August 1998: Part 2

"Sir," Harry said, pushing up his glasses as he addressed Gawain Robards, Hermione fidgeting to his left. "You knew him, too."

"I did, but he's been cleared by St Mungo's since the attack."

"But sir," Harry went on, paling a bit, "can you honestly say you understand why he would behave this way? He is- was- our best friend. More than that. And now..."

Hermione sniffed, looking away from Harry's pleading profile.

"And Hermione," Harry continued. She shut her eyes and gripped the arms of her chair. "I mean... he was ready to die for her in that attack. How can you explain someone who loves you enough to risk dying in your place suddenly... despising you?"

Robards studied them for a moment before clearing his throat and leaning forward, over a sheet of parchment.

"Alright, Potter. But we've been investigating the attack, searching for the person responsible... We don't know the first thing about the weapons he used. It's something we've quite frankly never seen before. We've got a whole team working on it. What else do you intend for us to do?"

"We have an idea," Hermione said, shocked at the sound of her own broken voice, "but we need to open a case on Ron. And we need help from your office."

"We'll look into your concerns," Robards said, "and determine if we can proceed-"

"Sir," Harry pressed, "we can't wait. Whatever you need us to do to prove what we're telling you, we will do it. But it needs to be now. You said it yourself - we don't know what he was exposed to or what else it could do to him. The longer we wait, the more we risk. And if we can figure out what's happening to him, it could bring you one step closer to finding the person responsible."

Robards studied them for a long moment before nodding and sitting up a bit further in his chair.

"I'm listening. What did you have in mind?"

It took two days, but they had done it.

Harvey Niles was in research, working for the Ministry's archives. He was a kind bloke, with sandy blond hair and freckles across his cheeks. He had spent a year abroad studying and was well liked by just about everybody.

And, underneath the disillusionment charms and fake identification, he wore round glasses, needed a haircut, and had a lightning shaped scar on his forehead...

"Harry," Hermione said, studying his disguise, "I don't see how Ron could possibly figure this out. It's brilliant."

With help from the Auror office, they had forged files on Harvey, creating a background for him in case things were ever called into question. Harry had applied for Ron's flat, as Harvey, and was now just waiting for a response. Robards had assisted in the disillusionment charms, with Hermione, and they were now, for possibly the first time, on a real, legal case.

Ron had been suspended from training... not that he had shown his face since the attack. Hermione's growing frustration in trying to predict Ron's next course of action was making her more and more anxious for their next move. To be paying for a flat, he had to be planning to work, somewhere.

"I don't like this, waiting around," Hermione sighed, huffily flipping a page in the book she'd only been half reading.

"It's the best chance we've got," Harry reminded her, studying his disillusioned reflection in a tall mirror. "Robards said if it comes down to it, he'll send someone to talk to the landlord and make sure we get the room."

"Why the hell won't he just do that from the start?"

Harry's lip twitched as he turned to face Hermione.

"You're beginning to sound like him," he said softly, half-smiling before clearing his throat.

She swallowed a shaky breath, unwilling to let her heart beat faster.

"Nevermind," she said quickly. "If Robards won't trust us with how serious this is, then we'll just have to show him."

Three days later, they were sitting in a cafe four blocks over from Ron's flat, holding the key that Harry, disguised as Harvey, had picked up from the landlord that morning. Harry had since transformed back into himself, to report to the Ministry and meet Hermione.

"Harry, you're sure you've got the charm down, for your hair? And the one we talked about to change the colour of your eyes, and-"

"Hermione," he cut over her, twirling the flat key between impatient fingers, "we've been through this how many times?"

"I know," she huffed, "but this is so important, Harry. I won't be with you all the time anymore to help with the charms. We have to get this right."

"We will," he answered, confidently.

"You've got the bag with the books-"

"Right here," and he held up a small bag, charmed to open only at his touch.

She nodded, twisting a napkin tightly between both hands.

"And if you can't get in touch with me or the Aurors, for any reason-"

"-we meet at the Ministry canteen at eight the next morning," he interrupted again, "and if I can't make that, it's lunch at one."

