She was waiting for him in the Room of Requirement, a bowl of Murtlap essence in her hands. There was a full-length mirror, and a couple of easy chairs before a roaring fire; he stared at his familiar-yet-unfamiliar reflection before sinking gratefully into the soft upholstery. She took his unfreckled hand and examined it; the cuts had nearly closed up, the surrounding skin hot, shiny red. Then their eyes met and she looked away, seeming embarrassed. "Seems I did do a good job of the potion," she said shakily. "It's hard to believe it is you."

She brushed her cheek against the burning skin of his hand, and his heart nearly stopped as her lips brushed it in a not-quite-kiss. Then she let go, and he sighed with relief as he plunged his hand into the bowl and the cooling liquid took away his pain.

"Oh, that's bloody marvellous," he moaned with relief. He could almost feel the cuts healing. "If Harry'd told us at the start, he wouldn't have had to spend a week without this potion, would he?"

"It's not strictly a potion: it's only got one ingredient, and it doesn't have heat as a catalyst," Hermione said, but he could tell her didactic manner was more out of habit than anything else. She looked nervous and upset.

"I'm fine, Hermione," he said, and smiling at her, was surprised to find he meant it. "Look, why don't you go to the common room and keep Harry company?" He didn't particularly want to lose her company, but – "With our luck, if you don't, he'll go off looking for us and ruin things." It would be bloody typical.

"It's just…" Hermione looked at him nervously. "I can't get used to seeing you…"

"Oh." He looked down at himself. He had to admit that it was funny being so short, and wearing these funny glasses. "Don't worry about it," he quirked an eyebrow, "I'm not myself at the moment."

Hermione giggled weakly, though she still looked disturbed. "It should be wearing off any minute now," she told him. "I'd rather stay till you..."

"No, do go on," he told her. "I don't want Harry finding out. Tell him I've got detention with Snape."

They discussed strategy for a few moments, and Hermione went.

------------------------------------------------

"Bad luck, Ron," Harry said sympathetically at breakfast. "Whatever did you do to get detention with Snape? You did all right last Potions class."

Ron grunted. Contrary to popular belief, Gryffindors were not above telling the occasional white lie for the greater good. "Ran into him in the corridor with his arms full of potions, didn't I?" He tried to appear aggrieved. "Greasy git dropped everything. The glass ones smashed. And wouldn't you know it, he blamed me! I didn't mean to do it, but that's Snape for you. Said I'd ruined weeks of work and I'd have to pay for it." He grinned suddenly. "Maybe he's just feeling lonely, you know, after losing your company for Occlumency. I know how he adores you."

Harry made a face, and Hermione looked disapprovingly at both of them. Ron had the grace to blush.

He'd had only one bad moment in the Room of Requirement when the Polyjuice wore off and he'd seen himself in the mirror, morphing back into his own shape from Harry's. It didn't hurt, but it turned his stomach. Mostly, it was just the psychological effect of seeing the transformation: the familiar shape of his friend merging into his own, the body lengthening, his nose elongating, the planes of his features becoming more angular in a way that was deeply unsettling, finally leaving him, Ron, standing there with the funny conjured-by-Hermione Harry-glasses perched incongruously on his face.

Oh, well. Next night he wouldn't look in the mirror for the remorphing, that was all. Hermione had calculated the dosage so that Ron would be morphing back into his own shape between 10:30 and eleven o'clock. He got off with Umbridge at around ten, but they'd added on an extra half-hour as insurance against his having to stay later for any reason, after which he was to go to the Room of Requirement and wait for the potion to wear off.

He poured a glass of pumpkin juice, stealing an admiring glance at Hermione. The fact that she'd managed to narrow it down to half an hour, an almost impossibly precise window by wizarding standards, was a tribute and vast advantage, in his mind, to a Muggle background. Wizards, in his experience, were never that accurate in their potions calculations: "by morning," "by afternoon" or "in a few hours" was the most accurate answer you could traditionally get to "when will it wear off?"

His gaze turned to Harry, and he was astonished at the effect even one night without the torment had had on him: his colour was better, he looked more animated, and he ate with relish. He still held his right hand stiffly, and from what Ron could see it was still purple and swollen, but at least now it would have time to heal.

Time to heal. Ron smiled with deep contentment, and shovelled sausage into his mouth. Now that was worth it all.