself with the shelves in front of her, getting used to reading the sideways titles on the spines.

She muttered a brief spell, making a light wooden trolley appear at her side. She selected books she wished to peruse on a deeper level and placed them on the trolley, soon collecting enough to fill it. She wheeled it carefully to a table not far away which was quite large and only had a couple of people sitting at it, at the opposite end. It was not completely isolated, but it was as private as she could hope in this building.

After she had finished with one trolley load, she would set about collecting another. Sometimes from the same set of shelves as before, sometimes moving on to a new section, hoping for more success. Her eyes continued to burn, her head began to ache.

She felt increasingly more weary and weak as she worked her way through text after text. More than once she felt her eyes droop, only to snap open again in shock at waking. Her arms ached when she climbed the ladder of some of the shelves, reaching for the smaller volumes higher up. Every book she took she replaced once she had made her notes.

Her nose and mouth were quite dry, her tummy rumbled. The air was not cool, nor was it warm, just quite a neutral temperature and she was sure it must be magically regulated somehow. Despite that it was dry, and her throat felt quite scratchy. She thought she wouldn’t mind knowing where the position of that coffee shop was now.

As the day wore on and on, she sat hunched at her table, her brown curls spilling down her back as they escaped from her braid. Her quill flew from side to side as she took frantic notes. The room began to get a little gloomier as the light moved away, she used her wand to light the pages of the books in front of her.

She could not keep count of the trolly loads of books she sorted through during the day. She hadn’t meant to be at it til home time, she had wanted to visit Snape again with her new ideas, but her day wasn’t as successful as she had hoped and it had taken her longer than expected to get her information. As it was she had worked like a dog all day, shifting armfuls of books with her tired body, and she had found very little that could possibly help.

She had thought that she would have found plenty more to work on but it simply wasn’t so. It was rapidly becoming that any information she had found that seemed even remotely relevant was simply some rewording or rehashing of information she had already researched at length. She had found no new breakthroughs. More and more questions began to form instead of answers. She was aware in the back of her mind that it was already the fourth day. She felt like a deadline of some sort was creeping up on her and she was far from ready. She had a hollow fear of failure inside which she resented bitterly. She hated the feeling and it only added to her rapidly declining mood.

Why had *nothing* she had done have any affects whatsoever on his slack body? She had cast countless spells at him, yet none of them had any made any sort of change. She had even tried in her exasperation to make him puke slugs, but this too had not worked. Sadly, she thought, with a wry half-smile curving her lips.

But really the situation scared her more than she cared to admit. It was like he was dead. Her spells had had as much of a reaction as they would have on a cold and empty corpse. But he was alive, his heart beating, breathing in front of her. Why did he not react? She could not understand it. She had found little writing on the subject which could enlighten her.

And his eyes. Had she been mistaken? She must have been. It had seemed, for a second, when she had turned towards him, that his eyes had been staring at her quill. She had cast a spell to disguise it as an ordinary muggle pen while she was making notes on the ward, and she could have sworn that, just for a second, he was looking at it.

But no, she had stared at him, right into his face, right into his dark brown eyes. He had not flinched, he hadn’t even blinked, at least she couldn’t recall, she couldn’t remember clearly now. His eyes surely would have seen and recognised her face if he had noticed the charm on her ink pen. She must have imagined his attention. But… what if she hadn’t?

She took a time to lean her head in her hands, and while she closed her eyes for a moment, she thought again of his own dark pair. She had expected them to look glassy, glazed over. But when she had looked into them, she found them as deep and searching as they had always been, a part of her feeling afraid at the depths of his gaze as she had done as a child. In her mind, she recalled his eyes alive and sharp, searing round his classroom as he constantly pushed his students to achieve to their best ability. Well, perhaps not Neville, who had always been reduced to a severe level of inability by the harsh treatment of the Potions Master, but she herself had secretly loved the challenge of the sessions, despite their dislike for the professor. He had made her succeed and she was grateful for that, almost with more gratitude than she felt for the sacrifices she knew he had made for the wizarding world.

