A Dose Of Reality

A Dose of Reality

Part Two: The Reality

Harry guessed, quite rightly, that the Dark Arts lessons were along what he knew as the defence corridor. He was quite apprehensive about approaching the lesson, his brain still bulging with all the new information he'd received. This whole thing felt so real, so vivid, that the faint possibility of it being a dream seemed less likely. For one fact, his scar was gone. For a second, his parents were alive. That was as far-fetched as it could possibly be, and if this were a dream, then surely only good would have come out of their survival. He would have been happy. How could a little thing like a fever turn his strongest desire into his worst nightmare? They'd studied magical illnesses earlier in the year, and there had been nothing about vision inducing fevers. Something else figured in this particular equation. And there was nothing he could do about it.

'You're late, Potter.'

At least Snape hadn't changed: In fact, his evil glare was even more icy than before as Harry mumbled his apologies and sat at a desk, near Hermione and Ron, although not next to them. Hermione met his eyes and looked at him, pleading for understanding. She broke away as soon as Snape gained the classes attention.

'Right you lot. Today's lesson will involve only your wands and the spiders I issued last week. I do hope you've kept them in good condition, Weasley...' he turned around and stared at Ron, who reached into his bag to put his jar upon the desktop, his face screwed up in terror at the hairy thing encased in the glass. He shuddered.

'Once we have finished being distracted by Weasley's feebleness,' Snape continued with his own brand of vindictiveness, 'we are going to test out your torture charms. You should all be aware that the Cruciatus curse is not the only option...'

Snape ignored the fact that Hermione was trembling as he began to issue more instructions. Harry shrank back in his seat while the Slytherins absolutely lapped it up. He didn't want to do this. Yes, at times it was tempting to do an unforgivable on Dudley after a particularly bad pummelling, but actually committing a crime that could get you locked up in Azkaban for a long, long time was a different matter. But here they were talking about it as casually as what they'd had for breakfast. The thought of that chilled Harry to the bone. Obviously the other Gryffindors felt the same: He looked over at Ron as he wearily got out his wand to cast a spell, something that obviously pained him despite his undoubting hate for spiders. Hermione wasn't even bothering, just twirling her wand aimlessly in her hand and examining the artwork of Ollivander with the same intensity that Harry normally saw her put into her schoolwork. Not this kind of schoolwork, however. Unfortunately Snape noticed.

'Miss Granger, I know whenever you come in contact with a wand someone ends up in the hospital wings with vegetables sprouting out of their ears,' he spat bitterly, 'But put a bit of effort into it, will you? Useless good-for-nothing mudblood.'

He didn't bother to mutter the last part. He had no reason to. Harry felt the blood boil in his veins. He gripped his wand tightly.

'I'm sorry sir.' Hermione said quietly. She got out her wand and proceeded in ripping the spider's legs off.

***

Hermione was still on her knees when Ron returned with Madam Pomfrey. Worry was etched into both their faces like carvings on a tombstone, deathly cold and tinged with green in reaction to the early hours of the day. The sun was just creeping over the horizon, behind the mountains that loomed over the school, normally so secure in their presence at a time of crisis. There was, however, little those ancient walls of stone could do in times like these.

'Miss Granger, please stand aside now...'

But Hermione didn't move. She felt paralysed, her knees now numb for kneeling too long, her hand firmly locked around Harry's frail fingers while he continued to thrash and moan with the mutterings of his fever. Hermione was as pale as her friend, her eyes wide and lifeless with worry as Madam Pomfrey's request fell on apparently deaf ears.

'Hermione,' Ron said softly, taking Hermione by the shoulders, 'come on now. Let Pomfrey take a look at him...'

She immediately relented to his plea, shifting back a little to allow for proper examination while she let her head hang down in some sort of premature grief. Ron was baffled.

'What is it?' he whispered, as if a louder declaration may wake Harry's sleeping form.

'He's really ill, Ron. I've never seen anything like this before. I mean, I've read about it in theory and all...'

'It's probably just a bad case of the Flu,' said Ron quickly, before Hermione could diagnose the worst. 'After all, the greenhouses were freezing yesterday. I'm surprised we haven't had a frostbite outbreak.'

