Crimson

Crimson

The London sunset was beautiful, contrasting with the noise and pollution and teeming life on the streets below. A man walked on the sidewalk, wrapped in a dark cloak. His gaze swept the cracked sidewalk he strode on. On either side of him, the dramas of life were acted out. Mothers pulled sniveling children, shoving a sweet into a grubby hand. Lovers walked, arm-in-arm, oblivious to the curious stares of lone businessmen hurrying by, briefcases held in a tight grasp.

And he was part of none of it. Never had he been tugged, resisting, by a mother along a London road. Never had he walked into the sunset, not caring for the wide world, but only for one person.

Or, if he had, he wanted to forget it. Because the one person was no longer there, and when she left, his heart had cracked into jagged pieces, like the pavement under his feet. He stood at his bus stop, not caring about the sidelong glances of the others waiting They stared slyly at the tall, mysterious stranger in their midst. One girl bent blushing over a bouquet of red, red roses.

Red the color of blood, the man thought darkly. A red he had last seen staining the body of the woman he had loved. Irony of ironies, that she had survived the trauma of a war, only to fall victim to such a common, meaningless death.

And, waiting for the bus, staring at the girl with the roses, he saw another girl and other roses.

The enchanted red roses smoldered brightly against the whitewashed walls. A woman lay on a bed, her brunette curls pulled back, damp with sweat. She closed her eyes briefly, and the dark-haired man paused to give her a glance of concern. He stopped in a square of light that poured through a high window.

"Harry," she gasped, "Harry, they’re coming closer together."

He cracked his knuckles nervously as he returned to pacing the length of the small room.

"Does it hurt?" He reached her side and crouched, grasping her two smaller hands in one of his own.

"I gave you that book," she said, impatient words gasped through contractions. Even in labor, she spoke of her beloved books.

"And I read it, love."

"Well, I would hope so. That’d bring the totals of the books you’ve read to what? Two?"

"Whereas you have read the volume of two libraries," he teased. She smiled, a quick, bright grin. The smile of the girl who had stolen his heart. "Oh," she gasped again.

"Where is that doctor?" Harry rose from her side, gently detaching a clinging hand from his.

"It won’t start for a while, dearest."

"But I would feel better if he was here."

"He’ll come. You know how bad it is right now."

"Two years and still they can’t get the damn system straightened. Amazing how much they depended on Malfoy," Harry muttered angrily.

"Harry!" Suddenly, Hermione arched her back spasmodically.

"That’s it. I’m going for the Mediwizard."

"It’s just false labor," the warm voice came from behind them.

"Doctor," Harry said, the relief strong in his voice.

The doctor pulled out a wand and approached his patient. "Hermione Granger-Potter?"

Hermione nodded quickly. "Can I have a Pain-Suppressing Charm?"

The doctor shook his head regretfully. "Not yet, I’m afraid. It can be dangerous to your baby’s health if used too long. We’ll start you on it about four hours before the baby is to be born."

"But," Hermione whimpered as another contraction ripped through her, "how will you know?"

"Ah, we have a Seer," the doctor’s face broke into a reassuring smile. "Lavender?"

Hermione stifled a groan as Harry shot her a sympathetic look. In the midst of this pain, she couldn’t forget her disdain for Divination.

"I see," the blonde woman said vaguely, holding her hands over Hermione’s womb. "No, I do not. Ask me nothing!" She quickly retreated into the shadows in the hallway, nearly tripping over her long, silky robes.

"They’re all the same," Harry said, throwing the doctor a warning glance. "Always predicting doom."

"Yes," Hermione agreed before winding her hands into the bedsheets around her. "Please," she cried. "Can’t I have a Charm to get rid of this?"

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Granger-Potter," the doctor said, kindly but firm. "The longer-lasting Charms have to be cast by Mediwizards more skilled than I. We lost the funding to hire them after Lucius Malfoy’s death." Harry grimaced, and the doctor looked alarmed. "Not that we supported his Dark activities, of course," the man added hurriedly. "It was just that, well, we do need money to run a hospital," he murmured apologetically.

