Full Circle

Chapter Eight

you're the moon and I'm the tide
cradle my head
kiss me like you wish me dead
breathe life into me
till I feel as though I'll never sleep again
to close my eyes and feel the whole world swim
till I don't know where you end, where I begin

you and me
upon the bare teeth of the rock
at the mercy of the dreaming sea
till I feel as though I'll never sleep again
to close my eyes and feel the whole world swim
till I don't know where you end, where I begin
till I don't know where you end, where I begin

--Karen Matheson, "The Dreaming Sea"

Harry rolled over in bed, rubbing his throbbing forehead. It hurt all the time now, whether it was a dull ache or a sharp stabbing pain that felt like it would split his head wide open. He wasn't sure he remembered how it felt to not have a headache. Tonight it was the persistent, tight sort of throbbing that made him feel horribly smothered lying down, and he sat up slowly, holding his pillow to his chest.

Sitting up - bad idea, Harry thought, doubling over to try to quell the nausea caused by the change of position, breathing deeply and praying he wouldn't throw up. Blanking out his mind sometimes worked when he felt like this, and he concentrated on breathing in and out slowly, trying to ignore the churning of his stomach and pounding of his head.

It wasn't working.

Harry made it to the loo just in time, almost cracking his kneecaps on the hard tile of the floor. There wasn't anything left in his stomach to throw up, as his pounding head had practically killed his appetite the last couple of days, but his stomach and head hadn't quite coordinated on that little detail. When his stomach finally got the message, he slid wearily to the floor, hands shaking. The tile was cold and soothing against his skin, and he bent over, pressing his forehead to the smooth ceramic.

This was ridiculous. It was over a month since they'd expected Hermione to come back, and things were spiralling out of control faster than Harry thought possible. Resuming his Auror training was out of the question, because of his constant headaches and bouts of uncontrolled magic, and he rarely left the house anymore. Snape had declared his Legilimency experiment a complete waste of effort and had not attempted it again. They tried to go back to the Occlumency lessons from Harry's school days, but while Harry seemed to be able to keep Snape out just fine, keeping Voldemort out was proving next to impossible. Occlumency might be good for defending the mind against external penetration, but it did nothing for mental invasion from the inside out.

Harry waited for his body to stop shaking, and when he finally felt he could get up without falling over, he half-stumbled barefoot into the kitchen. His headache made him slow and stupid, the pain dulling his brain, and he had to stand in front of the cabinets for a moment before he could remember where the glasses were. He found one and filled it with water from the tap, gulping it down to wash away the sour taste in his mouth. His stomach didn't immediately chuck the water back up, and Harry began rifling through the cabinets, looking for something to take his mind off of his head. He just wanted one night where he could sleep through. Just one good night's sleep so he could go through one day feeling somewhat sane. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

There was a blue glass bottle half filled with Dreamless Sleep on the shelf above the icebox. Harry felt like chucking it out the window. While it had helped him several times during his school years, it did absolutely nothing for pain. Nothing at all. Harry shoved it aside. Behind it was a clear bottle filled with a murky green potion that Snape had brewed for him two weeks ago. It had dampened the pain somewhat, but Harry was apparently allergic to the main ingredient as he woke up the next morning with painful blisters in his mouth and throat wherever the potion had touched. In the far corner of the cabinet were three bottles of Muggle prescription medicines that Arthur had managed to acquire after talking to Hermione's parents. Harry couldn't read the labels in the half-dark, nor could he remember the names, but apparently the Grangers frequently gave them to patients after major dental surgery. And apparently, they were next to useless against mental invasion by a Dark Lord.

On the next shelf up was a large bottle of Firewhisky. Harry reached for it, turning the bottle slowly around in his hands. He wasn't exactly sure how it had gotten there, as neither he nor Ron was really into drinking. Probably Mundungus Fletcher left it after some meeting or other, or perhaps one of the twins had brought it. It might do nothing for his head, but at least he'd be too drunk to give a shit. He poured a generous amount into his glass and took a deep swallow. It burned his throat and the fumes made his eyes water, but the flush of alcohol hitting his bloodstream sent a pleasant heat over his skin.

A few swallows later, the pounding in Harry's head felt like it was coming through a thick wool blanket. It was still there, but muted enough that he didn't think his skull would explode from the inside out. He refilled his glass and slumped into one of the kitchen chairs, tilting the glass back and forth to catch the shards of moonlight that filtered in from the window over the sink.

Harry had never felt so hollow before in his life. He'd never felt so useless, so trapped and helpless, not even fifth year when Hogwarts felt less of a home to him than Privet Drive thanks to Dolores Umbridge. There was no focus to his life right now except the pain in his head. Even killing Voldemort had taken a backseat - the constant headaches were so debilitating that any kind of training was completely out of the question, and he didn't trust himself to contain the dark feelings he could feel lurking at the edge of his mind for much longer. The one thing that he had to do, that could only be done by him, and he couldn't even manage it. And he didn't see how he was ever going to be able to. Even if he could get a handle on the headaches, the connection to Voldemort made it impossible for him to learn or train or prepare without the possibility of Voldemort seeing every move and having time to counter it.

What was the point of his even being alive?

The room swam in Harry's vision, and he propped his forehead on the heels of his hands. Was there any reason for his existence other than that stupid prophecy? Was that all there was to him, to be a weapon, to be the saviour of the wizarding world? He hated that stupid phrase. Saviour of the wizarding world. Every time he saw it in the Daily Prophet he wanted to burn the place down. He didn't want to be a saviour. He just wanted to be Harry.

Even as he thought it, he knew it was a stupid thing to wish for. He would never just be Harry. He'd always be Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and there was nothing he could do about it, short of dying. And he wasn't sure that dying wouldn't be such a horrible thing just now. At least then his head wouldn't hurt anymore, and he could see his mum and dad and Sirius again.

