Chapter Twenty-Six

Turntongue

The week that followed Harry's blow was the worst of Ginny's life.

Her lesser anguish was having to explain the bruise on her face. At first she told people she had been hit by a Bludger, but her teammates wanted to know when it had happened; they couldn't recall it. So she changed her story to say that she fell out of bed one night, but Sarah and Christina were dubious and started asking questions about Harry.

She would not go see Madam Pomfrey, who could have made the bruise disappear in an instant, because she would have to explain it and knew the nurse would not believe any of her stories. She could have sent an owl to George asking for a jar of Wheezes Bruise Remover, but that would have prompted questions too. So she started using heavy makeup and ignored the questions and the questioners.

Then the whispered conversations behind her back began. She heard snatches in the common room and as she walked in the corridors: she and Harry had had a fight; Harry had pushed her around; Harry had beaten her up; there was going to be an investigation by the Ministry of Magic; she would be expelled; Harry would be arrested. She didn't care what people said, but she knew that eventually someone on the staff would hear something and she would have to answer questions. Maybe Harry would get into trouble, and she was of two minds about that.

But she also faced a greater anguish: the questions she never stopped asking herself, and for which she had no answers. Why had Harry hit her? Why was he so angry all the time, especially at her? Did it have anything to do with Turquoise Southeby? His constant problems with the inn and his increasing unhappiness were hardly reasons—let alone excuses—for any of it. She would not—could not—see him again until those questions were answered, but how could she get answers without seeing him?

And did she even want to see him? No one had ever done this to her. The only person in her life who had struck her was her lover. When that thought occurred to her, the pit of despair deepened, and her desire to completely shut off the world became stronger.

She spent a lot of time alone in her room, even during the day. It never occurred to her to confide in her roommates. The only people she could imagine talking to were Hermione and her mother, and maybe if they had been around she would have sought them out. But she was not even sure about that; the thought of the look on her mother's face if she saw the bruise, and the shame of having to say who had done it, were beyond her imagination. In fact, when she pictured what her mother's expression would be, it was the same murderous contortion of her face that had preceded Bellatrix Lestrange's death. So instead of talking to someone, she lay on her bed for hours, staring at the canopy of her four-poster or crying, often sobbing, into the comfortless pillows.

What had gone wrong? The school year had started off so happily; every minute of the hours she spent with Harry was a new experience of joy. They had lain for hours in each other's arms, laughing, arguing about who was crazier for whom, finding new ways to bring pleasure to each other. They had talked obliquely about marriage, about a family.

It was clear, now that she thought about it, that his unhappiness at being an innkeeper had been increasingly directed at her, as though it had not been his idea from the beginning. She hadn't ignored it, but she had never really pressed him about it because she was afraid of his reaction. Well, now she had his reaction.

She remembered her giddiness when Harry first brought her to the inn after her birthday. She was so in love, everything seemed so perfect. She and Harry were starting an adventure that promised only romance and happiness. It now tasted like ashes in her mouth. Was it all gone? Was her eight-year dream of Harry Potter ending in a nightmare? Was it nothing more than an adolescent fantasy that she would look back on and shake her head at in disbelief?

She had never given up on him, neither before nor after she was only Ron's little pest of a sister. A few of her friends had warned her that Harry was "damaged goods." "Don't invest yourself in him," they said. Why had she still wanted him? And was the "damage" now manifesting itself in the violence of last Sunday? And what about Southeby? Ginny was never at the inn on weekdays; that woman could have been there for hours with Harry. But she would not go down that path yet. The thought of Harry being unfaithful was so painful that she could not see where the depth of that hurt would end. Her despair was paralyzing her; if it became any worse she did not know how she could stop herself from going completely insane.

She was missing meals and most classes—Defense Against the Dark Arts had been suspended, at least—and she had stopped spending any time in the common room. In the few classes she did attend, she noticed that the teachers were watching her. She completely avoided Keesha and Luna, and started being the first one out the door when each class ended, not wanting to be stopped and questioned. She fell days behind in her homework, unable to concentrate; whenever she opened a book she just stared at the pages, seeing nothing.

