A/N: Thank you to all who have been following this story. It's awesome to see the stats go up as readers seem to be enjoying this particular tale. Please feel free to leave a review and let me know what I can do to improve anything; reviews are part of a healthy diet ;0)
I own nothing and this chapter (as the two preceding chapters) are going up unbeta'd for the time being. Definitely feel free to inform me of glaring grammatical errors. This chapter will give us some Gryffindor Trio interaction, Ron's checkup with his Healers, Ron and Hermione fluff, and a quick look at Slytherin life. 'T' for strong language.
Chapter 9: Dealing with the Devils
"So, Quidditch tryouts in a week and a half," Harry started, as he plopped his exhausted body into a very inviting couch. The trio had endured the first three days of classes, and were now giving themselves a much needed break in the Gryffindor common room.
Well, at least Ron and Harry were giving themselves much needed breaks. Hermione had already brought out her Arithmancy assignments before she even reached the nearest table to the couches.
Harry noticed the troubled look on his friend's face.
"Ron? Quidditch tryouts, Saturday after this . . . hello?" Harry waved his hands in front of Ron's face.
Ron didn't move.
"I'm declaring my love for the giant squid and we'll be married by the Merchieftainess of the Merfolk at the bottom of the lake. Moaning Myrtle'll give me away."
Ron looked at Harry with a very confused expression.
"Just checking if you were listening. What's going on in that head of yours?"
"Harry, er— I was thinking . . ."
"You're. Joking." Harry's face registered his apparent shock.
Ron glared at him with pursed lips. Harry chuckled and threw his hands up in surrender.
"Sorry. You left yourself wide open there."
"As I was saying. With my whole 'Watch Weasley shake when you touch him' thing going on, maybe I should step down from the team?" Ron said, hand falling to his knee, which was twitching rather violently. He didn't make eye contact with Harry.
In response to this, Harry reached over and playfully slapped Ron on the side of his head, causing Ron's red hair to swoop into his face.
"Hey!" Ron spluttered, spitting out the hair that got caught in his mouth.
Harry shrugged. "Seems pretty normal to me. I mean," Harry said as he gestured to Ron, "you're not shaking."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I won't ever go into a fit. Who knows what'll happen once we get to actually playing."
"Did your Healers give you a Clean Bill of Health?"
Ron shook his head. "No, but they did mention that I was making great progress. I honestly can't remember the last time I actually had a fit, and, hopefully, in another month or so, I'll be cleared up of all the physical effects." Ron twiddled with the nearest cushion on the couch. "Still, I know I've got a bit of a thick head, but it probably wouldn't help if I went crashing into the ground from the goalposts." Ron gave a great sigh.
"Harry," Hermione interrupted, "you have reserves for the team?"
Harry thought for a moment. "Er, actually, it more like we try people out and whomever did second best fills in as needed."
"Ron," Hermione turned toward the redhead, and spoke in her most studious, purposeful voice, "why not ask your Healers, when they Floo to the hospital wing on Saturday, what they would propose about you trying out. If they say it's all right, go ahead and try out. Harry," she said, turning to the other boy, "if Ron is allowed to try out, minimize the amount of actual physical contact that goes on during his turn, and, hopefully, that will eliminate Ron's major seizure trigger." Hermione placed her quill down. "When Ron gets the Keeper position again, tell whomever came second best on the team that they should come and participate in a few of the practices, but only if you think it's feasible. Tell them that you're changing the system for the Gryffindor team this year simply because Ron's waiting for his medical team's full permission to participate in Quidditch due to injuries he sustained while fighting at the Ministry a couple of months ago." Hermione said the last sentence in a low, deliberate tone, speaking slowly to emphasize her point. "Remind them that he was part of that fight." Hermione gave both boys a very stern and calculating look.
"Hermione, first off, you seem so sure that I'll make the team again."
Hermione cocked her head and looked at Ron. "Of course, why wouldn't you?"
"You heard Katie right? Harry's Quidditch Captain, and he's got to make sure he's got the best players—"
Hermione looked at him very seriously. "I don't remember anyone else getting carried away on the other Gryffindors' shoulders last year after winning the Quidditch Cup."
Ron mumbled a bit with a smile on his face.
"Er, okay, but what all this about reminding them I fought—" Ron stopped as Hermione held up her hand sharply.
"All I'm saying is that if they ask or raise any questions about your condition, you need to remind them how you got it in the first place — helping Harry fight Voldemort." Both Hermione and Harry rolled their eyes as they watched Ron shudder.
