Chapter 3: Infected

Overhearing their exchange, Neville turned his face to the group with his mouth agape and nearly choked as he attempted to inhale a remnant of his lunch. "Wha—!" He squawked, swallowing hard.

Beside him, Seamus glanced at Neville with a sad, knowing expression before turning to glare at the Slytherins. He offered them a few choice hand gestures before quickly turning back to the Gryffindor table, hoping neither McGonagall nor Snape had witnessed the exchange. Looking down the table, he saw Harry's mouth firm into a severe line as he gazed steadily at Hermione and Ron.

Meeting his gaze, Hermione spoke with a determined voice, "Come, Harry. We must get him to Madam Pomfrey's straight away. There is no time to lose!"

Harry hurried around the table as Hermione helped ease Ron from his seat. The cramps seemed to subside long enough for them to lead him from the Great Hall without engaging the compassionate interference of any professors. Outside the doors of the Great Hall, however, Ron fell against the wall, doubling over again in torment. Grasping his upper arms with both hands, Harry and Hermione gazed over his bowed ginger head at one another.

Sensing the deeper dread in her eyes, Harry asked, "What does it do . . . mixing the magicks? Is he poisoned?" Ron's body shuddered with a hacking cough suddenly, and he clutched the stone wall weakly. Harry hurried on, "Is there an antidote, Hermione?"

Her strained expression revealed her worry, but she gave him a tight smile and a small nod, saying, "I found it in a sidebar note in Hogwarts, A History. It's a simple three step process. First he'll be given shepherd's cowl—it's an herb that slows the process and stops the side effects." She reached a hand towards Ron's furrowed brow, brushing his hair back from his face while watching him pant roughly. She continued softly, "It has to be administered within the first hour of contamination. Otherwise, the condition could become permanent. Next, Madam Pomfrey should administer the antiserum and then a sleeping draught."

Glancing swiftly at her wristwatch, she gasped, "We should hurry," before gripping Ron's upper arm again. Together, they pulled him away from the wall.

"Hermione," Harry gasped, fighting to keep Ron on his feet, "What is his condition? Will he smoke at the ears until he coughs up the truth, or something?" He tried to bring levity to the situation, but dully noted the barely repressed tears shimmering in his friend's wide brown eyes. He knew that there was something she hadn't told him, and watched her as she girded herself up to reveal the severity of the situation.

"Harry, the combination of Veritaserum and Cheer Charm . . . it's not good," she began. Ron stumbled, and they moved swiftly to move his arms around their shoulders, taking his full weight onto their backs. Hermione panted heavily, fighting to continue. "It's like a legal form of the Imperious Curse. Only a dark wizard, or a stupid Slytherin slag, would inflict it knowingly upon someone!"

"L-l-language, Miss Granger," Ron muttered under his breath as they nearly dragged him toward the hospital wing.

He fought the mind-numbing effects of the Veritaserum, finding the strength to choke, "A slag? A ruddy prat's what that one is." His weak laugh echoed off the walls eerily as they rounded the last corner leading to the hospital wing; they were greeted by a small wall of sneering Slytherins.

Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy stood at the forefront, while Crabbe and Goyle stood stationed behind them. Two other Slytherins, Larissa Pinchwhistle and Tobias Rumpleweed, completed the disreputable pack.

"Poor little Weasel," Malfoy drawled, "so afraid of the truth!"

The Slytherins joined him in an evil guffaw. Hermione thought she heard a gloating Pansy mutter, "Who's the pup now, Weasel-bum?"

"You!" She breathed, glaring into Pansy's face, "You witless lemming! You're the one responsible for this!" She felt her fingers frantically grasping within her robes, searching for her wand, even as Pansy ducked behind the protective wall of Crabbe and Goyle's bodies.

Harry grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand, and shook his head firmly. "No, Hermione. We'll let Dumbledore deal with them later. We have to get him to Madam Pomfrey now."

