Unplottable

13 - Hermione

The moment she saw the alchemist, her standards of age were drastically altered. She had always believed that at twenty, people became adults, at thirty or forty, most people became boring and once they had passed sixty, seventy if they were lucky, they were in for the downwards spiral that inevitably pulled them into the abyss of death. Of course, there were exceptions, Dumbledore being the most prominent among them. True, she wasn't quite sure exactly how old the Headmaster was, but at least until he was injured he had always impressed her by being old but not being bothered by it. 'Old', however, became relative when she saw the alchemist. He was tiny, emaciated and incredibly wrinkled; around his eyes, clusters of fragile folds formed circular walls in which the pupil itself shone like distant water on the bottom of a very deep well. From his furrowed scalp dangled only a few thin, but long strands of whitish hair; his shaggy beard looked as if it was a home to moths and spiders. Above the beard, the nose looked like an arthritic finger joint, while his hands themselves seemed like the claws of a mummy. Hermione observed his bent back and his shaky, somehow robot-like walk as he shuffled towards Ron's sickbed. This wizard was old, she told herself.

She had been sitting by Ron's bedside, trying hard to be patient with her red-headed friend's ceaseless self-reproaches. "It is not your fault," she had told him about a thousand times; so had Harry, who was presently at Quidditch practice. At first Ron had believed his memory of the event to be a nightmare, but when Professor McGonagall had informed him very gently that he had indeed uttered a death curse against his best friend, it had all come back to him. Ron was devastated, and nothing his friends could say seemed to be able to change that: No evil weapon in the world, he claimed, should make anyone turn against his best friends and try to kill them.

Ron had been mostly awake since he had been miraculously Coaxed into consciousness by Ginny and Neville, but he seemed weak and ill, not so much in the physical but in the spiritual sense. Hermione had the impression he could not look her in the eye; the way he blamed himself seemed to go far beyond what she would have found reasonable. For the last ten minutes, he had been dozing. Hermione knew she should have left him, but was for some reason unwilling to do so, especially as she had brought an Arithmancy book to keep her company in such cases. She tried to ignore the growing anxiety inside her - namely that he reminded her of Fred, of the way Ron's brother seemed to have withered to a shadow within days of being hit. Hermione tried to reason with herself: Why would Ron become like Fred if Fred had never uttered a death curse? But then again, why had the Ice Missiles affected people so differently in the first place? Her mind was reeling; the fear for her friend mingled with a certain fascination that went even beyond that of the complex and intriguing Arithmancy problems posed in the book. Solving the Ice Missiles' mystery, finding a cure and healing those that were hurt - Hermione felt she could desire nothing more than this.

The thought of a real alchemist coming to Hogwarts had fascinated her before she had seen him in person; it was understood that he must be a distinguished scholar, a wizard of rare abilities. When he entered the room, wearing a costly brown brushed-velvet robe, flanked by Professor McGonagall and by Snape, she saw in him the means to get what she desired: Surely nobody could aid her better in finding out the secrets of the Ice Missiles and in curing Ron than this ancient magician.

"Is this the lad who has been so evilly afflicted?" the alchemist asked Snape in a voice that was as brittle as aged parchment. Hermione thought that the question did not betray a surplus of intelligence, as besides Ron, there was no other boy in the hospital wing; however, she immediately dismissed such heretical ideas.

"Indeed, this is Ronald Weasley, the boy who has tried to curse his best friend to death, Loremaster Flamel," Snape replied quite deferentially.

"Flamel?" Hermione repeated and jumped up from the bedside, completely taken aback. Could she have misheard Snape's words? "Nicholas Flamel? Aren't you supposed to be dead?" Then she clapped her hands over her mouth, realising it might not be the polite thing to say to someone you had just met.

"Oh, never worry about such trifles, my fair chick, never worry," Flamel said, making a soothing movement with his withered hand. "I have indeed been thus addressed for more than six hundred years now." He lowered himself into the armchair Professor McGonagall had placed by the side of Ron's bed for him; even though he was wearing a robe, Hermione could perceive his knees shaking. With a hoarse groan, the ancient alchemist leant back, then very carefully took one of Ron's pale and slightly limp hands in his. "Thanks to Keranta, thou only sleepest, my dear lad," he said to him quite kindly.

Probably awoken by Flamel's touch and voice, Ron stirred and blinked. "Whassup?" he asked rather weakly.

"Oh, thou hast woken, dear lad. I have come to this fortress of learning to attempt to cure thee of the evil that afflicts thee," Flamel replied delightedly and patted Ron's hand.

Ron only stared at the alchemist and quickly tore his hand out the fingers that were holding it; then he gave Hermione a questioning, almost fearful look. "He's mental, is he?" he mouthed to her. For a tiny moment he looked like the Ron Hermione knew, the Ron who would never utter curses against his friends or spend his time brooding and condemning himself.

"Ronald Weasley, this is Loremaster Nicholas Flamel," Professor McGonagall informed him rather stiffly.

Ron's eyes widened. "Nicholas Flamel? Aren't you supposed to be dead?" he asked to Professor McGonagall's visible dismay.

Ignoring Ron's question, Flamel took Ron's wrist to feel his pulse, just as if it was a thing, not a part of a human with his own will. Ron's eyes locked with Hermione's. She perceived his bewilderment, his fear even - he had done something terrible which he did not comprehend, and now inexplicable things were happening to him.

Madam Pomfrey came in, greeted Flamel with reverence and gave him a role of parchment, containing, as she told the alchemist, all the diseases and injuries Ron had ever had at Hogwarts, as well as her observations regarding his current affliction. The ancient wizard accepted the document with a gracious nod and instantly immersed himself in its content.

Professor McGonagall turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger, I believe it's time you returned to your studies," she said a bit tersely.

Hermione knew she wasn't really supposed to ask if she could stay, but as the alternative option would have been just to get up and leave, she did so nevertheless: "Professor, I think there would be so much to learn for me here, and maybe it would be good if Ron had a friend around, too. Could you possibly consider permitting me to stay?" She avoided looking at Ron for a moment, knowing he would hate to be patronised, even now.

Professor McGonagall frowned at Hermione; the very moment Snape's lips parted for an undoubtedly harsh rebuff, Flamel's head rose from the document. "What desirest thou to learn, my chick?" he asked Hermione.

She could not very well say that she wanted to learn as much as she could about alchemy, one of the most secret and well-guarded disciplines of magic. Instead, she answered Flamel: "I am thinking of becoming a mediwitch, and this seems to be a unique case. As you come from the past, you may know of methods and spells which have been forgotten in our time."

The alchemist seemed to appraise her with his eyes for a moment; then he nodded: "You may stay, then."

Hermione could see that Professor McGonagall and Snape were not delighted at his pronouncement; meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey was beaming at Hermione, probably already seeing her as her apprentice. Admittedly, becoming a mediwitch was only one of many, many career options Hermione had so far considered; for some reason, as she looked at the withered old sorcerer, the idea of becoming an alchemist suddenly gained appeal for her.

When Flamel took a tiny golden instrument out of his pocket, which seemed to be a cross-breeding between a compass and Mrs. Weasley's clock, Hermione's curiosity increased. The device was round, a little bigger than most watches, and contained about a dozen silver hands which were adorned with symbols of planets and a few signs she had never seen before.

The alchemist pulled away Ron's blanket, deftly opened the buttons of his pyjama top in spite of his patient's weak protestations, then pressed the golden instrument just where Ron's heart had to be. Even though she chastely glanced aside, Hermione noticed that the uneven hand of nature had sprinkled a bit of coppery hair on the skin of her friend's naked chest. Ron bit his bottom lip, whether out of embarrassment or whether the contact with the instrument was for some strange reason painful, she did not know. Flamel observed how some of the little hands slowly moved in a circle, while others stood still or trembled visibly. He scratched his ugly beard and tugged at one of his few remaining strands of hair. Then he drew a needle from his robes' pockets, pricked Ron into his arm and nodded when his patient made a face.

"Indeed, methinks this task is deemed fit for an alchemist," he said to Madam Pomfrey and the two teachers, neglecting Hermione and Ron. "Clearly my dowser can measure a torrent of -" he broke off and raised his eyebrows. Madam Pomfrey seemed to hold her breath for a moment, Snape scowled, and Professor McGonagall nodded solemnly. Obviously Loremaster Flamel had transmitted his information regarding what exactly he had measured to the adults only, while leaving the students in the dark about it. Hermione noticed that Ron did not even frown at being kept ignorant about his own condition; rather he looked like Flamel's words did not really concern him. His lack of response worried her. If it had been her, she would have wanted to know what was streaming through her body that could be measured with an instrument called a dowser, especially if this torrent was suspected to have induced her to curse Harry. Again, the ghost of Fred's apathy rose before her eyes; she shuddered.

"Would thou mayhap have an Unspeakable here on the premises?" Flamel asked offhandedly.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head; Professor McGonagall and Snape however exchanged glances. Finally Snape shrugged.

"As a matter of fact, we do," Professor McGonagall replied. "Do you want me to call him here?"

"Pray do so, my good lady," Flamel replied.

"It is high time for Miss Granger to leave, then," Snape said morosely to Professor McGonagall as if Hermione wasn't present. Ron's eyes darted towards the teachers, then back to Hermione; suddenly she could see something very like panic in his eyes. Without thinking, she took his hand and felt him clasp it for a moment. In a way, his fear calmed her, because it was better than a Ron who did not care what happened to him; on the other hand, she could perfectly well understand why he was worried.

"Please, Professor McGonagall, could you tell us what's going on? It's - it's not very reassuring for Ron not to know what's wrong with him, and how you are attempting to cure him," she said awkwardly. The shaking in her voice surprised her.

"Miss Granger, I understand your concern, but I assure you and Mr. Weasley that there is nothing to worry about," Professor McGonagall said in a strained and slightly false voice. "I apologise for causing you so much anxiety in these troubled days. Be assured that we are doing what we can to lift Mr. Weasley's con- condition, and that we are not, that we are certainly not attempting anything - dangerous." The teacher's voice nearly failed her; she coughed.

Hermione's worries were anything but lifted: Professor McGonagall had never been one to stumble over her words or to stutter. She rose to her feet to make one more attempt at resisting, though she felt it was futile. "If it's nothing dangerous, can't I maybe just stay with Ron for moral support?" she asked in her politest voice.

"Miss Granger, you will return to your studies now." Professor McGonagall's lips had thinned; the tenseness in her shoulders said more than a thousand words. For a moment, Hermione felt something rise inside of her which struggled with years of obedience. She looked the teacher in the eyes.

"I trust your words that Ron is not in any kind of danger." It was all she dared to say in front of Ron, who would face alone whatever treatment or examination the teacher did not want her to observe. She sat back on the edge of his bed and half-hugged him. "It will be fine. I'll see you tomorrow," she said gently, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

Ron blushed and awkwardly pulled his pyjama top shut. "Sure. I mean, you are not worried, are you?" he said, obviously embarrassed by his own misgivings at being subjected to whatever Flamel had in mind.

Hermione shook her head, gave him a parting smile, then rose to leave. In an alcove of the hospital room, Madam Pomfrey and Nicholas Flamel were busying themselves with some unknown devices, their backs towards the room so their actions could not be observed. Whatever he was doing with his hands, the alchemist was at the same time croaking in his broken, shaky voice: "Il duol infrange, queste ritorte, de' miei martiri sol per pieta, si!"

Hermione did not find his singing very reassuring. Before she walked through the door, she turned around for a last look at the Head of her house. Professor McGonagall flinched. With a sudden shock, Hermione realised that between the lines of the words she had actually spoken, she had warned the teacher to assure Ron's safety, had almost threatened her - and that Professor McGonagall took her warning seriously.

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A glance from a window in the Gryffindor common room told Hermione that although dusk had already fallen, Quidditch practice had not finished yet; on the magically lit pitch, seven players dressed in scarlet were still whirling about. Trying to ignore the dread filling her stomach when she saw the reserve Keeper in front of the hoops, she forced herself back to her Arithmancy book and took some notes. When she walked up to the window for the fourth time, she was rewarded: The pitch had finally emptied. The logical thing to do would be to wait until Harry had changed and returned to the common room. However, her need to talk to someone was bigger than her patience, so she walked down to the entrance hall to wait for him there, as she was not permitted to walk out to the pitch by herself for security reasons.

The hall was dimly lit, the staircase in gloomy darkness. Hermione crouched down on the bottom stair and hugged her knees to stop herself from shivering. Moments passed like eons; although she kept reminding herself that it would take the Quidditch team a while to shower and change, her dread increased. Finally she heard voices -coming not from the castle's door, but from the staircase behind her.

"A potion to block the torrent? That would be marvellous indeed." Hermione recognised the voice, although she could not immediately place it. Her heart missed a beat; the man had to be talking about Ron.

"I can certainly attempt it." Immediately, she recognised this tone of pompous modesty as Snape's. "All I have to do is turn chaos into matter, and then combine this substance with a few well-chosen regulating concoctions."

The other voice snorted. "All you have to do, indeed. Don't pretend you are giving away information here, Severus - I am perfectly aware that you are not. They were not exaggerating when they warned me you were secretive and never more cooperative than you absolutely have to be." Ambrose Curtis, Hermione realised - the other voice belonged to her fellow League member, to the wizard who had recently started teaching her Defence Against the Dark Arts class combat magic.

"I should be, and so should you, given your profession," Snape said dryly and slightly condescendingly. Then, without a change of tone, he added: "By the way, Miss Granger, I remember clearly that you were sent back to your studies, not to sit here on the staircase. Will you please explain what you are doing here?"

Hermione got up so quickly that she almost tripped over her own feet. Before she could steady herself enough to reply, Ambrose Curtis said nonchalantly: "When did Hogwarts establish a rule against sitting on the stairs before bedtime, Severus?"

Snape hesitated very slightly. "You heard Professor McGonagall's words, Miss Granger," he snarled, neglecting to answer Curtis' question or indeed to address him. "Return to your common room now."

Knowing that Snape was not in the right, that she had not really broken any rule and that up until bedtime, she could hang around in the entrance hall all she liked, gave a vague satisfaction to Hermione, especially as Curtis seemed to know this, too. The dark-skinned wizard sat down on the stairs himself, blocking the way up with his long legs. Though his face lay in darkness, Hermione could see him fold his arms across his chest and turn his face up at Snape. "So what is it you wanted to tell me, Severus?" he asked.

Snape's frustration was palpable; obviously he had walked Curtis down to the entrance hall for some téte-á-téte conversation, and was now challenged to enforce a rule that did not exist just to get Hermione out of the way. Although she knew the Potions Master would probably make her pay for his defeat during her next Potions class, Hermione had to admire the way Curtis handled Snape, especially when the teacher replied with venom in his voice: "I believe I am needed upstairs," then turned on his heels and swept up the stairs

Ambrose Curtis slapped his hand on the stair he was sitting on, then moved aside to make room for Hermione. She sat and waited for him to speak.

"You are worried about your friend," Curtis said in a low voice, making allowance for the fact that it was easy to overhear conversations in the entrance hall.

"What do you know about this - matter?" Hermione asked, not only in an attempt to elicit information, but also because she wanted to know why Curtis knew anything about it at all. Certainly they would not have to combat with Ron's condition?

"Oh, they called me here because they felt they needed my opinion on something," Curtis replied softly, waving his hand vertically as if to downplay his own importance.

A realisation struck Hermione. "You are the Unspeakable, then," she whispered, awed.

Ambrose Curtis chuckled. "Seems you have ways and means of finding things out," he said, which Hermione took as an affirmation.

"So what do you do?" she asked, knowing at the same time that it was a stupid question to utter.

Again, Curtis emitted a low laugh. "Oh, I put my feet up, sip Pina Colada and pretend that I am really important. - At least that's what many people think."

Sure, he couldn't talk about his job; not even Mr. Weasley knew what Unspeakables did. Could he talk about the things that had just passed in the hospital wing? Common sense told Hermione that an Unspeakable wouldn't go about blabbing out major secrets even to a fellow League member; however, her worries about Ron were stronger than her common sense. "What's going on here, then?" she asked him. "What are they doing up there with Ron? What's wrong with him?"

Curtis sighed. "There's a few things I can't reveal to you, I am afraid. However, as I see you are very worried about your friend, I suppose it would not hurt to tell you that...." He stopped short when the front door opened. Wet and tired, bundles of muddy scarlet robes under their arms, the Gryffindor Quidditch team entered, Harry among them. They all greeted Ambrose Curtis and Hermione, eyeing them a bit suspiciously because they had been sitting on the twilit stairs together. A look at Rhonda Celp's face told Hermione that the whole school would be buzzing with filthy rumours by tomorrow if she did not manage to immediately convince her house mates they had been talking about school things. Curtis apparently had come to the same conclusion; he nodded to the team, then, as if he was concluding a sentence, said to Hermione:

"So you see, the danger of being hit with an Eliminatus practically approaches zero. To perform that kind of curse on a human, you need not only an immense magical strength, but also an exceptional focus. Now, if, as you said, several attackers combine their strength to perform an Eliminatus curse, the focus becomes the problem: They would need someone who'd be able to channel that kind of energy, to bundle it like a prism bundles light. And, as I said earlier, no human would survive channelling such an enormous amount of magical strength. That's why I believe using the Eliminatus as a combat weapon against humans is virtually impossible."

Hermione caught on quickly: He was paraphrasing a prolonged conversation on a scientific topic which they were supposed to have had while sitting next to each other on a darkened staircase. Probably Curtis was not only protecting her reputation, but also his - as an Unspeakable, who had been on the verge of revealing information to her, but also as a man, almost a teacher, who might be suspected of getting into a forbidden romantic situation with a student. Recognising this course of action as, well, prudent, she nodded in all the right places and had a suitable question formulated as soon as he stopped talking:

"Yes, that's all very reassuring, but say you use an Eliminatus not on a human, but on a thing or a living being, say, a plant or a small animal. What happens then? Will it....?" She left it to Curtis to finish her sentence, as she did not really have an idea what he was talking about.

"Yes, it will disappear, but where to, and whether it just dissolves into thin air, we don't know. There have been experiments which -"

"As much as I hate to disrupt your scientific discussion, which no doubt is very interesting to you," Rhonda interrupted rather impatiently, "but will you brainy folks please let us pass so we can go up the staircase? We are only a simple Quidditch team, very wet and very tired."

"Come to think of it, why are you having it on the stairs?" said one of the younger boys who were trying to replace the notorious Weasley twins on the Beater positions. Hermione realised with a slight shock that she did not even know his name.

Again, it was Curtis who saved the situation. "Er, I'm not quite sure - we met by chance, and then Miss Granger said she had a question about magical defence, and then, er, I suppose we just sat down, because it took some time to answer the question appropriately, and then, er...." He let his voice trail off, acting the intellectual geek rather well, Hermione thought. Then Ambrose Curtis took a look at his wristwatch, made a surprised noise, rose and awkwardly straightened out the wrinkles in his robes. "Well, it's kind of late - I suppose I better head home," he said. "Goodnight everybody." And with a parting nod to the students, he walked off and out the door, heading, as Hermione was sure, to the League camp hidden by a Parallelus charm on the Hogwarts grounds. Of course leaving was a smart move, Hermione thought; however, she ardently wished he had managed to tell her what he had been on the verge of saying when the team had come in.

She followed the others up to the tower, knowing she would have to lure Harry away to catch him on his own later. She let him go up to his dormitory to dispose of his dirty robes and waited for him to return so she could share her worries about Ron. In the meantime, she proof-read her Potions essay and her Arithmancy notes. When Harry had not returned from upstairs after twenty minutes, however, she was starting to wonder whether he would return to the common room at all. Forbidden to check on him, she asked Neville to look where he had gone. Neville returned with the information that Harry had fallen asleep on his four-poster in his clothes and would probably not wake up unless shaken. Declining Neville's offer of violently disturbing Harry's early sleep, Hermione chose an armchair next to the fireplace for a solitary evening of homework and worries. Again and again she wondered what the alchemist was doing to her friend, and which mysterious evil was at work in Ron. Only long after all the other Gryffindors had gone to bed, did she decide that the time when Professor McGonagall might inform her of an emergency had long since passed.

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Harry found her in her armchair before six o'clock the next morning; obviously he had woken as early as he had fallen asleep. Making up for his unintended negligence of the night before, he asked about her and about Ron as soon as Hermione had rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. As the common room was still devoid of other curious listeners, Hermione quietly told him what had passed the afternoon before. Instantly, Harry was beside himself with worry; besides uttering his surprise that Nicholas Flamel was still among the living and that Ambrose Curtis was one of the notorious Unspeakables, he insisted they should go to the hospital wing immediately to inquire about Ron. Hermione shook off her fatigue and followed him out through the portrait hole. However, the two of them found the door to the hospital wing still locked from the night before; nobody answered their knocking.

"I want to know what's going on," Harry said, sounding very upset. "We've got to get in there. They've got to tell us what's wrong with him."

"Harry, it's really early, and perhaps Ron needs his sleep." Hermione hardly believed her own words, but thought it advisable to discourage Harry from breaking into the hospital wing.

"Let's ask Sirius then," Harry replied, bouncing up and down with anxious impatience. "He's a Spellsearcher, so he's bound to know more about whatever they are talking about." He turned on his heel and started towards the castle's west wing.

"Harry, it's kind of early, and anyway, Sirius won't be able to tell us what an Unspeakable does, either," Hermione insisted, but as Harry did not slow his pace, she felt she had no choice but to follow him.

"Harry, let's eat an early breakfast and then see if Madam Pomfrey will tell us more," Hermione pleaded as she hastened after him along the corridors leading towards Sirius' quarters. "It's really very early, Harry, so why don't we just wait and -" It was no use; Harry almost ran towards Sirius' rooms, the worries in his heart making it seem like he was running on overcharged batteries. Hermione could not stop him from opening the door to Sirius' room with his wand and entering, so she followed him. When Harry made a strange, choked noise, it took her a second to see what was the matter with him:

It wasn't Harry's godfather lying in Sirius' bed, but a black-haired and, it seemed, naked woman! On second sight, the woman was Hermione's and Harry's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who was snuggled against a large, black, sleeping dog. Harry turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Hermione saw Professor Varlerta blink at her, pull the blanket up to her ears and then give the animal next to her a good shake. It seemed a good idea to quickly leave the room as well, Hermione decided; as she closed the door behind her, she heard Varlerta complain in a half-mocking voice: "Morgana's ass, Sirius, you smell like a dog in the morning."

Hermione sped down the corridor to find Harry, who had obviously wished to put some distance between himself and his dogfather, er, godfather. When she saw him standing in a corner, looking defiant and a bit sulky, she wondered what to say to him. 'Don't tell me you didn't notice' might not be the most diplomatic address right now, she decided.

For a moment, Harry and Hermione just stared at each other. Finally, Hermione broke the silence.

"Are you angry at him?" she asked for lack of a better thing to say.

"She's our teacher," Harry replied glumly.

Hermione put a lot of effort into not breaking out in laughter. "So who else was he supposed to hook up with while he was trapped here at school?" she asked. "It's not like he's had much choice around here. Also, he's a grown man and can probably look after himself and make his own decisions, don't you think so?"

"But she's our teacher," Harry repeated dully, reddening a bit.

"So? Do you think teachers don't have sex lives?" Hermione blurted out. Then she wished she could take back her words. As friends, Harry and Ron were fine, but certain subjects seemed to belong to girl talk repertoire only. Sex, for example, was a word she had probably never even uttered in the presence of Harry and Ron. Banning a sudden flood of Ron-related anxiety to the near future, she returned to the problem at hand. "I mean, maybe they, er, like each other and everything," she concluded rather weakly.

"As a dog?" Harry retorted rather loudly.

Hermione felt herself blush. "I'm sure there's an innocent explanation," she replied a quite feebly. "By the way, there he is. I'm sure he wants to talk to you."

Harry turned to see Sirius approaching in the hallway - wizard-shaped, dressed (though his robes were turned inside out), and looking very embarrassed. Hermione sensed that the conversation Harry was likely to have with his godfather would be sufficiently difficult without her, so she decided to let them talk on their own. "I'll see you at the hospital wing in a little while, Harry," she whispered. "Just make sure you two leave this hallway soon in case someone comes along so nobody sees him." Then she took off, substituting one kind of trouble with another.

The tireless Madam Pomfrey had by now opened up the door and looked after her patient; Ron was propped up in bed, drinking a cup of tea. Hermione was incredibly relieved to find him conscious and obviously no worse than the evening before. When he spotted her, he beckoned her towards him. Hermione shot a questioning look at the matron, who permitted her to enter with a shrug.

"Are you alright?" she asked as she sat down on Flamel's empty armchair.

Ron shrugged. "Like last night, I suppose."

"What did they do, then? Flamel and Curtis, I mean? Did they cast any complicated spells or attempt any kind of cure?" She really wanted to know things like 'did they hurt you?' and 'did they tell you what they found out?' but didn't dare ask under the matron's watchful stare.

"I dunno," Ron murmured, looking a bit confused. "I think they didn't - did you say Curtis?" He frowned. "Was he here?"

"Wasn't he?" Hermione asked.

