Mrs. Weasley waved thankfully to the mediwizard as he apparated off the front doorstep. Closing the door, she trudged slowly across the living room and sunk into the old sofa in relief. Her son's friend would be perfectly healthy in a few hours, and she wouldn't have to pay the staggering medical bills due to the patient's celebrity status. It was only the wee hours of the morning, and the barely rising sun had begun to create dull gray streaks in the darkling sky. However, not a single bewitched lamp failed to shine brightly in the burrow; none of the Weasleys could sleep after the dramatic events of the mediwizard's extended visit.

The rumors circulating around the neighborhood were true; The Boy Who Lived was staying at the old Weasley place, and last night he almost died. Molly felt another wrinkle of anxiety indent itself permanently into her freckled forehead as she recalled the image of Harry's pale, sweaty hand squeezing hers as his body clung desperately to the last shreds of life. Apparently he had a severe allergy to a common wizard's herb, and when the mediwizard used it as a tonic to seal up a dangerous hole in his patient's left lung, Harry reacted violently and nearly suffocated. Ron was the only child allowed in the room, while Ginny stood outside the door praying furiously to save the life of the object of her affection.

Meanwhile, Hermione was sitting quietly in her room, debating whether or not to deliver Harry's bag to the Burrow. She had to at one point, of course, because it contained all of his clothes and toiletries, but as of now she still felt uncomfortable with the idea of confronting Harry - and that's if she even asked him about what she read in his journal. She really wanted to talk to him about it; she just knew that if he found out that she had been looking through his bag he would probably grow angry and not speak to her, much less hold a heartfelt conversation with her about his brutal living situation. Hermione had no idea what danger Harry's life had just been in several hours ago during his treatment, so after a few minutes of thought she decided to stop by the Burrow the next morning armed with Harry's bag and a list of personal questions to ask him.

Sunday morning, after she had gone to church, Hermione knocked politely on the Weasley's front door. Ron opened it and appeared very surprised to see his friend after the manner in which she left after Friday's barbecue.

"Whoa! I mean - hullo Hermione, how are you?"

Hermione grinned slightly and held up Harry's black backpack. "I'm fine. Actually, I've got Harry's bag; I picked it up accidentally, thinking it was mine." She leaned her head to the side to try to catch a glimpse of the inside of Ron's house from over his broad shoulder. "Is he there? Can I come in?"

Ron jumped at the question and mentally berated himself for not offering to let her inside the house. "Oh! Yes, sorry, come on in." He stepped aside and let her pass through the open doorway into the living room. "Since you're here to see Harry, I ought to let you know that he was technically dead for about ten seconds last night."

Hermione froze in her steps and whirled around, wide-eyed. "You're kidding."

"I wish," said Ron, shaking his head gravely, "He's fine now, but you should've seen him last night. It was mad, 'Mione, I swear. Ginny was spazzing out, if you can imagine."

"What happened?" she asked, fascinated.

"I dunno, I'm no doctor, but I think something went wrong while the mediwizard was fixing up Harry's chest. I mean, Harry was knocked out so he wouldn't be aware of anything, of course, but even in his unconsciousness he was just screaming and crying and Mum was going starkers."

"Oh my God," interjected Hermione, sitting down on the sofa while keeping her eyes blindly locked on the atmosphere in front of her. "What, did the guy cut him open or something and then mess up with a potion?"

"No, Ron," said Ginny, walking downstairs and entering the room, "Harry wasn't knocked out; he couldn't react to pain if he was unconscious. The mediwizard didn't want Harry to see what was going on, of course, but instead of making him sleep he just used a spell to keep Harry's eyes shut."

Hermione pressed her lips together and knitted her brow in concern. "Poor kid...good thing school is starting soon; I know that I always feel better in a classroom." Ron rolled his eyes and muttered something about bookworms.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps padded slowly down the carpeted stairway, and the three teenagers gasped to see Harry standing at the bottom. "Hey mates," he greeted with a soft smile. He was still very pale and looked like he was about to fall over, but Harry gripped the end of the railing tightly and tried his best to cheer up his friends. "Nice to see you, 'Mione."

"Harry!" cried the only brunette in the room, jumping out of her seat and sprinting towards her friend. She was about to hug him, but suddenly remembered what happened last time she did that and so now refrained. "I heard what happened last night. Are you alright?"

