Adamo Mortalis

Harry Potter, known to the entire wizarding world as the Boy Who Lived, could for the moment only be described as the Boy Who Snuggled.

It was mid-July and it was the first time in many weeks that Harry had awakened feeling rested and peaceful. Since the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, he hadn't been sleeping well. Visions of Cedric's body and the temporary ghosts of his parents haunted his dreams and when he awoke the memories left him tense and on edge.

But right then, in his half-conscious state, all Harry knew was the comfort and warmth of his bed in the Leaky Cauldron and the gentle plopping noises of rain on the roof. He burrowed his head further under the blankets and pulled them tighter around him, trying to let himself be lulled back to sleep.

"Harry! Harry!" Someone was yelling his name and pounding violently on his door. Reluctantly, Harry fumbled around on the bedside table for his glasses and stumbled to the door.

He opened it, blinking sleepily, as the image of Ron's freckled face filled his vision. Ron, fully dressed and looking expectantly at Harry, slumped a little at the sight of Harry, still in his pajamas and rubbing his eyes.

Even after several hours of deep slumber, Harry was still tired. The weeks of sleeping poorly were beginning to build on him, and there was the hint of shadows underneath his eyes.

"You're not ready yet?" Ron asked, the inflection of disappointment in his voice, along with some anxiety. "It starts in less than two hours, and we've still got to eat and . . ."

Harry sighed and sank down on his bed. It had felt so nice to just lay there for a little bit, not worried about anything . . . he considered telling Ron that he'd meet him there and climbing back in bed for another hour and a half, but another look at Ron's face made his decision concrete.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Harry said, yawning and beginning to unbutton his blue-striped pajama top. "It won't take me long to get ready. We'll have plenty of time."

Ron stood up and crossed the room, absentmindedly opening what Harry had designated to be a sock drawer and pulling out a pair of Harry's socks, unfolding and refolding them repeatedly. "I've just been so distracted with . . . well, you know, with Ginny, that I just want this to be a nice break." He grinned, relaxing a little. "Besides, I've been saving up my pocket money and winnings from the chess tournaments over the summer and I think I might have enough money to buy a broomstick of my own."

Harry understood. When Quality Quidditch Supplies, where Harry's Firebolt had been purchased by Sirius, had sent him a letter in June informing him of dates of their tri-yearly conference and with two special guest tickets, Harry had immediately thought of taking Ron so that both of them could get a little vacation. Harry had no intentions of purchasing a new broom, of course, as his Firebolt was still fairly new and in excellent condition, but he'd take anything as an excuse to get away from the Dursleys for a bit. Ron's parents, after some nagging, had allowed him to accompany Harry, and Harry had been able to get away by threatening to owl Sirius to tell him the Dursleys weren't treating him well. The Quality Quidditch Supplies Convention began that day, and there had been rumors all week that the company that had made the Firebolt was to unveil a new broom today, one that would be faster and sleeker.

Harry was pulling a t-shirt over his head, and Ron was continuing to fiddle with Harry's socks, when someone else burst into the room.

Harry yelped and dove behind the bed. He heard Ron greet Hermione, and he stood up to talk to her after he had discreetly pulled on some trousers.

"Hermione," Ron said with amazement, "What are you doing here? You couldn't possibly be attending the broomstick convention."

Hermione sniffed disapprovingly at him. "Do you think the only thing going on in Diagon Alley is your silly Quidditch meeting? I'm here for the Flourish and Blotts summer sale. You two should buy your books now, too - all of the textbooks are five Sickles off." She looked at Harry, who had walked around the bed closer to her, and flushed pink. "Hello, Harry." She glanced down awkwardly, and her blush deepened. "Er . . . your . . ."

Harry couldn't hear the rest of her sentence as Ron burst out laughing. Harry simply stared at the pair of them for a moment, then looked down self-consciously.

Harry was sure he turned a darker shade of red than Hermione as he whirled around to zip his pants. Ron was still laughing, and Harry and Hermione couldn't quite look each other in the eye once Harry was finished.