"Yes, I know," Harry said curtly, swearing to himself that he would give a good part of his fortune to the hospital as soon as they made it back home.

And he had. He had been happy to give money to the hospital. He had wanted to give money to every hospital in the world as he had.

Thinking of those days, he stepped onto the waiting bus, directly behind the smiling girl, her eyes modestly downcast, long eyelashes sweeping down to cast shadows on her cheeks, red from the cold and red from something else. Happiness, perhaps? Surely he had forgotten what that word meant.

"Harry," she screamed, her face contorting from the agony that pervaded her being. He knelt at her side, helpless in the face of this trial that they couldn’t share, after all that they had gone through together.

"She’s bleeding," a nurse said nervously, avoiding the glazing eyes of her patient and the tormented stare of the man at her bedside. Hermione grasped at his hands, digging her nails into his flesh, her lips forming a shrill, wordless cry. She keened in pain, and the doctor rushed in.

"Hemorrhaging," the nurse mumbled to him, her eyes wide with fear. She looked ill, and her fists clenched and unclenched at her side.

"Very well," he replied, sweeping the scene with a cool, professional look. "Go," he told her, as she paled at another scream from the woman in the bed.

"I wish I’d never taken this job," she muttered as she rushed from the room.

The doctor held his wand over Hermione and traced a symbol in the air above her face, murmuring a spell. "Concentrate on that," he instructed her. She obeyed, and immediately relaxed, the bleeding slowing until it was a mere trickle.

"What happened to the baby," she said faintly, struggling to sit up. "The book said that the baby-"

"Lie down," commanded an older Mediwitch as she hurried in. Harry was reminded strongly of Madam Pomfrey.

"But my baby," Hermione said, and in her agitation, her focus slipped from the design that shimmered in the air directly above her. Immediately, blood gushed from her body, testing the Stainproof Spell that had been cast upon the sheets under her.

"Och," the Mediwitch exclaimed. "The bairn, she’ll be fine, if just ye lie back!"

"She?" Harry spoke without turning his head from Hermione’s face. "It’s a she?"

"Hush," she said authoritatively. "Just ye think ‘bout yer wife there."

Hermione screamed into the night even as she forced herself to push. Harry felt his own body tense, thinking of all the pain she had to endure and how little he could do to help.

"Here." The Mediwitch forced an ice cube between clenched teeth. "This’ll help ye."

Harry slid an arm under her head, supporting her as she crunched down on the ice. He felt how her hair was damp with sweat. "Can’t I take her pain?" he queried desperately over an animal shriek.

"Don’ see why not," the Mediwitch said thoughtfully. "I’ ye know the spell, that is."

"Yes, I do," Harry said eagerly. They had learned it at Hogwarts, the ability to absorb the pain of another, to relieve their agony. And now he could help her. He pulled his arm out from behind her and drew an ankh over her heart while concentrating on his memory of her face when she was pain-free. Then, he pulled his wand back slowly, and a silver-blue thread followed. He now touched his wand-tip to his chest, and the threat slowly wrapped in a coil above his heart. The pain came abruptly. With a gasp, he sank down to the floor, his vision blurring and his ears ringing.

It was enough. Hermione’s glazing eyes cleared and one final push was all it took as the doctor pulled out a white, doll-like figure. He used some Muggle tool to force the first air into the baby’s lungs, and a cry broke through. Palpable relief fell upon the gathered: patient, husband, doctors, nurses.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," the Mediwizard remarked wryly as the afterbirth came easily.

The pain had lifted from Harry and his vision had returned. He looked at Hermione’s flushed face and her tangled hair.

"Oh dear. I must look a mess," she said weakly, trying to smile. She held out her arms in the universal gesture of new mothers.

