"Hermione, it's time to come home."
"Hello, Remus," she said without looking up. "It's very nice to see you."
"That would be much more convincing if you'd actually bothered to look up at me, you know."
She sighed, marking her place on the parchment with an ink-stained finger before glancing up to meet his eyes. The air of the tent was stuffy and stale, and the lighting was terribly dim. None of which she hadn't bothered to notice until now.
"Hello, Remus." Hermione tried not to startle at the deep grooves and smudged bruises beneath his eyes, even as she noted that he was doing the same. Neither of them was handling this well at all, clearly. She could only imagine how Sirius was doing, and a twinge of regret had her wincing at the thought. "It's good to see you."
"Hello, Hermione," he returned pleasantly. The soft grin he sent her way took years off his face, but the sadness lingering in his gaze aged her by decades in exchange. She blinked, and the smile was gone. "It's time to come home."
"I can't," she replied matter-of-factly. "I haven't found it yet."
"He's asking for you. They'll be moving him to a room in St Mungo's soon, but he won't go without you."
Her hand shook against the page, smudging some wet ink and rendering at least one line illegible.
"Hermione." Remus's hands landed on hers, squeezing gently but trapping them firmly. They could both feel the tremor of her fingers beneath the weight of his. Too much caffeine, perhaps, but more likely than not it was just the byproduct of months of stress and grief and fear.
Still, she ignored him.
"You need to come home," he pressed again.
"I can't save him from there!" she finally exploded, pulling her hands from beneath his, chest heaving with the weight she'd been carrying around for months.
Remus looked around her dusty tent, piled high with books and scrolls and ancient artifacts, all strewn about the room in a haphazard mess.
"You aren't saving him from here, either." The gentle tone offset the harshness of the words, but Hermione still choked on a sob. Remus was already moving around the desk to draw her up and into his arms.
"How is he?" she asked, smothered by his chest. He always smelled good—like family, like home.
"Not well. That's why you need to come home. Otherwise, I'm worried that soon your search won't matter… because there won't be anything left to cure."
"But Ron—"
"Ron is there every day, but together he and Harry are only two-thirds of a whole, and everyone knows it. The rest of the Weasleys are lovely and supportive and care about him very much, but they aren't equipped for this. And Sirius is just barely hanging on, trying to be strong for Harry. Hermione—"
"He needs me."
Remus sighed, and tried to soften the dire nature of the situation with a gentle, understanding smile. "He needs you."
She took one look around her tent, then nodded sharply. "Give me one hour. How did you get here?"
"International portkey. Return trip is in two hours."
"Alright. Make yourself a cup of tea and tell me everything."
Remus eyed the floating pen and parchment that was undoubtedly charmed to take notes from his report and barked a rusty laugh. Having her back would be better for everyone, that was for sure.
"Well, first of all, he misses you desperately."
"Harry James Potter," she announced, watching as the man in question jerked his gaze from staring aimlessly out the window. Sirius, at his bedside, woke with a snort and almost fell out of the chair. She paid the older man no mind. "What is this I hear about you refusing appropriate care?"
"Hermione," he breathed. The look on his face scared her more than anything. It was the expression of a man who'd just had his dying wish granted.
She shook her head, willing away the tears that had suddenly sprung to life behind her eyelids, and glomped onto him for one of her signature hugs.
"Easy," Sirius hissed from the other side of the bed, now standing, but when Hermione pulled back Harry was grinning. He was also holding tight onto her arms, as if to prevent her from moving too far away.
Having no desire to be parted from him, either, Hermione shifted to perch on the side of the bed.
Somewhere in the background she thought she heard Sirius murmur something about getting tea, but she didn't look away from Harry's face to check.
His eyes were a duller version of the vibrant green they'd always been, a spark of happiness at her arrival competing with the heavy darkness of grief. His cheeks were even more gaunt than when she'd last seen him, and his scar stood out in sharp relief to the rest of his skin.
"I look like shite," he admitted, watching as her gaze roved over his features to catalog the changes.
"You look like my best friend," she rebutted gently, reaching up to slide his hands down her arms to grip them gently in hers instead.
"I know you want to talk about what's going on and what's changed and all that, but—can we just sit for a while?"
"Of course we can. Actually—" she toed her shoes off to drop haphazardly off the side of the bed and raised up to her knees. "Budge over."
He did, making room for her to lay next to him. She looked at the tight grip he still kept on her hands, then at the way his body seemed to list in her direction. With a hidden smile, she disentangled their hands and reached up to gently guide his head to her shoulder. Her other arm went around his back to keep him close.
She felt, more than heard, the sigh that he released against her collarbone. "I missed you."
"I missed you too," she whispered. Hesitated, then added, "Don't give up, Harry. Please."
The silence stretched on for so long that she worried she'd ruined everything. But then, so soft she could hardly hear him, he finally whispered, "I'm so tired, 'Mione."
"Just a little longer," she begged. "I'll figure it out. I won't let you down, Harry, just don't give in before I find a cure."
"You've never let me down," was all he said in return, but he squeezed her waist tighter and she felt like it was a promise.
As they lay there, staring up at the ceiling, she felt the strength of that commitment deep into her bones.
I will figure this out, she vowed again silently. It was the most serious oath she'd ever made.
On the first, second, and third nights that Hermione fell asleep in the library at Harry and Sirius's new(ish) home, she woke up covered gently with a blanket.