Hermione glared at him, silencing Ron with a razor sharp look that told him the situation was more serious than his jokey nature could accept. Ron looked on, helpless.

'We can't move him.' said Madam Pomfrey, suddenly standing up. 'Not until we know what it is. And we'll have to put a quarantine charm on this dormitory. Sorry, but you two are stuck. Your roommates, Mr Weasley, will be shifted temporally. You and Miss Granger will have to remain.'

'Wouldn't have it any other way,' muttered Hermione. Ron didn't hear her. He was as white as Harry.

'You mean, it's really serious? Could he...' Ron didn't wasn't to say the inevitable. Hermione closed her eyes. 'Could he die?'

Madam Pomfrey didn't reply. She looked as stone-faced as when she entered, no sign of tension emerging on the normally caring face.

'I need to get the Headmaster. Here...' she quickly conjured up a bowl of water and a cloth and handed over to Ron. 'Try and bring that temperature down, for Merlin's sake.'

Hermione quickly seized the task and attacked it with the same determination as a Transfiguration exam. Ron could do nothing but look on.

'Come on, Harry, please wake up...'

***

The Dark Arts, Harry concluded after the end of what turned out to be a very long day, certainly had a tight grip on the curriculum. Harry's worst lesson, Potions, had been replaced by a satanic equivalent in the form of Poisons, taught by Lucius Malfoy himself. This was definitely a very, very bad dream. Every lesson was with the Slytherins, as if the constant contact with the Gryffindors was meant to sap their morale and make them eventually give in to the dark tendencies that now appeared to dominate the wizarding word. No wonder they all look so tired, Harry thought as he entered the common room after the dinner of chilly Chicken soup again - The Gryffindor portions were as cold as stone, while the Slytherins had delighted in the steam rising from their golden bowls. But walking into the common room was like entering a no-man's land. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan sat miserably in the corner, normally full of puffs of dodgy smoke and firework sparks, but now simply consisting of three weary boys trying to get through the evening towards some much desired sleep. Hermione was simply curled up by the feeble excuse for a fire, Neville sitting opposite her with his nose in a very large book (Advanced Rune studies for big-headed know-it-alls by Ima Clevercloggs). Ron had already escaped up to the boy's dormitory to seek his own refuge in the form of never ending slumbers. That was all they could do. Sleep and work. Neither was particularly appealing on such a cold winter's night, in a draughty tower heated by a few glowing embers in a normally roaring grate.

Harry didn't feel much like sitting down. Most people avoided him like the plague in the common room and beyond, not wanting to be seen associating with a committed light-sider for fear of painful punishment. Harry was beginning to think that this was worse than the Dursleys. He had every possibility in front of him, literally at his fingertips, yet to be deprived of friends, warmth, nutrition and, even though he hated to admit it, interesting homework was darn right close to torture. Of course, the Dark Arts couldn't be described as boring. They were far more complex than Harry ever possibly imagined, which probably explained why only really powerful wizards seemed to excel in them. But there was something inside of him that just couldn't comprehend them. It was just like when Moody put the imperious course on him, that time so long ago in the fourth year. That small, powerful voice in the back of his head willed him to rebel, to be more conscientious and ethical towards even the most horrible of situations. And one thing Harry certainly possessed was will power.

The common room cleared quite early on, most of the Gryffindors too weary to continue their feeble attempts at entertainment. Harry supposed that even basic pleasures were banned for those not of correct mind. Soon enough, only Hermione remained, continuing to stare into the rapidly fading grate, barely alight with the last of its embers dying slowly as the moon began to make its ascent over the mountains outside. Harry moved silently towards her.

'Do you mind if I sit?'

The voice made her jump a foot in the air as she swung round to meet Harry's emerald green eyes, twinkling like beacons in the darkness of the common room. She glanced around nervously, checking for spies, reporters. The situation, apparently, did nothing for her untrusting nature.

'No, please do,' she said, almost eagerly. Harry sat and sighed heavily.

'Those are the only words that have been said to me since breakfast.'