It was thinking of Sirius that finally did it. He'd always missed his parents in a vague, I-wish-I-had-my-parents-just-like-everyone-else sort of way, even though he couldn't remember them. But Sirius - he could remember Sirius. His easy, infectious laugh, the way he'd ruffle Harry's hair with careless affection, the way he could light up a room with a grin or dampen it with a stormy scowl. But more than anything, Sirius had been on Harry's side. He'd fought for Harry's right to know, Harry's right to be treated like an adult since he'd been given adult responsibilities. And Harry had never wished he had Sirius with him more than he did at this moment. Remus was reasonable, Remus was sensible and kind, but Sirius understood.

It was thinking of Sirius that made Harry finally do the thing he hadn't done since Dumbledore's death.

He put his head on the table and cried.

*****

It was a rare night that Ron actually slept more than four consecutive hours without waking. Even though Harry was in the next room over, and usually slept with the door closed, he tossed and turned and made enough noise to wake Ron up at least once a night. After sharing a room with him for seven years, Ron was pretty attuned to Harry's nocturnal disturbances and had developed the habit of listening for them. And the sound of someone retching his guts up in the loo down the hall wasn't exactly a sound one could sleep through, anyway. But this was the first night Ron could remember awakening the sound of Harry crying. The only time he could remember that happening was when Dumbledore had died in Harry's arms last year. Ron hadn't known what to do then, and he certainly didn't know what to do now. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, listening to the miserable sounds coming from the kitchen. Hermione would know what to do in this situation, Ron thought. She was the one that was good with this emotional sort of thing, not him. But it wasn't as though she was there to help them, was it?

Ron sat there, listening, torn between wanting to do something and not knowing what to do. Then the sounds tapered off into silence, punctuated by an occasional sniffle, and he decided the best thing to do was to just leave Harry alone. Maybe. Or should he go and make sure he was all right? As he tossed the choice back and forth in his mind like a Quaffle, there was the sound of a chair being pushed back and then shuffling steps moving down the hallway towards Harry's room.

"Harry?" Ron called, softly enough that Harry could pretend he hadn't heard him if he didn't feel like talking.

The shuffling steps paused, then slowly approached Ron's room. Then a tousled head peered around the doorframe. "Yeah?"

"You all right?"

Harry shook his head. "No. Yes." He blinked. "Not really."

Ron cleared his throat. "Okay. Just, you know, wondering."

Harry hiccupped. "Just...cold, really."

"Cold?" Ron asked, pushing himself backward until he could lean against the headboard.

Harry hiccupped again and shuffled over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it with his back to Ron. "Or something," he said faintly, slurring the s a little, and Ron caught a whiff of Firewhisky on Harry's breath. Harry's shoulders slumped and Ron could make out the slight curve of his spine through the material of his t-shirt, more prominent than it should have been, really. The line of his shoulders and the hang of his head spelled out tired in a language that Harry would never speak aloud but that Ron would always recognise.

It was this kind of situation when Ron felt the most helpless, and the fact that what he really wanted to do just then was to touch Harry, to run his fingers along Harry's skin and let him know that someone was there, wasn't helping any. He didn't feel it was his place to do that, and he'd made that perfectly clear to Harry weeks ago. It didn't seem to be that clear to Ron's heart, however.

Ron closed his eyes, let out the bit of breath he'd been holding, and gently put his hand palm-flat against Harry's back. He could feel the wild thud of Harry's heartbeat and the harsh ridges of his ribs under his fingers, and it scared him. He'd known Harry wasn't dealing with any of this well, but to feel the physical proof of it, the stark bones and tremors, gave it a certainty that hadn't dawned on him until now.

"You can't keep doing this, Harry," Ron said. He slid his hand over Harry's back in a small circle, not really realising what he was doing. "It's...." Ron swallowed, almost choking on the word. "...killing you."

Harry hiccupped again. "Maybe that's how Voldemort's gonna kill me, Ron," he slurred. "Maybe it won't be with the Killing Curse. Maybe he'll just keep this up til I go mad. I'll keep getting little flashes of what he's up to, just not enough to really do anything with, and he'll keep picking away at me until there's nothing left to pick at anymore."

"No," said Ron, suddenly curling his fingers into a fist, pulling Harry's shirt with them. "No, it's not going to happen. It won't. It can't." He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, because one of them needed to stay rational and it certainly wasn't going to be Harry. Not with him slurring every other word and shaking with intoxication.

It was a moment before Harry turned around, pulling his shirt from Ron's grasp and staring at Ron as if he were looking right through him. His eyes were round and dark, dilated from the alcohol, and a feverish flush burned across his cheeks. "Nobody's going to stop him, Ron," he said. "Snape says there's nothing else he can try that can stop this without killing me. The hypnosis didn't work. Occlu...mency didn't work. I can't train. Can't do anything about it." His voice cracked then, sounding small and defeated.

Ron grabbed the front of Harry's shirt and tugged, pulling him closer. "Don't say that."

"Don't say what? It's true," Harry said. He rubbed his hands roughly across his forehead, across the livid red scar there, pressing his fingers into his skin. "I don't want this, I never wanted it -" Harry's fingers curled, nails clawing at his scar, leaving deep red welts behind. It was as if he were trying to rip the scar right off of his face, and it was one of the scariest things Ron had ever seen.

Ron made a split second decision, grabbing Harry's wrists and yanking them away from his face, but Harry resisted. Another good tug and Ron overbalanced, falling half on top of Harry and pushing him into the mattress. Harry's hands were trapped between them, away from his face, and he pulled and tugged to get free of Ron's grip.

"Let go of me, Ron," he begged, his breath heavy and sour with alcohol. Ron thought he might get drunk just from breathing it.

"No," said Ron, keeping Harry's arms still pinned between them and hoping that Harry was tired and drunk enough that he wouldn't be able to push him away. He couldn't really get good leverage with his useless legs, and if Harry truly wanted to shove him away, he probably could. "I know you feel like there's no point to all this," he gasped, while Harry struggled, "but you've got to get through it."

