Chapter: 1
Title: Vox Corporis Author: MissAnnThropic Email: miss_annthropic Warning: This fic contains some scenes of physical intimacy which may not be suitable for younger readers.
Spoilers: Post-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire Summary: Following the events of the Goblet of Fire, Harry spends the summer with the Grangers, his relationship with Hermione deepens, and he and Hermione become animagi.
Author's Note: I have read all of the Harry Potter books (up through "Half-Blood Prince", anyway), and I did enjoy them, but I was not lured over to the Harry Potter fandom until the Goblet of Fire movie. I loved that movie. On the whole, I think the movies were better than the books in the Harry Potter 'verse. That may put me in the minority, but be that as it may, that piece of information is necessary before jumping into "Vox Corporis". Because I liked the movies better, I take my cannon from them as opposed to the books. I borrowed from the books when the movies left me no recourse (the most obvious example that comes to mind is that Ron has Pig in this fic; the movie never showed Ron replacing his familiar after Scabbers turned Wormtail but the book did), but for the most part if you didn't see it in the movies I don't use it as a foundation for my fic. If that's going to bug you to no end, turn back now. If not, read on.
Disclaimer: None of this is mine. I'm just a fan writing out of affinity for the source and I get nothing out of this other than enjoyment. And neither am I Sara Teasdale, from whose poem the title "Vox Corporis" hails.
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Forum: If you'd care to venture over to the WIP section of my homepage, you can find a link to my LJ which I have set up as a forum for discussion on "Vox Corporis". It gives me a chance to answer any questions you might have about the story and also to chat on a more personal level with the readers. WIPs page:
"Vox Corporis"
Sara Teasdale
The beast to the beast is calling,
And the mind bends down to wait:
Like the stealthy lord of the jungle,
The man calls to his mate.
The beast to the beast is calling,
They rush through the twilight sweet-
But the mind is a wary hunter;
He will not let them meet.
Things were in a state of near-total chaos in Mad-Eye Moody's office. Apparently, discovering an escaped prisoner of Azkaban and loyal servant to Lord Voldemort (who had gone through a recent rebirth) in their midst, assisting the real Moody (who'd been trapped in a chest for months without reprieve), handling the death of a Hogwarts student, juggling the visiting schools and officials for the Triwizard Tournament, and intercepting and placating a suddenly nosy Ministry of Magic was enough for anyone to get lost in the shuffle. Even a boy like Harry Potter.
After Crouch Junior had been unmasked for the impostor he was, Dumbledore had herded Harry to the anteroom of the office when the Minister of Magic had caught up to Hogwarts's head wizard and demanded to know why a young boy's body was being transported home for burial.
Dumbledore had gently led Harry aside and, with a pat on the arm, left him there to tend to the unpleasantries of a student death mostly out of earshot of the traumatized boy.
'Tending to a few details' had become entanglement in a thousand and one knots, and everyone was so busy and confused that no one noticed eerily quiet Harry on the outskirts.
Harry watched the heads of magic, both in the ministry and at Hogwarts, pass in and out of his line of sight. They moved hurriedly but with a strange flatness. They were like puppets or paper dolls, insubstantial and somehow unreal. They moved and talked and gesticulated and congregated but Harry saw only vague blurs of human shapes. It was like he wasn't wearing his glasses; he couldn't focus on any one person. He just let them flow in and out of his sight. No effort to catch and hold on a single object, no attention to the faces or shapes... just images, flowing past, coming in and vanishing.
His arm hurt. The lancing pain had given way to a throbbing, fiery sensation. He knew his arm hurt, part of him felt it, but even his own injury seemed disconnected. He cradled his wounded arm but it seemed autonomic, preprogrammed and stilted.
There was a blackness in his blood. He felt a thick, dark weight push through him with every hollow heartbeat. It pounded in his temples, ached on his forehead, sludged with freezing tendrils to his limbs and skin.
With each passing moment he felt less and less. The pain wasn't searing anymore, the terror ebbed, even the grief thinned. It left very little person in its wake when all the substance of him was stretched so far. He existed because laws said he did, but Harry watched his teachers bustle about, and he thought maybe he was a ghost. His mind played tricks and maybe he wasn't really there; maybe he'd died in the graveyard. Maybe he was a ghost, like Cedric, like his parents. Maybe he was dead and didn't know it.
He certainly felt more like a ghost than a person. An odd peace, a stillness, settled around him with that thought. Yes, dead... where there was no pain, no fear, no self... he could be that.
Maybe he'd disappear at any moment. No one seemed to see him. He could be dead. He should be floating but for the thick evil in his blood, bound to a demon and thrumming with a darkness he didn't own. It was in him like a disease, a possession. Black, thick, and oily instead of smooth, watery red. He would be a ghost but for that heaviness in his veins.
Death was cold. He was certainly that. One of the few sensations that did register, a sense that penetrated his nonexistence to hint of physical form, was cold. The room got colder and colder as time trudged on. He couldn't move to ward it off, his body wouldn't let him find someplace warm, but he felt it. Like the icy air when Dementors swarmed. He shouldn't know that, he was just a boy. A boy with demon blood.
Vaguely, distantly, he knew his body was trembling. It tightened painfully in his arm, made his insides ache and his brain pulse against his skull, but it wasn't enough for him to do anything about it. He wouldn't move for that... couldn't.
His blood roared in his ears, an increasing tempo of 'whoosh, whoosh' that grew louder, filled his senses, and then he heard nothing of the conversation flying around him. He saw lips moving, hands gesturing, but as for sound, comprehension... it was out of his grasp. They weren't making sense, they were on another plane, in a dream, hazy and illusory.
He thought he was colder. He thought his arm hurt. It was hard to think, but then, ghosts with evil blood didn't have to think. They were, and Harry only was, in his corner, invisible, unnoticed.
And so cold.
McGonagall stepped back from the ministry attendants as they finally came to collect Crouch Junior. She could not be far enough away from the man. He'd go back to Azkaban where he belonged, and if there was any justice he'd suffer the most hideous punishment for what he'd done.
The full scope of what exactly he'd done and the activities to which he was party, however, were still a little uncertain. Things were in upheaval. Dumbledore had gone to speak with the heads of the other schools; they demanded to know what had happened in the maze. No one knew. There were pieces, speculations, assumptions, but so much was still unknown.
