A/N: Hi, everyone. I hope you are all faring well and staying healthy and safe. Like many people in the world, I am practicing social distancing. For a writer, this is not an unusual thing, but the feeling is different now. I'm more anxious. I'm more worried. And when this happens, I turn to fiction. I want to share this story that bloomed Friday morning and led to this short one-shot. Yes, it is a one-shot. I feel satisfied by the narrative, and I hope you enjoy it.

Love,

Viopathartic

P.S. I'm truly sorry for the triple-post. Technology is working against me.

Emma had never expected her life to turn out this way. She and her husband Dan were dentists. They grew up middle-class, married and raised one brilliant daughter in a middle-class neighborhood, and hoped she would follow the same path—but perhaps with more ambition. Their plans were going well up until their daughter turned eleven.

Until Hermione received her Hogwarts letter from an ash-colored owl that would not leave them alone.

It would be wrong for Emma to think that this wondrous moment had led to this scenario: visiting her comatose daughter in St. Mungo's Hospital. Yet, sometimes, in quiet moments where faith seemed impossibly unreliable or foolish, Emma found truth in that thought. But would Hermione have grown into this confident, brave woman, if not for the magical world? If not for the life-changing journeys or trials she'd endured with her two best friends, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley?

She heard the sound of a horse in the hallway, though Emma didn't care to investigate the source. She'd seen her share of magical maladies in the past three years: misguided transfiguration stunts, Bat Bogey-afflicted husbands, and oh, wasn't there someone who cast a Speed Spell on themselves and had to be caught by four highly trained Healers? If she were to recount this to any of her neighborhood friends, they would accuse her of having fanciful dreams. Or say, "Therapy does us all good, sweetheart."

Emma leaned forward, elbows on Hermione's bed now. She rubbed her face with her hands, torn by the memory of her last conversation with the Healer—and the options and decisions it awoke inside Emma for the past two weeks.

Usually she'd grab tea with Healer Wren in St. Mungo's dining hall to talk about things beside Hermione's condition; the two women were comfortable with each other by now. She remembered the hesitation in the Healer's voice as she brought up that it'd been three years since Hermione was attacked during an Auror field mission—one of the few she'd gone on without Harry or Ron's accompaniment. Wren also noted that Hermione's magical reserves were running low—and it was a miracle that she had lasted this long without assistance. The sound of her voice became garbled as she then suggested that the most humane thing to do at this point was to—

Emma had stood up, knocking over her mug, righted only by the Healer's quick-thinking and the flick of her wand. Immediately Wren looked apologetic, and tried to change topics, edging hope into her tone as she gave the run-down about Hermione's most recent check-up. And Emma nodded along, hands clasped on her lap so that the Healer wouldn't notice how terribly they were shaking.

Later at dinner, Dan had told her to forget the conversation; he was so angry by how it'd come up, even more infuriated that it wasn't a conversation they had with him present.

"Healer Wren knows I wouldn't have even entertained it. I would have walked away instantly."

"I know, honey, I know. Just sit down. Let's put it out of our minds," Emma had said. She rubbed his arm, trying to console him, because his grief was more palpable than his anger. In the past three years, he'd grown skinnier and lost the weight in his belly, a feat he'd always joked he'd "get to eventually." Many times, he'd visit Hermione at the hospital and take the same position as Emma was in now, only he'd be praying earnestly. He still believed that some divine entity would hear his prayers and heal their daughter.

Emma lost any religious faith long ago.

Now, she stroked her daughter's hair—mimicking the motion from when she soothed Hermione's childhood nightmares, when she cried after a rough encounter with bullies, when she'd gotten her first period and suffered through cramps, when she'd come home after the end of sixth year, weeping and telling her about the late Albus Dumbledore.

Emma whispered, "What would you want us to do, Hermione? I don't want to let you go. I don't want you to be all alone."

Her daughter, of course, would not answer. Her hair was neatly brushed but laid limp against the pillow. Her skin was shockingly pale.

Humane. That was what Wren had said. Emma understood, but humane for whom?

"If you could just wake up, darling . . ." The sob emanating from her throat surprised even her and she covered her mouth, trying to fight back the noise, but it wouldn't stop. It would not stop. It was too much right now, and she wished Dan had come along, but she'd woken up far too early and sneaked out, arriving here only after walking around their neighborhood, her mind cluttered with what-ifs and what-shoulds.

Emma didn't know how long she stayed like this. But a knock at the door came and brought her out of her grief. After a few seconds, someone stepped in.

"Emma, how's it going?"

She hurriedly wiped away her tears before inhaling and turning around.

"She's the same," she answered as Harry Potter, still dressed in his Auror robes, kissed her cheek in greeting. He went over to place a fresh bouquet on Hermione's bedside table. Then he sat down on his side, immediately grabbing Hermione's other hand, letting a thumb stroke the back of it. He lingered on the ring on her fourth finger—the one that was not given by him but by their best friend. Emma knew now how much he wished that weren't the case, even though it was all unsaid.