Her appearance became haggard and sloppy. She didn't bathe or even brush her hair, and couldn't look at herself in the mirror. One morning she picked up a ribbon from her dresser and started to put it in her hair, but stopped and stared at Harry's photograph and at her reflection in the mirror. She put her hand on the bruise and suddenly began to sob uncontrollably. Sarah came and put an arm around her shoulder, but Ginny ignored her, her chest heaving, her hands covering her face. The girl finally went to breakfast, and Ginny did not leave the room that day.

The weekend arrived, and there had been nothing from Harry. McPherson had not tapped at her window with a love note in his beak or a little package of candies from Honeydukes tied to his leg—or a letter explaining why Harry had done it and begging for forgiveness. Her resolve to avoid thinking about Turquoise had finally collapsed, and all she had been able to think of for the past twenty-four hours was the flat over the Hogs Head, the four-poster in the bedroom, and Harry and Turquoise.

On Saturday, after having gone sleepless for the second night in a row, Ginny somehow found the motivation to drag herself to lunch; she was light-headed, and knew that it was because she had barely eaten for days. She also knew why people were staring at her as she walked to the Great Hall: she had not bathed in three days; her hair was a tangled, bedraggled bird's nest; her eyes were red from both lack of sleep and weeping; and she was wearing the same clothes she had worn yesterday and spent the night in. Her bruise had not healed; it was now a sickly green. She didn't care, and had neglected to cover it with makeup.

She slipped into the Great Hall, keeping her eyes down, and hurried to the Gryffindor table. She found a seat near the end. A third-year boy moved aside for her, wrinkling his nose and glancing at his friends.

Ginny ignored everyone, as well as the whispers around her. She looked at the food on the table, but nothing was at all appealing. She tore a small piece of bread from a loaf and started chewing on it; at least she would have something in her stomach, which had been growling all morning.

She kept her head down. Now no one around her was talking, they were all looking at each other, and a few cast glances at the staff table where, unnoticed by Ginny, Professor McGonagall was staring in her direction with a small frown.

Ginny swallowed the bread with difficulty. Her mouth and throat were dry; she could not seem to salivate. As she ate, surrounded by silence, the third-year boy passed a dish in front of her to the girl on her other side. It was piled high with broiled chicken, and Ginny recognized Kreacher's recipe that Harry had given to the Hogwarts kitchen elves. Her eyes filled with tears and a lump blocked her throat. She put down the unfinished chunk of bread and stood. Everyone around her stared as she stepped over the bench, tears pouring down her face, and walked out of the Great Hall and down the corridor to the marble staircase. She was aware of nothing, including the sound of the doors to the Great Hall opening, and the footsteps of several people following her, and of the voices that called her name. A hand grasped her shoulder and brought her to a stop.

Ginny turned and saw, with a start, Keesha standing in front of her. Next to Keesha was Luna, and behind them were Emma and Claire, shock and fear on their faces. Behind the twins were three more students, and with a greater start, Ginny recognized three Slytherin first-years: Zoroaster Black, Sean Allen, and Abigail Abernathy; they kept looking back nervously at the doors to the Great Hall.

Keesha had her hand on Ginny's shoulder. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly. "Nobody's seen you for days." Her eyes narrowed as she looked closely at Ginny's face and the garish bruise. "What happened?"

"I fell out of bed," Ginny mumbled. "I need to get back to my room."

Keesha kept her hand on Ginny's shoulder. "You fell out of bed?"

Luna scratched her chin and seemed puzzled. "I don't think that's true, Ginny. Young adults don't normally fall out of bed. Are you sure?"

Ginny swayed on her feet, staring open-mouthed at Luna; she looked around at them all.

"What's going on?" she said. "Do you mind—" She tried to turn away, but now Sean moved so that he was blocking her way.