Ron wanted to say something more about it, but Hermione held up her hand. "Ron, just find out what your Healers would say, and go and try out — and get — Keeper again." Hermione said with an air of finality. "I want to talk about the receipt that we got from Borgin and Burkes."
Harry sat straight up.
"Did you find anything?" he asked. Harry leaned forward, eyes intense on Hermione.
Hermione sighed again. "Unfortunately, no. I really can't make heads or tails of all of this writing on here. 'Black Dawn'? 'Raspy's Bane'? And what's a 'M'nt'gue' and why would it need to be repaired?"
Harry's back thumped into the couch as he flopped back in frustration. They were getting absolutely nowhere, and this was the same conversation they'd been having since having stolen the receipt from Borgin and Burke's.
"I've looked through my books, but there's no mention of anything involving 'Black Dawn' or 'Raspy's Bane'. I mean, I guess they could be footnoted or cross-referenced somewhere, but the texts say nothing about these — these stupid things!" Hermione huffed and threw the receipt on the table. She rubbed her eyes.
"I suppose Borgin keeps his receipts purposefully vague since he trades in such shady objects," Harry began.
"And," Ron piped in, "since Malfoy is a Dark Arts' loving git, these objects have to be cursed or something. Maybe he does have them here at Hogwarts?"
Hermione exhaled exasperatedly. "Ron, Filch has Dark Detectors and other magical sensory objects monitoring everything coming into and leaving the castle, either through owls or any entrance. Didn't you pay attention at the prefects' meeting?" she snapped.
"Okay, sorry," Ron mumbled. Harry thought the progression in Ron and Hermione's relationship had never been more apparent once Ron stopped arguing most of the times Hermione's temper flared.
"I hate to say it but maybe, just in case, it would be worth it to have Daphne take one good look around Malfoy's dormitory." Harry looked from Ron to Hermione, who had just gasped. "Well, just to make sure we're not missing anything," he said defensively. "We never know if Malfoy could've found a way to sneak something in. Filch might've overlooked something—"
"Are you saying that between whatever means Filch is using and Dumbledore's own protections around the castle — which you know have been increased over the last couple of years — that Malfoy is clever enough to circumvent all of that?" Hermione's own skepticism was etched very clearly on her face.
Harry stared straight at Hermione. "I think it's worth it to do a once-over on Malfoy's things. I'll let her use my Invisibility Cloak, and we can monitor the situation just outside with my dad's Map — maybe in the Great Hall or the near enough to the dungeons that it wouldn't draw suspicion."
She crossed her arms and gave Harry a look of utter disapproval of the plan.
"I don't like this one bit, Harry. Daphne's already in a world of trouble with her House."
"Gotta admit, Harry," Ron piped in, "it has to be pretty hard for Daphne already, being around the others. I dunno . . ."
Harry could feel his annoyance at his two friends growing.
(Don't they bloody want to know? Doesn't it matter to them if Malfoy's up to something?)
"Look, both of you," Harry began slowly, "I've already promised her and I'm promising to you two, that we'll watch out for her, okay? I'll watch out for her."
Hermione's eyes lingered on Harry, telling him without words just how thoroughly she objected to this plan. Ron could only mumble and shrug a bit.
"Fine. Let's see if we can meet up with her to 'study' this weekend, after Ron meets with his Healers." Hermione punctuated her suggestion with a small breath and, once again returned to her books. "Well, so much for that little break. I've got to get straight on Professor Vector's Arithmancy assignment for next week—"
Ron looked startled. "You mean, you haven't already completed all of your Arithmancy homework for this year? Hermione — I do believe you're slipping," he said, smirking at her. Harry loudly chortled.
"Don't worry, Ron. We can at least get started on Potions," Harry said, waving his textbook in the air with a huge smile.
"So help me, Merlin . . ." Hermione grumbled under her breath. Ron and Harry grinned to each other. If there was one sore spot that they knew they could tease Hermione about, it was Harry's Potions book, courtesy of "the Half-Blood Prince."
Thinking about Potions, though, led to Harry thinking about Slughorn, which led Harry to thinking about how they met, which then led Harry to think about . . .
"Okay, so Dumbledore and I start our lessons on Saturday."
That caught Hermione and Ron's attention.
They discussed and speculated about what they thought Dumbledore would teach Harry. The guessing game was always great fun, but there was something Harry felt he needed to get off his chest.
"I'm just going to say this once to the both of you, and Hermione, I'm not sure that this point can be argued. I'll ask Dumbledore if it'd be okay to talk to tell you two about what goes on in these lessons, but no one — and I mean no one — else." He gave them both a serious look.
"You mean—" Ron started.
