-- Author's Note: I've loved working on this story a lot and, though I'm sad to see it end so soon, it is coming to a close. I think I'll be able to get about two chapters and an epilogue out of this, before I'm taken out back and shot for desecrating poor old Billy's work or dragging a plot out too long and through too much muck. That, and I'd really like to get started on my Valentine's Day fanfictions (yes, more than one – I hope) and the other serious Harry Potter chapter fic I have in mind. This time, I promise, it won't be a recycled idea (I hope, again), but one from my own pure – or, partially pure, that is – brain. Hopefully, these last few chapters and epilogue will make up for the lack of fluff and humor from the past several chapters. That, of course, wasn't my fault . . . blame it on the Slytherins . . . or Shakespeare. ^__^;

   -- Dedication: To Scott, my personal cheerleader. w00t.




Although all the evidence Dean and Seamus had to present was important, Ron found himself nearly falling asleep while it was presented. There was something about a plan on Draco's part, something else about Blaise being a part of it, then another bit about Harry being tricked by the two aforementioned. It wasn't, Ginny, then, his mind came to the conclusion slowly, It was Blaise and Draco and Harry was mistaken. I'll still kill him for calling Ginny a liar, but I can understand him being tricked like that. The words being spoken by Crabbe and Goyle reached his brain even slower than those uttered by everyone else in the dimly lit corridor – the two were slow with their speech as it was and as it traveled through the rain-scented air, it apparently slowed even more-so. He recognized elongated voices through the lull of sleep that was settling over him – Seamus demanding, Harry yelling, then Hermione shouting something in triumph.

It was important, he knew, so he attempted to force himself to focus. Surely enough, the words being spoken began to return to their normal volume and speed (though not without a great deal of concentration on his part). " – Or, at least not without looking at everyone else's potions first," Hermione said in a solemn voice, Ron noting with surprise that she had since moved away from him and was holding up two vials that appeared to contain potions. Whether they were the same potion or not, he was unable to tell. It seemed someone had lowered the lighting in the room until he could only make out what was five feet in front of him, everything beyond falling into deep shadow.

"You don't know Potter got that from Draco, mudblood," Crabbe managed to work up his courage to say, though unable to sound anywhere near as eloquent or malicious as Malfoy did whenever he spoke the same word of insult.

That was enough to drive Ron mad. Crabbe was easily the most unintelligent student in the seventh year class and he had managed to work up the nerve to speak something so disgustingly insulting. There weren't enough words – surely not enough swear words – to describe the anger that boiled inside him. Despite the sudden darkness of the room, despite the black spots that loomed in his vision and threatened to block it out entirely, despite the pain in his legs and the fire in his chest . . . Ron stepped forward from the wall and began to fumble with mud-caked hands within the folds of his robe for his wand. There wasn't a single day that went by since he was twelve years old that he had let someone insult Hermione. Even when he wasn't speaking with Harry and she had not taken sides, even when he wasn't speaking with her, he had never let an insult about her come to his ears without doing something in attempt to make sure it never happened again. He had belched slugs for an hour for her, he had taken Snape's worst detention, and he had been ready for years to do it all over again. No amount of numbness or blackness would stop him, either. If someone had insulted him, he might have let it slide due to his current state of exhaustion, but it was Hermione. It was the girl who loved him, who didn't want him to know for fear of embarrassment . . . it was the girl he loved. And, he would not let something as disgusting and idiotic as Vincent Crabbe insult her. Ever.

Steeling himself against the pain in his legs, the flames burning in his chest and lungs making it difficult to breathe, and the dizziness causing his head to swim, Ron took a confident step forward. Darkened shapes that had loomed just beyond the light came into focus with this action, taking the forms of the Gryffindors he had been unable to see since he came in from the field and the Slytherins he had only been able to imagine since the fleeting glimpse he had captured whenever they were first brought in. He stumbled, but nevertheless continued forward along the wall, the length of sleek wood removed from the innermost pocket of his Quidditch uniform.

It seemed odd to him that no one else felt the slightest bit of insult over the term Crabbe had used – only Dean and Seamus seemed to have moved and Hermione hadn't, apparently, batted an eye. Was it only his imagination that the slur had been uttered? No, he said to himself firmly, he said it and he will not say it again.

But, the world was moving quickly around him . . . or he was moving too slowly within it. Not even three steps were taken after the stumble before he caught snippets of the continued conversation from a still triumphant Hermione. "Actually . . . Harry . . . from Malfoy," she announced in a way that caused Ron to falter. Although she was standing just two feet away, she sounded to be at the end of a long tunnel, bits and pieces of her speech losing portions as it was yelled. " . . . personalizing potions . . . only one . . . matches these initials . . . "

The opportunity had passed and the determination that had welled within him melted away dramatically. Confusion filled his mind as the entire corridor around him began to dim and whirl in an unnerving way. Although his fingers had been clasped tightly about the shaft of polished wood in his dominant hand, too soon the familiar clatter against the stone at his feet foretold that the wand had been dropped. It was strange how the words of someone so close could be missed, while the soft sound of something falling six feet below his ears could be picked up so clearly. Too soon, however, it became painful to think – there was a metal spike boring its way through his skull and into the soft, gray matter of his brain – and the only option open to him was to follow his wand to the cold, damp floor.
 



