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Chapter 7: Every Language Is Silent.

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Harry opened the great doors of the entranceway, holding them for Ron. The stone floors echoed with their footsteps. Harry thought it was almost sacrilegious that the floor would dare make noise right now. Couldn't it see what Ron was carrying? 

"Come on, Sara! I haven't got all evening. If we're going to g—" Harry turned his head to see who was calling up the stairs. Ginny Weasley stared oddly at them from a few steps up. "Harry? What's going on? What are you doing? Ron?" She looked again at the three of them, still regarding them strangely as she came down the steps. "Hermione? Are you all right?"

Harry just looked back at her bleakly. Ron didn't even seem to notice that his sister was there.  

She said again, "Harry. What's happening? Are you all okay? Why aren't you answering me?" She stepped up to her brother and touched Hermione's shoulder. "Hermione?"  Swiftly, she looked from Harry to Ron to Hermione again, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

Harry tried to say something, anything—but no words seem to come out, just a kind of strangled sigh. The tears in his eyes threatened even more to spill over. Ginny peered at him, looking as if she was deciphering what he hadn't said.

"Hermione!" She began to sob. Her cry brought others from corridors, from the common rooms, from the library, and as Harry and Ron tried to push their way through towards the infirmary, the hall filled with people trying to figure out what was happening. Someone shouted.

"Call McGonagall!"

Other voices chimed in.

"The infirmary!"

"What's going on?"

"It's Granger."

"Oh my God!"

"Who is that?"

"Hermione!"

"Get Dumbledore!"

Harry knew that none of them could help, not even the infirmary could now, but he and Ron kept going anyway. The other students pulled away as they came through, their murmurings falling into gasps and then to nothing as they saw what was in Ron's arms. Professor McGonagall, white-faced, running, brought a floating stretcher. But when she tried to help Ron place Hermione on it, he gave her a look so harsh even she stepped back. Fred and George tried to step in, but Ron turned away from them. He set Hermione down on the stretcher. He stood, glaring at the crowd around him and Harry.  

"It's all right, then, isn't it?" he said. "Pomfrey will take care of her. Don't you have things to do?"

Parvati Patil had hold of Lavender Brown. They were round-eyed.

"She's not . . .Harry, she's not dead?" Parvati could barely get the words out.

Harry swallowed hard. Evidently this was enough, because the girls both gasped and Lavender hid her face in Parvati's sleeve.

"What a shame she couldn't learn her place before this." A voice echoed down the stairs. Draco Malfoy looked down at them.

(CRACK!)

(Don't you ever call Hagrid pathetic, you foul—you evil . . .)

If Harry hadn't suddenly had to hold Ron's arms, he would have tried to kill Malfoy himself. And even though he had Ron's arms pinned, it took the twins, Neville and Dean to keep him back. 

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Harry wondered to himself why it was that he never got to see the headmaster for happy occasions. He almost laughed at the thought—something awful happens; go see Dumbledore—as if the great and kindly wizard was setting himself up to be some sort of reflexive damper on the spirits of the students. Harry knew that wasn't true, but it did seem appropriate. He thought that his mind was becoming incredibly clear for what it had been through.

Everything was just kind of in place, clinical and cut off. The events unrolled themselves in his memory over and over, until they were almost film-like. Harry felt a bit like a movie critic: as though he should be giving a commentary on the cinematic value of each line spoken and each scene. He doubted that he'd give himself any acting points. No. It was too earnest a performance—no sense of actor's irony behind it.

Except it wasn't a movie, he reminded himself; it was real. All of it. It didn't feel real, though, not even when he started retelling the story in the Headmaster's office, Ron sitting next to him. Things like this didn't just happen—there was always the close scrape and then the three of them—all three of them—would come out of it, somehow, okay. Things happened to him, sure, but he'd always managed to pull through it—even when he'd have traded places. Ron and Hermione, though, they were different—they were supposed to always be a thread away from real trouble and it would be his fault that they'd be in trouble but it would work out because it wasn't like Ron and Hermione were him and had Voldemort out for them ever since they were babies. Well, Hermione was Muggle-born, but still, neither of them was supposed to have this happen. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't. He was supposed to be in the line of fire.

It was supposed to be him who took it the worst, and he didn't mind that so much. He minded it much worse when it wasn't him.

(Mumma?)

And so this couldn't be real, because he was supposed to be the one lying in the infirmary on a stretcher, dead.

(Kill the spare. . .)

It was a paradox—Harry felt as if he was waiting for reality to fall apart around him, because that was really the only logical progression of events. The universe had to end right now, or else it would just stop making sense, because if this was real then life really was even more miserably unfair than he already thought.

It didn't start to seem real until he approached telling Dumbledore the actual moment when Hermione—

He broke off suddenly from the automated speech he was giving, and glanced over at Ron. His friend was staring at Dumbledore's desk. He hadn't spoken since the hallway. When Harry looked back, Dumbledore was looking at him, sympathetically and patiently. Harry closed his eyes for a second. It was starting to feel real now, and all-too-familiar.