"Don't tell Daphne." Hermione finished.
Harry nodded.
Hermione blew out a breath and nodded. "Yes, I think that's a good call, Harry. Well, it's going to be a very long year—"
"We've got no idea what's going to happen, right?" Ron said. "I mean, it seems like she's trying and all, but you never know. She might decide it's easier to stop helping us out if it starts getting too bad in Slytherin."
Hermione visibly winced. "Well, it's easier said than done, isn't it? I was able to speak to her for a few minutes before class the other day. She's okay for now, but only because she's avoided her common room as much as possible. I suspect that it's going to be far easier for some of her housemates to hex the living daylights out of her rather than let her back into their fold for any reason whatsoever. And the ones that aren't openly hostile toward her would want to avoid any conflicts, so they're not going to be coming to help her."
"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed breathlessly after a pause. "Why the hell anyone ever agree to be sorted into Slytherin is beyond me."
Harry shook his head. "If she says she'll need any help in dealing with those buggers, we should help her out, right?" Hermione nodded in agreement.
Ron nodded, looking down. "Never thought I'd be helping out protecting a Slytherin. But, well, here we are."
"Same here," Harry said with a slightly disbelieving look on his face, "considering their idiot of a Head of House would love nothing more than to feed me to a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Speaking of which," Harry muttered, "I s'pose we'll just feed people, including Daphne, that I still have detention with Snape on Saturday. Okay?"
Ron and Hermione nodded.
"Well, it's settled then. So . . . enough with the chatter. It's time to do homework!" Hermione spoke chipperly as she picked up her quill to a loud chorus of groans from her two best friends.
Daphne Greengrass' first mistake was going to the Slytherin common room instead of sticking to the library or staying in the Room of Requirement until way past curfew. She had given the password to the hidden door next to the dungeons ("Cruor Est Vox").
Maybe she messed up because she had let her guard down for just one moment or maybe she simply forgot the hostility exuding off Ratface himself at the beginning of the term. Perhaps Daphne could blame the scene that greeted her once she entered the Slytherin common room. The place was packed with students, all conversing with each other, playing wizard chess and Exploding Snap, charming pieces of paper into the shape of animals and having them race in the air or fight other paper-animals, and listening to the latest wizard rock band, The Lethifolds, on the WWN.
And, suddenly, Daphne forgot that she hadn't any really close friends in Slytherin. It was just another normal day.
A normal day in Slytherin House.
A loud conversation about this year's Quidditch teams was taking place in the corner of the room. Even if Daphne couldn't make heads or tails of Quidditch rules or strategy, she couldn't help gravitating toward it.
She couldn't help thinking back to the Burrow, and to the conversations between Ron, Harry and Ginny . . .
A drawling, haughty voice interrupted her thoughts, and immediately silenced the conversations that rippled throughout the room.
"So, the little 'Gryffin-Whore' returns to the nest."
(Right on cue, aren't you, you slick-haired little rodent?)
Daphne slowly turned around to face the speaker. Draco Malfoy, hands in his pockets, robe open and draped casually over his skinny little body, walked slowly and menacingly toward her. Daphne could see the smoothness of the fabric of his robes; they practically danced in the air behind him. A smooth guitar riff played in the air as Malfoy moved closer to her; Daphne held back a laugh, as the chords and notes seemed timed, almost perfectly, to his deliberate gait.
Malfoy's nostrils flared wide once he finally reached her.
"You should go sleep in front of their common room." Malfoy walked around her in circles while talking. "So desperate to be one of them. It's disgusting, watching you fall and drool over fucking Potter. Associating with blood traitors and Mudbloods." Malfoy stopped, sniffing the air around Daphne.
"You smell like one of them too, do you know that? Poor, weak, foolish . . . and dead." Malfoy whispered in a blood-chilling tone. He stopped in front of her.
(All these years and barely a few inches taller than me? Such a fucking twat!)
"You're pathetic, Draco." Daphne made sure she emphasized his first name, stepping forward toward him. She noted with pleasure that his pointy chin and arrogant sneer fell sharply, and his jaw set angrily on his narrow face. She continued taunting him.
"You know, I never noticed how small you are, Draco," Daphne said as she looked him up and down. "Of course, it's normal for someone so tiny, so petite, to attach themselves to someone like Voldemort — someone who exudes power and who will destroy anyone who opposes him." She spoke loud enough so the other students in the common room could hear her. She saw several of the younger Slytherins were watching the exchange, eyes darting between her and Malfoy.
"Truth is, Draco," Daphne drawled, face dangerously close to his, "you're terrified of him. You follow him? You live. You resist him? You die."
