The After Life

A Flame of Hope

It was getting light now. Dawn was fast approaching over the horizon. The Hospital Wing was lit by one, flickering candle, the wick of which was getting very low. It cast dull, insubstantial light onto the sleeping, injured girl and her exhausted mother, dozing fitfully on a chair near her bed. There was no other life in the static environment. The night air was still, observant, mindful of the presence of Death, stalking nearby.

Death made a quick exit as the door to the Hospital Wing was carefully opened. It feared the impassioned boy who entered, the same one who had held a near round-the-clock vigil at the girls' bedside for the past thirty-six hours. This boy had cheated Death several times, laughed in his face at least once and had claimed Earthly powers that made him at least Death's own equal. That was troubling enough. The girl in the bed was ripe to be claimed.

But the boy was saying 'no'. So Death had no choice but to listen. And to wait...

Harry entered the ward with an armful of books. He thought that might make Hermione better. If she could feel books nearby, maybe ones she hadn't read before, that might hurry her back from her mental exile. Harry didn't know of a better way to soothe her. He had chosen carefully. They were stacked full of information on specific family magic. But they were all so confusing. Hermione would understand them instantly, she could explain them, maybe even know how to utilise them.

Harry dearly wished she could find a way to show him how, for her time was running out.

She hadn't responded as much as they'd all hoped from the vision treatment. Whilst her condition had stabilised, it hadn't improved. She was still non-responsive. The St Mungo's Healer was adamant that the damage to both her magic and her body was simply too great. She had suggested lifting the spells holding her to life, that it would be the humane thing to do. Harry had almost cursed her for the notion. There had to be another way, there just had to be. 

He absolutely would not let her die.

So he sat by her bedside, hour after hour, clinging to the faint, distant sensation that was Hermione's mind. Somehow, he'd managed to retain the link. It broke through the reinstated blocking spell cast by Madam Pomfrey. Or, at least, enough of it did. It wasn't as strong as when Harry's mental barriers were down, but he needed them in place. Their absence had caused him to pass out three times, overwhelmed by external signals, before he gave in and had the enchantment recast. But, for reasons none of them could explain, he could still connect to Hermione's mind.

But she was getting weaker.

She would slip into troughs. Harry felt it as a lurch in his stomach, as though the bottom were about to fall out. He learned quickly to focus hard on his connection to Hermione, and he was able to pull her back, as though catching her from falling with the barest tip of his fingers. He shuddered to think what would happen if he missed one of these surges. So he dared not leave her side. He slept only in patches, always close by, and always he dreamt the same thing.

He was at a lake, in a log cabin, looking out across smoky water. Reeds and marshes surrounded the shore and Harry felt a deep foreboding about what might be lurking within them. It was sinister, it was stalking, a predator waiting to pounce. But Harry couldn't see it, whatever it was. Though he knew it was there, drifting just beneath the surface of the water, which was as grey as chilled steel.

Harry wanted to go and find it, to fight it off, but he was busy at the jetty outside the cabin. He was constantly checking the moorings on the little pier, and the thin ropes tied to them. They had a habit of loosening, almost coming completely undone a few times. Harry could not let that happen. He had to keep them tied and tight, or else the rowing boat attached to them would simply drift away into the mist.