She swallowed thickly, imagining days without contact already.

"But why would anything like that happen, Hermione?" Harry encouraged. "He'll know I work for the Ministry. If he checks up on me, we've seen to the records already. And he's not going to stop a stranger from doing their job. We wouldn't be doing this if we thought he was dangerous..."

Her eyebrows lifted for a moment, recalling how nearly scared of Ron she had been, even knowing what she had to do, and that it didn't matter if she had to be at the receiving end of violence to do it...

She shook her head, dropping her destroyed napkin to the tabletop.

"But if Ron figures out you're you-"

"-he'll fight with me about it, and we'll probably learn something."

She held her breath for a moment before puffing it out.

"I feel like we've missed something," she said, shakily.

"Hermione," Harry started, leaning forward a bit in his chair, "we don't really know what we're up against. And I'll admit that's a bit alarming, but this is what we do, isn't it? We run full force into whatever the problem is and we solve it, together."

"That's exactly what I'm worried about," Hermione said softly. "We don't have him with us this time. And how well did it go when he was gone, before?"

"We managed," Harry said weakly.

"We were rubbish without him, and you know it. And I'm not just talking about figuring out a clue or making it to a new location without getting ourselves killed. We don't... work right, when R-Ron's not there."

As soon as she'd spoken the words, she wished she could go back and erase the quiver from her voice across his name. She felt so small already, facing what they were doing. She knew the nerves of parting from Harry, of not being able to see what was happening, were catching up to her. But...

"Okay," Harry conceded, "but look. I'm going to see him every day. I'll report everything he does back to you. It's the closest we can get to being together right now. You're brilliant. And I'm... well, I've generally been rather lucky, I think. It'll work... because it has to work. We've done 'has to' before. We can do it again."

As much as she wanted to believe Harry's words, she couldn't untangle the knot in her stomach or loosen the stitch in her chest. And she couldn't stop the creeping fear that she might never see the real Ron, ever again...

She didn't sleep at all the first night. She lay atop her camp bed in Ginny's room, heart pounding as she imagined what Harry and Ron must be doing. Sleeping, of course, her rational self told her. But as much as she knew that worrying senselessly would do no good, she couldn't help herself and was a solid, twisted ball of anxiety by the time she reached the Ministry canteen, half an hour early.

When Harry finally approached, it took her a moment to realise it was him, seeing him disguised as someone else. She jumped up, and he rushed to start speaking, before she could question him.

"Uneventful," Harry said mildly. "He had tea ready, when I went in. He asked me a little about myself and told me his name and that he was between jobs, and that was it. I started to ask about his family, but he avoided it and left me to unpack. He stayed in his room til half seven, came out and went down the block for takeaway."

She let out a shivery exhale and sat back down at a table with Harry.

"Doesn't it seem odd he'd live in a shared flat anyway?" Hermione asked, chewing her bottom lip.

"Yes, except..." Harry paused and shook his head. "I imagine he can't afford living on his own, but couldn't stand to stay at the Burrow a second longer..."

She closed her eyes and nodded. This was true, of course. They'd barely left school, spent a year running... of course he didn't have a secret stash of galleons.

"You think you can ease into talking to him more - about his family, school, anything - without coming across suspicious?"

"He doesn't seem that keen to make friends, but he's been polite enough, and I think I can work on it."

Head pounding, she fell silent again, lost in a frantic internal search for another question, anything that could be answered.

"Honestly," Harry started, voice a bit lower and softer, "it's doing my head in."

"Being near him?" she asked at a near-whisper.

"Yeah. He's supposed to be... Ron. Looks like him, moves like him... but-" he broke off.

She shuddered as she imagined the feeling, constantly being around someone she loved who didn't even know her. But it wouldn't do to dwell on all they had lost. All they could do was hope to find it again, set their sights far ahead and keep walking.