"Ginny," Emma said timorously, "how—how is Harry? Don't you usually stay with him on the weekends?"

Ginny glared at her. "Mind your own fucking business!" she snapped, but immediately her face fell as Emma stepped back, frightened.

Keesha's grip on her shoulder tightened. "Ginny, we need to talk to you, but not here." She looked back at the Great Hall; the doors were open, and they could hear benches scraping the floor as students got up from the tables. "They need to tell you something. About Harry."

Ginny's knees suddenly buckled; hands caught her as she lost her balance. She clutched at Zoroaster and Sean who were holding her arms. Emma still looked frightened, and Claire bit her trembling lip.

"Come on," Keesha said as students streamed past them, "let's get into a classroom. You can sit down. Emma, run back before the tables get cleared. Grab some pumpkin juice and anything else you can."

Sean and Zoroaster helped Ginny stumble into the nearest classroom and set her down in a chair. She felt shaky; her head was light, her throat was dry, and she was nauseous. It was stuffy in the room, and she gasped for air. The walls and the faces seemed to close in around her. "What—what about Harry?" she stammered breathlessly.

Keesha looked at Zoroaster, who was staring at Ginny. Ginny looked back at him, and at Sean and Abigail who were standing next to him. Moving her eyes made her dizzy, and she closed them.

The door opened and Emma came in carrying a glass of pumpkin juice. "It was all that was left," she said, handing it to Ginny. "All the food was already cleared."

Ginny took the glass and a gulp of juice, but gagged and spit it out. Emma jumped back too late, and the front of her tee shirt was splattered orange.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," Ginny gasped. She pulled out her wand, but Keesha pushed it down.

"Maybe someone else should do that." She pointed her own wand, muttered, "Scourgify," and the stain vanished.

She nodded to Zoroaster, and Ginny looked at him again. Everyone was silent. The Slytherin's lips were a thin line; he pushed a shock of black hair back from his face.

"They're poisoning Harry," he said.

"What?" Ginny whispered almost inaudibly; she was still dizzy, and the words had taken away what little breath she had.

"They're poisoning Harry with something called Turntongue. They found out he really likes that new drink, that Potio Vitae—" he wrinkled his nose "—and they're slipping poison into it before it gets delivered to the Hog's Head. I guess it's affecting everyone who drinks it, but he's the one they're trying to kill."

"Who?" Ginny asked in a whisper again; she was beginning to tremble.

"I don't know. They didn't say."

"Who? How do you know? How did you find out?"

The boy glanced at Sean and Abigail; their faces were angry, defiant, frightened.

"We overheard two of the bastards blabbing in the common room," Sean said. "Jace Kleinhead and Serpens Lestrange. They were talking to Tiberius Rookwood and they were all drunk. I think they're running a firewhiskey still somewhere in the dungeons. They must have threatened the house-elves to keep them quiet. They're a couple of sodding pri-" He glanced at Abigail. "Anyway, they're right bloody gits. They started off bitching about you getting to spend your weekends in Hogsmeade, and then they began gloating about Voldemort getting revenge on Harry even though he's dead."

Abigail murmured something under her breath and blushed. "Yeah," nodded Sean, "they made a bunch of filthy comments about you too."

Ginny waved her hand. She didn't care what a pair of drunken Slytherins thought or said about her; she wanted to hear about Harry. "Please," she croaked, "what did they say about the poison?"

"It's very slow working, so he won't suspect anything. And they said that it also makes you feel exactly the opposite of what you really feel." He hesitated and glanced at Ginny's bruise. "So if you love someone it makes you hate them. They figured that's what happened. It's supposed to be the only way you can tell if someone's taking it. But eventually, it'll kill him. That's what they said."

Ginny swayed in her chair; the room went in and out of focus and Claire grabbed her to keep her from falling on the floor.

"Why are you here?" Ginny whispered. "You and Emma?"

Claire was almost in tears. "Zoro and Sean came to us. We wanted to tell you, but we were scared, so we went to Keesha and Luna since they're your friends."