So very dreadful that a student had died. And Voldemort... if it were true then Hogwarts was bound to see dark times ahead. Especially with Harry
McGonagall quickly scanned the room, almost frantically, when she suddenly remembered the boy. Surely he'd been taken away from the center of all this ugliness, but she couldn't remember seeing anyone leave with him. She was aghast to see him still in the room, standing unsteadily by a far wall. His clothes were in tatters, dirty and torn, and his skin was mottled with grime and blood. He was loosely holding his bloody arm to his body, and his eyes were locked and unfocused on a distant, unseen point. His skin was pale and his eyes terrifyingly empty. He looked so small. She had told Dumbledore it was a mistake to let Potter compete in the tournament. Just a boy. A mere boy. How had they allowed it to come to this?
McGonagall moved quickly across the room and only slowed when she was two steps from Harry. "Mister Potter?" she ventured gently and canted her head to try and meet his gaze.
Harry didn't respond to her voice or presence. He continued to stare vacantly and absently cradle his arm.
McGonagall drew closer and soon realized Harry was shaking. His breathing was shallow and irregular.
"Mister Potter," she tried again and reached out to touch him. Her fingers curled softly around his shoulder and Harry swayed drunkenly under her hand. Moody's room had quickly cleared, only Snape remained behind rummaging through Moody's belongings, looking for anything that might be tied to the Dark Lord and Crouch Junior's handiwork.
"Harry?" McGonagall said, this time in concern. Harry wasn't answering, he wasn't listening, and he was so pale, his skin frighteningly cold to the touch, his entire frame trembling.
Snape, hearing McGonagall's tone, paused to look over his shoulder in their direction in mild curiosity.
McGonagall gasped and quickly wrapped her arms around Harry's shoulders when, without warning, he started to fall. "Severus!" she called reflexively, and Snape reached their side in two strides. Harry was leaning heavily into McGonagall, still feebly cradling his arm, still staring sightlessly, still shaking.
Harry's legs started to fold under him.
McGonagall gave a pitiful sound and Snape reached out and gripped Harry's upper arm in a firm fist. In the next moment it wasn't enough when Harry's legs buckled and he started to fall. In one movement Snape scooped the boy up and presently stood with Harry in his arms. McGonagall's hand came to her mouth and Snape held the boy's limp body away from him like it was a wet raccoon.
Harry's head lolled and his arms simply folded atop his stomach.
"Quickly, we must get him to the hospital wing," McGonagall said, and Snape gave one appraising look at Harry in his hold and had to agree with McGonagall.
Hermione scarcely dared to breathe. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage and her muscles tensed to the point of shaking. Ron's body pressed so closely to hers made it uncomfortably hot under the cloak, but Hermione barely noticed him. Ron was just as silent as she, and probably just as terrified. From the look on his face before they'd nicked Harry's cloak from his chest, she considered herself lucky that he wasn't vomiting down the back of her neck. As for herself, she was holding her breathing so strictly in check because she feared any exhale would come out a sob.
They must not be heard. She and Ron were crouched by the far wall of the hospital wing. Waiting.
After Harry returned to the arena with Cedric's body there had been shocked stillness, numb inactivity. Hermione noted only that Cedric was dead, Harry had been led away in a bad state, Cedric was dead, people were crying, Cedric was dead. When the remaining professors snapped out of the mass stupor they ordered the prefects to herd the students back to the castle.
It was then Hermione started thinking straight. Harry was missing. They had to find Harry. From the glimpses of blood, from his wails, she was certain he'd be taken to the hospital wing. She'd grabbed Ron's arm, dragged him unflinchingly up the boys' stairway, fetched Harry's invisibility cloak, and with it masking their passage they made their way to the hospital wing. They would not be stopped, Hermione would not be stopped, they had to see Harry.
They arrived, however, to find the room empty. No Harry. No Pomfrey. Just silence. It was baffling, it made no sense, but Hermione shuffled herself and Ron to a wall, out of the way of traffic, and they silently waited. Harry would be brought here, Hermione wouldn't let go of that certainty. She had to see Harry, had to know that he was okay. That one student had returned dead, but Harry was all right.
It seemed they waited a small infinity before the doors opened and the empty room was suddenly inundated. Hermione's heart leapt into her throat and her knees threatened to fold under her. She heard Ron abruptly stop breathing beside her at the same sight that had made Hermione feel decidedly unsteady.
Dumbledore led the procession, followed quickly by McGonagall. Both turned to look back at Professor Snape. Snape was carrying Harry's limp form. Hermione grimaced and bit her lip, wanting to scream. No! She wanted to rush from the cloak's safety, run to Snape and snatch Harry from the teacher's hold. Harry wouldn't wake up for him! Harry hated Snape. But she and Ron could wake him, she was sure of it. They were his best friends; he'd wake for them well before he ever would for Snape. She knew Harry would. More times than she could count she'd convinced Harry to do something on her urging. She knew how to win Harry's will, and that was no small feat to boast. She could make him wake up. Harry would listen to her, he had to! He absolutely could not be dead.
Snape looked rather put out having to carry his despised student, but he obeyed Pomfrey's commands as she trotted in after Snape and bade him to lay the boy gently on a bed.
Gently. One wouldn't gently lay a corpse. He had to be alive! Hermione's hands clutched the cloak savagely and her heart tried to tear at the seams under the stress of not knowing.
Harry was placed, gently, on a cot. He was completely unresponsive. His face was deathly pale under the dirt and blood. He didn't move at all of his own volition, lying limply where he was placed. Hermione could barely stop the screams lodged in the back of her throat. Do something! Help him!
Snape retreated and Pomfrey was at Harry's bedside immediately. She physically rolled Harry's head so she could pry back his eyelids, look at his gums, feel his pulse. Harry was like a coma patient, oblivious. Dumbledore watched worriedly while McGonagall wrung her hands and chewed her nails like a school girl wondering if any boy would ask her to the dance. Being Hermione of only a few weeks ago, actually; Hermione was too sick with dread to find the humor in that.
Pomfrey withdrew her wand and whispered an incantation over Harry's prone form. She gave a small flick of her wand.
To Hermione's immeasurable relief, Harry's eyes snapped open.
For a split second he merely stared, wide-eyed and unfocused. Then he panicked. Like a spooked cat, Harry leapt up the bed, away from Pomfrey. He hit the wall and gasped.
"Harry " Dumbledore said slowly in his softest, most soothing voice.
Harry clutched his right arm to his body, curled into a ball, and collapsed to one side as he let out a strangled, pitiful moan and threw up.
McGonagall jumped back and Snape moved farther from the bed with a disgusted sneer.
Pomfrey conjured a small vial of potion and reached toward Harry. After vomiting he had curled on his side in a fetal position, cradling his arm and shaking. Heart-wrenching whimpering sounds were coming from his throat.
When Pomfrey touched him he cried out as though struck.
"Mister Potter, please drink this, it will calm you."
Harry tucked into a tighter ball and clenched his eyes shut, as though to blot out awareness of others' existence.
"Mister Potter," McGonagall pleaded.
