A Helping Hand

I can't stand it anymore.

I just can't. It's driving me bonkers, I mean it. He's still got ten more days of detention to go with her and every time he has to go...

It's so sodding awful.

He sits there on the sofa, and as it gets closer to eight o'clock, he just... he slowly goes grey.

Grey.

He didn't use to. He's always a bit pale, maybe it's the black hair that makes him look so pale, but anyway, he used to go a shade paler, and haul himself up off the couch and off to detention, looking not so much terrified as resigned.

But that was before she started giving him longer detentions, two and even three weeks at a stretch. That was when he started changing; and of course, now we know why, now I've found out about it, about what goes on in there.

Now, as it gets nearer to eight, he slowly goes greyish-white, and then his jaw clenches. I've seen it enough times to recognize it. His jaw clenches and there's a muscle in his cheek that twitches, just a bit, and then he sighs. I wish he wouldn't do that, because I feel so damned sorry for him, and I'd do anything not to have to hear that bloody sigh again.

He sighs resignedly, sort of, and then he heaves himself up off the couch as if he weighed a ton. Sometimes he says, "See you later," very, very casually, but more often than not he doesn't say anything at all, just walks off as though putting one foot in front of the other was a great effort.

He goes off knowing he's going to suffer, and he knows exactly how much, and he grits his teeth and he goes.

Night after bloody night.

And it's driving me round the twist.

Lately, I've seen his hands trembling. I don't mean his right hand, the hand where he - he gets punished - oh bugger it, it makes me SICK! - I want to sodding well throw up when I think of it - anyway, Murtlap tentacles or no Murtlap tentacles, of course his hand's not up to snuff, it's his writing hand after all, and he's going back there EVERY sodding DAY to have it cut up aGAIN - I'd never admit it to a soul, but I think it's just as well he's suspended from Quidditch this year. His hand's so sore he can barely write, let alone grip a broomstick - he never lets on, of course, but you can hear the hiss of breath when he grabs something too tightly, and the look of relief when he lets go. I had Hermione teach me a charm, I charm his quill so it sort of writes on its own, he doesn't have to do more than guide it. Poor sod can't tell it's moving on its own, because his hand's so painful it probably feels like quite a bit of effort just to hold the damned quill. I'm keeping the charm under my hat, of course, and so is Hermione. She's good about things like that.

Anyway, it's not just his right hand that's shaking. What I meant is that lately, before detentions and especially as it gets closer to evening, I see tremors go through him. His hands tremble when he picks things up - the other day, in Snape's class, I had to grab a beaker from him before the Dissolving Solution sloshed out onto the floor.

Oh, who am I fooling? He's practically falling apart, DA or no DA, and there's precious little any of us can do about it if she keeps giving him those fucking detentions. And I don't care how strong he tries to look! It was Hermione who tipped me off that he's not eating very well, and now I notice it, he doesn't even pretend to have dinner any more. Not sure I would eat that much myself if it came to that, if I was off to get carved up after dinner and...

I get the germ of an idea.

I'd need help, though...

Of course, Hermione's fussy about these things, and illegal magic and all, but still, it's for the greater good, isn't it? She won't refuse to help.

She'd better not, anyway.

* * *

"That's all the ingredients," Hermione said as they stepped out of the apothecary's. "Unless I've missed something... it should be all..." she added worriedly, stopping to peer into her bags.

"Hermione, since when do you forget anything to do with school?" Ron rolled his eyes. "The day you flub an ingredient, You-Know-Who'll dance the foxtrot on the ramparts of Hogwarts wearing frilly pink robes. Now do get a move on, would you?"

It was a pleasantly sunny Hogsmeade weekend. Most of the students were milling about enjoying the fine day, one of the first of spring, except for some of the Quidditch die-hards practicing back at the school for the upcoming match, Harry, who had detention with Umbridge, and Ron and Hermione, who were striding back to school with great determination. "Ron, are you sure--" Hermione began.

"Yeah, I am," he replied curtly. The slightly chilly spring breeze blew in their faces and he shivered despite the warm sunshine.

Blast it, of course Hermione would notice him shivering. "I just--"

"Don't," he cut her off. "Just help me, all right?"

"It's perfectly understandable for you to be nervous--"

"I am NOT nervous!" he shouted.

"There's no call to bite my head off!" she finally snapped. "I am helping! Don't be unfair, Ron!"

Immediately contrite, he sighed and looked her in the eyes. "Sorry. It's just--"

"It's all right," she reassured him. "I understand."

* * *

To say I'm nervous is an understatement.

I'm bloody terrified.

Not so much of my... idea, but of what'll happen if he ever finds out. Harry's been like Concoctio Volatilis lately - so much as breathe around him and he blows up. I don't relish the thought of his explosions, and believe me, if we're not careful there's going to be one, but I did say last week that I'd do anything to avoid having to look at him get that steeling-himself expression on his face when he goes off to her room, and I suppose that includes braving the risk of a row if it happens. Gryffindor or no Gryffindor, I don't mind saying that I'll just make sure he doesn't find out.

One thing that's not hurting my ego at all is the looks Hermione's been giving me ever since we got started on this project. I'm not doing it for anyone but myself, and I have told her that a couple of times, but the way she turns those eyes on me, shining with admiration, as if I'm some kind of noble knight in shining armour, performing some amazing sacrifice - well, it does a bloke's confidence no harm at all, no harm at all. It sounds selfish and it feels selfish, but there it is, and let's not add dishonesty to selfishness.

I do feel guilty, I suppose, in a way, at getting fringe benefits out of helping a friend. But, well, fringe benefits are fringe benefits, and I suppose I'll be earning them soon enough.

* * *

I worry.

I worry about Harry, and I worry about Ron, and I worry about myself when I have the time. They just can't seem to abide by the rules - and really, Harry ought to know better than to cheek Umbridge by now. But he keeps on doing it, and then he suffers for it, and - well, and we suffer too, because we're Harry's friends.

And just what got me into this, anyway?

Oh. Right. Ron.

And there's another scatterbrain if you ever saw one, foolish, impulsive, addle-pated, self-sacrificing, loyal, idiotic, Gryffindor...

Well, I'm a Gryffindor, too, but I never take silly risks. Well, possibly. Once or twice. When I absolutely had to.

The potion's turning clear now. It's only a matter of hours. And I'd better hope I've got the dose right, too.

* * *

"Mr. Potter."

Harry turned to see the hated High Inquisitor of Hogwarts looking down at him. "I believe you still have another five detentions with me?"

"Yeah," he said, his tone bordering on insolent. His hand twinged as she said 'detentions', but he looked her straight in the eye. The golden rule was no different from with the Dursleys, he told himself: never, ever show weakness.

There was something in her eyes that he couldn't quite place. Compassion? Surely he was mistaken.

"I have something different for you this week," she said, and his heart sank. What new form of torture did she have in store for him now?

His jaw dropped as she said, "For the remainder of your detentions, every night from eight o'clock to ten o'clock, I want you to clean the haunted second-floor girls' bathroom. Whether or not you use magic is up to you, but I want it to be sparkling. Do not attempt to deceive me, I will find out." As he stared, she went on, "At ten, after you have cleaned the bathroom, go straight up to your Tower and do not come to my office. I don't wish to have you in my sight more than strictly necessary." Her lip curled in disgust. "Understood, Mr. Potter?"

Harry stared.

"Well, don't just stand there gaping, boy! Answer me!"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge," Harry forced out, hardly believing his luck, and sprinted off before she could change her mind.

At dinner that night, he regaled Ron and Hermione animatedly with the tale. "It must be Dumbledore," he said indistinctly through a mouthful of potatoes. "He came through in the end. He must still have some clout in the Ministry - pity he can't convince them Voldemort's back - but at least he seems to have made them put a stop to it. I mean, who else could have stopped her?"

"Mm," said Ron noncommittally, while Hermione said nothing at all and appeared entirely too interested in her shepherd's pie. His friends' eyes held what he could only describe as a kind of - unease.

Nervousness suddenly gripped him. "You two didn't do anything stupid, did you?" At their look of panic, he turned on Ron. "You didn't."

Ron had turned green. "Didn't what?" he stammered.

"Tell McGonagall, of course," Harry exploded. "I told you not to - oh no, you didn't write to Dumbledore, did you? I..."

The green tinge drained from Ron's face, leaving him much healthier looking. "No, I didn't, and neither did Hermione. I swear. May Hermione fail all her exams if I'm lying."

"Excuse me!" Hermione tried to seem affronted, but her eyes were dancing. She, too, looked relieved.

"Oh, all right, may Harry turn into a spotted toad if I'm lying."

Harry's eyes flickered from one to the other. There was definitely something crackling in the air between them. Was it possible that they were finally ready to admit...? He turned his attention resolutely to the mashed potatoes. "Watch it," he said darkly to Ron. "I'm the Heir of Slytherin. I could murder you all in your beds."

Ron snorted. "Just have fun snogging Moaning Myrtle tonight."

* * *

The memory of Hermione's warm hug could only sustain one so far, and by the time he knocked at Umbridge's door, he was all but shaking.

"Come in."

At her call, he pushed the door open and walked in, blinking at the hideous décor of the room. He pushed his thick black fringe self-consciously off his brow, and Umbridge gave a high-pitched giggle that set his teeth on edge. "Your famous scar won't be of any use to you in this room, Mr. Potter," she said, and her voice held an undertone of steel. "You would do well to remember that."

Not trusting his voice, he muttered an assent and slipped into the chair, barely sparing a glance for the seat, the desk, and the writing implements on it. His vision seemed to be tunnelling down to the quill, with its curiously sharp point. He knew what it was for now, and his insides clenched.

"Off you go then," said Umbridge. "You know the rule. Write until the message... sinks in."

Bracing himself, he put quill to parchment.

I--

He stiffened at the stinging pain in the back of his hand. The hair on the back of his neck prickled at her amused eyes upon him. No, more than amused; relishing it, in a way that Harry might not see but Ron picked up on at once. He might have never so much as been near a girl, but having five brothers meant you didn't grow up without learning a few things.

And he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing him wince.

--must not tell lies.

As the cuts healed almost immediately, he wrote again.

I must not tell lies.

Ouch. Well, in a way, the punishment was curiously appropriate. He allowed himself a surreptitious, wry grin...

I must not tell lies.

His hand, and soon his whole arm, started to throb. The deep, penetrating hurt in his arm wasn't just the pain of your common or garden scratch or cut, Ron thought; it felt different: filthy, unclean, contaminated. Growing up in a wizarding family meant you quickly learned to recognize things like this; nevertheless, Ron was surprised that Harry, Muggle-raised or no Muggle-raised, hadn't noticed the Dark-object aura radiating from the quill. Probably too busy stewing in his own anger, he thought unhappily. As he watched the cuts' hypnotic cycle of appear/disappear/reappear, he idly noted a few things. One, in spite of the pain, there was a curious sense of unreality about the whole thing; he felt like a spectator in another person's drama. Which he was, he supposed. Two, he noted clinically that however he tried to vary the position of the words on the lines, the cuts always traced their original path, guaranteeing it hurt far worse than if they had opened fresh skin each time. Three, and he felt it with a blazing anger borne of pain, how had Harry put up with this for ten nights running?

