Chapter Twenty-Eight.

'I don't understand,' Harry whispered, as he stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling of the room that Barnaby and Georgiana had put him in. 'Why her? If this is about me… like you said… then why?!'

Barnaby, who was sat at the foot of Harry's bed and leaned heavily on his cane, sighed ruefully. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Perhaps someone is trying to get to you by hurting the people you love. You are infamous for wanting to save people, after all… But I can't possibly be sure. Not yet.'

Harry knew that Barnaby didn't know, and he also knew that he shouldn't blame Barnaby for it, but he was so tired of never knowing, of not understanding why awful things kept happening to him and to the people he loved. He felt angry, then embarrassed, and finally so helpless that he nearly burst out crying.

'Harry…' Barnaby said, turning a little toward Harry. 'I understand you feel as if this is all hopeless… but please… trust us. We are doing everything we can to find out who is behind these attacks, and why. We just need time, is all.'

'Yeah, well… she hasn't got lots of that,' Harry croaked, and he swallowed hard. 'You heard the healers. If some cold won't kill her, the next attack will.' He felt his heart thud painfully in his chest and for a brief moment he closed his eyes, fighting forcefully against the tears that were forming behind his lids.

'I understand,' said Barnaby, composed as ever. 'But Harry… let me ask you this: has Minerva McGonagall ever failed you?'

Harry, somewhat reluctantly, thought back to his years at Hogwarts and realised, quite soon, that she never had.

Professor McGonagall had always been strict, of course, but she had been righteous… and sometimes she'd even bent rules for him, like when she had caught him flying without supervision in his first year and had taken him to meet Oliver Wood, as opposed to having him expelled. In his third year, she'd confiscated his new broom to have it examined for curses… and the following year, when Harry's name had been spat out of the Goblet of Fire, it had been McGonagall who pleaded with Dumbledore to withdraw him, fearing, rightfully so, that it would be too dangerous. When it had become clear that withdrawal wasn't an option… she'd allowed Harry to use her classroom for practice. Then, later, she'd helped him with his aspiration to become an Auror, even when Umbridge said he would never make it, and she'd played an active role in the Order that year, too… Even when Hogwarts had been taken over by Voldemort and his Death Eaters, she had stayed behind to protect her students. She'd helped Dumbledore's Army during the rebellion, which could have meant her life, and she'd done everything in her power to hold Voldemort back that final night… when Harry was meant to find the Ravenclaw diadem. Professor McGonagall, Harry knew, had always protected him fiercely, and if she had ever been strict with him, it was only because she had wanted him to be better.

Harry swallowed. 'No,' he whispered.

'I thought not,' Barnaby nodded. 'It's not too much to ask that you have faith in her, then?'

Harry would have responded, though with what he didn't quite know, but right then the door to his room opened and in came Ms Distle, carrying a silver tray with a number of small, cork-topped bottles on it. Harry sat upright at once.

'Ms Distle,' he exclaimed. 'How… how's Hermione?'

The healer set the tray down on Harry's bedside table and, with hands that exuded experience, began mixing the contents of the bottles in a small stone bowl. 'She's well. Fast asleep.'

Harry sank back into his pillows, knowing somewhere that it was foolish of him to have believed that anything had changed in the past half hour. She'd been cursed, after all, and there was no cure. He felt again a pang of terror rush through his chest, and became rather annoyed with how familiar that pang was becoming.

'Here, drink up,' the healer said, and she handed Harry a cup with an acidic smelling brew in it. Harry stared into the blue liquid and frowned. 'It'll calm you,' Ms Distle explained. 'For the next few hours I'd think that'd be useful… before you get yourself all in a fuss again.'

The healer had already collected her bottles, her tools and the tray, and was making her way towards the door. Harry, feeling a rush of desperation rise rapidly from the bottom of his stomach, put down his cup and jumped from the bed, rushing after her. 'Wait!'

Ms Distle halted in the hallway and turned slowly to Harry, a reluctant look in her heavily lined face.

'I just…' Harry started, and he swallowed hard. 'I just need to know… Isn't there anything? Nothing at all?'

For just a brief second, Harry thought he saw something flash through the old woman's eyes… but it was gone as quickly as it had come and the healer answered, more firmly than she looked: 'Nothing at all, dear.' Then, before Harry could think of anything else to say, she turned and disappeared into another room. Harry's shoulders slumped.

Nothing? Was he just supposed to sit by and wait for Hermione to be attacked again… or die of a seasonal cold?

He sighed heavily, rubbing his hand unconsciously against his scar.

'Might I suggest…' came Barnaby's voice from the doorway behind Harry, 'a Calming Draught?'

Harry turned around and saw Barnaby, reaching out the bronze cup to him, a warm smile on his face.

'I am calm,' Harry lied.

'It'll help settle the nerves,' Barnaby said. 'In case they come back. Take it.'

Reluctantly, Harry took the cup from the wizard's outstretched hand and, trying not to smell it, swallowed its content at once. The Draught, tasting awfully minty, slid down his throat and in immediate response, Harry felt a cooling sensation spread through his chest and limbs. Indeed, after mere seconds, he felt calm as a cucumber.

'Good,' said Barnaby. 'Now that we've got that out of the way, Shacklebolt has asked me to inform you that you will be put on indefinite leave.'

'What?!' Harry said, but despite the obvious indignation that registered in his brain, his body remained completely calm; his pulse kept beating with the same, slow plough.

'You need rest, Harry,' Barnaby said. 'You have not had the time to process the loss and trauma that you have suffered throughout your years… but you have to.'

'I can't just-'

'You have to!'

