Chapter 49 – One Soul to Another
With his fear almost rendering him incapacitated, Harry watched one of the girls he loved as her eyes fluttered closed and she slumped into his arms. For Harry, the whole world ceased to exist. For a moment after her eyes closed his heart seemed to cease beating.
It appeared like Hermione was gone.
He leaned down and pressed his ear to her face, immensely relieved to detect the feather touch of her breath against his cheek. But each breath, each rise and fall of her chest, as much as he could discern, appeared to be labored, each one coming more difficult than the last.
Hermione was dying. He might have only moments before she left him.
He frantically tried to stop the flow of blood, but his robes were already becoming soaked with her life's blood and the flow was quickly becoming sluggish. He knew no healing charms and had no potions available to aid in her recovery, but he knew that Dumbledore would be only a few moments behind him. If she could hold on for a few more moments all would be well. It had to be!
But a few moments were more than it appeared Hermione had. As he continued to focus on staunching the flow of blood, Hermione's breaths continued to become shallower. And when Hermione shuddered for what appeared to be the final time, Harry acted more by instinct than any conscious thought.
Reaching out with every sense he possessed, Harry pushed out with his magic, reaching, grasping, and feeling for her presence. He flailed about for a few anxious moments before the tendrils of this questing seemed to latch on to something, and through his senses—though he could not have said what sense it actually was—he could feel the vibrancy that was Hermione. He latched on to her presence with the tenderness and fervor of a lover, drawing her to him, intent upon never letting go. All at once he could feel the warmth and beauty that was Hermione envelop him like a warm comforting blanket. Harry could not be certain what he was doing, but what ever it was, he felt the rise and fall of her chest resume once again and the feel of her breath on his cheek as he leaned forward. She seemed to be stabilized, or perhaps it was more correct to suggest that at the very least she was not worsening.
Unconscious of anything but the need to keep Hermione with him, Harry struggled to hold on to her. Almost immediately he felt the strain of doing so, the strength he possessed beginning to ebb away as quickly as though he had been running for days without respite. Grimly Harry held on, willing more and more of himself into maintaining his tenuous grasp on the life of his closest friend, hoping desperately that someone would arrive quickly. At the rate he was tiring he was not certain how long he could hold on.
For the first morning in more than a week, Albus Dumbledore was enjoying having nothing more to do than enjoy a cup of tea, flavored with his favorite blend of lemon and sugar—his fondness for lemons extended well beyond his ever-present lemon drops—and sit in his office with the morning newspaper. He had eschewed breakfast in the Great Hall that morning, partially because he thought a little solitude would do him good, and partially because he did not consider himself good company that morning.
The fact of the matter was that he was troubled. The trials had taken much out of him—and out of the Wizarding world in general, he suspected—and now they would have to deal with the fallout. What form it would take, Albus was uncertain, but knowing Tom Riddle as he did, Albus did not doubt that the response would be violent and bloody, and it would not be long before Tom made his move.
He had taken a brief moment to have a word with Severus the night before, but while he appeared to still be in good stead with Voldemort, he reported that his information was now seen as suspect. It was an unfortunate consequence of the incident at the Ministry, but given the fact that Voldemort had ultimately been kept from obtaining the prophecy, it was worth it. Severus would still be able to glean information from the Death Eaters, and though they would be required to be more careful, it was still possible that he could feed disinformation to Voldemort. And now that the Ministry was on a war footing, their capability to defend against Voldemort's aggression had never been higher.
The executions the previous day did bother Albus. He was not concerned over the fact that the men had been put to death—they had deserved that and more for their actions. No, he was always more concerned with the fact that their lives had been wasted on hatred and vile deeds. As an educator for many of the years of his life, it was Albus's goal to make certain that every young person achieved their dreams and contributed to society; it was a hard pill to swallow when some of those who passed through the halls of Hogwarts used their talents to the detriment of society rather than its benefit. And though Albus knew that there was no reasonable way in which he could be held personally accountable for what they had become, he was still beset by regrets.
There was nothing to be done. Lucius Malfoy and his compatriots had chosen their own course and had paid the price for their actions. No matter how he or anyone else tried, not everyone would turn out well. Everyone had their own freedom of choice, after all, and if some should choose an evil path, then the consequences would be on their heads.
Thus it was, as he was musing that morning, that his reverie was disturbed by a bright and shining Patronus in the shape of a stag. It was one he knew very well indeed. It entered and paused for the briefest of moments, one ethereal hoof pawing at the floor, before it delivered its message:
Hermione has been injured by a dark cutting curse. We are in the passage to Honeydukes!
Leaping to his feet, Albus glanced over at the perch of his ever-faithful familiar and companion, regretting the fact that the phoenix had just the night before undergone a burning day. The phoenix would have been useful for more than one reason, Albus suspected rather ruefully.