On the fourth, it was to a gentle nudge from Remus. He handed her a steaming cup of tea and winked at her. "If you insist on doing this at the expense of your health and sanity, I refuse to let you do it alone."
She immediately handed him a stack of parchment, detailing all her notes on Harry's symptoms, her theories on potential causes, and ideas for treatment. "I don't have time to sleep. I'll just have to catch up on rest after he's been cured."
"I don't think that's how it works," Remus pointed out, but didn't push any further. Besides, it wasn't like she hadn't noticed him scouring all the books of the Black library—even the dark, cursed ones, the brave and foolish man—or seen Sirius sending off letters to everyone he knew in the Wizarding world and even strangers on other continents. They were all invested in this, not just her.
Ron, who didn't have a mind for research, took a leave of absence from work and spent almost all his days at Harry's side, keeping him comfortable and as optimistic as possible. Hermione spent every afternoon from lunch to dinner with the two of them, basking in their affection until it was time to dive back into her research. Harry was on her mind all the time, but she appreciated that Ron was there for him while she was searching for ways to save his life.
Two weeks later, she was ready to tear her increasingly-fizzy hair out. Parchment was now plastered all over the walls of the library, written from edge to edge with sprawling notes. Instead of engendering a sense of accomplishment, however, staring at them only made her want to cry.
"What are we missing?" she muttered to herself. When in doubt, she reminded herself, cast aside assumptions and start again. Remus grunted in acknowledgment and came to stand beside her, but didn't verbalize his thoughts. He seemed just as discouraged as Hermione, if not more so.
Shaking her head clear of that thought, Hermione narrowed her eyes and focused on her tiny handwriting.
"Intermittent fever," she read from the list of Harry's symptoms. "Occasional sharp pain in organs and muscles, constant soreness of limbs, fogginess of brain and chronic fatigue, easy bruising."
Then she moved on to the list of possible causes. All of them had been checked off (thanks to systematic use of diagnostic charms as well as mundane methods of detection) except for two: obscure or invented curse, and as-yet unidentified magical illness.
"Harry had to take another blood-replenishing potion," Sirius announced from the doorway, picking his way across the cluttered floor to collapse on the couch behind them. Remus and Hermione turned to stare at him in concern but he just laid his head back and stared at the ceiling. That was the fourth time this week.
Blood-replenishing potion, she thought, staring at Harry's list of symptoms. Easy bruising, chronic fatigue.
"A blood curse?" she asked herself in a mutter, forgetting her audience even as she began to chew on her lip, pacing back and forth as she attempted to pursue the thought.
Remus's hand on her arm halted her in her tracks. "What did you just say?"
Sirius was stock-still on the couch, glaring darkly at the list even as she could see the gears turning in the back of his mind.
"A blood curse," she repeated, the high from her revelation fading in the wake of its horrifying implications.
"Fuck," Sirius surmised. Hermione couldn't help but agree.
"It's a place to start," Remus pointed out. "I don't remember seeing anything about that in the library, though."
"They were removed by individual family members a long time ago, I think," Sirius replied, staring off into space in that way he did when he was remembering something particularly unpleasant. "No use in casting nasty curses on each other if the information is readily accessible to your victim."
"I need access to something in order to know for sure." Hermione thought hard. "Is there anyone we know who has a library that might have something on that topic?"
"Former Death Eaters," Remus said, stating the most obvious conclusion, "and I have no idea how we're going to tempt them into sharing highly secretive, familial journals of spell-weaving."
Former Death Eaters, Hermione thought. She had an idea about that, but not a desirable one. Out loud, she only hummed.
"You look like absolute shite," a familiar voice sniped. On any other day she'd be dreading the sound of it, but nice, normal days seemed to be a relic of the past.
Still, she refused to rise to the bait. She was a woman on a mission, and there was no way she'd allow petty schoolboy taunting to distract her. As such, Hermione didn't even look up from doctoring her cup of tea. "Malfoy. Thank you for meeting me. Would you like a cuppa?"
The chair directly across from her scraped against the tile as he dragged it out, drawing annoyed glances from other café-goers in their vicinity. When she finally looked up to meet his eyes, Draco had a sneer plastered across his face. "No, I don't want any of this inferior swill they call tea. I only came to find out why you had the audacity to summon me to a Muggle café."
Hermione snorted, immediately hiding it behind her cup. "Oh come off it," she said to his disgusted look, setting her teacup in its saucer without even a hint of rattle. "Firstly, I did not summon you. I asked you to meet me. Secondly, I know that you'd been meeting Harry off and on in the muggle world for months, before everything changed. There's no need for the act."
He stared at her, dumbfounded. Rather uncharitably, Hermione thought he looked like a particularly dim fish, with his draw dropped open like that.
Finally, he seemed to gather himself. "He told you about that?"
"Did you think he wouldn't?" she asked, genuinely surprised.
"Weasley doesn't know," he argued, absolutely certain on that point.
"And?" She raised an eyebrow at him rather than expound on the stupidity of his conclusion.
"Fair point. But that still doesn't explain why you... invited... me here. Potter and I are barely past the nemesis stage, edging somewhat into acquaintanceship. I don't know what you want from me."
"It wouldn't kill you to admit that you're mates, you know." But she moved on. "Harry is dying."
