Chapter Twenty-Nine.

It was far into the night when Harry finally found himself alone, standing in the kitchen and staring at the dark, star-speckled sky outside. The air was crisp and The Burrow had been covered in a blanket of thick, white snow. All was quiet.

The Weasleys and Hermione had long gone to sleep, but Harry had lingered in the living room, unable to force himself to go to bed. He'd found, stuffed away behind a pillow, The Daily Prophet. When he had picked it up, knowing that he shouldn't, he was confronted with his own face and name, plastered all over the first page alongside headlines like: 'THE POTTER HOME, ATTACKED AGAIN!', and 'IS THE POTTER FAMILY CURSED FOREVER?' Not only had Harry simply been too angry to go to sleep, but part of him felt afraid of dreaming.

Harry pushed the paper aside with a deep sigh and looked up at the moon instead, wishing desperately that Sirius were still around. Surely, he would know what to do. He would think of something clever… something that neither Shacklebolt or McGonagall or Barnaby had thought of. If only he were here…

He's not, though, Harry reminded himself at once. Stop paining yourself.

The clock in the living room chimed twice. Harry remembered Barnaby's words to him the day prior… something about getting rest so he could be of more use… and with some regret Harry realised he couldn't stay standing in the kitchen all night. Reluctantly, Harry moved to close the window, but right then something dark flashed across the silver moon. Harry narrowed his eyes in concentration.

'Merel?'

The tawny owl descended fast, clenched her wings to her sides, and glided through the open window, coming to a gracious halt on top of one of the highbacked dining chairs.

A surge of relief rushed through Harry. 'You're alive!' he breathed, and the owl hooted agreeably.

Harry moved toward her and gently stroked her feathers. 'But… How'd you get out of your cage?', he whispered, stunned at the sight of her.

As if in answer, Merel turned her feathery head sideways, revealing a dried bloodstain on her neck. Harry swallowed and noticed then that she was missing two talons, too.

'You broke out,' Harry whispered. Merel blinked. 'I'm sorry, girl,' Harry said, sighing deeply. 'Let's get you cleaned up…'

Harry spent the next half hour cleaning Merel's wound and, when she had begun to blink sleepily in his arms, he prepared a bed for her in an empty wooden crate. She looked at him rather begrudgingly, but was seemingly too exhausted to actively protest her disappointing quarters.

'It's just for tonight,' Harry promised. 'I'll get you a brand new cage tomorrow, alright? A bigger one.'

The owl ruffled her feathers one last time, turned away, and tucked in for the night. Harry studied her for a few moments, having quickly lost all of the excitement he had felt only shortly before, but trying hard to get hold of it again. When that didn't work, no matter how diligently he watched Merel, Harry began to clean up the mess that he had made in the kitchen. He tossed the paper towels that he'd used in the bin, put the bottle of disinfectant back where he'd found it, pushed the chair he'd sat on back under the table, and then laid eyes on The Daily Prophet. He swallowed hard. Without meaning to, he found his eyes flash across the lines beneath his family name.

The Potters, it seems, simply cannot catch a break. After the fatal attack at Godric's Hollow by You-Know-Who on October 31st, 1981, which tragically took the lives of James and Lily Potter, the very same home, now occupied by their (in)famous son, Harry Potter, was attacked last Monday on December 28th. As of now, there are no reported fatalities, though, according to eye-witnesses, this may still change…

Harry grabbed the paper, threw it furiously outside, and shut the window with a noisy bang.

Then, without having planned it, he found himself outside Ginny's room.

Harry hadn't spoken to Hermione privately since the attack, and he'd tried hard to put it off, but he had begun to realise that they no longer had the luxury of time. So he opened the door, quietly, and entered. Hermione was in bed, her back turned towards the door, but just as Harry shut it behind him she whispered: 'Harry, is that you?'

Harry walked over to the bed and sat down beside Hermione. 'How do you feel?' he asked.

Hermione cleared her throat and, with great difficulty, rolled onto her other side so she could face him. 'Weak…' she whispered, and she smiled faintly. 'And awfully tired.'

Harry swallowed. 'The healers said your strength will come back in a few days. Most of it, anyway.'

They stared at each other for a moment. Moonlight rolled through the curtains and onto half of Hermione's face. In it, the cut by her brow contrasted even more darkly against her pale skin. Harry felt suddenly overcome by shame.

'I'm sorry, Hermione.'

She frowned. 'What for?'

'All of it,' Harry said.

'Harry…' Hermione whispered. 'This isn't your fault.'

'It is.' Harry said. 'Professor McGonagall and Barnaby seem to think so, anyway.'

'What?'

'They think these attacks… they think that I'm the target. They think maybe you're just… bait.'

Harry expected Hermione to be angry, to yell at him, furious for putting her at risk, but all she asked was: 'Who is after you?', and Harry frowned.

'I don't know.'

'Well… why?'

'I don't know that, either… but that's not the point, Hermione.'

'I think it is!' She struggled to sit up, which made Harry feel all the worse. 'Harry, if someone is trying to kill you… well... Does Kingsley know?'

Harry's frown deepened. 'Yes, but-'

'Is The Office offering you protection at all?'

'Hermione, stop!' Harry said, feeling suddenly angry. 'This isn't about me. If they're right… McGonagall and Barnaby… that means whoever wants to kill me is using you.'

'I heard you,' she whispered. 'But I'm already cursed. What more could they do to hurt me?'

Harry stared in astonishment. 'You could die, for one.'

Hermione sighed. 'I suppose.'

'And you don't think that's worse?' Harry asked, angrily.