"Ron," Harry said, trying to sound mature, "We'd better go eat. Wouldn't want to be late today."

That sobered Ron up. "Right," he agreed, still chuckling, but he did head out the doorway to the Leaky Cauldron's dining room.

***

Harry sat down at a table with an apple tart, next to Ron and across from Hermione. She was unfolding a copy of the day's Daily Prophet and frowning at it as she took tiny bites from a blueberry muffin.

"What is it?" Ron asked, with a mouthful of tart. "You have that look."

"What look?" Hermione questioned, now frowning at Ron.

Ron grinned. "That one you had most of last year when you started talking about the house-elves. The look that means, 'something unjust has just happened, and I'm the right person to fix it.'"

Hermione glared even harder at him. "If you must know . . . Professor Lupin is being prosecuted by the Control of Magical Creatures Committee at the Ministry of Magic. He's been accused of killing a human while in werewolf form."

"What?" Harry and Ron said together. Harry sat back, stunned. How could this have happened? Harry thought. He shook his head. "He would never do something like that, letting himself get so out of control."

A pink flush, this time in indignation, was spreading up Hermione's cheeks. "I know." She looked down, and ran a hand through her hair, and Harry noticed for the firs time that it looked different than normal; curlier, and less bushy. It was almost . . . pretty.

Hermione kept talking. "All right," she said fiercely. "What can we do to stop it? There's got to be something . . ."

"I'll contact Sirius," Harry said quickly. His head was spinning. "He ought to know what's going on . . . they've been friends forever."

Ron blinked a couple of times, then said, "I'm not sure we can do anything. If it's a Ministry investigation . . ." he looked down. "I'll ask my dad, I guess, but that makes it already pretty serious business."

Something dawned on Harry, and he felt shaken. "It must be something to do with me. It has to be. Someone's trying to get at me, and they're hurting him."

"Don't be silly!" Hermione said sharply, then softened her voice. "Honestly, Harry, not everything has to do with you. There were plenty of upset parents once they found out their children had been taught by a werewolf."

Harry put his head down on the table. I can't deal with this, he thought. He stiffly stood up. "I'm going for a walk," he said hoarsely, and managed to stagger away before Ron and Hermione could react.

***

Harry had just made it outside the doors of the Leaky Cauldron when he heard someone say his name. Wearily, he turned around, but his eyebrows jumped up in surprise when he saw who it was: Cho Chang.

She smiled and said, "Hey, Harry," as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but Harry noticed something different about her. She looked far away, tired, and a little lost, when before he had only thought of her with words like pretty and confident. Perhaps the events at the end of last year had altered her. Perhaps it had altered them all like that made them lose their childish innocence. Harry wondered if he looked lost like Cho.

"Hey," he said awkwardly, putting his hands in his pockets. His hair was getting wet from the rain. He didn't care. "How are you?" he managed eventually.

She nodded. "I'm . . . all right. How are you?"

"Good," he lied, then thought he should have said something more intellectual, so they wouldn't just be standing in silence. There wasn't really anywhere you could go with a response like good, he thought wryly.

Cho interrupted his thoughts. "I won't be going to Hogwarts this year."

Harry tried to act as if this were to be expected. "Yeah? Why not?"

"I've decided I don't want to be a witch. I'm going to transfer to a Muggle school."

Harry struggled to come up with something to say. Nothing remotely applicable came in to his head. Finally, when the silence had become unbearable, he said, "I have to go - goodbye, Cho," and began to walk away, feeling utterly humiliated with his lack of conversational skills.

"Harry-" She caught up with him. "Wait."

He turned and looked at her soberly. "What?"

"I'll miss you," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. "You've always been so nice to me."

Harry felt himself flush. "I'll miss you, too," he said quietly, and turned again to walk away.

"Goodbye, Harry," she called; but he was too far gone to hear her.

***

Harry tilted his head up to the great dark sky, the clouds grey and heavy with raindrops. He took deep breaths as it began to pour harder, and let the water drench him. His glasses, splattered with rain, blinded him, so he took them off and slipped them in his pocket. He searched the sky, seeing only blurry shapes, blending together in his nearsightedness.