"Do not," Malfoy hissed in an angry whisper, "ever call me 'Draco.' You make me despise the sound of my own name." Daphne rather thought she heard a slight quiver in his voice, like he was desperately trying to maintain control of his emotions.
"You skinny, little rodent," Daphne backed away from him and, once again, spoke loudly as she did, "who's to say you're on the side that's going to win? I seem to remember a little boy somehow defeating your own dark lord the first go around? All the rumors since our first year say that your Precious Potty Potter has extensive experience in thwarting his plans." Daphne snorted. "If Voldemort can't even bring down a stupid teenage boy, tell me how the hell does he expect to win?"
Daphne looked at Malfoy, waiting for an answer she was certain wouldn't come. She let herself smile with smug triumph. Daphne managed to sneak a glance at the room around them. The Leithfolds' song was still blaring in the air, the angry music matching the current levels of tension in the room. All the students were staring intently at the two sixth years who were taking turns circling each other, spitting and hissing their words and insults like two cobras, battling over a tender morsel of flesh.
Malfoy stalked toward her, his gray eyes cold and hard. "There are things you have no idea about, Greengrass. Things will be changing around here. As soon as they do, Greengrass, you will regret picking their side. I'll make sure of that." As soon as the words left his mouth, Crabbe and Goyle appeared dutifully by Malfoy's side. Parkinson saddled up to him as well, all pug-nosed and sneering.
(What the hell? Did he Accio them or something!)
"Figures." Daphne snorted. "You can't seem to go anywhere without your three butt-monkeys. So, tell me," she addressed Malfoy's entourage, "did you just smell his fear, or hear his mewling cries for help from the big, bad, 5'1" Slytherin girl?"
She watched in amusement as Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other in open-mouthed confusion. Parkinson on the other hand, stomped forward and grabbed a handful of Daphne's hair, pulling her head along with it.
Daphne gritted her teeth and her eyes watered. She refused to scream, to give them the aural satisfaction that they were causing her tremendous pain. Her hand instinctively flinched for her wand, but it grabbed only air.
"You should learn when to shut your mouth, you foul bitch!" Parkinson threw her hair and head back and wiped her hand on her robes. "Don't think just giving Bulstrode help on her essays will be enough to protect you. She may look the other way, but there are other Slytherins here that will curse you until you bleed."
"Parkinson, you're so bloody sexy when you kowtow to your man. It must be nice to not have to worry your precious little brain with independent thoughts or other shit like that." Daphne started running a mental list of various hexes she had seen during the DA meetings, and throughout the last 5 years at Hogwarts.
She rather thought a couple of well-placed Blemish and Boiling Blister Hexes would do wonders for Parkinson's face.
(This was going to be a long fucking year . . .)
"Tell you what," Daphne walked backwards toward the stairs leading to the girls' dormitory (and hopefully toward Bulstrode to remind her of their little deal). "I'm going to go up to my bedroom. Discuss amongst yourselves," she said defiantly, swirling her pointing finger at the four of them, "who's going to try to curse me tonight. I've been itching for a good fight since the Ministry. Oh, and do remember to tell the old man 'Hello' from me, Draco." She looked pointedly at Malfoy, who blanched at her words while continuing to glare daggers at her.
She ran up the stairs; Daphne needed to make sure that the spells Hermione had helped her with to protect her bed and her belongings were still effective before 'Little Miss Pansy-Arse' trollomped her way into the dormitory.
Tearing the door wide open, Daphne hurtled inside, running toward her canopied bed. She waved her wand just outside her area.
"Specialis Revelio Shield!"
Immediately, a smoky image appeared. Daphne noted with grim satisfaction that it was a solid half-sphere with no holes or dark spots indicating weakness.
"God bless Charms," Daphne muttered to herself.
"Excuse me?" Daphne turned toward the direction of the voice. Millicent Bulstrode looked up at Daphne from her bed. Apparently, she had been writing in her journal.
(Bulstrode can actually write? Who knew?)
"Well, thank the goddesses! You're just the Millicent I was looking for." Daphne could almost hear the popping of joints and cartilage in her face muscles as she widened her mouth into as genuine-looking a grin as she could muster.
"Oh?" Bulstrode closed her book and sat cross-legged in her bed.
In her best imitation of Hermione at her most enthusiastic, Daphne clasped her hands together and bounced on her feet. "So, what'll it be for this year? You know I got an 'Outstanding' in Potions and I got a whole mess of O.W.L.S., including one in Transfiguration." But then, Daphne's face fell.
Bulstrode was in neither one of those classes.