Ginny struggled to her feet, wobbling precariously. Sean caught her arm, but she pushed his hand away and staggered towards the door. The others went after her.

"Ginny!" Keesha cried, "you can't—"

Ginny turned at the door with a wild look that stopped them all in their tracks.

"I have to get to Harry," she said in a choked voice. She stepped out of the room, slammed the door, pointed her wand and yelled, "Colloportus!" The door sealed and, somehow, Ginny ran. She was out the entrance and half-way down the drive before Keesha and the others appeared at the top of the steps leading from the castle. They stood and watched her tear towards the gates.

Ginny had no idea where her strength was coming from, but it didn't last. By the time she reached the end of the drive she was gasping for breath and staggering more than running. She lurched to a stop and held onto the tall pillar as her chest heaved. Her initial burst was spent; her legs were shaking and everything in her vision was out of focus.

She pushed off from the gates and staggered down the lane towards the village. She tripped crossing the railroad tracks, but caught herself before she fell. She began running again as she passed The Three Broomsticks. People stared from doorways and called out to her. By the time she got to the top of the High Street her legs were about to give out and she thought her heart would burst from her chest. She turned down the lane and banged open the door to the Hog's Head, leaning against the jamb as everyone in the room looked at her.

Stan was behind the bar filling a mug with mead from the tap. Two Aurors were sitting at the bar, and about a dozen customers sat at tables. Stan's jaw dropped as he gaped at her and forgot what he was doing until the mug overflowed and mead spilled onto his hand. He put down the mug, and as he shook his hand his eyes went to the back of the room.

Ginny turned. Harry was sitting at his table, his ledger open in front of him. In his left hand he held a bottle of Potio Vitae that was stopped at his lips. He rose and stared at Ginny, a look of wild shock on his face.

"Don't drink that!" she screamed. She took one step towards him, and her legs folded and she collapsed to the floor. The last thing she remembered was Stan and Harry peering down at her. Harry's face was very close, and he was holding both of her hands in his. She noticed the Bouquedelle dangling from his neck on its chain, and all went black.

# # # #

When Ginny opened her eyes, she saw the red and gold canopy of a four-poster above her; she was in Harry's bed. Her body felt strange, and she looked down at her arms lying on the comforter, which was pulled up to her chest. She was wearing something that was not hers: a soft, frilly, white flannel nightgown. This can not be Turquoise's, she thought. I'm lying in his bed. He would not do that to me.

She raised her head and saw Harry sitting hunched over in a chair near the foot of the bed; his head was bowed, his elbows were on his knees and his hands were clasped against his forehead.

"Harry," she said.

His head jerked up. He stood and took a step towards her, but stopped.

"Are you—are you all right?"

"What time is it? How long have I been here?"

He glanced out the window and she followed his look; the sky was darkening, but there was still light. "It's about six o'clock. You've been out for about five hours." He looked at her. "Are you okay?" he asked again.

Ginny looked down at herself. She felt clean and a little rested, and her hair was washed and combed, but she was very thirsty. At that moment her stomach gave a loud growl. She giggled and looked at Harry, and he smiled briefly. He took another step towards her. "I'm thirsty," she said.

He went quickly to his dresser where a pitcher and goblet stood; he filled the goblet.

"What is that?" Ginny said sharply. "It's not Potio Vitae, is it?"

"It's pumpkin juice." He handed her the goblet and stepped back. Ginny drank it down; it tasted wonderful. She closed her eyes and sighed.

Harry moved a step closer, and Ginny opened her eyes. He was watching her, and it seemed to Ginny that he was shaking. When he spoke he sounded frightened.

"Ginny, I—I don't know what to—what to say."

She reached her hand to him, but when she saw the nightgown again she stopped. "Whose is this? I never saw it before."

"Oh. It's Rosmerta's." Ginny let out a breath, and suddenly her heart felt lighter than it had for a month.