"Harry."

It was Hermione, and he turned around to face her calmly, realizing for the first time how possibly insane he must look. He smiled and said, "I was just coming back."

"Good," she said, and still looking a little worried underneath a navy blue umbrella, forced a light tone in to her voice. "For goodness sake, Harry, you're soaking. You'll have to change clothes." She stood nearer to him, so that the umbrella covered him too, and began to dry his hair with her scarf. "You'd think you'd start being practical about these sorts of thing sometimes. It'd be horrid to catch a cold in the middle of summer." The usual bossiness had come back to her voice now, and it reassured him.

Hermione was still vigorously tousling his hair when he reached out and put his arms around her, something he had never dared to initiate before. For a moment she froze, and then relaxed in his grip.

"Harry," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt, but he could tell she was laughing a little, "Why the sudden tenderness?"

"I've missed you this summer," he said simply, and released her.

A lock of dark hair fell in her face, the curl being pulled out of it by the rain. She brushed it back a little impatiently, looking up at him, puzzled. "Harry . . ." she said, her voice trailing off. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yes." He could respond that legitimately now. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then, "Ron's probably waiting for me to go to the broomstick convention."

"Right," Hermione agreed. "He was impatient, so I came out to get you, and we should go back now."

Harry felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a faint smile. "I'm glad I could do this for him. He seems really excited."

Hermione nodded, and they began to walk back to the Leaky Cauldron. "He's been talking about it ever since he found out. I went over to the Burrow once, to see Ginny as a favor to him, and it was the only thing he talked about."

"How is Ginny doing, anyway?" Harry sidestepped a puddle.

Hermione was quiet for a moment. "She's . . . doing better, I guess, or at least I think. I hope Ron thinks so too . . . it's all been taking such a toll on him." Hermione sighed. "It's rather odd, since I wasn't really friends with her before . . . well, before now, but I suppose she could use another girl friend to talk to, and I'm certainly not going to turn down Ron when it's obvious all of it is just killing him."

"She doesn't deserve this." Harry's jaw clenched. "If I didn't already have enough motivation to go after Voldemort . . . well, this would put me over the edge, seeing what he's done to her and done to Ron through her. No one knew . . . no one knows all the things Tom Riddle might have told her through the diary. Ron keeps saying that she was so quiet after I rescued her from the Chamber of Secrets, even more so than she was before, that it unnerved him. I just can't believe that none of us ever got to know her well enough to just talk to her, see how she was feeling."

"I guess in a family of nine it's easy to get overlooked. I'm not saying it's right," Hermione added hastily, "but you can understand how it would happen, you know?"

"It's easy to get overlooked in a family of four," Harry said dryly, thinking of his own experience with the Dursleys. "And I don't think it's the Weasleys' fault . . . Ginny's never been particularly assertive."

"I don't know if she's going to be able to come back this year." Hermione's voice was so soft that Harry had to strain to hear it. "It would be terrible if . . . well, if she couldn't come back. I couldn't stand not being at school now that I've been there and enjoy it so much."

This reminded Harry of his conversation with Cho, and so he told Hermione about it on the rest of the way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Ron was waiting inside, and was rather antsy, and so Harry and Ron set out for Quality Quidditch Supplies.

***

Harry and Ron gave their tickets to the lanky wizard standing outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, which was closed for the day for the event, and entered eagerly. Harry allowed himself to shut everything else out of his mind and focused simply on the wonder of so many brooms, and everything else Quidditch-related that one could possibly want, all together in one room.

Ron's eyes were as big as saucers. "This is almost as good as the World Cup," he breathed, unable to tear his eyes away long enough to look at Harry as he said this.

Harry smiled. Ron's constant tenseness about Ginny had begun to wear on Harry before, but he felt himself relaxing now as Ron was happily distracted.