"You don't know anything!" Harry flailed against Ron, but he was uncoordinated and clumsy, and Ron kept a firm grip on him. "You - don't - know!" He made a final attempt at trying to get away and then went limp beneath Ron, shaking and sweating. "You don't know."

Ron lowered his face to Harry's, pressing his cheek against Harry's stubbled one, and whispered, "I know what it's like to feel like there's no point in living anymore."

Harry's trembling eased a little, and Ron felt Harry's Adam's apple bob against his throat as he swallowed. After a pause, Harry said, "After your accident?"

"Yeah," said Ron slowly. "It just felt like I wasn't enough to be good for anything anymore. Like me trying to go on was just..."

"...pointless."

"Pointless, yeah." Ron could feel Harry's breath against his ear, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath him, shaky and vulnerable. "But you and Hermione, you told me that the best parts of me, here -" he propped himself up on one elbow and brought his other hand up to Harry's face, letting his fingers brush lightly over his scar, " - and here - " he laid his hand flat on Harry's chest, just over his heart, " - were just fine. And so are yours."

Harry's hand found Ron's and covered it, squeezing. "I'm trying," he said, closing his eyes.

"I know," said Ron. "But you're going to have to try harder. I'm sorry. I wish you didn't." He turned his hand slightly in Harry's grasp, his thumb moving lightly over the back of Harry's hand and the tiny edges of scar-letters he could barely feel but knew were there. "There's more to you than your scar, Harry."

Harry turned his head away and shivered.

Ron pressed on. "Remember what you told me at the hospital that day? Before Hermione came in...when I wouldn't let anyone in, and you sneaked away from Hogwarts and broke in anyway? I didn't want to see any of you - not you, not Hermione, not Mum and Dad. I didn't feel like I was good enough to be me anymore. I didn't see the point of going back to school and trying to get things back to normal, because they wouldn't be normal anymore. I wouldn't be able to walk or fly or do a lot of the things that made me me. And you told me that was all total shite, remember? It's shite because Quidditch and flying and the Sight don't make me me, anymore than your scar and your mum's eyes and the prophecy make you you. It's your heart that makes you who you are."

When Harry opened his eyes and looked at him, the emptiness there made Ron do the thing he'd promised himself he wouldn't do again. He'd told himself he wasn't going to make this any more complicated than it needed to be, but he didn't know what else would make a difference, to give Harry something to hold onto until they could find a way to make it better. Sliding his hand out of Harry's, he traced his fingers along Harry's jaw, tilting his head towards him, and kissed him.

He could tell Harry wasn't anticipating it; Ron hadn't initiated anything between them before. Harry seemed surprised into inaction at first, and Ron nudged Harry's lips apart with his tongue, pressing deeper into his mouth, trying to reach him in a way that words couldn't get across.

Harry moaned, the feel of it against his mouth making the hairs on Ron's neck prickle. "Ron, what are you - what are you doing?" he said, the fingers of one hand threading through Ron's hair and pulling him back a little. "You said..."

"I know what I said," said Ron, trying to duck back down to catch Harry's mouth again, but Harry turned his head just enough to miss him, and he got a mouthful of Harry's hair instead.

"Then...why?"

Ron nuzzled along the side of Harry's face, the rough bits of stubble there prickling his skin. "Because," he said, breathing the word against Harry's ear. "Just...because." He half expected Harry to say, "Because why?" in the petulant tone he and Ginny used to take with their mother when they were small, so he didn't wait for it, tilting Harry's face back to him instead and silencing any more questions with another kiss. Harry didn't dodge him this time, but opened up to him. The intensity with which Harry responded - drunken, sloppy intensity, but the sort of sloppiness that comes from being past the point of caring how things look or seem - frightened Ron. It was as if Harry was making a cry for help that only he could hear, and Ron answered the best he could - but what if it wasn't enough? He winced when his fingers crept under Harry's shirt, skimming over too-prominent ribs, lingering in the shadowed hollow of his collarbone, and wondering how the hell he hadn't seen this before. What kind of friend had he been to let it go this far?

Harry's skin tasted like salt and fear as Ron trailed his tongue along the side of Harry's neck, along the quivering pulse there - where Hermione should be, not you - stroking Harry's side slowly. His fingers came to rest on the slight rise of Harry's hipbone, thumb tracing the skin just above the waistband of his pyjamas, and Harry arched up against him with a soft whine. And as Ron looked at Harry, with his skin so pale and eyes so dark it gave him the appearance of being strong and fragile at the same time, he was faced with the intense contrast of knowing just how he should feel right now even though he couldn't. Ron's hand slipped between them, the back of his hand brushing against Harry's pyjamas, and that small touch brought the memory to him of how it felt to be so hard he thought he'd explode with the wanting of it. It was even more vivid than the memory of the wind whipping his face in flight, so real to feel Harry's ragged breathing against his shoulder and knew that that kind of touch fed the burning, clawing need for release that he couldn't feel himself.

In its place was a simmering resentment that Harry needed this from him, this of all things, one thing that he couldn't have himself - how selfish was Harry to ask this of him? Ron stroked harder, fuelled by that resentment mixed with a seething guilt for feeling it, because Harry hadn't asked for any of this - yet Harry was asking for it, his body picking up an unsteady, desperate pace. Harry pressed his face into Ron's neck, a soft keening sound lingering under each breath, and the sound of it made Ron fumble and lose his rhythm before picking up again. Come on, he thought, gritting his teeth and turning his face from Harry's so he wouldn't know how much he hated this. He hated it, and he hated Harry for asking it of him, but most of all he hated himself for letting it come to this and being so weak that he couldn't say no. And as Harry arched into him and let out a low, shuddering moan, face pressed so hard into Ron's collarbone that it hurt, Ron realised that what he hated most of all was the fact that he was hopelessly, impossibly in love with his best friend.

