Chapter XXVI: Found and Lost

Harry, Hermione, Luna and the twins sat around Neville's bedside in grim silence. Harry had been there before, after Colin, but this felt different; worse. Neville was a close friend as well as a fellow Gryffindor. He had been with Ginny, as she was telling McGonagall, almost the entire time - the attacker had petrified him in only a minute of being left alone. And he was pureblood.

If the heir was attacking purebloods, was everyone fair game? Or did the heir know they were investigating, and was planning on picking off Harry and his friends one by one? If he was then he was toying with them because Ginny had been alone after Neville and nothing happened to her. The possibilities were making his head spin.

"I told you I didn't hear anything," Ginny reiterated to a visibly shaken McGonagall. "He was right outside when I came out, but I didn't, I didn't even…"

"Hush, child, it is alright," McGonagall muttered. "Rest assured we will find the person responsible for this."

Ginny didn't look at all assured, but Harry couldn't blame her for her scepticism; the faculty had been promising that since the start and made no clear headway. They weren't quite as useless as the staff of his primary school the one time he had dared to report Dudley's bullying of him, but they were coming close. Impressive incompetence, that was, considering they had magic to employ.

"This is horrible," Hermione said out of the blue, quietly as not to disturb Ginny's questioning. "Just horrible. And our only lead was a total dead end. I even looked for books on the subject over the holidays, but the sale of books on magic like this is heavily restricted."

"Does nobody have any ideas?" Luna asked of the group.

In reply she received sullen shakes of the head from Harry and the twins, and nothing at all from Hermione, who was biting her lip thoughtfully. Come on, Hermione, think of something. If anyone could come up with another plan, it was her. The polyjuice plot had gone brilliantly other than being misguided from the start, which Harry took full responsibility for.

"Heavily restricted," she mumbled, and Harry despaired as it appeared even she was trapped going in circles.

"This just ain't our department," Fred said. "We specialise in not getting caught - not doing the catching."

"Don't you have any idea how they're getting away with it?" Harry snapped, his patience running thin at the whole situation. At life in general, really.

"Only that they're bloody good. It's like they've got their own set of secret passages or something."

"Restricted!" Hermione exclaimed before clasping a hand over her mouth at how loud she was. "The knowledge we need is restricted."

"Yes, you did say that already," Luna reminded her.

"I tried to research in the library," Hermione whispered, obviously trying to hide her words from the professor in the room, "but I never went into the restricted section. If there's anything on magic or monsters that can petrify people, it's in there. I need to look in the restricted books."

"You aren't allowed in that section," Harry supplied.

"We weren't allowed to sneak into Slytherin common rooms using polyjuice."

"Sweet Merlin, you did what?" George gasped. "You little troublemakers."

"We do not make trouble," Hermione huffed, "we merely break rules when there is good cause to break them."

"Troublemaking and anarchy! She's a keeper she is, George," Fred smirked.

"Hands off, I saw her first," George replied, shoving his brother hard enough to almost throw him from his chair.

"Boys! Really!" Hermione snapped. "Concentrate. I need to get into the restricted section, and I'd bet you two know how."

"Accusations will get you nowhere, miss Granger," Fred chided playfully, pointlessly wagging a finger.

"Bribery is what makes us tick," his brother clarified.

"Fine. What do you want - and be careful how you answer that, because I can hex the pair of you from this close," she warned, her wand hand slipping into her pocket to back up the threat.

The twins looked at each other, communicated something using nothing but their eyebrows, and turned to say in unison: "Books."

"Books? You'd better not be expecting me to steal from the-"

"No, no, nothing like that."

"But we hear Harry got you more books than you can carry-"

"And there's a couple books we're interested in-"

"But can't afford right now."

"One book each, and we'll give you access to a whole library."

"Won't find a better offer than that."

Hermione mulled the offer over for a while. Harry had a growing suspicion that she had already used all seventy-nine vouchers, and would have to buy the twins' bribes out of her own pocket. Why else would she be so hesitant?