And wow, that was the first time she'd said it out loud. It felt like the words echoed through the room, but no one paused their own conversations to stop and stare, so it must have been in her head. Her ears were ringing with the force of it, and she could hardly make out Malfoy's response.
She did see the way his expression shuttered, though. "I heard. Not sure what that has to do with me. If you're expecting me to come cry at his bedside, you can keep dreaming. It's a bit crowded, anyway, between you and the Weasel."
The banter was dragging on, and she had so little time to spare.
"I think he's been afflicted with a blood curse," she said bluntly, cutting straight to the chase. "I need access to any relevant books you might have in your family's library."
"Are you out of your bloody mind?" he hissed, leaning across the table toward her. His hands were shaking with fury.
"No. I wouldn't ask, but—"
"That is incredibly dark magic—" as if she didn't already know that— "that requires immense sacrifice, willpower, and hatred. Just possessing a book about it could revoke my parole and land my whole family in Azkaban, Granger. How dare you."
"If I had any intention to hurt your family, Malfoy, I wouldn't have spoken up at your trial," she pointed out. "I guess I thought you might want to help Harry, if you could."
"By confessing to possession of highly dangerous spell books and turning them over to a—"
"A mudblood?" she finished calmly.
"A member of the golden trio," he corrected, acid spitting in his voice. "There's generosity, Granger, and then there's self-sabotaging stupidity. And at the end of the day, I'm a Malfoy. Survival is what we do."
Hermione could think of a lot of self-sabotaging choices his family had made during the war, but she bit her tongue. She said nothing as the chair screeched along the floor again, nor did she listen to the heavy sounds of his feet hitting the floor as he stomped away.
Instead, she focused on pouring herself another cup of tea, squeezed some more lemon, and tried not to cry.
The next morning, Remus called her away from Harry's bedside. Ron gave her a questioning look, but she just shrugged and gave Harry a final squeeze of the hand before standing up.
"I'll be back for lunch," she promised, making him smile.
"Only if Sirius and Remus force you to remember to eat," Harry rasped. It was clearly intended as a joke, but the effort of speaking took too much out of him for it to land as intended. As it was, Ron was already waiting with a glass of water to ease his throat.
"I'll be back," she repeated firmly, staring into Harry's eyes a moment longer before nodding a farewell to Ron. The redhead was staring at them strangely, but she was in too much of a rush to wonder about it.
Remus was in the library, standing side by side with Sirius. Both men were staring at something on the ground, which was blocked from her line of sight by their bodies.
"Hermione, what have you done?" Remus asked, tossing a furious look over his shoulder before turning back to face… whatever it was. Like it was a live animal, ready to attack at any moment. But when she eased around them to catch a look, it was just a pile of books.
A lot of books, to be sure, but still. Books.
"What's going on here?" she asked, bewildered.
"That's what we want to know," Sirius replied hotly, thrusting a piece of parchment in her face. "A house elf popped in with these not ten minutes ago. There was a note."
Granger, it read,
Congratulations, you've mastered the art of the guilt trip. Always knew you were as cunning as a snake, even without the pedigree. Here's everything I could find.
Don't mention it. Seriously, don't.
DM
P.S. Tell Potter he's not allowed to die until I get a proper rematch on the pitch.
"What did you say to him?" Sirius sounded somewhere between awed and horrified, but all Hermione could do was shrug.
"Nothing, actually. All I did was appeal to his sense of decency and his weird friendship with Harry." When Sirius snorted, she shrugged. "It's true. I didn't have any other cards to play, but I had to try."
"Well, whatever you did it seemed to work." Remus pulled our his wand and started to cast. "But we'd be idiots not to test them, just in case."
To all of their surprise (and suspicion), the books came back completely clean. Even Hermione, who hadn't been expecting a serious curse, was curious to find that Malfoy hadn't even put a school-level hex or jinx on them.
Then she was mostly just annoyed when the two Marauders insisted on checking them all again.
"Not everyone thinks the way you two do, where everything is a prank," she huffed, ignoring both their incredulous looks and her tumultuous history with the wizard in question. "Actually, this probably is the prank. Goading you into searching for hours for something that isn't even there."
Sirius shrugged, unbothered. "Not sure if the Malfoy brat is clever enough for that, but it would be a good prank."
"Better to waste our time than to lose hours of research because we have to treat you for some obscure hex," Remus added.
Even Hermione had to concede that point, as she was all about expediency at the moment. Still— "if you two insist on doing this, I'm going back up to spend time with Harry and Ron."
She passed Mrs Weasley on the way, who wrapped her in a long, warm hug but didn't say anything except, "I'll have someone bring dinner up in a bit, love."
Hermione smiled, grateful beyond words for the formidable woman, and went upstairs.
Ron was regaling Harry with the stats of the last Cannons match when she walked in. At first glance, it wasn't easy to tell whether Harry's glazed over expression was due to his illness or the utter dullness of the subject matter. Unfortunately, she already knew the answer. In the last week or so, he'd developed a flush to his cheeks that only seemed to show up when he was low on energy—so, pretty much any time after afternoon tea these days.
Still, he managed to send a smile to where she lingered in the doorway. Ron, catching his best mate's drifting attention, turned to face her as well.
"Oi, there you are, 'Mione. I was just telling Harry about the Cannons-Falcons match last night. I know you're not a fan of quidditch, but you should have seen it. Absolutely mad!"
"Let me guess," she said around a yawn, "the Cannons were robbed?"