"Look!" Harry caught sight of a glowing green sign, hovering in midair, that was a picture of a single small broomstick, and a sentence written underneath. "Fifteen minutes until the unveiling of the SkyThunder," he read and nudged Ron. "That's it - it must be. The new broom."

Ron's eyes got wider, which Harry hadn't believed was possible. "Wicked. Harry, that'll be wicked."

Harry smiled again at his friend's vehemency. "I'm glad you're excited."

Ron grinned. "This is bloody amazing, Harry."

"Look, there's Viktor Krum, and Lynch from the Irish team - there are lots of famous people here."

Ron's expression turned sour. "And our very favorite worst enemy."

Harry turned to see where Ron was looking, and saw Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle and trailed by Lucius. He groaned. The last thing he needed now was a public confrontation with the Malfoy family.

"Bugger," Harry muttered, and grabbed the back of Ron's shirt, dragging him off behind a large crate of Self-Polishing Broomstick Cloths positioned with one side against a wall.

Harry poked Ron in the back. "Is he coming closer, can you see? Look out there."

Ron peeked out from behind the crate. "I don't . . . oh, bullocks!" he mumbled. "Can you move back any farther."

Harry flattened himself against the wall. "That's as far as I can go . . ."

Ron nodded and squeezed himself more into their tiny space. A moment passed, and Harry urged him to check again. Ron was just creeping out to check around the corner when a voice stunned them both.

"'Ave you boys not been able to get some alone time at ze 'otel, or can you just not keep your 'ands off each uzzer?"

Surprised, Harry and Ron had both jumped back when they heard the voice and knocked over a crate of Self-Polishing Broomstick Cloths with a thud. Turning scarlet yet again, Harry bent to begin picking up the fallen merchandise.

Ron simply stared in amazement. "Fleur?" he said, astonished. He, too, began to turn red. "I mean . . . Miss Delacour . . . er . . . Harry and I . . . weren't . . . I like girls!"

Fleur simply laughed. "Of course, of course. Zey all say zat. 'Arry," she added as he straightened up, finished picking up the cloths, "It is good to see you again."

"Hello, Fleur," Harry said evenly, trying not to stare. He was glad that veelas didn't affect him as strongly as they did Ron.

"I have . . . to go," Ron said, backing away sounding as if he were being strangled. "Goodbye . . . Fleur," he added, and, as if being dragged back, took a few steps forward and kissed her hand, then, flushing crimson, he fled.

Fleur laughed again. "Your friend, 'e amuses me." She smiled, showing her even, white teeth. "Au revoir, 'Arry."

"'Bye," he replied, and was internally glad that she was leaving before he, too, could make a fool of himself.

Harry found Ron a few minutes later, partially hidden in a large mass of people waiting for the unveiling of the SkyThunder. Ron, upon seeing Harry, put his hands over his face.

"Bugger!" Ron said violently. "I despise her! She . . . she makes me stupid!" he finished off weakly, and groaned.

Harry grinned and slapped Ron on the shoulder. "It wasn't that bad. And she must know by now the effect she has on some people - she can't think you were really serious just now."

Ron took his hands down. "I suppose not. Still . . ." he shook his head. "Ugh! It's horrible, to know what you're doing is just . . . just stupid, and feeling like you have to do it anyway. She makes me . . . makes me pillocky!"

"Pillocky is not a word," Harry corrected wisely. "And like I said before, she makes half the wizarding world . . . well . . . pillocky."

"You just said pillocky isn't a word!"

Finally, the fifteen minutes since they'd entered had elapsed, and the clock disappeared with a tiny pop! although the words remained.

"And now," began a magically amplified voice, "the time you've all been waiting for is here. It is time to introduce the brand new, fastest, sleekest, smoothest, and most sensitive broom ever designed. Wizards and witches . . . the SkyThunder!"

Harry and Ron applauded fiercely along with the rest of the crowd. All of the convention's visitors watched as Hassan Mostafa, Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, who had also officiated last years' World Cup game, stepped on to a hovering platform. He waved his hand majestically and something draped with a black velvet cloth appeared in front of him.