He'd never thought himself one of those idiots who enjoyed pain. But each time the quill cut into his healthy, unblemished flesh, causing him pain that was acute, yet not unbearable, he couldn't help remembering Harry's raw, swollen hand, inflamed from repeated abuse; he shuddered at the thought of his best friend gritting his teeth with the fear, leaving the sanctuary of the Gryfindor common room, and presenting himself here, night after night, for the sharp quill to cut into his hand again and reopen the wounds in already battered, half-healed flesh. It must have been absolute agony for him. He couldn't help thinking, and couldn't help being surprised that he was thinking it: Thank goodness this is happening to me, not Harry. He's had enough.

The thought sustained him through nearly five hundred repetitions.

* * *

She was waiting for him in the Room of Requirement, a bowl of Murtlap essence in her hands. There was a full-length mirror, and a couple of easy chairs before a roaring fire; he stared at his familiar-yet-unfamiliar reflection before sinking gratefully into the soft upholstery. She took his unfreckled hand and examined it; the cuts had nearly closed up, the surrounding skin hot, shiny red. Then their eyes met and she looked away, seeming embarrassed. "Seems I did do a good job of the potion," she said shakily. "It's hard to believe it is you."

She brushed her cheek against the burning skin of his hand, and his heart nearly stopped as her lips brushed it in a not-quite-kiss. Then she let go, and he sighed with relief as he plunged his hand into the bowl and the cooling liquid took away his pain.

"Oh, that's bloody marvellous," he moaned with relief. He could almost feel the cuts healing. "If Harry'd told us at the start, he wouldn't have had to spend a week without this potion, would he?"

"It's not strictly a potion: it's only got one ingredient, and it doesn't have heat as a catalyst," Hermione said, but he could tell her didactic manner was more out of habit than anything else. She looked nervous and upset.

"I'm fine, Hermione," he said, and smiling at her, was surprised to find he meant it. "Look, why don't you go to the common room and keep Harry company?" He didn't particularly want to lose her company, but - "With our luck, if you don't, he'll go off looking for us and ruin things." It would be bloody typical.

"It's just..." Hermione looked at him nervously. "I can't get used to seeing you..."

"Oh." He looked down at himself. He had to admit that it was funny being so short, and wearing these funny glasses. "Don't worry about it," he quirked an eyebrow, "I'm not myself at the moment."

Hermione giggled weakly, though she still looked disturbed. "It should be wearing off any minute now," she told him. "I'd rather stay till you..."

"No, do go on," he told her. "I don't want Harry finding out. Tell him I've got detention with Snape."

They discussed strategy for a few moments, and Hermione went.

***

"Bad luck, Ron," Harry said sympathetically at breakfast. "Whatever did you do to get detention with Snape? You did all right last Potions class."

Ron grunted. Contrary to popular belief, Gryffindors were not above telling the occasional white lie for the greater good. "Ran into him in the corridor with his arms full of potions, didn't I?" He tried to appear aggrieved. "Greasy git dropped everything. The glass ones smashed. And wouldn't you know it, he blamed me! I didn't mean to do it, but that's Snape for you. Said I'd ruined weeks of work and I'd have to pay for it." He grinned suddenly. "Maybe he's just feeling lonely, you know, after losing your company for Occlumency. I know how he adores you."

Harry made a face, and Hermione looked disapprovingly at both of them. Ron had the grace to blush.

He'd had only one bad moment in the Room of Requirement when the Polyjuice wore off and he'd seen himself in the mirror, morphing back into his own shape from Harry's. It didn't hurt, but it turned his stomach. Mostly, it was just the psychological effect of seeing the transformation: the familiar shape of his friend merging into his own, the body lengthening, his nose elongating, the planes of his features becoming more angular in a way that was deeply unsettling, finally leaving him, Ron, standing there with the funny conjured-by-Hermione Harry-glasses perched incongruously on his face.

Oh, well. Next night he wouldn't look in the mirror for the remorphing, that was all. Hermione had calculated the dosage so that Ron would be morphing back into his own shape between 10:30 and eleven o'clock. He got off with Umbridge at around ten, but they'd added on an extra half-hour as insurance against his having to stay later for any reason, after which he was to go to the Room of Requirement and wait for the potion to wear off.

He poured a glass of pumpkin juice, stealing an admiring glance at Hermione. The fact that she'd managed to narrow it down to half an hour, an almost impossibly precise window by wizarding standards, was a tribute and vast advantage, in his mind, to a Muggle background. Wizards, in his experience, were never that accurate in their potions calculations: "by morning," "by afternoon" or "in a few hours" was the most accurate answer you could traditionally get to "when will it wear off?"

His gaze turned to Harry, and he was astonished at the effect even one night without the torment had had on him: his colour was better, he looked more animated, and he ate with relish. He still held his right hand stiffly, and from what Ron could see it was still purple and swollen, but at least now it would have time to heal.

Time to heal. Ron smiled with deep contentment, and shovelled sausage into his mouth. Now that was worth it all.

* * *

Hermione stepped out of the Room, closing the door behind her, and Ron leaned back in his armchair, his throbbing hand resting in the bowl. It had hurt a bit more than the first day, but it was still pretty bearable. He was glad there were only three more days left. He was beginning to gain a new insight into why Harry's whole arm had seemed so stiff and tender; he was starting to feel the strain after only two days, and didn't want to imagine what the cumulative effects of two weeks running would be like.

The pain in the skin was beginning to fade. He flexed his fingers, feeling the healing spread along the tendons. That Hermione's a genius, he thought, glancing at the Muggle watch she had given him. Just a few more minutes now before he could expect to...

CRASH!

Two diminutive first year Hufflepuffs burst into the Room, panting and laughing with tension and elation. "He's gone!" one panted.

"He is! How did you do that?"

"I didn't!"

"Well, it doesn't make sense! There's no door here!"

"You explain it to me! One minute we're running along, thinking how to get away from Filch, then..."

They turned and hesitated slightly to see Ron. He rose to his full height - he had to admit it was far less impressive now that it was only Harry's full height, but still quite enough to intimidate a couple of titchy first years - and boomed, "OUT!"

They hesitated, and Ron was gripped with panic. They couldn't witness the transformation. It didn't bear thinking about. "I SAID, OUT!"

He raised his wand, and apparently that was all the persuasion they needed. They ran.

Ron flopped back into his seat, plunging his hand into the bowl once more.

He still hadn't changed when, barely five minutes later, the door swung open to reveal five more first years from various Houses. He bolted to his feet again, barely salvaging the Murtlap essence from crashing to the floor. The first years shrank into a protective huddle - had he ever been that tiny, he wondered? And what on earth brought them here anyway? Well, he'd make short work of them! He opened his mouth to roar at them to get out--

A little red-haired Gryffindor, braver than the rest, pushed to the front. "M-Mr. P-Potter," she stammered, and he almost corrected her before realizing that he was still 'Harry', "w-we wanted to thank you f-for saving C-crispin and B-bobby. Mr. Filch was after them, and he said..." Her little face quivered. "...he said he was g-going to whip them!"

Ron shut his trap. The brave little girl reminded him absurdly of Ginny. "That's all right," he said, and was moved to say something more, even as he took a step towards them and made shooing motions with his hands. "Look, I don't mind telling you it's a bl--frightful shame, your first year being spoiled with Umbridge in charge. It's not fair to you lot and it's not fair to the school. She's mental. At Hogwarts we don't beat students, ever. Things will get better. You've got to remember that. It's not always going to be like this, so buck up, all right?"

The first years looked up at him with what could only be termed adoration. "He really is a hero!" someone sighed.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Look, this is all very flattering, but could you please clear OFF? I've got something important to do."

Awed as they were by the mythical "Mr. Potter", they needed very little encouragement to leave. He had barely shooed the last one out of the door when the transformation took him. This time it left him feeling a bit sick, and he flopped into the chair until it passed.

The door creaked open. He leapt to his feet and whirled, wand outstretched. "WHAT?!" he bellowed.

Hermione stood there, wide-eyed. "I - er - just wanted to see if you'd changed back yet," she stammered, looking at him as though he was rabid and might bite.

Ron sighed gustily, passed a hand over his face, knocking off the silly glasses in the process, and offered her a chivalrous arm. "I was just leaving," he said.

It was going to be a long week.

* * *

Ron sank into the easy chair with a grimace, and moaned with relief when the cooling liquid touched his burning hand. He settled his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. Hermione had had a swot session with some Ravenclaws tonight, and without her to nag him about going to the Room early, he'd put off the trip to detention until almost eight o'clock, just to enjoy his reward: the sight of Harry's face as he went off to a normal detention unplagued by cutting quills and disfiguring punishments. He'd sprinted to the Room, downed a bit more of the potion than usual, waited on tenterhooks for it to work, and dashed to the office, but had still managed to be a quarter of an hour late for Umbridge. And she'd made him pay for it: instead of ten o'clock, she'd made him stay till ten-thirty, until his hand was bleeding and he could barely write.

But it had been worth it to see the fruition of his plan: for the first time in a while, he'd seen Harry slip off the couch and say casually, "Better get to detention. See you later." His jaw hadn't tightened in that heart-wrenching way, he hadn't steeled himself for suffering - he had just held the normal disgruntlement of a fellow going off to detention when he'd rather be doing something else. He's not going off for someone to hurt him, Ron had thought. The satisfaction of that knowledge had buoyed him up through the worst of the detention.

Only two more days now, he thought, feeling the cuts begin to close up, the burning begin to recede. Just two more--

Luna Lovegood walked in with an armful of books. "Hello, Harry," she said, as though completely unsurprised to see him here. "Do you mind if I study in here for a while? A few of the girls have been dancing around me in circles and singing "Loony Loony Loon, Howling at the Moon" in the common room all evening, and I don't mind that it's so loud, but I can't concentrate because they're so frightfully out of tune."

The sense of unreality that always accompanied Luna began to overwhelm him, but he collected his wits. "I'm frightfully sorry, Luna, but I've got a-" He cast about for an excuse before remembering: This is Luna! "-a secret I want to hide, and I want you to go away before you can find out about it." Before the unreality sucked him under completely, he said as though telling her when to pick up a birth certificate, "Come back on Sunday, OK?"

"All right then," Luna agreed serenely, not looking in the least put out. "By the way, be careful, Harry. I saw you not a minute ago walking outside in the corridor. You know what that means, don't you?"

I know what it means, all right, it means that that stupid git Harry is taking the long way round to the Gryffindor Common Room. Ron flapped his jaw, but couldn't seem to get any words out.

"It means you're probably suffering from Evemphkarnall's Echo. It sometimes causes you to leave traces of yourself in places where you've been."

"Is that bad?" Ron blurted, unable to resist.

"Oh no," said Luna opening the door, staring earnestly at him with her protuberant eyes, "it's quite easily cured with a dose of wum-wum juice.. That's best taken in the bath, though..."

And she was gone.