Over the next two weeks, Hermione reported back and forth to magical law, checked in on the case to locate the still-missing criminal responsible for the Ministry attack, and spoke to St Mungo's again, finally getting through to a healer who agreed to owl Ron a request to come in for a "routine check-up, following a serious trauma." Though there was a chance Ron would turn down the appointment, Hermione suspected that he wouldn't have a strong reason to, with her and Harry seemingly out of the picture.

She was right, and the next day, Harry reported seeing a follow up letter from St Mungo's on the kitchen table while Ron was in the shower. He had evidently accepted and had been scheduled for the end of the week.

Now, with her tasks accomplished for the time being, Hermione was desperate to see Ron again and had a plan worked out to do it. Her legs bounced beneath the table at the Ministry cafeteria, not touching her food.

"Last night," Harry said, over his now-routine breakfast with Hermione, "we got up to a game of cards. He mentioned something vague about Hogwarts, and I tried to get him talking on that subject, but he changed topic quickly and went off on football statistics for the next quarter of an hour..."

"Football?" Hermione questioned, surprised.

"Yeah. Odd. Unless he's developed a recent interest in Muggle sports?"

Hermione shook her head, almost smiling.

"You know... perhaps he's onto football from talking to my dad."

Harry raised an eyebrow as he bit into the corner of a slightly burnt piece of toast.

"Or," he said, round the toast, "the real Ron thinks it's dead boring, which makes the new Ron think it's brilliant."

New Ron.

The words nearly made her sick.

"That's... likely," she admitted, reaching for her quill to make additional notes, adding to a thick stack of slightly crumpled sheets, bound together by clips and twine. "Listen, Harry," she pressed on, still scribbling, "I thought I might come by the flat tonight."

"Hermione," Harry warned, "don't expect anything to have changed. He's polite to me because he doesn't have a history with Harvey."

"I know," she sighed, completing her notes and shuffling her parchment back into vague order. "But he left some things in my trunk at my parents' house. I thought I might return them... as an excuse to see him."

As she looked up to meet Harry's gaze, she found the most painfully pitying expression etched across his face. She wanted to scream all her frustrations at him, to make him understand that as much as she listened to her head, she had to also listen to her heart. It didn't make sense. It wasn't who she was, really. But, it was who she was... with him. It had to mean something.

"Harry, stop," she said firmly, sniffing as she shoved her notes into her bag. "I know. But what good is it studying him and only using someone who has no effect on him? It's great we can keep up with what he's doing that way, but we have to do more than that."

Yes, it functioned as a convenient excuse to see him. But it was also the truth.

"You're right," Harry said softly, "but I know that's not the only reason you want to visit. I just... I honestly don't know which is worse - the way he hates us when he knows who we are or being with him and seeing him so unlike himself, but calm about it. I know you're brilliant, and you know what you're doing, but this is Ron. And I also happen to know how you feel about him."

"Stop being perceptive," she sighed. "I'm coming over. I'll see you around eight, okay? Just remember, you don't know me. We've never met."

She wondered if he could hear the hesitation in her knock. Her hands were shaking, her heart beating too rapidly, cold sweat at the base of her neck.

There was a solid chance he wouldn't let her in. She had counted on this, but she wasn't sure what she could do if he wouldn't. She was carrying a small box of his things, and as she waited for someone to come to the door, she was struck with exactly what she was doing, outside the strategy for which she had planned.

She was returning every last item she had of his. She would be left with nothing.

Sucking in a sharp breath, she pressed the box between the wall and her stomach and reached in, removing a faded Cannons t-shirt and clutching it to her chest, closing her eyes. Waving her wand, she banished it back to her room at her parents', absently wondering if they had returned home from work yet. She hadn't seen them in over a week...

And that was when the door flew open, Harry, disguised perfectly as Harvey, standing politely on the other side.

"Oh, hello," he said, jovially. "And you are?"

"Hermione Granger," she answered, startled momentarily by the shuffling behind Harry, as Ron approached from across the room.

"I'm Harvey Niles. And you must be a friend of Ron's?"

"No-" Ron started, still out of her sight, blocked by Harry until he stepped aside to allow her entry.

She moved inside quickly, spotting Ron at last.

