Unplottable

12 - Ginny

Ginny knew it was mean and selfish to resent her mother coming to Hogwarts in view of her brother's 'accident', as everyone euphemistically called it. Of course, she would not let her feelings show, but would try her best to do her filial duty - she knew what was expected of her: She would be supportive and kind, keep in the background, would even accept unfair criticism of controversial points like her hair, just to make allowance for her mother's exceptional shock.

Of course, Ron had been hurt before at school; more than two years ago, he had broken his leg, for instance, as Ginny remembered. This, however, was different; Ron had been unconscious for a day and a half, and there was no telling what would happen next. It was certainly the kind of situation where a parent would be called to Hogwarts, especially such a trusted member of the wizarding community as Molly Weasley. However, if she could have her way, Ginny contemplated as she walked to the Apparation site with Professor McGonagall, she would have a chance to be upset on her own, without a weeping mother by her side. Life without Ron was simply inconceivable; the thought that the youngest of her brothers might actually die, or suffer a magically induced character defect, was so terrible that it knocked Ginny off her tracks. She simply did not have enough steam to cope with her mother right now, she thought as she stopped at the spot not far from the Hogwarts grounds, waiting for Molly Weasley to appear out of thin air.

Suddenly her mother was next to them, chubby and weeping, under her arm a Kelim carpet Ginny was sure she had seen before somewhere. Molly shook Professor McGonagall's hand and said it was so good of the teacher to meet her; after the slightest hesitation, she hugged Ginny and called her her 'poor darling.' Ginny awkwardly patted her mother on the shoulder, remembering the days at St. Mungo's, when she, barely recovering from pneumonia, had sat on Ron's and on Fred's bedside with Molly. For a while, it had looked as if at least Ron would be alright, but now he seemed worse than ever. Ginny forbade herself to even think of Fred and George for now and told her mother that everything would be fine. Then she helped Molly unroll the magic carpet. Professor McGonagall frowned at the illegal means of transportation, but probably decided it was the wrong moment to argue with a worry-ridden, not to mention anti-athletic mother and to force her to make her way to the castle on foot. So the three of them flew low over the ground, slightly uncomfortable due to the carpet's flapping and shaking, until they gently landed outside the front door.

Molly stormed up to the hospital wing, wordlessly rushed past the slightly miffed matron and sunk down on the edge of Ron's bed. She stroked the fiery hair of her youngest son and said in a choked voice: "Ron, oh my Ronnie, my baby. Please wake up, oh, please, wake up for your mummy."

Ron, as always taking Molly for the ultimate authority that was just a crucial step above his father, his teachers, and probably the Ministry of Magic itself, wearily opened one eye and whispered: "I didn't mean to do it, mum. Please don't send a howler."

Even Ginny did not manage to remain dry-eyed. She might criticise her mother to be an old-fashioned, even conservative old housewife, but she certainly had to acknowledge that nobody knew how to wandlessly work a miracle like her. Ron fell into a coma-like sleep again immediately after his brief utterance, but Madam Pomfrey, tearful herself, assured the sobbing Molly that this was a very good sign, a very good sign indeed. Pale and shaking, her cheeks covered with tears, Molly nodded and softly repeated Madam Pomfrey's words several times like a mechanical form of self-reassurance, a mantra of hope. Ginny, however, could not help turning Ron's own words over and over in her head. He had not meant to do it. She remembered a time when she had done things she had not meant to do, and the memory did nothing to calm her.

Madam Pomfrey sent a house-elf for Harry and Hermione, who came running into the hospital room only a few minutes later. Overjoyed at the news that Ron had spoken, they stormed Molly with questions, at the same time managing to shower her with words of comfort. Ginny did not really listen, but looked at her brother's immobile face, for some reason remembering how a very young Ron once upon a time had been the first to show her how to hold a wand, trying to get her assistance for breaking into Molly's pantry. Of course, she was glad he had talked, because this might mean he would wake up soon; however, she could not help wondering anxiously whether Ron would be Ron again once he got well.