He let his head fall back against the headrest, smiling in spite of himself. He wondered why he had ever thought Luna unpleasant. The way things are going, he thought, we'd all be a lot better off if there were a few more people like Luna at Hog--

The door opens, and Lee Jordan and Susan burst in, laughing. Lee lands a kiss on Susan's lips before he notices that the Room has another occupant. "Oh, hi, Harry," he says, and Ron almost corrects him. "Listen," he goes on, giving Ron a conspiratorial you're-a-boy-so-you'll-understand-me look, "Would you mind, erm, leaving us alone for a bit?" His wink encompasses Susan, the room and his rather obvious plans.

But Ron has plans of his own, and they're drawing nearer by the second. "Sorry, but no," he says in a tone that brooks no argument. "I'm expecting someone myself."

"Oh," says Lee, disappointed, but to Ron's immense relief, seems to accept it. "Well, I suppose you did get here first. I don't suppose you'd consider waiting outside until she gets here?"

"'Fraid not," he says, and miracle of miracles, they are gone again, and the door swings shut behind them.

Thank goodness! Ron thinks. Surely that's enough people for one nigh--

Bang! The door bursts open, and Zacharias Smith and a Slytherin girl he doesn't know lurch in, holding on to each other and to the doorframe for support. His hand is up her robes.

"Naffing hell!" Ron roars. "What's going on? Is there a sign on the door, "Trysting Place - Enquire Within?"

The girl looks up wide-eyed and removes Zacharias' hand. Zacharias gives Ron an unfriendly glare, and Ron finds that he has pulled his wand out and trained it on Zacharias without conscious thought.

"Potter--" Smith begins.

"Eff off."

"We've got just as much right to be here as you--"

Ron snorts. "Look, Smith. I've neither the time nor the patience for this. If you're not out of this room by the time I count to three, I will hex you."

"Potter!" Now Smith has his wand out. But Ron knows - hopes - it's a bluff.

"One."

The girl tugs at Zacharias' robes. "Oh, come on, let's just go..."

"Two."

"Want it to come to a duel, Potter?"

She tugs again, insistently. "Let's just find somewhere else, Zackie-poo."

"What?!" Ron bursts out in a snort of laughter. Zacharias turns beet red and glares daggers at him, then lowers his wand. He's beaten and he knows it.

Trying to salvage what's left of his dignity, he emits a menacing growl. "If you breathe a word of this, Potter, I swear I'll have your head."

"If you leave right now, my lips are sealed." Ron stares at him flintily until the door closes behind him and the girl.

With a groan, Ron drops to his hands and knees on the floor. And not a moment too soon, as he feels his body changing. "Hogwarts indeed!" he groans aggrievedly as his legs grow longer and his hands change their dimensions before his eyes. "They should rename it St. Mungo's Mental Ward. It's a bloody madhouse, I swear!"

He would not have been particularly relieved to know that his sentiments were shared by Harry.

* * *

Harry was jolted awake by the sound of the clock striking eleven, to find himself sitting on the bathroom floor with a stiff neck and a frozen bum.

"Wha--oh."

He'd fallen asleep over his History of Magic homework. After the first night he had taken to bringing his homework down with him - it felt silly just to sit there in the girls' toilets, especially as they got cleaned in the first ten minutes, leaving him to sit twiddling his thumbs until ten o'clock. When he first went to detention, he'd had the awful fear that Umbridge might have arranged something like the Augean Stables, but the work itself was easy and the bathroom stayed clean and sparkling; it turned out that the worst thing about it was Moaning Myrtle and her endless stream of grievances. So intent was he on avoiding Myrtle's chatter that he was studying more diligently than ever before. Well, at least something useful was coming out of his detentions.

Rubbing his eyes, he set off for Gryffindor Tower, using the long way around so as not to run into too many people. But no sooner had he walked out of the toilet than he was mobbed by a horde of first years.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Potter!"

"They told us--"

"You're a real hero!"

"You saved us!"

A miniature Ginny Weasley piped up, "We don't care what the rest of the school says, Mr. Potter! We think you're noble and brave and kind and chivalrous and--"

Harry couldn't make head or tail of what they were talking about, but he was starting to turn scarlet. "Um, thanks awfully," he said, and extricated himself from them, breaking into a trot as he escaped down the corridor.

As he turned the corner, he blundered into Lee Jordan and Susan, walking with their arms around each other. "Sorry," he apologized, but Lee gave him a knowing wink.

"I know who she is, you lucky dog, you." Susan looked put out, and Lee hastily continued, "'Course, she's got nothing on Susan, here, but she's a bit of all right just the same."

Harry stared, wondering if he was in danger of catching Lee's affliction. Luckily, Lee didn't seem to need an interlocutor. "Just wanted to tell you, we found an empty classroom, so everything worked out all right for us as well."

Harry managed to emit a sort of strangled gurgle as the happy couple flounced past him and disappeared into the gloom. Shaking his head to clear it, he walked on.

Nearing the portrait hole, he found Zacharias Smith walking towards him. Harry's attempt at a friendly smile wilted under Smith's withering glare. "Not a word, Potter," Smith growled as they passed each other.

Harry had had enough. He stopped and turned to face the other boy. "Not a word about what?" he demanded aggressively.

To his immense astonishment, this seemed to please Zacharias no end. "Oh, that's perfect," he beamed. "You're a brick, Potter. Sorry I misjudged you." He clapped Harry heartily on the shoulder and walked off, whistling.

Harry watched him until he was out of sight, and clambered through the portrait hole in a daze. Apparently, the mysterious affliction was catching.

***

"Have you noticed anyone acting strangely lately?" Harry asks, sitting on the other side of Ron from me at breakfast.

"Whole school's gone barmy, if you ask me," Ron says thickly through his eggs, and I shoot him a warning glance. "Wandering about at all hours of the night, barging in where they're not wanted--"

I manage to kick him under the table and he finally shuts up, but now Harry's taken up the tale. "You said it!" he says with feeling. "Shouting at you one minute, grinning like idiots the next - you never know what they're on about--"

At that moment, Luna Lovegood passes the Gryffindor table. "Morning, Harry," she says shyly. "Remember what I told you about Evemphkarnall's Echo?" Harry stares mutely as she goes on: "Well, I just remembered, it can also be cured with half a cup of powdered quinquilly leaves stirred into a little lemon juice, but they have to be gathered at the full moon." And with that, she glides out of the dining hall.

"It's even affected the Ravenclaws," I jump into the void. Harry is looking after her as though unsure whether to have himself or her admitted to the Emergency Mental Unit. "I think it's Umbridge being here, she's making everyone nervous. No-one's themselves these days. Don't you agree, Ron?" I prod him, acquainting him again with my foot.

"Oh... yeah." He's red to the tips of his ears. "That's got to be it. I'm not myself myself. Umbridge, yeah, what else could it be, really?"

"How's your hand, Harry?" I ask, desperate for a change of subject. Reaching across Ron, I grab Harry's right hand as it moves towards the toast. He seems embarrassed, but I keep hold of it.

"All right, thanks," he says sheepishly, then he smiles. "Better, actually."

Crisis averted. But as I look at his hand, I realize it is better. The awful purple rawness has subsided to a dark pink. The cuts are nearly healed, and while the flesh is still puffy and the fingers are still thick and swollen, it's nowhere near as bad as it was a couple of days ago.

I catch a glimpse of Ron's face, and catch my breath at what I see there - profound satisfaction, pride and affection all rolled into one. But the one emotion that makes me want to give him a big hug in the middle of the Great Hall is the gratitude I see in his eyes. He's grateful that he's taking this for Harry.

I take Ron's hand - a bit pink, but nowhere near as bad as Harry's - and gently squeeze it under the table.

***

Only tomorrow left, thank goodness.

I fall into the armchair and soak my hand in the tentacle solution. I sigh with relief as the pain recedes. Another few days of this, and my hand would have scarred. I won't be the one to tell him, but I've seen Harry's injuries, and I know that hand's never going to be the same again.

Hermione comes in. "How was it?"

"All right," I say. What else can I say? "This concoction you've made is amazing."

She comes and kneels on the floor beside my chair, peering at my hand beneath the murky solution. "It was - oh!"

As the door swings open, she flings her arms around my neck and buries her face in my shoulder. Not that I mind, but what's going on? The penny drops as two voices, a girl's and a boy's, mutter, "Sorry," and I hear the door close again.

Hermione pulls away from me, flushed. "Sorry about that," she says, "but what you said gave me an idea, about keeping unwanted visitors out - you can't exactly lock the Room of Requirement, and if it looked as if we were, you know-"

I cut her off. "What are you so embarrassed about? It's a brilliant idea!" She smiles shyly. "What are you doing out of the Common Room, anyway? I thought you'd stay till Harry got back."

"I was on my way back from the library, and I thought I'd stop by," she says. She gives me that smile again, which is not helping me concentrate. "Ron," she says, then laughs, "it feels funny to know you're Ron with you looking like this - but Ron, I just wanted to say, I think what you're doing is magnificent."

Magnificent, eh? "Oh, it's nothing, really." I try not to let my grin show, or my blush; I'd like it to appear as if I get compliments like this from pretty girls all the time - and where did that thought come from? Hermione's just a friend, just a friend, just a-- The door opens and she throws her arms round me again.

"Oh, sorry, Hermione, Harry," says a girl. That soft tone is Padma's.

"Yeah, we'll just find somewh--" I recognize Dean's voice as the door swings shut again.

Hermione pulls back. "I knew it was a bad idea letting the entire DA know about this place," I grumble, but there's no irritation in it, and she giggles.

She sits back. "Yes, whoever thought it would--" Her eyes widen as she looks over my shoulder. The door swings open again.

"This is the END!" I blow up, jumping to my feet. "Where do all these bloody couples come from, anyway? Are we the only people who didn't know about the Room of Requirement?" I glare furiously at the new intruders. "Can't one have a moment in peace?"

But Marcus Flint, with a pretty Slytherin I don't know, is standing his ground.

"You've been getting plenty of moments, from what I've heard," he says, and I see Hermione steal an agonized glance at me: the time is getting shorter.

"Out," I say, pulling out my wand.

"Make me," says Flint.

"I will, if he won't." Hermione's shoulder-to-shoulder with me now, and that tips the balance decidedly in our favour: her skill with a wand is legendary. Marcus flinches. "We were here first, and unless you want to spend the rest of the night quacking like a duck, you might as well go now."

"Look, Flint old mate," I try to appear like the reasonable one, "women are mad. Just give us today - and tomorrow," I add hastily, "and I promise you won't see us in here again."

Marcus' eyes flicker, but I seem to have given him the face-saving excuse he needs. "I'll hold you to that, Potter," he blusters, and storms from the room. Thank goodness for Slytherin survival instincts.

I turn to Hermione. "What the flaming hell is going on tonight? Who turned the school into Hogwarts Lonely Hearts Club for effing Lovelorn Witches and Wizards?"

"The fifth-year Ravenclaws are giving somebody's birthday party," said Hermione, "and a lot of people are invited, from lots of different Houses. Luna was telling me this afternoon."

"What are they serving at that party, Firewhisky?" I fume. "With all the people waltzing in and out of here, it's as though someone sent out engraved invitations. 'Dear Sir or Madam. Snogging Tonight in the Room of Requirement. DA Members Welcome.'"