"I give you . . ." and there was a dramatic pause, and he tore the velvet off with a flourish. "The SkyThunder."

A collective gasp came from the assembled people. Harry, too, couldn't take his eyes off of it. It was a gently curved piece of wood, painted a rich navy and with glowing silver letters spelling out its name along the handle. The sticks at one end were bound together tightly with silver thread - or was it wire? Harry couldn't quite tell. Once the crowd had quieted, Mostafa began to tell about its features and design.

"Made of balsa wood, the SkyThunder is by far the lightest broom the market as of yet. The wood is painted with chip-resistant and specially binding paint, making this broom's upkeep simple and short. The sticks are bound together with the wizarding world's strongest thread, and the sticks themselves are especially anti-bendable.

"One might think that such a light broom would be easily blown by a strong wind in a bad-weather Quidditch game. Not so. Strong anti-wind spells have been placed on the broom, spells that take four powerful wizards three days to place on each broom individually.

"The SkyThunder can go nearly twice as fast as the Firebolt, and it is highly sensitive and automatically adjusts to each individual player's needs. It takes into account things like strength of grip and temperature of the air around it, as well as the wind factor, to decide what setting to use, and is easily adaptable to any situation.

"Thinking of all of these factors, one would think this broom would be in the range of a thousand Galleons. Luckily for all of us, it is normally 300 Galleons, and today only you can buy it at the special price of 275 Galleons."

Harry felt his jaw drop. Even if he had kept the thousand Galleons he'd won in the Triwizard Tournament, he would have felt guilty spending so much of it on a single broomstick.

Ron, next to him, looked even more shocked. "Bloody hell that's a lot of money."

They went back to paying attention as Mostafa began to speak again. "We would like to give the chance to be the first to ride the SkyThunder to a very special guest today. Many famous Quidditch players are here, but this honor will go to an up-and-coming talent, someone that is already famous for his Quidditch skills at the young age of fifteen. Mr. Harry Potter, would you like to come try out the SkyThunder?"

Harry felt a little dizzy. He wasn't that famous for his Quidditch skills - it was only the stupid mark on his forehead that made people notice him that much. He could just see the headline in the Daily Prophet - "Boy Who Lived endorses new broomstick!" - and the ridicule he would take from Draco Malfoy for something like that.

Harry turned to Ron to mention this but was distracted by the longing in his eyes. Ron forced a smile. "Go on," he said. "Tell me all about it when you're done, all right?" and tried to push Harry in the direction of the SkyThunder.

Harry resisted. "No," he said, and grabbed Ron's arm before he could object, "you're coming with me, too," and began to pull him through the crowd.

The audience applauded as Harry and a very stunned Ron finally stepped on to the levitating platform.

"Er . . . thank you," Harry said, and jumped back at the volume of his magically increased voice. "But I would like to give this honor to a friend of mine - er, Ron Weasley, an excellent Quidditch player himself."

Ron stood stock-still and turned varying shades of color, going from ghostly white to cherry red. "Thank you," he breathed to Harry as Mostafa offered him the broomstick. Shaking, he mounted it and hovered just above the platform.

Harry smiled. "Go," he told him fiercely, and Ron took off like a shot.

And he was only a blur of color. Harry couldn't even try and focus in on a single spot of him, because it would be gone before he could see where Ron had been. He could, however, hear him whooping and yelling as he zoomed around the room.

Ron stopped for just a second to say to Harry, "This is wicked, absolutely wicked," and then he was off again. All Harry could do was laugh. Ron had never looked so thrilled.

Then, all of a sudden, before Harry even realized what was going on, there was a loud noise, of something fleshy ramming in to something solid. It was repeated, and Harry was able to tell that the broomstick was banging in to a wall. Thud! Thud! over and over again, as wizards fumbled for their wands to stop it, and then the broom was free and Ron was tumbling towards the floor below.

Heart pounding, Harry pushed his way through the crowd to get to Ron. He had fallen in to a display of broom-cleaning kits, and looked dazed and ill when Harry finally reached him. Someone had finally caught the SkyThunder, and examiners from the Ministry of Magic hurried over to check the broomstick.

