Unlikely Connections

Chapter 21 - The Jitterbug

"Jazz lingo played an important part in naming this unique dance. One description is that it meant a man or a woman was suffering from nerves or alcoholic jitters. Another story has Jitterbug associated to the English word "Bugger" or "Buggering" (a sexual act). Another is of racial nonsense (resembling the preceding), used to characterize a man or woman who was sexually active with a dissimilar race."

Harry saw none of the scenery between the hospital wing and the seventh floor portrait entrance of Gryffindor tower. He practically shouted the password to the Fat Lady, not to mention the fact that he quite scandalized her with his growled, "Oh bugger off!" in answer to her inquiry if he was quite well. Harry was focused on a sole purpose.

"Where is he?" Harry growled, his voice low and menacing, at the nearest person, who happened to be Neville Longbottom. Who happened to be attached at the lips to Ginny Weasley.

Neville couldn't help but tremble and squeak as he leapt apart from Ginny. She glowered at Harry silently yet angrily, but Harry did nothing to mark her scowl. Neville watched in horror as Harry's cold, hard eyes turned back to him. "Where?" he said, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper.

"Who?" Neville inquired, nearly whimpering in fear. It took him only another second to realize the only person Harry could be looking for, if Hermione was still in the hospital wing, was the final third of the infamous Gryffindor trio. "He isn't up yet, Harry, it's not even 7:30 yet. Breakfast isn't for another hour."

Harry barely heard the end of Neville's reply, as he was already charging up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. The door was nearly torn off its hinges as Harry stormed into the bedroom, his breath coming in angry, panting gasps. Later, when he could think coherently - and not through a hailstorm of rage - Harry would thank whatever graces favored him that none of the other boys were lingering in bed, waiting to witness what Harry was about to do.

Through a haze of anger, Harry ripped back the curtains around Ron's bed, staring into the eyes of his friend that happened to be lying there, gazing ahead but obviously not seeing. Ron jumped backwards as if Harry had struck him, peering up fearfully into the cold fury that waited in his profile.

"How dare you," Harry spat, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "How dare you rage and storm at her and then ... and then...!"

In a mass of confusion and anger, Ron found himself flung from the opposite side of the bed by an unknown force. Harry was charging after him, and with every inch Harry gained on him, Ron felt another shove as if Harry himself were pushing him. And yet, the hands that propelled him further and further seemed to be non-existent. Harry hurtled after him, finally glaring at him from a few inches away as Ron - lifted by these unknown hands that seemed to be coming from Harry's anger - was slammed against the cold stones a few feet above Harry's head. Ron could see, with panic in his throat, the top of his friend's tousled head as the boy glared daggers up at him. And a small voice inside Ron begged whoever was listening that the wand currently clenched in Harry's fist would come no nearer to him.

Harry muttered a quick silencing charm around the room before he glanced back to Ron, having the effect of bringing Ron down a few inches and then slamming him back against the stone wall.

"How dare you chastise her for her mistakes and then turn right around and--"

"Harry, I--"Ron began, but Harry raged on.

"Don't tell me you don't know," Harry interrupted before the redheaded boy could finish his panicked plea. The next few sentences echoed around the perimeter of the spell as Harry hollered himself hoarse, glaring at his best friend. "Don't you bloody well tell me you don't know or that you didn't do anything! I saw her neck, Ron. I saw the ruddy prints from your goddamned fingers! How dare you refuse to forgive her because she was confused about someone like Snape? Look what it got her! At least that loathsome beast of a man didn't ..."

Harry's disgust and rage was so acute that the rest of the sentence burned like acid in his throat and refused to voice itself. As he let his anger bubble and simmer within him, he felt his voice drop again to the deadly quiet whisper that had escaped him earlier.

When Harry finally spoke, the statement was uttered so calmly, as if he were declaring that the two of them go downstairs for breakfast, that it shook Ron to his bones.

"So help me if you ever lay so much as a glance on her again, Voldemort will look merciful compared to what I'll do to you."

