Chapter Three: To The Library

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far, especially Susan, Sparkle Tangerine and cornish-pixy. Appreciate it! :) Oh, and keep guessing, it amuses me! :p

Harry woke up and immediately wondered when he'd fallen asleep. He'd been exhausted last night, but somehow he hadn't been able to drop off. Instead he'd lain there, running the night's events through his head again and again, trying to make some sense of them, trying to understand. But he'd always got stuck on thoughts of Ginny, mentally kicking himself over and over for doing what he'd done. She'd looked scared out of her wits, and had barely looked at him all the way back to the Tower. He didn't blame her, after the way he'd grabbed her like that.

Fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand, Harry un-drew the drapes round his bed and was surprised to see that the dormitory was empty. He looked at his watch. Ten-fifteen! He'd missed breakfast. As if to confirm the fact, his stomach growled loudly. He wondered if Hermione had told Ron yet what had happened to him, and how Ron would react. Harry didn't want to admit it, but he was worried how his best friend would take it, Harry being in love – however fake logic said his feelings were – with his sister.

Harry looked around quickly as soon as he got down to the common room. There was no sign of Ron and Hermione, but he immediately caught sight of Ginny sitting on her own at a table, hunched over a long piece of parchment, scribbling busily. Harry walked over, and she didn't notice him until he was almost on top of her. She looked up to think, sucking on the nib of her quill, and when she caught sight of Harry looming over her she jumped and gave him an awkward half-smile that made his stomach twist.

"Hey."

"Hey."

There was a pause. "Mind if I sit down?"

She glanced over at the portrait hole. "Er – no. Go ahead."

Harry took a seat opposite her and wondered what would be a good way to start a conversation. 'Hello, sorry I'm in love with you and molested you on the Quidditch pitch' just wouldn't cut it somehow.

The scratch of Ginny's quill against the parchment penetrated his thoughts. "What are you doing?" He glanced over her shoulder at the small, neat writing that already filled a foot of the parchment.

"Charms essay. 'Discuss the practical and theoretical reasoning behind the decision to label the 'Nevio' freezing charm as a Class B charm'. Bloody hard."

Harry grimaced. "Charms classification. I always hated that."

"Me too."

Ginny dipped her quill in the ink and poised it over the parchment, frowning and sticking out the tip of her tongue in concentration. She seemed to want to work, and Harry wondered if he should go. He didn't want to, though, that was the problem, and as hard as some parts of his brain were telling him to go, other parts of him were telling him to stay, just a little bit longer, just so he could look at her properly for the first time. Her hair was so bright, tied back in that sleek ponytail, and how had he never noticed how long her eyelashes were? He was just taking a moment to admire the scattering of pale freckles across her nose and cheeks when she looked up, straight into his eyes.

Trying not to blush, and just knowing from the heat in his cheeks that he was failing miserably, Harry held her gaze.

It was electric.

He literally could not have moved, not even if he'd wanted to; his heart began to pound and his skin felt alive with prickling nerves. He began to feel light-headed, and realised he'd stopped breathing. Catching his breath, Harry began to feel that same urge he'd felt last night to touch her. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling; in fact it reminded Harry of something. Now what was it? He covered her hand with his and felt a warm melting feeling in his stomach, and a sense of blissful abandon, like, like… he searched his memory for when he had felt it before, and then with a sinking feeling Harry suddenly realised what that feeling reminded him of. It was like being under the Imperius Curse.

Suddenly Ginny's eyes flew to something behind Harry and the expression on her face fell. Uneasily, Harry twisted round and was confronted with the large figure of Ron looming over him. From the less-than-pleased expression on his face and his glowing red ears it was pretty clear that Hermione had just told him the news.

"Er," said Harry, and realised that he was still touching her hand. Snatching it away guiltily, he jumped up. "Ron, I – erm… I'm sorry."

Ron looked as though some internal conflict was going on in his head, and Harry wasn't sure if he was about to knock his block off. Just then Hermione appeared at Ron's side and nudged him. Hard.

Ron paused. "It's… fine," he said eventually through gritted teeth. "I don't expect you can help it. You're probably under a lot of – you know, strain. And stuff. From the spell." It sounded like he'd practised saying it.

"Come on," said Hermione to Harry. "We've got some research to do."

The Slytherin team were just leaving after a practice when Ginny arrived at the Quidditch pitch. After Harry had gone with Hermione to the library, she and Ron had been left in an awkward silence unusual for them. Not allowed to go and help look for a cure, Ginny had decided to come down to the pitch and have a look around. It was a long shot, to say the least, but it was something to occupy her, so at least she wasn't just sitting around feeling useless while Harry suffered.

"Come to spy, Weasel?" shouted Malfoy as they passed. "Doing Potter's dirty work for him?" Ginny ignored him and watched as the Slytherins headed back to the castle. As usual, they seemed to have been chosen for their bulk rather than for their skill, and even the one female player was built like a carthorse. Still, they would be a tough team to beat in the match next week, especially on the brand new brooms Malfoy's dad had bought for the whole team – coincidentally, shortly before Draco took over as captain. Scummy little ferret, she thought angrily. Buying his way onto the team and into the captaincy.

