What Once Was Golden

The world didn’t spiral back into existence as it usually did when one portkeyed, even when an extra person tagged along. Instead, it slowly bled from the edges of her vision inwards as Hermione pried her eyes open with some effort. She was lying flat on her back atop what felt like the kitchen table, and the sticky warmth pooled under her head solved the mystery of the pounding ache where her skull came in contact with its wooden surface.

The rest of her senses came back one after another, the feel of a hard body kneeling over her prone form, a knee pinning her wand-arm, the smell of something burning, and then the overwhelming onslaught of sound.

Someone was shouting something, the voice unfamiliar and the words indistinguishable. Spells were crashing against shields with sharp cracks. A scream from somewhere in another part of the house bled through the singed and gaping doorway. A faraway voice was saying what might have been her name. The one that finally cleared the fog from her head and brought Hermione back to reality however, was the unmistakable shout of the killing curse, followed by the thud of a body.

That was enough to dissipate any grogginess that remained in her, and Hermione surged into action. Wrapping her free leg around the torso of whoever was still pinning her body to the table’s surface, she grabbed the edge of the tabletop and used their combined bodyweight to flip the table onto its side and send them both crashing to the floor, just as a barrage of spells hit the other side of the wood.

Her knees smacked into the tiles, hard, and she had to bite down on her tongue to keep an exclamation of pain from escaping her. The person who had been on top of her was not as successful, as a pained groan rose up from the body she was now straddling. There was a collective pained hiss from who she assumed were death eaters on the other side of the makeshift barricade, before several pops of apparition sounded throughout the room.

In the still silence of the room, the only sound that penetrated the ringing in her ears was her own ragged breathing and the wheezing breaths of her companion. 

Risking a glance down, Hermione was shocked when she met the once again emerald gaze of her travel companion. It wasn’t so much Harry’s identity that shocked her, but the fact that there was no malice in his expression as he gazed up at her. His eyes weren’t frosty or darkened with distaste. Rather, they were wide and his mouth was gaping slightly. There was blood weeping from a cut in his upper lip, though he didn’t even seem to notice it as he just stared dumbly up at her.

His hands had made their way to her hips, and one of hers was splayed over his chest. She could feel the rapid thudding of his heart under her palm, the rigid muscle of his chest warm to the touch. It was a stark contrast in temperature against her icy hand.

She was always cold now, her fingers frosty and her skin cool to the touch. Or at least, she usually was. There was a warmth spreading down her back, she could feel it running like a river down the lines of her hypersensitive scar. It felt like the cold from Azkaban was finally leaching out of her, like Harry’s close proximity was chasing it away.

Hermione removed her hand from Harry’s chest, reaching forward to wipe the bead of blood from his mouth with her thumb.

“You’re hurt” it was a stupid thing to say. Harry made her a little stupid lately though, made her tongue tie up in knots and her thoughts even more scattered than usual.

“They’re barely scratches” he shrugged of her concern, his tongue poking out to trace where her thumb had been. “I’m sure others are hurt far worse, we should probably be going to check on them.”

“That’s a good idea.” She agreed readily, only half paying attention as she took the opportunity to study him more closely. His scar was still as prominent as ever on his forehead, slashing down from his hairline like a lightning bolt into his eyebrow. He had another scar on his cheek now, razor thin and stretching from the bridge of his nose to almost his ear. Hermione was almost certain he didn’t have it before, sure she would’ve remembered it. She wondered how he got it, wondered if he would tell her if she asked. 

The sound of him clearing his throat broke her from her reverie. Looking up to meet his eyes again, Hermione cocked her head to the side in question.

“You’ll have to get off of me, if we want to go check on the others.” He explained, patting her hip with one hand as though to emphasise that she was still straddling his torso.

“Oh right, of course.” She stood quickly, bracing herself on the flipped table when the room spun around her. As her vision swam behind her eyes, her brain managed to catch up and put the pieces into place. 