Something in Harry snapped and Ron fell from his captive position and crumpled to a heap on the floor of the dormitory. He dared, only for a second, to look up into Harry's eyes. And the instant he did, he regretted it. Harry allowed his wand to clatter to the ground as he cocked back and fist and sent it flying into Ron's nose.

With a sweep of his hand, Harry's wand leapt into his outstretched fingers and Ron saw only a flick of the hem of his robes as he stormed out of the bedroom and out of Gryffindor Tower.

****

Hermione lay staring after Harry for quite a while, her mind racing. It had been quite a while since she had seen him possessed of such a towering temper that he would be that visibly angry. These days, Harry tended to simmer, seemingly reserving his liveliness for when he had the opportunity to boil over. And she was certain that she had just seen the first bubbles of a rolling cauldron.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her bed. Harry knows. She would have to square with that now. Harry was the last person she wanted to know. And Harry knew.

Hermione's stomach seemed to drop away as she connected the previous two lines of thought. Harry now knew that Ron had ... that Hermione had been ... hurt - she couldn't even think the word - and he had charged out of the ward as if Voldemort was on his tail.

She had no doubt that he was, right at this very moment, hollering himself hoarse at Ron. But up until this moment it didn't occur to her what that meant. What if Harry tells? What if Harry took it upon himself to tell someone what happened to me?

Would Harry go to Professor McGonagall? Or even worse, Professor Dumbledore? How could she deal with that kind of embarrassment? Would they poke and prod her? Would they make her relive the whole evening for details? Would they have to do something to her to prove it was true?

What if Harry had already told right now? If he had, what would Hermione say when they confronted Ron? What could she say when they confronted her?!

And then the answer hit Hermione like a pack of rampaging hippogriffs. She would say nothing. To anyone. Ever.

She would stay silent until doomsday if necessary. She would not allow the secret to out.

****

Harry was pacing the seventh floor corridor like a predatory wolf. His anger wasn't burning off and he couldn't face Hermione like this. He also certainly couldn't face the one person he knew he needed to talk to in this kind of state. If Harry went to talk to him in this kind of mood, they'd never get anything done.

Harry suddenly was alight with an idea of where to go to manage his anger. He paced hurriedly three times back and forth towards the end of the hall, trying not to be too hasty as he thought of exactly what he needed in the space he sought. On his third pass by, he heard a soft pop, and breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the Room of Requirement.

The room was no bigger than the boys' dormitory that he shared with the other seventh years, but around the perimeter, pedestals had been set a few feet off the floor with large, fragile looking vases. Beneath each pedestal was a small series of grates that reminded him of a sewer line. A sick smile graced Harry's face as he took off his school robes and tossed them onto a coat tree that had appeared behind him with a small pop. Harry leveled his wand.

He spent nearly twenty minutes destroying the vases one after another as they replaced themselves, the small grates beneath the columns sucking up the shards like tiny vacuum cleaners. When Harry's anger scattered his concentration so badly that his aim began to suffer, he growled in frustration and dropped his wand onto a table next to him. He needed to resort to the much less civilized, but much more wholly fulfilling, Muggle way of releasing anger.

Harry nodded appreciatively as a punching bag descended from the ceiling with a hiss. He ignored the gloves that now lay on the table next to his wand, believing firmly that he needed to feel the pain. As Harry punched in rapid succession, his face becoming sweaty, his sweater clinging to him, he was struck with a sudden, base need. And he watched in slightly removed horror and mixed satisfaction as the punching bag reformed to resemble a human being.

Harry looked down at his knuckles - now swelling and red - grinned thickly and then placed a bruising fist squarely in the middle of the stuffed Ron Weasley's nose. He heard one or two of his joints pop angrily, but he merely shook away the pain. He walked over to a sink that had just appeared from the wall and ran a cold, damp cloth over his face and pressed it into his lightly bleeding right hand. With a deep breath and satisfied nod, Harry replaced his school robes, picked up his wand and headed for the one person he loathed to see ... and desperately hoped could help.

*****

"Have I done or said something that would give you the impression that you were permitted to barge in here, let alone speak to me?"

Harry bit the inside of his lip to keep from spewing every obscenity he knew at the surly man behind the desk. "I came for help," Harry said, through gritted teeth.