"Harry?" she finally asked. "Is it alright with you if I say yes?"

"Why does my opinion matter?" he asked, thoroughly confused.

"I'd be using your vouchers, that you got for me."

That didn't make any more sense to him than the question. Though it did tell him she had some left, so seemingly her thirst had bounds.

"They're your vouchers, Hermione. Use them however you like."

"You're sure?"

"Do I need to be?"

Hermione pondered a moment longer, then reached out a hand across Neville's bed, which the twins happily shook. A deal had been struck.

"It is nice to be sure of oneself," Luna chipped in, "but not necessary. Could I have a book as well, Hermione?"

"Um, what for?"
"For reading, of course."

Hermione's initial look of confusion turned slowly to a smug, calculating grin.

"Of course you can, Luna, since you asked so nicely."

"Hey, hold on," Fred argued, outraged, "she gets one for free? Why do we have to trade for ours?"

"Why didn't you try asking nicely first?" Hermione shot back.

The twins sat stunned for a moment, sharing another look.

"She got us there brother," George conceded.

"Indeed. A keeper, I'm telling you," Fred chuckled.

"Call me that again," Hermione threatened, pointing aggressively (at the wrong twin), "the only book you'll be getting is a feminist manifesto. Now, how do I get into the restricted section?"

"Oh, that's easy, you just have to…

Three days later, Hermione slipped into the library, three hours before it closed, making sure to be seen going in. The twins reckoned that was important, as being found in the library with no witnesses to your entrance was suspicious; it was only while you were in the part you weren't supposed to be that you needed to avoid detection. It turned out the pair were capable of logic, when mischief was on the cards. They also assured her Wednesday was the best day, and as much as she wanted to get in there immediately, she had deferred to their judgment.

After a few minutes she retreated into a corner she knew to always be abandoned; nobody ever bothered to look up laws from the eighteenth century, or common household charms every magical housewife needed to know, which the library's organisational system had somehow elected to put next to each other.

The twins were adamant that using an invisibility cloak for sneaking was cheating, and Hermione was adamant that not using it when Harry had one on hand would be idiocy. Once they explained that by 'cheating' they had meant 'clever and devious', and she had their full blessing accordingly, the plan had been simplified to account for it. Now all Hermione had to do was walk up to the metal gate separating the restricted tomes from the library proper, carry on straight past it for eight paces, tap the little gargoyle she found there on the nose thrice and step into – (through?) - the wall. The twins had warned her Pince's desk overlooked that particular secret passageway, but she could be through and clear before the librarian arrived to check out the disturbance.

How they managed to use it without being invisible, they refused to reveal. They were still a tad sore about Luna's free book.

Hermione followed their instructions, having a little trouble locating the gargoyle by touch alone, and forcing herself not to jump at every tiny noise coming from Pince's direction; augmenosensus was as much a curse as a blessing sometimes. It wasn't long before she hurried through a wall which offered no resistance (what was it with magic and illusory walls? Talk about cliché) and was standing in her destination.

The process wasn't entirely silent, however, as the gargoyle had made a noise of grinding stone, and she could hear Pince standing from her chair and approaching, heels clicking forebodingly on the floorboards. Hermione scooted a few steps to one side, keeping to the wall she had just walked through and trusting the cloak to save her from prying eyes.

The gate rattled, a key turned in a lock, and hinges in need of oiling swung open.

"Hominem revelio," Pince cast.

Hermione held her breath. She had forgotten to account for magical searching, so it was highly fortuitous that she was under the one item she knew that could evade the soul detection charm. Any more advanced spells and she may be toast. But, after a time, Pince muttered to herself and the gate was shut and locked. With the danger passed, Hermione steadied herself, reoriented and tried to remember the details of the organisational system, banking on the restricted section following the same standard. If it didn't, she was in for a long night.