Harry grinned. "Yep! I'm all healthy again, thanks to this family. I'm just a bit sleepy, that's all. You woke me up when you slammed the front door shut."

Hermione's face fell at these last words, and she apologized profusely. "Oh hey," she added, after Harry expressed that apologies weren't necessary, "I have your bag. You've got mine, don't you?"

"Yeah," said Harry, nodding, "Don't worry, I didn't look through it or anything. Here, let me run up and get it for you."

"No!" cried Hermione, grabbing his arm so that he couldn't leave, "Don't strain yourself. Ron, Ginny," she called, turning towards the redheaded siblings standing curiously across the room, "We'll be back in a second, I'm going to help him upstairs."

"I don't think he needs help," said Ron, just as Harry said, "I don't think I need help."

"Yes you do!" said Hermione, escorting him upstairs. Of course, she knew that Harry didn't need assistance walking up a flight of stairs, but she needed some time alone with him so that she could possibly bring up the subject of what she'd read in his journal. Once the two had entered Ron's room, where Harry had been living for the past few days, Hermione purposefully dropped Harry's bag so that it spilled the red book onto the floor, consequently splaying the journal wide open. "What's this?" asked Hermione, darting down to pick it up before Harry, in his weakened state, could even begin to protest. She had flattened a specific page last night so that when it "accidentally" opened it would expose that page, which, as fortune (or misfortune) had it, was bloodstained. She read it quickly, then looked up at Harry, who was staring at her with dark eyes.

"Fine. Now you know." He snatched the journal from her hands and sulked out of the room. Hermione ran after him and once again grabbed his arm to stop him. "What?" snapped Harry. Hermione drew back at his uncharacteristic hostility.

"Don't walk away, she said gently. "I'm not going to get all weird about it, don't worry." Harry's mouth opened and shut; he had no idea what to say. Just then, Hermione reached out and embraced him snugly. Somehow, the way that she ran her hand up and down his back soothed him, and he felt himself relax and rest his head against hers. After several quiet minutes, Hermione was the first to speak. "You think of me as your best friend, right?"

"Yes."

"And you trust me, don't you? You must know me well enough to be able to trust me."

Harry hesitated before answering this; Hermione was a highly intelligent girl, and she was obviously trying to trap him into answering a loaded question. "Erm...yes."

"So," said Hermione, her mind racing towards a point, "Since I'm your best friend, and you trust me so well, it's natural to assume that you'd be comfortable telling me anything. Right?"

Silence followed while Harry considered this. "Yes, it would be natural to assume that," he said, pulling himself out of her arms and stepping back, "but some things are best left unspoken of." He began to walk towards the stairs when Hermione reached out, grabbed his left wrist, and twisted it as hard as she could. Harry screamed in pain and yanked his arm away from her. "What the hell, Hermione?" he yelled, glaring at her with wild eyes.

"What's going on up there?" called Ron from downstairs with a cautious undertone to his voice.

"Nothing!" replied Hermione. Turning back to Harry, who was staring at her as if she had just killed a kitten, she asked, "How long ago did he break your wrist?"

Harry seemed less reluctant to answer than before as he gently cradled his throbbing joint. "A few weeks ago."

Now that Hermione had gotten him to open up a bit, she realized that she had no idea what to say. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault. You don't have to apologize," said Harry, careful not to make eye contact with her and standing at least three feet away.

An awkward silence ensued. Hermione shifted her weight uneasily and dug her toes into the carpet, while Harry, still holding his limp wrist, leaned against the hallway wall and stared off into space. "Why didn't you tell anybody that your Uncle hurts you?"

"Because it's embarrassing, and it's weird," said Harry, "I'm not about to go around the neighborhood screaming, 'CHILD ABUSE!'" Finally he directed his gaze towards his friend. "I mean seriously, Hermione, if you were in my situation, what would you do?"

Hermione shrugged. "I...I...I know that wouldn't let it go on for that long, that's for sure. And I'd at least give myself a friend to confide in. Doesn't it bother you not to talk about it?"

"It's rather the opposite," said Harry, eyes once again darkening, "It bothers me TO talk about it. Here, I'm going to get you your bag, and we can each go on with our own business." He strode rapidly into Ron's room, and quickly produced Hermione's black satchel. "Take it," said Harry, tossing it towards her. She caught it awkwardly and watched him in a state of light shock as he escaped down the stairs.