Ron lay crumpled in a heap on the ground. He surely wasn't dead, which was a relief to Harry, but he was pale and sweating, and one of his legs was bent sideways in a way that made Harry sure it was broken. There was a deep gash on Ron's forehead, and the blood from it was beginning to puddle on the floor behind him. Harry knelt by Ron's side.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Ron croaked, and promptly passed out.

Trained mediwizards hurried over and magicked Ron on to a hovering stretcher. With their wands, they directed it away and above the hushed crowd, with Harry hurrying after it, elbowing his way through the masses of people.

***

The mediwizards sent Ron to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies. Harry was about to follow, but remembered Hermione and dashed off to Flourish and Blotts.

Hermione was sitting in an armchair in the furthest-back corner, completely absorbed in a book called Practical Applications for Arithmancy. Harry was kneeling down in front of her before she even realized he was there.

"Harry," she said, looking up at him quizzically, "what are you doing here?" She peered more closely at his face, her eyebrows knitting together. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Harry told her. He watched her face as he spoke, noting her shocked expression throughout. Hermione's brown eyes filled with tears at the end, but she blinked them back and clenched her jaw determinedly. She slammed her book shut and left it there, which was enough to show that she was upset.

"Well, come on, then," she snapped, frowning at him, "what are we waiting for? Let's go. Have you forgotten how to use Floo powder?"

Harry was a little taken aback by her stern tone, but he took the Floo powder she offered and stepped in to Flourish and Blotts' fireplace. "St. Mungo's," he said loudly, and went up in a whoosh as green flames consumed him.

***

Hermione insisted on being the one to go try and get information out of the mediwizards. Harry didn't argue. He didn't envy her the task, and he figured she would understand all the medical jargon better than he would, anyway.

However, that gave him the responsibility to contact the Weasleys. He hated that he had to be the one to call and give them the bad news, but somebody had to let them know. They'll probably never let Ron go somewhere with me again, he thought, dismayed.

Harry pulled out his wand and spelled his head to appear in the Weasleys' fireplace, hoping that someone would be there. To his knowledge, it had never worked out that no one was on the receiving end. He wondered what he would do. Yell until someone found him? It seemed a little rude.

Luckily for him, as he was glancing around the Weasleys' kitchen, the door opened and Ginny walked in. Harry was shocked to see how tired she looked - there were dark circles underneath her eyes, and she looked pale and ill.

"Ginny," he said quietly, not wanting to startle her. Still, she jumped and whirled around, her hand at her throat, cheeks flushing red.

"Harry," she said with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I think you'd better go get your parents," he said gently, and the color quickly drained from her face. She nodded and left, and a moment later Mrs. Weasley walked in.

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "Oh, dear, how lovely to see you! How are you? How is the broomstick convention? Is everything all right?"

Harry hesitated. "Not really." He sighed and explained what happened. She clasped her hands together and sat down hard.

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry said as soothingly as possible, "are you all right?"

She nodded absently. "Yes, dear, I'm fine. Arthur's at work, but I'll Apparate there and tell him . . . we'll be there in a couple of minutes. Stay in the hospital."

Harry agreed and closed the connection. All thoughts of Professor Lupin's problem had been shoved to the back of his mind; all he could think of then was Ron and the way he'd looked lying on the floor of Quality Quidditch Supplies, and the puddle of blood behind his head.

Running a hand through his tousled black hair, Harry climbed on to a couch in the waiting area. I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes, he thought to himself, and promptly fell asleep.

***

Hermione's mind drifted just a little bit as the mediwizard that was in charge of Ron explaining the particulars of his injuries to her. She had already gotten the gist of it, that he had a severe concussion and a broken shin, but the mediwizard insisted on giving her the details and she wasn't in the best mood for paying close attention. The broken shin had already been fixed, but he had not yet regained consciousness and the cut on his forehead was too deep to fully repair with magic. It's odd, she thought to herself, not really listening as the mediwizard pointed to a diagram of a skeleton to show where Ron's shin had snapped, because one of my strengths usually is staying attentive in class.