"Will he be all right, Madam Pomfrey?" the voice was distant and weak, though not due to the blanket that had fallen over his head previously, but simply because the one speaking was distant and weak. "I feel so terrible about everything, I should have brought him here right away."

There was a tinkling of glass against glass, then a rhythmic clink of metal periodically tapping against something. Before long, a disgusting taste was upon his tongue, filling him with revulsion and sick; it was green, no doubt, for it had the consistency of slim and the smell of mildew. "He'll be fine when he gets some rest, and you could do with a rest, too, Miss Granger. I'll not have you making yourself worse off by staying up morning, noon, and night to ask me questions about Mister Weasley." Unmistakably, Poppy Pomfrey scolded none other than Hermione – who was, to Ron's joy, asking about him – as she forced a medicinal potion down his throat, then went about tucking his the rough hospital blanket up around his chin. "Into bed with you, now. I thought you were more responsible than this?"

After nearly seven years, almost every adult in the castle was able to make a single statement to a student to obtain their cooperation – with Hermione, it was questioning her responsibility, and with Ron, it was questioning his ability to do something. Madam Pomfrey had been able to obtain almost everyone's cooperation since their second year, though it was no doubt easier with the three Gryffindors who were in the Hospital Wing more often than most of the other students in their class combined. Thus, she had gone to work on forcing cooperation out of the Professors and was currently making progress with Professor Snape by forcing vitamins down his throat every other Friday during Double Potions with the Slytherins by questioning his vast knowledge of potions and his need for them. It was amusing to watch, actually, though Snape would take off anywhere from five to fifty points from Gryffindor if anyone was found to be laughing.

"Of course I'm responsible, Madam Pomfrey, but I'm also worried about Ron!" Hermione exclaimed in a rather offended tone, but was quickly shushed by a sharp sh! from the medi-witch.

"Miss Granger, you'll have plenty of time to check on your boyfriend when he's awake and you're both fully recovered. Now, please drink your potion and try to get some sleep, before I detain you further until I'm sure you're quite well and resting properly!" Poppy said exasperatedly.

That was also something Madam Pomfrey had taken to doing for years – calling Ron Hermione's boyfriend or Hermione Ron's girlfriend. It had been annoying at first, actually, but Ron could see how someone could easily make that mistake. After all, they were very close friends. He had taken to correcting Poppy, though Hermione usually just stammered something and left the room muttering about how staff shouldn't make assumptions. For some reason, Pomfrey just hadn't let up about it, however, and had continued referring to them as a couple since Hermione had been petrified in their second year.

This time, Hermione made no sound of protest and did not begin muttering. "If he wakes up while I'm asleep, will you tell me?" Poppy gave no reply, but the air almost seemed heavier and she was no doubt making an annoyed face. "All right, would you tell him that I'm sorry?" Hermione attempted again, her tone almost pleading.

"And what else, Miss Granger?" Madam Pomfrey asked with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. "That you love him, too? I'm not your messenger service. Now, drink your potion and get on with your recovering, for there's plenty of time afterwards to be courting -- though, mind you, it isn't to be done in my infirmary."

Although the slimy potion he had just been given muddled his mind, Ron could not help but grin quite broadly. He had no idea why he was in the Hospital Wing being looked after by an irritable witch with a horrible bedside manner or why he was being given disgusting potions or why Hermione was worried and apologetic. None of that mattered, actually, because Hermione had neither given protest to him being called her boyfriend nor made a sound to deny that she would mind too terribly if Madam Pomfrey would deliver the message of love. Whatever remnants were left of the flames in his lungs or the spike boring into his skull faded into the background as a feeling of absolute joy washed over him. She loves me, then. I know it. And, as soon I can, I'll tell her that I love –

"Ron!" Hermione whispered sharply from somewhere to his left, drawing him back from his joyous reverie in time to hear Madam Pomfrey's footsteps fading in the distance. He could just imagine the face that went with Hermione's tone – brow furrowed with worry, lips pursed with anger, and eyes filled with the exact same emotion he was feeling. Even though he couldn't see her at that moment, he had subconsciously made an effort to memorize every line and feature of her face and needed only his imagination to picture her in his mind. She really was beautiful, especially when she was angry.

His throat was dry, however, which made it extremely hard to speak in reply and his eyelids were so heavy he could barely flutter them, let alone force them both open. It was easier, then, to simply continue grinning, having been made privy to the most wonderful secret in the world.

"Are you awake?" she demanded, voice laden with an odd mixture of annoyance and delight.

She really is beautiful when she's angry, he thought and thus continued to grin.