"You look wonderful," he said honestly. She would always look wonderful to him. Always.

"She’s a wee bairn, but a’right for it." The Mediwitch stepped up to Hermione and placed the tiny babe in the mother’s arms. Hermione carefully pulled away swaddling clothes to reveal blue eyes in a red face, scalp darkened by fuzz. The baby looked back, eyes crossed, and blinked. Hermione laughed delightedly. After handing the baby back to the Mediwitch regretfully, she unbuttoned her robes and quickly reach out once more. Cradling her child, she pulled the delicate head on a limp neck towards her breast.

"What’s her name?" The Mediwizard looked exhausted now that the birth was over. "We need to record it."

"Lily," Harry said, his breath catching as he said it. "We decided we’d name her Lily if she was a girl. Lily Potter-Granger," he replied, dazed. "Our baby."

The doctor smiled. No matter how many times he saw this, it was still amazing. Each birth was a miracle.

The other passengers unconsciously stepped away from the tall man who sat huddled in a corner, his dark cloak in stark contrast to his deathly pale skin. The girl spoke to him shyly. "May I sit here, please?" Startled, he raised his eyes to meet those of the speaker. Her face was glowing, her freckled skin flushed, her gray eyes light-filled. By nature, she was nondescript and merely human. Love made her beautiful and eternal.

Harry felt his heart twist at the sound of that girlish voice, at the sight of those starry eyes. He lowered his head quickly at the sight of so much he would never again know. "Of course," he said, but his voice was not welcoming. However, she didn’t notice that, wrapped up in the selfish joy of love. She sat carefully, holding the roses close to her body, with all the tenderness of a mother holding a child.

"Isn’t she beautiful?" Hermione watched their child tenderly. Her skin was still slightly translucent, and the shadows beneath her eyes testified to a lack of sleep. And yet, as she watched the infant slumbering in a lacy crib, her gaze was vigilant. Harry watched her adoringly, his eyes devouring every line of her face, every curve from the gentle slope of her cheekbones to the arching eyebrows.

"She is," Harry said, and even he didn’t know who he spoke of. The figure in front of him, transformed from a blushing bride to a woman, still beloved, or the child sleeping so soundly, all dimples and rounded baby-limbs. He savoured this sensation, this peace, so lacking in his childhood. Outside, clouds strolled sedately across a blue, blue sky, echoing the languor he felt. He was certain that he would never forget the joy of stepping across the threshold of their small house, arm around his girlish wife, who glowed with pride at the small bundle in her arms.

He would forget it. He had to. Outside, the sky was darkening into the fleeting beauty of a London twilight. People stepped on and off the bus and the surly driver smiled in response to a comment from a woman who climbed the stairs with difficulty, her pregnancy obvious. She walked near him, holding on to a metal pole as the bus began to move.

"Here, sit," he said with difficulty. She threw him a curious glance.

"Thanks," she replied brightly. He got up, jarring the roses as he did so.

The girl looked up in surprise at this rude interruption of her dreaming. "Oh," she said, sliding over so that the pregnant woman could sit. "This is horrible," the woman said, making a face. Harry wasn’t sure who the comment was directed at, but the girl saved him the trouble of having to make a courteous reply that he didn’t feel.

"I think I might be," she said quietly, her lips curving into a simple, smug smile as she touched her belly protectively.

The woman smiled, reaching awkwardly to pat her on the knee. "It’s worth it, dear. This is my third, and I wouldn’t give up the first two for the world."

They shared a radiant smile, each bathed in a special glow. Harry’s throat tightened at this reminder of the days he had shared with her. Of how she had become someone to worship, a goddess who deigned to accept his adoration. And she had made him a god.

"Of course, you bachelors have no idea what we’re talking about!" The woman turned to give him a teasing smile. The girl laughed, breathing in the heady scent of the roses, her hair trembling around her face. Two goddesses, affirmations of life, above his mortal misery.

