The Last Time

Chapter 25

After Hermione left the tower, her first stop was the Owlery. Telling Madam Pomfrey or McGonagall or Dumbledore about what had happened with Harry was out of the question, at least until Harry got himself together. But Remus was a different story. He told her to let him know if anything strange happened with Harry - and this definitely qualified as strange. And Remus would be able to talk to Harry about what had happened better than she could.

The note was short and to the point, but difficult to write. How do you tell a man his godson (for Remus had practically become Harry's godfather after Sirius's death) almost murdered someone? Dear Remus, Harry tried to drown Draco Malfoy in the lake today. Please come as soon as you can, as I think Harry's losing his mind. Thank you, Hermione. Finally she decided that it didn't matter how it sounded, as long as Remus got the point and got there as soon as possible.

Hedwig fluttered down from her perch when she saw Hermione, and stuck her leg out helpfully, as if she knew Harry was in trouble and the letter was about him.

"Find Remus as fast as you can, okay?" Hermione said, giving the snowy bird an affectionate pat. "It's important."

Hedwig hooted solemnly before flying away.

Then Hermione was off to the library.

Being that it was the Easter holidays, Madam Pince closed the library earlier than usual, before dinner, rather than later in the evening. Hermione sneaked into the library under the Invisibility Cloak just before Madam Pince locked the doors.

They really ought to keep the Restricted Section under a bit tighter security, she mused, watching the sour-faced librarian finish up her day's work. Any student with an Invisibility Cloak could just waltz in here and find out all manner of things they ought not know.

Which was precisely what she was going to do.

When she was sure Madam Pince had gone for good, she took off the cloak, laid it aside, and began to scan the shelves.

For a moment, after she'd left Harry asleep in her room, she seriously considered sneaking into St. Mungo's to see Ron and trying to convince him to let her help him, but her promise to Dumbledore weighed heavily on her mind. She couldn't go back on her word. There was something about the elderly wizard that made it impossible to defy him. Deep down, she knew he was right; it was dangerous for her to attempt something so tricky without knowing exactly how she was doing it. What worried her even more was that she could make Ron's condition even worse by not knowing exactly what to do.

But if Dumbledore insisted that she learn, why hadn't he made arrangements for her to do so?

She decided that her first course of action was to find out anything she could about Master Raymond. If she could figure out who he was and when and where he existed, then she'd worry about how to find him. If only he were a wizard on a Chocolate Frog card.... She remembered when she and Ron and Harry had prowled the library for information on Nicholas Flamel.

"I checked this out weeks ago for a bit of light reading," Hermione said, dropping an extremely large book onto the table, making Harry and Ron jump.

"This is light?" Ron said, staring suspiciously, as if a book that large could only be used as a weapon and not a source of information.

She glared at him. Boys could be so annoying sometimes.

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "Here it is: 'Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone'!"

Harry and Ron stared. "The what?"

"Honestly, don't you two read?" She read from the book, "'The Philosopher's Stone is a legendary substance with astonishing powers. It can transform any metal into pure gold, and produces the Elixir of Life, which makes the drinker immortal.'"

Ron frowned. "Immortal?"

"It means you'll never die," explained Hermione.

"I know what it means!" Ron was indignant.

"Shhh!" hissed Harry, and nodded at Hermione to continue.

"'The only Stone currently in existence belongs to Nicholas Flamel, the noted alchemist, who last year celebrated his six hundred and sixty fifth birthday.'" She was practically bouncing in her chair in her excitement. "That's what Fluffy's guarding on the third floor! That's what's under the trap door - the Philosopher's Stone!"

They had been so innocent then.

Hermione pushed the thought away and got to work.

Many of the books she searched through were musty and old; the dust tickled her nose and made her eyes water, but she fought the urge to sneeze. All she needed was for Mrs. Norris to be on the prowl, hear a noise, and Filch would be there in two seconds flat. If she ended up with detention, it would be harder for her to get in here again to find what she was looking for.

Several hours and countless books later, she was as clueless as she'd been when she first walked in. There was nothing of use in any of the books she'd read. Absolutely nothing. No one named Raymond, or even someone remotely fitting his description either in appearance or ability, was listed anywhere. She couldn't find reference to anyone who had the kind of abilities she and Raymond had, either.

What kind of magic is this, if no one even knows about it?

There were still many more books she wanted to search through, but she was too tired to read anymore tonight. She tried to stifle a huge yawn, and glanced at her watch to check the time - it was after two in the morning.

