Chapter Fifteen
Make sure you don't add your Unicorn horn too soon," Snape growled irritably at his class. "Or it will be too thick, and useless." He leaned over a very nervous Neville Longbottom, sneering at his blue-green potion.
Hermione leaned against the counter, grinding the Unicorn horn with all her strength. Snape had been yelling at her and Ron all class. Ron was stirring the potion cautiously, muttering to himself. "Don't flirt, Weasley. Pay attention, Weasley. Quit staring at your girlfriend, Weasley." He lifted the stirring rod out of the cauldron and gave it a sniff. "Ugh."
Hermione felt the powdered horn between her fingers, testing its texture. "It's ready," she told Ron. "Can it go in yet?"
"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley stop talking!"
Ron looked up at Snape's desk and let out a low growl. Hermione put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from saying anything dumb, and he sighed and sank back into his chair. "Ignore him," she hissed in his ear. Ron sat in his chair, scowling.
"He's only trying to get you to say something that'll get you in trouble," she whispered to Ron as she tipped the powdered horn into the potion. It fizzed and turned purple. "Don't give him the chance."
Ron's scowl softened slightly. "I know, Pixie," he said wearily. "I'm just in a bad mood. Damned old grouch has been trying my patience all afternoon." He searched through a rack of phials, looking for frog slime. "Bleagh." He made a face, pulling out a translucent green goo. Measuring a spoonful into the cauldron, he asked, "What do we put in next?"
Hermione scanned the instructions. "Veela blood," she said, handing him a phial of the silvery-red liquid. "Careful," she chided, fixing his grip on the bottle. "It's acidic."
Ron unscrewed the lid of the phial with cautious fingers, holding it away from his nose. A faint pink smoke creeped up the edge of the bottle and spilled over the side. Hermione wrinkled her nose.
"Add the whole bottle gradually," she instructed, reading from the book. "And don't spill any."
He began to pour the contents carefully into the potion. Hermione turned back to her book, and poked the fire back up under the faintly boiling potion. She took a large spoon and gave the brew a stir.
Suddenly, Ron swore and dropped the bottle of Veela blood. It smashed on the floor, burning smoking holes in the legs of the chairs and the floor. Snape jumped out from behind his desk, eyes alight with anger.
"Stupid boy," he hissed at Ron. But Ron didn't hear. He was crouched on the floor, his head in his hands, his breathing short and ragged. He was rocking back and forth on his haunches, face twisted in a pained grimace.
Hermione scrambled out from behind the fire and skidded to kneel beside Ron. Some of the blood had hit his hands and face, and it was red and blistering wherever it touched him. She put her hands on his shoulders and shook him. "Ron!"
He looked up at her and met her gaze. His eyes were very green. The instant he looked at her, she screamed. A wave of fiery pain rolled through her hands, up her arms, until it had consumed her entire body. She let go of him and fell back into the legs of a chair, trembling.
A crowd of students had gathered around the two of them, panicked but unable to do anything. Hermione was lying on the floor beside a desk, and Ron was still rocking, his hands clawing at the back of his head, gasping.
Snape pushed his way through the students, finally standing over Ron. He produced a phial containing a deep red secretion, and squatted in front of Ron, prying his hands away from his face.
He was pale- alarmingly so- and his pupils were dilated to pinpricks. He was still panting heavily, and his breaths were ragged and deliberate, as though he had to work to get the air in and out. Snape tipped the potion down Ron's throat and he coughed a few times. Finally, Ron fell back into the legs of a chair and lay there, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard.
"Thomas," barked Snape. "Finnigan. Take Granger and Weasley to the hospital wing and tell Madame Pomfrey what happened." He handed Dean the empty phial. "Bring this, and show it to her."
She felt Seamus pick her up carefully, and she slumped against his shoulder, too weak to do anything else. Dean helped Ron to his feet, slinging an arm around his shoulders to support him. The four of them made their way up to the infirmary. Hermione felt she ought to get down and walk, she felt ridiculous being carried the whole way. But Seamus said he wouldn't risk her falling and breaking something, and him getting blamed for it.
Madame Pomfrey, upon seeing them, shoved Ron into a bed and Hermione into a chair. Hermione drank a glass of apple-tasting potion that was supposed to make her feel better, then sat back, waiting for it to kick in. She could hear the nurse conversing in hushed tones with Dean, discussing what had happened.
Hermione curled up in the large armchair and covered her ears. She didn't want to hear what Dean was saying. She didn't want to have to see the whole scene all over again.