Neither of them moved for a moment - Ron frozen in the awkwardness of not knowing what to do next, and Harry clinging to Ron's shirt like a drowning man clings to a life raft. Then Ron reached under his pillow for his wand - he didn't trust his ability to be able to get to it quickly in an emergency at night unless he slept with it - and cast a Scourgify. By the time he'd tucked it back under his pillow and turned to Harry again, Harry was already asleep. He had the completely boneless look of someone sleeping the deep sleep that only comes after utter exhaustion: lashes resting over the dark hollows under his eyes, swollen lips slightly parted because of complete lack of tension in his face and jaw, hands that had loosened their grip on Ron's shirt, and the slow, regular breathing of much-needed rest.

"Oh," breathed Ron, wanting nothing more than to be able to stop time and refine it down to this one moment. It was such a shock to see Harry looking so peaceful that Ron's chest tightened up with a feeling he hadn't been able to identify before but was quite certain of now. He reached over, careful not to jostle or disturb Harry's sleep, and touched Harry's hair, just enough to push the messy black strands back out of his face. Without thinking, he brushed his fingers lightly over Harry's scar, mirroring his earlier gesture, then gently pressed his lips to Harry's forehead. He let them linger there for a moment, even when Harry shivered in his sleep and sighed. Then when Harry curled up into him, Ron rested his chin atop Harry's head, closing his eyes and drinking in the feel of Harry beside him until he fell asleep.

*****

It took Harry a few minutes, the next morning - or rather, the next afternoon, according to the clock on the nightstand, which read "Time For Lazy Gits to Get Up And Have Lunch" - to realise he'd actually slept. Not tossed and turned and stared at the ceiling, but slept. And it wasn't until he blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stretched, bumping into a warm body next to his, that he realised he wasn't in his own bed, but in Ron's bed.

With Ron.

Harry sat straight up in bed, feeling an unpleasant heat creeping up his neck and face as a very fuzzy memory of the night before filtered back into his consciousness, and an unsettling lurch in his stomach that had nothing, for once, to do with his scar. Nothing was very clear, except for the fact that he'd been incredibly drunk and had crawled into Ron's bed and - then what? He lay down again, pressing his face into the pillow and closing his eyes to make the room stop spinning.

He must have awakened Ron with the movement, because a voice asked quietly, "Harry?"

"Uh huh?" Harry said into the pillow.

"You okay?"

"Uh huh."

"Hung over?"

"Uh huh."

"You're not going to puke on my pillow, are you?"

"No." Harry took a deep breath (as deep as he could with his face in the pillow) and sat up slowly. The room wasn't spinning quite so much this time, and his stomach greatly appreciated that.

Ron folded his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. "Did you sleep okay, at least?"

"Yeah. I think so. I mean, other than the room spinning, I feel almost...good."

The corner of Ron's mouth turned up. "Good. I'm glad. You were tired."

"You can say that again." He paused for a second, trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to ask. "Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"Did, you know, anything...er...happen?"

Ron determinedly kept his eyes pointed at the ceiling. "Yeah."

Oh God. "What?"

"Er. You were. Er. Drunk? And pretty down," Ron stammered. "And you really needed sleep. You were sort of, er, talking mad? And, er. I thought that...if...you, you know..."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, remembering when he'd come home from spending some 'time on his own' and pretty much attacked Ron right there on the couch. Even though Ron hadn't seemed to mind, Harry still felt guilty about it. "Please tell me I didn't - "

"No, no, you didn't," said Ron, cutting him off. "I thought if you could just, you know, relax or something, you could sleep, and so..."

Oh. Now he remembered. "You didn't have to - "

Ron made a dismissive noise, and when Harry stole a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, his whole face was bright red. "I wanted to."

"Ron?"

"Yeah?"

Harry turned to look at him, but Ron wouldn't meet his eyes. "Look at me, Ron." Ron's jaw was set, and if he looked at the ceiling anymore he'd burn a hole through it. Harry slid over to Ron, sitting cross-legged and turned to face him. "Look. At. Me."

At first Harry didn't think Ron was going to be able to face him. Then slowly, Ron tilted his head over to look at him, red hair falling carelessly on the pillow. "Yeah?"

"I didn't plan any of this," said Harry. "I don't mean last night, I mean...all of this. But it's happened, and I wouldn't change any of it."

"Neither would I," said Ron, after a pause.

"Then - what is this?" Harry asked, gesturing between them.

"I don't know," said Ron in a strained voice. He hesitated for a moment before sliding his hand over the quilt to curl his fingers around Harry's wrist. "Can we not talk about it?" He tugged gently on Harry's wrist, and Harry slid back down under the covers, stretching out close alongside him.

Now that they'd acknowledged that there was something there, despite not knowing what it was or what they should do next, Harry felt a nervous sort of excitement simmer through him. It reminded him of the way the billions of tiny bubbles would form and burst to the surface of a just-opened bottle of Muggle fizzy drink. There was guilt there too, just under the excitement; he was cheating on Hermione. There was no way around it. But it didn't feel like cheating to him, even though he knew that was a pretty poor rationalisation for what he was doing.

Harry didn't want to be rational. He just wanted to not be miserable. And as he lay there with his head on Ron's shoulder, he realised this was the least miserable he'd felt since Hermione left.

*****

"And that's why it's important to collect and store it under the right conditions," said Claire, capping the bottle and replacing it in her medicine box. "Do it wrong, and you've a mess on your hands, probably doing more harm than if you'd done nothing in the first place."

"Right," said Hermione. She paused in her writing, biting the end of her quill thoughtfully. Claire had so much knowledge about herbs and medicines that most of the sisters seemed unaware of, and Hermione had begun pestering her for information at every opportunity. She picked up one of several small packets of herbs from the box, examining it carefully. It smelled faintly of cucumber. "What about this one?"