She had an inkling about this wonderful man's feelings for Hermione. It started the summer after the War had ended, when the Golden Trio were basking in the longest vacation they'd ever had. Nothing, truly nothing, was better than seeing her daughter smiling and happy and safe at home with her two best friends. Only, one of them was becoming much more, while the other one—this man in front of Emma now—pined for her.

He was stealthy about it, Emma would give him that. Not letting his eyes linger on her too often. Sitting far enough away.

But one evening, after they all spent hours in the pool and most retreated to their separate rooms for naps, Emma walked into the living room to find some film playing on the telly. Harry's head was on Hermione's lap, and while sunken into their couch, she was carding her hand through his hair. A quick assessor of any situation, Emma had worried about this, about Hermione and what she seemed to be doing, unknowingly. She braced herself for an argument when Ron walked in, afraid for his reaction at seeing his girlfriend and best friend spending time like this. But he didn't react, just snickered. Nor did Hermione move, shooting Ron a look of warning: Don't wake him up. It was Harry who'd awakened from his nap, who all but leapt from her daughter's lap, eyes quickly jumping between Hermione and Ron—then to Emma.

Despite his busy schedule as an Auror, Harry was here the most out of everyone, even she and Dan. (Not that she hadn't tried, but the Ministry was quite restrictive with inter-traveling.) The flowers were always filled by him, the Hogwarts: A History bookmarked in different places based on whenever Harry finished reading them to Hermione. He whispered updates about Crookshanks, Hermione's cat that he'd taken in, and talked about him as if he were an annoying roommate. "Doesn't clean after himself," Harry had joked once. The wizard came regardless of any injuries sustained during a field mission.

Like her daughter, Emma did her research whenever an issue emerged. She'd read all the books on coma conditions, consulted all the right people—even Muggle doctors, though they were puzzled when she said they wouldn't be able to examine Hermione physically. But comas—just like cancer, just like memory loss—could not be reversed by magic. They remain a mystery to everyone.

"Have you been here long?"

"A few hours." She cleared her tear-clogged throat, an action that caught Harry's attention. His brow furrowed as he regarded her. Sharp as he was, he chose not to comment about the tears, but didn't stop him from remarking:

"You look tired."

"That's old age for you."

"You're barely middle-aged, Emma."

She laughed a real laugh. "You'll only know what I'm talking about when you get to this point."

A faint smile appeared on his lips before disappearing. He fixed her with his emerald eyes. "Are you okay? Really?"

She shrugged. "Just . . . remembering. Just thinking about Hermione." She squeezed her daughter's arm. "Lately, I've been thinking about the past and everything that's led to this."

"I think about that, too. What if the assignment was given to someone other than Hermione? What if me or Ron had gone with her? Would we have stopped that curse she was hit with?" The Bosnian gang was dealt with quickly after Hermione's failed mission, the witches they were trafficking safely rescued. Her daughter—whose parents were mere dentists—was saving lives in her lifework. Emma only wished she could have foreseen the consequences.

"But then I realized that I can't keep thinking about the past," Harry continued.

"So what do you think about?"

"The future."

As he directed his gaze back to Hermione, Emma took him in. He looked five years older than he should. His scar, where that evil thing had been, was now faded, hidden beneath his unruly hair.

"You've been well, Harry?"

"As well as can be. Haven't been out in the field as much, thank Merlin."

"How is Ron?"

Harry frowned. "Same as always. He should be here more often. He should be visiting you," he said directly to her daughter.

In the beginning, the man who would become her son-in-law had visited she and Dan. But the meetings were often awkward, stilted. Ron was not used to the Muggle World. Emma wasn't going to pretend that they were close—because they were not—but Hermione had chosen to accept his proposal, so she knew she had to put in the effort. Ronald Weasley was not evil, and sometimes, Emma accepted the distance he placed between his comatose fiancee's family and himself. It was not easy to be reminded of what wasn't there—what, truly, was needed to make their familial relationship work.

Still, Ron should have made more efforts behind the six months of painfully quick, awkward check-ins with them. Instead, Harry had become their frequent visitor, a welcomed sight. He came by to help around the house, watch football with Dan, fill that empty chair at the dinner table left by their daughter. He didn't need to, but by God, it warmed Emma's heart to have another person who loved Hermione with them. Someone who believed that Hermione would return at any moment and wanted to provide all the comfort he could in those gaps in time.

Ron Weasley was not that person. He couldn't be.

"Me and Dan . . . we've accepted the way things are."

Harry shook his head. "He's hurt, I know that. I understand. To see someone you love like this, to feel helpless that you can't do anything for her . . . I know. But you have to push through. Push through the pain. I mean, imagine what Hermione's going through, locked inside this body." He laughed suddenly, and the emotion reached his eyes. "Merlin, Hermione must be going crazy trapped inside like this. Every time I read from Hogwarts: A History, I hear her saying I'm pronouncing someone's name wrong. Because she's probably right."