Harry stared at his hands as he spoke. "We brought you up here. Stan and me, I mean. You, uh, you . . . you needed a bath, so Stan went and got Rosmerta and she washed you and put that on you." He pointed to the nightgown. "Then we—uh, Rosmerta and I—we put you in bed. Then she went home, I mean back to the Three Broomsticks." He paused and looked at her. "I hope it's okay."

Ginny smiled, and a light came into Harry's eyes that had not been there. "So you didn't bathe me?" she asked.

"Uh, no. I wasn't sure if you would like that."

She reached out her hand again. "Come here." Harry took another step and held her hand; his was trembling. "Harry, it was poison. The Potio Vitae is being poisoned before it gets here. What happened wasn't you, it was the poison. It changes you, it makes you just the opposite of what you were. That's why you've been so . . . so angry."

Harry stared at her, bewildered, and fell to his knees next to the bed.

"Ginny, Ginny. Oh, God, I wanted to cut my hand off."

He put his head down on the bed and sobbed as though his life was ending. Ginny sat up and put one hand on his heaving shoulders and stroked his hair with the other. She could hear his muffled voice between sobs, saying over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He would not—or could not—stop weeping. Ginny kept her hands on him. The sky outside and the room inside darkened, and still Harry wept.

Ginny finally moved the covers aside and put her feet on the floor. Harry looked at her, but in the darkness she could only see the outline of his face. She took it in her hands and found his lips with hers; they were wet and salty. He did not move, or try to stop her when she stood, but as she took a step and stumbled on rubbery legs, he jumped up and took her by the waist, steadying her.

She put her hand on his shoulder and said, "Light a candle." Harry was silent; he did not move. "What is it?" she whispered.

"I can't. I can't even . . ." His voice choked and he began to weep again.

Ginny grabbed him and pulled him into her arms and kissed him as hard and as deeply as she knew how. Harry was startled, his arms were outstretched, but they slowly closed around her. They embraced for several minutes and their lips did not break apart. Harry finally pulled back with a gasp, and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"Where is my wand?" Ginny said in the darkness.

"On the dresser, next to the pitcher," came Harry's voice, a little breathless. Ginny walked carefully across the room, felt for her wand, and picked it up. "Lumos," she said quietly, and a soft light filled the room. She looked at Harry; he was watching her out of red-rimmed, swollen eyes, a dazed look on his face.

Ginny went to the nightstand next to the bed and lit the candle in the veela candlestick with her wand. She started to walk towards him, but suddenly went dizzy and half-sat, half-fell onto the bed.

Harry sprang up. "Are you all right? Lie down." He helped her put her head on the pillow and pull her legs up onto the bed. Ginny was still for a moment.

"I'm okay. I need something to eat. I haven't eaten for . . . I don't know, I can't remember when."

Harry stared for a moment, then turned and ran out of the room. Ginny heard him charging out of the flat and down the stairs. Doors slammed; there was silence for a minute, and she heard footsteps come up the stairs more slowly and enter the parlor. Harry reappeared at the bedroom door, carrying a tray. He set it down on the nightstand and pulled the chair up to the head of the bed. "It's a fresh batch of potato soup, bread, and Winky's pudding. No." He pushed her down. "I'll feed you."

Ginny smiled and dutifully lay still while Harry spooned hot soup into her mouth. The heat coursed down into her stomach and seemed to radiate instantly through her whole body. He broke off a piece of warm bread and fed her slowly. She finally put up her hand, and Harry put the bread down. Ginny smiled again, sighed, and sank down under the covers. She whispered something but Harry could not hear; he leaned closer.

"Love you," Ginny murmured into his ear. "Got to . . ." She closed her eyes and was asleep.

Harry moved the candle away from the bed, picked up the tray and took it into the kitchen. He went back to the bedroom and looked down at the angel in his bed. Ginny was on her back, her head turned slightly to one side, her hand resting on the pillow; her hair glowed in the candlelight.

