RP: To Catch His Breath / OWLs: To McGonagall, Arthur, Newt Scamander
Date: 11 August 1998 (early morning)
Characters: Harry Potter, Minerva McGonagall, Arthur Weasley, [Newt Scamander]
Location: St. Mungo's, respective
Status: Private
Summary: While Hermione sleeps, Harry breathes, and sends letters (printed with a slightly shaking hand).
Completion: Complete
She was asleep.
Harry shifted in his chair, cricking his neck as he unfolded from his curled-up position across from her bed. He looked around the room; Ron was in the other chair, and he knew they'd both slept in fits and bursts, neither fully able to stop watching for long. Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing at his gritty eyes before he focused on Hermione again. The full weight of what had nearly happened had begun to break through his shock, more and more as time passed.
This wasn't supposed to have happened; they had been so careful, but they had failed. He had failed; he could have made Hermione take the Auror detail this week. Could have gone to meet her at the school at the end of the day instead of going straight home, but instead he had started work this week and simply left her there. Left her there, and now she was hurting. Her body was broken and bruised and she had been screaming. He'd not even been able to help her then.
Seeing her like this, face swollen, the obvious pain in her eyes whenever she opened them, the bruises on her neck from where he'd touched her -- it shook him; and he wanted to help, even knowing that it was too late to prevent her from hurting. She would be all right -- no thanks to him, and he would be here for her in any way he could.
Getting to his feet, he moved close to her bed, careful to remain quiet but wanting the reassurance of watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing for just a moment. Finally, he crossed to the curtain and pulled it aside, and when he walked into the corridor he slumped against the wall. Gasping, he gripped his knees for support before he could buckle and slide to the floor. He was always too late today, it seemed. Too late to protect her. Too late to stop the pain. And now, too late to panic. The rage, the worry, the fear and tension and shock that had kept him standing, had flooded from him now and his ears rang and he shook uncontrollably; she would be alright, but she nearly hadn't been. And there was no way she could be the same, that he could. That any of them could.
It hurt.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice low and hoarse in the empty corridor.
It was a few moments, and more than a few deep breaths, before he pushed off the wall and straightened. He held his hand in front of him, watching as the shaking stopped, or nearly. And he went looking for parchment and a quill so that he could be useful for the moment.
Characters: Harry Potter, Minerva McGonagall, Arthur Weasley, [Newt Scamander]
Location: St. Mungo's, respective
Status: Private
Summary: While Hermione sleeps, Harry breathes, and sends letters (printed with a slightly shaking hand).
Completion: Complete
She was asleep.
Harry shifted in his chair, cricking his neck as he unfolded from his curled-up position across from her bed. He looked around the room; Ron was in the other chair, and he knew they'd both slept in fits and bursts, neither fully able to stop watching for long. Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing at his gritty eyes before he focused on Hermione again. The full weight of what had nearly happened had begun to break through his shock, more and more as time passed.
This wasn't supposed to have happened; they had been so careful, but they had failed. He had failed; he could have made Hermione take the Auror detail this week. Could have gone to meet her at the school at the end of the day instead of going straight home, but instead he had started work this week and simply left her there. Left her there, and now she was hurting. Her body was broken and bruised and she had been screaming. He'd not even been able to help her then.
Seeing her like this, face swollen, the obvious pain in her eyes whenever she opened them, the bruises on her neck from where he'd touched her -- it shook him; and he wanted to help, even knowing that it was too late to prevent her from hurting. She would be all right -- no thanks to him, and he would be here for her in any way he could.
Getting to his feet, he moved close to her bed, careful to remain quiet but wanting the reassurance of watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing for just a moment. Finally, he crossed to the curtain and pulled it aside, and when he walked into the corridor he slumped against the wall. Gasping, he gripped his knees for support before he could buckle and slide to the floor. He was always too late today, it seemed. Too late to protect her. Too late to stop the pain. And now, too late to panic. The rage, the worry, the fear and tension and shock that had kept him standing, had flooded from him now and his ears rang and he shook uncontrollably; she would be alright, but she nearly hadn't been. And there was no way she could be the same, that he could. That any of them could.
It hurt.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice low and hoarse in the empty corridor.
It was a few moments, and more than a few deep breaths, before he pushed off the wall and straightened. He held his hand in front of him, watching as the shaking stopped, or nearly. And he went looking for parchment and a quill so that he could be useful for the moment.