Harry forced himself to smile in return, but he couldn’t bring words to his lips to reply in kind. Not with the memories in his mind. The thoughts of days spent reading, and all to no avail. When the time came, nothing could help her. It was he that who had a charmed life, not her. Semi-charmed, semi-cursed. And so The Boy Who Lived had to become The Man Who Lived, living on after grief unbearable. Finding the strength. But he still didn’t like seeing pregnant women.

Sensing that he wasn’t planning to reply, the woman turned back to the girl and they chatted warmly, easily, drawn together by their shared power, the life they carried with them. As her stop came, she stood carefully and gave him one last, long, curious glance before making her way to the doors.

"Make sure you get to a good hospital," he called the advice after her. He wasn’t sure if she had heard him. The girl gave him that same long, considering look. He stared out the window determinedly.

Her stop came, and she eagerly got off, still clutching her roses. Outside, a boy waited, and he threw an arm around her shoulder as soon as he saw her. She half-turned and buried her face in his chest. Then, pulling back, she gestured to the roses excitedly. He smiled back uncertainly, watching her in wonderment, obviously astonished that such a goddess would ever love someone human. Harry turned his face from the window and sank back into dreams. Only in dreams could he see her face or hear her voice. And ever then, they were tormented memories. Thoughts of blood, of human agony from the one he loved above all else.

They lay side by side, the windows thrown open to let in the warm summer air. There were spells to keep out the insects, so the small family slept peacefully. The silence outside was occasionally broken by the chirp of cicadas or the cry of an owl stooping to catch its prey.

"Harry," Hermione’s voice was startled.

"Yes, love?" He rolled over sleepily, blinking. Rubbing his eyes drowsily, he focused on her beloved face.

"I’m bleeding again," she said in a shrill, unnatural voice.

Immediately, he was awake. "Since when?"

"I don’t know." He could hear the fear in her voice. "I don’t know," she repeated.

Harry pulled robes out of the closet. "Let’s Apparate to the hospital now," he suggested.

"I can’t, I just hurt too much. I can’t concentrate. Besides, there’s Lily." She stifled a small sob.

Harry quickly crossed the distance to their daughter’s crib. She was asleep, as usual. He picked her up gently, despite the panic he felt. "What spells can I use to stop the bleeding, then?"

"Harry, I don’t know. Everything is so confusing." Her voice was that of a child, made simple by fear.

He knew that it would serve no purpose to berate her. Instead he placed Lily on the bed where he had lain. "Here," he said, touching his wand-tip to her heart once more.

"No, Harry, you can’t," she pulled back with a small moan of pain.

"I have to," he said desperately.

"It won’t do any good. You can’t stop the bleeding," she said, sounding resigned. His Hermione, resigned. He’d never seen her like this, his bright, beautiful love. The blood had soaked her nightgown and the sheets under her. There was so much of it…surely she couldn’t lose that much and still live. Harry pushed aside such thoughts. "Let’s get you to a doctor. I’ll help you Apparate."

"That’s too dangerous. Don’t, Harry." Her voice was weakening as she paled. The blood still flowed, thick and fast. Her eyes were fluttering closed.

"Hermione, hold on," he commanded. He knew how to do this spell. He’d done it once before in his life, to save himself and Ron, to rescue them from the clutches of Voldemort. Surely he could do it once more.

"Apparaciem," he said quietly, pulling Hermione’s hand to cover his wand as he held Lily in the other arm. There was a sucking sound as they vanished. A brief moment of eternity, then they were in the hospital.

"I need a doctor," he called desperately. At his side, Hermione slid to the floor as soon as he loosed his grip about her waist. In his arms, Lily stirred and cried faintly.

"What is it?" A Mediwizard glanced at them in alarm, his eyes missing Harry’s scar as they slid to the figure at his side. "What happened to her?" he demanded as he scooped up Hermione and began to walk away, carrying her like a child, the ground behind her splattered with blood.