"Your abysmal Potions essays are not my current concern, Potter," Snape muttered without even taking his eyes of the stack of essays he was grading. Severus was thoroughly regretting his choice to review the work at his desk in the classroom rather than taking them up to his private study. Had he taken them up to his chambers, Potter would never have gotten past the first door. And Severus would not be listening to his current strain of babble. Severus scrawled a large, spiky "D" across Ron Weasley's essay with a satisfied smirk.

"Not for me, you great, greasy prat," Harry bit back acidly, "for Hermione."

Severus raised his eyes slowly. Harry's stomach plummeted. The man infuriated him, yes ... but, though he would never own up to it, the fury currently in Severus Snape's eyes still made him just the tiniest bit nervous.

"I shall overlook that comment, Mr. Potter, if you escort yourself from this classroom immediately. I have no concern whatsoever for whatever it is Miss Granger has gotten her infinitely obnoxious nose into this time."

Harry's determination severely overpowered his good sense. "Liar," he heard himself say.

"Pardon me?" Snape responded, dangerously quietly, and placed his quill back upon the stack of papers. "I could have sworn that I heard you respond when I very firmly told you to remove yourself from my presence. You are walking a very fine line, Mr. Potter, and it is only my good graces that are saving you from at least a month's worth of detention. As I said before, I have no desire whatsoever to know what it is that Miss Granger has gotten herself into."

"I saw you touch her."

Harry grinned in sick triumph as panic leapt into Snape's eyes. "In the hospital wing. I saw you reach down and touch her face. I know you've been in there to visit her just as much as I have. And I know--" Harry stopped short. All his courage would be needed for what he was about to say. Because, if he was wrong, he would very likely find himself kicked out of Hogwarts for what he was about to insinuate. "I know that there's something going on between you and Hermione. She's told me everything."

Severus blanched. Internally, he was damning himself for not counting on the fact that the little chit would no sooner be able to give up books forever than to keep a secret from her Merry Men for long. He also damned himself internally for caring. But he was now finding himself in a very precarious position. Potter knew that he and Miss Granger had a connection. And somehow, he knew that Severus did care what had happened to her.

Harry took Snape's silence as an affirmation of his willingness to listen, so he continued. "Hermione," Harry started, and then gulped. Maybe if he said it all at once it would be easier. "Hermione's been raped by Ron."

It most certainly was not easier.

Much to Harry's surprise, Severus nodded and removed his glasses, setting them carefully on the stack of papers. "I know."

Harry did not ask how Snape knew. In fact, he was quite certain he did not want to know how Snape knew. He just accepted that he knew.

"She has to tell someone."

"She won't," Severus replied shortly.

"I know," Harry returned, "that's why I need you to convince her to."

*****

Hermione sighed deeply as she was subjected to several different magical pokes and prods by the fussing medi-witch who was circling her bed.

"Do you feel flushed?" Madam Pomfrey was asking her while taking her temperature and heart rate.

Hermione shook her head wordlessly.

"Any tenderness or sore spots?" she said as she tested Hermione's reflexes.

Another head shake.

"How about headaches? Dizziness? Nausea?"

Hermione shook her head at each question, but remained resolutely silent. When it became clear to Madam Pomfrey that Hermione was not going to respond vocally, the witch stopped asking questions and merely went about performing the rest of her routine of check-ups now that Hermione was awake.

"All right, dear," she said, slightly put out, "I think I'd like to keep you here for another day or two just for observation, but I would like you to get up and move around the ward a bit. You've been lying down for so long, your muscles could use a good stretch. Perhaps the next time Mr. Potter comes around you could have him take you on a little walk around the ward or around this floor of the castle."

Hermione nodded and smiled scantly at her.

Madam Pomfrey stared at Hermione penetratingly, a knowing glare to her eyes that was not lost on Hermione. "Are you going to tell me how you got those bruises?"

Hermione looked away from Madam Pomfrey for a long moment then turned to put her feet on the floor and test her legs a bit. As she realized that Madam Pomfrey was still watching her, Hermione looked back to the older witch and shook her head.