Grasping a parchment from the top of his desk, Albus pointed his wand at it and intoned, "Portus!" The paper glowed blue for the briefest of moments, before it faded, and it once again appeared to be nothing more than a commonplace school document. Taking a deep breath, Albus held it in his hand and called out, "Tunnel!" The familiar sensation of a Portkey washed over him and after the extremely brief journey, Albus found himself standing in the darkness of the tunnel.
Lighting his wand, Albus looked in both directions of the tunnel. He had placed himself near the exit through the one-eyed witch, thinking that if the stricken girl was near the entrance, he would be able to see her and if not, he would be able to proceed in the correct direction, thereby wasting as little time as possible. As the light of his wand showed nothing toward the entrance, Albus turned and immediately began hurrying toward Hogsmeade with a swiftness which belied his great age. Never had he been more grateful that as a side effect of having magic, the body was allowed to age in a much slower and more graceful manner.
As he moved down the passage, Albus wondered what could have happened, while fearing the possibilities. That the passage was where Miss Granger's injury had occurred was an oddity, and unless she had for some reason arranged a duel within its confines—something Albus doubted very much—then it left he possibility that she had been attacked, though again why it would have occurred in this out of the way place was a mystery. There were several… unsavory possibilities to consider, chief among them being Mr. Potter's concern for her and Mr. Malfoy which he had shared only a few short days before. If something happened to the girl in the manner that Harry had feared, Albus could only fear the consequence of such an occurrence.
All too soon his suppositions were proven correct. After a few short moments of hurrying along the passage he saw a dim light up in the distance. He approached at an even swifter pace, only to see the boy he looked upon almost as a grandchild, cradled over the unmoving body of the girl Albus suspected he felt much more for than mere friendship. Several other figures moved in the gloom and as Albus moved closer, he could identify them as Miss Delacour and Miss Lovegood—who was hovering over the pair worriedly—and Mr. Weasley and Mr. Longbottom, who were guarding Mr. Malfoy, who was lying on the floor of the passage. Clearly Harry's concerns had been realized.
After Harry had raced from the Great Hall, Fleur, accompanied by Ron, Luna, and Neville, had followed, Ron yelling at Ginny to get Dumbledore. Peripherally, she was aware of several Gryffindors—among them the Weasley twins—who approached the apparently false Draco Malfoy to confront him, but Fleur was beyond such concerns, worried for her closest female friend as she was.
Swiftly they moved from the Great Hall and down toward the Defense Tower, but they were no match for Harry. With a speed borne of desperation, Harry quickly outdistanced them all, ignoring all requests for him to wait for them, if he even heard them at all. Frustrated, Fleur tried to increase her speed—they could not be certain what awaited them, after all, and Fleur did not potentially want to lose Harry to Malfoy, in addition to Hermione.
They passed the results of his short fight with Malfoy's Slytherin bookends, only slowing to look and ensure that they were incapacitated with a quick incarcerous, before entering the tunnel, making the long trek down the passage, hoping that Harry had managed to stop the Slytherin without falling to the boy's wand in his haste.
Just as Fleur was becoming concerned that Malfoy had made it beyond the edge of Hogwarts' wards, she saw a dim light ahead in the tunnel. She looked at her companions, all of whom were now panting heavily at their exertions, and grimly met several pairs of eyes, while moving forward at a more cautious pace. The disastrous scene which met their eyes as they moved forward shocked them.
Harry was holding Hermione to his chest, but neither was moving. Beyond them lay the still form of Draco Malfoy, who appeared to have been flung back to collide obliquely with the wall before falling in a heap on the floor of the passage.
As they approached, Fleur let out a gasp of dismay and sorrow. Hermione's face was pale and her life's blood had spilled all over the floor, coating Harry's hands and tainting his clothes such that Fleur doubted the stain would ever be able to be removed.
"That bastard!" Ron exclaimed as he fell to his knees by Harry's side and reached out and unsteady hand toward the stricken girl.
"Ronald! Neville!" Luna snapped. "Go get Malfoy's wand and watch him."
The two boys looked at the ethereal blond in shock. Fleur could hardly believe her ears at the sound of such an authoritative Luna—it was so unlike her to be so… commanding and direct. After a moment, however, both boys nodded and skirted Harry and Hermione—though Fleur noted that they found it difficult to tear their eyes away from the sight—and went to check on the prone figure of the Slytherin.
Luna moved forward, already ignoring the two boys, and she fixed her eyes upon Hermione. Fleur quickly made her way to Luna's side, though she watched the girl out of the corner of her eye, wondering if she had ever actually seen the girl clearly. Luna must have known that she was under observation, as she turned to eye Fleur with a raised eyebrow.
"The boys wouldn't be any use in this situation," she said airily. "They're both obviously infected with a serious case of Hufflumps and they'd only get in the way."
"Hufflumps?" Fleur asked in spite of herself.
Luna nodded. "Hufflumps are small, insect-like creatures which get into your muscles and paralyze you. Giving Ron and Neville something to occupy themselves will help them overcome the infestation."