"She just started bleeding," Harry replied, breathless in fear.

"I don’t know if we can save her," the doctor said frankly.

"There was a Mediwizard when we came here a week back, he could stop her from hemorrhaging."

"He left. He found a better-paying job."

Harry cursed furiously. "I donated money here," he hissed, dread clutching him in its talons. This had to be a nightmare, he thought crazily. It couldn’t be real.

The doctor had kicked open a door and he lay Hermione on a bed and quickly traced an unfamiliar sigil over her still body.

"Is she alive?" He had to know.

"Barely," the doctor admitted. His wand, wielded in skilled hands, slowed the bleeding, but Harry could tell that it wasn’t enough.

"Where’s everyone else?"

"It’s three in the morning," the doctor retorted, but his anger was weary and lacked any sting.

Only then did Harry note the dark circles under the Mediwzard’s eyes, and how his hand shook slightly as he held his wand.

It seemed to him that they were there for an eternity, and there was nothing he could do to help. He offered, but the Mediwizard ignored him. So, he took to pacing, Lily in his arms. Hours passed, and he knew not. There was only him and the woman who lay on the bed, her skin a ghostly white.

"She’s gone," the man finally said, slumping as he sat on a rickety chair nearby.

"She can’t be," Harry insisted. His body felt cold. Lily had gone back to sleep, and his arms were nearly numb from holding her limp weight. But he didn’t notice that. He was cold. He would always be cold. She couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t die like this. She couldn’t die. She shouldn’t die. His mind tried to grasp at such a shattering concept, but it was too much. She simply couldn’t die. She was too young, too good, too loved. There was no justice in her death. He placed Lily at her mother’s side, and touched his fingers to bloodless lips. Cold lips. He touched her skin, once warm and full of life. The full impact of that coldness hit him, and he sank beneath its weight. He began to sob, grief wracking his body while the doctor watched in mute sympathy. Lily heard his cries and added to them with a pathetic mewling. He stood there for another eternity, until the cold had seeped all through his body and his blood seemed to freeze in his veins. A peculiar sort of lethargy took over his mind, and the doctor sensed this.

"I’m sorry," he said heavily. He seemed to see Harry’s forehead for the first time and his eyes widened. "She was Hermione Granger?"

"She was," Harry murmured, horrified at the thought that life could be gone so quickly, so cruelly. She was…She would never be again.

"The baby," the doctor said quietly. "You need to get her food. She won’t live long without it, and we aren’t equipped to deal with that. We aren’t equipped to deal with much at all. Some hospital," he finished bitterly.

"Where can I go?"

"I don’t know." The doctor held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "It’s impossible to get good healthcare anywhere. Lucius Malfoy was propping up all the hospitals. Now that he’s gone, he’s insured that many others will die, too."

Harry nodded agreement to the doctor’s words. "Can you…find her a home? Another mother?" His throat closed on the words, but he couldn’t live with her. He could feel resentment creeping insidiously into his heart; resentment that she had cost her mother’s life. He couldn’t be a good father to her. He couldn’t love her. There was no room in him for love.

She opened her eyes briefly and cast him a knowing look and he fancied that he could see a trace of Hermione in that glance. He felt the last pieces of his heart breaking.

"If that’s what you’d like," the doctor’s statement trailed off.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"Very well." The doctor picked up the infant. "There’ll be paperwork to get through."

"Later," Harry said, his voice suddenly hoarse. "Can I just be with her for just a minute?" The doctor heard the sorrow in his plea and acquiesced, carrying Lily out of the room. She slept blissfully, unknowing of who lay on that bed and who sat bent with grief.

Harry held her hand in his, the flesh already waxy. Flesh that had been so soft, so alive, a scant few hours ago. A sob caught in his throat as he bowed his head over her bloodless body, unheeding of the metallic smell from the sheets under her, the wet crimson that stained the bed. A salty tear splashed down on the front of her robes.