Hermione forced herself back to the present and nodded as the mediwizard finished his explanation. She left the hallway where they had been standing outside Ron's room and went back to where she had left Harry.

Expecting to see him waiting anxiously, Hermione was surprised to see that he was slumped on a couch, fast asleep. Peering more closely at him, however, she could see the dark half-moons underneath his eyes and how pale he looked, except for the pink flush across his cheekbones that made him appear feverish. She felt rather sorry for him, and thought of how busy she'd been all of June with Viktor, barely giving a thought to Harry. Biting her lip, Hermione sat down on an adjacent couch and decided to let Harry have his rest. He would have to be desperately tired if he could fall asleep here and now, she thought.

Hermione watched as Harry shifted slowly on the couch, his ebony eyelashes fluttering momentarily. His dark hair, even messier than usual, was being flattened on one side where he leaned against the couch, and his arms, crossed over his stomach, rose and fell with his breathing. He really was beautiful, she confirmed, even at times like now, where he wasn't at his best; girls like Parvati and Lavender would probably begin to giggle and whisper about him this year. But it was something more than his looks, more than the perpetually disarrayed, jet-black hair, the strong chin and full mouth, the lightning-shaped scar that made him famous as well as one-of-a-kind. Even sleeping, his mouth slightly open and his feet curled up beneath him, he shone with the light of a hero. It was why Hermione loved him, and why so many other people were attracted to him like moths to a lamplight: he seemed like the kind of person that could save you, could change your life, could make you cry and laugh and want to die all at once.

All of a sudden, Harry woke with a start, glancing around the room looking panicked. His breath quickened, and he gripped the arm of the couch fervently.

Hermione frowned at him, concerned. "Harry? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said, trying to force his racing pulse to slow down. "Just a dream." Immediately, he regretted the last phrase.

Hermione got up and came to sit down next to him on the couch. "You seem troubled," she said gently. "What's wrong? I've never seen you so distracted, even before Ron got hurt."

Harry had just opened his mouth to tell her that it was nothing when there was a little pop! and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley appeared. Harry scooted a little further away from Hermione, feeling uncomfortable.

"Where is he?" asked Mrs. Weasley. She was shaking. Mr. Weasley put an arm around her.

"Let me tell you what the mediwizard said first," Hermione began, and explained the details to them. "They wouldn't let me in to see him, but they'll probably let you. He's just through those doors there - you can ask one of the staff."

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley disappeared through the doors, and Harry and Hermione were again alone. She turned to look at him. "Harry," she said, and there was a pleading note in her voice, "just talk to me. Please, just talk to me."

There was a long silence. "I can't," Harry said finally. "Hermione, I . . . just can't right now, all right?"

Hermione nodded slowly and turned away. She didn't say anything. Harry, feeling guilty now on top of everything else, sighed and put his hands to his temples. He had a terrible headache, the kind that he could tell was from lack of sleep. "I'm sorry," he whispered, but still they sat in silence, two people that had everything and nothing to talk about all at once.

***

Several hours later, Hermione sat up suddenly, surprising Harry out of his thoughts. "What?" he asked, a little groggily.

"Haven't you thought about it?" she asked anxiously, twisting her hands together in her lap. "That broomstick was meant to be for you, Harry. Someone was trying to kill you, or at least hurt you badly."

"Are you sure . . . no, it couldn't have been a mistake. Hexing a broomstick," Harry said, sitting up slowly, the wheels churning inside his head. "That's . . . not really Voldemort's style, is it? To go after me with a broomstick, I mean."

"Exactly," said Hermione gravely. "That means it's not Voldemort coming after you this time. At least, not directly. If it's him, he's doing it through someone else."

Harry groaned and slumped back down on the couch. "It's never over, is it? I can't just have the world's most powerful and evil wizard after me; there has to be someone else, too."

Hermione patted his shoulder absently in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. "Do you think it was the Malfoys?"