"Borage," said Claire. "It's used quite a bit as a diuretic, and depending on how you prepare it you can also use it to soothe irritated mucous membranes - from things like smoke inhalation or from colds and influenza. It's a pretty basic thing to keep on hand."

Hermione scribbled furiously, jotting down everything Claire had to say about it. "And this one?"

"Is something I'm out of," said Claire with a frown. "Coltsfoot. And I'd planned on using it tomorrow; well not me personally, but Mother Hildegarde says there's an outbreak of a nasty sort of catarrh that she hasn't been able to curb yet, and I thought I'd try something new with it." She glanced up at the clock on the shelf, then went to retrieve her cloak from the hook on the wall where she'd put it when she came in earlier that day. "I expect I'd best go to the apothecary's and pick up some more before going home."

"Would you mind terribly if I went with you?" Hermione asked quickly, nearly dropping her parchment and quill. "It's just that I - well, there would be so much more to see at the apothecary's, wouldn't there? This is all ever so fascinating, I'd love to know more and that seems the perfect place to do it."

"And I don't expect you've been outside the hospital since you came, have you?" Claire looked at her appraisingly, and then smiled. "Let's find you a cloak and you can come along."

After a quick stop to tell Mother Hildegarde that Hermione would be with Claire for the rest of the afternoon, they were met at the front door by a thin, doe-eyed boy who looked to be no more than nine or ten years old. "Milady!" said the boy, bounding down from his perch at the top of the steps in a way that reminded Hermione of a small, lithe ferret. "Are you feeling well? Why are you leaving so soon? It is so early for you, is something wrong?"

Claire laughed. "No, Fergus, it's fine. I just need to refill some items in my medicine box, and I thought I'd do it with a little company."

"Milord will not be pleased," said Fergus darkly.

"Milord will get over it," said Claire.

It turned out that Claire had her own coach and driver, who appeared shortly to take them to the apothecary's. It also turned out that Fergus was a sort of servant of the Fraser household, though Claire hardly seemed to treat him as such. Fergus bounded about the carriage, flitting anxiously from window to window and muttering to himself in French. Hermione could not understand it all but it seemed that 'Milord', who she assumed to mean Claire's husband Jamie, did not approve of this particular shop and had serious reservations about Claire going there without him.

"If your husband disapproves of this shop, why don't you find another?" Hermione asked. Personally, she felt that she were Claire, she would go just to find out why he didn't want her to, but she wasn't sure if that was Claire's motivation or not. "Another shop, I mean, not another husband," she added quickly, when she realised how her first statement sounded. "Is there some reason he doesn't like it?"

Claire laughed. "Well, he's Scottish," she said, and shrugged, as if that explained it all.

"Ah, I see," said Hermione, who really didn't see after all. "And Fergus?"

"Fergus insists on going with me wherever I go," said Claire, giving him an affectionate look. Fergus peered out the window at the people and buildings they passed, and Hermione could swear his nose was twitching with excitement, reinforcing the impression of a small animal. "We found him - or rather, I should say Jamie found him - in sort of an unpleasant circumstance, and Fergus was so grateful that he's taken it upon himself to 'protect' me wherever I go. Among other things."

Hermione was about to ask what those other things were when the carriage pulled up in front of a nondescript shop squeezed in between two larger, flashier ones. Fergus protested vehemently at being made to wait in the carriage, but Claire placated him by telling him that he must keep an eye out for robbers or highwaymen, at which point he puffed up his chest proudly and went to sit with the driver, his large brown eyes darting up and down the street for signs of trouble. Hermione bit back a giggle and followed Claire into the shop.

From the outside, the shop looked as if it would be small and dingy, but the inside was surprisingly well lit and organised. A long wooden counter ran the length of the room, behind which were several tall, glass-fronted cabinets and even more open shelving packed full of row upon row of neatly labelled jars and bottles. Hermione took a deep breath and her eyes watered at the strong alcoholic fumes that came from the rear of the shop; she could see over a small half-door into a workroom that contained some equipment that clearly looked like a distillery.

A weather-beaten, almost toad-like face framed in straight grey hair popped up from behind the counter. "Ah, Madonna, what can I do for you today?" he asked, his face splitting into a wide, toothless grin as he stepped out into the shop.

"Hello, Raymond," said Claire. She glanced around the shop and gestured to one of the glass-fronted cabinets with a grin. "I see you have your cabinets back?"

Raymond raised one grey eyebrow and laughed. "As I told you it would be, Madonna. The Vitcomtesse is nothing if not predictable. And I have no doubt it will not be the last time she will come into my shop in need of such services. It was certainly not the first. Alas, the trials of business." The grin wavered briefly into an expression of surprise when he noticed Hermione, but was quickly suppressed as he nodded his head briefly in greeting. "Mademoiselle."

Hermione had the strangest feeling she should know this odd little man in the scruffy velvet robe, but she couldn't figure out why. Raymond and Claire stepped behind the counter, taking numerous jars and bottles from the shelves and discussing them, and Hermione followed along behind, nodding and saying 'mmhmm' at various intervals. She was more focused on Raymond himself than what he was actually saying, trying to figure out why he would seem so familiar to her when no one she had met so far had been, and most of his and Claire's conversation was lost on her.

"I cannae go away for one day wi'out ye runnin' off from where ye say you'll be," said a voice from the doorway, and Hermione looked up to see an impossibly tall, red-headed man in a kilt leaning easily against the doorframe, trying to suppress a grin. "Will ye no stay in one place for long enough for your poor husband to find you, Sassenach?" he said to Claire.

"Poor husband, forsooth," said Claire, laughing. "Don't you have enough to keep you busy without chasing me down all over the city?"

The redhead, who Hermione assumed to be Claire's husband Jamie, came over to the counter, with Fergus at his heels. "Aye, I do," he said, with a pointed look. "Like having dinner with certain business acquaintances. Or were ye so busy treating gouty toes and pustulent arseholes that you forgot about it?"