Tell him what happened. Somehow he will make this all come out all right. Somehow this is all going to be all right. Just tell him.

 He opened his eyes, keeping his gaze locked on Professor Dumbledore's eyes, and went on.

"Ron—he pushed me out of the way and was caught by one of the blasts in the crossfire. It tore the cloak" Harry held up the silky material and showed the professor the burn mark. "Hermione and I were still under the cloak and managed to get behind a broken wall. We could see he was knocked out and probably hurt. We didn't know what to do. We couldn't leave him—we had to go back. But if we'd just grabbed him and covered him with the cloak, they'd have noticed immediately. They'd have killed all of us. We had to somehow make a diversion. I told Hermione to wait with the cloak until the Death-Eaters weren't looking and then to get Ron back behind the wall. But—" Harry faltered and went on. He felt Ron staring at him. Harry couldn't meet his eyes. He kept looking at Dumbledore. "but, she jumped out first and confronted them and she kept them occupied long enough for me to get Ron behind the wall. Sir. . ."

Harry felt like his throat was closing again. Part of his mind was now telling him over and over: it's real. It's real. He was actually telling someone this. It wasn't a dream. Cedric hadn't been a dream. This wasn't a dream either. The other part was still watching the sequence of events in a sort of detached shock.

But somehow, the headmaster's kindly face seemed to give Harry the strength to keep going. He took a deep breath and finished the story. Tears ran down his face. "I went back for her, sir. I used the fireplace in the wall and Floo Powder and we landed in Hagrid's hut."

            There was a long silence. Harry couldn't look anywhere without the room blurring. Dumbledore took off his glasses and put them back on before he spoke.

"Such a gifted and brave young woman. There are no Death-Eaters, 'pure-blooded' they may be, who could hold a candle to her."  Harry finally stole another look over at his friend. Ron looked around dully. Slowly, he stood up, nodded at Dumbledore and Harry, and walked out of the room. Harry half-stood, to go after him, but the headmaster stopped him.

"Let him go, Harry."

Harry sat down. He felt drained, and horribly tired. Dumbledore was still looking at him.

"We got the paper, sir. Whatever they were discussing, we got it. I don't even know really what it is but we have it." He handed the crumpled, ancient parchment to Dumbledore. It suddenly felt hateful to him. "I hope," he said venomously. "I hope it's worth what it cost."  His voice rose and he was practically shouting. He stood up from his chair as he spoke. "It was suicide, Professor. She knew it. I didn't stop her in time. She walked right out and there was nothing I could do. I would have done anything. I should have stopped her. It was my fault."

Dumbledore peered at him. "Did you attack Hermione? Were you the one who tortured her?"

"No, but—"

"Do not forget, Harry, who is ultimately responsible for this. Voldemort is the one who did this to your friend, as he has done to countless others. Would you have instead given yourself and the parchment up to him as he wanted?"

"No—I'd never stop. He'd have to kill me first."

"Then Miss Granger did exactly what you would do."

"It's a stupid piece of paper, Professor. She did it for a stupid, crumbly old piece of paper that I don't even really understand what it does or why it's important." He sat down, angry and exhausted.

The headmaster merely looked at him, a serious expression on his face. "Harry. Do you give your friend so little credit that you think she would do all of that for only, as you said, 'a stupid, crumbly old piece of paper?' "

And a vision of Hermione appeared in Harry's mind. That funny expression was on her face, the one that he never understood and couldn't read.

(You read the notes?)

Harry barely heard the headmaster's next words.  "Perhaps, Harry, if you are able, you might give me a moment now. I must owl Miss Granger's parents to apprise them of her situation." Dumbledore sighed. It was a long, sad sound, resigned. "These are the kind of messages that I, as I'm sure you understand, do not like to write. But we do what we must do. Something else"—and the corner of his mouth turned up—"that I'm sure you also understand, Harry." He reached into a drawer, pulled out a quill, and smoothed the piece of parchment on his desk.

Harry nodded. He rose from his chair and left the headmaster's office. He didn't feel as if there anything left in him. Even if he had wanted to stay, he doubted it would matter much at this moment.

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The common room was almost deserted, with the exception of Ron, who was sitting at a table. Most people must still have been down in the castle entranceway, talking or just standing around. Harry didn't particularly want to go back down and see any of them right now. He walked over to Ron and was about to say something but thought better of it.  There really wasn't anything to say.

Harry simply sat down across from the redhead and waited. He didn't know what he was waiting for, but he waited anyway, as though if he waited long enough the whole thing would sort itself out and everything would be all right again, or as close to all right as anything was in his world.

Ron was idly tracing his finger over a carving in the tabletop. It read "This Seat Reserved For Know-It-Alls Only." Ron had burned it in with his wand and put an Anti-Filler Charm on it. Hermione hadn't spoken to him for three days afterwards. Harry himself had been in trouble for thinking it was funny, despite his objections that he had had absolutely nothing to do with any of it.