In the second row, halfway down and about nine feet from where she thought it should have been, she found the shelf of books on offensive dark spells. With the stories of a monster entirely unconfirmed - and possibly based on Hagrid's acromantula which she knew to not be responsible - it seemed likely that the heir simply knew some rare spell that achieved their goal. A monster would favour killing over incapacitating, surely?

Two hours and countless sheets of braille later, she was seeing why the faculty hadn't made much progress. There were several spells with results similar to the petrifications, but none that matched well enough. As the more powerful, 'darker' ones were so permanent and untreatable as to effectively be lethal, that wasn't entirely a bad thing.

Hermione returned the last book to its place and moved on to monsters. She figured she had two places from which to start: The first was that any monster capable of petrifying would surely be a class XXXXX, so she could discount lesser beasts; the second was the tale of Medusa, the gorgon. Medusa herself was not real, she had learned that much already, but the Slytherin/snakes and petrification/turning to stone connections suggested a basis to the myth. Or a crazed wizard had sought to replicate the gorgons, and come disturbingly close.

Her musings on the matter were the last thing she remembered when she woke, flat out on her back against a cold hard floor, and in considerable pain in her… her everything, really. She felt like she'd gone down a flight of stairs, the fast way.

"Oh, my dear girl, you're awake," someone fussed over her. "I was starting to worry." Male, adult. "Looks like you took a nasty tumble down the stairs, how long have you been lying here like this?" Professor Lockhart!

"Professor?" she mumbled groggily, reaching up to him for - some reason?

"Lay still, girl. I'll have you fixed up in no time, but best not to squirm, hey?"

Hermione couldn't argue with that, or get up if she wanted to - by God her back hurt. And her head was no better - if she could have seen the ceiling, it would have been spinning. The stars in the darkness certainly were.

"What happened?" she asked as he cast some sort of numbing spell, which barely helped at all. It had sounded to her ringing ears like he messed up the incantation.

"Haven't a clue, dearie. I'm afraid I stumbled upon you this way, and it's a good thing I did. Who knows what might have been had I not been here to save the day!"

She batted him away, ineffectually, wondering why he wasn't using a wand for this and if he really meant to slide his hand that far up her skirt. Not that she felt in any state to complain; the effort of trying to stop him had exhausted her twinged her shoulder so badly she worried it may be broken. Not badly enough she couldn't wait for madam Pomfrey, though - if Lockhart was as accomplished in medical spells as he was in pixie-fighting, she'd rather take her chances with it healing on its own. Honestly, she could probably fix it better herself, once her head decided which way onto her body it wanted to be screwed, and she could feel her fingers to grip her wand.

"My wand," she groaned, feeling her pocket and despairing to find it empty. "Where is my wand?"

"Not to worry girl, I've got your wand safe right here. Very lucky you are not to have broken the thing. Vinewood, is it? Very pretty, rather like the wand of a woman I met in- oh, but I'm getting away with myself again, aren't I?"

Hermione hadn't paid attention after the words 'wand safe', preferring to lose herself in the tingling in her right arm. Preferring may not have been the right term, but the sensation refused to be ignored, so she thought she may as well try to understand it. It hurt, but the way pins and needles do when one gets up after sitting on a limb for too long. She tried to curl her fingers and found them responding, albeit weakly - it seemed she was regaining use of her limb, not losing it.

With that particular cause for panic avoided, she slumped against the floor, let her head roll to one side and tried not to concern herself with the way the stars were growing into a sparkling red chaos. Anyone else would be worried they were losing their sight, she noted absently.

The pains across her body were fading, which was nice. The grating sound of Lockhart's self-congratulatory ranting was fading too, which was possibly nicer. She felt like she could fall asleep right there on the cold hard stone. There was a reason not to, she was sure, but it wasn't presenting itself so it couldn't be all that important. Just a quick nap; sleep it off.

Just a wink.