Harry winced at the way her jaw cracked and patted the bed next to him. She made her way over to perch on the side, listening as Ron supplied them with a full play-by-play of how, indeed, the Cannons' victory was ripped out from beneath them.
The familiarity of the scene was enough to put her completely at ease, and it wasn't long before Hermione was swaying where she sat.
"Hey," Harry finally murmured, interrupting Ron, "lie down for a bit."
"Crikey, he's right. You look like death warmed over, Hermione. Even worse than Harry, these days. Sorry," he muttered immediately to their friend, blushing.
But Harry just laughed, tugging gently on Hermione's shoulder until she caved and allowed herself to sink back onto the second pillow on his bed. Maybe a short rest wouldn't be too terrible...
She fell asleep like that, warm and safe next to Harry with Ron's voice filling the air around them. Dreams beckoned, and she was too comfortable and content to resist.
No one disturbed her.
She didn't wake until the following morning, Harry solid and slightly snoring beside her.
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR BLOODY MIND?"
"Remus, listen—"
"What has happened to you?" the normally-sanguine man spat. Sirius stretched out a hand to soothe him, but Remus jerked away. His eyes were almost fully golden, and Hermione knew she didn't have long before he lost himself entirely to rage and refused to listen at all. "Have you gone absolutely mad?"
"Remus, listen to me—"
"Weeks of research and all-night reading to save Harry's life and this is what you come up with? I thought better of you, Hermione—"
"SHUT UP for one minute, Remus," Hermione finally exploded, "and listen to what I'm telling you. You can yell at me afterward, if necessary, but you need to listen first."
This time, when Sirius reached out Remus didn't pull away. He let the shorter man pull him in the direction of the couch but refused to sit. Instead, he paced back and forth behind it.
Unable to shake the instinct of prey caught in the gaze of a hungry predator, Hermione also remained standing. Shaking his head at the both of them, Sirius sprawled out on the couch. It didn't escape her notice, though, that he'd purposely put himself between them. It warmed her heart, even if the protectiveness was entirely unnecessary. Remus would never hurt her.
"Talk," Remus ordered. She could hear his teeth grinding from across the room, and had to fight a wince.
"Blood curses are too specific to fight without knowing certain details," Hermione began. Remus rolled his eyes but she ignored him; yes, he already knew the information but it was important to her conclusion. "And there are too many people out there who have the motive, knowledge, and means to cast one on Harry. We have no time to narrow it down, no time to figure out all the specifics that a traditional curse-breaking would require."
"Yes, we know," Sirius interjected, looking pale. It was tearing him apart, not being able to help his godson, and her recitation of the bleakness of the situation wasn't helping.
"But the curse is tied to blood, which the human body replenishes on its own. And as the body creates more blood, so does the curse replicate itself. Which is why blood-replenishing potions don't actually work. They're not doing anything to remove the curse from the blood, only to prevent Harry from bleeding out from a physical injury."
"And what does this have to do with a werewolf bite?" Remus growled.
Sirius was staring at her, face transforming into something a little awestruck, and Hermione thought he might have caught on.
"Werewolf bites pass through the blood as well, when the saliva hits the bloodstream. That's why a bite is required for a full change to lycanthropy. They burn through the body via blood circulation, changing the person's magical and physical structure. Overriding what's already there," she explained.
"You think the lycanthropy will burn out the blood curse," Sirius surmised. Hope started to creep across his expression, much as it had for Hermione when she'd had the idea early that morning.
She nodded. "And if we're lucky, the power of the lycanthropic magic will burn itself out on the curse and he won't turn. If the curse is as strong as I suspect, he might just end up a little more like Bill, with a taste for rare steaks but no full shifts."
Remus finally stood still, staring at her from the other side of the couch.
"Well? Do you agree that it might work?" The hope was impossible to disguise from her voice, and she didn't even try. It was their only chance. She could feel that in her bones.
"We could hear shouting," Ron informed her as she stepped through the door. "Everyone still in one piece?"
"Creative differences." She shrugged, holding out her jumper and twirling around to show them she was fine. "Not even singed. Everything is fine."
"It wasn't you we were worried about," Ron joked. "Could've just told them not to bother arguing with you and saved everyone the trouble."
"So," Harry interjected, deflating the mood. He hadn't taken his eyes off her since she'd entered the room. But it wasn't the flattering sort of stare; more like he was searching her out for secrets and lies. He hadn't looked at her that way since fifth year, and she hated it. "Werewolf bite?"
When she looked at them in utter confusion, Ron held up an extendable ear. He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "We wanted to know what you lot were up to."
"It wasn't a secret," she defended hotly, "but you hate research and Harry you're so low on energy anyway. I was going to say something."
"After you asked Remus," Harry retorted.
"Well, of course. It couldn't very well happen without his permission, now could it. Unless you're on amicable terms with another werewolf who regularly takes wolfsbane?"
Harry sulked a little, but couldn't counter her point. The bright anger in his eyes was already fading even as he collapsed back into his pillows.
Surprisingly, his show of temper was reassuring. Unpleasant, to be sure, but it reminded her that Harry was still in there, fighting to make it through.
"I guess Remus didn't take it well," Ron surmised, "based on the rattling of the entire house during your shouting match."
"You could say that," Hermione agreed, but she kept her eyes on Harry.
"Why a werewolf bite?" Harry wanted to know. "What will that do?"