Knowing better than to question her unusual friend any further, Fleur turned her attention back to the motionless pair on the floor of the passage, watching as Luna knelt down next to Harry, heedless of Hermione's blood which liberally coated the floor. Carefully, Luna reached out and lifted up Harry's bunched up robes, only to wince when she could see underneath.
"What is it?" Fleur asked, feeling near to tears.
"Some sort of cutting curse, though I've never quite seen the like," Luna replied, shaking her head.
Fleur moved in a little closer to where Luna had lifted the robe, and underneath, she could see the edge of Hermione's torso and could just see the end of a long slash over Hermione's hip. The slash was vivid red in the center, while blackened along the edges. Luna was right—no normal cutting hex had caused Hermione's wounds.
Meanwhile, Luna was running her wand over Hermione, muttering under her breath. Fleur was quiet, allowing the blond to work on her friend for the moment, her worry growing with each moment Luna continued to work.
At length, Luna stopped her muttering, and leaned back.
"What is it?" Fleur asked, trying not to be too demanding.
"I have a bit of knowledge of healing spells, but this is completely beyond me," Luna replied. "Ginny was going to get Dumbledore, right?"
Fleur only nodded. "Do you know what it is?"
Luna shook her head. "I know it's dark, but I can't tell you what it is. Some sort of dark cutting curse. I tried a general healing spell, but it was no good. She needs Madam Pomfrey's attention and some blood replenishers."
Trembling, Fleur reached out to touch Hermione's arm, noting as she did the cold clamminess of her skin. "Will she make it?" Fleur asked with a noticeable tremor in her voice.
"I don't know," Luna said with a sigh. "She is still alive, but I'm not sure quite how. I think Harry is doing something to hold on to her, but I'm pretty sure if she doesn't receive Madam Pomfrey's attention very soon, whatever Harry is doing won't be enough."
With a stifled sob, Fleur reached out to both of her closest friends, only to be brought up short by the sound of an authoritative voice.
"Do not disturb them, Miss Delacour."
As Albus hurried to the side of the stricken girl he noticed two things—first, Fleur and Luna were dangerously close to disturbing Harry—which he immediately handled by warning her back—while the second was that Mr. Malfoy had not gained consciousness, which was probably a good thing for the boy, given the looks on the faces of young Mr. Weasley and Mr. Longbottom. He did not doubt that the vengeance they would exact upon the Malfoy scion would be swift, given even a hint of an opportunity, and Albus could not state for a fact that it was not deserved when he considered the condition of Miss Granger.
"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Longbottom," he called out to the two boys. "Please watch Mr. Malfoy and keep him restrained should he awake. We will deal with him when the time comes, but Miss Granger is the priority now."
The two boys nodded, sending grim but determined glances at other, but Albus had already turned his attention to the two girls who sat around Harry and the girl he had cradled in his arms.
"Miss Delacour, Miss Lovegood, you must tell me what you have discovered while I examine Miss Granger, but under no circumstances are you to disturb Mr. Potter in any way. Any interruption may be very detrimental to them both. Now, please tell me what you know of Miss Granger's injuries."
The Lovegood girl took the lead—unsurprising, as to the best of Albus's knowledge, Miss Delacour's talents did not extend to the healing arts—and as Albus listened to the recitation of the Miss Granger's injuries, Albus found himself fearing the worst. He pulled back the robes which covered Miss Granger, and noted the angry wounds, not to mention the fact that the bleeding had become very sluggish. Clearly, Miss Granger had almost bled out and Harry's intervention was the only thing keeping her alive.
As Albus's eyes wandered over Miss Granger's torso, he pulled back the robes slightly further, and gasped at the sight of several of the wounds crisscrossing each other, and in a moment of epiphany, he knew what he was dealing with. Unfortunately, he also knew that he did not have the knowledge to help her. However, he suspected he knew who knew the counter-curse, if any such existed.
Rising suddenly, Albus motioned to Miss Lovegood to stand as well, before speaking to both girls. "Time is now of the essence." He pulled out his wand and gestured to Luna. "Miss Lovegood, may I see your wand please?"
Without comment the young girl handed her wand to him and Albus waved his own over the wand, intoning, "Portus!" The wand glowed blue for a moment before handing it back to her.
"I have enchanted your wand to be a portkey. Please be careful, as the activation word is 'emergency.' When you state the word while holding your wand in your hand, it will take you to the infirmary, and bring you back here when repeat it. Whatever you do, do not accidentally use the word when you speak with Madam Pomfrey when you meet her in the infirmary while holding your wand, or it will bring you back immediately."
Miss Lovegood nodded at the instructions. "Very well. You will go immediately, and have the nurse bring back everything she will need to assist Miss Granger. She will almost certainly need blood replenishing potions, but Madam Pomfrey will know what else to bring. Go now."
Nodding determinedly, Luna said the pass phrase and disappeared.
"Now, Miss Delacour, I must leave to bring someone who can help with these wounds, as I doubt Madam Pomfrey knows the counter. You must watch them both carefully, and if it appears that Mr. Potter is flagging, you must separate them."
