Chapter Twenty-Four.

'Mr. Potter?'

Harry heard nothing. He sat staring at his feet, his body stiff as a board, his mind trying extraordinarily hard to ignore the blood that was all over him. He felt as if he were in a daze. After some seconds, the young woman tugged hard at Harry's sleeve, pulling him from his thoughts and back to awareness. Harry immediately wished that she hadn't.

'Mr. Potter,' the woman said, whispering as if she were afraid to frighten him.

Harry blinked.

'Mr. Potter… would you like a cup of tea?'

Once more, Harry blinked. 'A… a cup of tea?'

The woman nodded.

'N-no.' Harry's stomach turned. 'My- Hermione, she is… how is she-'

'We are doing everything that we can, Mr. Potter. Please have faith.'

Harry stared at her in blind disbelief. Faith?

The woman reached out to him, placing a careful hand on his arm. Harry's eyes refocused on her face just as his mind began to slip back again into that numb, safe daze.

'Can you tell me what happened?'

Without warning, the image of Hermione on the bathroom floor popped back into Harry's mind, despite his earlier efforts to banish it to its depths. At the sight of it, and the pungent smell of rust that lingered all over him, Harry pressed his nails reflexively into the palms of his hands. It was all he could do to not double over and be sick. The young woman reached out to him with both hands, now, and asked him a different question — something about his house — but her voice sounded as if it came from miles away. The smell of Hermione's blood seemed to grow stronger, more pungent still, and Harry's vision began to blur. Through his mind flashed an image of Hermione's lifeless grey face, and suddenly he saw himself standing over a fresh grave in Godric's Graveyard, with his parents only feet away. All at once, Harry became aware of the sickeningly sticky sensation of the blood on his hands, his chest, his neck, even his face, and the smell of it became absolutely unbearable. Harry jumped from the couch, peeling frantically at his bloodied shirt, desperate to get rid of it, desperate to be clean.

The woman's voice echoed somewhere in the distance.

Nausea built. Harry felt his stomach clench into a knot when suddenly, right as he felt he were about to lose all control and be sick, the woman was there, pushing him down onto the couch. She was yelling at him.

'Mr. Potter, breathe!'

She commanded it. Harry looked at her, hearing her voice echo through his mind, and understood suddenly that he had been holding his breath. With extreme effort, while still digging his nails into his palms so as not to focus on the smell of blood, Harry managed to open his mouth and breathe.

'Listen, Mr Potter,' the woman whispered, urgently but not unkindly. 'My mentor is Wilma Distle. You may not know her… but she is the best healer in Godric's Hollow. In fact, she's the best healer I have ever known, and I've known many. Please, Mr. Potter, please be assured that your friend is in the most capable hands. If she has any chance at all… well – it's here.'

Harry clenched and unclenched his jaw, trying to force back the tears that were building behind his tightly closed eyelids. As he breathed trembling breaths, in and out, the nausea in him began to sink back to the depths of his stomach. After some long seconds in which Harry fought to regain the slightest bit of control over himself, Harry opened his eyes, and then his hands some more seconds later. The woman was staring at him with worry in her eyes, but her smile was gentle.

'For now, Mr. Potter … I need you to get out of those clothes and get cleaned up. Can you do that for me?'

Harry nodded slowly, but was only able to get upstairs and into the bathroom with the young woman's help. As she ran the basin full of water so that Harry could wash himself, Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were red and swollen, his hair looked unusually dishevelled, his jaw was stained with Hermione's blood, and the palms of his hands were burning with a fiery pain, though there was no way to tell if the blood on them was also his own.

The young woman turned to Harry. She said something about his house, then asked him a question, but Harry could only stare at his reflection, and she finally disappeared when there was no response.

It took a few more minutes after she'd left for Harry to start moving.

He began to peel his shirt from his body with trembling hands, and saw with a shock that the blood had drenched through the fabric and stained the skin of his chest, too. He dropped his shirt quickly to the ground and reached for the cloth that was left for him. As he forced it into the basin, the blood on his hands mixed with the clear water; it became an awful shade of pink. It danced in circles on the water's surface, looking disgustingly bright and cheerful, until Harry pulled the cloth forcefully from its depths, wrung at it with both hands, and ended the dance. As he cleaned himself —Harry started with his hands, and then began to clean his chest— the water from the cloth mixed with the blood on his skin, and soon clear pink droplets were rolling across Harry's body.

He knew that it didn't make sense, that it was absolutely ridiculous… but it felt as if they were mocking him. The bright pink, wrapping like a jovial rope around Harry's arms and stomach, became suddenly unbearable to Harry, and he began to scrub harder and harder until he scrubbed so furiously that part of his skin burned, reddened, and started to bleed. Harry groaned at the sight of more blood and threw the cloth into the basin, sending pink and red water flying everywhere.