Hermione said nothing. Harry could barely make her out in the gloom as the silence engulfed them with the coming night, a storm clearly brewing over the hills behind the nearby village of Hogsmeade. It was then that Harry noticed the only light in the room was coming from the fire: the lanterns that decorated the common room were forever out, covered in misty, decaying cobwebs indicating a severe lack of usage down the years. The place looked in the midst of undeserved neglect, dusty and unkempt like many of its occupants. Hermione's sad, pale face was illuminated by the fading fire, tired and exhausted more so than anyone else. She looked in desperate need of a hug.

'Hermione,' Harry began, unsure whether Hermione was listening. 'Have you ever wondered 'What if'?'

'What do you mean?' she said quietly, turning away from the fire to face him.

'What if things were different? What if...'

'Harry, if you're talking about that silly alternate universe thing,' she tutted, 'then I'm not listening. Come back to the real world.' She swung her legs unto the floor and made as if to leave, but Harry jumped up just as suddenly, causing her to come to a halt.

'Please, just listen to me,' he pleaded with her now. She looked as if she wanted to cry as she lowered herself into the seat again. Harry shifted to the armchair closer to her and fixed her with his gaze. 'What if you could change things? Anything? What if the world, this world, didn't have to be like this? What...' Harry paused, just for a second. 'Would your ideal world be like?'

Silence. The wind rattled the pane of glass that shielded them from the hydrological onslaught. Hermione drew a deep breath and stared right back at Harry.

'An ideal world,' she snorted. 'That's a joke. A world can never be ideal. It is life's little imperfections that make it so interesting. Its just in my case they seem to dominate...'

'Just try.'

She hung her head and closed her eyes wearily. Harry leaned forward.

'In an ideal world, I'd be able to cast a spell without putting someone in the infirmary for a week.' Harry smiled at the contrast now appearing in his head, but shook it away quickly and continued to listen. 'I would have friends. I would be living a little more dangerously while people like Neville Longbottom would be just as content crawling around searching for a pet toad. I would be able to sleep at night without the fear of what would happen in the morning. I'd send owls back to my parents, telling them every little confusing detail of the latest Gryffindor Quidditch win. I would be able to take the Slytherin's insults with my head held high, proving them wrong by acing a transfiguration test. In an ideal world...' she paused, uncertain to continue. Harry merely stared as Hermione looked straight at him, unblinking. 'I would want know you so much better.'

'But you do, Hermione,' Harry replied quietly. 'In that world: My world. And like you said, it has its imperfections.'

She looked at him, confused, but at last willing to listen. Harry softly seized the opportunity.

'In that world, Voldemort still exists. He is always a threat, but one that we can realistically face. In that world, I have no family. Voldemort killed my family, me only surviving because my parents died to save me. I was left on the doorstep of my only relatives - Muggles to the core - with only with a lightning bolt scar as a memorial to the whole sorry incident. In that world, I knew nothing of happiness or the good side of life until I started at Hogwarts...' Harry allowed his voice to trail off, thinking the unthinkable. He shook it off and looked at her again

'So what exactly are you saying?' Hermione enquired almost in an unbelieving whisper. Harry didn't leave time to ponder.

'In that world, you, me and Ron are as close as brothers - more than that. I don't think we could have taken on a giant chess set, a three headed dog, a possessed professor, a basilisk, a mass murderer - falsely accused, but that's another story - and a hoard of Death Eaters intent on our demise at every turn and not emerge with some form of bond.' Harry finally breathed. 'And that's ignoring Dobby...'

Hermione was strangely silent. It appeared that Harry had hit the right nerve.

'So what I'm trying to say,' he leaned further forward, his face barely inches from Hermione's, whose eyes were wide with realisation, 'Is that even if you think things can't change, they can. You just need to believe in all the possibilities. Believe that somewhere you can be top of the class. Somewhere you and me know each other inside out. It sort of gives life a meaning to think of it like that. That somewhere, out there, there is some justice.' Harry finally stood and backed away, Hermione merely becoming a figure in the dark, occasionally lit up by the rampaging lightning storm that had struck up outside. 'Its time to make that somewhere here.'