The rapidly growing warmth down her back wasn’t Harry’s presence chasing away a chill, it was blood. The same blood that had been pooling under her head earlier was now absorbing into her thick sweater and clinging to the clammy skin of her back.

It was a lot of blood.

Harry’s face swam into her wavering field of vision, his eyes too green and his hair too dark. His lips were moving like he was talking, but everything sounded like it was underwater. There was a hand pressing against the knotted locks of her hair, fingers getting tangled in the unruly mass. The hand pulled away briefly before returning with more pressure.

The pressure made the black spots in her vision grow. The hand pushed and pulled away, pushed and pulled away, over and over. 

Hermione just kept staring at Harry’s eyes. They were so green, so big and bright even behind his glasses. He looked worried, she wondered who he was worried about. 

The spots grew bigger again, until she couldn’t see the green eyes anymore. More pressure, then her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went slack.

–

When she came to, Hermione was laying on her side on something soft, her back exposed to the cool air of the room around her. There was a voice coming from behind her head, accompanied by hands that prodded at her skin in a way that was neither pleasant nor painful.The voice was gentle, airy, saying words she should’ve understood.

The cotton in her head made it hard, though. Made her eyelids too heavy to open and her limbs too tired to move.

“I reckon she looks a bit like a dementor, doesn’t she?” Another voice, farther away than the gentle one, broke through the haziness of Hermione’s half-conscious state. Her body was still frozen and her eyes still closed, but her brain had finally caught up.

“You shouldn’t be unkind to strangers Ginevra,” the soft voice reprimanded gently, not losing any of its airy quality despite the scolding words. “It reflects poorly on your aura when you speak ill of those unknown to you.”

“She’s not unknown to me Luna, I did go to school with the girl for four years before she went nuts, remember? You did too.” Ginevra, Luna. She recognized the names, knew she should know them. The words itched at the same just out of reach part of her brain that Neville had, the part Hermioine had convinced herself she made up after so many nights in Azkaban.

“We went to school with Hermione Granger.” Was all the quiet voice -Luna- responded. There was a pause of silence, during which Hermione would’ve rolled her eyes at the girl, if they’d been open.

“I am quite certain that the person laying on this bed in front of us is also Hermione Granger, Lunes.” Ginevra responded. The name felt wrong for Hermione to think, like maybe she’d had another name for the girl, like she’d be scolded for using this one.

“No, I reckon it’s not.”

Hermione was getting a little tired of listening to relative strangers discuss her over her unconscious -or so they assumed- form. Flexing her fingers to get her blood moving, she pried her eyelids open slowly. 

The light in the room was blinding, so much so that she had to blink several times before the figure in front of her face came into focus.

It was a girl, about her own age. The girl was leaning up against a wall, arms crossed defensively over her chest despite her relaxed stance. She had bright blue eyes that reminded Hermione of Ron, and freckles over her nose as well as the visible parts of her chest and arms. The most predominant of the girl’s features however, was her fiery red, chin length hair. It was pin straight, and it fell into her eyes as the girl looked down her nose at Hermione.

“Well good morning Sunshine, how nice of you to join the rest of us in consciousness.” Hermione hadn’t thought this girl could be the owner of the soft voice, she looked much too harsh around the edges. This was confirmed when she spoke, her voice matching the one the other voice had called Ginevra.

“First dementor now sunshine, and to think I didn’t even have time to come up with a single nickname for you in return.” Hermione snarked back, ignoring the scratchiness in her throat in favour of spitting out her retort. She started to struggle into an upright position, not liking the way the redhead was still glaring down at her, when the room started to tilt and spin.

Two small hands came to rest on her shoulders, heat radiating from them as the steadying pressure caught her swaying form. With the help of the hands, Hermione was able to settle up against the headboard of the bed with only minimal difficulty.

The owner of the hands was a tiny blonde. She looked like a fairy, complete with dainty features, silver-grey eyes, and skin nearly as pale as Hermione’s. Her hair was pinned up into two long braids, one on each side of her head and adorned with a multitude of flowers.