So she told him, explaining that it was theoretical and a conclusion she'd drawn from various texts on blood curses, most of them first-person accounts.
"Do you think this is my best shot?" he asked, eyes momentarily sharp and trained on her.
"Harry," she choked, "I think this is your only shot."
"Okay. Okay." His deep, precise breathing was the only sound in the room. Then, "could I speak to Remus, please?"
"Of course."
"I'll see if Mum needs any help with preparing food," Ron hurriedly offered, joining Hermione in the hall. They descended the staircase in silence, but he drew her to a halt once they reached the landing. "Hermione... when you say this is his best chance—"
"Ron," she said softly, staring up at him with tears in her eyes, "I think this is his only chance. We're out of time. I didn't have many options to begin with, but I certainly don't have any others now."
"And if it doesn't work?"
She didn't pull punches. "He'll die. But that's exactly what is going to happen if we do nothing, and I refuse to abandon him to this. Ron, I can't lose him."
"We can't lose him." He squeezes her hand in solidarity. "Well, you're Hermione Granger, the brains of the Golden Trio, Brightest Witch of the Age. If you say it can be done, then I believe you."
She wished she felt the same. Unwilling to crush his hope, though, she said nothing. "I need to find Remus. You go help your mum."
He did, looking like he got the better end of the deal. Hermione, who agreed with that assessment, sighed and went to search out their resident werewolf.
The conversation between Harry and Remus seemed to go better than hers, if only because no commotions erupted from inside Harry's room.
She and Sirius were camped directly outside, on hand to intervene if necessary. But either Remus had thrown up a silencing charm, or—more likely—he wasn't willing to yell at Harry the way he had at Hermione. Sad, morbid benefits of being practically on your deathbed, she supposed.
Like he'd read her mind, Sirius slung an arm around her shoulders and murmured, "See, I told you this part would be fine."
Hermione nodded, but didn't reply. She was still picturing the utter fury on Remus's face when she'd suggested the plan, like she'd gone mad and betrayed him all in one.
Some of her thoughts must have been apparent by her expression, because Sirius was suddenly straightening up as he tightened his arm, drawing her in closer. "Hey now, none of that. Remus is just scared, love. We all are, but we aren't the ones who'd have to bite Harry. I know it's not the same, but Remus would lay down and die if he ever hurt him."
"I know that," she snapped, moving out from under his arm and turning to pace back and forth down the hallway. "This was my plan. I have spent months trying to find a way to save Harry's life, weeks of nonstop research into blood curses, days without sleep—everything I do is to keep Harry safe and alive. And to think that I'd suggest something that would put him in danger—"
"I don't think that, Hermione." Sirius' eyes flicked behind her as he spoke, and she knew what she'd find even before she turned around.
Remus offered her a sad smile. "And neither do I." One look at her expression and he sighed, shoulders crumpling. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I do trust you. I'm just afraid. I know that you don't have the same—issues—as I do with lycanthropy, but I spent so long without a pack that it's hard to turn them off. I don't want to hurt Harry, it's true, but I agree that this is the best shot we have. And, more importantly, so does Harry. Forgive me?"
Her tense shoulders had already started to drop halfway through Remus's little speech, so by the time he asked for forgiveness and opened his arms she was already halfway there, throwing herself headlong into the embrace. Sirius bracketed them along the back, and it was the warmest she'd felt in days.
"We have four days until the full moon," she said as she pulled away, swiping at her eyes and pretending she didn't see the men doing the same. "We won't have another chance, so this has to be perfect."
"Alright," Sirius said, looking somber for once. "What do we do?"
Remus and Hermione exchanged a determined look. "We plan."
Preparing for the full moon was nerve-wracking. Watching Remus get progressively more anxious and yet equally more downtrodden was devastating, and Hermione was tempted to call the whole thing off more than once.
But then she looked at Harry, who deteriorated each day until he could hardly make conversation anymore, and she knew they had no choice.
"Hey," Harry whispered, when she was checking on him one last time before heading to the basement for final preparations on the day of the full moon, "hey." Hermione, he mouthed, no longer able to catch enough breath to say her name out loud.
"Harry, what is it?" She sat at the edge of his bed, gripping his hand. Somewhere behind her, she could hear Ron get up and leave, but she refused to turn away from Harry. The door snicked quietly shut, and she watched as he tried again.
A gentle press of his palm against hers, and she was leaning in closer. She watched him visibly gather strength, fighting against his own body to get out whatever it was he needed to say. Not wanting to miss a single moment with him, she furiously blinked away the tears gathering in her eyes.
"If I don't make it," he forced himself to murmur, after a few stops and starts, "it's not your fault."
"You're going to get through this," she immediately assured, only to freeze when he shook his head. He squeezed her palm again.
"You've done everything you can."
Now the tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. "Don't give up on me, Harry. Not now. We're so close."
"Not," he rebutted, shaking his head again. "Not. Trust you. But... not your fault."
Hermione squeezed his hand to let him know she understood. She could never agree, but this was clearly necessary for his peace of mind. "How about we get through this just fine, and then neither of us has to worry about it?"
"Deal." One side of his mouth quirked up—Harry's equivalent of a full-blown grin, these days. "Stay?"
There were a million things left on her list, it felt like, but, "Yeah, I'll stay until you fall asleep."
