How Long I Stand Here

I never know how long I stand here for. Whenever I lean against the cool white tiles, a cascade of burning hot water gushing over my tired body, all time is lost. But then, time doesn't have much significance anymore. It doesn't mean a great deal to me now, so I suppose it doesn't really matter whether I'm in here, under my waterfall, for minutes or for hours.

He comes to get me when I've been in here long enough. I hear him before I see him, him and his hobbling footsteps. His limp means that his footsteps sound different to everyone else's. Whereas most people walk with a brisk clip-clop, clip-clop, he walks with a distinctive, slow sort of clunk-shuffle, clunk-shuffle, particularly on the hard bathroom floor. He tells me it doesn't hurt him anymore, but I know it does. When your leg is on the receiving end of an assortment of dark curses and hexes, it's going to be painful long into the future, even with all the medicinal spells and potions Healers have to offer these days. And it hasn't been all that long since it happened. Only a few years.

He refuses to walk with a cane. He insists that he just doesn't need one, but I know the real reason he dismisses the idea is because he doesn't want to be reminded of his father every time he has to walk anywhere. That's fair enough. I don't push the matter. Instead, I let him hang onto my arm wherever we go, and let him think that he's propping me up, when really it's the other way around. Having said that though, I'm not sure how I would fare myself nowadays walking anywhere alone. I've got so used to clinging to him when we stroll through the winding corridors of St Mungo's, and when we meander through the graveyard at the weekends, that I'd probably stumble and fall after a few steps on my own in public. He must prop me up to a certain extent. Maybe we prop each other up.

His bad leg doesn't stop him from running around after me, figuratively speaking. He likes to take care of me. I think it helps him to keep going. So long as he has me here to look after, he has a reason to wake up in the mornings. He can push all of his own pain to one side and focus on mine. So I let him fuss. I let him make me breakfast in the morning, lunch at noon, and dinner in the evening. And I'm careful not to let him see when I throw entire meals in the bin. I let him scoop me up out of bed in his able arms and ease me gently into a warm, foamy bath on the bad days. I let him come and get me on all the other days, when I've found my way in here and am standing spellbound under the burning water. I let him do it all. It works well that way. He has a purpose to carry on. Besides, left to my own devices, I doubt I'd even bother to breathe. That wouldn't do.

I'm still needed. He isn't the only one who needs me. I'm all Ginny has now. If it wasn't for me, she would have no one to sit by her bedside hour after hour. But for me, her days would merely consist of silence, silence and staring continuously at the vomit-coloured walls. I take her flowers from the garden. (He keeps the garden nice, so that I always have fresh flowers to take.) She never turns to look at them when I place them by her bed, but I know she's grateful for them. She once told me years ago how flowers are one of her favourite things in the natural world. The smell, the colour, and the feel of the silky petals between her fingers used to always bring a smile to her face.

I talk to her, too. I tell her what I've been up to - I make things up on the spot, interesting things, and incorporate snippets of adventures from books I read long ago as a child. I read Muggle stories to her as well, careful never to go through the same book twice. I always make sure she hears something new. I don't want her getting bored.

We go to St Mungo's every weekday, him and me. It works well; as luck would have it, Ginny is on the same ward as his mother. He sits and reads The Daily Prophet to her, while I chat to Ginny. The nurse comes round every half an hour or so with a fresh mug of coffee and a snack for us both, so we can stay for as long as we like. We usually stay for a few hours.

Sometimes, every so often, as I sit and watch Ginny, I secretly wish I were like her. I wish I could sit for hour after hour, day after day, with nothing streaming through my mind except the light breeze from the open window. I think how it must be bliss not to have the memories of the ones you loved being killed, not to have their ghostly screams echoing inside your head. Sometimes I start to envy her. But then the nurse returns, not with snacks and coffee, but with a sponge and a bowl of hot water, along with Ginny's daily goblet of Coherency Draught, which has little effect besides making her eyes focus better on the vomit-coloured walls. Then I don't envy the remaining Weasley so much.

I like St Mungo's. It's the only place I feel lucky to have survived, and with all of my faculties intact at that. I have a purpose while I'm there - to do my best to entertain Ginny, and to make sure she's ok, or as ok as she can be. When I leave it's like having my soul sucked out by a Dementor. Or so I imagine. My reason for being seems to dissolve as I cross the threshold and walk back out into the real world.