She finally felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up into the matron's kindly eyes. "Mr. Weasley is asking to see you," she told her gently. "Can you walk to go see him?"
Hermione frowned. She felt fine. "Of course I can," she said, getting up. The instant she put weight on her feet, though, her knees buckled and she almost sat back down before the matron caught her arm and held her up. Hermione stood swaying for a moment, getting her balance, then walked carefully over to the bed where Ron was a drew back the curtains.
He was half sitting up, leaning against the pillows, the covers rolled up near his feet. His sketchbook was against his knees, and he was drawing. He smiled at Hermione when he saw her, and put the book down.
"Are you OK?" he asked finally. "Pomfrey said you were pretty weak, and I saw Seamus carrying you. Are you going to be all right?"
How do our conversations always end up starting like this? Hermione thought with exasperation. "You're the one who was…" she cried, then trailed off, trying to find an adjective to describe what had happened. "…Sick," she finished. "I wasn't. Why do you keep asking if I'm OK?"
He grinned then, however weakly, and it relieved her to see it. "Because I'm not that kind of person," he said cheerfully. "Incidentally, I feel fine. I don't think I could walk very well, though."
She sat down on the edge of the bed. "What happened?"
Ron smiled wryly. "Guess."
She raised an eyebrow. "Cruciatus Curse?" she asked.
He rolled his eyes. "You got it," he said, leaning back and picking up his sketchbook again. "I'm getting really predictable, aren't I?"
She tried to get a look at what he was drawing, but she couldn't see. It wasn't unusual to see him drawing, not these days, but now seemed like kind of an unorthodox time for it. "Let me see," she protested when he yanked the book out of her sight. He finally sighed, and passed it to her.
It was a gruesome sight. More a study than a scene, really. He had drawn a skull in one corner of the page, a dead crow in the other, a weird green and gold chess set at the top, and a dented, bloodstained crown in the bottom. At the center of the page was a scene depicting a boy dressed in black, standing in the center of what appeared to be an old battlefield. Some of the bodies had been reduced to skeletons, while others were rotting and only halfway there. Still others were as fresh and bloody as if they had just been killed. Black and acid-green fire played over everything, leaving frost on everything it touched, as opposed to soot. Hermione recognized among the fresher bodies Harry, Ginny, the twins, and herself. She dropped the book.
"What the hell is that?" she finally gasped.
Ron made an exasperated noise and picked up the sketchbook. "Madame Pomfrey asked me to describe what I saw while I was out. I'm no good with words, so I drew it instead." He traced the outline of the skull with his finger. "That's all I can remember. I'm pretty sure there was more."
She sat on the edge of the bed. "But- you were awake in class, weren't you?"
"Half," he replied. "Semi conscious. Half my brain was in Potions, feeling all the pain and shit, and the other half was in the weird place, seeing all the weird stuff."
She reached over and took his hand. "It must have been terrible," she whispered.
He squeezed her hand. "Worse than you can possibly imagine," he said quietly. "Enough to make anyone sick." He sighed and lay down, and patted the space beside him. Hermione lay down beside him, feeling his arm slide around her waist. She rested her head on his chest, and she could feel him trembling.
"Are you sure you're OK?" she asked him quietly. This was very, very bad.
He stoked her hair absently, with a small laugh. "No, I'm sure I'm not OK. Honestly, Pixie, when a guy starts dreaming about blood, gore, dead bodies, et cetera, and collapses in anguish in the middle of Potions class, it's to be concluded that he's not all right."
Hermione bit her lip, and tried to return his light tone. "Collapsing in anguish in Potions? Is that unusual?"
He let out a whole laugh, this time. "Technically, no. I'm serious, though," he added. "Something's screwed."
She felt his arm tighten around her, and she reached up and smoothed his hair away from his face. "Will you be OK?" she whispered.
He was silent for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "I hope so."
Ron didn't say anything after that, and she kept quiet. It was almost half an hour later when she looked at her watch and sat up, realizing Ron was asleep. She smiled at the sight of him, and pulled the covers up over him. He was still wearing his school robes. It felt odd, she thought as she tucked the covers around him. Odd to see Ron so- not helpless, exactly, but needing her. She was so used to being on the receiving end of his comfort, when he held her at the Leaky Cauldron, told her it would be all right, comforting her on the occasions he found her crying. She watched him for a moment as he stirred in his sleep, half-turning over.
"I love you, Ron," she whispered, kissing his forehead, then turned and walked out of the infirmary.
But he couldn't hear her. He was asleep.
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