"Oh!" said Claire. "It completely slipped my mind."

"Aye, I see that." Jamie looked amused. Obviously this wasn't the first time Claire had been so caught up in her work that she'd forgotten something unrelated.

Raymond coughed, glancing up anxiously at Jamie, who towered over him considerably. "I would make the decoction for you myself, Madonna, except that your husband seems most anxious to be on his way. Perhaps you can return tomorrow when you do not have a pressing business engagement?"

"That's fine," said Claire, shrugging back into her cloak. "I was hoping to have it ready tomorrow to administer to the patients, but I suppose another day's wait won't hurt."

"Then I can stay," said Hermione quickly. "I'll wait for it and take it back to the hospital with me, and it'll be there when you come back in the morning. Is that all right?" She sincerely hoped it was, as she wasn't quite ready to leave the shop until she had found out more about Raymond and why he seemed so familiar. And despite his odd and froggy appearance, she felt bizarrely comfortable with him. It didn't make any sense, and she wanted to know why.

Claire agreed, and promised to send the coach back to return her to the hospital. She and Jamie left in a swish of cloak and kilt, and the shop seemed oddly quiet once they were gone. Hermione turned back to Raymond, who was gathering up the bottles that he and Claire had selected and putting them into a small basket. "Will you show me how to brew it?" she asked.

Raymond nodded. "Follow me, please." He took the basket into the workroom that was just visible through the half-door, and Hermione followed him. The equipment she'd glimpsed over the door was indeed a distillery - cherry brandy, from the smell of it - but Raymond walked past it to the far side of the room and deposited the basket on a low counter. "But first, I must ask you why you agreed so easily to stay behind."

"To wait for the medicine," said Hermione.

Raymond folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe. "And?"

Hermione turned away from him for a moment, looking at the shelf beside her. It was lined in small jars with labels in spidery script. Aconite. Belladonna. Calabar Bean. Dead Tongue. Foxglove. Hellebore, Black. Hemlock. Nightshade, Black. Nightshade, Deadly. Nux Vomica. Stavesacre. Yew. "You seem to keep an awful lot of poisons on hand," she said, eyeing the labels.

"Even the most deadly of poisons have curative properties when used properly," said Raymond. "And with the right intentions. It is not the item itself that is inherently good or bad; it is how much and for what purpose it is used." He paused. "But you are quite familiar with this concept already."

He stepped over to the door, peeking out into the main part of the shop and then pulling both halves of the door closed. "I did not expect to see you here in this time, Hermione. How did you get here?"

"Do I - I'm sorry, am I supposed to know you?"

Raymond frowned. "Do you not?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know."

"I see." The ingredients for Claire's decoction were still in the basket on the counter. Raymond took them out of the basket and began measuring them into a basin. "Tell me what you do know while we prepare this, and we shall see what we can do."

The business of measuring, mixing, chopping and blending came easy to Hermione, almost as if she'd learned to do it in the life she had that she couldn't remember, and the scents of the herbs were soothing. It didn't take long for her to tell her story, as it began with her waking in a bed in the Hopital des Anges and ended with her arrival in the shop a few hours ago.

Raymond set the mixture over a low flame, and then gestured to a chair over by the table next to the still. "It must brew for a while. Please, come and sit." Hermione sat, and Raymond moved to stand behind her. She could feel his hands resting on the back of her chair. "I believe I can help you, if you will allow me," he said quietly.

Hermione nodded. She didn't know Raymond, and yet...she knew him. "All right."

"Close your eyes."

As soon as she closed her eyes, Raymond placed his hands on top of her head, his long, blunt fingers sliding under her hair. It felt odd, but not wrong, and Hermione sat very still. A warm, tingling sensation crept across the surface of her scalp, and she had to fight not to laugh because it almost tickled. "What are you doing?"

"Do not speak," he whispered, pressing his fingers lightly against her skull. "Just for a moment." The tingling sensation felt as if it was creeping under the bones of her skull, and she had the most peculiar sensation of being able to actually sense her brain, all the ridges and convolutions folding in on themselves in a way that she had never been aware of before.

The first thing she noticed was that she could no longer smell the cherry brandy from the still. The alcoholic fumes were gone, replaced by the smell of chocolate. Chocolate, and pumpkin juice, and treacle tart, all blended together in a rich, heady smell that made her mouth water. She almost opened her eyes to see if something had suddenly been put down in front of her, but a slight pressure from Raymond's fingers reminded her to be still and quiet, and she gripped the sides of her chair, waiting anxiously for whatever it was that Raymond was doing to be over so she could find out what was going on. The rich smells of food changed to the cloying cabbagey smell of a potion, the dank smell of a dungeon, and the heady scent of leather gloves.

Raymond slid his fingers down the sides of her head, moving so slowly that she wasn't quite sure at first that he was moving them at all. They stopped just above her ears, and the scents gave way to sounds. First it was the sound of a wooden flute and a lot of loud, rhythmic snoring, which changed into the roar of a troll, the sibilant hiss of a language she didn't understand, and then into a man's voice, singing "God Rest Ye Merry, Hippogriffs." Before she even had time to remember what a hippogriff was, the voices multiplied, changing from a merry holiday tune into a jeering chorus of "Weasley Is Our King". Then the sounds changed to symbols and shapes, flashing before her eyes; a golden lion and a silver snake, a glowing green skull with a snake in its mouth and an age-brown parchment with tiny footprints scampering across it; a patch of sun-warmed skin spattered with freckles and the taped-up bridge of a battered pair of glasses.

There was a swift rush of memories and feeling across and through her brain like water breaking over a dam, and Hermione gasped out loud as everything came pouring back into her mind: knowledge, places, memories. A sea of faces, each looking at her as though welcoming her back from a long absence - short faces, long faces, round and stern faces, their smiles and voices and habits surrounding her with bits and pieces of the life she'd forgotten. Everything she'd known and experienced in nineteen years replayed in an instant before her eyes, almost too fast to comprehend, zooming along to the night her carriage had crashed and the world as she'd known it ceased to exist.