What if she wouldn't be able to do any of the girl's homework for her? What the hell was her Plan B?
(Greengrass, remember your Plan B? Involving Creevey, your friendly neighborhood photographer/blackmail accomplice?)
"So happy for you," Bulstrode intoned in a flat voice. "I don't need those classes, by the way."
"Well, tell me what you do need help with, and I'll see what I can do to assist you, provided, of course, you're still game for our previous agreement." Daphne lowered her head but kept staring at Bulstrode with a look that said "You'd better, you cow . . . I can hex your hair off!"
Bulstrode looked at Daphne and crossed her arms. "Herbology, Charms and Muggle Studies."
Daphne couldn't help her upper lip, curling up in disgusted disbelief.
"Seriously? Muggle Studies? You're a bloody half-blood, Bulstrode! You'll have a far better time with that class than most wizards." Daphne suddenly realized something. "Why in the world are you taking Muggle Studies? You do realize that Parkinson and Malfoy are in our house? They'll hex — or do worse — to you."
Bulstrode shrugged. "I needed an easy elective. Besides, me taking Muggle Studies is so far not on their list of Hexing and Cursing Priorities. You may have shot straight to number one on that account."
Daphne fumed at Bulstrode. Ignoring the last observation (which was, for Bulstrode, incredibly astute), Daphne pushed the homework issue further.
"Why, then, are you asking for me to do your homework for you in Muggle Studies?"
"Why not? I get out of actually doing the work for the class, and I'll continue to not get involved with your 'disagreements' with Parkinson." At this, Bulstrode beckoned Daphne closer to her. "Look, I-I know you're kind of 'in' — or whatever — with Potter. You know, then, that your name is worse than even 'Mudblood' in this House." Bulstrode smirked at her. "If you're looking for extra protection, over and above the typical 'turn the other cheek' work I've been doing so far, it's going to cost you extra."
(God, I fucking hate Slytherins . . .)
"Fine." Daphne said sullenly, all pretense at enthusiasm completely gone by this point. She thrust her hand, a bit aggressively, and winced as Bulstrode gave it a tremendous, painful squeeze. "We've got a deal. And, by the way," Daphne leaned forward. "I will make sure your work stays above an A in Charms and Herbology, and around an E or better in Muggle Studies. Herbology can lick Merlin's nutsack on its best days, but at least it's been useful enough for me in Potions and I can bullshit my way though an A-level essay."
Daphne kept her hand on Bulstrode's.
"Are you thinking you might get involved should Parkinson and I make for each other's throats?"
Bulstrode merely shrugged.
"Who knows? I think Pansy's being a little bitch, and I'm starting to get tired of her. Plus," Bulstrode looked at Daphne's and her hands, still holding on to the other girl's, "I'm having a hard time buying into all that 'pure-blood' stuff. Not anymore." Bulstrode shrugged again. "I'll never fight for Potter or any of 'em, and I'm not sure why you've decided to take up with them either." Bulstrode met Daphne's eyes fleetingly. "But I can't blame you for tangling with Parkinson every once in a while." Bulstrode gave Daphne a final nod and picked her book back up to continue writing in it.
Knowing there was some time left until Parkinson detached herself from Malfoy's member, Daphne set forth rechecking her Sticking Shield Charms (Hermione had found the protective, semi-permanent shield that "stuck" or attached itself to inanimate objects without draining the caster during a research session with Daphne.) around her bed and personal belongings. Then, she pulled out her Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook to finish Professor Snape's assignment on nonverbal spellcasting.
"Um," Ron began, refraining from sitting up too much, "how much longer is this going to take?"
"We're almost finished here," said Healer Morewold. She had just finished passing her wand over Ron's head. "Of course," she said in a humorless, rather stern voice, "it will take longer if you don't settle down and stay lying still."
Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation. The first half-hour of the examination had consisted primarily of a lot of physical contact between Ron and the two healers from St. Mungo's who had been tracking Ron's progress. Prodding, poking, pushing (not to mention pestering) practically everywhere along Ron's pale body, the Healers had noted that the redheaded Gryffindor barely flinched when touched — and, to be fair, that was when Healer Morewold pinched his arm rather hard.
(Humorless prats!)
This part of the examination was trying Ron's patience. There was loads of wand-waving, circular spells floating above his head, and smoky lines changed from red to green to yellow-whitish. Healers Morewold and Gibbey looked stern but nodded as they noted their observations. Their wands traveled down Ron's body, over his arms and hands, and finally over his feet and back up his legs.