Hesitantly, she fingered the tiny clasp at the edge of her watch face. She had rarely taken it off since Harry had given it to her for Christmas - it was physically and magically waterproof, so she wore it even in the shower. Something about its solid smoothness was comforting. Harry almost always wore his, she had noticed, but Ron.... She didn't know what had happened to Ron's watch. She hadn't seen it since the night he said he didn't want to speak to her or Harry ever again and had thrown it to the floor with the same expression on his face as when he mentioned Scabbers - hurt, disgusted, and betrayed.

Ever since the dream she'd had in the hospital wing, after Ron's accident, she had refused to look at the enchanted dial underneath, terrified that Ron's or Harry's hands would be pointing to Mortal Peril. She carefully flicked the catch with her thumb and flipped up the top face. Each hand was where she expected - hers and Harry's at Hogwarts, and Ron's at Hospital.

It was just a dream, you silly girl, she told herself, snapping the watch closed irritably. Divination, including dreams, is a very imprecise form of magic. It was just a subconscious manifestation of your worries about your best friends. Get a grip. She hurriedly returned the books to their places with Banishing Charms, put on the cloak, and left the library.

When she reached her room, she knocked softly on the door. If Harry was awake, and didn't want her to come in, he could say so; if he was asleep, she wouldn't wake him. Hearing no answer, she removed the locking charms and went inside, tossing the cloak over a chair.

She had to bite back a laugh at the sight of Harry as she locked the door behind her. He was flat on his back, sound asleep and snoring softly, arms and legs sprawled carelessly over the bed. The blankets had all come loose and were bunched around his legs and feet, and his t-shirt had crept up around his middle, revealing just a bit of his flat, lightly muscled stomach.

Crookshanks had curled up on the pillow near Harry's head, as he often did with Hermione, his bottle-brush tail flicking slowly as he dozed. He opened one lazy yellow eye and fixed it on her as if to say I've been keeping an eye on him for you, and then closed it again.

"Thanks, Crookshanks," she whispered, scratching his head, sending him into fits of ecstatic purring and pillow-kneading.

It seemed like Harry been sleeping quietly since she left. His face didn't look worried or strained, but had the calm look of a peaceful sleep; mouth slightly open, jaw relaxed, hair messy but not frighteningly wild. His scar wasn't the vivid red it tended to be when he was angry or upset, but was its usual colour, just a little darker than the skin around it.

Very carefully, she pulled his shirt back down over his stomach, untangled the blankets from around his feet, and covered him up again. It was chilly in the room and she didn't want him to get cold.

She put their wands on the table, took off her robes and changed into her favourite baggy t-shirt, pulled on her dressing gown, and padded to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Then she came back in the room and started to climb into Parvati's empty bed - Crookshanks leaped from Harry's pillow to join her, pushing his squashed-looking face against her in hopes of a chin-scratch - but then she saw that Harry had kicked his blankets off again.

He's such a wiggly sleeper, she thought, as she tugged them up into place.

"Good night, Harry," she whispered, and bent to kiss him on the cheek.

"Mmm," Harry mumbled, shifting under the blankets. It was a deep, throaty sound that made Hermione's heart beat very fast.

I shouldn't bother him...

"Hermione?"

It was the first word he'd said since just before they'd left the lake, and it startled her.

"I didn't mean to wake you, Harry," she said quickly. "Go back to sleep."

"S'okay," he said sleepily. "Not tired anymore."

"Yes you are," Hermione said firmly. "Good night." She went back to Parvati's bed and climbed in, pushing Crookshanks off the pillow so she could lie down.

It only took a moment for her to surrender to sleep; it had been a very long and draining day. Her mind clouded as soon as she hit the pillow, and she welcomed the blankness; it was so nice not to think, or plan, or take care of anyone, and just rest.

*****

Butterflies.

She had the strangest dream about butterflies that night - which was odd, because she'd never really thought about butterflies before.

Sure, they were beautiful and all, but they weren't magical or ferocious, and so they wouldn't have studied them in Hagrid's class, and they weren't used as ingredients in any potions that she knew of.

No, she'd never given them too much thought.

But dream about them she did. Dozens of jewel-bright butterflies, with soft, velvety wings and delicate antennae that quivered when she breathed on them, and fragile, impossibly thin legs that tickled her skin when they touched her.

They landed lightly on her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids, her ears, her neck, and her hair, and they made her giggle, their wings moving languidly back and forth as though they were fluttering in the wind.

She wanted to touch them, to feel their delicate wings with her fingertips, but they all danced maddeningly out of her reach - until she managed to brush her fingers against one.

It was beautiful, with brilliant green wings that looked like thin sheets of emeralds, translucent and shining.

It was very warm, which surprised her; she thought insects wouldn't be warm, but this one was, and it was oddly familiar, as if she'd touched it before. But she couldn't have - she didn't pay much attention to butterflies.