Hermione smiles. "Tell you what," she says. "Why don't I go to the end of the corridor and stave the couples off?"

"That's a great idea," I sigh with relief. I'm starting to feel as if I'm inside one of those stupid paperbacks Mum's so fond of reading. "This Bewitched Romance parading through the Room on a nightly basis is starting to get to me. I had no idea that so many of our fellow-students were in a state of... Requirement."

Hermione giggles, and I feel stupidly happy as she vanishes through the door.

Finally, I flop back into the chair, hand soaking in the healing essence. Alone and relaxed at last. It's just a few more moments until the transformation. I hope I can stay awake till th...

The door opens and Cho Chang bursts in, sobbing.

"AAARGH!" I open my mouth to say something reasonable, but all that comes out is a roar. "This isn't the Room of Requirement, it's bloody Trafalgar Square!" I growl at her without a shred of sympathy. "What are you whinging on about now, anyway?"

"Harry!" Cho turns stricken eyes on me, and too late I remember that I'm supposed to be Harry, her doting boyfriend.

I feel the queasiness of the impending remorphing and panic grips me. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Get out!" I yell. I rack my brains for any insult that will get her out before she sees. "I'm sick of your weeping and wailing! All you ever do is cry!"

She stops crying immediately, which would be interesting if I had any space left in my mind for anything besides blind, screaming panic. "But Harry-"

"Get out of my sight!" There, that should be enough. Oh, please let her leave please let her leave please let her--

"But--"

"OUT!" I grab one of Hermione's books and throw it at her, aiming to miss. It has the required effect anyway. She streaks out as though the hounds of Hades were after her.

I zoom to the door and slam my back against it as the queasiness of the remorphing ripples through me.

* * *

Shock is an understatement.

There we were, Harry and Ron and I in the Great Hall, having breakfast. As we got up to go, suddenly Cho was standing in Harry's way, for all the world as if she had Apparated into his path..

"Hi, Cho," said Harry uncertainly.

"You - you cad! You brute!" she cried. Her hand flashed out and she slapped him in the face. Then she stalked off, leaving the entire Great Hall gaping at us.

If I wasn't confident that Ron's a gentleman, I would almost have suspected that something had happened which oughtn't to have happened - well -that he hadn't kept his hands to himself, I mean. I'd get the whole story out of him later, but for now, Harry was just standing there, goggling after Cho, the imprint of a small hand pink on his cheek. He turned to me. "What on earth--"

Ron picked up Harry's glasses from where they had fallen, polished them on his robe with what I felt was entirely too practiced a motion, and put them back on Harry's face. This was easy because Harry was still doing his impression of a human statue. "All girls are mental," Ron said. "I keep telling you that."

"I resent that," I said half-heartedly. Then I put a hand over my eyes.

Padma, Lee, Susan and Dean had all come up to show their support.

"Don't mind her, Harry," said Susan.

"It's just that her feelings are hurt," said Padma.

"I'd say you've done much better," said Lee with a man-to-man leer that made me want to jinx him.

"Yeah, congratulations, mate," Dean clapped him on the shoulder and they all hurried off.

"...?" Harry turned to me. If he had been an Animagus, his Animagus form at that moment would have been one huge question mark.

No good looking to Ron for help - if he turned any redder, he might undergo spontaneous combustion. "Er," I said helplessly, and then I had a brainwave. "Some of the gossips have been putting it about that you've thrown Cho over for me. So she's jealous."

"Oh, I see!" His face cleared. Then he looked at me. "But that's ridiculous!"

"Oh, charming, Harry." I pretended to be insulted.

He rolled his eyes. "Hermione, I didn't mean it like that, it's just that..."

"I know," I said impatiently. "But given that this is the same crowd who thought you were the Heir of Slytherin in second year, and that many still think you're a raving lunatic this year, since when has logic come into it?"

"Yeah, I s'pose you're right," Harry said dispiritedly as they headed off to double Transfiguration.

I feel really, really, really guilty. "What a tangled web we weave when we practice deceit!"

* * *

Ron is walking through the twilit halls on his way to Umbridge's office when he sees Marietta Edgecombe, Cho's best friend, coming towards him. "Harry, I heard you and Cho split up," she says, her voice sympathetic.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Ron says shortly. And can't you just shut up and go away?

"Well, I heard--"

"Gossip, the school's got nothing better to do than chitchat," he says with as surly an air as possible. But she has the light in her eyes of one who wants to uncover a mystery. "Look, I've got detention with Umbridge right now. I've got to go. 'Scuse me." And he stalks off.

* * *

On Harry's way to the toilets, he is accosted by Marietta Edgecombe. "Harry! What are you doing here?"

"Well, let's see," he counts on his fingers with an air of exaggerated patience, "I've only been coming to this school for the past one--two--three--four--"

"Oh, silly!" she bats at his hands, with a strange sort of smile. "I thought you had detention with Umbridge. You know, in her office."

"I used to," he says, "but she changed it to cleaning toilets."

"Oh, how awful for you!"

"It's all right," he says shortly.

"Can I come with you? I want to ask you about you-know-what."

He stares at her. It's one thing to suspect girls are barmy, and another to have it proved right before your very eyes. "Um, do you mean 'You-Know-Who'?" he asks carefully.

She rolls her eyes. "No, silly! You-know-what! Your split with Cho! Have you forgotten already?"

Oh. Oh, no. He really can't be bothered to get into this, not now; he still has two hours of detention and three feet of parchment to produce for Flitwick tomorrow. "Look, can we talk about it later?" he says, hoping to put this off. "I've got detention right away." Maybe, with luck, she'll forget - a girl forgetting to talk about depressing subjects, yeah, right. Elephants have nothing on girls' memories.

"All right," she says. "After your detention, then?"

"Right," he says and makes good his escape, reminding himself to use the long way back.

* * *

It's his last day. The horrible quill seems to cut deeper each time - today, he can definitely feel the nauseating queasiness that comes with it slicing right through some of the bigger veins, and scraping along his tendons. Still, he feels a perverse satisfaction in the pain. It's not so much that he feels guilty on Harry's behalf - from his account of the disastrous encounter at Madam Puddifoot's, his relationship with Cho couldn't have been much worse than it already was - and he couldn't find it in his heart to feel sorry for Cho, after what she'd done to Harry in the middle of the Great Hall like that - but the thing was, when he'd told Hermione what he'd said, she had looked... disappointed. And he did not like seeing that look from Hermione...

..especially when she was in the right.

I've made a right balls-up of things, haven't I? he thought gloomily. Still, what else could I have done? Let Cho see me recovering from an illegal potion? The thought that he'd had no choice cheered him up slightly. Still, all that confusion that Harry had to put up with...

I must not tell lies.

Well, I'm certainly paying for my misdeeds, so I'm not going to feel guilty about them. Who says there's no justice in the world? At least the punishment's going to an actual liar. He grinned inwardly.

Ow. We've established that I deserve it, but still, it doesn't half bloody well hurt. It might have been his imagination, but this time it seemed to hurt more than ever before. He'd already learnt all the tricks: to write the 'I' without the horizontal slashes; not to curve the 't' up at the bottom; his 'm' and 'n', formerly formed with a down-up-curve across-down stroke, now used the more economical up-curve across-down stroke. He'd exhausted the comic potential of the mental slogan 'Save Blood - Write Smaller' on the first, second and third nights. Now all that remained was burning pain, the shudder of nausea every time the quill cut into a tendon, and a weary desire for it to end.

By the time Umbridge's 'hem, hem' signaled the end of detention, he could hardly move his hand, which was bleeding freely, oozing fat drops of blood onto the parchment. On the third try, Ron managed to drop the quill onto the parchment - he didn't seem to have any control of his fingers at all at the moment. He couldn't quite stand to look into her eyes, because the smug satisfaction there might drive him to strangle her, so he focused his attention on the pink ruffle at her throat.

"...learned your lesson, Mr. Potter."

He was hit by a brainwave. "Oh yes, I've learnt my lesson," he said in the best contrite tone he could manage. "I'm sorry to have been so much trouble, Professor Umbridge."

"Well, that is better, Potter. Maybe I won't have to see you in here again." The smug, approving tone filled him with glee.

He stepped out of the office and promptly leant on the wall, gripping his right wrist tightly with his left. A small voice in his mind asked:

Whatever possessed you to grovel like that?

Well, Harry'd never apologize, and he keeps getting punished because of that, he explained to the voice, so this is the best of both worlds; I pull the wool over that toad's eyes, and Harry gets a reprieve.

Till the next silly thing he does, the voice added.

Well, yeah. Can't help that, can I? But this way, his pride stays intact.

What about yours? prompted Inner Voice.

It was him apologizing, not me.

But you said his pride--

He'll never know about it.

It's irritating when you're always right, said Inner Voice.

I try, said Ron smugly.

"Harry!"

His head snaps up from his reverie to see Marietta bouncing up to him. He whips his hands behind his back. He'd almost forgotten the pain, but now, fuelled by guilt, it returns full force. The last thing he wants to talk about now is how he's made a bollocks of Harry and Cho. He can't even meet her eyes. "Not now, Marietta, please."

"I thought you said you were in the loo!"

"Loo?" he repeats stupidly, staring blankly at her. Why is she interested in Harry's bowel motions? Girls are mental, he shakes his head. With a muttered "'Scuse me," he sprints off down the corridor.

Safely ensconced in the armchair, blood mingling with the Murtlap essence, he wonders just why Marietta is so interested. She's Cho's best friend. That's got to be it. Good thing I got away then - I don't want a repeat of the slapping incident.

* * *

Finally, Harry thinks as he leaves the toilet. Three feet of parchment on Invisibility Charms through the ages was a bit of work, but he's surprised to find he truly enjoyed it. It's because of the Cloak, he supposes; he's often wondered whether the Invisibility Charm on it could possibly be replicated--

"Harry, wait!"

Marietta is after him again.

Where's an Invisibility Charm when you need one? Harry looks left, right, and ducks into the boys' toilets. At her nonplussed stare, he calls, 'Scuse me, Marietta! You know where to find me!" as the door swings shut.

Standing alone, Marietta smiles. Yes, by all accounts, she certainly does know where to find him.

* * *

His hand's still bleeding, but the pain is gone, and for that Ron breathes a sigh of relief. He wishes Hermione were back from her newest swot session so that they could celebrate a job well done. He closes his eyes and leans back, relishing his reward: seeing Harry at breakfast, using his hand enthusiastically to serve them both kidneys, the swelling almost entirely gone down. It was so great to see him obviously not in pain despite the ugly, raised purple scar puckering the back of his hand.

He pulls his own hand, still in the shape of Harry's, from the Murtlap solution, and looks at the back; as soon as it's taken out of the cooling liquid, it hurts like a bugger, but Hermione's studying some charms that will stop it from scarring. Dipping it back into the bowl, he sighs with relief. He can't help feeling a bit annoyed that Harry spent ages in detention without telling them, without Murtlap essence; even with the healing potion, Ron's more than ready to pack it in after just five days. The pain today made him sick. And thinking of Harry spending weeks in this sort of pain, all alone - it makes him angry just thinking about it. We're bloody well there for him! Why does he always feel he has to put up with things alone? Why doesn't he ever ask us for help? Probably the way he grew up with those miserable relations of his. Locking him in his room indeed. That's something I wouldn't wish on Malfoy, let alone--

"Harry!"

