Chapter Twenty-Six.

Hermione looked concerningly pale as she slept. She had almost vanished against the pale white sheets of her bed, and her lips, though no longer grey, looked devoid still of any colour. Her eyelids, which fluttered restlessly every few minutes, were stained with dark purple veins. Frankly, she looked like a dying woman.

'She looks so… small,' whispered Ron, swallowing hard. He was cradling Hermione's hand in his own, his eyes still puffy from a lack of sleep, but alert nonetheless.

Harry, who was standing by the door, watched his friends' reunion with a dull aching in his chest. This isn't how it should have gone, he thought. It's all wrong.

'I feel like such a git…' Ron muttered, and he lowered his eyes in shame. 'If I hadn't… Maybe-'

'Don't do that,' Harry said, a little too sharply. 'It's no good.'

Ron looked up at Harry, and Harry felt strongly that his friend was going to apologise for something that Harry had no desire to talk about. Not now, anyway. He was immensely relieved, therefore, when Georgiana Zafrin stuck her head around the door.

'There are some visitors here for you, Mr Potter.'

Harry nodded and had already begun to move towards the door when he caught himself. He looked over at Ron, who was no longer looking at Harry but again at Hermione, and then to Hermione, who was breathing slowly but steadily. Only then did Harry feel confident enough to step out of the room.

Inside the living room, sitting on the couch with an untouched cup of steaming, odd-smelling tea in her hands, was Professor McGonagall. Marcus Barnaby was with her, pacing through the room and clunking with his cane at every other step. When he spotted Harry, his mouth opened and he hurried towards him.

'How is she?' Barnaby demanded.

'She's- Well… she's sleeping, at the moment,' Harry stammered. 'How did you-'

'Molly Weasley,' said McGonagall, who'd stood up to join Harry and Barnaby in the centre of the living room. 'She sent word right after you left.' Immediately after, in a softer tone, she added: 'How are you, Potter?'

Harry smiled — unconvincingly, he knew — and struggled with that question for a while before finally giving up and simply nodding instead. He felt grateful when, before McGonagall could ask anything else that made Harry want to scream, Barnaby turned the subject of discussion to another, more formal matter.

'Kingsley is at your home, now. Him and his team are investigating the place.'

Harry's stomach lurched. 'He's here?'

Barnaby nodded.

'W- I have to speak to him,' Harry said, feeling a rush of energy course through him as he started to the front door.

'I wouldn't go out there if I were you, son.'

Harry stopped, frowned, then turned and slowly peeled away the curtain from the window by the door. Instantaneously, he was blinded by the flashes of dozens of cameras. Muffled shouting came from all around the house. Quickly, Harry dropped the curtain.

'Like moths to a flame…' sighed Barnaby.

'Or vultures,' hissed McGonagall, looking utterly disgusted.

Harry stepped away from the window, feeling shocked and angry at once. 'I have to speak to him, Professor,' he said, slightly panicked. 'This- this attack… it's not-'

'It's not what you saw,' Barnaby said, nodding understandingly.

Harry swallowed. 'Something must have gone wrong, yeah? Factum Ventura… it must have interpreted something wrongly or, or maybe things have changed, after all, or-' Harry scrambled to make sense of the flood of thoughts that was rushing through his brain.

'Factum Ventura doesn't make such mistakes, I'm afraid.' Barnaby tapped his cane softly up and down against the wooden floor as he spoke, avoiding Harry's eyes.

'But… well, then it-'

'Potter,' whispered McGonagall, and Harry was shocked to silence by the gentle, almost motherly tone of her voice. 'If this isn't what you saw, that can only mean that…' She broke off, visibly uncomfortable with whatever she needed to say.

'What?' asked Harry, but it was already dawning on him.

'That it'll happen later,' said Barnaby.

There it was. The blow. Harry felt immediately nauseous, and utterly… utterly bone-tired. He lowered himself slowly onto the couch.

'So…' Harry started, and he paused momentarily to gain control of himself. 'So that means that if she survives this… she'll be attacked again? Why?!'

'We are trying to figure that out, Harry,' said Barnaby.