Dumbledore held up his hand to silence both women and walked over to Harry's cot. Without a care to the mess Harry had made, Dumbledore sat down on the edge of the bed, reached out a hand to Harry's head, and began petting his hair like one would a beloved dog. The old wizard's lips moved in silent words, but the effects were soon noticeable. Harry began to relax, he stopped shaking and crying, and eventually he was taking deep, ragged breaths.
"That's a good boy," Dumbledore said, then held out his other hand for the potion. Pomfrey gave it to him, and Dumbledore leaned forward, closer to Harry, and said, "Now do take this, Harry. Better than lemon drops. It will help, I promise."
Harry languidly rolled on to his back and looked up Dumbledore. He looked as though already in a drugged stupor, lulled and numbed by the headmaster's magical words. Dumbledore gave a small nod and smile and brought the vial to Harry's lips. Harry obediently opened his mouth and the potion was slowly poured in.
Then everything stopped for five minutes. In that time Harry visibly relaxed under the potion's effects. He started to react more normally to his surroundings, no longer behaving as though painfully gun shy of every little movement and sound. Dumbledore eventually stopped patting Harry's hair, but he remained seated beside the boy.
Harry finally blinked and asked in a cracked voice, "What happened?"
Dumbledore patted Harry's arm softly. "Afraid to say you passed out. Completely understandable."
Harry frowned, still a little confused. "I don't remember "
Pomfrey was quick to dart back in now that the patient was no longer hysterical. "Nasty state of shock you were in, Mister Potter. Now, let me see that arm of yours."
Harry sat up carefully, eyed Pomfrey, then held out his wounded arm. He glanced down at the soiled bed and stammered, "I'm sorry "
Dumbledore waved his wand deftly and the mess disappeared. "Sorry about what, Harry?"
Harry swallowed but didn't answer.
"We need you to tell us what happened, about Voldemort."
Hermione was silently crying by the time Harry gave a broken report of what had happened during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. His recount was stilted and brief, everyone in the room to a person knew it wasn't the full story, but by the end they knew enough. They knew the Dark Lord had returned. Ron's arm found its way to Hermione's waist and by the end of Harry's hesitant tale he was squeezing her so tight it hurt. Hermione couldn't speak to tell Ron to let up.
McGonagall was holding a hand to her mouth, Snape was deep in troubled thoughts, Dumbledore looked personally afflicted, and Pomfrey was trying to focus only on her work without much success (if her croaks and gasps were any indication).
After his abbreviated account, the blank expression Harry had held ever since drinking the calming potion began to change into a tense, pained look. He winced, grimaced, and finally pulled his arm away from Pomfrey to hunker down on the bed in a curled up position, arms crossed over his stomach, his right one with care.
"Harry?" Dumbledore asked in obvious concern.
"It hurts," came Harry's reply in a thin voice.
"Where?" Pomfrey queried, sounding a little surprised.
Harry shivered and his voice was harrowingly small. "Ev everywhere."
Pomfrey looked to Dumbledore, consternated. "That potion should have eased any pain for at least three hours."
Snape, from his sentry position some paces away, said pointedly, "Anesthetic potions wouldn't hold with the after-effects of the Cruciatus."
Complete silence descended. Hermione's heart seemed to stop cold in her chest. No. Oh, please, no.
Dumbledore's eyes turned down to Harry searchingly. Harry didn't speak, wouldn't even look at the teachers, only hunched his shoulders and knit his brow. His silence was answer enough.
Pomfrey was the first to speak. Infuriated. "He wouldn't! To a boy! Of all the bloody, vicious, cruel an unforgivable curse!" The stout woman's face grew red. Hermione couldn't remember seeing Pomfrey so angry. For the time being, Pomfrey seemed to have forgotten that this was certainly not the first time Harry had been on the receiving end of an unforgivable curse.
McGonagall was just as affronted. "That beastly creature of a man!"
No one questioned Snape's assessment or his expertise in the subject.
Dumbledore seemed resigned for now. He'd be mad on Harry's behalf later. "What can you do for him, Poppy?"
Pomfrey took control of her fury and said sadly, "Not much, not nearly enough. One of the horrors of the Cruciatus is its resistance to potions and spells to ease the suffering of the after-effects. It's ghastly," Pomfrey looked defeated that there was so little she could do to help Harry.
Dumbledore nodded. "In that case, let us do what little we can."
Hermione and Ron remained crouched by the wall under the cloak while Pomfrey cleaned Harry's wounds, gave him numbing potions for what little good it would do to try and ease the aching, and finally did a cleansing charm to rid his skin of the dirt and grime of the contest. He could still do with a hot bath and some sleep; there were some things even the best charms and spells couldn't replace. For now, Pomfrey had done all she could do.
"I think we should let Harry rest," Dumbledore finally proclaimed. Hermione's attention peaked. They'd dared not move, lest they give away their presence, and her muscles were aching from staying frozen in such an awkward position. At odd intervals she'd had to elbow Ron when he, too, felt the cramps of staying crouched down and tried to lean on her to spare his own muscles. But now things were changing, people were clearing out. Maybe they would at last get to go to Harry.
Snape had left some time ago, but McGonagall had to be escorted to the door, clearly reluctant to abandon Harry. Pomfrey was almost apoplectic when she was also herded away. She stuttered and huffed, but Dumbledore merely said, "I admire your dedication, my friend, but as you said there is little you can do. He needs some peace and rest."
As the two women were leaving Dumbledore said loudly, "Minevra, should you happen across Mister Weasley and Miss Granger on your way back, do send them down here, won't you? They must be dreadfully worried."
The door was barley shut, and Dumbledore still standing with his back turned, when Hermione boldly threw off the cloak from her shoulders and stepped out brazenly. Ron made one attempt to grab her and haul her back, but Hermione's determination and resolve made her too quick and Dumbledore turned at that moment.
Ron, knowing they were caught, dropped the cloak and waited.
"Ah, Mister Weasley and Miss Granger," Dumbledore said in a knowing tone, "how fortunate for you to show up so unexpectedly."
Hermione tried to think of something to say but the words were caught in her chest. She wasn't functioning beyond the need to see Harry. After a few seconds staring mutely at Dumbledore, she abandoned the attempt to formulate any kind of explanation for the headmaster and strode across the room to Harry's bed. Ron was right behind her.
He looked even worse up close. She could see the faint remainders of bruises and the red lines of cuts that had been healed closed. He was so pale, his face lined with the grimaces of pain, as he curled on his side, arms tucked close. He looked like he was bracing to be kicked, bent double to guard against blows.
"Harry " she said gently and sat down beside him. She dropped her hand to his arm and felt the chill to his skin.