The door swings open to reveal Marietta Edgecombe.

"Oh, Merlin," Ron buries his face in his good hand, the glasses bumping his palm awkwardly.

"Harry," she says in a funny tone, "See, I did know where to find you."

Ron rolls his eyes. "Seeing as this seems to be the meeting point for the whole of Hogwarts, yeah, I s'pose you did."

"Harry, I know."

He stares at his blood mingling with the Murtlap essence, and finds that he doesn't have the time or the inclination to be polite. "Marietta, could you just shove off?"

"You don't have to hide it anymore, Harry."

His head whips round at that. Can she be saying she knows about...? Calm, Weasley, calm. "Hide what, exactly, Marietta?"

"You know, silly! I can tell!"

Give me strength! "Tell what?"

"Why you split up with Cho!"

"Oh!" He heaves a sigh of immense relief. "And why might that be?" Girl talk. It's always girl talk. Nothing but--

"Because you fancy me, silly!"

His mouth drops open and he rises, perhaps in the theory that it's more dignified to die on your feet, only to find himself with an armful of Marietta. "Oh, Harry!" she's babbling. "She was never your type, and I couldn't say anything because she's my best friend, but now you've split up, I can finally..."

"Gerroff!" Her arms are everywhere. She's like one of those statues he saw once of an Indian witch with six arms, or a particularly persistent gnome he once encountered in the garden, who was intent on plucking his eyes out. Any moment now, he's going to turn back into Ron, and...

"Kiss me, Harry!"

"Get OFF!" That Indian statue-witch has nothing on this mad female. Does she have twenty hands? How can they be in so many places at once? How will he get her out of here before he changes back?

"I know you're shy, Harry! Cho told me everything!"

"GERROFFOFME!" If she were a boy, he would have long since poked her one in the eye. As it is, he can't hit a girl. He sends up a frantic plea for help to any deity, wizard or Muggle, who may be listening. Anything would be better than this, he prays frantically, anything, even Luna's looniness...

Brainwave. Looniness.

"GAHAARGH!" he yowls, and to his satisfaction, she takes a step back. "I finally have you alone!" he snarls, advancing upon her.

"Eek! H-Harry, what are you--"

Foaming at the mouth would come in really handy right now, but he settles for drooling a bit, and she skitters backwards, nervously. "I AM THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN! I AM THE NASTY NASTY!" Oh, great vocabulary, Weasley, really nice going.

But it's working. She has turned pale and is backpedalling like it's an Olympic sport. "Help!"

Keep going, Weasley. "Um. I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE! I WILL REND YOU LIMB FROM LIMB!" He waves his hands about a bit.

She lets out a shriek and runs for the door.

"If I ever - um, IF I EVER SEE YOU OUTSIDE THE DEFENSE ASSOCIATION AGAIN, I WILL EAT YOU ALIVE!"

The door slams behind her.

Ron collapses into the armchair, his heart hammering. Please let this be the last mad girl to barge in here. Please let this be the last mad girl to barge in here.

He doesn't know it, but he's about to get his wish.

* * *

Harry opens the door to the boys' toilets a crack. He peers around, and, finding the corridor empty, slips out. He's quickly found out that Myrtle isn't confined to the girls' bathroom, and with Peeves in there as well, let's just say he's quite prepared to take his chances with the living, thank you very much.

Quickly and quietly, he pads up the stairs, taking the long way round to Gryffindor tower. It's a bit of a detour, he acknowledges as he huffs upstairs laden with the heavy Charms volumes, but at least I won't run into...

"Marietta!" he gasps as she staggers backwards out of solid wall - no, out of the Room of Requirement - and bumps right into him.

She turns and sees his face. She couldn't have looked more terrified if she were staring down the business end of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

"AIEEEE!" she screams and makes a mad dash down the corridor, her robes flapping behind her.

Harry stares after her for a moment.

Reflectively, he puts the heavy books down against the wall. Mad girls or no mad girls, this is getting to be a bit thick. More to the point, he wouldn't put it past Peeves to have given him devil's horns or something equally terrifying, given Marietta's reaction. He looks down at himself, but it's just too dark in here, even by wandlight.

He sighs. No point terrorizing the rest of Gryffindor Tower. It won't take a minute to have a shufti at himself in a looking-glass.

He walks up and down, thinking: I need to look at myself in the mirror... I need to look at myself in the mirror...

And it appears, a door in the solid stone. Harry pushes it open and steps in, finding a mirror...

...and two armchairs...

and himself, seated in one of them.

Without conscious thought, his Defense reflexes kick in and he has his wand out and trained on the impostor before the other fully registers he's even there.

"Oh, NO!" Ron leaps up from the armchair, but it is too late: Harry has him at wandpoint, and the look in his eyes is flinty. "Harry, it's me! It's Ron!" he shouts before he gets hexed, or worse.

"Stay where you are." Harry's eyes flicker, but his wand remains firm.

Ron can see Harry taking him in from head to toe, Harry in every detail, from the glasses to the lightning scar to the bleeding hand to the Muggle shoes Hermione calls... flimsolls. Ron starts to panic. He doesn't know what kind of hexes Harry would throw at a potential Death Eater, and he certainly doesn't mean to wait and find out. "Harry, I swear it's me, Ron! I can prove it to you! Ask me anything! Anything only I would know!"

He can see the mental gears turning, and when his friend finally speaks, Ron flinches at the coldness in Harry's gaze. "What did who do when you were six that made your greatest fear worse?"

"FredandGeorge, turned, my teddy bear, into a spider," he chokes out, disjointedly.

"What do the twins call you sometimes?"

Ron resents this, but answers, "Ronnikins."

"Not good enough." Harry's eyes turn colder, if that's possible.

"Ickle Ronnikins!" Ron bursts out. "Harry, come on..."

"What else do they call you sometimes?"

"Little bro. Harry..."

The freezing eyes never waver. For a moment, Ron understands why Harry's such a powerful wizard, or he would if he weren't in imminent danger of being hexed into oblivion. "What colour's your bedspread?"

"Orange."

"What's on the poster behind your bed?"

For a panicky moment Ron draws a blank. Then he closes his eyes, visualizing his room, but just as the poster of the Cannons' goalkeeper making a tricky save appears in his mind's eye, he feels himself swimming, morphing back, and he closes his eyes because he feels sick and doesn't know what to do. Then he opens his eyes, his own again, and looks, looks down from his own height now, into Harry's surprised, marginally more trusting face - only marginally, though, because the "how-do-I-know-you're-not-a-Death-Eater" look had been replaced by a "why-on-earth-are-you-Polyjuicing-into-me" look.

Harry lowers his wand. He stares at Ron, trying to work out why Ron would want to turn into him. What's going on? It's impossibly strange to see himself turning into Ron, and it's stranger still now to see Ron wearing his, Harry's, glasses. As though noticing his gaze, Ron sheepishly takes them off with his bleeding hand...

Now why would Ron's hand be--

Wait a minute.

And in a blinding flash of agonized betrayal, the explanation comes crashing down on Harry in terrible detail: in an impossibly long instant, he understands with awful clarity precisely why 'Umbridge' reassigned him to the toilets, the truth about the 'detentions with Snape', and why Ron's hand has bloody words carved into it. His mouth drops open as he stares at Ron, and from Ron's expression of wide-eyed horror, Ron knows he's worked it out.

Their eyes lock, speechless, for long moments, and then Harry blurts in pain: "How could you--" Speechless, he tries again: "How could you--" but what words are there to describe the enormity of this detailed, systematic betrayal?

Hardly of his own volition, he whispers: "How could you?"

"Harry, I can explain this--"

"NO YOU CAN'T!" Harry explodes. "WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO STOP HIDING THINGS FROM ME? I'M NOT A CHILD!"

Ron's stricken expression almost makes him relent - almost, but not quite. "Harry, you'd never have let me..."

"YOU'RE RIGHT, I WOULDN'T!" Harry screams. "BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? THAT DOESN'T GIVE YOU AN EXCUSE TO GO BEHIND MY BACK! FIRST 'DUMBLEDORE MADE YOU SWEAR', AND NOW THIS! I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!" He pauses, breathing hard. "I can't believe this! Hermione put you up to this, didn't she?"

Ron looks stung. "She didn't 'put me up' to anything, mate."

"Oh, so it was your brilliant idea, all by yourself? I don't believe it. She helped you with the Polyjuice, you're not good enough at Potions to have done it all by yourself," he says coldly. He knows he's being savage, but he doesn't care.

"W-well, yeah, she did - but," Ron adds loyally, "it was my idea, and--"

Harry takes a deep breath. "So you were in it together." When he thinks of the organized nature of their betrayal - not only keeping things from him and making up excuses, but contriving a detailed fabrication and duping him into believing it - he feels sick. "There never were any detentions with Snape, were there?"

"N--no, Harry, I'm sorry--" he gulps as Harry shakes his head in disbelief--"but we just couldn't - I couldn't stand it any more - Harry, you've got to und--"

"What have I got to understand?" Harry snaps. "That you're together in the know, and leaving me out AGAIN? Only this is worse - it's not just that you didn't bother to tell me, now you're planning things behind my back, making up things that aren't true and tricking me into believing them like some kind of idiot!"

"Harry," Ron advances towards him, palms up in a placating gesture. A trickle of blood wends its way slowly down his right palm, between his second and third fingers. He comes closer "Look, mate, we--"

The 'we' - not including him - makes Harry see red. "Shut up!" He raises his hands to Ron's chest and pushes him away, hard.

Ron lurches backward, but then takes another step towards him. The look in his eyes makes Harry even angrier. Ron takes another step forward; they are almost touching. "Harry, please - we just didn't want you to go to any more of those awful det-"

"GET OFF!" Ron's tall form looming so close to him fills Harry with disgust, and this time he shoves Ron away so fiercely that he trips and falls backwards onto his bum. Harry's glasses fall off and he fumbles for them on the floor, not that he can see all that well; anger is filling his vision with a red haze. "STOP DOING THINGS FOR MY OWN GOOD! JUST STOP IT! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF BEING KEPT IN THE DARK! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF BEING LIED TO!" He's gasping for breath now. "How do you expect me to trust anything you say after this?" He looks down at the blurred figure of Ron, lying on his side on the flagstone, with utter contempt. "I've HAD it with the two of you. Just stay away from me. I'll handle things myself from now on."

Finally finding his glasses, he pulls them on and storms out of the Room of Requirement, seething anger successfully covering up the aching void in his heart.

* * *

Ron stayed curled up on his side, breathing hard against the pain. He'd reached behind him to break his fall; when his injured hand had hit the flagstones, he'd felt the jolt of screaming agony up his entire arm. He curled up protectively around it, gripping his wrist with his left hand, Harry's words floating over his head through the pain. The fall seemed to have jolted the cuts; his whole arm throbbed, blood was welling up again, and he didn't care. He heard a keening sound, and was surprised to find it was coming from him.

