Chapter Twenty-Seven.

When Harry awoke some short hours later, he felt as if he were made of lead. His limbs were heavy and his eyelids remained tightly shut, as if weights had been attached to them. He felt slightly cold, too, and registered vaguely that the candles had burned out some time ago.

Right as he had decided to get up and light them anew, however, Harry heard soft whispers drifting towards him from the other side of the room. Without meaning to, he was listening in.

'Ron…' said a weak voice, and Harry's heart jumped. Hermione. She's awake! 'I want you to know-'

There was another whisper, inaudible to Harry despite his exertion to hear. Then Ron spoke, saying softly: 'I know.'

'You do?' whispered Hermione, and the sound of her voice was so utterly exhilarating to Harry that he would have flown towards her if not for his leaden limbs, and his secret curiosity about whatever Ron and her were whispering about.

Harry heard Ron chuckle, though not quite convincingly. 'I've had loads of time to think this over, Hermione -' Harry couldn't see Ron's face, but he felt his friend's eyes burning on him, '- and I understand... why it happened.'

For a moment, Ron and Hermione were both quiet. Then there was a soft rustling of quilt, and Harry imagined that one had taken the hand of the other. Suddenly, and despite knowing immediately how ridiculous it was, Harry felt uneasy. For a moment he wondered whether he should open his eyes and announce himself, but Hermione had already begun to speak.

'I did love you…' Hermione whispered.

'I know that, too,' Ron answered. 'But it was… it was a young relationship, wasn't it?'

'We aren't that much older, now,' Hermione said, careful playfulness in her voice.

'No… I s'ppose you're right,' Ron muttered. 'But you know what I mean, Hermione, it was like- like…'

'Infatuation…'

'Not… not quite,' Ron whispered. 'It was more than that… but…'

'Not quite that,' Hermione agreed.

There was silence, again. Harry now imaged Ron nodding, slowly, with a regretful but understanding look on his face.

'Well, anyway,' Ron sighed. 'I understand now that it would've been inevitable that you'd grown tired of me, sooner or later.'

'Ron-'

'And when that would have happened,' Ron said firmly, ignoring Hermione. 'Well… there wouldn't have been anyone better to have you.'

Harry suppressed the urge to frown. Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn't been this.

'I know Harry…' Ron continued, so quietly that Harry had to shift around in his chair somewhat so as to hear better. 'Better than anyone, I'd reckon… and I- I know he'll take good care of you, Hermione. He will.'

When Hermione spoke, after some more moments of silence in which Harry was just about bursting to hear whatever would come next, her voice was strained from suppressed tears. Harry felt immediately guilty for having been so distrusting of his friends.

'I've really missed you, you know?' Hermione whispered.

There was more rustling, and Harry knew that they were hugging. He also knew he couldn't possibly open his eyes, now, and so he resolved to staying asleep for some more minutes until finally, he could no longer contain the urge to see Hermione awake and well. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the grey morning light. Then he forced his body, which was still listless as a board, to sit up and stretch, but when his eyes had adjusted and he looked over at Hermione, she had fallen back into a deep sleep, and Ron was holding onto her hand, a worried look plastered on his face.

Harry, feeling very much disappointed, rose stiffly from his armchair. Ron looked up at him as he approached the bed. He smiled weakly.

'How's she?' Harry whispered.

'Alright, I think. She was awake a few minutes ago… you just missed it.'

Harry sat down on the other side of Hermione's bed and looked at her. Her face was still pale, but no longer so pale that she matched the bedsheets, and some colour seemed to have come back to her lips. Harry felt warmth rush through his stomach. She'll live.

Harry then looked up at his friend, swallowed hard, and knew at once that the words forming in his mind were completely true. 'I'm glad you're here, Ron.'

Ron looked at him with visible surprise. 'Yeah?'

'You don't have to look so shocked.'

'Well… I just thought… after everything-'

'I haven't had a problem with you, Ron. You hated me.'

Ron smiled awkwardly, almost apologetically, and averted his eyes towards the bed. 'I never hated you, Harry… You're my best friend.' Then he froze, his shoulders becoming rigid with tension, and he looked back up at Harry with a semblance of fear in his face. 'We're still friends, right?'

Harry smiled, too. 'Course,' he whispered.