'I don't know,' Hermione sighed. 'Maybe not!'

'What?!' Harry jumped to his feet. 'Don't you… don't you care about living?'

'Of course I care, Harry,' Hermione hissed. 'I've only just gotten my life back!' Then, calmer, she added: 'But is this truly any better? This-' and she gestured widely. 'Living with this curse? Weakening every year? Having to stay inside for fear of someone coughing near my face?' She sighed. 'Harry… if someone is after you, you must be protected.'

Harry, feeling absolutely outraged, pulled his hand from Hermione's and looked at her with disgust. 'Do you really think I care about my life, Hermione? Look at yourself! You haven't been able to walk two steps since you got here!'

A mix of pain and anger formed on Hermione's moonlit face. 'Don't you think I know that?! Don't you think I've been thinking about that ever since I woke up?!'

'Apparently not!' Harry snapped. 'Because here you are, nearly dead, and you're worried about me when really it's you that needs p-'

'Protection!' Hermione retorted furiously. 'Why don't you understand, Harry?! You can't protect everyone!'

'I understand perfectly!' Harry yelled. 'That's why nearly everyone I've ever loved is dead!'

'Harry!'

But Harry had had it. He knew it wasn't fair, he knew he shouldn't be arguing with Hermione, and he also knew he'd just woken everyone up when they needed a good night's rest, but Harry simply couldn't control himself. The realisation frightened him, for a moment, and then it made him even more angry. Turning rapidly on his heels, he hurried to the door.

'Harry! Where are you going?!' Hermione cried out, desperately.

But Harry ignored her. Clenching his jaws tightly to force the lump in his throat back down, he pulled the door open just as there was a loud THUD behind him. Instinctively, he turned. Hermione had fallen in an attempt to follow him, and her arms shook visibly as she tried to climb to her feet.

For a split second, in pure reflex, Harry began to turn around. Then, with a loud crash, Mrs Weasley burst into the room, and Harry chose differently. He walked out, ignoring Hermione's pleas from behind him, aching every step of the way until he was out of The Burrow, across the lawn, and no longer heard her.

Georgiana Zafrin opened the door, her eyes half shut, her hair bound together in a messy braid.

'Mr Potter?' she croaked, and when she opened the door, Harry saw that she was wearing a nightgown. He really shouldn't have been surprised, seeing how it was four in the morning. 'What are you doing here?'

Harry stepped inside. 'I'm sorry to bother you,' he said, lying. 'But I need to speak with your mentor.'

'Wilma?' Georgiana asked groggily. 'She's asleep, I'm afraid… she won't rise for another two hours…'

'It's urgent.'

'Is it about your friend?' Georgiana asked, suddenly wide awake. 'Is she worse?'

'No… not exactly. She's alright… but I need to speak with Ms Distle.'

'I'm sorry… Mr Potter, but she rises at six.' The young healer bit her lip tentatively. 'You're welcome to come back immediately, though?'

Harry shook his head. 'I'm not leaving until I see her.'

Georgiana looked at him, thought for a moment, and finally relented. She sighed. 'Sit down, then… I'll be right back.'

Harry obliged and went to sit down in the living room, where a teacup on the table filled itself with tea that smelled vaguely of moss. Harry waited, and waited, and when nearly half an hour had passed, Wilma Distle came into the room, carrying a burning candle beside her heavily lined face. She too, was wearing a nightgown.

Harry rose from the couch and walked over to her. The healer watched him with sharp, observant eyes.

'Ms Distle,' said Harry. 'I need to ask you about the curse. I need to know if-'

'There's nothing,' the woman said at once. 'I've told you that.'

Harry swallowed. 'You have,' he agreed. 'But I have to know… Isn't there a… a theory? A-' Harry hesitated for a moment, feeling somewhat stupid. 'A legend, maybe? Anything at all that I could try?'

'Nothing of the sort.' Ms Distle said immediately, and she stared at Harry almost coldly. 'Now go home, boy. Get some sleep.'

As she turned and started off, and the candlelight disappeared from the room, threatening to envelop Harry in darkness once again, Harry felt desperation rush through his veins and overcome him. He hurried after the healer, stopping her in the corridor. All consideration for civility had gone from him.

'You're supposed to be the best healer there is, aren't you?' Harry demanded, looking the old woman firmly in the eyes. 'That's what your apprentice told me. And yet… you won't even try? You're just going to give up?'

Ms Distle stared at him. Her face betrayed nothing.

'With all due respect, Ms Distle, but you've been refusing to look at me since you brought me and my… my girlfriend into your home. Don't tell me there isn't anything. I don't believe it.'

Still, the healer stayed silent. The candle flickered, casting dark shadows under her eyes.

'There must be something,' Harry insisted, feeling his momentary hope begin to ebb from him. 'Anything. Please.'

Ms Distle's hand trembled ever so slightly. She opened her mouth, hesitated a moment, and finally croaked: 'There is a legend…'

Harry's heart just about jumped from his chest.

'A tale of old they say might cure a blood curse…' The healer continued in a lowered voice. She stared at Harry and stepped closer, sending a strange shiver down his spine. When she opened her mouth again, she spoke in such low tones that Harry had to bend his face toward her to hear.

'Trust me, dear… you don't want it.'

Harry looked at the cold, insistent look in the old lady's eyes and wondered what awful thing could bring a hardened healer to such a state. It made him nervous to think about. But then he remembered Hermione, falling to the floor because her legs could no longer carry her, and his heart set itself firmly. Harry stared back into Wilma's gaze, clenched and unclenched his jaws, and said, determinedly: 'I do.'