Hermione threw a strained expression his way, but relented, pushing her bushy hair from her face with a shaking hand. She wondered if she was experiencing the same kind of self-righteous anger that generally fueled Ron's temper as he defended her against the Slytherins. Did she seem as vulnerable—as precious—to him as he did to her? She exhaled impatiently, trying to think logically as she took in the situation.

"Alright, Harry," she murmured, anxiously glancing from side to side, "but how?"

As he looked around, Harry finally noted that the Slytherins had surrounded them in a menacing circle. As Harry opened his mouth to shout for Madam Pomfrey, Malfoy flung out his wand arm, calling, "Silencio!" Harry's throat and face strained, but no sound would come.

As she watched, horrified, Hermione found herself being gripped from behind by a thick arm around her waist even as a beefy hand clenched tightly over her mouth. She struggled, kicking out widely as she was lifted up and pulled back towards the wall. She watched Ron fall to his hands and knees as Harry was also pulled roughly aside by Crabbe.

Malfoy advanced upon Ron, who looked up at him without an inkling of suspicion. He seemed so vulnerable, kneeling before Draco with a pained, expectant look on his face. Malfoy rubbed his hands together and opened his foul mouth to speak.

Viciously, she bit her captor's hand until she drew blood. As Goyle howled in pain, Hermione fought from his embrace before turning to kick him firmly in the shin. As he doubled over, she ran, sliding to her knees beside Ron. She gripped his shoulders with one small arm and swiftly took inventory of the group as Malfoy jumped back from them, cursing 'that seething Gryffindor hellcat.'

Raising her wand in a dramatic arc, she shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

The Slytherins' wands flew from their hands to strike against the sickroom door. Bowing her head, she glanced from one to the other darkly as she trained her wand upon them. Gracelessly, she helped Ron to his feet without looking, and was relieved when Harry returned to Ron's other side. Shaking, she led the way through the Slytherins, the end of her wand sparking with anticipation.

Malfoy sneered as they passed him, but not before asking, "So, Ron, tell me. What do you think of your filthy Mudblood now?"

Harry shouted soundlessly at him as Hermione's wand came to rest beneath his chin with cool precision.

Glaring coldly into his face, she said, "Shut your mouth, Malfoy . . . or I'll have to take pleasure in doing it myself."

Ron looked blankly at Malfoy, lavender smoke spouting more thickly from his ears. A purple light winked faintly in the depths of his eyes. Smiling painfully, he offered, "I think she's bloody brilliant, of course."

Hermione flushed at his words and quickly shoved her wand into her sleeve as she heard the doors to the sickroom bang open loudly behind them.

"What is going on out here?" Madam Pomfrey called, stomping through the doors purposefully. She needed only to take in the sight of a weakened Ron, supported between his meager friends while surrounded and outnumbered by a group of Slytherins, to find her answer.

"Bullying!" She scoffed, glaring around at the Slytherins' mean-faced expressions. "Dueling in the hospital wing? You can be sure that Professors Dumbledore and Snape will hear about this. Now go!" She pointed to the end of the hall imperiously and watched as five Slytherins skulked away. Goyle, hanging back in the shadows, clutched his injured hand to his massive chest. He hesitated, his unpleasant face wrinkling with concentration as he tried to decide whether he should follow his fellow Slytherins or have Madam Pomfrey treat him for rabies.

Turning her exasperated expression back to the trio she murmured, "You three, again?" Harry and Hermione nodded solemnly while Ron stared at her blankly. The light glinted off of his technicolor-tears, giving Madam Pomfrey the impression that she was locking gazes with a cat in the dark. Firming her lips, she continued, "Alright, you two. Move him into bed number 3."

As they began to move ahead of her, into the sickroom, they heard Goyle raise his voice to complain about his hand. Madam Pomfrey moved towards him and grasped his wrist, pulling his injured hand into her line of vision. Glancing at his injury, she noticed that the bite mark had indeed broken skin, leaving it prey to infection. Sucking her teeth with an impatient—pop!— Madam Pomfrey then pushed him into the sickroom as well.

"Evens for you," she said briskly, pointing to the bed opposite Ron's on the eastern wall. "Go to bed number 4 and I will be with you shortly."