Caeruleum Rosae

June 30, 2002

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It was raining. It was always raining. Hermione Granger stared up into the starless sky, letting the drops of water run down her face. Soaking up water, her curls plastered themselves to her back as her entire body became drenched. She clenched her hands and tried to prepare herself for what was going to happen next. She wasn't surprised when the white bolt of lightning arced to the branches of the huge birch in front of her; she didn't even ! jump at the explosion of wood and water. Catching fire, the leaves offered precious light in the darkness. She tilted her head to one side, staring at the leaves with odd detachment. The leaves shouldn't still be burning. They are wet enough that they shouldn't burn.

She felt unfounded fear well up from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, soaking into her body just like the pounding rain. No matter what she did, the fear always poured over her in this moment, an icy hand on her spine. She looked for another way out; of course, there was nothing new, nothing different. She had even tried climbing the tree, once - it had only led to her swift and painful death. Terror crawled over her nerves, and her legs started to move of their own volition. She ran - she had no other choice, at this point. There was somethi! ng following her - she'd never quite figured out what the enormous beast actually was. All she knew is that it was big, and it had an appetite for people. She had, of course, tried doubling back to catch it, with similar results to the tree experiment. No matter what she did, straying from the course laid before her led to an excruciating end. No matter which direction she ran from the beast - backwards, towards the tree, to the left, to the right, always had the same result. No matter which way she went, the house always appeared on the horizon. It was always the house - the first time she'd seen it, she had thought is was! salvation. It wasn't really a remarkable house; it looked a ! bit like the house Hermione grew up in, weathered by fifty years of neglect. There was no other choice; there was never a choice. It mocked her in the distance, its pale gray paint peeling, the yard overgrown. She'd tried going around it in the past, but each side mirrored each other: the same faded blue front door, the same brick path leading to nowhere. The porch light was on - something she had always found highly ironic, considering it was as black as pitch inside the house once the door was opened. She knew what awaited her, but it was the only option.

When she reached the weathered door, she got a familiar spark of recognition. It always hit her here - on the doorstep, the slavering creature at her heels. The feeling that... sometime in the past, she had been here. She always tried to remember where exactly 'here' was, but if she would happen to wait overlong she knew she would become creature food. Her palms itched to open the door, even though she knew what was waiting on the other side. He was always there - ready and waiting for her to show up, biding his time. She couldn't stop her hands as they moved in the darkness, turning the tarnished knob, pushing on the rough paneling. She could see nothing, the darkness overwhelming her. Eventually, she could make out his outline in the twilight. She knew he was there, waiting, betrayed only by! a flash of pale eyes. She could somehow see his arm extended towards her, his lips moving with those familiar words. The sickly green light flashed from the tip his wand as it vaulted towards her. She screamed, as always, feeling herself start to die. Her heart slowed, and then stopped, her brain scrambling for a way out. Her body screamed at her to do something, her mind trying to remember every second. She fell to her knees, collapsing onto the floor. Her eyes were open -they always were, to try and see something - anything - that would help her understand.

Her last thought echoed through her mind as she watched a blue rose fall from his hand. I won't remember.

And then she woke up.

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Ronald Weasley ducked behind the large pillar and gasped for breath as he ran his hand over his freckled face. He knew he had to wait just a little longer, and then he could make his move. He suddenly threw himself out from his hiding place, yelling even as he rolled. "Expelliarmus!"

Draco Malfoy was left blinking as his wand shot out of his hand. He recovered, moving closer to his prey, even though he was wandless. Advancing slightly, Ron had a wand in each hand. A voice echoed through the cavernous room. "Alright, Mr. Weasley -- You win that round. One to zero, Mr. Malfoy. Hand to hand combat."

Ron looked up and scowled at the voice, setting both wands on a nearby table. He circled around Draco, carefully watching his every move, every muscle of his opponent's body. Draco suddenly shot forward, the heel of his hand heading for Ron's nose. Ron ducked out of the way and grabbed Draco's sleeve, flipping him to the floor. Draco lunged upward and swung his leg into Ron's shins, making him fall as well. Rolling on the mats, each tried to overpower the other. The scuffle continued until finally Draco had Ron pinned to the gro! und, the voice echoing over their heads. "Mr. Malfoy, you're one to one. Go ahead and hit the showers."

Draco let Ron go and grabbed a towel from a nearby stack, gasping for breath.

"You're getting... better, Weasley." Draco looked down at Ron, his face showing grudging approval. He nodded his head towards the locker rooms as he collected his wand. "You need more work on your ground attacks, though." He walked towards the door, calling over his shoulder, not even sparing a glance to the onlookers. "Are you going to go and see him today?"