The male changing rooms were silent and damp and smelled like soap and muddy Quidditch boots. She noticed the Slytherins hadn't bothered to wipe or even rinse down the floor after them, and as a result it was covered in bits of mud and grass and a few cigarette butts. Feeling a little like an impostor, used as she was to the girls' changing rooms, Ginny looked in each shower cubicle in turn. They were all empty, except the far end one, which contained – Ginny grimaced – a filthy greyish towel that had probably once been white, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Ginny tried to avoid stereotyping other houses, but she had to admit that Slytherins never seemed to clean up after themselves. Admittedly, this was probably more due to their incredible lack of consideration for others than to a lack of personal hygiene, but whoever had used this cubicle hadn't even bothered to get a new bar of soap from the store behind Hooch's office. "Filthy lot," she muttered to herself, and peered into the bins containing the Slytherins' muddy Quidditch robes. Steeling herself, Ginny reached into one bin and picked up the musty-smelling items to look underneath. If she was going to investigate, she was going to do it properly, damn it.

There was a loud 'crack' behind her, and Ginny jumped round guiltily. A grey house-elf with large green eyes had just appeared, carrying a mop and bucket. It looked askance at her. "Pinkie is here to wash the masters' robes, Miss," it said, firmly taking the pile from her hands.

"I wasn't doing anything – you know, odd," said Ginny as the house-elf put the robes down in a corner and began to wash the floor.

"Of course Mistress wasn't, if she says not," said the elf politely.

"I was just investigating something – you see, my friend's ill, and I'm trying to find out why."

Pinkie rinsed her mop in the bucket. "Yes, Mistress.

"Call me Ginny, please."

"Yes, Mistress Ginny." The house-elf got on with her job and seemed to be effectively ignoring her. Ginny climbed onto a bench and looked out of the high window. She could see right over the lake from here. Ginny concluded that it would be tricky to perform any kind of spell from the outside, as you'd have to balance on something pretty high. A sudden thought occurred to her. "Pinkie, do you come and clean the changing rooms after every practice?"

The house elf nodded. "Yes, that is one of Pinkie's duties."

"After yesterday's Gryffindor practice?"

"Yes, Pinkie is a good elf, she never forgets."

Ginny climbed down so she could talk to the elf better. "Do you remember seeing anything funny when you came?"

Pinkie put down her mop, and her little face crinkled up even more than it already was. "Funny, Miss?"

"Something suspicious, different from normal. Like someone who shouldn't have been there, or…" Ginny racked her brain "… an empty potion beaker, or something."

Pinkie shook her head. "Pinkie never comes until after everyone has left, Pinkie mustn't disturb. Today Pinkie has been a bad elf." A large fat tear rolled out of one of her huge round eyes and plopped onto the floor. Pinkie cleaned up the tiny puddle and began to bang herself on the head with the mop. "Bad elf. Bad elf. Ba-"

Ginny grabbed it. "Stop that! What nonsense, you didn't know I'd be here."

The elf turned large grateful eyes on Ginny. "Mistress is kind and forgiving. Pinkie is sorry she can't help. Pinkie wishes she'd seen something funny, so she could help Mistress and her friend."

"That's all right," said Ginny. "Thank you for your help."

Well, that had been a singularly pointless trip, she mused as she headed back across the grounds. She had succeeded in learning absolutely nothing new about the situation, plus she had been insulted by Malfoy and made a house-elf cry. Ginny wondered whether Harry and Hermione had had any better luck.

The library was practically empty, as the only people who went there to work on a Saturday morning were people like Hermione. She and Harry had been sitting, surrounded by piles of dusty books, for over an hour, and they were still no closer to finding any useful information on love spells. There was plenty about them, of course, but that only made it harder because most of it was useless waffle. Nowhere had they found anything that related to Harry's specific symptoms, nor any information on antidotes or counter-charms.

"This is useless!" said Harry frustratedly, slamming shut yet another book. A cloud of dust blew up from the pages, making Harry cough. Madam Pince, who was hovering nearby pretending to sort the Gnomish History shelf, glared frostily over.

"Don't be so defeatist," replied Hermione. "We might not have found a solution immediately, but we have found some clues."

He looked up. "What clues?"

Hermione sighed patiently. "Well firstly, all the sources agree that love charms are pretty ineffective and short-lived, and you'd undoubtedly have heard whoever it was when they performed the spell. Which leaves us with a potion, which narrows it down a lot."

"How?"

"Because most potions are foul-tasting, and for you not to have noticed you took it, this one would have to be undetectable."

Harry wished he'd listened more in Potions. "Is there such a thing?"

Hermione shook her head. "To tell you the truth, I don't know. That sort of thing's beyond even Advanced Level NEWT. You'd have to ask Snape-" Harry groaned loudly "…or look it up in the Restricted Section," she finished in a mutter, because Madam Pince was still lurking nearby, watching them like a hawk for maltreatment of the books.

Harry thought hard. "What if it's not undetectable? What if whoever it was forced me to take the potion and then altered my memory? That would explain why I can't think of anything suspicious that happened."

"But if they forced you to take the potion, you'd have seen them first and fallen for them, not Ginny – unless they meant you to fall for Ginny?"

Harry scratched his head. It was all too confusing. "But there might be an antidote in the Restricted Section?" he asked hopefully.

"Possibly. But don't get your hopes up too high, Harry. Even if there is, it might be too complicated for us to make."

Harry privately disagreed. They'd concocted Polyjuice Potion when they were just second-years, and Hermione was – well, Hermione. If anyone could do it, she could. As if reading his thoughts, Hermione attempted to reconcile him to the idea of telling McGonagall everything if it came to it. "Once the professors know, it won't be a problem any more, they'll know what to do," she argued.

Harry grudgingly agreed. But at the same time he couldn't bear the thought of Snape's leering face when he found out and was asked to make an antidote. Harry knew Snape would never let him forget this. Being hopelessly, painfully in love with Ginny Weasley seemed a walk in the park in comparison.

Questions? Comments? Think you know whodunit? Leave a review, and the people who came closest to the truth will get a special mention. ;)