Harry opened his eyes at the touch. For a split-second he tensed and started to shift away from her. He only stopped when he registered that it was Hermione. He looked openly at her, a harried, sick anguish in his unabashed gaze. Hermione felt a tear trickle a path down her cheek. She could see so much pain, in his eyes, in the thin press of his lips, in the pinched skin around his eyes. It was there, bare and raw. The horror of Voldemort, the grief of Cedric, the agony of Crucio.
Harry tried to smile for his friends, but it was pathetic and pointless. In the end he settled on a strained, "Hey, guys."
"Bloody hell, mate," Ron muttered from over Hermione's shoulder.
"Truly the act of a despicable being," Dumbledore said somberly in agreement.
Hermione moved her hand to Harry's head and tenderly brushed his disheveled black hair back from his knitted brow. She was consumed with the need to touch him, to feel him living and real under her hands. She didn't care how it might look or who else was in the room watching. They'd nearly lost him tonight. She touched Harry. Harry shivered and his breath sounded strained, but he permitted the contact.
"It may be a difficult night for Harry," the headmaster said gravely. "The effects of the Cruciatus curse are not easily shaken. As there is regrettably nothing Madam Pomfrey can do to ease his pain, I imagine he would be most comfortable in his own bed."
Hermione was only half-listening, too preoccupied with the sight of Harry so battered and torn. She felt as though she couldn't properly come to grips with just how close he'd come to dying. Was there even a way to properly come to grips with something like that? It could have easily been Harry's body, cold and lifeless, instead of Cedric's. With Voldemort, death was always a very real threat, and it had been a horrifyingly close call for Harry tonight. It made her blood run cold to think of it, even as she watched Harry hurt for his narrow escape.
Dumbledore turned to Ron. "Mister Weasley, if I arrange for Misters Longbottom, Thomas, and Finnegan to be lodged elsewhere for the night, could you and Miss Granger see Harry discretely back to his room?"
Ron nodded. "Yeah, all right, we can do that."
"Very good. I leave him then in your hands."
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Chapter: 2
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Hermione could not sleep. She lay in bed, her mind racing. Scant hours ago she and Ron had helped Harry up from his hospital bed, sandwiched him between them, each slinging one of Harry s arms over their shoulders, then draped themselves in the cloak and led Harry toward the Gryffindor tower. As promised, the room Harry and Ron normally shared with three other boys was empty. They set Harry down gingerly on his bed and he seemed to sag in a measure of relief to be back to somewhere familiar and safe.
Hermione had stood by a little awkwardly as Ron fetched Harry s night shirt and pajama pants. Harry, beyond modesty, had struggled out of his clothes and into his night attire. Hermione got him a glass of water to sit on the nightstand in case he was thirsty during the night. They settled Harry into bed and asked if he wanted anything. No. They asked if he was feeling any better. Maybe just a little. Did he need more blankets, because he was shaking rather badly. Yes, he was quite cold. Eventually Harry was tucked under Dean s, Seamus s, and his own quilts, had water within reach, his wand in sight, his pillow fluffed, and finally Harry had to say he was okay and they had to leave him at that. After that, they just stayed in the room with him and kept him company. No one spoke of Voldemort.
Hermione hadn t wanted to leave, but it got late and she was forced to retire to the girls dormitory. She could only trust that Ron could handle any of Harry s needs on his own. She d gone back to her dorm room late and all the other girls were already in bed. Two were crying themselves to sleep. One was clutching a stuffed hippogriff like a small child. Hermione didn t cry. She had spent all her tears at Harry s hospital bed. Now she was just bone-weary and hurting inside hurting for Harry and what he d been through.
After a good hour staring at the black ceiling Hermione couldn t take it anymore. To devil with the rules, she had to see if Harry was doing okay. She wouldn t rest until she knew he was still safe, still breathing, still alive to hurt.
Without a sound, Hermione slipped out of bed in her nightgown, grabbed her wand out of habit, and left the room. She crept into the common room, up the boys stairwell, and with agonizing slowness eased open the door to Ron and Harry s room.
She stood frozen a moment to try and make out the room. When the moonlight stood out from night shadows enough for Hermione to see she tiptoed inside and closed the door. She could hear Ron closest to her, snoring. She was instantly disgusted that he was sleeping, when Harry might need something, but Hermione quickly forgot her anger as she moved silently to Harry s bed.
She could see his shape huddled under the mountain of blankets, and at first she couldn t tell if he was sleeping or not. Tentatively, she reached out and tracked her hand up the fluff of quilts, questing toward Harry s head. She stopped shy and leaned in, trying to catch sight of his eyes to determine if they were open or closed.
Her answer came by sound. He hiccupped, like a muffled sob, and Hermione s heart bled. He was so wounded and alone. Even though Harry always did stand alone, he usually seemed strong doing it. Not now. Now he seemed lost.
With Gryffindor courage, and careful not to wake Ron, Hermione pulled back the amassed covers enough to slip into the warm cocoon with Harry. She could feel him shaking in the faint vibrations in the mattress before she d even touched his body. She couldn t tell if he knew she d joined him in bed or not. She had to think he knew she was there, but he could have been too disoriented to notice. Hermione knew the textbook profile of the Cruciatus, she could say what he would feel, but to see him feel it was so different from anything she d read.
She wouldn t let him physically withdraw. She would try to ease the nerve-searing residual pain. She would be there to see him through the symptoms of shock. She wouldn t let him recoil from contact, because she wasn t going to give his tortured mind time to decide human touch was bound to hurt. She d talk to him to distract him from any bouts of nausea. She d be there so she and the night could absorb his tears in secret. She wouldn t let Harry suffer the way the stupid books said he would, Hermione wasn t going to stand by and allow for it.
Hermione gave a whispered command and a flick of her wand and the curtains surrounding Harry s bed fell into place, shrouding the mattress and its occupants with privacy. She then placed a silencing charm around them. If Harry dreamt tonight, he need only wake her.
Satisfied, Hermione wedged her wand between the mattress and springboard, out of the way, and snuggled down in the covers. Carefully, she scooted over toward Harry.
When they touched, her fingertips finding his chest, he sucked in a breath and tensed. She pulled back to give him a moment, to not feel cornered or pressured. She didn t try again until he exhaled.
Hermione found his arm in the dark, traced it to his shoulder, his neck, then up into his hair. Harry s breathing caught and hitched but he didn t fight or jerk away.
Hermione slowly, rhythmically threaded her fingers through his hair, again and again. Her mother had comforted her in the same way so many times as a young girl and it had always soothed her. Hermione didn t know of a better way to comfort Harry.
Harry lay still and let her do it. His breathing still did funny things, but he was permitting the touch. The books would say he wouldn t. Hermione already felt she was besting the authors.