Ron took a shuddering breath, then another, trying for calm and collected. Squeezing his eyes shut, he slowly used his good hand to pull himself upright, dragging himself into the chair by main force of will. He plunged his hand blindly into the bowl. He felt the worst of the pulsing-hot pain recede, but there was no potion that could push away the heavy, sinking feeling in his heart.

* * *

It's come crashing down about our ears. I knew it would eventually.

Well, not knew, but you know what they say. The truth will out.

Harry's sitting all the way off at the end of the Gryffindor table, picking moodily at his breakfast. I want to go over there and knock some sense into him - how dare he leave Ron in that state! - but given yesterday's display, once was quite enough. He'll come round. I know he will. At least, I hope so. I mean, we weren't doing anything to hurt him - on the contrary, we wanted him not to suffer. It's Ron who suffered for the whole idea, anyway.

Ron's moping about like a proper idiot, and I want to knock some sense into him, too, but I've already tried talking to him, and all he does is shrug me off. He won't listen to reason. Last night, no matter how much I said that he wasn't doing anything wrong, and that he was really protecting Harry, and that Harry should at least have stopped and listened before flying off the handle like that, he just said we shouldn't have gone behind Harry's back. "He was already feeling left out that summer, remember?" he said. "He kept complaining about having to nick newspapers out of bins and that. So when we just decided to take things into our own hands, and not tell him anything..."

"Because he'd have stopped us, Ron!" I exploded. Boys can be so silly sometimes.

"Well, maybe he should have," Ron said doggedly.

"Oh, honestly! You were the one who was worried he'd lose the use of his hand, remember?"

This gave Ron pause. "Well, yeah, but..."

"But nothing! You were doing it to protect him! I can't believe you don't see that!"

"But that's just it, Hermione!" Ron shouted. "He's sick of being protected - shunted away, kept out of things, left out, you know, because of You-Know-Who and that. This summer he was so upset because nobody told him anything, and we were no better than them. We're his friends, we ought to have known that. So if we go all devious on him, who's he got left? If he can't depend on us to understand that and tell him the truth, who can he?"

I really hate it when I can't find a proper answer to Ron.

Hi, Sirius.

Hope you're doing all right. I'm all right I'm fine Things are OK here, though we've got lots of homework no-one will believe Voldemort's back, but I'm getting used to it.

I wanted to ask your advice about something. We've got a pretty awful teacher who gives us unpleasant detention all the time, she makes us write lines do punishments scrub the floors and clean toilets and things, without magic. I had detention for a all this week and it was very hard awkward inconvenient, because because I had homew Quidditch practice at the same time. Last week a friend of mine, without my knowing, made up a cock-and-bull story about how my detentions were cancelled, then Polyjuiced into me and went and did all my detentions behind my back! I'm sick of being left out of things, you of all people can understand that, and I'm sick of being treated like a child. I'm thinking of just never speaking to him again, but I do miss him. I don't know what to do. What do you think?

Love,

Harry

Hi, Harry,

Glad to know you're not letting the bastards grind you down.

To answer your question, well, I'm probably the best person to ask about something like this, if I do say so myself. Being cooped up in this house gives you plenty of time to think, and I was just thinking about friendships, and where friendship ends and family begins. I don't think I realized it when I was younger, but Prongs and Moony your father and Professor Lupin and yes, even Peter, were more family to me than the Most Noble House of Black ever was.

I suppose where I'm going with this is that we did a lot of things that brothers usually do and friends usually don't. We had some blazing rows sometimes. James and I were the worst, I think - Remus and Pete were never as hot-headed as we were. And we did things for each other that friends might not do - like the Shrieking Shack. It wasn't a matter of whether we'd help Remus, so much as how.

That's what I'm getting at: we never gave it a second thought, becoming Animagi for Remus - it's just something you do for your family. It's embarrassing to say things like this at your age, I know, but there are things you do for the ones you like, and then there are the lengths you go to for those you love. There are people - and I think you're lucky to have found friends like that, Harry - whom you can have blazing rows with and have it not matter in the end, who'll lie for you, even lie to you to protect you, and you may get angry with them for that and want to kill them, but you forgive them anyway because when all's said and done, you know they'd cheerfully lay down their lives and die for you. I'd tell you not to break off with your friend for trying to protect you, but I think you'll find that a friend who'd go to such lengths to spare you a bit of bother, who'd Polyjuice into you so that you can play Quidditch while he's scrubbing floors for you, is not going to be that easy to get rid of. I do see why you're angry with him, but really, Harry, taking your punishment is something you should be thanking him for, not telling him off, although you can't always see that at your age. Sorry to come off the heavy godfather, but I suppose living a bit longer does teach you a few things.

One other thing, Harry. I suspect that part of why you're so angry with your friends is something you share with your dad: you can't bear not being in the thick of things. That was something about Prongs: he didn't mind being the one to get punished because it meant he knew what was going on in the detention hall. It was far worse for him to be waiting outside the detention hall knowing that Remus or Peter or I were getting punished, and not knowing what was going on, than to be getting detention himself. He even once explained it a little: he said, "If it's happening to me, I know how bad it is. Even if it's awful, it's OK, because I know. But when it's happening to someone else, it's ten times worse just waiting and wondering."

I'll give you an example of what I mean. One year we had a Defense teacher we called the Dragon Lady. Can't even remember her real name. She was visiting from Romania or some such, where they had really barbaric customs, and she thought all the teachers were too soft on the students at Hogwarts. Before Pomfrey told Dumbledore and he put a stop to it, in detention she'd make students clean out cauldrons stained with caustic gum-thistle juice without magic, and no protective gloves. Anyway, James pulled a prank and I got blamed for it, and I got detention with her. James had been in a couple of times himself, and normally he just laughed it off. This time he was frantic. He told her that he was the one to blame. I think the old witch could tell from the way he was acting that punishing me would hurt him far more than anything she could ever do to him, and told him to get out. Then he blew up at me, and screamed and shouted the place down. He was pacing the floor outside that classroom, biting his nails like an expectant father. By the time I got out of detention, he was beside himself, and dragged me to the Hospital Wing, shouting at me the whole time that it was my fault for getting caught, for taking the blame, anything. I gave as good as I got, and we had a spectacular row. The point of this, Harry, is that I'm guessing it's the same for you: you couldn't stand your friend taking your punishment because although you knew how unpleasant it was for you, you could never know exactly how bad it would be for him. You were probably being a bit protective.

Re Professor Lupin is here, so I'd better go. He sends his love.

Sirius

Sitting on his bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, the slanting sunshine of late afternoon slatting through the windows, Harry lowered the letter, closing his eyes tightly. He couldn't remember ever having been so ashamed of himself.

He hadn't been feeling protective.

He hadn't even cared.

And he hadn't realized it until now.

When he'd seen Ron, for that awful instant when it had all made perfect sense, all he could think about was that Ron and Hermione had been lying to him like all the others, making a fool of him, betraying him.

He put a hand to his eyes, rubbing them under his glasses. Me, me, me. He hadn't spared a thought for Ron's well-being, hadn't even been bothered that he was hurt.

Only now did he realize it, and his own selfishness made him sick. I didn't even... his hand was bleeding and I didn't ask him whether he was all right - I shouted at him and then I shoved him away!

It was doubly reprehensible in the face of what Ron had done for him - he could no longer ignore the selflessness of his friend's actions. There had been no earthly benefit that Ron could gain from that charade; he had done it for no other reason than to take some of Harry's suffering upon himself, to take his place and be hurt in his stead. That had been his only concern - to spare Harry.

And how had Harry repaid him? With harsh words and violence.

Suddenly, he remembered Ron's posture when he had left the Room - huddled on the floor, cradling his right hand. Oh, no. He must have landed on it when he fell - with mounting horror, Harry visualized the scene, Ron throwing his hands back to break his fall, landing on his sore hand, aggravating his injury, curling up on the floor in agony. Oh, Ron... That's my thanks for what he did.

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"You all right, Harry?" Neville walked into the dormitory, looking alarmed.

"Oh, yeah, thanks, Neville," Harry said quickly, feeling even more of a heel. Look at Neville. This is how normal people behave - people whose heads aren't so swelled with their own stupid pride and self-importance that they actually give a hoot about others! "Neville," he blurted before he could stop himself.

"Yes, Harry?"

He didn't know what to say, but he was dying of shame, here. "If you'd behaved really badly towards a friend, what would you do?"

Neville looked at him. "I'd say I was sorry, and try to make it up to him. Or her. Done it loads of times, I have - I'm always mucking up something or other."

"No you're not," Harry said, staring down at the comforter. "You're a decent fellow, Neville."

The round-faced boy turned pink and moved shyly closer to Harry's bed. "That's as may be, thanks anyway, Harry," he said, "but decent doesn't mean you can't make mistakes." He took a deep breath, looking at Harry. "Girl I knew back home - we've known each other since we were little - last summer, she got in with the wrong sort--but you probably don't want to hear this," he broke off diffidently.

"Yeah, I do," said Harry, his curiosity piqued. Besides, no time like the present for learning to give a damn about how others felt. He patted the bed. "Go on, Nev."

"Well. Um. She was going out with a chap who was a nasty piece of work." Harry nodded encouragingly. "Didn't think it was my place to warn her - we weren't related, it wasn't any of my business. But a week before start of term, she came to our house crying. He'd cast Imperius on her, and tried to--well--" Neville's innocent face darkened and he sat down on the bed. "Magical Law Enforcement got there before anything happened, but--"

Harry patted the plump shoulder. Neville sighed. "I told her I was sorry. I'd known he wasn't a good sort, and I didn't warn her. She was very nice about it, but that's what I mean, Harry. You can't help making mistakes sometimes."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, but what if a friend of yours - what if your best mate was hurt, and instead of helping, you shouted at him and then pushed him to the floor?"

Neville turned to him and gaped. "Why would I...I mean... I wouldn't know," he said.

Harry flopped back onto the bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the canopy of the curtains. "No, Neville," he sighed, "I don't suppose you would, would you?"

He lay there a long time after Neville left, thinking about it. 'Mistake', that was the word Neville had used. Yeah, right. A mistake was not telling a friend that you didn't trust the boy she was going out with. A mistake could even be not knowing that your best mate would feel left out if you made plans to protect him behind his back. But laying into a friend, not caring whether or not he was hurt - no, knowing full well how hurt he was, but not caring - that was beyond a mistake. It was callous, inexcusable selfishness.

Harry got up, knowing that he couldn't fully make amends, knowing that he had to try.

* * *

If there's one constant in the universe, Harry thinks, it's that the Common Room will always be full of people whenever you most want it to be quiet. Tonight is no exception, but Harry can't put it off. Won't.

He looks around; every available seat seems to be taken, and a few groups are sitting on the floor. The noise is mind-boggling. Dean and Seamus are singing - if you can call it that - loudly to a small audience, harmonizing what seems to be a cross between "Loch Lomond" and "Where Did You Get That 'At?" Angelina and Alicia, robes slung up over their shoulders to make room for a pair of ridiculous conjured hoop skirts in shocking pink and aquamarine, are being asked to dance by a top-hatted Katie Bell doing her best impression of an Edwardian gentleman. Neville and Ginny are holding each other up, they're laughing so hard.