Harry considered this. "That would be logical . . . but it seems too easy. I'm not sure."

"Who had access to the broom before Ron got on it?"

"Hassan Mostafa, the Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch," Harry answered slowly. "The wizards who designed it, obviously, although you'd think it would have been hex-tested by the Ministry or somebody before it was introduced . . . maybe some members of professional teams. The Seeker from the Irish team was there, and Krum . . ."

"It wasn't Viktor," Hermione said confidently.

"I don't think so, either," Harry said. "He could have killed me loads of times last year in the Tri-wizard Tournament, and he didn't."

Suddenly frustrated, Harry banged his fist on the couch. "I don't know, Hermione! There were hundreds of people there! There's no way to know who had access to the broom and who didn't."

"Someone we haven't thought of could have pointed their wand at it from the crowd before it was displayed, or even cursed the broom when Ron was on it." Hermione bit her lip.

Harry smiled. "You didn't see the SkyThunder, Hermione. It's incredibly fast . . . Ron was just a blur of color. It would have been rather difficult to set a spell on him when he was moving on it."

Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation. Her hair had been up when Harry had found her at Flourish and Blotts, but now it was falling out of the style, surrounding her face with tiny curls. Absently she pulled out the pencil she'd stuck in her hair and began to comb it out with her fingers. Harry surprised himself by thinking about how pretty she'd become. "I don't know, then. I suppose there's not really any way to tell."

They looked at each other for a moment, thinking hard. A door opening quietly made them both jump a little bit, and they looked towards the direction of the noise.

Mrs. Weasley came out of the door, crying quietly. Mr. Weasley followed her, resting a hand on her shoulder as they paused before Harry and Hermione. Harry felt his body tense up. This couldn't be good.

"Ron . . . he . . . they're not sure . . ." Mrs. Weasley began, but couldn't finish. She buried her face in her husband's shoulder. Harry and Hermione glanced at each other, worried.

"He might have lost his memory," Mr. Weasley finished quietly. "There had to be very strong dark magic involved in his accident, even if it was just on the broomstick, and as you know from your experience with memory loss with Gilderoy Lockhart, when it involves strong magic, there's not always a way to get it back."

The Weasleys left, and Harry and Hermione stared at each other soberly. Harry closed his eyes, feeling his head begin to pound more fiercely than ever, and Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Ron," Harry said simply. "Not Ron."

"I'm afraid so," Hermione said, and a tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. She brushed it away quickly. "Harry, there's nothing we can do. We'll come back tomorrow. Let's go back to the Leaky Cauldron." She stood up.

Harry's eyes flew open. "No," he said stubbornly. "I'm not leaving him here alone. I'll sleep here tonight."

Hermione raked a hand through her thick curls. "I'm just being practical. There's nothing we can do." A thought sparked in the corner of her mind. "Except we could go to the library, research this kind of thing, find out what his chances are like."

Harry began to shake his head. "No. You go. You're better at those sorts of things anyway. But I'm staying here."

Hermione hesitated at the fireplace, and came back over to him. "Harry . . . even if the worst happens, we'll get through it. All right?" She put her arms around him, but he didn't move.

"I'll come back tomorrow morning," she said softly. "And here - Accio blanket." Hermione gave a twirl of her wand and a moment later, the quilt from her bed at the Leaky Cauldron was hovering outside the window. She opened the latch and pulled it inside, handing it to Harry. It would have been amusing, but the situation was far too grave for either of them to laugh. He took the blanket, but still wasn't looking at her.

"Goodnight," Hermione said firmly, trying to get herself under control. She looked at him once more, the vacant expression in his usually vibrant emerald eyes, the utter exhaustion that radiated from his every move, and wished there was something more she could do. The look in his eyes stayed with her as she threw the Floo powder in the fireplace and said, "Leaky Cauldron,"; as she pulled on her nightgown before getting in bed; as she lay quietly under the covers (shivering a little due to her missing blanket), trying to sleep. Hermione stayed awake for a long time before falling into a fitful, restless slumber.

***