There was nothing about butterflies on the N.E.W.T.s, she was sure, so why would she have noticed them before?

She reached out to touch it again - and they all disappeared.

She felt very lonely, very sad, very empty when they were gone.

*****

She heard a wet slurping noise in her ear and opened her eyes to investigate. Crookshanks, who had curled up by her head, had apparently decided now was the perfect time for a bath, and was licking his front paw and swiping it vigorously over his face.

It was not a pleasant sound.

"Ugh, get down, Crookshanks," hissed Hermione, depositing the cat on the floor. Offended, he stuck his tail in the air and stalked off to lie on the rug.

Now that she was wide awake, thanks to her furry friend, she sat up and looked around. Bright sunlight flooded the windows; she couldn't see the clock from here and had no idea how late she'd slept. Then her heart stopped.

Harry was gone.

She'd left his wand on the table with her own; it was gone, along with the Invisibility Cloak and his pile of dirty clothes.

And the St. Mungo's Portkey.

Damn.

She got up and pulled on her clothes as quickly as possible, whishing she hadn't left Harry's wand lying around in plain sight like that.

You idiot.

Hermione wasn't sure whether she was referring to herself or to Harry.

As she crammed her feet into her shoes, Hedwig tapped loudly at the window. Hermione let her in. The owl was clearly exhausted; she must have flown faster than she ever had before. She perched on the headboard of the bed and hooted feebly as she let Hermione untie the letter from her leg.

Remus' letter was very short. Will be there by this evening. Do not let Harry out of your sight.

Hermione sighed. Too late, Remus, I already screwed that up, she thought, as she patted Hedwig and sent her back to the Owlery.

She hadn't wanted to involve any teachers until Remus got here, but she didn't have a choice now. Harry had taken the Portkey, so that could only mean he had gone to St. Mungo's to see Ron, who did not want anyone to see him.... She couldn't get there without a Portkey, not without walking to Hogsmeade and Flooing, but that would take too long.

As Hermione ran down the dormitory steps, the portrait hole opened and Professor McGonagall climbed in, looking irritated.

"Miss Granger...Arthur Weasley just called...."

"Harry went to St. Mungo's," interrupted Hermione.

McGonagall's eyes went wide. "How did you...never mind. When it comes to Potter and Weasley, I ought to have known you'd know." She dropped a small black object into Hermione's hand. "Here's another Portkey. Professor Dumbledore is already there. You should hurry...I suspect there's been a case of...massive testosterone poisoning." The corner of McGonagall's mouth turned up just a fraction, though her face remained severe.

*****

There was quite a group assembled outside Ron's room: Professor Dumbledore, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and several bewildered-looking hospital staff members all stood around in the corridor, talking softly. They didn't look particularly upset or worried, just concerned. Professor Dumbledore looked slightly amused, as usual, and he smiled as he saw Hermione approach.

"Ah, Miss Granger, you're just in time," he said, motioning for her to join them.

"What's going on, Professor?" asked Hermione, completely confused. She could hear the muffled sounds of an argument coming from behind Ron's closed door. She couldn't make out the words, but it didn't sound very pleasant.

"I believe Mr. Potter has decided to take matters into his own hands as far as Mr. Weasley is concerned," said Dumbledore. "I don't particularly agree with his methods, but given the circumstances...."

"He hasn't kicked Harry out yet, so that's good," said Bill hopefully. "He wouldn't let any of us in."

"I think," continued Dumbledore, "and his parents agree, that Mr. Weasley has wallowed in his misery alone for far too long, and needs a bit of...what is the Muggle phrase? Ah, yes, 'tough love', I believe."

Oh, but you don't know the half of it, Hermione thought. "So what am I to do?"

"Just talk to him, Hermione," said Mrs. Weasley. "Please. He won't let us in at all, but he's talking - in a way - to Harry. He may talk to you too."

Hermione wanted nothing more to be able to talk to Ron, to tell him how sorry she was for everything that had happened since Christmas, to hear him laugh with her and crack jokes again, but she was so afraid. He had been so angry with her for months now - he couldn't just change his feelings all of a sudden, especially on top of dealing with the repercussions of his accident. What if he told her to go to hell?

In the end she decided it didn't matter what he said, she was going to be selfish, and if she wanted to apologize and let him know she was there for him, then she was going to do it. If he didn't accept it, fine, but it had to be said.

This had gone on long enough.

She took a deep breath, placed her hand on the doorknob, and opened the door.