Ron relaxed at once. After that, neither him nor Harry seemed to have a desire to say anything else. They sat comfortably in the quiet of early morning, each holding on to one of Hermione's hands as she slept, the dawn breaking in shades of lilac on the other side of the wall.

***

When the door of their room opened at last and Georgiana Zafrin showed her face, the sun was up in full. In spite of the warmth and light that had spilled into the room, however, the young healer's face was gloomy as she beckoned Harry and Ron out into the hall.

Ron looked apprehensively at Harry, who was dutifully rising from his seat by Hermione's bed, and finally followed his friend out of the room. There, an old, white-haired lady, small and round in posture, with vivid green eyes and low, bushy brows, stood solemnly next to Marcus Barnaby. His vest was unbuttoned, as were the cuffs of his sleeves, and Harry realised that Barnaby had spent the night at the healers', too. He didn't know the wizard all that well — despite Barnaby knowing just about every inch of Harry's mind — but Harry felt grateful for his presence. He felt defended, in a way.

'Minerva has gone back to Hogwarts for a few hours,' Barnaby explained, misinterpreting Harry's questioning eyes. 'She will be back as soon as she can.'

Harry nodded slowly and focused his attention towards Georgiana and the old woman, whom Harry wagered to be Wilma Distle: long-time resident of Godric's Hollow, experienced healer, and Georgiana's mentor. Ms Distle reached out her hand and held out a small, crystal vial. Harry frowned and saw, upon closer inspection, that it held a dark red liquid.

'I know what happened to your friend,' Ms Distle said. Her voice was firm, matter-of-factly. Harry remembered it clearly as the voice of the woman who'd come to his rescue as he had carried Hermione from his home mere hours ago.

'Well?' Ron asked, nervously.

The healer hesitated for a moment, as if what she was about to say was taxing for her, and Harry knew he had been correct when she muttered: 'A blood curse…'

Harry's heart sank just as Ron's mouth dropped.

'A… a what?' Ron said, rather squeakily.

'A blood curse,' Ms Distle repeated, more firmly. 'Whoever attacked your friend put a curse on her… see?' She took the vail, which Harry now understood to be filled with Hermione's blood, and shook it thrice up and down. It was almost indetectable at first, but then Harry spotted it. A thin black thread, a remnant of dark magic, glowed within the crimson condition of blood. All at once, Harry felt his mind racing for solutions, for excuses, for any information at all that he could use to tell the healer she had gotten it wrong, but despite his desperate efforts he came up blank. He had nothing.

'Well, what does that mean?!' Ron asked, horrified.

Ms Distle lowered the vail, pulling it from Harry's sight, and her shoulders slumped. Georgiana cleared her throat. 'A blood malediction is a relatively unknown but extremely dark form of magic,' she said, and she looked almost apologetically at Harry. 'No one truly knows how a blood curse is cast. There aren't many victims, and their attackers are never caught… but the information that we do have is… not very positive, I suppose.'

'Go on!' Ron urged, sounding horrified, as Harry felt nausea build within him.

'Because we don't know exactly how the curse is cast,' Georgiana continued. 'We don't know how to reverse it, or even if it's possible. But what we do know is that it will significantly weaken its victim, progressively so as he or she ages, making every mundane task exhausting, every simple cold possibly fatal…'

To Harry's left, Ron gulped, and Barnaby shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Harry became aware that his mind had begun to spin, refusing to fix itself in one place, and his limbs, leaden only moments before, now felt as if they'd been made of shattered glass. Only Barnaby's hand, which laid sturdily on Harry's shoulder, helped him stay alert and upright.

'It's-' the younger healer continued, and she hesitated.

'A death sentence,' Ms Distle croaked, and her vivid eyes stared straight into Harry's.

'It's an illness,' said Georgiana, rather too quickly. 'But it's one for which we have no cure.'

Harry looked at Ms Distle, hoping against hope to see light in her eyes, to see something that promised encouraging news, but they had averted themselves to the floor. She refused to look at Harry. At that point, Harry felt his legs go out. There wasn't any fight in him left, no power to exert over his body to make it stand. He fell, his head swam, the voices around him echoed, and all he sensed before he passed out were two pairs of hands, clasped around his upper arms, pulling him somewhere Harry could not see.