Occasionally, I see Neville there at the hospital. He still visits his parents, who are in the neighbouring closed ward, though he comes less often now that he works abroad. The war doesn't seem to have affected him the way it has others. The way it has me. He's the same old Neville, only, perhaps, a little less cheerful. There are bags under his eyes that weren't there before, but then we all have those. They underline the eyes of all who lived through the war, a mark that distinguishes them from the rest of society. He's thinner, too, but, again, we all are. I suppose, having lost those dearest to him years before the second war even began, he had nothing much left to lose when the fighting started. I heard his grandmother died, but of natural causes, and only a few months ago. He didn't lose anyone the way we did. In the battles. In the final battle.

All who perished in the final battle were buried together. All magical people, anyway. My parents, along with all of the other Muggles who got caught in the crossfire, are dotted about in Muggle graveyards around the country. There's a special cemetery for the witches and wizards who lost their lives on a hill just outside of Hogsmeade. It overlooks the entire village, and Hogwarts can be seen in the distance. The view's beautiful, apparently. I hardly notice. There are hundreds of gravestones; if I walked along every row I know there would be at least one name I recognise chiselled into a headstone. We only ever visit two parts of the yard, though. The southwest, where members of the Order lay - Tonks, Remus, Kingsley ... and the northwest corner, where the Weasleys are ... Where Ron is ... Molly and Arthur are there, too, even though they were part of the Order. I insisted the family were all laid together. We leave flowers there from the garden. Mrs Weasley loved flowers just as much as Ginny. She'd be just as grateful as Ginny to have them by her side ...

I can hear him coming now. Underneath the sound of the water raining down, there's a recognizable clunk-shuffle, clunk-shuffle. I've been long enough. I know I should reach out and turn the water off, but my hands lie useless at my sides, as is always the way. I'd call out, but there's nothing to say. Clunk-shuffle, clunk-shuffle ... he's right outside. I expect him to call to me, to help me out into the steamy bathroom, wrap me in a towel and guide me back to the bedroom, but instead, he draws back the curtain and steps inside. I hide my mild surprise by turning my head.

He slips under the cascading hot water behind me in silence. After a moment, I feel his hands slide around my wet waist and he hugs me from behind.

'Ready for St Mungo's?' he whispers in my ear.

I'd reply, but there's nothing I can say that I haven't said a thousand times before.

'I thought ... I thought we might go somewhere different today,' he continues. I hear the tentativeness in his voice. 'Afterwards.'

My body automatically tenses up. He doesn't need to say anymore. I know what day it is, and I know what's coming. I can feel my heart starting to race in my chest.

'Hermione.'

He has his hands on my shoulders. He's turning me around to face him. He's looking at me as the water spills down over my face. I hear him sigh, a sound very much familiar to my ears.

'Harry's birthday,' he says, unnecessarily tucking strands of dripping hair behind my wet ears as he talks. 'Don't you want to take him some flowers? It's almost a year since you visited the grave.'

I stare at him, my vision blurred by both the water from the shower and the tears welling up behind my lids. The words choke in my throat, but he understands.

'I know what he meant to you.' He's stroking the side of my face. 'I may not have been his best friend ...' Another sigh. 'He saved my life. He saved a lot of lives. Someone should be there on his birthday. Someone should remember.'

I move closer to him, slowly, wobbling, and wrap my arms around his neck.

'I remember,' I hear myself breathe. My heart is banging like a hammer against my ribcage. 'Draco.' My legs are going to buckle. I'm holding onto him tightly, burying my face in his chest as the water continues to beat down on us both.

'I know. It's ok.' He has me. His tone is soothing. He's stroking my wet hair gently. 'I've got you,' he says firmly. 'I've got you.' His strong arms have hold of me. I feel safe with them wrapped around me, under the scorching hot water. I know he knows I'm crying, even though he can't see my tears. I know he knows my knees feel weak, and I want nothing more than to fall to the floor, to disappear down the plughole with the torrents of water falling down around us. He holds me up, close to him. I can hear his heart beating, fast as mine.

I don't know how long we'll stand here for, under my scalding waterfall, him holding me up. I never know how long I stand here for ...

Fin.