Her mind jumped to the moment Lupin had made Neville dress Snape up in his grandmother’s clothing, the hat with the stuffed bird on top, the big handbag. She saw it all in her mind’s eye, as clear as a picture, and a snort of a laugh escaped her, echoing out around her. The people at the table end glanced up at her a moment.

She remembered them all, Harry, Ron and herself, Neville, Dean, Lavender, Lupin… all of them laughing away the boggart that day in one of her favourite classes of all time. Such a blissful memory.

She glanced around at the empty table space around her, the void of space between herself and any of the people she loved yawning out around her to an unfathomable distance. She felt absolutely alone. The laughter of her childhood memory echoed in her mind almost mockingly as she felt her shoulders sag, her feet flat on the floor, sitting slouched slightly in the hard chair on the now clear table. Her tired eyes stared down on a spot in front of her, the last dazzling light of the evening sun was blazing down on the table and it reflected back up at her eyes, a flawless, bright white.

Her eyes lost focus and she stared at nothing but the white before her. She could still hear the laughing.

She felt a lump rise in her throat, but she just swallowed it down again.

====================

It was quite late by the time she got back through the fireplace into number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The sun was still producing glorious colours in a roaring sunset, but it was still past eight in the evening. It was staying lighter later and later.

She let out a groan as she flung her left arm out, dispelling the bag she had hanging on her shoulder down onto the floor and away from her. Even though she had nothing more in her bag which would make it heavier than usual, she found the weight on her shoulder punishing. Her body was aching all over now, the combined effects of a hard days studying and very little sleep were painful indeed, and she just wanted to sit somewhere and relax. The doors to George’s sitting room were open, and she padded her way in on her bare feet, having removed her shoes and socks.

It was empty, so she threw herself down on the couch with a sigh, her legs flailing, her arms stretched out above her. She could see why George didn’t mind sleeping here, it was a comfy sofa. She sighed again, liking the feeling of relaxing finally. She sat quietly for a while.

“Hey there. Long day?”

George’s voice startled her as he came in from the kitchen. He had a large glass bowl which was full of popcorn. He glanced at the bowl and then looked back at her.

“You would come just when I decided to make my popcorn,” he muttered, and she let out a little half-laugh before it occurred to her that he might not be joking. He seemed so serious, he was scowling. She pushed herself up until she was sitting properly and glanced up at him again. He smiled then and threw a piece of corn at her.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, you need to loosen up. I was joking, you know. I’ve not changed so much,” he added, while he sat beside her, offering the bowl towards her.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling properly now. “It would be a sad day indeed when you stopped joking around and learnt to greet people properly.” She stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth, raising an eyebrow at him.

He took the bait. “*I* should learn to greet people properly? When the only hello I’ve had from you has been a blurred shrug as you buggered off?” His pretend-hurt face took her back years, and made her laugh out loud.

“I am sorry about that. It was booked!” She shrugged. “Plus, I also said hello to you yesterday morning, but you were too poisoned by your sinful intakes that you could not hear me in your realms of dreaming.”

“Ouch,” he winced at her. “Please don’t lecture me on my sinful intakes, I just couldn’t stomach it at the minute,” and to demonstrate this he laid his hand on his stomach, rubbing it slightly and sticking his tongue out. Then he dipped in for another handful of popcorn.

“Well I told your father that I would speak to you about it,” her anger was rising ever so slightly with her worry, enough for her to try pushing buttons. She saw him freeze. “You can’t tell me that you don’t know how much he cares about you, how he’s worrying for you?”

“I know that he cares for me. I know they all care for me. It’s not about them,” he told her, his shoulders setting slightly, he seemed to be getting into some sort of offensive position. She reached over to take more corn, to ease the situation or at least buy some time. But he glared again, and she felt once more like he might be actually angry at her.