'Figure it out soon, then!' yelled Harry, his temper flaring through him like dragon fire, and he jumped at once from the couch. 'This has something to do with me, right? Someone is out to get me, but instead of getting at me, they're trying to kill her! Why?! What's the point?!'

McGonagall and Barnaby looked at him with quiet desperation. After some seconds, Barnaby opened his mouth. 'We don't know, Harry, but I assure you, we-'

'Forget it.' Harry turned, too angry now to have a rational conversation, and walked over to the door, pulling it open with a furious groan. The photographers were on him within seconds, flashing their cameras and hurrying alongside him as Harry rushed to his house.

'Mr Potter, what happened?!'

'Mr Potter, can you tell us who did this?'

'Mr Potter, will she live?'

'Harry, Harry, look here a moment!'

'Potter!'

'MR POTTER!'

As soon as Harry slammed the front door of his house shut behind him, the flashing of cameras stopped and the noise died down. Harry knew, however, that they would be there… waiting. He rested against the door for a moment, breathing hard and trying equally as hard to keep himself from going outside and doing something he'd regret.

To his relief, however, he was quickly distracted. Now that the lights inside his home had gone on, Harry was able to fully appreciate the damage that was done to it, and he gasped audibly at the sight of it. The hall's floor was covered in splinters of wood, glass, and the fluff of pillows. In the living room, books had flown everywhere, their pages torn and their spines cracked in unnatural ways. In the kitchen, too, the damage was unbelievable. Nearly everything that Harry could see was in one way shattered, cut, burnt, or otherwise completely ruined. Harry's heart sank. Instinctively, he began to walk further inside.

'Stop!'

Harry stopped.

'We can't have you in here.' Shacklebolt, who had appeared at the bottom of the staircase, seemingly out of nowhere, looked regretful but firm as he said it. Harry looked at him, opened his mouth, and shut it again when he heard people walking around upstairs. They were talking in low, hushed voices.

'Please, go back to Professor McGonagall and your friends.'

Harry, for the umpth time in his life, felt that people were keeping him away, out of sight, out of touch with what was happening, and he felt once again furious.

'This is my house,' he snarled.

'I understand,' nodded Shacklebolt. 'Nevertheless, this is also the scene of a crime.'

Shacklebolt walked over to Harry, careful not to trample on any possible evidence.

'Please, Harry, you have to have trust in us. We-'

'I can help!' Harry said angrily. 'This is my home, I know this place better than-'

'Which is exactly why you must leave, Harry!' Shacklebolt put his arms on Harry's shoulders and looked him gravely in the eye. 'Nobody can reasonably expect you to be clear-headed, Harry, and we cannot let passion muddle with reason. Please…' He gestured towards the front door.

Harry looked at Shacklebolt for a few tense seconds, and realised once again that he should leave before he did anything stupid. All he could muster, therefore, was: 'You have to do something, Shacklebolt. You have to protect her. Whoever it was, whatever they did… they'll attack her again.'

Shacklebolt nodded gravely, and pushed Harry gently towards the door. 'Have trust in us, Harry.'

'Give me a reason to,' Harry retorted, and then, with clenched fists, he made his way back into the swarm of photographers outside.

When he had returned to the healers' house, the shouts from outside still ringing in his ears, he found McGonagall and Barnaby still in the living room. They said nothing, however, and neither did Harry. He walked straight towards the room where Hermione and Ron were, took a deep breath to steady himself, and quietly made his way inside.

Hermione seemingly hadn't moved an inch. She was still worryingly pale, and still fast asleep. But now, so was Ron. He lay asleep, half bent over the bed, still holding Hermione's hand. He was snoring softly. Harry looked at them for a moment, feeling for some strange reason that he had intruded into something private, and finally sat himself down in an ochre-coloured armchair in the dark corner of the room.

After some time of sitting in the dark, candle-lit room, and finally being able to process what had happened today… Harry felt again that unshakeable exhaustion that found its way deep into his very bones. Without being able to stop it, without being able to lift as much as a finger, his eyelids fell shut, and he fell asleep. Finally, his mind quieted down.