Harry croaked, like he was trying to say something, then suddenly and unexpectedly grabbed her. The snatch of his arms around her was almost desperate. She didn t offer even a second s resistance. Hermione slid over quickly to him and Harry clutched at her and trembled. At first he was rigid, tense as his psyche warred with itself, battled between the part saying this was contact and it would hurt him and the part that knew it was Hermione and that Hermione would never hurt him. The harder he fought himself, the tighter his hold grew. But he continued to hold her.
Hermione whispered softly to him, continued to stroke his hair, and Harry pressed her tight against him. And then, at a moment she couldn t pinpoint but knew had come all the same, Harry s traumatized gut instinct lost out to his reason. Once it did, his death-grip hold on her loosened slightly. His reason for squeezing her so tightly had shifted and with it his crushing pressure, though his hug was still surprisingly strong. Now he was holding Hermione because it helped.
Hermione realized this had been for her as much as it had been for him. She needed to know he was alive. If he was holding her, he was with her. It was all that mattered.
Harry s grip was unrelenting. His arms were like vices around her torso. One of his legs tangled in hers, as though to prevent her from leaving. He buried his face in her neck and Hermione switched to rubbing his back.
Harry flinched.
Don t don t he croaked, and Hermione stopped her circles on his back, afraid she d hurt him.
No, Harry whimpered, just don t don t go.
Hermione immediately began rubbing his back again. She hurt for him. She hated for him; never had she hated the way she did Voldemort just then. Oh, Harry. I m here. I ll never go.
Harry sucked in a few shuddering breaths and his arms found new places to hold her, never giving her a moment to move away. Hermione didn t intend to, anyway.
Harry nuzzled deeper into the mane of her hair, his breath hot on her throat. Hermione was shocked when a shiver ran down her spine. She wasn t sure why, or what flush had raced up her chest to her cheeks, but she d attend to it later. For now there was only Harry. She hugged him close, almost as strongly as he held her.
Harry s hands moved, uncertainly at first. Initially she thought he was touching base with her, reaffirming again and again she was really with him, comforting him, with every new place he touched. His hand clutched at her waist and Hermione curled one arm around his shoulders to hold him that much nearer. Her remaining hand she placed on his chest for the sake of feeling his heart, beating steadily, fast and strong, beneath her fingers. It made her own heartbeat quicken to feel his.
For all the manner of terrible she felt, this felt oddly good, too.
Harry s face, so far tucked innocuously in the crook of her neck, turned into her skin. Hermione sucked in a sharp breath when she felt his lips press lightly, lingeringly, against her throat. He kissed her! And then he did it again, tasting, testing kisses on her neck, under the veil of her hair.
Hermione shivered again. Hot senselessness swept over her. She became oddly devoted to sensation, and her mind wasn t doing most of its usual supervising. Unbidden, she leaned her head back to give him better access. Harry took it, kissed her throat and below her ear, and all the while his hands were kneading, moving, and Hermione was lightly raking the sole of her foot up his calf without realizing it.
Hermione trembled wildly as Harry leaned forward, toward her, just barely rolling her until he was looming over her, continuing to kiss her neck. She didn t know what had happened, how her concern for Harry had turned into this, but a part of her was screaming that it didn t bloody matter how. Her heart was racing, whether out of terror or elation she couldn t decide. Harry leaned over her, pressed against her, his upper body resting atop hers. Hermione s lungs felt thick and belabored. It felt like she was trying to catch a good breath in a fog-laden moor.
Harry shifted slightly, his mouth moved, and then it was on her chest, on the bit of skin exposed above her nightgown.
Hermione whimpered involuntarily at the touch. She fought for just one good breath, tilted her head back and away from Harry thinking fresh air might be there. She didn t really notice the way her hands, each of them having developed a life of its own, were curled around Harry s shoulders.
Harry s breath was ragged and heavy against her skin as his lips parted to kiss her. He leaned in closer, pushed her gently further on to her back, and then he was settling down partially atop her, his weight a very real sensation. As if to test out just how real it was, Hermione stretched and wriggled slightly under him and it only amplified the sense of contact in every single place they touched.
Hermione felt, against her thigh, something firmer than the solid body of Harry elsewhere, and only then did Hermione s thoughts cartwheel into a frenzy. Only then did she realize, with a shock of clarity, what this was. She wouldn t know, she was a teenager, never one fancied by the boys, she had no experience to tell her, but even she knew what that was. What it meant. Where it meant they were both headed.
Hermione discovered in that terrifying, jarring moment, that she wanted it to happen. Wanted it very much. Right now. Here. With Harry.
Every denial and block she d ever built around her best friend that kept him firmly in the friend category, that cloaked his attractiveness for her own sanity, shattered beyond repair. And then it was Harry, the very good-looking, caring, wonderful person she could not imagine a life without practically all over her, touching her like that. And she responded to him as if she were one of the beautiful girls at Hogwarts and not merely the bushy-haired, bossy bookworm.
Hermione curled her free leg up to touch Harry s hip. Harry s breath escaped him in a rush, as though the gravity of what they were doing just hit him, too. But he didn t stop. Hermione wasn t sure, in his state of mind, he could be that strong. He was on the edge of broken he was also on the cusp of experiencing something besides pain.
Hermione wasn t going to deny him.
She tugged at his arms, guided him up, and when she could she kissed him on the mouth. Harry was seeking entrance past her lips with his tongue in the next breath, and Hermione surrendered. Harry moved and settled himself more directly on top of her as he thoroughly kissed her. And there was something desperate in his kiss, something understandably needy and even angry. Angry at Voldemort. Hermione was angry, too, and she told Harry so with the force of her kiss, the bold, unselfconscious thrust of her tongue. From the way he gave back, she was certain it was the way he needed it.
The pressure from Harry on her lower body grew more pronounced, and rather than let on she might be a little scared Hermione tore her mouth from Harry s and nibbled on his neck. Harry shivered, but Hermione suspected it wasn t in a bad way.
His hand was suddenly on her waist, then tugging her nightgown up. Hermione bit a little harder than she meant to when his hand moved to touch her bare stomach. Harry paused a split-second at the bite. Hermione hugged him and vowed to herself to be more careful with him.
Harry began to suckle on her throat again, her misdeed reviewed and forgiven, as his hand slid further up her gown. Hermione s hands curled into fists against his back. She shocked herself when Harry shifted against her, only a little, but the friction ignited a reflex in her and her back arched.
Harry grunted in gruff surprise and he tore at her panties.
Hermione yelped then bit her lip as Harry divested her. She still had her gown on and the both of them were half-covered by the bed s blanket, but suddenly she felt unspeakably naked. It was like the dream where she turned up for Potions completely nude. An absolute feeling of vulnerability and exposure.