Neither Harry nor Ron noticed her come in. Their eyes were locked on each other, jaws set, tempers flaring. Ron sat up in the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, his arms crossed over his chest and breathing heavily. They had apparently been arguing for some time.

"It's bullshit, Ron!" Harry said, slamming his fist against the wall.

"What's bullshit is you storming in here when you damn well know I don't want to see you!" yelled Ron, his face contorted in anger. "I still don't know what the hell you're doing here in the first place!"

Hermione heard Mrs. Weasley gasp, and she quickly closed the door before anything else could reach the older woman's ears.

Harry made a frustrated noise. "Have you heard anything I said? We need you! Don't you get it? Hermione and me, we need you. Everything's been all fucked up without you. I've been all fucked up without you."

Ron laughed bitterly. "Fucked up? Oh, that's rich. You know what's fucked up? It's fucked up that I'm never going to be able to walk again. It's fucked up that I'm never going to be able to get on my broom again. It's fucked up that I can't even take a piss like a normal person anymore. I'm fucking useless, that's what, and I - "

"Ron." Hermione couldn't keep silent anymore. She hadn't thought about how much this would impact Ron's life until just now - not just the walking and the flying and things like that, but normal, everyday things she always took for granted - and her heart ached for him.

He tore his eyes away from Harry and stared at her. His mouth hung open for a moment, and then he snapped it shut, swallowing hard.

"Well, it's the truth," he said stubbornly, his ears turning red.

"Not the useless part," said Harry.

"And what do you think I'll be any good for?" asked Ron. "Have you ever seen a wizard who can't walk? Anyone at Hogwarts? Hell no. I'm a fucking freak, that's what I am."

"Shut up!" said Hermione fiercely. "So help me, Ron Weasley, if you ever say that again I swear I'll hex you bad it'll take you ten years to get the curses off!" She stomped across the room, sat on the bed, and got right in his face, so close that their noses almost touched.

His blue eyes went very wide and round. If he could have backed away, he probably would have; as it was, all he could do was press himself farther against the pillows and stare at her.

Her throat was very tight, and the words almost wouldn't come out, but she somehow managed a choked whisper. "You are not useless, and you are not a freak, because the best parts of you - here," she touched his forehead lightly, skimming her fingers through the fringe of hair there, " - and here - " she laid her hand on his chest, over his heart, " - are just fine."

Ron closed his eyes tightly, and Hermione could see the war that was going on inside him - the war that had been going on since Christmas but now was impossible to back away from - and his heart pounded against her hand through the thin cotton of his pyjamas.

Very, very hesitantly, Ron laid his hand over hers.

Hermione felt his fingers close around hers, and a second later Harry placed his hand on top of Ron's.

"Why couldn't you just leave me alone?" Ron whispered.

"I couldn't do that," said Harry, who was sitting on the other side of the bed.

"But why?"

"Ron, we don't have to talk about this now," said Hermione quickly, but he cut her off.

"Yes, we do," said Ron, looking up at Harry. "Something happened, didn't it?"

Harry tightened his grip on their hands. "Well...when I heard...you know, about - " he gestured to Ron's legs, motionless under the blanket, and the bandages on Ron's wrists, " - I kind of lost it."

"Lost it?" Ron looked confused.

Harry swallowed hard. "I - I went after Draco Malfoy."

"Yeah, I'm sure you kicked his arse pretty good, but - "

Harry sighed, and started to explain, but Hermione jumped in. "No, Ron. He almost killed Malfoy. As in, he had his hands around Malfoy's throat and was trying to drown him in the lake. Malfoy would have died - "

" - if Hermione hadn't stopped me," Harry finished. "All I could think about is what he'd done to you, and for a little while I didn't give a shit about being a murderer or going to Azkaban or anything else. I wanted to kill that bastard with my bare hands..." Harry's voice broke and he stopped abruptly, looking steadily at Ron.

Ron looked horrified.

There was a very long silence, in which Hermione was afraid to move or breathe or even blink for fear that someone, whether she or Ron or Harry, would say something incredibly stupid and they'd be right back where they started - miles apart.

"Bloody hell," said Ron suddenly, wrenching his hand free of theirs and pulling them both to him in a very tight hug. "Stupid wanker...."

"Ugh...I can't breathe," said Harry, his voice muffled due to his face being pressed somewhere in Ron's neck. Hermione was similarly smothered, but she didn't mind in the least.

"Then shut up already," said Ron, and they all laughed as he let go of them.

Hermione looked from Harry to Ron and back to Harry. Both of them wore identical nervous grins, and she couldn't help but smile back. While she knew that this didn't solve everything - they had so many things to talk about and work through - it was a start, and no matter how ugly it might get later on, they were going to make it.

All three of them.