"Professor Dumbledore believes that Ronald is better off here than at St. Mungo's," Madam Pomfrey informed Molly hoarsely. "We flew in two trustworthy mediwizards yesterday, who affirmed that they did not know which treatment was appropriate, and that he might as well stay here for now. It's better if there's as little talk as possible about this, because our legal position is a bit shaky, I am afraid. That's why we believe that he is safest at Hogwarts. We will do for him whatever we can, of course. Maybe all will be well - maybe he will just wake up and be himself again, although Professor Dumbledore said he did not believe we would get off so easily. The trouble is that we do not know what exactly is wrong with your son, or whether he will get well without help. Professor Dumbledore thinks it likely that the Ice Missile which hit Ronald this summer may have worked an unknown evil within him. As we do not know the nature of his affliction, Professor Varlerta suggested using a panacea. Now we are hoping for our expert who can actually produce such a substance. Professor Dumbledore says he knows someone who may be able to do this, though who that may be he did not tell me."

Molly had paled again during the matron's words. "A panacea? Then it seems there is indeed little hope," she said tonelessly. "No one has produced a panacea in centuries. Oh Ron, my baby, please wake up for me and be yourself again." She sank back on his bedside, took his lifeless hand in hers and pressed it to her forehead. This time, however, her plea remained unanswered; Ron's hand soon dripped with Molly's tears, but did not move.

"Hermione," whispered a very pale Harry, "what is a panacea?"

Nauseous with fear and sorrow, Ginny was still dying to hear herself what kind of substance might cure her brother, so she listened closely.

"A panacea is supposed to be something that cures all sicknesses," Hermione replied, her voice oddly inflectionless. "It was one of the main aims of medieval alchemy to produce such a substance, but it remains doubtful whether anybody ever succeeded - reports about panaceas are highly speculative and may well belong to the realm of myths." She rubbed her eyes rather forcefully.

"Is it something like - like a potion?" Harry asked quietly.

Hermione shook her head and replied in a hushed, but calmer voice: "Not quite. While the ingredients may be mixed and maybe even brewed like a potion in the beginning of the process, a panacea is supposed to be a metaphysical concoction. As you well know, potions are brewed without the use of a wand; the magic comes out of the ingredients and the witch's or wizard's brewing skill. A panacea, on the other hand, is believed to be one of the most advanced forms of medieval magic; its making involves spells and incantations and many procedures we know nothing about. If anybody could produce a panacea without great effort, we would all brew it by the gallon. Think about it - a substance that can cure all sicknesses from cancer to tooth ache, and not only for our kind, but also for Muggles. You could cure all of Africa of AIDS. You could close all hospitals and abolish the National Health Service - and all this with a single, metaphysical substance."

Harry mutely shook his head in a bewildered way. Ginny admitted she felt the same. As often, Hermione vaguely reminded her of a particularly abstruse comic book in which Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle mechanically talked like a dictionary after accidentally swallowing a computer hard drive. How could her friend look so heartbrokenly sad and at the same time emit a stream of coherent if slightly pointless information? At any rate, the tension in the room had thickened due to Hermione's pessimistic statement; Molly sobbed, Harry's eyes looked shiny in an odd way, and Madam Pomfrey was making an effort to avoid everybody's eyes. National Health Service, metaphysical substance, indeed. The only question Ginny found truly relevant at the moment was: No panacea, did that mean no Ron?

Realising that for once, her mother must feel exactly like she did, she put her hand on Molly's shoulder. Her mother turned to look into her face; Ginny could see the tears streaming off-course over the slight wrinkles covering her cheekbones. Then, rather unexpectedly, Molly hugged her abruptly and continued sobbing into her daughter's robes. Awkwardly, Ginny patted her mother's shoulders. "It will be alright," she whispered, in lack of anything better to say. "We are at Hogwarts, Mum, and we've got loads of scholars and Spellsearchers, and we've got Madam Pomfrey, and we can fly in all the mediwizards and alchemists in the country. I'm sure that they will work out something. I mean, what better place can there be to develop a panacea for Ron than here?"

"My darling, you are so brave," Molly sobbed. Then she wiped her eyes with her robes' sleeve and straightened her back. "I'll be brave, too, then," she said with sudden decision in her voice. "Of course your brother will get well, and so will your other brother, because they always do. I want to talk to someone." She turned to Madam Pomfrey. "May I speak with the Headmaster?"

"The Headmaster is resting, I'm afraid," the matron replied meekly without meeting Molly's gaze. "As far as the panacea is concerned, Professor Snape will be most willing to tell you all we know."

Ginny thought she saw Molly's eyes turn towards the ceiling, though maybe she had only imagined it. "Professor Snape, yes, of course," Molly replied with the slightest snap in her voice.

"Mr Potter, Miss Granger, can you fetch Professor Snape here?" Madam Pomfrey asked, probably welcoming the chance of getting a part of the crowd out of the hospital wing.

Ginny pictured them fetching the Potions master; she pictured the resulting mood of Snape and predicted his consequent behaviour to her mother. Quickly, she said: "We will all go." She made a motion towards Hermione and Harry, who were standing in the corner pretending they did not exist. Both immediately followed her out of the room and consented to leave the errand to Ginny as soon as she explained to them why she thought this a good idea.

Snape did not respond to the knock on his office's door, so Ginny concluded that he must still be in his classroom, cleaning up after his last class. She found the door to the Potions' room ajar; inside, someone was talking. Still trying to avoid all disturbances to the teacher's mood, Ginny waited politely outside, eavesdropping out of sheer habit rather than intentionally.

"Miss Weiss, it is unfathomable to me why you believe this affair to be of any concern to me." Snape's voice was brittle and moderately sarcastic, but not yet truly choleric, Ginny analysed. There still was hope that he might treat her mother relatively decently - provided that Miss Weiss, whoever she was, meekly and promptly backed off from whatever the 'affair' was.

"But you're the Head of my house! You are supposed to care for us!" Miss Weiss, obviously a younger student, and audibly upset, seemed to have no intention to be meek, or brief. "Please, Professor Snape - if you could just sort of - introduce us, you know? My father said that Slytherins always help each other. It's nothing but a tiny bit of help I ask, only twenty seconds of your time. You know that she is a Gryffindor, and they won't even talk to us most of the time. Everybody says she's one of your favourite students, so she'll certainly listen to you."

"Miss Weiss." Snape made one of his famous speech pauses, moments of silence which bristled with the imminent threat of things to come. Ginny could feel the short hair at the back of her neck stand on its end. This was not going well.

"Miss Weiss, even if I had the slightest, I repeat, the slightest interest in such utterly trivial things as Miss Weasley's band, as you call it, I would certainly not see it as part of my job to approach her on your behalf. If any students see it fitting to waste their valuable study time on such nonsense, it seems I cannot prevent it, but I do not see why I should further it. As for favourite students, I assure you I have none; neither, indeed, do I feel any inclination to be the message boy for my students, be they Slytherins or common oafs," Snape said jaggedly.

"But you're the Head of my house!" Miss Weiss retorted, tears in her voice. For all her apparent madness, Ginny could not help but admire the younger student's courage.

"As the Head of my house, I strongly advise to take some beginner's classes in appropriate behaviour towards your teachers and elders, Miss Weiss! Get yourself out of here, or I will take points from your house. And before you approach Miss Weasley, you might as well remember that she may be pre-occupied by the fact that her brother is currently lying in a coma."

If Snape wasn't such a bastard, Ginny thought, she might almost have felt touched by the last remark. As it was, while she listened to Miss Weiss' squeal, she contemplated the question whether Snape had indeed ever taken any points whatsoever from his own house. Then the younger girl stormed out of the Potions classroom; seeing Ginny at the door, she stared at her for a moment, squealed again, and then ran off in the direction of the Slytherin dungeon. Ginny shook her head. She recognised the smallish, silver-blonde girl as Kay or Kate or something, a third-year Slytherin. After wondering very briefly what the younger student might want of her and her band, Ginny silently counted to ten, straightened her shoulders, inhaled deeply and entered the classroom. Snape's mood would be spoiled for good, but she had come to fetch him, and fetch him she would. Snape was performing a complex-looking spell over the waste potion basin, probably magically annihilating a day's mess. Although Ginny was sure the teacher had seen her come in, the Potions master finished his incantation before he turned to her, putting on a scowl the moment he turned his head.

"And now, what may you be wanting of me?" he spat.

"Professor, my mother wants to talk to you about panaceas," Ginny said plainly.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Why is it always you they send to bring me bad news?" he asked, sounding absurdly serious. He deftly slammed shut the waste potion basin, accurately kicked a table back in line with his heel and followed Ginny to the hospital wing.

Molly was still sitting at Ron's bedside, holding his hand, when Ginny and the teacher entered. Hearing them come in, she rose, awkwardly straightened her wrinkled robes and asked hoarsely:

"Professor, what can you tell me about panaceas? Is there hope for my son, with or without them?"

Snape looked her straight in the eyes, his face expressionless. After a pause, he said: "I am afraid I can tell you very little indeed about panaceas, Mrs Weasley. On behalf of the school, I am expressing my sincerest regrets for your son's misfortune."

Molly's eyes widened. "You mean there is nothing you can do?"

"Before we can do anything, Mrs Weasley, we will have to know precisely against what we are fighting." Snape assumed his lecture tone; he seemed to be focussing on a spot a few inches above Molly's head. "It would help if Ronald woke up, but it would not mean the end of our problem. Unless we find out what is at work within your son that caused him to aim a death curse at another student, it seems we must indeed hope for something like a panacea to guarantee the intactness of his character."

Ginny could have kicked the teacher for putting things so blandly, for making no allowance for Molly's grief, but to her surprise, her mother did not start crying again. Instead, she fixed her eyes on Snape's face.

"And what hope is there that we can get a panacea for him?" she insisted.

"We have an expert, who has just reassured us that he is still, er - available, and will be here tomorrow." Snape replied evasively. "His name needs to be of no concern for you. Just rest assured that he is properly trained in the genuine arts of alchemy."

Molly paled. "You mean he will try to tap the source?"

Now it was Snape's turn to pale. "What would you know about the source?" he snapped.

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Molly sent her daughter off for the rest of her classes. Ginny could not concentrate; again and again, her mind strayed off to her unconscious brother, to her sickness-stricken twin brothers, and to the fears and sorrows of her mother. In Transfiguration, she managed to mangle and kill her snail instead of turning it into a gardenia; Professor McGonagall quietly gave her a bottle of magical mess remover and did not reproach her for her failure. In History of Magic, concentration was out of the question; Ginny just tried to call no attention to herself, which was rather easy, as Professor Binns was not one to notice much about his students.

After classes, Ginny hurried to Ravenclaw Hall to tell Joolz there would not be any band practice that night; Rhonda and Neville knew already, and had known before she had told them, but with people from other houses you could never be so sure. In the corridor she met Cho, so she asked her to send Joolz out to her, as she was not allowed in the common room unless formally invited in. Then she leant against the wall, waiting for him.

Soon Joolz came out to her through the magic portal of Ravenclaw which Ginny would not have known how to open even if she had wanted to. He leant against the wall next to her; between his fingers, he twisted his front left dreadlock, as was his habit. "How's your brother?" he asked, kindness in his voice.

"Don't know," Ginny murmured, bent on not embarrassing herself in front of the older student. "He woke up very shortly when my mum came, but ..." she broke off, trying hard not to cry.

"That's good then, isn't it?" Joolz looked concerned. Not for the first time, Ginny noticed the amazing blue of his eyes and the seven freckles spread on the root of his nose only. She felt the absurd wish to sink against his shoulders and let the tears flow.

"There is - there is no band practice tonight, I'm afraid," she stammered instead.

"Well, of course there isn't," Joolz replied. Then suddenly he reached out, took hold of her shoulder, pulled her towards him and hugged her with one arm. His other hand touched the tips of Ginny's short-cropped hair very gently and briefly. Ginny's nose pressed against his robed shoulder; she smelt the smoke of what was probably the Ravenclaw common room's open fireplace and a whiff of something that reminded her of incense. For some odd reason, her heartbeat increased; she felt cheered and terribly sad at the same time.

"It will be alright," Joolz murmured. "They'll find a way to make him better, I am sure they will. Just go up to your mother and see whether there's any change, alright?"

Reluctantly Ginny removed her nose from Joolz' shoulder and straightened up to look him in the face. "Alright," she said, "I'll go see how they are doing."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

During the afternoon, Ron had stirred again, but did not seem to be waking up, Molly informed Ginny. In the meantime, the mother of all the Weasleys was trying to put on not only a brave, but optimistic face. Ginny found her attempts at cheerful pretence slightly aggravating, but knew that it might be the best way of dealing with two very sick sons at the same time:

In the evening, Fred and George arrived at Hogwarts to see their mother and to visit Ron's sickbed. Fred was leaning heavily on his twin; it seemed he was even thinner than the last time Ginny had seen him. George looked strained. Molly greeted both as if nothing was the matter and asked whether they were eating proper meals.

"Mum, what about the clock?" George asked, ignoring her question.

It took Ginny a moment to get his meaning; just as she realised which clock he must be referring to, her mother almost whispered: "Stuck on mortal peril since last night, stuck there all the time."

Ginny could see the clock almost as in a vision: Four hands, Molly's, Fred's, George's and hers, pointing at 'school', four more, her father's, Bill's, Charlie's and Percy's, probably pointing at 'work', and her brother's, the second shortest, sticking right up into the fatal midnight position. She squeezed her eyes shut to force back the moisture. Was her brother going to die? What would become of him, and how could she reach him?

Then she experienced a strange sensation, as if a stitch of her mind had caught on a tiny hook which threatened to cause a ladder in it. Turning her attention to the imagined hook, she suddenly thought of Neville Coaxing her to stand on one leg, Coaxing her to clap a bossa nova clave, Coaxing her to do so many little things, successful as long as she did not find them objectionable. They had been practicing Coaxing on each other, an easy task as they had learned to trust each other. Now that she made the first, smallest progress in Coaxing humans, was it worth a try? Provided that Ron wanted to wake up, could she induce him to do so?

She slid towards the door, indicating to George that she would be back in five minutes by raising a hand and stretching out all its fingers, then ran up to Gryffindor Tower. Simply ignoring all her friends and classmates in the common room, she sped up the stairs to her dormitory, grabbed her beloved Shaman drum and turned around again to head back. While taking two or three stairs in one step on her way down, she could feel the magical instrument vibrate in her fingers. It was excited to do some magic, she told herself; it even felt as if it knew this was a real task, not just practice.

Neville waited for her at the portrait hole, half blocking it. He was holding his wand and his flute case in his left; with his right he grabbed hold of her sleeve. Unwilling to delay even for a second, she still halted when he asked her to wait for him.

"This is urgent," she explained and pushed the portrait outwards.

"Why? This is about Ron, isn't it? And it's not like he's going anywhere."

Ginny shrugged, trying to sound casual, though her breath came in gasps. "None of your business. I'm just..."

"Taking your drum for a walk," Neville completed her sentence. "Well, can I come, too?"

Ginny wasn't sure she really wanted him around; she felt as if this was a thing between Ron and her. On the other hand, she knew that Neville and she worked well together. After a short hesitation, she replied: "Alright then, but let's be careful."

Together they walked over to the hospital wing, their step relaxed, because, as Neville had said, Ron would not go anywhere in the meantime. Also, Ginny knew from experience, it was never a good idea to run together with Neville if you were in a hurry; he'd trip over his shoelaces and fall, or lose half his belongings on the way, or find some other way to slow everybody down with his clumsiness. As it was, they made their way back to Ron's sickbed in a tolerably short period of time. George raised his eyebrows when he saw them; even Fred turned his head. Molly, however, looked like she would throw a fit.

"Virginia Weasley, what in the world you think you are doing with that drum at your brother's sickbed?"

"I'll try to Coax him into waking up," Ginny replied in a small voice, cringing inwardly because she had no idea whether she had any chance to succeed.

"With a drum?" Molly asked shrilly. Madam Pomfrey walked to her side and fixed Ginny with a reproachful stare.

"It's a magical drum, mum," Ginny said softly. Then she added a little cheekily: "It's not like he needs his sleep, is it?"

"Can this do harm, Madam Pomfrey?" Molly turned to the matron, her face expressing doubt.

"You want to Coax him, Virginia? With music, you mean?" Madam Pomfrey asked in her strictest voice. Ginny was sure the matron would turn them out of the room.

"That was the plan," she replied, her eyes downcast.

"Well, you might as well try," Madam Pomfrey said in a slightly sarcastic tone, but made an inviting gesture towards Ron's bed. Molly moved out of the way; George raised his eyebrows at her in an expectant way, and on Fred's face Ginny saw the ghost of a smile.

"Please - I have no idea whether this will work," Ginny told them, suddenly scared of the task she was attempting. "Don't get your hopes up, Mum."

Molly smiled at Ginny rather warmly; a few lines of strain disappeared from her face. Ginny thought that her mother had not smiled at her like this in a long, long time. "It is enough that you try," Molly said rather tenderly, then sat down on a chair next to Fred and George.

"Let's try to tell him that it would be really cool to wake up, that everybody's here, and that we would all be so happy to talk to him," Ginny whispered to Neville. "I'll start." Neville nodded and assembled the pieces of his flute, waiting for Ginny to take action.

Ginny said on the edge of Ron's bed and placed his right limp hand on her knee. Her left hand held the drum on her lap; the fingers of her right touched the skin of her drum, but did not make a sound. She half-closed her eyes and concentrated on Ron's breathing. In, and out, a break - in, and out, a break - without really meaning to, she slowed her own inhaling to coordinate it with his. Gently, her fingers started to move in circles on the skin of her drum with the rhythm of their breathing, making the faintest sound. Then she closed her eyes, closed off all senses but her hearing, and focused her perception on her brother lying beside her. Inside her head, a picture of his mind developed, something she could not have described, but which she perceived to be quite different from the other mind she had Coaxed so far, namely Neville's, something which in an unexplainable way was simply Ron. Inwardly she called out to him very tentatively. As if the concentric circles of waves made by two stones thrown into still water met and merged, she felt she had at last made some contact with him: In some way, however faint and obscure, Ron knew she was there. Softly, Ginny struck the drum with her fingertips. Ron, it's me, she tried to tell him through the sound.

Feeling the rhythm before she actually heard it, she started to play. Each beat resonated through her body and mind and found an echo in that other presence, which was Ron. I am hearing his heartbeat, she realised; I am playing his heartbeat. Her perception of his mind became clearer; she felt greeted by him. Ron, I've come to tell you to wake up, she tried to mediate through the sound of her drum. Ron, Mum is here, and the twins, and they would be so happy to talk to you. Oh please, Ron, come back with me and wake up, wake up now.

She felt as if he was turning away from her, and increased the volume of her playing by a little bit. In its echo, Ron's heartbeat, she heard something like a limp, something that disturbed the rhythm, something which Ron, it seemed, was trying to hide from her. She felt this interference vibrate on the skin of the Shaman drum; it gave her a sense of cogwheels turning, cogwheels working around one single grain of sand which was breaking their rhythm. It's only a grain of sand, Ron - please come with me and wake up, she pleaded with her steady heartbeat groove.

After a while, it seemed that Ron was answering her; she felt rather than heard his reply that he could not come with her, that he had to take care of that disturbance first. Ginny was confused. Was this the right or the wrong decision? When would he wake up if he did not come with her now? Once more she pleaded with him, but it seemed he did not hear her anymore; his heartbeat and her rhythm drifted apart. Ginny felt emptiness overwhelm her, felt the bitterness of failure. She let her rhythm slacken.

Suddenly, a warm, high-pitched note filled the air and then another. Neville, she realised, was weaving his tones into her playing. Out of habit rather than out of a conscious decision, she picked up her pace again to join him. Her inner ears searched for her brother and found him turning back towards them. Neville's tune sounded like a welcoming smile. Ron, she felt, was full of doubt whether to join their music; there was something worrying him. Ginny played a few short, questioning phrases, trying to find out whether Ron's hesitation was justified. Ron, however, appeared to be following Neville's tune, a tune that seemed to sing of Hogwarts, of autumn storms and falling leaves, of lively Quidditch matches, of the warm fireside and the merry chatter of the Gryffindor common room. Ginny joined in, imitating people laughing and talking, rattling her fingers on the drum to make them sound like snap cards ready to explode. Neville focused his tune, and evoked a clear picture before Ginny's eyes - Harry, his face distorted by worry, and Hermione, who, clearly it could be heard in the tune, was weeping.

After a moment, Ginny felt a sharp pain on her knee which broke her concentration. Her hand missed the next beat and slipped on the drum. Abruptly torn out of her trance-like state, she opened her eyes without meaning to. On her knee, she saw Ron's hand, half-forgotten but now painfully clawing into her leg. She looked up into his face and saw that his eyes were open. "An awful lot of noise you are making," he said hoarsely.

Ginny let her right hand sink down on Ron's blanket, too exhausted to understand fully what she was seeing. Next to her, she heard Neville's tune quiver, then die. She turned to him and found him very pale, but smiling. Looking back at Ron, she half-whispered: "I am sorry we disturbed you, but we wanted you to wake up."

"I've got a terrible headache," Ron complained. He closed his eyes for a moment and groaned. "Oh, and I must have had one helluva nightmare. I dreamed I tried to kill Harry. Isn't that some load of rubbish?" Then his eyes wandered across the room; when he spotted Molly, Fred and George, he started. "Hey, what is everybody doing here?"

Ginny looked behind her and saw not only her family members, Madam Pomfrey and Neville, but also a moist-eyed Varlerta. Behind the open door, she also saw a shadow that suspiciously looked like Snape, but which disappeared before she could verify her guess.

Molly moved back towards Ron's bed and took his hand in hers, for once refraining to chide her son for his bad language. "You've been ill," she said. "I hope you are well again now."