Harry took a step back from Barnaby, feeling suddenly betrayed, abandoned, and small. 'What… you… you want me to talk to someone, is that it?'

'If that's your preferred way of healing,' shrugged Barnaby, and Harry knew that if he hadn't taken a Calming Draught only moments before, he would have exploded at the wizard's nonchalance.

'I-' Harry began, but Barnaby interjected, his voice once again warm and serene.

'Harry… we know you have barely been sleeping. We know you haven't responded to any of Andromeda Tonks' letters… and after having spent so many hours in your head, I know what you think of.'

Harry blinked.

'Them. All of them. Their faces, the way they died, what you might have done differently. Your every move, Harry, drips with exhaustion and guilt. You need to rest. To recover. Especially now, because whoever did this isn't done, as you know, and if you wish to protect-'

'I can protect myself perfectly-'

'Her. Her, Harry. If you wish to protect the girl that you love, you cannot afford to faint, or to be bedridden, or to be falling asleep at random. So if you can't bear to take rest for yourself… take rest for her.'

Harry swallowed hard, clenching and unclenching his jaws, still not feeling the anger and indignation that he knew he should be feeling. The Draught had dulled his every emotion, as if it had cut the wire that linked them to his senses.

'Minerva has arranged for you three to stay with the Weasleys, until your home has been investigated, secured and restored, and until you are well enough to be back on your own. You will go there tomorrow morning.'

Harry had nothing to say, and felt quite numb. He simply stared at the wizard, hoping that at least his eyes could communicate to him how unhappy he was with this decision, but Barnaby simply patted Harry warmly on the shoulder and walked off, leaving Harry to listen to the fading noise of his cane against the healers' hardwood floor.

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione arrived at the Burrow early the following morning, Hermione seemed physically back to normal. Sure enough, she'd been cut above her brow and her jaw had been slightly bruised, but she stood upright and walked, though very, very slowly, and still in need of Harry's and Ron's support. Mentally… it was a whole other story. Hermione remembered nothing of the attack or of her attackers, and not even Georgiana Zafrin's Memory Potion had been able to change that. To be sure, Harry felt relieved to know she couldn't remember such horror, but part of him wished that she had… just so there might have been some clue… something to let Harry know what to look out for.

The healers had given Harry a bag of potions which Hermione was supposed to take at regular intervals to keep her immune system working as effectively as it could, and Georgiana had said that Hermione might remember details at a later point, when most of the shock had worn off.

Harry, too, had been given a small bottle: a Calming Draught for whenever he felt anxious or angry, though he knew he'd flush it down the toilet as soon as he was left alone with it.

In any case, Mr and Mrs Weasley welcomed the trio with open arms, and before long, Mrs Weasley had Hermione tucked into Ginny's bed with a steaming cup of tea. When she came back down to the living room, Harry was thankful to find that Ron took it upon himself to inform his parents of what had happened, though due to Ron's long absence, Harry was still required to jump in every few minutes. After what felt like ages, the story was finally out, and the Weasleys sat with their hands clasped together, staring at Harry and Ron with a look of horror on their faces. Harry, who found that he was unable to deal with any more of those awful looks, stood up and walked into the kitchen to refill his cup of tea. It was still half full.

The three Weasleys had begun to speak in hushed voices, but Harry didn't care. He stood by the kitchen counter, looking out into the snowy landscape and at the garden gnomes who were rolling balls of snow into tiny snowmen. Normally such a sight would have warmed him. Normally, getting to spend any amount of time at the Burrow would have made him unbelievably happy, but now he felt quite indifferent toward it all. He sighed softly.

Suddenly, a daunting thought came to him: It's nearly a new year.

Tomorrow at midnight, it would be 1999; it had completely slipped Harry's mind. It was a strange realisation… The world would move on, take advantage of a fresh start, make some New Year's resolutions, perhaps… and Harry would still be here… like this. No rest, not just yet.

He lifted his tea to his mouth and sipped at it. Feeling that it'd gone cold, he abandoned it and turned away. He was slightly startled to see Mrs Weasley, who was standing before him, silently wringing her hands together. She jumped immediately into apologies.

'Oh, Harry, dear, I'm sorry!' she exclaimed, and she rushed over to Harry, embracing him only a little too tightly. Harry, feeling that this was a strange response to having startled someone, said quickly: 'Not at all, Mrs Weasley… It's alright.'

'No, no…' sighed Mrs Weasley, and she pulled Harry into her arms even tighter, pushing the air from his lungs as she did so. 'I'm just so sorry.'

Harry realised then what she was on about, and though he didn't mean to, or even want to, he felt himself weaken in Mrs Weasley's arms, and the all too familiar ache of battled tears burnt in his eyes and throat once again.

'It's alright, Mrs Weasley,' Harry croaked, not quite knowing what else to say.

'No, dear, it's not.' Mrs Weasley sounded suddenly seriously angry, though her embrace was still warm and loving. 'After everything you've been through, you'd think it'd be enough. You'd think you'd get some well-deserved rest, at last… but it's always something! Always-'

She released Harry abruptly, who gulped immediately for breath, and looked him ruefully in the eyes. 'Well,' she whispered, softly squeezing Harry's arms. 'You know.'

Harry smiled weakly.

'We'll get through this, dear. As a family.' Mrs Weasley nodded fiercely. 'George will be back in the morning, and Bill and Fleur will come, too. We'll take care of you two, alright? Get you some rest…' She sighed, then studied Harry for a moment and plucked gently at his shirt, which hung loosely around his ribcage. 'Some food, too,' she added, and she smiled lovingly.