"She's not my friend," Ron objected, glancing toward Harry, who was already shutting the door again.

"Oh?" Harry questioned, feigning confusion.

"What are you doing?" Ron demanded of her, ignoring Harry now completely as Hermione approached slowly with her box.

"You left some things at my parents' house..." she began, leveling her voice as she separated a piece of her mind from this moment, "a couple of shirts and books, a pair of socks, and a comb you had in Australia. Plus, I've added the bag I packed for you when we were planning- on the day of the attack, when we were going to-"

"Fine," he cut her off. "Drop the box and leave."

But she wasn't close enough yet. She wondered if she would be able to tell, the very moment he could smell her. She was wearing the perfume he had given her, fifth year... the one that was laced with bergamot. She had duplicated it some time ago, sentimentally wanting to keep it forever, though she hardly ever wore perfume, to begin with.

One more step, and he wrinkled his nose. She smiled at him, as kindly as she could, ears ringing.

He narrowed his eyes and sniffed, uncomfortably.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Put down the box and-"

"Ron," she interrupted, "your place looks nice."

"Leave."

She clutched the box more tightly to her chest.

"I was wondering if you could use some help?" she carried on, voice rising in pitch as she tried to contain herself.

He laughed, derisive and cold.

"From you?"

Her hands shook against the box, and she gripped more tightly, hoping to still them, knuckles turning quite white.

"Of course not," Ron scoffed. "And it's a good thing you're bringing my stuff back. Now I'll have no reason at all to see you, ever again.

"Well," she said, voice wavering near-uncontrollably. She could only hope he hadn't heard. "You don't have to like me, of course, but I thought I'd be able to help with-"

He reached forward and took the box from her as she gasped, her grip slackening with surprise. And, without another word, he turned his back on her, crossing the room to the small hall that lead to his bedroom. He went through, into flickering lantern light, and shut the door behind him with a bang.

A ringing silence filled the room before her tears fell.

"Could have been worse," Harry whispered, as she finally remembered how to use her legs.

She walked straight for Ron's door, defiant.

"Ron, I'm not going to give up on you! So either you get used to it, or you don't. But I'll still be here!"

There was a brief pause before she heard him move, on the other side of the door.

"Get out of my house," he said firmly, voice far too loud, too close, just there on the the other side...

And it came to her, just then, like the flicking of a Muggle light switch. She had been too focused on fixing him to properly regret... But it was her fault.

Her fault.

If she hadn't been wandering the corridors, at the Ministry... If she hadn't shown up early... If she hadn't asked him to spend the night with her...

No one had expected her to be where she was. They hadn't prepared for one extra person. He had given up his own protection to save her, because she'd been where she didn't belong.

She was suddenly shaking, head to toe, catching a glimpse of Harry's concerned face, disguised as someone she didn't know. A sob slipped free, and she turned away from Ron's door, passing Harry where he had moved down the hallway toward her. She continued back into the sitting room, standing in the open space between the fireplace and the sofa, clouded vision giving her a limited view of the room.

The desperation of the moment made her think impossible things. Could she take his place? She would do it. Take what he had instead. He could live, with his own heart, his soul, his life. She could be the one trapped in a person no one recognised.

The world seem to fall away, and she was stuck in her own tumbling mind, hardly registering the sounds of her cries, tears streaming down her face.

But then, as suddenly as it had left her, some kind of strength came back. The impossible things seemed quite impossible again. And it was as impossible to believe that she could change it as it was to believe that he was gone forever.

She placed the weight of fixing it firmly back on herself. And it wasn't a burden. It was her freedom. She clung to it, literally clenching her fists at her sides before reaching up and wiping her face on the sleeve of her shirt. When she turned around, Harry's disillusioned face was staring back at her. And his look of heartbreaking concern slowly morphed to something else. He could see what had changed in her.

She could oblige Ron's request and go away. Or she could fight and refuse to give in, in direct opposition to what he demanded... which, she rationalised, was likely exactly what the real Ron would want. If the poison was reversing his mind, she'd do exactly the opposite of what he said he wanted.