She woke to her favourite smell, though strangely in one nostril only. The other smelled blood; no, the other was completely blocked with coagulated blood. And hurt, like she'd smacked her face into a wall. Not the worst pain her face had ever been through, but that was little consolation to the abused area; the bar was set high.

She raised her right hand to rub it, maybe check what was causing the pain, and was rewarded with a pathetic flopping as her arm failed to move off the bed.

Her shoulder felt wrong, come to think of it. It felt... It felt like her shoulder-bone had fallen out, and no-one had thought to put it back in when they stitched her up. Which would explain the rest of that arm doing its best impression of a beached jellyfish. With her other hand, thankfully to much better effect, she checked her shoulder - squishy, swollen, but at least there - and her nose - also there, also swollen, and very sensitive to being prodded.

And uncovered at the top. Her blindfold must have ridden up; she moved to adjust it and clutched at naught but bare skin all the way up to her hairline.

Of all the pains and oddities in her body, the nakedness of her face was what finally cut through her removed calm and brought on the panic. She heard someone calling out to her, and panicked even more; whoever it was would see her, the worst of her, laid bare. She threw her arm across her face and tried to roll over to press into the pillow; the pain that shot through her back had her arching and screaming.

A pair of hands gripped her, carefully but so firmly, and rolled her back over. She wanted to fight them, but she was so weak, so helpless and weak and broken and useless that she couldn't even stop them pushing something into her mouth; couldn't hold back her reflex to swallow whatever vile fluid poured into her throat; couldn't even keep up a token resistance as an unnatural calm spread through her.

Calming draught, she realised as her mind rebooted. Much needed, she knew now, but why had she been so upset? Her blindfold was gone, but her arm was covering well enough, and would it be so bad if people saw her?

Yes, her mind fought with itself, yes it would.

Bad enough to get all wound up over? When it was so much easier, so much more relaxing to imply go with the flow. Life, she mused, was a river; fight the current, or lay back and breathe, you'd wash ashore in the end either way. Either road was alike; what did it matter if you never came back to travel the other.

Where was I?

The part of her that had fought moments before was silent now. The silence was pleasant; peaceful.

Helpful hands lifted her arm and placed a strip of soft fabric under it, and the river grew a little calmer still. Not that she would've minded had it become rapids. Water is water is water, after all. She sighed wistfully at the thought of spending a day by the riverside, fishing and not caring what she caught. Maybe her friends would float on by and she could reel them in too. That would be nice. Harry would enjoy the serenity, and Luna could catch a humdinger.

"Miss Granger? Miss Granger," a familiar voice called softly, not that Hermione minded awfully whose it was; why bother to try to figure out? They were here, and they were surely someone very nice. Maybe they would come fishing too?

"Oh dear. A little too much of the calmer. One moment, Miss Granger," they requested, walking away. Hermione was happy to wait as many moments as they needed.

If they never came back, that was fine too. They probably had other things to be doing rather than looking after her. She wasn't anyone important. Was anything truly important? The universe was spiralling inexorably to its demise, entropy driving all things apart and into stillness until no cohesion could remain, and Hermione was only saddened there would be no more rivers.

"Drink this, please," the voice asked, pressing a vial into her good hand.

Not that her other was bad, it just wasn't working at that moment. It had done a lot for her over the years, so it deserved the break. Maybe it had retired. Good for it, if it had. She remembered she was meant to be drinking, and did so. It tasted ever so salty, with a strong hint of dead rats in cheese; nothing to complain about there.

Three seconds later she spat the disgusting residue out, trying to air out her tongue. That stuff was worse than the aching in her back and shoulder!

"Back with us, Miss Granger?"

"Are you trying to make me throw up?" she snapped, wiping her tongue on her sleeve.

"I would rather you did not," Pomfrey answered, huffing in hypothetical annoyance.

"Well put some sugar in that next time, or something. Eugh!"

"Your protest is noted. Now, how are you feeling?" she enquired, doing something that made Hermione's skin crawl the same way having a ghost partway inside her had.