And as she laid there, staring up at the ceiling with Harry wheezing lightly at her shoulder, she prayed to every god she'd ever heard of to bring him safely through to the other side. And when that didn't feel like enough, she dug deep into herself. Picturing her magic, flowing through and around and within her as it always had, wild and cunning and fierce.
She pictured herself gripping it tightly in her hands. He's going to make it through this, she swore to it. We'll make sure of it.
It probably didn't change anything, in the real world, but the silent oath made her feel better.
"'Mione?" Ron called quietly from the door, opening it a smidge to peek around the frame, "they're asking for you."
"Are you sure this is the right thing to do?" Mrs Weasley was fretting as Hermione came down the stairs. "Surely it's too much of a risk."
"It's the only option we have," Sirius reiterated with surprising patience.
Sick of the argument, which had played out countless times over the past several days, Hermione cut the older woman off before she could argue further. "Harry will die either way in the next few days, if nothing is done. We don't have a choice."
Then she stalked away, leaving a mess of redheads to comfort their matriarch.
"Harsh," Ron remarked without any judgment. He'd followed her instead of staying with his mother, which she'd only half-expected. Even after all these years, she still sometimes didn't give him enough credit. "It'll be alright, Hermione."
"They've had that argument a hundred times already," Hermione defended. "And we don't have time to start on the second set."
"I agree," Remus said from within the basement. He was staring at the iron bars separating one half of the room from the other, then at the cot they'd set up just on this side of the cell. The cot where Harry would lay after Remus bit him.
He tore his eyes away from it to ask, "and we're sure that the wolfsbane—"
The devastating worry in his eyes softened her, and so when Hermione cut him off it was out of kindness. "I made it myself, Remus. Just as I do every month. So unless it's been failing every time and you've just been too polite to say something?"
"No." He laughed mirthlessly. "Trust me, you'd know."
"Then we're fine," she said, not taking the bait. "All that's left is to take your last dose and wait for moonrise."
He nodded and, tearing his gaze away from the entrance to the cage, headed upstairs to presumably do just that.
"It'll work," Ron murmured to her once more, when they were alone and she didn't feel the need to stand ramrod straight with a righteous air.
"It has to," she sighed, turning to lean her head against his chest. His arms came up to wrap around her, a warm and reassuring weight. "Ron, it has to. I can't imagine—"
"Then don't," he said, cutting her off. "It'll work. Have some faith in yourself. You've never let Harry down. He knows that, you know it, we all do. And you're not going to start now."
"You're right." She swiped at her eyes roughly and straightened once more. "It's almost time. Let's go get Harry and bring him down."
Ron squeezed her shoulder and followed her lead, supporting her in the best way—in the way she needed—as he always did.
The actual lycanthropic transformation was horrifying. Hermione hadn't remembered it clearly, that night in third year blurred by time and stress and fear, and she wished for Remus's sake that she didn't have to witness this one.
Sirius was used to it, and had already transformed himself into Padfoot besides. He patrolled the outside of Remus's cell, prepared to bite and scratch and force the werewolf back if necessary. If something went wrong and he didn't seem to have control over himself—a possibility Hermione didn't even want to contemplate.
She and Ron tried to avert their eyes as best they could, while Mr Weasley stayed at the back of the room nearest the door, wand out and ready for trouble. Their final (and hopefully unnecessary) backup.
Harry himself stayed asleep, which was a blessing. The sound of cracking bones and howls of agony was enough to break even the hardest of hearts.
Until there was silence, and a werewolf was sitting at the edge of the cage, watching Harry with a mournful gaze. When Moony turned his eyes on Hermione, she had to suppress a flinch. Not because of the liquid gold of his eyes or his predatory visage, but because of the grief in Moony's eyes.
"I'm sorry," she murmured to the werewolf, moving to stand at Harry's hip. An acknowledging huff was Moony's only reply; otherwise, he sat stock still and waited for the next phase of the plan.
With Padfoot lurking just within reach, ready to jump in and drive Moony back if necessary, Hermione nodded to Ron. He carefully levitated Harry in mid-air, with her guiding hand to stabilize and maneuver him gently over to the cage.
Holding her breath, Hermione took hold of one limp arm and held it away from Harry's body, pressing it wrist-out to an opening in the bars.
With one last baleful look at her, Moony took hold of the delicate skin at Harry's wrist between his sharp teeth and bit down. It was the most cautious, careful movement anyone could have ever asked for, allowing them to draw Harry back as soon as blood began to well in the puncture marks.
Hermione watched in concern as the werewolf moved to the opposite wall and laid down, curling up so that his back faced the rest of the room. She wanted to say something, heart aching for the horrible burden she'd asked Remus to bear, but a gentle nudge at her hip had her looking down. Padfoot met her eyes, then purposely shook his head once.
And, really, if Sirius didn't think she should try to say anything now, she wouldn't. No one knew Remus (or Moony, for that matter) better.
And then Hermione wasn't thinking about it at all, because Harry began to groan and convulse where he hovered in mid-air. Ron shook with the strain of keeping him steady, so she took out her wand to help. Together they managed to lower him onto the cot without incident, but Hermione still bit her lip in worry.
"I didn't expect it to happen this fast," she said, looking over at Sirius—who'd shifted back in all the commotion, thankfully—for support.
He shrugged miserably. None of them had ever seen an initial infection before, so no one had known what to expect. Well, except for Remus, but he'd been too young and traumatized at the time to remember much of Greyback's bite.