The whole time, Ron saw that the lines and smoke hovering above his body reached the yellow-white light. The Healers had told him upon his first examination of his sensory system the yellow-white light meant he was healing properly. The red always meant those were zones of danger and the green indicated that the area was improving. It felt like he had been forever stuck on green — for at least the first two months of therapy.
Now, heading into the fourth month of treatment and recovery, it seemed his body had decided to finally sprint that final mile toward a healthy Ron.
"Well, Mr. Weasley," Healer Morewold mechanically nodded her thick, graying head once and her jowly mouth set in a stern line, "it seems that your body has responded well to the combination of the Neural Quick-Calm Balm and the salve for your sensory system. Very well, in fact."
"So, what does that mean? Am I totally cured?"
The Healers looked at each other and then back to Ron. "We should check back in with you every week for the next month to really make that assessment. Your sensory vitals are showing up as clean, with no internal interference, but that doesn't necessarily mean—"
"So," Ron interrupted, voice stern and angry, "you don't think I can play Quidditch?"
"We have strong reservations about it for now."
"But, my House needs me!" Ron pleaded, his eyes wide and pitiful. "I was the reason they won the Cup last year. Quidditch is the only thing here that I'm involved in — the only thing I'm really good at."
"Aren't you a prefect?" Healer Gibbey chimed in.
Ron mumbled, " 'S only thing I'm good at that I like . . ." his voice trailed off. His eyes traveled upward to the two Healers, who were looking at him with expressionless faces. His head was still bowed, but his blue eyes were earnest, and Ron went for broke; he pushed out his lower bottom lip — just a little bit.
But enough to be effective.
Healer Gibbey was the first to relent. "Okay, fine."
"Matthew Gibbey!" exclaimed Healer Morewold.
"His vitals are okay, Velma. He's never responded better to our physical contact tests, or to our Tangible Sensory Scenarios. We still have to come here to monitor his progress, but he's stayed off broom for almost several months now. He's followed our orders since then. He should be okay."
Healer Morewold puckered her lips into a disapproving, wrinkly pout. "Well! Why don't we go ahead and let Mr. Weasley here make up his own diagnosis. His own recommendations. I mean, it isn't like I'm a magical health care provider or anything like that!" Healer Morewold stalked out of the curtained-off area. Ron could hear her muttering " . . . Six years of training, four years of no pay, taking orders from a stubborn . . ."
Healer Gibbey looked over at Ron and grimaced.
"Er, hold on one second, Ron. Let me see if I can talk to her."
Healer Gibbey left Ron, and for several minutes, the Gryffindor contemplated jumping out of bed, grabbing a broom and flying defiantly over Healer Morewold's gigantic bouffant while flipping her off.
Of course, he wouldn't be helping his case out at all.
Finally, the two Healers walked back next to Ron's bed. Healer Gibbey started to speak, getting the head start before Healer Morewold's red face exploded with indignant fury.
"Ron, here's what we're going to do. We'll sign off for you to play Quidditch, okay? Since Madam Pomfrey already knows about your particular medical situation, we can ask her to accompany you to your tryouts next week. We'll also schedule our appointment for next Saturday afternoon. No arguments, Ron," said Gibbey, when Ron opened his mouth to say that Gryffindor usually has a party after the tryouts. "We'll keep it brief. We can either do it in the Quidditch changing rooms if you're wanting to get back to your housemates to celebrate getting back on the team."
For a fleeting second, Ron thought he saw Healer Gibbey wink at him, ever so subtly. He looked over to Healer Morewold, who was standing rather crossly, refusing to look Ron directly in the eyes. She had remained quiet during this exchange.
Ron nodded. "It's, um . . . it's okay," he said after a moment. "I'll do whatever you both need me to do to get back up in the air and play.
Healer Gibbey nodded in satisfaction. "See, Velma? He's agreed to it," he said in a chipper manner. Healer Morewold merely kept grumbling.
"Ron, we'll let you get back to your day." Healer Gibbey pulled out a parchment. Scribbling on it, he waved his wand and a series of sparkling lines fell on the bottom right corner of the paper, forming the name "Matthew Gibbey", with a seal on top of it. He handed it to Healer Morewold, who, while continuing to mumble about magical schools and their misplaced priorities of athletics over health and safety, added her own signature and seal.
Healer Gibbey looked over the document, making sure everything was in order, and handed it to Ron, sealed with the official seal of St. Mungo's. "Keep this seal intact, so Professor McGonagall knows we gave you this Clean Bill of Health to play Quidditch, and you did nothing to tamper with this." Both adults gathered their belongings and put their Healer hats and robes on.
