Chapter Four: Essence of Rue (corrected)
Setting: Hospital wing, evening, the day after Ron's birthday. Ron was first drugged by Romilda Vane's love potion, then by a mysterious substance in his drink. If you recall, it was Harry's bezoar that saved him.
A/N: Thank you so much EternalEcho for pointing out that mistake! This chapter has been corrected accordingly. (Darn. I prided myself on knowing every detail of Harry Potter.)
'Er-my-nee . . .
Hermione—
Hmm? What—Ron!
You fell asleep—ouch, don't pounce on me like that!
You're awake—thank God, you're awake—
Um . . . Hermione?
Yes?
Would you please unwrap your legs from around me?
OH! Sorry . . .
(Pause)
Thanks . . . how long was I out, by the way?
About a day and a half, Ron.
Really.
Don't worry; you didn't miss much, unless you count Lavender's seventeen visits so far.
She came seventeen times?
Give or take a few.
She came seventeen times, give or take a few?
Those flowers are from her.
Oh . . . so that's why . . . I kept having these strange dreams where I was suffocating.
Those weren't from the flowers.
How would you know?
She sprayed her perfume all over your pillow.
Why in the name of Merlin's left thumb would she do that to me?
She said some rubbish about how the "intoxicating memory" of her would bring you around.
Intoxicating, yes—I thought I was fighting a dungbomb in my sleep.
I thought you would have grown accustomed to the smell.
No, not really. It's new, but I couldn't exactly tell her that it burned my nostrils every time she made a movement around me.
How thoughtful of you.
(Pause)
And what happened to me?
You don't remember?
Well—only snatches. It's not really too clear after I drank the antidote—oh God, no. No no no no no.
I'm guessing the whole Romilda Vane thing came back to you?
I'm not going to come out of this room, ever.
There's no point in sticking your head in your pillow—or banging it against the headboard.
I'm only banging my head because I need to clear it. I forgot that Lavender sprayed my pillow.
Everyone knows that it was a silly love potion, Ron.
I will never, ever, ever, EVER eat another Chocolate Cauldron in my life.
That's too bad, because Fred and George left you a big pack of them next to Lavender's flowers.
I need to chuck myself out of the window this instant, Hermione! What is wrong with these people?
Need I state the obvi—oh, never mind. Would you like to hear the rest of the story?
Yes, go on . . . and could you get me another pillow from the next bed?
Sure . . .
Ah—I can breathe . . .
Are you ready now?
No . . . let me inhale a few more times . . . yes, that's it. Go on, please.
Do you remember the toast Slughorn gave to you?
The mead?
Yes. Anything after that?
No, not really.
Well, someone spiked the drink.
No! Did anyone else drink it?
No—they have your gluttony to thank for it.
So Slughorn and Harry are okay?
Yes.
Was the drink supposed to make me fall unconscious and wake up a day later?
Er . . . no . . .
Tell me, Hermione.
You were supposed to die.
What? I can't hear you.
You were supposed to DIE!
(Silence)
Here, have a tissue. I'm not dead though, am I, so no need to cry about it.
sniff
Here's another tissue.
Th—thanks . . .
Goodness—what would you be like if I really snuffed it?
Don't even mention something like that!
So why didn't I die?
Harry forced a bezoar into your throat.
Wow . . .
This is about you, Ron, not some juicy bit of gossip about someone else. You shouldn't whistle.
Still disapproving of the Half-Blood Prince, then?
It wasn't the Half-Blood Prince who invented that cure, so yes. If Harry just listened to Snape in the beginning of our first year, it would have come naturally.
Ah—so you thank Snape for saving my life. Interesting, Hermione.
He's more reliable than that old Potions book, at any rate.
As long as the bezoar worked . . .
You still have to take essence of rue every so often, and you have to stay here for another week.
No! Next week's match!
I'm so sorry, Ron.
What are you sorry for?
I just feel sorry for you. And I—er—apologize about not talking to you. And that . . . incident . . . in the hallway.
(Pause)
No, I've been a bit of a prat this whole time, too. I'm going to break it off with Lavender.
Really?
There isn't an ounce of sympathy in your face, Hermione.
Oh—
And you're awful at acting. But then again, I don't really deserve your sympathy.
It's not all your fault Ron.
But it started with me. We're good, then?
Yes, yes, of course . . . can't exactly throw six years of friendship down the drain now, can we?
No. We can't.
And as a friend, who is very well-meaning, I have some more bad news for you.
Too late to chuck myself out of that window. Damn.
You do know that McClaggen will have to substitute for you next week, right?
Yes, but I didn't count on realizing that so soon.
There's no such thing as being blissfully unaware in my experience. And no, I am definitely not happy about that.
Good. Damn it anyway.
Ron—
Yes?
It's getting sort of late.
Oh. What time is it?
Eight-forty.
That's not late!
Oh but as a prefect who must set an example, yes it is.
Then you have to go?
Yes. Sorry.
Fine . . . I can just talk to Madame Pomfrey for company, then.
I'll be back tomorrow morning with Harry. Just go to sleep.
Easy for you to say. You don't have to think about how you could have almost died.
At least Lav-Lav's perfume won't suffocate you anymore, right?
Don't start with that again, Hermione! I was young and foolish. The perfume will still haunt me though—it's been chiseled into my brain.
I'll move the flowers and Chocolate Cauldrons, too.
Good night.
Good night.