For a moment she was thankful she couldn t make out Harry s expression in the dark, nor he hers.
Harry did pause, however, a brief but pregnant hesitation, and Hermione had to think the magnitude of what they were doing was rearing its ugly head with him, too. Was he scared of this, too, she wondered. A night full of so much fear. It seemed wrong in her mind, after what Harry went through with Voldemort in the graveyard, that he should feel anything like fear toward her.
And then the pause seemed endless and Harry was only a speechless, motionless shape near her, and Hermione became afraid. Of losing him when he was only a few inches away. For all he d seen and been through, those inches could turn into leagues before she could breathe a word of protest.
Hermione reached out and found his chest. He was breathing hard. Maybe fear, maybe lust, maybe fighting sobs. Hermione couldn t know, had to help, needed Harry.
She gathered his shirt front in her hand and tugged him toward her. She didn t pull hard, didn t do anything enough to spook him, but she made it clear. She was there for him, he could have her. He wasn t alone.
Harry came down atop her again, and Hermione almost shyly opened her legs to cradle him. Harry croaked and stiffened. Hermione raked her fingers through his hair, his scalp sweaty.
Harry s ragged breathing was the only sound besides her pounding heart for what seemed ages, and then he was shifting and moving. At first, Hermione didn t know what he was doing, only that the back of his hand kept brushing against her inner thigh and even more private regions, driving her crazy with theretofore unexplored sensation and feelings, until finally he stopped fidgeting and advanced slowly toward her again.
And Hermione jolted as though set on fire when she discovered Harry had been removing the last barrier between them, his pajamas and boxers.
Hermione felt a flash-point second of fear, afraid of the unknown, the first venture, but with the fear was excitement. It was so thick she could scream for it, but instead she made the strangest keening sound she didn t know she was physically capable of emitting and squeezed Harry gently between her legs. Her legs shook, and she knew half of it was fear, but it didn t deter him. She didn t speak a word to make him stop.
There was some blind prodding, rather graceless in its execution, but when it was right Hermione arched again. Harry ran with it and moved in.
Hermione knew it would hurt the first time, and it did, but she didn t let on to Harry. If she told him he was hurting her he d probably ease up, slow down, maybe even manage to stop all together, but Hermione didn t say anything. She let him lead, let him take her, and it was probably a good thing for her that he was just as uncertain and awkward as she. It made him slower, clumsier, and it gave her some time to adjust.
There was still the pain, and the resistance and tear as Hermione s girlhood was shredded. She could tell Harry sensed it, and was confused and worried, but Hermione blessed the night that hid the grimace on her face.
Eventually Harry found a rhythm, a pattern of rocking forward and back that suited him, and in time it suited Hermione and she made not one sound of discomfort. What was the loss of her virginity to what he had been through tonight? It didn t compare, she wouldn t deign to say she hurt even half as much as he did. And her pain was in the name of love. She had no room to complain.
Harry moved, his breathing became faster, his skin hotter to the touch. Hermione worked her hands under his nightshirt and clung to his living body. Nothing to complain about, so very many things for which to be thankful. Harry was here to do this, alive enough to move in her, Harry enough to be beyond regret.
Hermione encouraged Harry with her hands and her arching back until at last he peaked and spilled into her and Hermione gathered him to her as he willingly sank down atop her.
And only then, cradling Harry s exhausted, reeling body, did Hermione think about Ron only a bed away. About tomorrow when she would have to face Harry in the light. About her parents or the teachers who would be scandalized to find out what they d done.
Harry s breathing slowly began to even out and he gingerly rolled off of her. Hermione sadly let him go, at once feeling his absence in the ache in her arms and her body.
For a moment Hermione could feel Harry looking at her, mind plagued with questions he didn t want to ask but couldn t help thinking. Some of them would be the same as her own. Hermione doubted he d ask; Harry wasn t like that.
Hermione felt a sense of completion and fulfillment that she could be here for him this way. Ron could not have done it. Cho or Parvati wouldn t have been enough. Hermione had given him absolute support on his darkest night. He d been faced with a choice between retreat and advance, and she d provided him the safest of places to go.
She was not sorry for what had happened.
The moment of tension was broken, and Harry hadn t asked a single question as Hermione knew he wouldn t. His arm slowly, almost questioningly, snaked out and around her waist. Hermione rolled into him, came up flush against his still-sweaty body (his nightshirt was damp in spots), and brought her hand to rest on his side.
Harry pulled her closer, perched his chin atop her head, and it was in that moment the most insanely sweet thing anyone had ever done to her. Hermione smiled into his chest and relaxed into his hold. It wasn t over, not by far, but the hardest part for Harry, for now, was past, and he d come through still strong and alive.
Chapter: 3
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Author s Note: I feel that I should address what happened in the last chapter. If you had issues with their age, believe me it could not equal the dilemma I faced regarding this story. I went back and forth for months on whether or not to post the story at all because that one scene bothered me so much. I considered editing it out entirely, but without it the rest of the dynamic between Harry and Hermione lost something (IMO). With great trepidation, I posted it and hoped it didn t terribly offend anyone. I do realize and concur that it s awfully young, but at that age I was in high school and I knew some people the same age as me who had done it. Admittedly they were few, but still, it happens. In the end, my justification for leaving it in was that it was an emotionally raw moment for both of them, they were vulnerable, and in that state they did something they would not otherwise do. Without ruining the story, I can tell you that Harry and Hermione won t go that far again in this fic, because they re not ready for it. Those of you who had reservations, I wholeheartedly agree.
In her dream, they were watching her. She was at Cedric s memorial service, but instead of being on a bench she was standing at the front of the Great Hall, between the congregated students at her front and Dumbledore at her back. And all their eyes were on her. She could feel their stares locked on her, pinning her with discomfort, self-consciousness, and a wild, unexplainable agitation that bubbled in her blood. She could scream but for their scrutiny. Her eyes swept the crowd, the countless faces with unblinking eyes watching her. She couldn t find Harry. He wasn t there. Panic washed over her, so thick it ached in her body. She turned her head and strained to see through the throng of students but she couldn t find Harry. Beyond their faces, toward the back of the crowd, she saw Cedric, his gaze the most unblinking of all, his face bloodied, skin ashen, body unnaturally still as he watched her. Cedric present in the crowd that meant this memorial service would be for someone else. Where was Harry?! If they would all stop watching her and let her get to Harry before he died!
Hermione flinched awake with the coiled snake of terror taut in her chest. Her hand reflexively slid a few inches across the covers in a blind search for her wand.
And then she stopped, breath held when her surroundings registered.