Healer Morewold was the first to step into the fireplace to Floo back to St. Mungo's. Just before Healer Gibbey Flooed away himself, he turned to Ron and smiled.
"Ravenclaw Beater, 1984-1987. Two of those years, we were so bloody close to beating the hell out of Slytherin. So, I do get it." He bowed to Ron with a small, mischievous grin and a real wink this time. "Give 'em hell, Mr. Weasley." And with that, Healer Gibbey stepped into the fireplace and disappeared among the giant green flames.
"They cleared me!" Ron ran toward Hermione, who was sitting at a table in the Gryffindor common room. She looked up from her parchment, eyes sparkling with happiness and jumped out of her seat.
"Ron, that's wonderful! I had a feeling, though. You've seemed . . ." she paused and considered him, grinning in contented contemplation, "much better than at the beginning of the summer."
"Yeah," Ron said breathlessly. "Well, thanks to the treatments and Flora too."
"You're still going to be seeing her, right?" Hermione gave him a cautious look.
Ron nodded. "Yeah. She's giving me this week off, and we'll start back up again next Friday in the hospital wing. But, Hermione, I, er . . . uh . . . can we, well . . ."
Looking around quickly in the common room to make sure no one else was there (most of the students had gone outdoors on this wonderfully sunny Saturday, making sure to take advantage of the beautiful weather), Ron reached out for her hand, shakily. He heard Hermione's intake of breath and met her eyes.
And Ron found he had completely lost the ability to talk.
"Ron? What's wrong? You're — you're not having another fit again? Oh no!" Hermione tried to withdraw her hands from his grip, but Ron managed to catch her in time.
He shook his head. "No, no. Nothing like that at all, Hermione." Ron gulped. "Err- . . . well," he faltered. Ron just couldn't think anymore.
His brain stopped functioning.
He was standing here, touching Hermione's hands.
He could kiss her without worrying if he'd start shaking.
And now, he was scared shitless.
(You're joking? After what's been going on between you two this summer, you're gonna freeze up now?)
(You're a real smooth operator, Weasley!)
If Ron were to act now, he'd have to go full speed ahead — no hesitation, no thought. Just kiss her like there's no tomorrow.
"Ron—"
Before Hermione could finish what she was about to say, Ron thrust his head downwards toward Hermione's . . .
And smacked their foreheads soundly together.
"Ow! Sonofa—"
"Oooph!" Hermione said, as she rubbed her head. Ron forced his eyes open to look at her. She was grimacing, certainly.
But she was smiling. At him.
"Ron," Hermione said, giving her head a final rub, "here, let me—"
Before Ron could say anything, she placed her hands on both of his shoulders and stood up on her toes. Ron lowered his head again, eyes opened as she moved closer to his face.
Gracefully, gently, Hermione kissed his forehead.
"Better?" she said as she backed away a couple of inches.
Ron could feel the breath catching in his chest. "Ab-absolutely, yeah. Loads," he managed to whisper in a croak.
They were standing perfectly still, faces just centimeters, millimeters, from each other.
So close, their breaths tickled each other's cheeks.
So close, Hermione's lashes never looked . . .
"Ron! Hermione! You in here?"
Ron looked around for a very blunt object with which he could bean his best friend's head. Harry jogged into the common room, Firebolt in hand, and Ginny hot on his heels.
Ron noticed the smirk spreading on the little brat's face.
"Right here, mate . . . runt!" he shouted out at them.
"Hope we're not interrupting anything?" Ginny said with that infernal smirk.
Hermione sighed as she sat back down at her table. "That's okay," she said as she looked at Ron. "Ron's been given the okay by his Healers. We were, um, just celebrating. Right, Ron?"
Ron knew that from the skeptically amused looks on Harry and Ginny's faces, they were not convinced that was all Ron and Hermione had been up to.
Harry settled on simply nodding, with a funny, little grin on his face. "Well, congrats." He slapped Ron on the back. "I have no doubt you'll be back on the team." Harry looked at the clock hanging in the common room. "Hey, we've gotta get down to dinner and meet up with Daphne in the library afterwards." He dashed up the stairs, Ron following him. "Hermione, we'll meet you back down here in five. We'll just grab our stuff." And with that, Harry and Ron disappeared upstairs.
"Daphne, what do you think?" Hermione whispered to the Slytherin girl. Daphne tapped the pointed end of her quill absent-mindedly on her parchment, causing a splotch of black ink to spread outwards.
What Hermione, Ron and Harry were asking of her was, of course, totally risky, completely foolhardy, and . . . one-hundred percent understandable.
What could possibly make Malfoy hate her more? Certainly not snooping around his things or the Slytherin boys' dormitory?