Miss Delacour's eyes appeared troubled. "Won't Hermione die if I do?"
Albus sighed. "Although I am loath to lose such a wonderful young woman of the potential of Miss Granger, Mr. Potter can seriously harm himself. His attempt to save Miss Granger is very noble and so very Harry, but it is also very draining. If he pushes himself past his limits, he can literally kill himself."
Fleur's hand went to her mouth and tears formed in her eyes. The two young people had done very well to connect to such an extent, Albus thought, and in only a very short time. Though he supposed it would properly be termed as three young people, as Miss Granger was very close to them both.
"I do not say this lightly, my dear," Albus said soothingly. "But if Harry's strength flags, Hermione will die. If you do not separate them, he may die too. It truly may come down to a choice between losing one or both of them. I promise you I will return as quickly as I am able."
At Fleur's nod, Albus once again took out his parchment and enchanted it, and with a softly spoken, "Rescue!" he once again felt the pull of the portkey. Moments later he was standing in the potions master's office. Of the potions master himself there was no sign.
Hoping against hope that Severus was not out of the castle dealing with Voldemort, Albus closed his eyes and after a moment of centering himself, Albus reached out and tapped into the castle's wards. As always, the sensation of being in tune with the awesome power of the wards almost drove Albus to his knees—tapping the wards was not something done lightly and was very draining, but the life of a student was at stake and he would do anything he could to see her saved.
Focusing on the presence of Severus Snape, Albus queried the wards, feeling a profound relief when the wards reported that Severus was in the castle. Now he needed to find the man. Sending his senses out, Albus roved this way and that throughout the lines of the castles wards and walls. He checked the most likely areas first—Severus was not in the Great Hall, nor in his quarters, nor was he in his potions lab. Turning yet again, Albus moved closer to the potions classroom, and it was there that he caught a hint of the man for whom he was searching. Severus was currently two corridors down from the classroom, heading in its direction.
Instantly Albus broke the connection to the school's ward, ignoring the feeling of fatigue which settled over him, even after only the few moments in which he had been immersed in the wards. Flicking his wand, Albus cancelled the previous portkey on the parchment and then reset the location, immediately triggering the device.
He materialized at an almost perfect location, just in front of the where the potions master was now approaching the classroom. Rather than start at Albus's sudden appearance, as may have been expected, Severus merely raised an eyebrow and halted. "Headmaster?"
"There is no time, Severus," Albus stated. "You are needed immediately. Please grasp this parchment so that we may leave immediately."
Although with a slight hesitation, Snape quickly took hold of the parchment, and a moment later they were back in the tunnel.
In the tunnel, Neville stonily watched the scene, outwardly striving to remain stoic and unaffected, though inside he was seething, angry as he could ever remember being. Malfoy was a cockroach—a foul little copy of his father, and worthy of nothing more than contempt and ridicule. As he watched as Luna and Fleur worked on Hermione, then as the headmaster arrived and then suddenly departed, Neville thought about the girl who had been assaulted by the Slytherin lying at his feet.
Though Neville would never admit it out loud—and had practically never even admitted it to himself—he was more than a little in love with the girl who lay bleeding in Harry's arms. He could not imagine how anyone could not be in love with her—she was such a caring, helpful, intelligent girl, he did not know anyone who possessed even a fraction of the compassion that Hermione possessed. Well, except for perhaps the boy who was even now cradling her in his arms.
And there was the rub. Neville imagined it would be very easy to completely let himself go and allow himself to be carried away with whatever feelings he possessed for Hermione. He had resisted, however, allowing himself to sit back and be content with being in Harry and Hermione's orbit and, as of this year, be their close friend and supporter. The reason was that Neville had realized early on that Hermione, though special in many ways, shared such a profound relationship with Harry, that her heart could really only ever belong to him. If it been anyone other than Harry Potter, he could have envisioned seeing if he could turn her affections his way. But Neville cared too much about Harry, respected him too much, to ever cause problems or attempt to steal Hermione's love away from him.
That did not mean that Neville didn't love Luna. On the contrary, Luna was a breath of fresh air, and he loved spending time with her. She was almost the opposite of Hermione, but Neville did not allow that irony to bother him at all. Luna was aware of at least some measure of his esteem for the Muggleborn girl but, far from being threatened by it or jealous of his affections, she had made it clear that though she did not share much in common with Hermione, she esteemed her every bit as much as Neville did.
And now Hermione lay in Harry's arms dying… Neville had to blink back the tears at the very thought. He could do nothing about that, though he burned to help his friends and do something to keep the special girl among the living. But he would do what he could, and what he could was to watch Malfoy and make sure that he could do no further harm. Neville could also be the best he could be, supporting Harry and ensuring that whatever may come, he was there by his friend's side, whether that entailed helping his friend come to terms with Hermione's death, or helping both of them, along with Fleur, as they opposed Voldemort. He would do it, no matter the cost.