That was another reason Hermione had hoped to have Harry out of the room before there was any effect. She cast a guilty glance backward, but Moony was still facing the wall. The only sign of his awareness was the flicking of his ears, which twitched along with every one of Harry's groans.
There was nothing she could do about it now, so instead she focused on making Harry comfortable.
"I don't think we should move him," she murmured to Sirius and Ron, who immediately nodded in agreement. "Okay, well, let's do what we can to make him comfortable. With as little magic as possible, I think." Her brain was running a mile a minute, worrying about blood curses and lycanthropy and the possible complications of adding magical spells or potions on top of an already-volatile mix. She shuddered. "Yeah, no magic."
They nodded again, clearly deferring to her authority in the situation. It might be funny, in any other circumstances, to have two such infamously lively personalities mute and pliant to her orders. Instead, it just emphasized the perilous situation they were in. One with Harry's life hanging in the balance.
She shook her head; there was no time for thoughts like those now.
"He's got a fever," Sirius noted, the back of his hand pressed against Harry's forehead. "Not terrible, just yet, but rising. And fast."
"A cloth and cold water," Hermione ordered Ron, barely able to tear her eyes away from Harry's steadily-flushing cheeks.
"I've got it." Arthur was hurrying out the door and up the stairs before any of them could object.
The other three stared down at Harry in worried helplessness as he continued to thrash and sweat on the cot.
"Is this supposed to happen?" Ron whispered. She didn't have an answer.
"He's too hot," Sirius said again, with more urgency. "Ron, help me get his shirt off. Hermione, get ready with a cooling charm just in case." She nodded and readied her wand, at a complete loss but unwilling to give up on her best friend.
"I thought we didn't want to use magic on him, in case it interferes with the—you know, process." To his credit, Ron never stopped moving even as he expressed his confusion. They ripped Harry's t-shirt down the middle, allowing the torn pieces to fall away from his chest.
"We don't," Hermione answered, her eyes flicking to the door. Where was Arthur? "But we might not have a choice. Come on, Harry, fight!"
Harry's chest was heaving, his breath a gasping wheeze as he fought for air, but still he didn't wake up. His eyes darted back and forth beneath their lids, and his whole body had developed a slight tremor.
Hermione was about to throw all remaining caution to the wind and cast a cooling charm on him—just as Arthur came thundering back down the stairs with washcloths and a pail of water—when Harry took one last huge, shuddering breath...
And fell still. He didn't move again.
Moony began to howl, and all hell broke loose.
Harry woke up easily, sliding from unconsciousness to a hazy half-awake state without so much as a twitch. For a long moment he stared up at the ceiling in disbelief, having been mostly convinced that he'd never wake up again.
But no, there was a very recognizable halo of riotous hair at the corner of his vision. It was practically crackling with magical power, and he worried for his best friend's state of mind.
As if hair that impressive could belong to anyone but Hermione.
Now that his mind was coming back into focus, he registered the soft, manic muttering coming from the young woman at his bedside. She'd chewed straight through her lip, it looked like, or at least worried it so much that her lower lip had chapped and scraped and bled a little. Hermione was glaring ferociously at some kind of diagnostic charm hovering in the air between them; she was so upset about whatever it was telling her that she hadn't even noticed he was awake.
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Not wanting to startle her, Harry gingerly eased a mostly-numb hand across the blanket to rest just above her knee.
It was almost comical to watch, the way her gaze immediately dropped to his hand, then stared at it for a long, dumbfounded moment. It was a look he recognized from the worst of her revising days, when he and Ron had to bully her to take any kind of rest at all. The familiarity of the expression caused worry and remorse to surge in his gut.
But then she was staring at him, and he couldn't tell if she was crying. Not when a film of moisture had blurred his own vision. He blinked it away, not wanting to lose a moment of this.
Yes, she was crying. He watched a little sadly as a tear coursed its way down her cheek, reaching up to catch it just as it threatened to escape her chin.
"Hermione," he breathed.
He only had a single moment to bask in the open relief and adoration on her face before she was seizing him in one of her signature hugs, but it might as well have lasted a lifetime. For as long as he lived (again), Harry would remember that look and treasure it.
"You're alright," she sobbed into Harry's neck, squeezing him tighter. It never entered his mind to complain. Instead, he pulled her in even tighter, until she was practically draped over the top half of his body. If Harry had his way, she'd never leave.
But Hermione was never one to follow someone else's wishes, and so it wasn't long until she was pushing back upright. She kept a shaking hand pressed against his cheek, though, so he couldn't complain too much.
"You're alright," she said again, voice cracking in wonder. "You're alive."
"I am. Was there ever any question?" He joked. "I had you on the case."
She shook her head, not willing to be teased. "You have no idea, Harry. It was so close. You stopped breathing, and I—we almost lost you."
He did have an idea, having died before (and this time again, if he wasn't mistaken, at least for a moment). But he wasn't going to tell her that.
"I'm here. You saved me." Then, because death and regret was on his mind— "I love you, Hermione."
"I love you, too," she replied immediately, but her expression didn't change.
"No, 'Mione. I love you. I loved you at the Battle of Hogwarts, when I walked into the forest, I've loved you the whole time you've been searching for a cure, and I love you still. I don't think I can wait for a third near-death experience to finally tell you how I feel."
"Oh, Harry. I love you too." But still her expression didn't change. Before he could think through the implications of that—had they truly been dancing around each other all this time?—she was kissing him.