“Look,” she tried to reason, “I’m sorry for going straight on the offensive, I’ve been pretty stressed and I’m knackered right now. I told your dad days ago I would talk with you and I didn’t want to waste the opportunity. It’s no excuse…”
“I’d appreciate some honest conversation if you are willing, but I don’t want a bloody lecture, Hermione. I’m serious.” He was leaning into her and his words were low, quite intimidating. “I have had it up to here,” he gestured to his forehead with an angry type of salute. “If I want to drink and smoke and stay out at night for now, I will. It may be a disappointment to some, but right now I am thinking for *my*self.”

She looked at his body, his angry face. His hands were clawed and gesturing to his own chest. He seemed to put far more meaning into his words than just what he was saying. She backed down.

He leaned back against the couch, taking a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lighting one with his wand. The smoke curled round his head. She scowled at him.

“Don’t make that face at me.”

“You’re a horrible person for always disappointing them. I have to tell you that.” Her flaring anger rose again, not wanting him to have the last word.

“Like you don’t disappoint my mother whenever you say you’ll come to dinner.” He looked smug when he saw her face drop. “Face it,” he added, “you’re just as bad as I am.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he stopped her, interrupting. “Have a fag,” he said, pushing the pack at her.

“I’m OK, thanks.” She refused.

“Go on, you wench.” He jogged her with his elbow and she relented then, leaning across and taking one of his cigarettes. He held a light for her and she inhaled the smoke gratefully, feeling suddenly much calmer and relaxed. It made a big difference.

“See?” George exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Just as bad as I am.”

She reached down and picked up the ashtray, leaning in on her knee where they could both easily reach it. She let out a breath of smoke. “Perhaps. Perhaps you’re right. I feel pretty bad. Work’s been tough.”

“Are you working on a case at the minute?” He flicked the ash from his cigarette.

“Yeah,” she mirrored him. “And it’s a big one. Really big.” She considered his face for a moment, and her own broke out into a sudden grin. She shook her head. “Oh George,” she said. “If only you knew who it was I’m trying to recover right now.”

“Well you can’t tell me something like that and then withhold vital information.”

“You’re right, it was cruel of me,” she agreed.
“Well maybe I can loosen your tongue,” he said, getting up from his seat and heading back into the kitchen, taking his empty bowl with him. He returned a moment later with two glasses and another bottle of whiskey. He was certainly well stocked. She held a palm up hesitantly.

“Hold up there, George. I don’t know if I’m quite in the mood for that sort of thing. I’ve been up since daybreak pretty much.”

“You’re leaving it late enough in the day to be sociably polite, then,” he told her with a twitch of a smile, starting to pour the whiskey into the first glass.

“I’ve not slept well for nights now,” she said more loudly, still trying to excuse herself.

“You’ll be all the better for the nightcap, then!” He laughed this time, starting to fill the second glass.

“I really shouldn’t…” she tried one last time as he held the glass out to her.

“‘Course you should. Now just gulp the first one down and the rest will get easier as they go.”

“The rest...” she muttered, as she let the liquor slide down her throat, pulling her face into a grimace.

George was true to his word and played his part in feeding her several more shots as they relaxed together on the sofa, talking about nothing in particular and laughing together about common acquaintances as they slipped into the friendly, drink-addled closeness the whiskey brought upon them. The ashtray filled gradually, and Hermione felt properly relaxed and comfortable for the first time in a long while. She really was pleased that George had been there when she got back. She didn’t feel quite so lonely.

“Now, Miss Granger,” George said, leaning towards her and waggling his eyebrows, his voice deep and growling like a certain professor they both had known. “There is a certain fact I must try to *extract* from you,” he continued with his impersonation, laughing at the way she blanched in front of him as he emphasised his words.

“Don’t, George,” she told him, pushing him away from herself slightly but still laughing at his impression, at the timing of it. “Seriously, though. You don’t even know why it’s so strange,” she continued to laugh as he made faces at her.