A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw Malfoy begin to stir, a soft groan issuing from his lips. Sharing a cold glare with Ron, Neville moved closer and crouched down to Malfoy's eye level. As the boy's eyes fluttered open, the first thing he appeared to focus on was Neville's face, and the sight could not have been pleasant for him—if looks could flay the boy alive, Malfoy would have been nothing more than a bloody splotch upon the ground by now.
Malfoy scrambled to reach his knees and backed up hurriedly, casting wild eyes at both boys when he became aware of their silent and stony scrutiny. Then, of course, he began to search desperately for his wand.
"Looking for this?" Neville taunted, holding up the desired item.
Eyes narrowed, Malfoy lunged for his wand, only to meet Neville's fist—Neville was most satisfied with the resounding smack which resulted in his knuckles meeting Malfoy's jaw—and go down in a heap. Once again the boy groaned as he hit the floor of the tunnel, and he glared up at Neville with eyes full of hate.
"If you know what's good for you, squib—"
"If you know what's good for you, you'll stay silent," Neville hissed. "Believe me, Malfoy; it wouldn't take much for either Ron or me to impale you on your own wand. I'd shut up if I were you."
Fear bloomed in Malfoy's eyes and he settled heavily on the tunnel floor. As he did, his eyes turned toward where Harry still sat cradling Hermione's form, and his face screwed up in an unpleasant sneer.
"At least there will be one less Mudblood dirtying the world with her presence."
Neville exchanged a nod with Ron, and Ron's wand came up and he hit Malfoy in the crotch with a stinging hex. Malfoy yelped, and as he did so, he ran once again into Neville's descending fist. Now Malfoy and the other Slytherins likely had not gotten the image of Neville as a first year—slightly pudgy and shy—from their heads, but Neville had grown in the intervening years. He was now tall—almost as tall as Ron—and the pudginess he had possessed as a lad of eleven, was now the lean yet solid mass of a growing boy. He had certainly not achieved his full growth, and undoubtedly would not for several years yet, but he was far from what he had been. For the second time in as many minutes, Malfoy found that out to his detriment.
The boy hit the floor with a cry, and held his face in his hand, where he was almost certain to have a black eye before the end of the day, while his other hand held the part of his anatomy which Ron had assaulted.
"You know," Neville said to Ron as he flexed his hand, "I think I understand now why Muggles seem to enjoy using their fists. Actually hitting someone is much more satisfying than just hexing them."
Ron glared down at Malfoy who, while still holding his injured parts, appeared to have been cowed for the moment. "If he tries anything again, I'm the one who gets to hit him."
"Be my guest," Neville said with a wave at Malfoy, who was peering up at them appearing shocked, as though he had never actually seen them before, not to mention being shocked at the physical violence. It was not something, after all, one would normally expect in the magical world.
"You don't suppose we'll get in trouble for this?"
Neville shrugged. "I'm not sure I care, to be honest. Besides, he's already pretty beat up. We can just claim that it was all part of him hitting the wall. I doubt anyone would listen to him if he claimed we'd been hitting him.
Ron just grunted, while appearing to dare Malfoy to make any more stupid comments or rash moves with nothing more than a disdainful glare. For once in his life Malfoy seemed to understand the threat and realize that his so-called standing in society would not protect him. He stayed silent.
"I'd hate to be him if Harry gets his hands on him, whether Hermione recovers or not," Neville said darkly to Ron.
Ron made no reply, but Malfoy stole a glance over at the still unmoving Harry, who was still holding on to Hermione, but they were now both being attended by Madam Pomfrey, who had portkeyed in while they were intimidating the Slytherin.
"I hope, for her own sake, she recovers. To be honest, I don't care what happens to this filth."
Neville nudged Malfoy again, half hoping to get a rise out of him again, but the boy stayed silent. It was perhaps petty to provoke the boy with the sole purpose of exacting revenge, but at the moment it felt satisfying. Undoubtedly Malfoy would now be facing a difficult future as a result of his actions, and Neville was more than happy to initiate him in the life he would now face.
Anxiously wringing her hands, Fleur kept her silent vigil over Harry and Hermione, willing Madam Pomfrey and the headmaster to hurry and return. There had been no overt change in the demeanors of either of her friends, but she could tell from the strained grimace on his face that Harry was tiring, and a sheen of sweat had appeared, beginning to bead on his forehead. She did not know how much longer he could keep up whatever he was doing, but as of yet she had not been able to see any indication of what Professor Dumbledore had warned her. Harry was holding his own for the time being.
As she watched him pour himself into the effort of keeping Hermione alive, Fleur was able to reflect upon the past months at Hogwarts and the time she had spent as his betrothed. She had never experienced the feeling of having such close friends before, or at least not since she was a small girl, and she found that being a part of the group which Harry had built around himself to be very satisfying.