"Oh, why not?" Daphne spoke, just a bit loudly. They were in the library, after all, and Daphne Greengrass not only risked drawing attention to the table in the farthest, darkest corners of the reading hall, but also risked drawing Madam Pince's ire. "The way things are going right now, I might as well go whole hog into pissing everyone off."
"That bad?" Ron asked her. Harry sat up and looked at Daphne in a way that made the Slytherin girl's stomach jump.
"Oh, it's been a right picnic, dealing with Malfoy and his gang." Daphne said sarcastically. She shut her eyes and shook her head.
(They're not the ones you're annoyed with, Greengrass. Don't take it out on them.)
"I'm — you'll have to excuse me," she said with a tired sigh. "I've been staying up late trying to figure out more hexes that I can use on Parkinson and others if necessary, and trying to catch up in all my classes."
Daphne didn't tell them about her 'deal' with Bulstrode.
She wasn't sure if her conscience could take the sight of Hermione's heart exploding.
"Daphne, if this is too much that we're asking of you . . ." Harry began. Daphne shook her head.
"No, look, this is important to you guys. I'll see what I can do." She rubbed at her eyes. "I haven't seen anything on Malfoy's arm, though. He wears sweaters or long-sleeved shirts all the time, making sure the damn things are covered."
The trio nodded, with Harry looking quite pathetically crestfallen. Daphne, annoyed with herself, took pity on him.
"What I can say is that while I think it might be highly unlikely for Malfoy to have the full Dark Mark on his arm, it's possible that he might have a partial Mark on him, which is what probably scared Borgin in the first place."
"What do you mean, partial?" Harry asked, looking from Ron to Hermione and then back to Daphne.
"Well, and this is what I've gathered from eavesdropping among the other, more Death-Eater-y of the bunch," Daphne started, silently giving thanks to the Extendable Ears she had bought from the Weasley twins. "Usually, during a ceremony solemnizing the bond between the potential Death Eater and the king snake himself, the candidate will be asked to complete a task — a very difficult, challenging, and supremely evil task." Daphne swallowed. "And by 'asked', I mean—"
"Practically forced into accepting the deed or be killed quickly and painfully."
"Quick one today, aren't you Weasley?" Daphne gave him a one-sided smile and nodded. However, her smile faded as she looked back at the table. "Of course, there are those that volunteer to be Voldemort's number one go-to dark witch or wizard. If the candidate accepts the challenge — and I don't know why they wouldn't if they valued their life — then Vol- . . . er," she looked at Ron, already starting to pale before she completed his name, "You-Know-Who puts the first part of the Dark Mark on their arm." Daphne moved her head up and down as she thought through her answer. "I'm not sure which comes first, the snake or the skull. But once the task is completed, the candidate returns before You-Know-Who, who can choose whether to give them another task to complete the Mark, or can 'award'," Daphne wiggled her fingers in the air, mimicking quotation marks, "the full Dark Mark to the candidate. It might depend on how effective and successful the candidate was in completing the task."
Daphne looked up at the trio, who had remained silent while listening intently to her. Harry finally let out a breath in a low whistle and fell backwards in his chair. He raised his eyebrows and spoke first.
"So, you're saying that Voldemort himself—" they rolled their eyes as Ron gasped, "could've given Malfoy some huge, really big, evil task to finish putting the Mark on his arm?"
"Harry, what I'm saying is, if Malfoy has anything on his arm, it's most likely, but still not really likely, given the fact that he's still in school and not even of age, that he's only been given part of the Mark. Which . . . there could be proof of that on his clothing. Maybe there's some evidence, some magical residue, maybe, that rubbed off on his sleeves. When I take a look in the boys' dorm, I can also examine his robes and his sweaters. Provided I have enough time to do so."
She paused, thinking . . .
"An hour should do it."
Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at each other, considering this suggestion. Simultaneously, they looked straight at Daphne, allowing Harry to speak.
"You're sure?"
Daphne nodded in resignation. "I'll do it. Tell me where and when."
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. "It's ten to eight! You need to get straightaway to D-" Hermione looked at Ron and Harry, her eyes slightly widening, "de-tention."
"Yeah, Harry," Ron piped in, a bit too brightly, "don't wanna keep ol' Snape waiting."
"Er, yeah." Harry shook his head and threw his books into his bag. "So I'll see you guys later on. Daphne, get a feel for Malfoy's routine this week, and maybe we can find the best time to get into the room."
Daphne nodded and watched as Harry departed.
"Cruor Est Vox" is Latin for "Blood is power". Translation courtesy of InterTran website.