He brightens at the sight of them; Hermione is studying in an armchair, Ron curled up at her feet. For a moment he stops, just staring at them, remembering what Sirius said in his letter, trying to deny the warmth he feels when he sees them together. When they're there, even in the direst situations, he feels safe, protected, as though nothing can harm him; or at the very least, that whoever wants to kill him will have to try a little harder. They always protect him, like--He clamps down on any further thought.

Here goes. He walks over and plops down on the floor next to Ron. Ron looks at him once, bewildered, then turns his attention resolutely to whatever he's pretending to study.

I see him come and sit next to me, to us. Does this mean I'm forgiven? It can't be that simple, surely. Then again, maybe it is.

Hermione doesn't move a muscle. She sits still as a statue - unnaturally so.

After three days of not talking to us, Harry comes and sits next to Ron at my feet. Well, I'm not settling for anything less than a proper apology.

"Hi," Harry ventures, wondering whether Ron's going to clock him one.

"Hi," Ron answers. His tone is tentative, but he ventures a shy smile. Harry smiles too, and for a moment it is as though nothing has happened, and Harry is tempted to just let things pass, to ask Ron how his Quidditch practice is going and whether he managed to produce those three feet of parchment for Flitwick. He opens his mouth to do so, knowing that Ron will go along, and it will be as if the whole fight never happened. Thank goodness for friends like Ron, who don't expect you to produce elaborate apologies and long-winded explanations, with whom you can just be yourself--

"I'd say I was sorry, and try to make it up to him."

"I'm sorry," Harry blurts.

"What? I'm the one who sh--"

But whatever Ron may have been about to say is lost in Hermione's tirade. "And well you should be!" Hermione slams her book shut with a snap. In deference to the people around them, she keeps her voice low, but it has an undertone of sharpness. "Harry, you've got to control that temper of yours..."

Harry looks guilty while Ron tries to remonstrate. "Hermione, give it a--"

"You know perfectly well we were just trying to help! You were just plain unfair, not to mention violent. Ron couldn't use his hand at all the next day, and..."

"Shut it, Hermione!" Ron mutters urgently at Harry's stricken expression.

"I will not. It's high time Harry faced the consequences of his actions."

"How's the hand?" Harry asks blandly, not wanting to embarrass Ron, but needing to see the damage.

"All right," Ron says shortly, avoiding Harry's eyes, keeping his right hand behind his back. He starts to speak, haltingly, and it breaks Harry's heart. "Harry, I'm sorry, I'm the one who should be sorry, you told us how you hate to be left out, and I just went and blundered all over--"

"Oh, shut it, Ron," Harry says. "You meant well." For some reason, his friend's embarrassment makes Harry feel even more of a heel.

"Yeah, but I didn't want to make you feel left out or alone, or make you angry or whatever," Ron seems unable to stop now. "And I know you want to be told the truth, but you'd never have let me do it if I had told you, would you? And I just couldn't take any more. I mean, I really was afraid she'd do something that would be permanent, and every day you looked worse than the last, and now I know what it feels li--" He breaks off, and snakes his hand further behind his back.

"Ron. Shut. Up." He wants to reach out and snatch Ron's hand to him, force him to show him the injury, but he knows he has no right. "Look, you went to Umbridge instead of me, you took my punishment and got carved up instead of me, and you're sorry?" Harry snaps. "You've got nothing to be sorry about. Just shut up, all right?"

"All right." There's a trace of hope in the voice.

Harry extends his hand again. "Can I have a look?" he asks. "Please?"

A slow, friendly smile spreads over Ron's features; it warms Harry's heart. The amiable blue eyes meet his, with a trace of impishness. "Show you mine if you'll show me yours."

There is no room to protest - how dare he, after what Ron has done for him? - so he reluctantly holds out his right hand for inspection. His friend takes it in his left, and Harry mirrors the gesture as Ron apprehensively does the same.

Harry winces at the sight.

His own hand is healing even better than a few days ago; the swelling is gone, and all that's left are the raised purple scars, fast settling into something more permanent but less colourful. It hardly even hurts any more. But Ron's hand is still inflamed and tender; the cuts on the back are gaping in one or two places, as though--as though blood was forced out of them explosively by an impact. Harry swallows. As Harry turns it over, he feels Ron flinch; the angry, swollen flesh is obviously still painful to the touch. "Sorry."

"'S all right," Ron says gamely.

Trying to be gentle, looking at the damage which he has partially caused, Harry is disgusted with himself. The palm, too, is scraped raw, no doubt a result of his pushing Ron down. How did I come to this? Harry thinks. Before he ever even heard of Hogwarts, years of 'Harry-hunting' made him vow that he would never, ever be a bully - and he's picked a fine time to start. Ron didn't even make a move towards me, and I hit him anyway. And it wasn't even the first time, he thinks miserably - I chucked something at Ron during that stupid row over the Goblet, and it cut his forehead open, but he didn't even fight back, he just stood there and took it.

"Why don't you ever hit me back?" he blurts. Of all the things he wanted to say, this was definitely not on his list, but...

Ron stares at him, and to Harry's astonishment, he laughs. "Because I don't want to, you great git."

"Yeah, but you should. I'm so awful to you...."

"Oh, no, Harry, don't say that. You're awful to everyone, not just me." Ron's face is full of fiendish glee.

"Shut up, you great prat," Harry smiles half-heartedly. "No, I'm serious, Ron. Why don't you ever hit me back?"

Ron looks helplessly at Hermione. "I think I liked it better when he wasn't talking to us, at least then he wasn't asking impossible questions! How the hell should I know, Harry? I could no more hit you than I could hit Ginny back - you've seen her fly at me a few times, right? She knows she can get away with it because her big brother would never lay a fing..."

Harry stares at him open-mouthed, and Ron's ears turn red as he realizes what he's implying. "'Sides," he adds hurriedly, "it's not fair to hit a midget in glasses, is it."

Harry laughs explosively and pushes him in the shoulder, very, very gently.

Above them, Hermione snorts.

"What?" says Ron.

Harry looks up at her. "Hermione, I really am sorry I acted like such a prat. I just... I couldn't help it, there's no excuse, all right?" She looks at him mildly, expectantly, and he feels compelled to go on to satisfy that demanding gaze. "Um, I know you were doing it to protect me and I should have thanked you instead of being stupid..."

She closes the book in her lap, abandoning all pretense of reading. "You don't get it at all, do you?" she asks, mildly. "Harry, why did I help Ron make the potion?"

"Um." He feels as if she's quizzing him the night before a test, and has an irrational fear of failing. "Because he couldn't make it by himself."

She rolls her eyes. "Right. And why did he want to make the potion?"

"To turn into me."

"What for?" She's looking at him as though he were a particularly stupid species of Flobberworm.

"To pass for me with Umbridge."

"Good. What for?" she asks in her I'll-keep-at-it-no-matter-how-stupid-you-are voice.

"...um... because he wanted to go to detention instead of me."

"What for?"

Harry hesitates.

"Hermione, can't we just forget it?" Ron exclaims. "It's all right, and--"

"No," she retorts in a tone that brooks no argument. "Well, Harry?"

Harry knows the answer, well, sort of, as close as he can guess, but he doesn't really want to admit it, not out loud. He settles for a half-truth. "Because ...he didn't want me to get hurt any more."

Ron is looking away now, his face flaming. "Very good," Hermione says approvingly. "Why not?"

Harry falls silent, because this is something he can feel in his bones, but to say it out loud would be... He can't. Ron is resolutely watching the antics of Alisheena and Shalicia - that is, Angelicia and Alina- er, Angelina and Alicia - calm, stay CALM -

She huffs exasperatedly. "Why do both of us not want you to get hurt any more, Harry?"

This is easier. "B-because we're friends."

She leans down towards them. "And we care what happens to each other."

Harry nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"Don't we?"

"Y-yeah."

"Ron?" She pokes him in the shoulder.

"Yeah," he mutters, staring at the laughing crowd at the end of the Common Room. Harry follows his gaze. Angelina and Alicia have Banished the hoop skirts; now they've hoisted Neville onto their shoulders and are proclaiming him "Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year!" Katie has tried to charm a picture on the cover of Witch Weekly to look like him, but has only succeeded in adding horns to the man in the photograph, whose stream of invective has added to the din. Swaying on their shoulders, Neville looks slightly seasick; his face is redder than Ron's, well on the way to purple.

"Ron!" Hermione snaps.

"What?" He tears his eyes off the spectacle.

"Why did you do it?"

"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione."

Harry feels a guilty pleasure that Ron seems to have replaced him in the hot seat for Hermione's oral exam, and pretends to be interested in the other Gryffindors. Ginny and a girl Harry knows vaguely as Demelza are playing lovestruck groupies now, shrieking and weeping dramatically and falling at Neville's feet, while three girls in Ginny's year are striking mock-seductive poses, vying for the attention of the 'eligible bachelor'. Neville's face is still scarlet, but he's laughing now and playing along. He raises an eyebrow and twirls an imaginary moustache, pretending to choose between the girls.

Hermione slips off the chair to sit on Ron's other side, and gives him a look that would melt steel. "Let me rephrase that," she says slowly. "Which was worse, going to Umbridge, or watching Harry go to her?"

"Watching Harry go," he blurts, and then looks as though he's been tricked. With the air of one hurriedly changing the subject, he points to the Gryffindor merriment. "Look at that, will you?" Ginny has stopped weeping and wailing just long enough to pull out her wand and give Neville a long, shiny handlebar moustache.

Hermione grips Ron's chin and turns him to face her. "And why was it worse to watch Harry get hurt than to be hurt yourself?"

But Harry has tuned them out; he's still recovering from the tremendous lurch his stomach gave at Ron's words. He can't mean that he'd rather put up with the detentions than see me hurt. He can't! But Harry knows that Ron is not given to hyperbole; and the past week backed up what he's saying, anyway. Harry starts to feel slightly panicky. No-one has cared this much for him, ever - well, Sirius, he supposes, but to deliberately plot to take his punishment... His mum did, he thinks with a lurch, and his dad; they gave their lives for his, after all; but not since then. His head is spinning.

Ron makes an impatient gesture, obviously at the end of his tether.. "He'd been at it non-stop for three weeks, hadn't he!" he snaps. "Could you just give it a bloody rest, Hermione!"

"No, I couldn't!" Hermione snaps at Ron. "I can't give it a rest until Harry understands how much we love him!"

Harry and Ron turn to look at her as though she's grown a third eye.

"Oh, honestly!" Hermione is undaunted. "Boys, you're impossible. Love, love, love! The word doesn't bite. Harry," - he starts guiltily - "don't you see? Ron's so fond of you that he willingly let his hand be cut up so yours wouldn't have to! I'm so fond of you that I willingly made an illegal potion that could have got me expelled!"

He doesn't need her telling him he doesn't deserve it. "Well, maybe I'm not worth it!" Harry snaps, his face burning now.

"Don't be stupid," Ron finds his voice, "'course you are."