Her lips were chapped and rough and his breath was more than a little stale, but it was still the sweetest kiss he'd ever had. And then Hermione was waving her wand and muttering against his mouth, and his breath was fresh and her lips were soft and—
Brightest witch of the age, he thought to himself fondly. Then, a little more nonsensically, this was worth almost-dying for. Luckily his mouth was too occupied to voice that thought, or their first embrace would be over far too soon and his ears would undoubtedly be ringing with a lecture.
When she pulled back, eventually having to give in to their need to breathe, her cheeks were rosy and a happy smile tugged at her mouth.
"Well," she said somewhat dazedly, patting at her hair where his hands had tangled her curls even further, "that was..."
"A long time overdue, if you ask me," said a new voice from the doorway. "I'm glad you're awake, Harry," added Remus, grinning at them mischievously, "and that you finally took your shot. I'll go let Sirius know you're awake, give you two a few more minutes." There was a strange, long look—incongruous with Remus's tone or the happiness of the moment—that was exchanged between Remus and Hermione. It was brief, like a cloud passing over the sun, and then it was gone. And then so was Remus, whistling a jaunty little tune as he walked down the hall.
Harry cast a questioning look at Hermione, who still looked like she was on the verge of falling apart at any moment, then swallowed his questions. There was time for that later, and for catching up with everything he'd missed in the time that he'd been too sick to pay attention to the world around him. It could all wait, now that he had time.
Besides, he had something better to focus on, right now. Finally. And wasn't that an uplifting thought.
"Well," Harry parroted, smiling up at Hermione with a happy grin. Her cheeks bloomed a charming flush in response, and her smile grew until it threatened to outshine his own. "We're never gonna live that one down."
He reached out to twine her fingers with his, enjoying even that small amount of contact. His eyes couldn't stop tracing the planes of her face, from the freckles racing across her nose to her full lips and dazzling honey eyes. It didn't feel like an exaggeration to say that he could spend the rest of his life looking at that face and never grow tired of it.
"I don't mind if you don't," she replied boldly, drawing him back to the moment.
Harry shrugged, trying to hold on to some semblance of nonchalance even as his cheeks were starting to hurt with the force of his smile and his heart felt as though it could burst. "Like he said, it's been a long time coming."
"I don't mind," Hermione confessed, leaning forward to press her forehead against his. Abruptly, she pulled back. "But you better not make a habit out of near-death experiences and romantic gestures, Harry James Potter. My heart can't take any more of this."
Reaching up to draw her face back down to his, Harry murmured against her lips, "I solemnly swear."
Banter lost its appeal after that, as they remembered all the more enjoyable things their mouths could be doing instead. They didn't break apart again until there was a wolf whistle from the door.
Sirius was there, grinning through his tears. Remus stood just past his shoulder, shaking his head even as he chuckled. "I even warned you. Young love," he tsked.
It wasn't until after dinner—once the Weasleys, satisfied with his recovery, had gone home—when the five of them were sitting in the library that he remembered to ask.
"So—" Remembering the strange look between Hermione and Remus earlier that day, he hesitated. But Harry really needed to know, and they were all staring at him now anyway. "Chances that I'm going to have to come up with a nickname for my alter ego next month...?"
Silence. Ron shrugged when he looked his way, as clueless as Harry. Sirius smiled at him before quickly looking between Hermione and Remus; clearly, he knew something about the tension between them. Hermione bit her lip and met Harry's gaze before casting a glance in Remus's general direction.
Which, duh. If anyone would know, it would be Remus. But clearly they were all dancing around it. Again, Harry wondered what had occurred the previous night to set everyone so on edge.
But when he looked at Remus, the man was smiling. An edge of mischief curved his lip as he answered, "Unless you've been working on your Animagus form while you've been bedridden, then none. Hermione was right. I can't smell any lycanthropy on you at all, other than the scent of my bite."
Harry's wrist throbbed at the words, and he realized he'd been absentmindedly rubbing at it through his sleeve. He pulled the fabric out of the way to take a look, but it just looked like a fresh scar. Not a recent wound, as it should've been, but—just a scar.
"It won't fade." There was a sad look in Remus's eye when Harry looked up, causing Harry to immediately shake his head.
"I don't mind." And he didn't, but still it was a relief to see the way his words made Remus relax. And as the older man relaxed, so did Hermione and Sirius.
And oh.
"I wouldn't have minded, you know. If I did turn every month. We're already making wolfsbane for you, I doubt Hermione would mind doubling the batch. Besides, we've been working on our animagus forms for a while—just had to put it on pause for all of this," he explained, waving his hands nebulously to reference his illness and temporary death.
"That was a secret, mate," Ron hissed good-naturedly, but Harry was watching Remus's shoulders ease just a little bit further.
"Yeah," the older man admitted, "Hermione said as much."
Ron snorted. "You're not usually this slow on the uptake, Remus. Don't you know Hermione's always right?"
A pillow smacked him across the face as they all began to laugh, even as Sirius congratulated Hermione on her excellent aim.
Harry met Remus's eye across the room. "Thank you," he whispered, knowing the werewolf would hear him. "I wasn't ready to give this up."
A tear slipped over Remus's cheek, even as he smiled and nodded. And for the first time since Harry had first fallen ill, the whole house was filled with unfettered joy.
It didn't feel like too much to hope that it would finally stay that way.