A second post for the day, but it's been quite a long time since I've had a halfway reliable connection, and I have a lot of catching up to do.
Title: A Tiny Prayer to Father Time
Word Count and Rating: ~1100, PG-13
Summary: You wonder if you're having a nightmare.
Warnings: major character death, 2nd person POV
Notes: Originally written for
alexajohnson for the
luvlikerocketz valentine exchange for the prompt "What Sarah Said" by Death Cab for Cutie. Also for
mission_insane technical table #2 2nd person,
100quills prompt 042 Hero, and
15pairings prompt 5 "it's not real."
It's magic, the Healer-in-Charge explains to your in-laws. The exaggerated click and wheeze of her breathing is caused by a charm that imitates respiration.
Your daughter was very badly injured, you hear him say. He wishes he could offer more hope.
So do you.
You don't need to be told that a second charm is forcing her heart to beat; you could feel the echo of it when you kissed her unresponsive mouth, the faint pull of magic that slows your pulse until it throbs in time with hers.
Her mother cries on your shoulder. Her father makes demands, his voice straining to the breaking point: why are there no real doctors in this hospital? what is being done to help Hermione?
Of course, given the secretive nature of her work and the extent of the accident, the Spell Damage ward is the best place for her. You think your father-in-law even knows this; she left the Muggle world behind a long time ago. There's no going back.
The healer assures them everything that can be done, will be done.
They're just buying time, a part of you whispers, and you wonder if you're having a nightmare.
*
She never closes the curtains at night.
"I like it," she once told you. "This way, when the moonlight shines through, I can admire you in your sleep."
"What's keeping you so late at the Ministry?" you ask, using that same moonlight to gauge her expression. You settle the length of your body against hers and idly twirl one of her curls around your finger.
"I can't talk about it. They call us Unspeakables for a reason, remember?"
"Oh, now I'll drive myself mad, wondering."
She laughs and turns on her side, resting her head over your heart. "I guess that's part of the terrible price you pay for having a spouse in the Department of Mysteries, Draco."
You pout, knowing it won't do any good. "Are you at least having fun?"
"Mmm-hm." Her eyes close. "We're pushing magic in a direction never before explored. It's very exciting."
"Is it dangerous?" You're inexplicably lonely without her gaze, and she takes pity on you, peeking up at you through long lashes.
"You don't have to worry about me."
*
In the hall outside her room, a Junior Assistant to Some Ministry Idiot waits with platitudes.
You don't kill him, but it's a near thing.
A very great lady, he calls her. A brilliant witch, a credit to her family, a hero in both times of war and peace, and-with the air of someone delivering a eulogy-one who never shies away from self-sacrifice.
You walk away and leave him talking to empty air.
Father always said these lower-level Ministry drones were overeager. You think premature is more accurate.
*
"Who do you think died first?" You know the question is morbid, but it's been gnawing at you since you saw the bodies of your cousin and her husband on the floor of the Great Hall. Hermione helps you carefully ease their remains into body bags that will be delivered to Andromeda's chosen funeral home. Doing this is the one act of kindness you can extend to the aunt who has been so good to you since you turned your back on the Malfoy name.
"Does it matter? They died together." And you love that your question doesn't faze her. "I envy them in a way."
"I don't."
She pushes her hair out of her eyes, exposing a rough scrape across her forehead. "Would you rather be the one left behind to mourn?"
"Certainly not. I want you to outlive me."
She smiles, but her eyes are shiny with tears and exhaustion. "Well, then. I think I'd like you to outlive me."
"So, it's settled." When you hug her, you can still smell the stench of the final battle in her hair. "We'll both outlive each other."
"Sounds good to me."
*
The waiting room is crowded with Weasleys in varying stages of despair.
Your mother-in-law has her head on Mrs. Weasley's shoulder now. Your father-in-law speaks in harsh whispers, telling them all what they already know. Ron paces around them like a caged animal.
You should go back to her room, but you're so very tired and the hallway is so long. You sit. If you could just close your eyes for a moment, you think. Surely, you would wake up in your own bed, with your wife safe beside you.
Harry sits by the Wireless, staring blankly at nothing while Ginny stares anxiously at him. He doesn't react when Ron punches the wall.
Neither do you.
*
"This is a mistake, Hermione." Potter doesn't bother looking at you. "I can't believe you brought him here. You can't trust Malfoy."
"I can and I do. He's on our side." She is so beautiful, so strong and sure, it's all you can do not to throw her over your shoulder and carry her up the stairs, past the hideous mounted elf heads, and into one of the bedrooms. But you suspect Potter or Weasley would Avada Kedavra your arse if you try, so you hold her hand instead.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" the Weasel demands. "You want to take your Death Eater boyfriend with us on the horcrux hunt?"
"He's not a Death Eater, and yes, Draco comes with us on the hunt or you two go alone."
Weasley throws up his hands in disgust, but Potter tries a different approach.
"Look, it's up to you who you love. I may not understand it, but it's your business. But we're at war here, Hermione. There's no time for love, for romance, right now. What we're doing is too dangerous. It wasn't easy for me to leave Ginny behind, but I did because I knew it was the right thing to do."
"Right for you, maybe, but Draco and I would rather face our future side-by-side, risks and all. If our days are numbered, we'll spend them together."
You decide not to care what Potter and Weasley may do and kiss her deeply. She's invincible. At that moment, you're convinced of it.
*
The Healer-in-Charge enters the room, his face a professional mask, his eyes sad.
"I'm very sorry," he says, and his lips keep moving, but you can't hear him over your mother-in-law's thin wail and the roaring in your ears.
You squeeze your eyes shut and try to wake up.