He went to the picture window in the parlor and looked out over the field; the waning moon, about half full, was rising, and its pale light reflected off fences and the bare branches of the elm tree. His mind was filled with turmoil, but suddenly his heart was clear. He knew, at that moment, that he and Ginny would not be here after she left school. But that didn't matter. It had been a good try, but it wasn't the best idea for them. They still had to discover what that best idea was. Maybe Ginny would play for the Harpies, and maybe he would join Ron in the Auror program, even—Harry smiled to himself—if the git was a year ahead of him.

He felt a weight lift from his heart, and it was as if everything had become illuminated with a pure golden light. He realized that the terror that had been consuming him was gone. He glanced at the bedroom door and knew that because of the girl asleep in there, nothing in his life would ever keep him from being happy except himself. He had almost lost Ginny; he had done something to her that was beyond horror, yet here she was, asleep in his bed, trusting him completely. She had been trying to tell him for weeks what he needed to do so that he could be happy. It didn't have anything to do with the inn or the Dark Marks or the dead weasel or the broken glass. It had to do with himself.

He still didn't understand what Ginny had meant when she said that poison had made him strike her. He didn't care, though. He only cared about what he had done. Maybe it would take a lifetime to make it up to her, to convince her that it would never happen again, that he would rather be dead than hurt her, but he would take that lifetime if he had to.

When he considered it, he realized that since he had not been drinking Potio Vitae for a week, he couldn't remember why he had exploded in rage at her. He knew that he had been arguing ever more angrily about the inn and about other things, but he could feel no anger now. It was a puzzle, but he was certain that Ginny would reveal the answer when she awoke.

He walked back into the bedroom; Ginny had not moved. His eyes wandered to her clothes hanging on a hook on the wall. Rosmerta had taken them after she had bathed Ginny and wrestled her limp body into the nightgown—Harry would not touch her, and had left the room—and Rosmerta had cleaned the clothes and hung them up. They had been wretched, just like Ginny; he had never seen her like that: dirty, thin, pale, disheveled, utterly spent. Yet this afternoon she had burst into the inn with that blazing look that would never fail to pierce him like an arrow.

For a while, after they had brought her upstairs and put her in bed, he had feared for her life. He didn't know what had happened or what to do. Rosmerta had calmed him. Ginny was just completely exhausted, Rosmerta said, she needed someone to take care of her. That, Harry realized, was something he had stopped doing. Whether it was because of this mysterious poison or something in himself was of no concern to him. Tonight he had started taking care of his Ginny again, and she had taken care of him.

He took his wand from his belt, walked over to the bed, and peered down at her. "Lumos," he whispered, and for the first time in a week the phoenix wand lit. He took the candle from Ginny's nightstand, flicked the wand, and a vase of red and white roses in full bloom appeared on the little table.

Harry changed into his pajamas, took the candle around to the stand on the other side of the bed, pulled back the covers, and slipped in next to Ginny. Her head was turned away from him, but she murmured in her sleep and her head turned. Her eyes opened; she smiled sleepily at him and closed her eyes again. She rolled onto her side and pressed herself against him and put her arm across his chest; her breathing was deep and steady.

Harry lay in a boiling cauldron of longing and desire. He put his left palm on her hand, and the touch of her skin was like a bolt of magic. His whole body shook so violently he was afraid he would wake her. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Eventually he stopped trembling and opened his eyes again. He felt, next to him, the warm softness of the flannel nightgown and the curves of her body underneath. And then he realized he was engulfed in her fragrance, the utterly overwhelming, flowery scent of the Bouquedelle, which he had not dared to use all week.

Ginny had not moved. Harry looked at her, drinking in her eyelashes, her eyebrows, her nose, her lips, her cheeks. He nuzzled her gently and kissed her brow. As his tears began to flow, he knew that he was as happy as he had ever been in his life; beyond all hope, he had Ginny back. He turned and waved his hand; the candle went out and Harry fell asleep next to Ginny under the warm covers.