But as she watched the boy she had not-so-secretly fallen in love with, watched his devotion to the girl in his arms and the effort he put into her recovery, Fleur felt pride at his giving nature and hope for the girl's recovery. However, in a deep corner of her mind, she also felt a feeling with which she was for the most part unfamiliar: jealousy. Harry was so devoted to Hermione. He would literally do anything for her, including lay down his own life, which he seemed to be in the process of doing, should help not arrive in time and Fleur be unable to pull him back from the brink.
Immediately, however, Fleur felt embarrassed to be entertaining feelings of jealousy at such a time. Hermione's life was in the balance, and they were all very fortunate that Harry was who he was—a caring, selfless individual who did not even give the matter a passing thought before hurling himself into danger to save a friend. Of course, it was precisely that quality which gave them all premature grey hair as well…
Besides, Fleur had no need to feel jealous of Hermione. She could feel through her Veela senses, as well as through her own eyes, that Harry was starting to feel for her what she felt for him. It was only a matter of time before they openly declared it to each other. She could only hope that her friend would be there to wish them joy.
A flicker at the corners of Fleur's eyes announced the arrival of Luna accompanied by the hospital matron, and Madam Pomfrey immediately stepped forward, her wand moving in the intricate movements of diagnostic charms.
"My, my," she murmured as she waved her wand and frowned at whatever the charms were telling her. "I've never seen such a thing in my life."
"Will she be okay?"
Madam Pomfrey shook her head and reached into her bag which she had dropped to her side. "I'm afraid I don't know, my girl. The first thing we must do is to replace the blood she has lost, but if we can't get those cuts closed, she'll just continue to bleed and all the potions in the world will be for naught. There is a limit to how much blood replenishment she can absorb."
"The headmaster said he would bring someone who would know what to do," Fleur told her.
The nurse nodded her head as she withdrew several potions form her bag. "That is good, for dark curses can be tricky to deal with, and they will often resist my healing spells." Setting the potions off to the side, Madam Pomfrey turned her attention back to the girl in Harry's arms. "Now, I believe I need to remove these robes covering her wounds so that we can see what we are dealing with."
"But the headmaster said we mustn't disturb Harry," Fleur blurted out, fearing for her friends' lives.
"So Miss Lovegood told me," Madam Pomfrey replied, while touching Fleur lightly on the arm. "I shall not disturb him, I assure you. But I must get a clearer picture of what we are dealing with."
With a careful wave of her wand, the matron vanished Harry's robes and bared Hermione's torso for them all to see. Fleur sucked in a sob which threatened to escape, as she saw the damage to Hermione's frame. There were perhaps as many as half a dozen vicious-looking slashes marring the skin of her chest and stomach, extending almost from her neck, all the way down to her hips. There was not much left of her clothes to cover her modesty, but Fleur supposed that that was the least of the girl's concerns at the moment. Besides, Neville and Ron appeared to be occupied with Malfoy—who now seemed to be awake, and somewhat the worse for wear—and were not paying any attention to what they were doing.
"Now, I believe that you were instructed to only separate Mr. Potter from Miss Granger if he showed visible signs of exhausting his strength, is that correct?"
Fleur was surprised. "How did you know?"
"I know what he is doing to keep her alive," the nurse replied. "It is a very dangerous thing to do, but I would not expect anything less from Mr. Potter, especially given who he is doing it to."
"But how—?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Delacour," Pomfrey interrupted her, "but we must focus on what is important here. Are you both ready to assist me?"
Fleur and Luna both nodded as the other girl knelt close by.
"Good. Then we shall wait until the headmaster returns before we do anything. Hopefully he will have someone with him who can help. If so, we can treat her in tandem.
"However, if Mr. Potter appears to run up to the end of his strength, I will then need you, Miss Delacour, to break the link between them. I will levitate her slightly off his lap, and then if you pull him away so they are no longer touching and in close proximity, the connection will break. Do you understand?"
Fleur nodded, and the nurse then turned to Luna. "Once the connection is broken, Miss Granger will die—she does not have enough blood left in her body to sustain her. Therefore, when they are separated, we will need to move quickly. You will feed her blood replenishing potions, massaging her neck in order to get her to swallow. You know how to do this?"
This time it was Luna's turn to affirm her understanding. "I will apply essence of dittany to her wounds and attempt to use my standard healing spells, which I suspect will not work, as I do not know the curse which was used against her. This will give us a few more precious moments to allow the headmaster to return.
"However, if they do not return by the time she has bled out again, then I'm afraid there is nothing we can do to save her. But we must do our utmost to make sure that she survives long enough."
The matron fell silent after that, busily preparing her potions for when they would be needed, while Luna and Fleur fell into their own thoughts. It was perhaps, the longest seeming time Fleur had ever spent, though in reality it was only perhaps two minutes. In that time, however, she watched Harry closely for any signs of his losing strength, but other than a tightening around his eyes and a certainly rigidity which the nurse had pointed out in his frame, he was silent and still. Then just when Fleur thought that she would go mad from the waiting, the headmaster appeared in the narrow corridor, accompanied by none other than the hated potions master.