"Okay," she said, sniffing roughly. "I'm not leaving yet."

For a long while, they simply sat in silence, her and Harry. It would be unwise to speak of anything telling while Ron could possibly hear them from his room. But the longer they waited, night falling thick around them, the more likely she thought it was that he had simply fallen asleep now, in his room.

Harry moved to start up a fire, and an idea struck her. Reaching into her charmed bag, she removed a blank sheet of parchment and a self-inking quill.

Do you know if he locks his bedroom door at night?

She passed the note to Harry, as he resumed his seat on the sofa next to her.

His eyebrows lifted, but he didn't look at her, scribbling his reply and passing it back.

No idea. What are you thinking?

Thoughts still forming, she began to answer him.

Remember sixth year, when he was poisoned, and I wasn't speaking to him? Before he woke up, we heard him say something that sounded like my name. He wouldn't admit that he cared while he was conscious. But he couldn't help it, while he was asleep.

She stared at her own writing for a moment before shoving the parchment into Harry's lap. She watched his eyes dart back and forth as he read. Once he finished, he looked up and met her eyes, casting her a rather thoughtful expression. Snatching the quill from her hand, he wrote quickly back.

She leaned closer, able to read as he wrote.

You're going to watch him sleep? What if he wakes up and hexes you? He'll be furious if he finds out you're in his room.

She shook her head, leaning over Harry's lap to write without taking the parchment back.

No, he won't. He'll stop himself before he'll do it. And that's exactly what we want - that's proof.

She wasn't as confident as she sounded in the words she'd written. But seeing determination in her own handwriting somehow made her feel less weak, less uncertain.

Meeting Harry's slightly fearful but curious eyes, she withdrew the parchment from his lap and stood, kneeling by the hearth and catching the corner on fire, watching it burn for a moment before dropping it into hot, licking flames. Once the charred paper had turned completely to ash, she stood again, nodded at Harry, and, without another word, headed down the hallway toward Ron's room.

She pressed her ear to the door, absurdly wondering if he could hear the pounding of her heart.

Dead silence rang back, and she clutched her wand, shakily reaching out for the door handle. She counted to three, inside her head, and she was set, determined as she turned the handle... pushed open the door.

He was lying in bed on his back, one bare foot sticking out the end of his quilt. Faint snores were issuing rhythmically from him, and she noted his naked chest, discarded clothes on the floor nearby. Soft moonlight illuminated his pale skin, drifting in through the gap in the curtains over his single window. It was already somehow staggering, to see him at peace, unconscious. He could have been himself, with no question. It would have been impossible to tell the difference.

But as she moved closer, she caught sight of his wand, lying on the bed next to him, literally an inch from the fingertips of his right hand. He was so guarded in sleep. Not that this came as any great surprise. He was living with a stranger. Yet again, at opposition, was the fact that he would even consider doing so, and that he would be so careless as to leave his bedroom door unlocked, uncharmed, but sleep with his wand basically in hand.

Moving closer, she knelt by his bed, hardly breathing. His head was turned right, on his pillow, angling in her direction. Sitting down on her heels, she could nearly count every freckle across his face, even in the dark. Aside from his raging moments toward her, she hadn't been this close to him since the attack at the Ministry.

She was taking a risk now of him waking up, but she mouthed his name, breathing her voice across it just enough that maybe he would hear her in his sleep.

When he didn't move, she considered saying it again, but her eyes trailed down his arm to his wrist, drawn to the jagged curve of bone under papery, freckled skin.

His fingers twitched. She breathed inconsistently through her mouth as her eyes shot back up to his face.

She wasn't sure how long she stared, waiting. But when nothing happened, when he made no sounds or movements to indicate her presence had interrupted him, she lifted her hand, eyes drifting back down his arm until her fingers were hovering over his wrist. She could feel his warmth, this close.

Hand still balanced mid-air, caught between the desperate need to feel him and the resistance she forced forward to keep him unconscious, she leaned her upper body in... closer, closer... until her face was inches from his.

Her hair fell forward.