Emma caressed the embossed cover of her daughter's favorite book. Her first magical book. "I would give anything to hear her voice."

Mariam, the Healer who worked closest to Wren and oversaw much of Hermione's care, poked her head inside. They'd greeted each other this morning before Emma retreated into the room. "Mrs. Granger, is it alright if—"

"Go ahead," Harry said, his voice shockingly cold. Mariam jolted; she mustn't have noticed him in the room. Emma felt as if she were seeing Auror Harry, the one who went after the bad guys and made them regret every horrible deed they'd committed. He had a way of doing that, Hermione had told her once.

"R-right." Slipping into the room, Mariam hurriedly waved around her wand, checking Hermione's vitals, muttering spells that Emma still didn't understand. It took maybe two or three minutes and when the younger woman was done, she faced them. "Everything looks fine."

"Good." Emma gave the younger girl a smile. But it was less in gratitude than it was in pity. Harry still fixed her with a hard gaze.

Mariam fiddled with her wand in both hands. "Harry, about the other—"

"Yes?"

"If I could just have a moment to explain . . ."

"Now's not a good time. Me and Hermione's mother were chatting."

Hermione's mother. The word choice was deliberate, but why?

Mariam nodded jerkily. "Of course. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Emma knew Harry was a powerful wizard. She'd seen a sample of it, when a naive, misguided Healer at the very beginning had leaked info about Hermione's condition to the Daily Prophet. Hermione had once told her that Harry's eyes said everything. And didn't she once mention something about him "blowing up" his aunt? Anyway, the anger in those green eyes nearly took Emma's breath away, but it was his energy—his magic, Emma later learned—that blew out the windows of the corridor, and pushed that Healer flat on her back, gusted her right out of the doors of St. Mungo's.

From thereon, the number of Healers were limited and carefully tested before caring for Hermione.

Mariam must have done something wrong, then? Strange, since Harry and her seemed to get along the most. And she was a familiar comfort to her, Dan, Harry—and even Ron when they were all visiting Hermione on her recent birthday. It was still awkward, to say at the least, and Ron couldn't wait to dash out of the room before kissing Hermione good-bye.

"Did she do something wrong?" Emma pressed. "Mariam, I mean."

"No."

"Harry."

He clenched his jaw.

"Did something happen? Between you . . . and her?" The puzzlement in her voice was clear to her. If there was really something between he and the nurse, she'd not seen it. They'd always been friendly, but not too friendly. Like one might treat a first cousin . . .

"Not just her. Someone else. Someone close to me." He glanced down at Hermione. "And her."

There was no need to calculate much; Emma understood, now, Harry's reticence.

'She's a nice girl," Emma acknowledged with her non sequitur.

Harry scoffed. "I don't care about that. I just—it can't happen again. How could they—?" The younger man sucked in a breath. "Never mind. I don't want to think about it. Not here. Not now."

Oh Hermione. If only she could see who was resolutely faithful. If only she could see the people she loved now. Healer Wren's words came back now. Humane.

She entertained the thought of reaching out to Ron to help answer—if the wedding had happened, he would have been named as Hermione's proxy, after all. Emma was certain, considering his absence, that he would have likely voted to "pull the plug." Not to be malicious. Perhaps to say that they could finally get some sort of peace.

But framed like that, it was an easy solution. It was a selfish solution at its core, in fact. He might get that peace, but not Emma. She was a mother. She was Hermione Granger's mother.

"Harry, you've heard what the Healer has told us, right?" Emma tested out her next words. "About Hermione and . . . relieving her."

His head jerked up, then back down. He squeezed Hermione's hand again. "I heard. That was why you were crying just now."

"What do you think?"

He sat back in his chair. Emotions rippled across his face: shock, sadness, anger, and perhaps betrayal. If Emma decided on the affirmative, it would certainly be a betrayal. "About doing it?"

"Yes."

"It's not my place," Harry quickly answered, looking everywhere but her.

Emma reached for him, placing her hand halfway between them, just on top of Hermione's pillow. "Harry, you of all people should know that you have a place here. You have a say in this decision."

He ran a hand through his hair. Outside the hall, there was that horse again, which turned into a turkey's squabble. What on earth was going on out there? Still, amid the noise came his reply.

It was low, a mere murmur, yet Emma heard every word.

"If I had to get down on my knees and beg so that you wouldn't follow through, I would, Emma. If I had to give up all my magic, I would."

She leaned forward, caressing her daughter's cheek. "Thank you for your honesty," Emma answered finally. She'd made her decision the moment she came here, she knew this now, but it relieved her, to have his backing. Keeping Hermione alive was not inhumane. It was not selfishness.

It was hope.

Harry sighed, his hand back to grasping Hermione's hand. "I had a dream the other day. Hermione came back, Emma. She came back. She was alive, and well, and she was here."

Silence slipped past them, and Emma carefully counted down from ten, feeling tears well up behind her eyes. What a dream. A dream she wanted to believe in.

A dream she would believe in. For herself, for Harry . . . for Hermione.