"When she wakes up, Harry, I'm going to tell her that she can give that bloke all the sweets she wants." He looked sadly at the table. "I don't mind at all. She can give him all the sugar quills in the world when she wakes up. I mean, if she wants to. She might not want to. But remind me to tell her I don't mind."

"I will," Harry said. He didn't know what else to say, and even if there had been some other reply he could have given, he was too tired and too stunned to think of it. Somehow not even the common room looked the same as it had a few hours ago. It was the same room, he knew that, but it felt off in some fundamental detail that he couldn't put his finger on.

Ron suddenly started.

"Someone's got to feed Crookshanks." He walked out of the common room and up into—Harry couldn't help but feel shocked—the girls' dormitory. Ron nearly ran over his sister as she came running down the steps. Ginny was a sight. Her hair was wild and she was looking around nervously—but her eyes were shining brightly.

"HARRY!" She whispered loudly, though there were no other people in the room. "Harry, come here, quick!" She appeared to have something concealed in her hands. Harry went over to her. She pulled him into a corner of the room and leaned close. He was a little embarrassed by how close, but she didn't seem to notice. She opened her hands. "Harry, look." Ginny held the object out for him to see. The tiny hourglass sparkled in her hand. "It's a Time Turner."

"Where did you get that?" Harry was astounded. "Hermione turned hers in two years ago."

(Professor McGonagall made me swear I wouldn't tell anyone . . . that I'd never, ever use it for anything except my studies.)

"McGonagall's desk." Ginny smiled almost mischievously. "While you and Ron were in with Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall was taking Hermione's b—Hermione to the infirmary, I snuck into her office and looked to see if she had one. She did."

"But how did you get in? And how did you know that there ever were Time Turners at Hogwarts? Hermione didn't tell anyone about hers when she had it."

"Professor McGonagall didn't even shut her door when she heard the commotion. I suppose she must have forgotten to charm the desk locked when she left. And I knew about the Time Turner because my brother couldn't keep his mouth shut about how he couldn't believe he'd never figured out how Hermione was taking all of those classes. Even though he never did explain exactly how she did it, I figured it out. Unlike him, I actually read my assignments." She looked grimly pleased with herself. "I was hoping that Professor McGonagall kept it in one of her drawers. I was right, wasn't I?"

"But—Ginny—I mean—what are you—well, I can guess, but what if—" Within the confusion of thoughts that he was trying to express to the determined girl in front of him, something started niggling at the back of Harry's mind. Something he had heard. Or rather, something he had not heard. He trailed off, attempting to pin it down, and he stared into space, brow furrowed.

Suddenly he grabbed Ginny's hand.

"Ginny! She didn't die!" Ginny stepped back, stunned. Harry tried to collect himself. "I mean—I mean, at least not yet. Maybe she did, but maybe not—Dumbledore—I was in his office and I was blaming myself and he asked me if I was the one who tortured her. He never said 'the one who killed her.' I mean—maybe it's nothing—just a slip of the tongue. But it's a shot and it might mean he knows something we don't about what happened. Or maybe—" He stopped. For a second the image of Professor Dumbledore smoothing a piece of parchment flashed into his mind. No, that couldn't be right. He must be remembering wrong. "Are you sure no one saw you get the Time-Turner?"

"I don't think so. I was careful. I'm not an idiot." She sighed impatiently. "Come on, Harry. I'm going to do this, with or without you."

"Well—" Harry hesitated. "It can't hurt anything at this point to try."

But although he didn't say anything to Ginny, he doubted whether Minerva McGonagall would ever in her life accidentally forget to lock her desk. However, now there were more immediate things to worry about. He said

"If I go, though, you're not coming. It's too dangerous." She glared at him.

"I got the blasted Time Turner, I broke the rules and stole it, I'm the one who'll be expelled if we're ever caught, and I'm going with you, Harry James Potter, whether you like it or not."

"Well, even if I did agree, Ron won't let you." Harry looked triumphant. Ron would never let Ginny put herself at that kind of risk.

"So you think my brother's going with us?" Ginny pointed at Ron, sitting in a chair across the room. He must have returned while they were arguing. Crookshanks was on his lap, and Ron was petting him absently. "Have you looked at him? He's completely out of it! You'd get more help if you brought Neville or even Malfoy!" 

Watching the blank expression on Ron's face, and his utter oblivion to what was going on around him, Harry had to admit she was right. He could hear Ron across the room.

"Poor kitty. D'you want to come stay with me—for—for a little while?"

Crookshanks curled up even tighter, his chin on his paws, appearing to sink into Ron's lap. Harry could swear Crookshanks was looking at directly at him, his squashed face intent on Harry's.

(Ron, I'm really, really sorry about Scabbers.)

The cat's eyes seemed more piercing than ever.

"Fine, Ginny. You can go."