She was lying in bed. The soft light of morning was a blanket of its own. She was cognizant of her body for the unfamiliar aching sensation. There was not a sound, nothing to have roused her.
The panic of her dreamscape ebbed away but the sense of being watched remained.
Hermione turned her eyes upward, as though sensing a presence, and her gaze fell upon Ron. She stiffened and for a time couldn t even think, could only look at him.
Ron was standing near the head of the bed where he d pulled aside the curtains to look inside. At first Hermione could not understand why he was in her dorm.
Then Hermione remembered she wasn t in her bed, she was in Harry s, and the myriad memories of what had transpired last night rushed at her like a rockslide with each pebble and boulder a vivid detail. Hermione s heart began to hammer as she watched Ron for a reaction. She felt the urge to reach down and tug the covers, currently draped across her middle, up to her chest like they did in the movies, even though she did have her nightgown on, but she couldn t manage even that. She was too afraid to move until she could get a read on Ron s reaction.
Ron, obviously, had not expected to find Hermione in Harry s bed. He seemed to stare at her a long time in incomprehension. Hermione stared back.
Ron finally shifted his gaze away from Hermione to a spot beyond her shoulder. He d be looking at Harry. Hermione desperately wanted to look, too, she ached to know he was there, yearned to check to see if he was okay, but not until Ron caved.
Shortly, Ron looked back into Hermione s eyes. His expression remained inscrutable but for a slight relaxing of his lips. And then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Hermione s breath silently escaped her and she felt her sore muscles unlock. She d never felt such an aged sense of camaraderie with Ron as she did in that instant.
Without a word, careful not to make a sound, Ron disappeared. The curtain fell back in place and Hermione listened to his footsteps leave the room.
Only then did Hermione move. She closed her eyes and fought to calm her heart. She didn t know what had just happened, what it would mean for the future, but right now she let it leave with Ron. When she could breathe she tentatively rolled over and looked toward Harry.
And the vestiges of panic that had wrapped around her trachea from the depths of her dream faded away like wisps of smoke. Harry lay in bed beside her, sleeping. He was on his side facing her, and Hermione studied him. His face was not the normal calm repose of sleep; tension lingered even in slumber. His eyes weren t softly shut but rather seemed resolutely closed. A hinting shadow on his brow threatened to blossom into a full furrow. His mouth was pinched, his body curled under the blankets and arms folded over his chest. He looked like he was primed to defend himself from attack, and it was heart-breaking to see. But she could see him breathe, could feel his body heat so close because the bed wasn t made to fit two. Harry was still there, he was alive. Hermione sighed in immense relief.
She noted, in a kind of reminiscent passing, that if his hair was a little more disheveled than normal, and if his body seemed more solid and real to her than it used to, and if the swell in her chest when she looked at him was a bit stronger than it had once been, in her eyes he was remarkably unchanged for their illicit meeting last night. She woke beside him in his bed the morning after and it was still Harry. Last night the girl in her had not been sure so much could stay the same after what they d done; now she knew better. She could go on if this is how it would be. There was an immeasurable relief in that.
And then Hermione was looking at the still-present ghosts of Harry s injuries, the hint of pain even in sleep that claimed his form, and she ached anew for him in ways beyond how she already ached, anyway.
Hermione called gently, Harry.
Harry s breath stuttered tensely then the shadow became the promised furrow. His lips pressed tighter together and he ducked his head down, burrowing into the pillow.
Harry. Hermione reached out carefully and touched his shoulder.
That woke him. Harry flinched and jerked back, eyes flying open and for a moment he looked unseeingly at her.
Hermione removed her hand and waited.
She could see recognition sink in. The bewildered, startled expression changed to familiarity and relief. Then the pain still coursing through his body, remnant of the Cruciatus Curse, set his features in a grimace. And then his eyes flashed deeply and he looked long and hard at her, for a moment the Cruciatus forgotten. She knew their midnight activities had flown back at him.
Hermione quelled the flutter inside her stomach at his heated look and gave a calming smile. She wouldn t let it change them, wouldn t let it make either of them awkward, because she couldn t stand the distance that awkwardness would put between them. You okay? she whispered.
Harry blinked at her, seemed to take from her manner the way she was going to treat what they d done, and in the next moment he accepted and agreed with it. The look left his eyes and back was the old Harry she d known for years. He nodded to her question and cleared his throat. Yeah. He cast a quick, questioning look at her that asked and you? , since it seemed they weren t going to actually speak to what they d done. He d ask with his eyes, instead.
It would be their fleeting moment of looking it in the face together, unflinching. It struck Hermione in her breast, thick and real and part of a world wholly apart from muggle or magic. Hermione smiled her reply. Best get dressed so we can make it down in time for breakfast.
It was so painfully casual that Harry seemed thrown. He frowned at her, then he lowered his gaze and his shoulders hunched. I m really not very hungry his voice trailed, but unspoken was the hurt and plea. That he would rather stay in bed, buried under the covers. That the Cruciatus still held him, that the encounter with Voldemort and what had happened to Cedric didn t make the student body of Hogwarts worth braving. That he wanted to curl up, alone, and lick his wounds.
Hermione almost gave in and let him but for selfish reasons she wouldn t this time. She wanted Harry with her, where she knew he was okay. It was out of her sight, in the graveyard, when he d nearly been killed. A senseless, irrational part of her believed that as long as he was with her he would be okay.
Hermione shuffled closer... maybe a little closer than she would have the day before yesterday. If Ron had not already left Hermione would have tasked him with bringing them something. Please, Harry, you should eat something. We needn t stay long, just long enough to get some toast and juice to bring back here.
Harry looked up at her at the explicit we of her statement. But then he stopped questioning it. He sighed in grudging surrender. All right.
Hermione smiled softly. Right, then, I ll just then a flash of awkwardness when there was no way to leave his bed without drawing attention to the fact she was leaving his bed. I ll just kip over and get dressed and meet you in the common room. Hermione reached down over the side of the mattress and fetched her wand from where she d stashed it last night then crawled out of bed. As she did, her body seemed to speak to her in an entirely new dialect. Somehow the way her limbs moved, the way her nightgown touched her skin, the way her hair fell over her shoulders it seemed different. Hers but unacquainted all at once. She was bashfully aware of the sensation of her bum in direct contact with the soft fabric of her nightgown without the usual barrier of her knickers. That was a brand new sensation. She was briefly torn about whether or not to look for her undergarments. They d be lost, buried somewhere in the covers of Harry s bed, but she couldn t quite face the visceral reality of digging around to find them. As easily as that she abandoned them. She knew Harry would find them later, and she couldn t wrap her head around wondering what he d do with them, but they were her material sacrifice to last night. With a blush she cast one last look at Harry, just beginning to unfold his legs and arms to clamor out of bed, then headed back to her own dorm to dress.