"How am I?" she moaned, shivering. "I feel like I fell from a tree and hit every branch on the way down."

"Or a flight of stairs, and every step?" Pomfrey suggested

"Or that."

"That's probably because you did."

Something about that didn't seem right to Hermione. Falling down the stairs? She never tripped on stairs. She had the run and rise of every staircase in the castle memorised, and she felt her way with every step, especially on the way down. It took an age to descend some of the longer flights, but the alternative was ending up in the infirmary. Like she was just then.

No, she wouldn't have fallen down the stairs, not unless she was running for some reason, or she was pushed. She couldn't think of anything that would inspire her to run down a set of stairs.

"I was pushed," she murmured, as she came to that conclusion. It was horrible to think someone would push her down the stairs, but she felt she had eliminated the other possibilities, and so whatever remained…

Someone pushed me… Someone tried to kill me.

"Do you recall who it was?" Pomfrey asked, a new level of severity in her already stern voice.

"No," Hermione said, shaking her head gently. "I don't remember… I don't remember anything after… I was in the library."

Her mind held a vague sense that she had left the library, but that was probably revisionist thinking: her brain filling in the blanks with what it expected to find there. The last thing she truly remembered was a sense of disappointment that she hadn't managed to find anything on the heir's methods. Everything after was foggy, or missing entirely, like a dream an hour after waking from it.

"Ah. But you know you were pushed?"

"I know I didn't trip," she asserted. It wasn't just that she didn't think she had tripped; she knew. Couldn't remember, but knew all the same. There was a sense of fear associated with the stairs in her head, a gut wrenching feeling of the horror before the terror, of knowing you were going to fall before gravity even took hold. The phantom pressure on her back of a hand driving her forward.

"Hermione?" a familiar timbre stage whispered from somewhere nearby.

"Harry?" she whispered back.

Pomfrey gasped, as though he had appeared from out of the blue.

"Mr Potter, what are you doing in here?" she demanded.

"Seeing my friend," he replied, calmly but firmly.

It was most definitely not a request. This was the Harry she had met in the Great Hall that first day, defiant and stalwart, refusing to let his friend be alone. Whatever his family had done to make him that way, she hated and thanked them in equal measure; his unspoken suffering had made him strong, as had hers, and in that moment she needed his strength. She needed him, and before she had even realised it herself, there he was.

"It is after curfew!"

"So give me detention tomorrow," he casually dismissed, coming closer.

"Miss Granger is not ready for visitors," Pomfrey protested, but Hermione could tell her resistance was waning already, her matronly visage giving way to the wonderful kindness it protected.

"Yes, I am," she disagreed, fervently.

It was true she was in no mood nor state to be crowded, but that was hardly a risk with Harry. She reached a hand out to him anyway; it was taken in his at once. He didn't even hesitate. His skin had softened where the callouses faded, but the strength of his grip remained. It was like holding her father's hand - powerful and reassuring. For the first time since waking under Lockhart's dubious ministrations, she felt truly safe.

Then a third hand laid itself softly on top of theirs, just for a second.

"Do not keep her awake too long," Pomfrey ordered. "She needs her rest to heal."

"Yes ma'am."

"And be back in Gryffindor long before you're missed in the morning."

"Yes ma'am."

"And no matter how convincingly she tells you she knows her healing, she does nothing without my approval."

Hermione was none too pleased about being discussed as though she weren't in the room, but her indignation was distant and fuzzy - the calming draught hadn't been completely countered, and was coming back to play in passing waves.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am," Harry called softly after Pomfrey, who was already trudging away with tired footsteps.

Hermione had no clue what time it was, but a good guess would be 'late'. Her body was telling her to sleep, whether by circadian rhythm or simple fatigue she did not know. Harry yawned quietly, and she figured it could be both. The yawn was catching; her own was so wide it hurt her bruised jaw, and nearly dislodged the fabric over her 'eyes'.