Ron pulled his shirt over his head, his face burning as he slammed the door behind him. "You know, you are one of the most insufferable people I have ever met. What the bloody hell was that, asking me that in front of our boss?" He shoved the sweat-soaked T-shirt into his bag. He pulled his sweatshirt over his head, his voice muffled. "Merlin... why are you such a bleeding git, Malfoy? Of course I visit him. Today, of all days, you ask me that?" He yanked the sweatshirt down, glowering as he pulled the zipper closed on his bag. He slammed it into his locker, and turned, glaring at his partner. "I shouldn't even be at work today, seeing how he was my best friend. How can you even..." He retied his trainers, pulling on the laces so hard one of them snapped. "...Think I wouldn't visit him? He's in a bloody coma because of me. Did being turned into a! ferret fourth year give you permanent brain damage?" He glared and tapped his laces with his wand. "Reparo." He shoved his wand into the holster on his hip, retying his shoe.

Draco Malfoy ran his hand back through his short, platinum blonde hair then sighed heavily. His face hardened until his eyes resembled ice chips as he changed out of his clothes. "No, you great lummox. I asked because...." He trailed off, his voice lowering to a hiss as his eyes narrowed. "I'm going with you. I swear, if you even had a clue, you'd have no idea what to do with it." His mouth curved into a sneer as he slammed his own locker shut. "You coming? It's your day to do the laundry." He threw his towel in the bin and headed out of the Ministry, punching his timecard. Ron followed, cursing under his breath.

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Hermione rolled over in bed, pulling a pillow over her head. I don't want to get up. Crookshanks jumped on her stomach, and Hermione groaned as she forced herself out of bed. She rubbed her forehead, stumbling to her bathroom. Why is it whenever I have that dream, I always wake up with a headache? She looked at herself in the mirror: bloodshot brown eyes, tangled, poofy hair, pale skin, and huge dark circles under her eyes. Well, congratulations, Hermione. You look like you've been run over by a lorry. She pulled out her toothpaste and started brushing her teeth, letting the water run. She spat in the sink and rolled the dream through her head for what ! seemed like the thousandth time.

She slipped into the shower and let the water pour over her head, talking quietly to herself. "There's the lightning... and the tree... and... the house.... And the......" She sighed, washing her hair. "That man. Who is he?" At first she had thought it was Lucius or Draco Malfoy - they were the only men she knew with eyes that pale. As time went on, she became less and less sure. He was taller than both Malfoys and held himself differently. Even though she only saw him for about a minute each time she dreamed, over the years she must have had the same dream hundreds of times. Slipping out of the shower, she went to get dressed. Her mind was still not letting go of the vision of him standing over her, staring at her as she died.

Eventually she left her bedroom, her arms stacked high with books. She made her way into her kitchen and sitting area, careful not to trip over the boxes she had stacked along the hallways of her tiny flat. Setting her books on the card table that served as her desk, she walked over to the one bookshelf in her home that wasn't overflowing. She stood, tears welling in her eyes as she picked up the photographs, one by one. There was the picture of her parents - the only wizarding picture she had of them. They were waving frantically, smiling as they leaned against the hood of their car. They had no idea what would be in store for them a mere few months later. Hermione picked up the picture of herself, Ron, and Harry, smiling at the beginning of the Leaving Feast, and watched as the seventeen yea! r old version of herself kissed both boys on their cheeks. Tears ran down her face as she picked up the photograph of Harry and Sirius Black, both of them waving madly for the camera. She set the pictures down carefully and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Today was always one of the hardest days for her. For everyone else, it was a holiday; 'The Day of Defeat' was the name given by the Ministry for June 30th, the day that the illustrious Harry Potter managed to kill Lord Voldemort.

Sniffling, Hermione padded towards the kitchen. She stopped short as she stared at the beautiful vase of flowers sitting on her counter. She took two steps forward, her hand shaking as she reached up to caress the petals of the blue roses. "Oh, no." She spoke softly, but her words still echoed in her flat. "Why now? It's not Christmas. Why is it here now? Why is it here at all?" She clenched her hand around the petals of one of the roses, crushing them in her fist. "Why? Why is it...? Oh, God." Her face paled and she swung at the vase with her hand.

She Apparated as she moved; the vase flew off the counter, crashing into the wall. Bits of glass twinkled in the morning sun, water soaking into her beige carpeting as the blue roses shriveled and died.

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Ginny Weasley tucked another curl of her vivid red hair behind her ear as she examined his chart for what seemed like the twentieth time in the past five minutes. Of course, everything was normal; everything had been 'normal' for the last four years. Even though the Order had brought in specialists from all over the world to try and figure out what was wrong, each one had said the same thing: some form of 'I don't know.' All his readings were perfectly, boringly, normal. She always checked, always stared at the numbers, wishing they would change. Today was the day the rest of the world was celebrating, and here she was, sitting vigil. It was something she always did on June 30th. Even as a trainee, one of her first requests was to be able to watch him.

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Ginny hadn't always wanted to be Healer. When she was three, she wanted to be a princess. It had taken some time before she realized that you couldn't just plan your career around marrying a handsome prince. When she was nine, she wanted to be in a rock band; at eleven, she wanted to work with dragons like her brother, Charlie. When she was fourteen, she noticed she always helped with the little things: her brothers' bruises from playing Quidditch, Ron's scratches from Crookshanks, minor gnome bites from the garden. People kept coming to her for help, and it always made her feel good. The cementing factor was that day four years ago. Of course, while everyone referred to it as 'that day,' there was an actual date: June 30th, 1998. She had been relegated to the sidelines, her brother pleading with her not to follow them. She had, instead, stayed to help the wounded - and th! ere were plenty. There had been so much blood, so much violence, that it seemed like an unstoppable flow - but she had helped. She had succeeded. Then, after she had graduated from Hogwarts the next year, there was no question in her mind.

She had arrived at St. Mungos, and they welcomed her with open arms. Insisting on having some small part in monitoring him, Ginny had gone head to head with her supervisors. Eventually, they decided it was a good place for her. There were orders from the Ministry that he was never to be left alone - but nothing ever changed. They didn't have the skilled hands to waste with the Death Eaters leaderless and roaming the countryside. Even though she was a trainee, she was left there, alone, so she was able to watch.

It was almost as if she was standing guard. She quietly talked to him at times. Telling him everything that was going on, she frequently found herself crying by his bedside. He was the only one she told about how much that day had affected her, how much she missed him, and how much it had changed his friends. She told him everything, good and bad. Very few had actually witnessed her talking to him; Ron knew about it to some extent, and Hermione knew. No one else had any idea. She did her job, and even as she continued through the ranks, eventually becoming full healer, she still stayed with him.

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She was glad to watch him, and her supervisors were glad to let her; it always pulled in good press that the sister of The Boy Who Lived's best friend was by his bedside. The fact that she stayed there and didn't take the Day of Defeat off was even better.

She brushed his black hair off his forehead and ran her thumb over his scar. Of course, there was no change - there hadn't been a change for as long as Ginny could remember. She hardly jumped even as the loud chime of the elevator echoed though the hall. It wasn't the first visitor today, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Casting one last glance at her patient, she looked up towards the door as Hermione burst in, her face red and tearstained.

"Hermione? What's wrong?" She stood up and her eyes widened as Hermione pushed past her, grabbing his hand. Ginny stood helpless as she watched Hermione's knuckles whiten.

"There were more roses today. I've never gotten roses in June. There's something wrong, Ginny." Hermione didn't even look at Ginny, her eyes boring into the man lying prone on the bed. "Where's Ron? He's usually here by now. He needs to be here."

Looking at the visitor's log, Ginny sighed. "Well, he hasn't been here toda-" She leaned her head out of the doorway as she heard a familiar voice. "Speak of the devil. Ron! Hurry up!" She glanced at Draco and shook her head slightly as she went back into the room, studying his chart again as it updated itself.

Ginny shook her head, the numbers exactly the same as they had been five minutes ago. "Hermione, he's fine. Nothing's changed. It's the same, just as always." Ron jogged to the room and looked in, his face hardening at he saw Hermione's head bowed over the bed.

"What's wrong?" Ron's voice was clipped, his jaw set. He stood warily by the door, half tempted to just leave.

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears. "There were roses this morning, Ron. You know that there are never roses in June. There's got to be something wrong." Ron's eyes softened for a brief moment as he took a step towards her. His hand reached for her, almost by itself, itching to comfort her in some way. He forced himself to pull back, looking down at the pale man on the bed. Ron wiped his still itching hand on his pant leg, his fingers curling into a fist.

"Well, Ginny? Is there anything wrong?" Ginny started at her brother's words and gazed down at the chart one last time. Her eyes widened as the numbers on the page started to change. She gasped softly and almost tripped over Hermione in her rush to get to the head of the bed. She slammed her hand down on a buzzer on the wall, her eyes wide.

A tinny voice floated through the speaker. "Yes, Healer Weasley?"

Ginny's voice shook as she looked from the patient to the chart in her hands. "Send a team to Room 107, now." She looked at the rest of them, the chart vibrating in her shaking hands. "The numbers... they're changing. Something's happening."

Hermione looked up at Ginny, her eyes full of alarm. "Ginny? What's going on?"

Ginny looked up from the chart just as his eyes fluttered open.

"Harry's awake."

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