And in a flash of lightning, he was gone.

Hermione sat back in her chair, breathing deeply as if she'd been running. That was the first proper conversation she'd held with Harry in her life. It had been so wanted. Like an unachievable aim, similar to her studies, something she could wish for all she wanted, but was out of reach. But he had just passed her the ladder. She now had the means, the method, the way paved out for her. She was going to make things change.

***

'It's just like we thought.'

'So what can we do? Surely we can make the boy more comfortable. Can't we move him to the hospital wing? I have everything I need there and - '

'No, he needs to be in familiar surrounding for when he wakes up.'

'If he wakes up...'

'Optimism is the key here, Poppy. Even you should know that.'

'There isn't any need for the Quarantine charm, but I suppose its still disturbing for the rest of the Gryffindors to see him in this state.'

'He's got everyone he needs right here in this room. Put the Pseudo charm on.'

'Whatever you say, Headmaster.'

Hermione hadn't heard them. She'd fallen asleep, still holding Harry's hand, as the Headmaster and the nurse silently left the room.

The next day dawned unfairly bright. Ron was lucky enough to be able to sleep in his own bed: Although Dumbledore had conjured up a very comfortable sleeping bag for Hermione - deeply purple in colouring and very tempting for periods in the night - she felt magnetically attached to Harry's side like never before. When danger had previously reared its ugly head, as it seemed to quite often when Harry Potter was the case, she had never been too worried. A little voice inside of her kept her calm, telling her everything was going to be all right, and that Harry was stronger than his thin, fragile frame gave him credit. But today, typically today, the voice was strangely silent.

Harry was always the rock. It had only been a few months since he'd been tied to a tombstone and cut to shreds, yet he had still strived to be the reassuring force in the picture. Hermione secretly thought Harry was much weaker than he tended to personify. He was always trying to be the hero; to live up to a title bestowed upon him as a mere babe, aiming for the unattainable. But for Hermione, he would forever maintain the first image she'd got of him, an apprehensive figure in the middle of a muggle station, staring blankly at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. A dark haired boy, lost and alone, just seconds before the Weasleys came to the rescue. She'd never mentioned to him that she'd encountered this sight: As far as Harry was aware, he had first clapped eyes upon the infamous Hermione Granger in that compartment on the Hogwarts Express. He had merely seen her as the bossy know-it-all who was to be avoided at all costs. How things had changed. Five years on and they were, with Ron, closer than she'd ever dared hope. It was the best situation. Her ideal world. And she wasn't going to let some deadly disease get in the way of a bond that strong.

He hadn't woken, but at least the shiver attacks had died down to a minimum. It had been frightening to see him convulse like that, like an invisible hand was shaking the very life force out of him while she looked on, helpless. In fact at times she had wanted to scream out loud at the pure horror of it all, wanting to wish it away with a swish of her wand. To make it all better like a mother does to a fallen child, tending to the delicately bleeding knees with a magical kiss that would take all the pain away. But all she could do was watch.

She remembered sitting through Dumbledore's explanation, barely taking it in as she faced the reality of her inevitable guesswork. Instead she just stared straight ahead, holding on to a remarkable calmness that unnerved Ron to the point where he felt compelled to freak out for the both of them.

'Harry is very, very sick,' he'd began, in such a blunt way that each of the words had drummed into Hermione like an industrial drill. Ron had looked decidedly pasty. 'Some form of hallucinogenic poison has entered his bloodstream, and as you can see, the effects are not pleasant, and they probably will get worse. It causing him to dream in a state such that could drive his body to shut down. I won't hide anything from the two of you: I fear it could be fatal.'

Hermione saw Ron biting down hard on his lip. It had then occurred to her that she'd never seen the gangly redhead cry. And that she didn't want to. She had put a reassuring hand on his shoulder as Dumbledore continued with a nod from Madam Pomfrey.