Fleur scowled at the unpleasant man, but he ignored her, dropping to his knees by the side of the two teens. He inspected Hermione—and even managed to avoid sneering at Harry—before he looked back up at headmaster.
"Was it Draco?"
Dumbledore pointed further down the passage to where Malfoy was being guarded by the two Gryffindor boys. "It was indeed. I can only conjecture that he was trying to kidnap her and take her to Voldemort."
A gasp escaped Madam Pomfrey's lips as she gazed up at the headmaster in horror. Professional that she was, she had undoubtedly focused on the situation, never giving any thought to what had happened to bring a student to this state. Doubtless she was well aware of the Death Eaters' tactics in the first conflict.
"I believe we should focus on the situation at hand," Dumbledore said gently, steering the attention back to the injured teen.
"Can I work on her while you perform the counter-charm?" Pomfrey asked Snape.
The potions master merely nodded in reply. He began waving his wand over Hermione's body, muttering something under his breath. Fleur could not make out the words, but the words almost appeared to be a melodic chant, or perhaps crooned in a low tone of voice. Where his wand pointed at the girl, her slashes began to close, the skin repairing itself, and the color returning to normal. At the same time, Madam Pomfrey began feeding potions to Hermione, gently encouraging her to swallow. And by the time the Professor had finished his singing, Hermione gagged, signaling that she had had enough of the replenishment potion. Madam Pomfrey then began to apply the dittany liberally to Hermione's torso, and even the lines of the slashes began to heal and disappear.
After a tense few moments wherein the healer waved her wand in complicated patterns at Hermione, Pomfrey looked up at the headmaster, her eyes shining suspiciously. "I believe she will make it, Albus."
At this pronouncement, a feeling of intense relief washed over Fleur and she heard a few sighs from the other occupants, not to mention whoops of joy from a pair of young Gryffindors standing guard over a now scowling Slytherin.
"She will need a day or two in the hospital wing to recover, but she'll live. We need to get her up there so that I can do more tests to make sure we haven't missed anything."
The Headmaster nodded and turned to Fleur. "We need to wake Mr. Potter now, Miss Delacour. I will need you catch him as he will be quite weak from his experience." He then turned back to his two staff members. "Severus, thank you for your assistance. Will you accompany Miss Granger back to the hospital wing in the event your services are required?"
The potions master hesitated for a moment, and Fleur saw him dart a glance at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye. His expression did not give anything away, but regardless of the fact that Fleur knew he supported the light—though obviously reluctant to do so—she could not but feel that he felt nothing but disdain for the young Pureblood. Whether that was because of what he had done—or had attempted to do—or simply because Malfoy had failed, Fleur could not tell. What she was certain of was that Snape would undoubtedly not care in the slightest what happened to Hermione or anyone else, as long as Voldemort was ultimately brought down.
"Very well," Dumbledore continued. "Let us wake Mr. Potter before it is too late."
Time had no meaning. The struggle to keep his friend anchored to the world consumed Harry and as the time wore on it became more desperate, akin to hanging on to a sheer rock face with his fingernails. But hang on he did, even as the strain became greater, even as his strength began to flag, and even as the temptation to just let go began to take root in the confines of his mind.
He refused to even consider such a thing. As he grimly held on, the bright and vibrant presence of his friend stayed with him, never wavering and for Harry, that was enough. As long as there was strength in his body, soul and magic, he would not admit defeat.
As Harry grimly held on, he began to experience something he would not have expected, not even within his wildest dreams. Thoughts and flashes, memories of his friendship with Hermione began to pass before his eyes, images of the things they had done, the time they had spent together, and their shared adventures. It started as a trickle and picked up steam until it was a deluge of thoughts, ideas and feelings. And then just as suddenly as it started, Harry found himself in another place.
It was a typical room in a typical house, though unlike the Dursleys' home; this one felt comfortable and welcoming, something which the Dursleys could never have boasted, even for those who were welcome there. In the corner there was a large fireplace, in which roared a large and cheery fire, the furniture was clean and handsome, but comfortable, and the rest of the décor was much the same. On the walls hung simple pieces of artwork along with pictures, preserved lovingly in handsome frames.
Intrigued, Harry stepped closer to investigate. They were Muggle pictures, as they did not move, and they seemed to consist of a family of three—parents, and a young girl. The girl, of course, was Hermione Granger.
Looking around yet again, Harry surmised that this must be Hermione's home where she lived with her parents. Or at least where she lived during the summer months when she was not at Hogwarts. Looking around, Harry could not see anyone else in evidence in the house, but the lack of anyone to greet him did not bother him. It seemed... unimportant.
Turning his attention back to the pictures which hung on the wall, Harry studied them intensely. The majority of them contained a smiling Hermione, some in company with one or both of her parents. It was clear that they were a close and loving family, the kind of which Harry had always ached to be a member. There were pictures of Hermione at what Harry suspected was her school, the nearby park Hermione had told him of, various pictures in different places of interest in Britain, and a few of places in distant lands.