The week slipped by at such a lethargic pace that it seemed months before Ron could open his eyes, sit up right in bed, move his legs, and eventually stand to begin walking around the Hospital Wing bit by bit. By the time Friday arrived, he felt as if he had spent an entire year under the stern care of Madam Pomfrey and was quite ready to follow the rest of the Gryffindors out of the stuffy area, as they had been allowed to leave periodically throughout the week. Hermione had been able to leave Wednesday, but had spent every afternoon (until Pomfrey had to throw her out) in the Hospital Wing making sure Ron was well and doing his work. She had also cleared up quite a deal of confusion.


"It was an alihotsy draft," she explained, taking a very small break from the homework she was assisting him with, though only after heavy persuasion. "Malfoy had given it to Harry and told him it was a truth serum – since he hadn't brewed his properly, Harry assumed that it was and intended to give it to Ginny to find out the truth about what he saw and what Malfoy insisted happened."

"What did Draco say happened?" Ron inquired, snapping his History of Magic text book closed so sharply Pomfrey gave him a stern look from across the room.

Yet, Hermione declined to answer, shaking her head slowly as she went on, "Malfoy assumed Harry would put the draft in Ginny's drink, but he decided to sacrifice potency by putting it in the water for the hot chocolate. It diluted the draft and was split between nine people, so it wasn't as potent as Malfoy intended."

" . . . How potent was it supposed to be?"

"It . . . " Hermione trailed off, her expression pained. "Whatever you went through, amplify it by ten. If Ginny had drank the entire draft, she would have passed out,  lost all motor functions, and would have awakened with a fever strong enough to cause insanity." After speaking, she quieted to the point that it didn't even sound like she was breathing, while biting anxiously at her lower lip.

Ron was taken completely by surprise by this news, stunned speechless for some time. Finally, he managed to whisper, "What happened to Malfoy?"

"Professor Snape tried to blame it all on Harry – he said that he had stolen the draft from the potion's storeroom Sunday evening and replaced it Monday afternoon before giving it to everyone, since Harry had stolen things before. But, I gave Headmaster Dumbledore the vial with the rest of the draft in it; it had Malfoy's initials on it and Professor Snape couldn't ignore the evidence. Harry admitted giving it to us, but only because he thought it was truth serum, so Dumbledore went easy on him and gave him a single detention," Hermione paused in her explanation, glancing lingeringly towards the book open on her lap.

"Malfoy?" Ron asked through clenched teeth.

"He . . . he tried to lie about it, but Dumbledore had enough evidence against him. I expect that Dumbledore might have expelled him, but he gives everyone a second chance, doesn't he?" She paused, her eyes darting back and forth across the open book, though it was clear that none of the words written there were being read. After a moment of silence, a look of pleasure swept over her facial features and caused her to grin broadly as she finally looked up. "He's got so much detention he won't be able to complete it before graduation, even if he had a time turner."

He gaped at her. "Is that . . . is that it? That's it? He came so close to killing – "

" – . . . He also got his Head Boy badge taken away."


Just remembering those words brought a smile to Ron's face. Although it wasn't quite good enough for him – as he would have preferred Malfoy to be expelled – it proved to be satisfactory enough to cause him to grin. Finally, Malfoy had been unsaddled from that annoyingly high horse.

"Are you ready?" rang a familiar voice, Hermione having crept upon him while he was in his reverie. "You're going to miss dinner. I'm sure you want something real to eat after all those food-substitution potions."

Glancing up from buttoning the white dress shirt of his school uniform, Ron offered her a grin. "Have you ever known me to miss dinner, Hermione? As if an alihotsy draft would keep me away from something like that."

"It kept you away for a few days," she noted, moving over to straighten his tie out of compulsive habit. It had been something she had taken to doing since their fifth year – his tie was never straight enough for her, but unlike previous occasions, Ron enjoyed the attention this time around and made a mental note to always keep his tie disheveled.

"It's about time I get back to it, then, isn't it? I need to get my strength, too. There's Hogsmeade tomorrow." After shrugging on his black (and slightly frayed) robe imprinted with the crest of Gryffindor, he tugged at his tie with a grin. Then, without any warning whatsoever, he was compelled to reach down and take her hand in his own.

"That's right. And, now that we're all recovered, we've decided to have a picnic at – " she stopped short, eyes flickering down to his hand holding her own.

It was brilliant. Simply brilliant. It was the very first time he had been able to shut her up without a single word. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, too, as if he had done it every single day since they had met. Or, he should have. " – I thought we were both quicker than Pomfrey, Hermione. How is it that she had us pegged since second year, but we only just figured it out now?"

From the look on her face, Hermione was simply stunned, unable to speak for perhaps the first time in her life. Instead, she lifted her gaze from their entwined hands and looked up at him.

"Not that it matters how long it took," he smiled down at her, not only surprised at what he was finding himself saying (though he had promised he would), but also at the fact that she wasn't protesting against any of it. "I'm just upset that an old bat like her knew before I did – it's shameful."