Unprecedented rage took hold of him when he caught sight of his face in the mirror, and in a burst of fury he swung his fist forward, punching the wall with such force that his wrist broke. A roar of pain escaped from Harry's throat; the sting of it made all anger vanish. Instead, Harry felt suddenly so hopeless and pathetic that his groans of frustration turned into sobs of despair, and he slid down the wall onto the floor, grabbing his broken wrist with his good hand. Another pang of pain shot through the bone, and Harry cried. He cried hard with an ache in his throat and a heaviness in his chest. He cried for the pain in his wrist, for the fresh realisation that his suffering was spectacle to other people, and even for the loved ones he'd lost, but mostly he cried for Hermione, and for fear of losing her, too. Though the tears kept flowing, Harry's breath didn't, and soon he began to feel lightheaded, and then even more lightheaded, until finally Harry felt as if a blanket of sleep was being pulled over him, and he slouched into exhausted slumber on the bathroom floor.

When he awoke, the young woman who had helped him before was bent over him, waving salts under his nose.

Harry groaned, wanting very much to go back to sleep, but the apprentice was now tapping against his cheeks to wake him, and Harry realised she wouldn't let him sleep again. Instead he allowed her to help him sit up. She handed him a foul-smelling drink.

'What is it?' Harry croaked.

'For the spirit,' the woman whispered.

Harry downed it in a single gulp and dropped the cup to the floor, gagging at the earthy taste.

'Here, put this on,' she whispered, and she handed Harry a clean but unfamiliar t-shirt and coat. 'It's from here. I hope that's okay.'

Harry took the clothes and looked at her, realising with sudden shame that he had no idea who she was. 'What's your name?', he asked, his voice hoarse.

'Georgiana Zafrin,' the girl said. 'I'm Mrs. Distle's apprentice.'

Harry nodded slowly, letting the name ruminate in his mind, and realised suddenly that he was half naked. He began to pull the clean shirt over his head and pulled on his coat, and with Georgiana's help he managed to climb up from the bathroom floor. When he had done so, Harry noticed that his wrist had been splinted. He frowned.

Georgiana smiled apologetically. 'I've managed to repair the break… but it's still fragile. You'll need to wear that for a few more days.'

Harry couldn't possibly protest even if he'd wanted to, as just then a fluttery sensation brewed in his stomach, and he felt again that he would be sick.

'It's just the drink,' Georgiana said, noticing the nausea on his face. 'It'll help you soon.'

Harry didn't think that anything could possibly lift his spirits, now… not even magic. But Georgiana was right: it did. Harry's energy rose rapidly, and where at first he had felt pathetic and hopeless, now he felt determined to find out what happened, and do something about it. As Georgiana led him back to the living room, she told him about her mentor, Wilma, who had been working fervently on saving Hermione since Harry had carried her in. Georgiana talked as she poured Harry a cup of tea and offered him an old-looking biscuit, but Harry found that he couldn't yet eat. He also found that he couldn't yet listen.

Instead, Harry looked at the door that led to the room where Hermione had been taken to. Wanting suddenly desperately to see her, Harry made a start to it. Before he could reach it, however, Georgiana stepped in front of him, barring his way.

'You can't go in there, Mr. Potter.'

'Why not?'

'Mrs. Distle asks for silence and solitude while she's at work. You'll need to trust us.' Georgiana was firm.

'I don't think you understand,' Harry protested, suddenly irritated. 'That's my… that's my girlfriend in there.'

Georgiana smiled warmly. 'I understand perfectly,' she whispered, more gently now. 'But I can't let you in. Mrs. Distle needs to work, and your friend needs to rest.'

Harry wanted to become angry, of course, but he suddenly thought of something else that he needed to do. The only thing more important than seeing Hermione right now, was protecting her. And for that, he would need to speak to one particular person: the only person who would understand what he was going through.

Harry looked again at the door.

'How is she?'

A flicker of uncertainty flashed across Georgiana's face before she gave Harry one of her reassuring smiles. 'Well enough.'

Harry hesitated. 'Could I…?'

'Yes.' Georgiana nodded firmly.

'You can-'

'We will.'

'How long?'

'Half an hour, if necessary.'

Harry looked at Georgiana, looked at the door, clenched his jaw, and nodded at last. 'Half an hour,' he said to himself, and then he turned rapidly on his heels, snatching his wand from the couch as he passed to the front door.

Half an hour to make Ron see reason, to make him listen… to make him forgive.

Well… Harry thought, it's not impossible. Just very, very hard.