“You should be careful,” the blonde -who’s voice confirmed Hermione’s assumptions that this must be Luna- warned. “You lost a lot of blood and you might have a small concussion, you took quite the bump to the head earlier.”

“O-Ok” was all Hermione managed in response, caught off guard by the girl’s kindness. Luna either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, she simply continued on talking unbothered.

“I’m Luna Lovegood, and the grouch leaning against the wall glaring is Ginevra Weasley -though to be safe you’d better just call her Ginny-. Don’t take the glaring personally, she does that to everyone.” 

Luna might’ve kept talking, but Hermione was distracted. The name, Ginny, brought back more memories. One’s that didn’t make nearly as much sense. Bloody words painted on walls, frozen cats hanging by their tails, a wooden man bursting into slivers, glass stars raining from an inky black sky.

 It all flashed behind her eyes in a matter of moments, three beats of her thundering pulse. Hermione snapped back to reality just as Luna extended her hand, for her to shake.

“It's nice to meet you Luna Lovegood, and I’m terribly sorry if this is rude of me to ask. But, don’t you already know me?” That question earned her a snort from the redhead who was still silently lurking against the wall.

“I knew Hermione Granger quite well when I was at Hogwarts, she was nice. I’ve never met Hermione Wilkins before, though I think I’m going like her much better.” It was all the encouragement Hermione needed to take the blonde’s outstretched hand.

It felt like a fresh start, like Luna wasn’t expecting anything of her that she didn’t know how to give. The feel of her cold dry palm against the smaller girl’s warm fragile one, it felt like hope. Hermione grinned, and Luna smiled right back at her.

The sound of someone clearing their throat broke the moment, and Hermione’s head snapped towards the origin of the sound. Harry was leaning in the doorway, eyes darting between the three occupants of the room with an unreadable expression on his face.

“You don’t suppose we could have the room, do you Luna?” He asked, his voice sounded dull, but like he was trying to sound happier than he was. Likely for Luna’s benefit. The blonde just smiled and nodded serenely, as unruffled as ever. “Would you mind taking your mopey girlfriend with you? One of the twins was looking for her earlier.” 

Ginny scowled at him at his use of the word ‘mopey’, but allowed the significantly smaller girl to drag her out of the room nonetheless.

When the door closed behind the two, it felt like they took the air out of the room with them. The empty space between her and Harry hung limply, as he slumped against the wall, pressed the bridge of his glasses into his nose, and let out a heavy sigh. 

–

“Dumbledore is dead.” There was nothing to Harry’s voice when he said it; no grief, no anger. He talked about his idol’s death the same way someone would comment on the weather. 

She supposed recently that death had become as commonplace as the rain to Harry, a realisation that left her feeling hollow, like she’d failed in some way.

“I guess with him out of the picture you’ll be sending me back to Azkaban then?” It was less a question from her than a resigned statement. “Do you think you could hold off until tomorrow? I promise I won’t make a run for it or anything, I just didn’t think last night would be my last night in a real bed, I’d like to appreciate it properly.” Her words felt painfully close to begging, but the memories of the cold and the grime and the dark were enough for Hermione to set aside her pride to beg.

Harry looked at her oddly then, similar to how he had before she fainted after the battle. Hermione hoped she wasn’t being blindly optimistic when she caught sight of warmth in his expression. It softened him, made him look like the old Harry, like her Harry.

“I’m not going to send you away, Hermione.” The way her name sounded on his tongue was warm, familiar, it brought back memories of late night study sessions and card games by the fire. “You saved my life today. I was nothing but cruel to you since the moment you stepped foot in Grimmauld place, yet you still threw yourself in front of a killing curse to save me. The least I could do in return is uphold the deal you made with Dumbledore. I do owe you a life debt, after all.”