In particular, Harry was drawn to a picture of her which appeared to have been taken from the top of a tall platform above a city. In it Hermione appeared to be the same girl he knew well—her hair was windswept, and she had a happy smile on her face, while the city below, though difficult to see due to the distance, teemed with life. It appeared as though the entire city started at a single point where a large arch stood, before extending out from that center point, almost like the hub of a wheel, with the surrounding streets as the attendant spokes. She appeared to be very happy in the picture—a young girl without a care in the world.
"Paris," a voice spoke from behind Harry.
He turned at the sound of the familiar tones, only to see his closest friend standing in front of him. She looked radiant, dressed in flowing white robes of a wizard style, her hair bound up and gathered behind her head in a simple bun. She was calm and composed and appeared to be as happy as he had ever seen her, though now that Harry thought of it, he did not know of any reason why she should not be.
A sudden flash in his mind's eye and an image of a darkened passageway, of holding something in his arms filled Harry's mind, only to disappear in an instant. It was unimportant, so Harry allowed the image to dissipate without complaint, instead preferring to focus on the person of his closest friend.
While he had been preoccupied, Hermione had seated herself on the nearby sofa. "We went to Paris the summer after our third year." Hermione paused and smiled. "I remember wishing that you could have come with us. You would have loved Paris."
"I would have liked that," Harry said quietly, knowing he did not need to say anything more—they were so in tune, knew each other so well that she would know exactly what he wanted to convey, whether he voiced it verbally or kept silent.
"I know," was Hermione's simple reply. She then patted the seat on the sofa beside her and beckoned for him to join her. "Come. We need to talk."
Obediently, Harry sat by her side, gazing at her with expectation. Hermione just smiled at him and turned to look forward. They were silent for some time, the silence a comfortable one between two longstanding friends, who both knew that they did not need to turn to meaningless platitudes in order to feel comfortable with one another.
"Harry," Hermione finally said, "you know I would do anything for you, right?"
Smiling, Harry nodded. "As I would do anything for you."
"I know," she said again. The smile faded from her face. "But Harry, you know there comes a point when you have to let go, right?"
Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"
Reaching out, Hermione took his near hand in between her own. "There are some things which cannot be changed, nor can they be prevented. Life is so fragile—you never know when your time will come. You never know when the time will arrive for one of your loved ones to leave you."
That last was said in a voice which was almost inaudible. Harry turned to face her fully and brought his other hand to clutch hers between his own. To Harry it symbolized the bond between them—they held on to each other with all the strength they both possessed.
"Hermione, what are you saying?" Harry asked, as he once again saw a brief vision of holding her in his arms, refusing to let her go burning through his mind.
"I want you to promise me that if necessary you will let me go, Harry."
"But..." Harry stammered, but he could not continue. The thought of living without Hermione was painful—an almost physical ache deep within his heart. It was something which could not be considered, even for an instant.
"You must promise me, Harry," Hermione insisted. "You will not be alone. You have Ron, and Neville, and all of our other friends. And you will have Fleur. She loves you, Harry, and I expect you love her too. You must tell her."
"But Hermione," Harry said desperately, "I can't continue on without you!"
"Yes you can, Harry," Hermione replied with a smile of affection. "You can and you will. The pain of losing a loved one may seem like it will never go away, but with time it will dull and you will find the strength to go on. Besides, the Harry I know is far too noble and good to leave the world to Voldemort's depredations.
"Promise me, Harry," she insisted, sounding further away.
Feeling her slipping from his grasp, Harry flailed, reaching out for her, desperately trying to prevent her from leaving him. But the more he struggled, the more insubstantial she became. And in his ears, her plea kept sounding.
"Promise me, Harry. Promise.
"Promise."
Harry.
"Harry!"
"Harry, wake up!"
Harry's eyes fluttered open and he found himself once again within the dim confines of the tunnel to Hogsmeade. For an instant he was confused, wondering how he had come to be in such a place. And then it all came back.
"Hermione!" Harry cried as he sat bolt upright, before collapsing once again to the floor as his head throbbed with pain. His strength was clearly not the equal of his determination to see Hermione safely recovered, though he might bitterly curse that fact.
"Easy, Harry," Dumbledore said with concern. Harry could barely make out the motions of the Headmaster waving his wand over his head through lidded eyes. He was unwilling to open them any further, as even that slight bit of light in the tunnel brought even more excruciating waves of pain to his abused head.
"But Hermione," he insisted weakly.
"It's okay, Harry," Fleur's voice reached him, and he realized at once that he was cradled in front of her, and her arms were clasped around his torso. "You saved her. Hermione will be fine because of you."
"She's well?" he asked, craning his neck around to see Fleur, only to experience a fresh wave of pain.
"She is, and you will see her as soon as Madam Pomfrey is finished examining her."
With that confirmation, a relieved Harry slumped down into Fleur's arms, and he allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness. Hermione would be well.
Updated 05/30/2014