"You may open your eyes now, Hermione." Hermione looked up to see Raymond standing just in front of her, watching her with a curious expression. "Do you remember now?"

It took her a moment to find her voice. "I do," she said. "And I need your help."

*****

Harry stepped through the door of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes and ducked automatically, dodging a flying Snitch toy that squirted cold water at anyone who walked past. It was habit to duck; one never knew what might happen just by opening the door, considering that this was Fred and George's shop. Having slipped out of the squirting Snitch's range, he looked around apprehensively. It had been a while since he felt like getting out of the house, and maybe coming to one of the noisiest, most crowded places in Hogsmeade wasn't the best of ideas.

"Oh, look, it's our most famous customer!" said George, popping up from behind the counter. "What can our fine establishment do for you on this lovely afternoon? We've just come out with a new and improved version of the Ton-Tongue Toffee, if you'd like to try it - or how about a Burping Bauble? Or a Mocking Mirror?"

"Ah...no," said Harry, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I'm actually not looking for that kind of thing today. It's something a little more personal." Maybe the twins weren't exactly who he needed to help him with this, but he couldn't think of anyone more creative and inventive than these two.

"Personal?" George raised an eyebrow, then winked. "Oh...personal. Got it. What with the girlfriend being away and all, course you'll need a little inspiration. Well, that sort of stuff's in the back, you know, can't have it out here where the kiddies will see."

"Not that!" snapped Harry, turning red. "I need help with making something."

"Making something?"

"It's for Ron," Harry said, by way of explanation. "I want to help him fly again."

George leaned on the counter, suddenly serious. "Do you think he can? I mean..." George, like all the Weasleys, had been at the hospital when the Healers had filled them in on Ron's condition, after his accident, and so he was well aware of how Ron was getting along.

"I don't know, but I'd like to try. I've been thinking that maybe - well, I don't think it'd be like he could play Quidditch or anything again, but maybe we could rig up a broom so that he could at least fly a little? Maybe with the right sorts of charms and things, he could at least get off the ground for a bit?" Harry had been thinking about this off and on for a while, ever since his birthday party. When he'd unwrapped the new racing broom that was a gift from the Order of the Phoenix, he'd seen the hungry way Ron had looked at the broom. Not in an 'I want that broom' kind of way, but in an 'I really wish I could do that again' kind of way. Harry didn't know if it was possible, but he wanted to try. Besides, it wasn't as if he was doing anything else at the moment. Helping Ron to fly wouldn't be anything Voldemort was interested in seeing, and it would be something to take his mind off things he couldn't do anything about - or at least make it a little more tolerable for the both of them.

George drummed his fingers on the countertop for a moment. "You know, we might just be able to come up with something. Come back in the back with me, and let's see what we can put together." He laughed at Harry's expression. "Not back where we keep the PlayWizards! The other back room."

The 'other back room' turned out to be a long, expansive workroom that stretched the length of the shop. At first glance it looked to be more cluttered than Arthur Weasley's shed behind the Burrow, but on closer inspection it was surprisingly well organised - just bursting at the seams with product samples, experiments, jars of ingredients and boxes of materials. Every inch of wall space was crowded with notes, diagrams, charts, plans, and lists.

Harry was impressed. He'd always known the twins were clever, even if it wasn't Hermione's brand of cleverness, but he'd never seen behind the scenes, so to speak.

"Fred and I bought this right after Ron went to that training session with the Tornados," George said, ducking into a small closet in the corner. "We never got a chance to give it to him." He emerged with a dusty Firebolt, still half in its wrappings. Harry grinned, remembering his own beloved Firebolt. He took off the rest of the paper as George cleared a space on one of the long worktables at the edge of the room.

"It'll probably need some extra Cushioning Charms," said Harry, running his fingertips along the smooth, polished handle of the broom and tucking in a slightly bent tail-twig. "And maybe a little adjustment in the weight of it - his balance isn't what it used to be. We could add a little weight to the front? Just enough to keep it from tilting too far back? My old Firebolt would lean in the back, sometimes."

"On it," said George, pulling out a crate of tools. "And those footrests will have to be lengthened, I bet. Make them a little more secure."

Harry frowned slightly, thinking. "We should probably try to keep all the modifications invisible, if we can," he said. "I mean, if it can be done with a charm, we should try that first. If it looks too much different from a regular broom...he might...you know."

George laughed. "Get hacked off and offended? That's our Ronniekins."

They spent the rest of the afternoon working on Ron's broom. Fred poked his head in after lunch, and ended up calling Angelina down from their flat above the shop to help them figure out some things. She'd been pretty nasty to both him and Ron their fifth year, when she'd been Quidditch captain, but Harry instantly forgave her when she suggested they alter all the charms on the broom to make turning and steering controllable by hand and finger movements. Normally brooms, especially international standard racing brooms, relied on subtle reflex signals from the rider's hips, knees, and feet for turning and acceleration, leaving the hands basically free for handling Snitches, Quaffles, and Beater's bats. The only time a rider really needed his hands was for hard breaking and sharp turning, as well as balance. But by making the charms rely on hand signals instead of other muscle signals, they just might be able to fix it so that Ron could fly again.

It took two weeks' worth of work to alter and fine-tune all the charms. They all tested it out in turns, simulating the effect of paralysis with a Petrificus Partialus to see if their new charms really did work. Harry fell off four times, as did Angelina, and the twins fell three times each, but Harry didn't worry. Each time, they were able to figure out what didn't work, and fix it, so that by the time they were finished they were all able to ride it successfully even though it felt odd. The tricky part would be convincing Ron to try it. Even trickier would be how he'd manage to get on and off it with some semblance of dignity, something Ron had fiercely clung to ever since the accident. But when Harry took the broom home and hid it under his bed to wait for the right time to approach Ron, he knew it was worth a try.