With the threat of imprisonment no longer hanging over her head Hermione felt the tension bleed from her body, and she couldn’t suppress her laugh at his formality, like he didn’t owe her at least a dozen life debts from their years at Hogwarts.

“Of course I did, you might’ve been acting like a giant prat but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there and let you die. You’re my best friend.” Harry looked agitated at her words, the way he ran his fingers roughly through his curls and tugged on the ends; it was the exact same way he used to when he’s be struggling with potions homework, or when he’d rant about whatever Malfoy had done.

“No, you don’t get it Hermione,” her name again, she had to fight back a smile at the sound less it rile him up even more. “What I’m trying to say is that what you did, risking your life for me like that. I wouldn’t have done the same for you, if the situation had been reversed. I would have let you die.”

His words erased any hint of a smile she’d been suppressing.

They felt like a cold knife to the gut. Worse than the hateful glares or the foul words. It was like he’d flayed open her chest and delivered a crucio directly to her heart. His words, their meaning, they knocked the breath from her chest and sent the room spinning off-kilter.

“I’m sorry.” He looked like he meant it, like he wished his words were just a little less true.

She couldn’t let him know how much it hurt, she could see the guilt on his face already. So she smiled, a brittle -yet convincing- smile. And she laughed, a wet sound that too closely resembled a sob, but he believed it.

“Well I suppose that’s the way it's supposed to be, isn’t it? You’re ‘the chosen one’, we’re all supposed to be willing to die for you.” It was meant to be a joke, but the words came out too sharp, a little too barbed as she reeled from the hurt of his words.

He flinched, reminded of all the people who had already died for him. Hermione instantly regretted her words. Harry didn’t need her to guilt-trip him, Dumbledore had brought her here to take some of the weight of the war off his shoulders, not remind him of everything he’s supposed to carry.

“What am I even going on about?” Hermione forced herself to laugh again, this one lighter and more convincing than the last. “I’m exhausted, all the blood loss really did a number on me, you must be about ready to fall asleep on your feet over there too.” She gestured to where he was still leaning in the doorway.

Harry cracked a half smile at that, he was always so willing to believe her, even when she was obviously lying.

“I guess I could sleep.” He started to move over to the chair in the corner of the little room. It then occurred to Hermione that the majority of Grimmauld Place’s inhabitants were sleeping in whatever safehouse she was currently in, and that there likely were only a few beds in the place. Knowing Harry as well as she did, she was certain that he’d already offered his up to someone, and she was only given one due to her -now healed- injury.

“Don’t be daft Harry, your back will be ruined if you sleep there tonight.” He looked momentarily confused, before his gaze travelled to the untouched half of her bed. Harry started to shake his head in refusal, but she ignored him in favour of talking. “It's not like we’ve never slept in the same bed before, and I pinky promise I'll stay on my side.”

He still looked ready to refuse, his eyes wide with anxiety at the prospect. Hermione knew the only way she’d get him into the bed was to appeal to his hero complex.

“Plus I wouldn’t mind the extra body heat, I think I've still got a bit of a chill from Azkaban.” It wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t the truth. Hermione did have a chill from the prison, but it was the bone-deep kind that no amount of warmth could fix.

It worked though, one shiver from her had Harry kicking off his shoes and climbing under the sheets beside her. 

One, two, three, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred. She laid there and counted her heart beats; waited for them to slow, to stop the frantic tattooing in her chest.

She could feel warmth radiating off Harry’s body, caressing her skin and calming her chills. Desperate for the warmth and reassured by his even breathing that Harry was asleep, Hermione scooted herself backwards across the bed. An inch, maybe two, until her back was pressed against his. The bumps of her spine matching up with his so they fit together, almost perfectly.

Hermione was so preoccupied with appreciating Harry’s warmth and the way it melted all her stress and pain into nothingness, that she didn’t notice the way his breath hitched when their bodies touched, or the way he leaned back into her touch too.

She definitely didn’t notice when he whispered to her sleeping form, a quiet “Happy Birthday, Hermione”.