'But Harry is strong. He is a fighter. He won't take this lying down. It is only the weak and feeble-minded who let this poison play havoc in their heads, let it manipulate their memories and thoughts through the dream like state it creates. Let them believe their worst nightmare is in fact the life they live. To drive them to the edge of despair, beyond that. Until they lose the will to live. Until they give up the fight. Only through the will of the mind does the poison become fatal - that's the magic of it. Victims kill themselves with their minds - they give up hope of life being any better. And it is Harry having the will to do otherwise that gives up hope.'

The words had echoed restlessly around Hermione's head, confirming her worst fears with the speed that the poison created them for Harry. She had felt dizzy, unable to concentrate on her Professor, just the sleeping form of Harry as he withered and twitched.

'But what can we do?' Ron had stuttered. 'Surely we can do something? We can't just sit here, I...'

'Mr Weasley,' Dumbledore had said softly with the emotion of a wise old grandparent 'Sitting here is the best thing you can do for Harry. Both of you.' He'd swung round to glance at Hermione, where she'd met his eye that still kept its twinkle even in the most trying of circumstances, as if he knew something she didn't. 'You need to stay here. Classes will end for the Christmas Holiday in a few days. I will make sure that you won't miss anything. But for now, you need to stay here and talk to him. Coax him out of this state; remind him exactly what reality is. What he's left behind.'

'I will come and check up on his progress at regular intervals,' said Madam Pomfrey, her contribution injecting an air of efficiency into the otherwise shaky atmosphere. 'Take this charge seriously, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley. I will attend on him regularly with daily doses of Mensura root to keep the physical sides at bay, but mentally, you two hold the cure.'

As the teachers left, both companions had fallen into a deep, entrancing silence, merely standing at the end of the bed, staring at their charge with unemotional faces that were grey with their own internal struggles. Ron had mumbled something about needing to sleep and delved into the security of his four poster bed, still to emerge. He hadn't been handing responsibility over to Hermione: He simply knew she had to take the dominant position. And surprisingly, she hadn't argued. She had just sat next to Harry, held his hand, and talked to him.

***

'Harry...'

He woke with a startle from his position on the common room sofa. His bed in the dormitory seemed somewhat less inviting in light of the silence provoked by his presence, so he'd snuck back down to the common room to settle down for the night. He'd fallen asleep with a book in his hand, which fell to the floor with a clatter as he sat up to come face to face with the bushy haired silhouette in the early morning twilight, casting an errie blue shadow across the cold, wooden floor. The silhouette edged closer and knelt next to his chair.

'I believe you,' it said, as it now emerged fully into the light and took the form of Hermione. 'I want to believe you. It's the most far fetched thing I've ever heard, but somehow I believe you.'

Harry breathed in to give his unending thanks, but Hermione silenced him.

'You've changed. The Harry I know still lurks in you, but only as an alter ego. He's a bitter and twisted individual who does nothing to help his own reputation. He doesn't attempt to communicate, he merely acts as bad as the Slytherins, suspicious and uncaring. The situation had killed him. You demonstrated the opposite characteristics as soon as you entered the room. You- you have hope.'

Harry couldn't reply. He couldn't find the words.

'The Harry I know wouldn't speak to me, wouldn't wish to associate with a Weasley like a brother, or help me with homework. He wouldn't even attempt to defend me against accusations of mudblood...' Harry blushed in the darkness, frightfully aware that his silent indignation hadn't gone unnoticed. 'He'd simply let it float over his head. He's given up. And I would then just spend yet another night crying into my pillow, dreaming of my parents and home. You're an ideal Harry. You're the Harry who's lurking beneath the frown. The Harry I imagine you to be. The one I want to know, and the one I want to help.'

They sat in silence for a while, both looking intently at the ground. Then Harry stood up, dragging a piece of material behind him as he ventured toward the portrait door. Hermione stood up sharply.

'Where are you going?'

He turned slowly on the spot, arching an eyebrow in the lessening gloom.

'Think, Hermione. Think like my Hermione. Where else do we go when we need the answers?'

She paused for a minute, as if the girl from the other world was reaching across, speaking to her with words as clear as Phoenix song. She knew.

'The Library?'

Harry grinned from ear to ear, slinging his invisibility cloak over the both of them as they silently stepped out of the portrait hole.

*