Harry was unusually quiet on the way toward the Great Hall. The corridors were deserted, and while at the hour it was not abnormal for that part of the castle to be so quiet, it seemed eerie in the knowledge of last night s events. Hermione stayed close at Harry s side and periodically slid a concerned, searching glance at his face. He looked miles away, ensconced in a dark place that Hermione couldn t perceive. As they approached the doors of the Great Hall, and the buzz of a multitude of voices within, Harry tensed and his pace slowed. Hermione slipped her hand discretely into his and his fingers closed around her hand. His eyes flicked down to her face momentarily, and there was a soul-weary ache there that Hermione hoped would be gone when the after-effects of the Cruciatus abated.
Suddenly Hermione wanted a moment before Harry had to walk into the Great Hall to suffer stares from everyone. She pulled him gently to a stop and without resistance Harry halted and turned to her. He looked down at her and his expression read I don t want to do this . Hermione couldn t tell if it meant breakfast or something much more encompassing.
I just want to look at your arm before we go in, she said lowly. It was an excuse, but it was true that she wanted to see if the cut on his arm was any better.
Harry looked laconically at her but he didn t pull away when Hermione lifted his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his robe. Despite having been closed by Pomfrey, it was still a very vivid red mark. Still an angry wound. It still looked dreadfully painful. Hermione grimaced in empathy and traced her fingers down the side of his arm in lieu of being able to touch the injury itself for fear of hurting him further.
A shudder rippled through Harry s body and he tugged his arm free of her.
Does it still hurt?
Yeah, he muttered, and Hermione knew he wasn t just talking about his arm.
Well, come on then, let s grab something and we ll head back up to the common room.
Harry sighed irritably but followed when Hermione started forward again.
Hermione s world of perception was narrowed down to only Harry until they stepped into the Great Hall. Then the world exploded in eyes and silence. Predictably, everyone turned to look in Harry s direction and went quiet. Hermione felt like reaching out and taking his hand again but refrained by force of will.
Hermione found Ron s face at the Gryffindor table and honed in on him. She made a bee line while Harry followed silently.
Hermione reached their friend and gave a tight smile. Morning, Ron, she greeted, as though this was the first time today they d seen one another. Ron looked at her pointedly a moment then looked away to greet Harry. All right there, Harry?
Hermione was gathering toast, jam, and a pitcher of pumpkin juice. She was focused, single-minded. Get what they needed and get Harry out. The silence was now interspersed with whispering, hushed words to accompany the unrelenting stares, and Hermione felt a lion-sized impulse to rise up and shield Harry from it.
Harry.
Hermione startled at Dumbledore s nearby voice; she hadn t seen the headmaster approach them. She looked up at the old wizard, her arms full of toast and juice. Dumbledore continued to address Harry without sparing a word to Hermione. If you would come with me, I m afraid the Minister of Magic needs to speak with you about last night.
Hermione quailed inside, indignant that Harry be asked to recount the misadventure again. Her mouth hung open in disbelief as she stood there stupidly with her stolen breakfast items.
Harry only nodded.
It shouldn t take terribly long, I ll be there and I will have to insist that you be permitted to be seen by Madam Pomfrey as soon as they have what they need. Come along.
Hermione opened her mouth wider to protest, spurred by the recently awakened frantic desire to stay with Harry, but the headmaster silenced her with a mere look and then he was herding Harry away from the other students and out the door.
At least Dumbledore will be with him, Hermione thought sourly as she put the bread and pumpkin juice back down. With an agitated huff she plopped down at the table beside Ron. Conversation slowly crescendoed back to normal levels while Hermione frowned down at her untouched toast.
How is he? Ron s genuinely concerned voice cut into her thoughts.
Hermione looked up at him and her frustration at Dumbledore and the ministry took a backseat to the immediate presence of Ron, his presence a reminder of what he d seen, what he knew. She couldn t forget the way he d looked when she first woke, when he caught her in bed with Harry. Hermione tried not to let on in her expression that their early-morning confrontation was in the forefront of her mind.
She leaned closer to Ron to whisper her answer so no one would listen in. Well as can be expected I suppose. He says it still hurts, but I think it s a lot better. He doesn t look nearly as pale as he did.
He nodded. Yeah, I noticed that. Looks loads better. Ron frowned, his eyes cut left and right, then he said, Listen, Hermione it was really rotten of me to fall asleep last night, you know, when Harry might have needed something. Dumbledore was counting on us and I blew it. Wasn t something a good friend should have done at any rate, but I m glad you came in to keep him company at least.
He doesn t know, Hermione thought with sudden understanding. Ron had not suspected anything beyond Hermione spending the night with Harry so he wouldn t be alone. And in that moment she was very glad Ron was a thick prat. It made things easier; Ron wouldn t be awkward around them because he didn t know anything untoward had happened between his two best friends. Nothing had changed between the three of them in his mind. And if Ron didn t think anything more had happened, no one would. Ron was close enough to both of them to notice the smallest hints that anyone else would miss. And Ron didn t suspect. Last night was immediately her and Harry s secret.
A sense of relief and ease almost unfamiliar under the current circumstances seemed to trickle through her bones.
It s okay, Ron. Honestly, I couldn t sleep in my room anyway, not without knowing Harry was okay.
Ron nodded, reassured, and returned to his breakfast.
Hermione played with her slice of toast a moment longer before a sudden thought struck her and she straightened, turned to Ron abruptly, and grabbed his arm.
Ow! he yelped, but Hermione ignored his outburst.
Ron! she hissed, leaning in again, we simply can t let him go back to that dreadful family of his after term ends. Can you imagine him spending a summer there with those people after this?
Ron s mouth pursed unhappily. You re right. Every term Harry came back from the Dursleys solemn and neglected; it was a week back at Hogwarts before he d be back to his old self again, before he could shake the influence of his cruel aunt and uncle. It was something neither Ron nor Hermione had failed to notice.
In a shocking display, Ron abandoned his food and stood from the table, gesturing for Hermione to follow. We ll owl my mum; I know she d let Harry come stay at the Burrow for the summer.
Hermione jumped up and quickly followed Ron. The Burrow would be so much better than the Dursleys. It was already something of a second home to Harry (the first being Hogwarts; the Dursleys didn t even count as a home but more of a prison), and he d be with people who actually cared about him. She couldn t bear to think of Harry with those awful relatives of his when he was already so shaken. They d tear him down in his moment of weakness, like a bloody pack of wolves instead of family members. It was something Harry didn t need right now. And this was something Hermione could do for him, action she could take to safeguard him; get Harry away from those heartless people.