“Why is it strange, then?” he asked her, still smiling.

“You have unwittingly put the answer in the question,” she told him, looking a him over the edge of her glass as she took another sip. “I know you won’t go blabbing, so I am going to trust you with my case. Especially since you are so good at guessing on the subject! It’s Snape, it’s Snape I’m trying to recover.”

George’s face paled and he leaned away from her slightly, trying to take in her face, her stance, what it was she was saying to him.

“He’s alive?” he asked.

“Yes. Technically. He’s holed up in a muggle hospital on the west side of town. He’s living and breathing as I am now but he just lies in this bed. I’ve tried hours of spells on him. Nothing works. I don’t know what to do about it. But yes, he is alive.”

“Son of a bitch,” George said, his head shaking to the side once.

“Worth the effort of plying me with drink?” Hermione asked him, trying to coax him into revealing how he truly felt about it. He didn’t seem to react, however, aside from his expletive, and she watched as he sat there, looking at nothing, his jaw hanging open.

“George?” She said.

“Absolute bastard!” he shouted suddenly, leaping to his feet and glaring down on her. “That smarmy bastard.” He was speaking more clearly now. “How bloody typical that he should have turned out to be hidden beneath some stone or other.”

“That’s not very fair,” she stood as well, facing him. He was tall, and she had to tilt her head to look into his face. “I don’t know how long he’s been lying in that god-awful room, but it’s too long, I’ll tell you that. Oh, George,” she leant forward and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry I told you.”

“Don’t be,” he told her as he wrapped his arms around her. “I am glad, it is good news. Happy news,” he added, but through gritted teeth.

She felt his arm tighten round her waist, she moved nearer to him. His head was dipped forward now, resting on her shoulder. She could feel his breath on her neck. She felt a sudden thrill, the alcohol was affecting her. And he felt good so near to her. He pushed himself nearer still and she felt the heat of his body.

There was nothing stopping her, she was young and – she liked to think – carefree. She could spend the night with George, enjoying his humour, his body. She knew she would enjoy it. It had been so long, and she felt more confident in her body and her techniques than she had when she was a teenager. But she still felt uncomfortable. She couldn’t quite place why.

“Hermione?” George whispered her name near her ear. He felt her freeze in his arms and pulled back to see into her face more clearly. He saw her frown. “Is it about Ron?” he asked.

He had done it, alluding to what had been the elephant in the room for the evening, the subject they had both danced around. Ron. She saw him in her mind, kissing her, touching her. She saw the look on his face, the droop of his wide shoulders as he turned and left her. She hadn’t thought that it was the issue of his brother which had made her hesitate now with George, but now he had mentioned it she clung to the excuse.

“Ron,” she said weakly. “Yes, Ron.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her, and she shook her head, giving him a smile.

“Don’t be,” she told him. “Are you alright?” she added, concern spreading on her face as she looked up into his own.

“Nobody is going to bring Fred back to me,” he told her. His tone was matter-of-fact. It was not a question.

She could only shake her head at him. She didn’t know what she could say, so she didn’t say anything. He seemed to shake himself then right there in front of her, and he smiled a weak smile.

“I think I am going to opt to sleep in a bed tonight,” he said, grinning at her then.

“Sounds like a plan,” she smiled back, waving her hand as he shuffled out of the room and up the stairs. She cleaned the glasses before following him up to her own room. She had actually not spent that long talking to George in the sitting room, and it was only about eleven.

However she was really very tired, and she felt like she would sleep well after her drinks. She got ready for bed quickly and curled into the sheets, willing herself to fall into her dreamy abyss before he mind had a chance to think on the day.

But it was hoping in vain. Even though her body was so tied, even though she had the warm buzz of alcohol surrounding her, she still had time to consider the day, her disappointment at the dead ends she had found, her exasperation at the situation. Her sorrow for George, her anger at Ron. Before she slept, she cried bitter tears.