Again, Ron shrugged, displaying another example of the indifference that alarmed Hermione so much. "I wouldn't know," he said. "They gave me a potion after you left, and I slept until this morning."

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Hermione managed to grab some breakfast for Harry and her just before classes started. She arrived at the Charms classroom just in time; Harry was a minute late and had to formally apologise to Professor Flitwick. When he saw her, he mouthed "Ron?" at her; she pointed her thumb up as a reply which was probably too optimistic but better than causing Harry more worries. Then both of them had to concentrate on the lesson. Between practising rather complicated Systemus charms, commanding a stack of books to sort itself into a shelf either by alphabet, size or subject area, both students managed to now and then sneak a bite off their sandwiches. If Flitwick noticed they were catching up on a meal, he did not comment. Only after the lesson had finished did Hermione manage to relate to Harry the few things she had found out about Ron.

On their way down to Professor McGonagall's classroom, Harry suddenly muttered: "He didn't really ... I mean, he says he sometimes sleeps in the shape of a dog to avoid having nightmares. He says he sometimes dreams about Azkaban, and then he screams and wakes her up, and as a dog he doesn't dream much. It seems they ... I mean, they have been a couple for a while, and he didn't tell me because - I don't know why, actually. Don't you think he should have told me? I mean -"

She bumped her elbow into his side and mouthed "McGonagall", because she sensed their professor behind them. However, the teacher passed by without showing the slightest interest in them; Hermione realised that Professor McGonagall was as pale as death and shaking slightly. The teacher ordered the diminished group of Gryffindors trying to get a NEWTs degree in Transfiguration to open the Standard Book of Spells, Year Six, and to answer the first three end-of-unit test-yourself questionnaires in it, something she had never had them do before; she would collect the results afterwards, she said. The class was quietly outraged; unannounced tests of that magnitude were not Professor McGonagall's usual style. With a shaky hand, Hermione finished the task in twenty minutes' time and then discretely studied the teacher. There was something decidedly wrong with her; Professor McGonagall looked scared. Hermione feared the worst; she could barely stop herself from walking up to the teacher's desk and asking her whether something was wrong with Ron.

After Professor McGonagall had collected the students' answers, she closed her class a few minutes early and hurried off in the direction of the hospital wing. Exchanging whispered words about their misgivings at the teacher's obvious dismay, Harry and Hermione followed her. From afar, they could hear the alchemist sing at top of his off-key voice: "Remember me, remember me, but oh, forget my fate." Hermione feared the worst; she broke into a run.

The first thing she saw when she entered the room was a curtain drawn around a bed, a sign that a patient needed special protection. She almost screamed out until the rational part of her mind told her that it was not Ron's bed which had been closed off; his was on the other side of the room. And, yes, Ron was still in his bed, blinking sheepishly at his over-excited friends.

From the curtains, Nicholas Flamel emerged, holding a strange crystal instrument. He was followed by a heavily wrinkled, sexless human being who had to be at least as old as he - his wife Perenelle, Hermione concluded. Both joined Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Snape and Madam Pomfrey at the large, round table by the window. Nobody appeared to have noticed Harry and Hermione, perhaps because they were all visibly upset.

"There is no telling what exactly triggered it," Perenelle Flamel said as if in reply to some question. "We could, of course, try examining all the other victims to find similarities - the acute cases, those where the missile seems to lie dormant, and those who seem to be weakened by it. However, it may take a while to find a pattern."

Hermione noticed that Dumbledore emitted a silent sigh; they were talking about him, too, she realised.

"She shot it straight at my face," Professor McGonagall whispered in a tearful voice and dabbed at her eyes. "A student has tried to kill me. I'll never forget this as long as I live."

"As the Head of her house, I can assure you it was nothing personal, Minerva," Snape said flatly, rather defending the house of Slytherin than comforting Professor McGonagall, Hermione thought. "Like all the other victims, Miss Ailis has become a danger to this school. We have to assure they are isolated and de-wanded until I can complete the potion I am working on, which will at least weaken them so they cannot harm anyone. The students, I mean," her specified his comment with a sidelong glance at Dumbledore.

"Hast thou informed the king of this sorry business, my boy?" Nicholas Flamel asked Professor Dumbledore gravely.

Perenelle slapped his wrist with her withered hand. "Oh, live in the present, Nick! There is no king right now, only a Queen, and she's a Muggle. The person to talk to would be the Minister of Magic, right?"