Hermione's eyes are blazing. "That's not the point. You're worth it to me, and you're worth it to Ron, and that's what matters. You can't just act as if you're all alone any more." She has never sounded more earnest. "Whatever you get into, we're in it with you. So when you hurt yourself, you're hurting us." She turns to Ron. "He's got to understand that!" Ron's silence appears to infuriate her. "Look, Ron, I know you've been to Egypt, but this is no time for an impression of the Sphinx!"

Ron sniggers. "Good one, Hermione." His eyes flicker to Harry. "You know, she's right."

"But I never asked you to--"

"Harry, did you honestly think Ron - or I - would ever be able to stand by and watch you being hurt without doing something about it?" Hermione starts in again. "Remember third year? The Shrieking Shack? Remember Ron saying that anyone who wanted to kill you would only do it over our dead bodies? Any of that ring a bell?" Her eyes lock onto him, seriously.

A stunned silence follows, broken only by the Gryffindors' shouts of jollity. Count Longbottom is apparently having trouble selecting a bride. "I never wanted you to," Harry whispers, "I never wanted anyone to get hurt because of--"

"Oh stop whining," she says in a rush. "It's not because of you, it's because we love you. We'd rather get hurt than see you hurt, silly. We'd rather die than see you get killed."

"But I don't want you to get killed because of m--"

"Of course you don't," Hermione snaps, "but it doesn't make any difference. Whether you like it or not, you're not going to be left to your own devices any more. It's not just you any more, it's us. Whatever happens." She seems to calm down now that she's said her piece, and smiles slightly. "Just accept it, why can't you?"

This time, Harry can find no answer. He sits there with his mouth open. It's not so much a matter of acceptance - he's been left to his own devices all his life, and it's simply never occurred to him to let anyone relieve him of any sort of burden - assuming, that is, that anyone would care.

"Ron, back me up! Don't just sit there!"

Looking extremely uncomfortable, Ron starts to speak, haltingly, in a low baritone. "She's right, mate," he says slowly. "Er, remember that summer when we picked you up at the Dursleys'? You know, with the bars on the window and that? They didn't seem to me to be exactly brimming with helpfulness, if you know what I mean." He pauses. "Crikey, will you look at that?" he says to lighten the mood, jerking his head towards where Ginny and Neville are being 'married' by Lee. "Anyway, growing up with people like that, I s'pose you'd be used to handling things alone - I mean, if you had a problem or you got hurt or something, who'd care, right?"

It's not so much Ron's casual tone that takes any sting out of the words, but, Harry admits to himself, that he trusts him not to think less of him, that however ashamed he may have been to admit to anyone that he used to live in a cupboard, he's never minded Ron knowing about his humiliations at the Dursleys'. It's a small revelation in its own way. His voice fades in and out as Harry tries to take it all in.

"...wing up with all those people in the house, I mean, yeah, it's a pain most of the time, but there was Mum and Dad and Bill and Charlie, and you could always count on them to help you with things, you know?" Ron hesitates again, obviously uncomfortable. Harry notices him shaking - no, not shaking, but - he has to suppress a grin when he discovers that the rocking motion is due to Hermione prodding him in the side. "And, er - well, I know a bit about getting used to not asking for things, 'cos I learned not to ask the twins for anything pretty quick, you'd probably get the opposite of what you asked for - and the Dursleys were probably the same, right?"

"Yeah," Harry answers. His heart pounds as he takes a split-second decision to say something he's never, ever let on before. In a carefully casual tone, he goes on, shocking himself with his own daring, "With the Dursleys, you sort of learn early on that asking for something's a good way to get thumped." He has never hinted at this long-ago humiliation before, and his face burns as Hermione gasps.

"Just what I was saying," responds Ron. It's ridiculously comforting that his oh-so-casual tone doesn't change in the least. But as he goes on, he rests his elbow up casually on the vacant chair seat, draping his arm across the cushion behind Harry's head. "I can see how you'd get used to doing things on your own, fending for yourself and that." As though he doesn't notice it, he lets his arm slip down so that it winds, warm and comforting, around Harry's shoulders. Ron's tone is still casual. "But we do want to... I mean... we do luh, er," he takes a breath, "we're really fond of you, so, er," he blurts, "we're going to help you whether you like it or not, but obviously it would be more helpful if you'd let us and not fight kicking and screaming all the way. Did that make any sense?"

"I'm just not used to it," Harry confesses, "but I can try," he adds hopefully.

"Oh, no!" Hermione looks to where Lee Jordan has tried to make the 'wedding' proceedings more realistic by Transfiguring himself to resemble a Rite-Performing Wizard, and has given himself a third eye. Ginny is trying to remove it now, to no avail, and as they watch, Neville makes an attempt and sets Lee's hair on fire.

Hermione leaps up from her place on the floor. "Aguamenti!" she yells, and a stream of water shoots out of her wand, putting Jordan's hair out.

"Oh, Hermione, thank goodness, help us get rid of this stupid eye..." someone says.

"Yeah, we can't go to Pomfrey with this, she'll kill us..."

With a long-suffering sigh, she walks over to try and undo the spell.

"Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'flaming hair', doesn't it?" Ron deadpans.

"Yeah, and I thought your family was bad..." Harry grins. They watch Hermione interrogate Lee as a knot of Gryffindors forms around her.

When she has completely disappeared from view in the huddle, Ron exhales gustily and leans back against the chair. "You know, I grew up with five older brothers," he says, "and when Mum was having Ginny I thought, great, a chance to be somebody's elder brother for once. I swore I wouldn't be like the twins, I'd show him the ropes and we'd be more like mates than brothers, and, you know, I'd look out for him and watch over him like Bill and Charlie always did for the rest of us, and protect him," he sighs, not heavily, and smiles, remembering, "and wouldn't you know it, it was a girl. Don't get me wrong, Ginny's smashing and all, but it means I never did get the chance to have a little brother..." his voice becomes almost inaudible as he mumbles something that could be, "until now." Or possibly "Pass the mustard," Harry thinks. One of those, anyway.

He's probably imagining the tightening of Ron's arm round his shoulders, too.

Coward.

A cheer goes up from the assembled Gryffindors and Lee emerges from the knot of people, his face normal once more. Even his hair is unharmed.

Hermione stalks back to Ron and Harry without a backward glance. "I can't really stand to be around anyone but the DA members now," she sits down beside them again, "at least until they come to their senses."

She leans back against the chair, silent for once, and it gives Harry the courage to say something, anything, to let these two know how much they mean to him; Heaven knows he's been more than outspoken about everything he doesn't like about them...

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Remember when I told you about the Dementors at Privet Drive?"

"Don't remind me," Hermione shudders. Harry feels Ron pull him closer, and rub his hand against his shoulder as though to reassure himself that Harry's still there.

"Well, there's something I left out," Harry says, "nothing serious," he adds hurriedly as both their heads snap round to look apprehensively at him. "You know I cast a Patronus, but you didn't ask what my happy thought was."

"No, we didn't," said Hermione.

"We thought..." the tips of Ron's ears start to turn scarlet. "Maybe, er, Cho." He grins and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"It was like this." As Harry speaks, he's once again back in the dark and slimy Hell that was Privet Drive. "The Dementors had me and Dudley surrounded. I couldn't think of a single happy thought. I tried to cast the Patronus a few times, but nothing came out." He burrows into Ron's side, and Ron obliges by gripping him tightly. "I never told you how close they came, either. One of them..." He swallows. "It got right up to my face. It was so cold and depressing, I kept trying to cast the Patronus, but I couldn't think of a happy thought to save my life."

"Literally," Ron jokes nervously, while Hermione lets out a little whimper.

"So how did you get away from them, Harry?" she asks.

"It opened its mouth to give me the Kiss," Harry ignores the pounding of his heart, "and I thought, this is it. I'll never go back to Hogwarts, I'll never live to see Sirius or Dumbledore, I'll never be seventeen..." He braces himself. "Then I distinctly remember thinking "I'm never going to see Ron or Hermione again--" He takes a shaky breath. "The minute I thought of you two, it--it was like a door opening. The Dementor was inches from my face, but it was all right again, because suddenly, I had the strength to cast the Patronus Charm, and," he babbled self-consciously, "well, you know the rest."

Hermione turns shining eyes on him, tears spilling down her face. "Oh, Harry," she says. Then she lunges across Ron to envelop him in a hug. They fall, Harry blushing, Hermione sobbing, into Ron's lap.

"See, Hermione?" Ron's voice sounds from above them. "I always told you I was prettier than Cho!" Harry bursts out laughing in spite of himself. Ron reaches down to ruffle Harry's hair, and Harry is irresistibly reminded of the twins ruffling Ron's. Harry fidgets so that he ends up lying on the carpet, head pillowed on Ron's bony knee. It's uncomfortable, but there's nowhere else he'd rather be. He looks up at Ron, noticing that his face is an interesting shade of vermillion.

There's so much more he wants to say. He could say, 'I never met my parents, and I rarely see Sirius; but you two are always there for me'. He could say 'You always stand by me,' or perhaps, 'You're my real family', or even what Hermione wishes he would say, 'I love you.' He could say a hundred soppy things that would be not only embarrassing, but redundant. One thing, though, has to be said. "I've taken a lot of things out on you two this year," he says, staring at the leg of the sofa where Parvati and Padma are explaining the ancient magic of the fakirs to a girl with a quill in her hand and an inkblot on her cheek. "You never did anything to deserve it, any of it."

"Pure as the driven snow, that's us." The warmth in Ron's voice is palpable. "We know, idiot. Just please, don't shut us out, all right? Do let us help you, mate. Even if Hermione is a pain sometimes--"

"Excuse me!" Harry feels her head drop onto Ron's other knee. "Ow, your knees are bony."

"Well, so's your head, and you don't see me complaining."

"Oh, this is ridiculous." Harry feels, rather than sees, her fumble for her wand and cast a Cushioning Charm. All three of them sigh with relief. "Ah, that's better."

"She's useful," Ron says. "Reckon we should keep her around, right, Harry?"

"Well, I'll have to think about that..." Harry pretends to think about it, and is hit with a sofa cushion. He tosses it back in Hermione's general direction, and soon the three are involved in a free-for-all pillow fight.

Ron is getting the worst of it, as Hermione climbs on his shoulders, mashing his cheek into a cushion. Harry suspects her is letting her win. "All right! All right! We love you, Hermione!"

"Say it, Harry," she pants, "or I'll squash him."

"What am I--a mosquito?"

"Shut up, I'm trying to save your skin. We do love you, Hermione. We worship the ground you walk on..."

"And you love each other."

"Bleurgh! What am I, a poof?"

"SAY IT!"

Harry worms his way under her arms. "It's all right, I'll save you!"

"You say it, Harry!" Hermione leans forward to crush him, too.

"Ow! All right!" He pokes Ron. "I love Ronnie and Ronnie loves me..."

Ron joins in, "We're as cosy as can be."

She falls off them backwards, leaving them in a tangled heap on the floor. "As long as we've got that sorted out," Hermione pants. Her face is flushed and her hair, bushy to start with, is now flying out in Medusa-like dimensions. The three of them grin at each other awkwardly.

Behind them, some of the Gyrffindors have launched into an impromptu rendering of "Happy Days Are Here Again."

Harry can't help thinking that whatever happens, it's times like this he will remember the most.