Nearly gasping, she watched as thick tendrils curtained around them both, surely enveloping him in the scent of her violet shampoo.

His forehead creased with something like confusion. And then, so softly, she dropped her hand the nearly nonexistent distance that separated her fingertips from his wrist. And she touched him.

The lines across his face eased. Muscles softened. And, without realising it, tears began to fall silently from her eyes, running down her face, dropping off the edge of her jaw to dampen his sheets.

"I saw him," she said, voice breaking, "the real Ron."

Once she'd finally dragged herself out of Ron's room, Harry had followed her down from the flat to the street, and they'd started to walk the block before she managed to get the words out.

"I can't believe he didn't wake up..."

"Harry," she continued, "it was like he... like my presence was... comforting, to him."

Harry glanced sideways at her as they continued to walk.

"What do we do now?" he asked, sighing.

"No idea..."

On Friday, Harry managed a peek at Ron's results from his appointment at St Mungo's. Nothing had turned up out of the ordinary, which dampened the slightly optimistic mood Hermione had lingered in since she'd watched Ron sleeping.

But a small piece of interesting news came the following Monday, when Harry reported Ron had been applying for work.

"He hasn't said where he's applying?" Hermione asked, over lunch.

"No," Harry answered, tucking into a withering salad and small slice of pie. Hermione pushed her half-eaten meal to the side and spread her notes across the table instead.

"Anything he enjoyed before seems to repulse him now," Hermione went over again, "so he'll do something completely unexpected."

"I imagine I'll know something soon."

"You've been in the lab this morning?" Hermione asked him, sniffing. Of course she knew if anything had been discovered, Harry would have told her immediately. But she had to ask about it, anyway.

"Yeah. Guess what we found?" he sighed, reaching for a glass of pumpkin juice.

"Nothing."

"Ten points to Gryffindor," Harry joked, taking a long drink before setting his cup back on the table. "Honestly, aside from Robards and our friends from school and his family, I'm having trouble convincing people Ron's actually been poisoned... or whatever we're calling this bollocks. Loads of people he knew from training simply think he's acting on some personal thing between the three of us."

"That's insane!" Hermione shouted, too loudly. She winced at her own raised voice.

"I know," Harry agreed, "but when St Mungo's clears you and says they can find no traces of poison or any unknown substances whatsoever..."

"Harry," she said weakly, "what do we do now? We're out of logical options completely... I'm coming by the flat again, on Friday. Let me know if you find out he won't be home."

"Still onto the idea of shocking new Ron out of him?" Harry teased, but Hermione's expression remained quite serious. In all honestly, that was nearly exactly what she planned to do.

"It's either that," she said, "or keep going over the same things. It's mental, doing something exactly the same way a second time and expecting the results to be different. But what else can we do?"

Her strategy was only to continue acting as if everything on her side of things was still just fine. She hoped, that in being kind to him, he would see some sort of mistake in his reaction to her. Or, if she could get him angry enough that he had to fight with himself not to harm her...

She'd risk it.

By Friday morning, her impending visit had her both nervous of time moving forward and incredibly anxious for the evening to arrive. But, so close to the end of August now, she knew what she had to do. And as the sun began to set around the Burrow, she pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from Ginny's desk...

Professor McGonagall,

I am so sorry, but I feel that I must now resign my position at Hogwarts this year. Perhaps you have heard, but Ron Weasley was present during the attack on the Ministry on the 30th of July, and he is suffering some sort of personality distortion as a result of exposure to an unknown gas. No one has any answers or seems to know what to do to treat him. For now, all we can do is hope that he will eventually be cured, either by a medical breakthrough, catching and questioning the wizard who initiated the attack, or by some sort of therapy or personal recognition of what's happened to him.

I cannot leave him in this state. I truly hope that you will understand and forgive my lateness in resigning. I had only hoped that things would be back to normal by now, but I can see that this is not the case and that Ron's illness is going to take much more work to solve than I had much too optimistically assumed.

Please know that I take my education just as seriously as I ever have, and I would like to ask for acceptance another year, if you would be willing to take me back.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger