And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

"And Miles to Go Before I Sleep"

by Paracelsus

Part III

On arriving at the ICU station Saturday morning, Dr. Pohuhu found that the hospital's staff psychiatrist had finally returned her calls. The voice-mail said that an interview with the John Doe (Jim, if you please) had been scheduled for early Monday morning. He went on to explain that there seemed to be no urgency, since the patient posed no threat to himself or others.

Unfortunately, Margaret knew she wouldn't be able to keep her patient in the ICU for much longer. His injuries were no longer life-threatening - indeed, were an outside doctor to examine him today, he'd wonder if they'd ever been life-threatening. Only the fact that Jim still suffered the effects of blood loss kept him from being immediately transferred to another ward, or even released. But it was only a matter of time.

Like every hospital doctor, Margaret knew that ICU beds were needed continuously. She couldn't justify keeping one occupied by a patient who didn't need Intensive Care. Yet she was strangely reluctant to have Jim released until he was able to function on his own - which required the return of his memories. If anyone had challenged her on the point, she would vehemently deny that his charming smile, or his sparkling green eyes, had influenced her medical opinion in any way.

If that wasn't quite the truth, she still had good reasons for wanting to keep him under her eye. His overall oddness... his appearance in her apocalyptic dream (just hers? So many other people's, too)... the strange occurrences in the hospital that had followed his arrival... and most of all, Nana's opinion, influenced her far more. She didn't always agree with her grandmother, but she knew Nana had an uncanny knack for seeing what others could not. And while she didn't share Nana's beliefs, she had to accept the evidence of her own eyes.

As if to take her mind off Jim's probable departure, a host of good news greeted her as she began her morning rounds. Phil Watson's thoracic staph infection was gone. His sutures from his open-heart surgery could finally be closed. He'd probably be released within the week.

Mary Puketapu's broken hip had nearly knitted completely. The pins were firmly in place; she could begin physical therapy soon. She was quite ecstatic over the prospect.

And Katy Chao's leukemia showed every sign of full remission: CBC almost within normal ranges, aggressor cell count down, rogue cell population too low to count. That was the desired outcome of the therapy, of course, but Dr. Pohuhu had never heard of it all happening in just two days! What, she wondered, was she going to tell Katy's parents when they came to visit today? ("The good news is, your daughter's perfectly healthy. The bad news is, I haven't the slightest idea how it happened...")

Last on her rounds was Jim, whose anemia had persisted; he was receiving another unit of O Negative blood this morning. His hands showed a slight redness but were otherwise fine. One would never guess that, two days ago, they'd had severe third-degree burns covering their entire surface and their chance of regaining normal function was approximately zero.

"Good morning, Dr. Pohuhu," he greeted her. "Your nurses seem to think I'm too pale -" he nodded at the IV line, " - but other than that, I feel much better today. I think I may be ready to leave soon."

"That's good, Jim. Shall I continue to call you Jim?"

"You mean, do I remember my name?" Jim shook his head. "Truth to tell, I haven't tried to remember. I kind of like being Jim."

"But you have to try. It's not just your name, as a label - if it were only that, I'd call you Jim all you want. But recalling your name means recalling your identity, what makes you what you are. You need that to be a person. Don't you want to know?"

He considered. "Eventually, I suppose. But it will come when it comes." It was a sentiment Nana might have uttered.

Margaret felt like grabbing Jim's shoulders and shaking sense into him. He seemed perfectly ready to go blithely out into the world with no identity, no memory, no history - just disappear into the empty countryside or the crowds of the city. Couldn't he see how important it was to restore his past? (Not that it mattered: they might not have the luxury of keeping him in the ICU until he regained his memories. But he didn't even seem to want to stay and be helped, stubborn man!)

Just then, fortunately for Jim, she was paged from the nurse's station. "Excuse me, Jim. I'll be right back."

At the nurse's station, she picked up the phone and took the call. "Doctor? This is Lucy in Reception. There are two people here asking after a patient. We don't have any record of a patient of this name being admitted, but they're very insistent. Dr. Wells isn't answering his page. Could you come down...?"

Why would the receptionists want her to come down for an administrative matter? Unless... "Lucy, did they give a description for this mystery patient, as well as a name?"

"Yes, doctor."

Margaret guessed that the visitors could hear Lucy's half of the conversation. Their description must match one of my patients. Jim. And Admin doesn't want to admit having him here. She thought hard. The police never discovered who attacked him. Is Admin worried these might be the culprits? "I'll be right down."

*

She approached the reception foyer quietly, and stood unnoticed for a minute, giving herself a chance to observe the visitors. They were two pakeha: a man and a woman, both about twenty years old. They were talking in low voices, as they waited by the front desk. The man was tall and red-haired; the woman was average-height, with bushy brown hair. Nothing in their dress or appearance seemed out of the ordinary. Margaret eavesdropped shamelessly on their conversation:

"I dunno. Even if Hedwig was right, how could he have ended up here?"

"I don't know either. But I do know I trust Hedwig. She could find him, better than anyone."

"If he's here. If he's alive. We may be grasping at straws, 'Mione."

"Yes. But if there's even the slightest chance..."

Well, decided Margaret, they certainly don't sound like sadistic muggers. Still, she would play this cautiously. She stepped into the foyer and extended her hand.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Pohuhu. How can I help you today? I understand you have some questions..."

The woman took her hand eagerly. "Hello, Dr. Pohuhu. We're trying to discover if a young man was admitted to your hospital within the last three days, by the name of Harry Potter...?"

"As I'm sure our admissions staff has already informed you, there's no patient currently in Christchurch Hospital under that name." Which was the literal truth.

The young woman was not prepared to admit defeat. "Perhaps he'd been admitted under another name? He would have been twenty-one years old, five foot eleven, one hundred and fifty pounds - um, 180 cm, and about seventy kilos. Black hair, green eyes, round glasses. A prominent scar, here." She pointed to her forehead.

"Please, doctor," the young man interjected. "Any help you can give us would be appreciated. We need to know. Harry's been missing for days... Oh, my name's Ron Weasley. This is Harry's wife, Hermione."

The woman's eyes widened almost imperceptibly; Margaret would've bet a year's salary that this was the first the woman had heard about being anyone's wife. "Yes, doctor," the woman jumped in smoothly, "I'm Hermione Potter." If it was an act, it was well done: there was no hesitation when she said the name.

Well, the description does match Jim exactly, barring the glasses. And if this is his wife, I can't deny her right to see him. Margaret didn't see a ring on the woman's hand, but that didn't prove anything. "I will need to see some identification."

"Oh, sure," said the young man, Ron. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a passport. Extending it to her, he accidentally knocked a candy dish off the reception desk. Stooping to pick it up from the floor, he collided with Dr. Pohuhu and the two of them somehow knocked into a nearby ficus plant. By the time the slapstick scene was over and everything restored to its right place, the woman Hermione had produced her own passport, which she handed to Dr. Pohuhu with a demure smile. She is wearing a ring, thought Margaret dizzily. How did I miss it before?

It was a valid UK passport, with the woman's photo in it. Name: Hermione Granger Potter. Margaret skipped over the rest of the entries, looking for Contact in Case of Emergency: Harry James Potter. Relation: spouse. That seemed to settle it. She handed back the passport.

"Thank you, Mrs. Potter. We do have a young man matching your description in Intensive Care. He was admitted early Thursday morning. He had no glasses, indeed no possessions of any kind, and he'd been brutally assaulted." The woman's gasp of dismay was genuine; Margaret tried to dispel her remaining doubts. "It looks as though his injuries were, in fact, less severe than they originally appeared. If you'd like to see him, the ward is this way." She nodded to Lucy to let her know everything was all right, and led Ron and Hermione to the elevators.

As they entered the ICU, Margaret said, "I should tell you both that my patient is still suffering from traumatic shock. He hasn't been able to tell us his name. We can't be sure this is your husband, Mrs. Potter."

"Are you saying he's amnesiac?" the woman asked.

"I'm saying you shouldn't be upset if he fails to recognize you. And you should prepare for the possibility that this isn't who you're looking for."

They approached the bed at the end of the ward. Margaret led them forward, smiling. "Jim, there are some people here to see you..." Her words faded along with her smile. Jim was staring in fear, in wide-eyed terror, at the couple behind her.

"Harry?" said the woman. "Harry, it's us. Don't you remember us?"

He was shaking his head, not in answer to her question, but in denial and rejection. A choked sound that might have been "herm" escaped him. I don't care if she is his wife, there's something very wrong here! Dr. Pohuhu instantly stepped forward to defend her patient.

But somehow, the man Ron had interposed himself between her and Jim's bed. She hadn't even seen him move; it was as though he'd just appeared in front of her. Before she could sidestep him, the woman Hermione was at Jim's side. He shrunk from her, as far back as his bed and the IV line would allow. He was trembling now, watching her warily.

"Harry?" she said softly, as though to a child. "It's all right. Everything will be all right. Look, I brought you this." From her purse she took a little wooden stick, like a conductor's baton. She placed it in his hand on the bed, and gently closed his fingers around it.

He stared at it, wide-eyed and unblinking, for a long moment. Then his eyes started pouring tears - not crying, not sobbing, just a continuous stream of water from his eyes. He opened his mouth slightly and gave a low, sharp keening - quiet, yet filled with a universe of agony. It tore at their hearts. And it went on and on, while he stared at the stick, unable to pull his eyes away. For the moment, they were all frozen in place, a tableau.

Unexpectedly, he whipped the stick around so that it pointed at his own forehead. He clutched it in both hands and cried, "Oblivi--!"

He never completed the word. The bushy-haired woman instantly thrust her own hand into his mouth, stifling the last syllables. At the same time, the red-haired man was on the other side of the bed, grabbing his arm, forcing the stick away from his head and towards the ceiling.

It happened far faster than Margaret could react. She stood, frozen in astonishment, as Ron gently removed the stick from her patient's hand. What's going on? They're treating that thing almost as if it were a gun! But it's only a baton... a stick...

Realization set in. A wand...

Hermione, in the meantime, still had her hand in Harry's mouth (for so we must call him now). "No, Harry, please. Please don't. Please don't leave us again." Her face was inches from his. She was crying now, too, but she kept talking, determined to reach him through his pain. "We thought you'd died. We thought you died defeating Voldemort. You mustn't, Harry. Please."

The teary green eyes finally focused on Hermione's brown ones. They studied her for a moment, then blinked several times. Cautiously, Hermione removed her hand from Harry's mouth, as Ron slackened his hold on his arm.

"Hermione?" he said carefully. She nodded and wiped her cheeks. He looked up. "Ron?"

"All right, there, Harry?" asked Ron. He was the only one at the bed who wasn't crying; he looked almost hopeful, like a mourner who'd been given the chance to cheat grief.

Harry shook his head. "N-noooo..." He clenched his eyes shut; tears continued to leak. "Damn you," he ground out, "I had forgotten! I was free! WHY??" He opened his eyes and spoke with more bitterness and pain than Margaret had ever heard. "Why did you do this to me??"

Ron looked aghast at this anguished outburst. Hermione, however, seemed to expect it. She didn't flinch; she kept her face close to his, filling his field of vision. "Because," she said slowly and deliberately, "if I hadn't, Harry Potter would still be dead." She paused for emphasis, to be sure he heard her, then continued, "And, while I can't speak for Ron, I know I can't live with part of my soul torn out."

"Ditto," said Ron quietly. "The better part, at that," he added.

Harry twisted to look up at him, utter surprise replacing the pain. Ron locked eyes with him, and nodded in solemn emphasis. His hand tightened on Harry's arm again, no longer to restrain him, but as if to lend him strength. Harry looked back to Hermione. She gulped, scared, but refusing to look away.

Harry finally gave a heavy sigh, and leaning forward, touched his forehead to hers. She broke into a relieved smile and hugged him tightly, while Ron's face relaxed into a grin. With no words whatsoever, messages of reassurance and love were being given and received between the three. Any lingering doubts that Margaret might have had about this strange couple were banished.

"Ahem," Margaret eventually said, pointedly. The three friends started, and pulled away from one another slightly. They looked at her in embarrassment. "This is still my patient. Can we please restrain ourselves for the moment? Jim, may I assume that you can now remember...?"

"Yes," said Harry. "I wish I didn't. The pain is less, but... but it's not going away." He carefully didn't look at Hermione as he said this.

"Pain is nature's way of telling you, 'Yo, you're still here.'"

He stared at her, then burst out in full, heartfelt laughter. It was the first time Margaret had ever heard him laugh, and she was startled at how it filled her with warmth. Hermione and Ron smiled delightedly over his head at each other, as if they'd just received a gift long overdue.

Laughter subsiding, he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. "My name is Harry Potter. I live in Godric's Hollow, England. I'm afraid I don't have any ID, but I can refer you to people here who'll vouch for me."

"That won't be immediately necessary," Margaret noted. "Your wife's passport helps establish your identity, and we can contact the Visitor's Bureau to replace your own passport."

Hermione interrupted quickly. "They'd only allow family members to come see you, Harry..."

"Ah. Like my wife? I see." He patted her hand and, for the first time since her arrival, smiled at her. He then glanced at Ron, who was now keeping an extraordinarily straight face. "One word to Ginny," he whispered with soft menace, "and you are so dead..."

"Anyway, once all the paperwork is done," Margaret continued, "we can settle your hospital accounts and release you. Do you remember the attack that brought you here, Jim... er, Mr. Potter? The police will probably have some questions for you."

Harry sighed. "The incident is out of their jurisdiction, I'm afraid." He paused and regarded her. "Dr. Pohuhu, I daresay you've seen some very strange things these last three days. If you'd like an explanation, I can provide it - but I warn you, the explanation'll seem even stranger."

"Harry," warned Ron, "is this a good idea? I was thinking, a quick Memory Charm... I mean, I've already put a Silencing Charm around the bed here..."

Harry shook his head. "I think she deserves better than that. And I think she may even benefit from the explanation." He cocked an eyebrow at Margaret. "Well, Opaleyes?"

The gesture, as much as the nickname, for some obscure reason reminded Margaret of her father. She folded her arms. "This had better be good."

"I think so." He collected his thoughts. "Let's start with my rapid recovery. You told me you don't believe in medical miracles." He displayed his hands to her, fingers spread. "Doesn't this count?"

"I can't explain it," she replied cautiously, "but that doesn't make it a miracle."

"I can explain it. It's magic."

She shook her head once, hard. "A distinction without a difference. And an explanation that doesn't explain."

Hermione intervened, "Harry, may I? Doctor, a miracle is a one-time supernatural intervention. This is magic, which is perfectly natural. It follows its own rules and, just like science, is predictable and repeatable."

"Perfectly natural for some people, that is," amended Ron. "Witches. Wizards. Harry's a wizard, and he has his own innate magic. And that's why he could heal faster than you'd expect." He eyed the IV stand in puzzlement, then looked back at his friend. "Harry, just how bad was it?"

"Bad enough. If I hadn't been stabilized here, my 'innate magic' might not've kicked in. But I don't think even that explains my recovery. That's due to someone else's 'innate magic.'"

"Ohhhh." Hermione looked with a new respect at Dr. Pohuhu. "You think...?"

Harry smiled. "I think her dad might've worked at the dragon reservation here. Doctor, you need to talk to your father's former employers. They work out of Government House in Wellington." He paused, trying to recall a name. "Phone them today. Ask for Cassiopeia Tucker. They may try to deny she exists, but keep insisting. They'll put you through to her eventually."

"Harry!" Hermione was scandalized. "You can't ask her to call the Minister of Magic for the entire country, just out of curiosity!"

"When you reach Ms. Tucker," Harry continued unheeding, "tell her that Harry Potter told you to call her, and ask about your father and his work. Once she explains, you'll probably have a few hundred other questions, too."

Margaret was silent for a moment. "This... Cassiopeia Tucker... she's the one you said you could refer me to...?"

Harry nodded. "We haven't actually met, but she knows who I am."

Minister of Magic. For the entire country. Right. "And she'll tell me about... my dad?"

"And about yourself," Harry added softly. He gestured around the ward. "I've heard the nurses. They're talking about all the amazing progress your patients have made this week. Since my arrival, in fact. But that had nothing to do with me." He smiled at her, that same sweet smile... but now a knowing smile, too. "You were born with magic in your blood, Dr. Pohuhu. I may have awakened it, but it was already there. Every time you examined someone this week, every time you laid your hands on them, they took a turn for the better. It was you, not me. Didn't your Nana call you a healer? She didn't mean a physician."

"I am a physician." Dr. Pohuhu bridled.

"And you're also a healer. A very good combination," Harry assured her. He looked at Hermione. "Isn't there a local school for witchcraft and wizardry on these islands?"

"Wait, wait... Did you say 'witchcraft and wizardry'?" Margaret stared at the three of them. "Do you know anything about a... a place called Hogwarts?"

"Hogwarts? Yeah, it's a school. We're all graduates," said Ron. "How'd you hear about Hogwarts?"

"Something Nana said." Margaret took a deep breath, held it a moment, let it out slowly. Her rational mind wanted her to deny everything Jim - Harry! - was telling her. She couldn't. The collective dream, her patients' progress, Nana's warnings to her and lecture to Harry, half-buried memories of her father now resurfacing... She knew, knew beyond rational thought, that what she was hearing was, impossible or not, the truth. "This... this is a lot to take in..."

"I know," said Harry sympathetically. "I'd understand if you decide you can't accept it all. If you like, I can make you forget everything I've just told you. In that case, your life wouldn't be much different - except your patients will do very, very well." He leaned forward in his bed. "But if you can accept what I've told you... you won't lose anything. You'll still be a doctor. But you'll add a whole new dimension to your world. It'll be richer, more powerful... a lot stranger, but hey, at least you'll have Nana to help you."

She regarded him. The skinny invalid Jim was gone. This Harry Potter was... more in control, for lack of a better term. Yet in essence, he was unchanged: warm, caring, more concerned for others than himself. "Not you?"

He sighed and shook his head. "I have to go home. I can't stay, I know that now. Nana was right: there are things I still have to do."

"Not to mention," interjected Ron, "Mum and Dad, and Ginny, and Fred and George, who all still think you're dead... You're not just abandoning them, mate."

"Or us," added Hermione. "Or Hagrid, or all your other friends. We all thought you'd died. You still haven't told us how you ended up here."

Harry glanced at Margaret before he replied. "I think, unconsciously, I was trying to get as far away as I could." He didn't elaborate.

"Don't blame you, Harry," said Ron. "You were only going to the Druid's Dolmen to see if you could scry that exorcism spell. You couldn't expect You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters to show up and..."

"Harry." Hermione spoke in a suddenly harsh voice. She grabbed Harry's chin and forced him to look her in the face. The fury of her glare put Nana's to shame. "Tell me you weren't expecting Voldemort to show up. Tell me you weren't counting on it. Please tell me you weren't setting a trap..."

Harry made no answer. The glare continued unabated. He finally muttered guiltily, "You would have insisted on coming along."

"Harry Potter!"

"Look, can we talk about this later? I'll tell you everything, I promise." He gestured to Margaret. "We have some loose ends to clear up, here." Hermione released him, but her look promised that the discussion would continue later. "Doctor, what do I need to do to be released? I think you'll agree I'm as well as I need to be."

She'd known this would come. Why was she so depressed that it had? She retreated into her professionalism. "Your personal information, your insurance, doctor of record, residence while in New Zealand..."

He stopped her with an upraised hand. "I don't have insurance. I don't have a doctor of record. I'm not a tourist, I didn't fly here in a plane, and I don't have a passport. Look, officially I'm still 'John Doe', right? If I were to simply... disappear... it would be an unsolved mystery, but as long as nobody's hurt, the authorities will find something else to worry about. And as for payment... Hermione, may I assume...?"

She smiled. "How did you know?" Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a thick wad of bills. "I converted some Galleons from your Gringotts account before we came. Doctor, as far as you or anybody else knows, you came here today and discovered Mr. Doe was gone, leaving no forwarding address. There was a pile of money by his bed, which turned out to be more than enough to pay for his medical treatment." She deposited the money on the side table. "That's our story, and we're sticking to it."

Margaret shook her head. "And how do you propose to get out the front door, unnoticed?"

"I told you, Dr. Pohuhu," said Harry. "We'll simply disappear." He raised an eyebrow at Hermione and Ron, who assumed places on either side of the bed. Ron took hold of the IV stand, and murmured "Ready, Mrs. Potter?" (earning a sharp look from Hermione).

Harry turned back to Margaret, and held his hand out to her. Margaret took his hand, but instead of shaking it as she expected, he raised it to his lips. A tingling spread through her fingers, as if some power were flowing from him into her. "Thank you," he said. "For all you've done - for helping me find myself again. If ever you need me, Minister Tucker can always reach me." He smiled to her one last time. "Goodbye, Opaleyes."

"Goodbye, tohunga," she replied.

There was no flash of light, no Hollywood special effects. In an eyeblink, the three were simply... gone. Even the IV stand was gone. Margaret Pohuhu stood by the empty bed, her thoughts a whirl. They just vanished. An hour ago, I'd have said that was impossible. Even after all they'd said, she hadn't quite accepted that Harry - and presumably his friends - were wizards. But she had to accept the evidence of her own eyes...

... and of her hands, which still tingled in a way they never had before. She thought of Katy, and of all the patients yet to see. And of a phone call to Wellington, in the very near future.