*****

He should have realised Harry was up to something. Harry had been gone more often than not over the past two weeks, and had refused to tell Ron where he'd been, only saying he had 'things to do' before dashing off. It wasn't as though he had Auror training or anything else to keep him busy, and later, Ron couldn't believe he hadn't seen it coming before.

Ron came home from work one afternoon to find Harry waiting for him on the front steps with a long, rectangular package balanced on his knees. "Hi," said Harry, getting up. He held the package protectively against his chest.

"What is that?" Ron asked suspiciously. A package of that shape and size could only hold one thing, but if that's what it was, Ron wasn't finding it very amusing.

"It's...a present," said Harry. "Come around back and I'll show you." Ron followed Harry into the back garden, and once they were there, Harry said, "First of all, you have to promise you won't get hacked off, okay? And don't say no right away."

"That depends on what it is," said Ron.

"No, you have to promise," said Harry. He carefully laid the package across Ron's lap, and then stepped back, as if he were expecting Ron to throw it back at him. "Go on, open it."

Ron fingered the string tying the package shut. Now that he had it in his hands, he was certain of what was inside, and he couldn't figure out for the life of him why Harry was giving him one of them; but the hopeful, anxious look on Harry's face told him that there had to be something more to it. So he pulled the string loose and undid the wrappings to reveal a brand new, gleaming Firebolt broomstick.

He didn't know what to say. He just stared at it. The handle was so shiny that he could almost see his reflection in the diamond-hard polish.

"Why?" he said finally, looking up at Harry.

"Because I think you can fly this one," Harry said, picking it up and chucking all the paper and string aside. "I had a little help - well a lot, actually, from certain people who wish to remain nameless - and I think we figured out how you can do it."

Harry let go of it and the broom hovered in midair, just at the right height for Ron to climb on, if he wanted. If he could. Ron reached out and touched the flawless wood with his fingertips, and he could feel it humming, almost like the heartbeat of a living thing. "I don't know," he managed to force out around the knot in his throat. The last time he'd been on a broom he'd fallen fifty feet straight down after getting slammed in the stomach by two Bludgers and then crashed into the goalpost. The thought of flying made his blood run cold, but at the same time it made a small, hopeful bubble form in his chest.

"Please?" said Harry. He nudged the broomstick a little closer to Ron. "I think it'll work. Just try it."

Ron curled his fingers around the handle. "All right."

It took some doing to figure out how he could get from wheelchair to broomstick, but between him and Harry they managed to make it work. And fifteen minutes later, he was sitting on his Firebolt, two and a half feet off the ground and more scared than he'd been the very first time he flew.

"It's really confusing at first," said Harry. He took hold of Ron's hands, placing them at just the right spot on the broom's handle. "You'll control everything with your hands. So you'll have to think differently than you're used to when you want to speed up, slow down, turn, go higher or lower - it's all right here. Like this." With his hand over Ron's, he slid Ron's thumb back just a little, and the broom rose a few inches in the air.

"Whoa," said Ron, wobbling slightly from the unexpected movement. "It's really sensitive."

Harry nodded. "Yep. Just the smallest touch'll do it, no matter what you want to do. Just go slow for a while." He Summoned his Windstorm III, which he'd left leaning against the back of the house, and climbed on, hovering just next to Ron in the air. "Go on," he said, grinning nervously. "I'll follow you."

Ron took a deep breath and nudged the broom forward with his fingertips. It only took the slightest movement to set the broom into motion, but it was smooth and easy with no jerking or bolting at all. Another gesture coaxed it a little faster, and soon he was skimming along quickly enough to make his hair whip around into his face and sting his eyes.

Even though he was only a few feet off the ground, he was flying.

Ron laughed, because it was the only sound he could make that even came close to expressing how much pure joy he felt at the moment. It was the pure, beautiful kind of joy that made his heart feel like it was made of spun glass, sparkling and fragile and wonderful. He was flying, he was up off the ground and moving again, and while it wasn't completely the same as before it was so close and it was good. He nudged the broom higher, not too high, but just enough to let him peek over the top of the house and see down the street, and he felt a heady rush of excitement flood through him.

"It works!" he yelled, circling the garden. "Look! It works!"

"I know!" Harry yelled back.

Ron thought that if he was grinning half as stupidly as Harry was, then he looked like a right idiot, but he didn't care. They flew around the garden in circles, Ron getting used to the very different way of manoeuvering and balancing, and Harry following along behind him grinning like a maniac. They didn't dare go too high or too fast, but that was fine with Ron. It just mattered that he could go.

He pulled up short after a while to catch his breath, and Harry pulled up alongside him.

"Thank you," said Ron. It didn't really seem like enough to say, somehow, but he didn't know how he could tell Harry just how happy this made him. "I don't know how you did it, but...thank you."

Harry busied himself with wiping some fingerprints off the handle of the Windstorm with the tail of his shirt. "It wasn't that hard, really," he said. "And I had some help."

"Still," said Ron. Holding onto his broom very carefully with one hand, as he wasn't sure if he could keep his balance if he totally let go, he reached out and took Harry's hand with the other. "You helped me fly again, Harry."

Harry urged his broom a little closer to Ron's until they were almost touching. "You helped me want to fly again, Ron," he said.

They didn't land until well after dark, after they'd shouted themselves hoarse with glee. Ron's back and shoulders were tired from learning this very different and new way of keeping his balance, but it was the good kind of tired that was well worth it. When they went back inside, Ron was surprised and startled to see his father's face hovering in the fireplace.

"Dad?"

"I was about to come over there if you didn't answer the Floo soon," said his father. He looked very grim. "I'm afraid I have some rather unfortunate news, boys."

Harry frowned, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose. "What is it, Mr Weasley?"

He paused for a moment, looking at both of them, and then said, "I'm afraid Hermione's parents are missing."