"Harry, would you do me up?"

Harry spluttered. "What?"

"My blindfold needs tying," she clarified, too tired to wonder what he'd thought she said.

"Oh, uh, right."

He extricated his hand from hers - with some effort, because she sure as hell wasn't happy about letting go - and she felt a light pressure on either side of her head.

"Wait," she urged, "wait. I don't want you to see… Close your eyes, just in case."

"Is that really necessa-"

"Yes!" she hissed. "Please. Promise you won't look," she pleaded.

Good friend or not, there were things he wasn't ready to see. Wouldn't ever see if she could help it.

"I promise," he swore solemnly. "Can you lift your head?"

Hermione raised up as much as she could, which turned out to be barely off the pillow, but it was enough for Harry to fumble the fabric into a securely knotted blindfold. She stopped him before he could adjust it, in case he felt more of her scar than she wanted him to, and did it herself. Then she put her hand out once more for him to take, which after a second or two he did.

"What happened, Hermione?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she promised. "Need sleep."

She settled down with a wriggle to try to sleep, and was about to drift off when Harry spoke up.

"What am I meant to do with this?" he asked, jiggling her arm gently by the hand he still held."

"Just hold it," she mumbled.

"How long for?"

"All night would be nice," she joked, albeit not in jest. "It helps."

"It helps?" he repeated, clearly confused as to how.

Hermione gave him no answer. Madam Pomfrey had told her to rest, and what a wonderful idea that was. She was getting right on with it.

Harry watched Hermione sleep for a while, thinking how glad he was that she would be ok. When she hadn't returned at curfew, he hadn't been too worried; expecting her to return promptly from the library was a rookie mistake no one who really knew her would make. The way she had been since Neville, he wouldn't have been surprised to find her in the morning, slumped over a pile of open books and in almost more trouble than she could talk her way out of.

When the news broke in the Gryffindor common room that Penelope Clearwater was missing, the hairs on the back of his neck had tried to pull themselves free of his skin. He'd run for the library, stopping only to let the twins know where he was going. He would have told Ginny, but that day she had been the quietest she'd been since Neville, which was saying something. He hadn't even thought the library would be locked until he got there and found it was.

Hermione wouldn't have had any trouble leaving - unnamed Ravenclaws had solved that issue centuries ago, and the trick was common knowledge to those who might come to need it - but no way could Harry get in. The locks and wards were far beyond what Hermione had put on their sleeping classroom, and that array had stymied Harry despite it being explained to him.

The next place to check had been the infirmary. Those doors were never locked. After a near run-in with Lockhart in the corridor, he hadn't been caught entering as Pomfrey was busy. Busy tending to Hermione.

Harry's first urge had been to run right over, as always, but he fought it down. Pomfrey had forgotten more healing magic than Harry knew - which was to say she had forgotten at least one thing about healing magic - and he would only get in her way, or disturb her at a key moment. Or find some other way to fuck up. Hermione was unconscious anyway; she couldn't appreciate his presence. So, he sat in the far corner and waited. It would have been easier had he had his cloak, but he knew enough about moving around unnoticed to go unseen without it.

Two hours had never felt so long, but finally Hermione stirred. Pomfrey was there at once, fussing and waving her wand in the most complicated patterns Harry had ever seen, then ceasing her activity all of a sudden as Hermione cried out. From his vantage point on the floor he couldn't make out the issue, but Pomfrey got it under control just before he would have given in and run over, idiotic or not.

Hermione didn't speak for a while after that, but when her first words were 'are you trying to make me throw up?', delivered in her classic disapproving tone, Harry knew she would be ok. Hearing what had happened to her made his blood boil, but it was the tiny break in her voice as she said she couldn't remember that had him on his feet and heading over. His friend was scared; it was his turn to look after her. If it meant staying awake all night to watch over her… that was exactly what he would do.

And so he did.

When Pomfrey returned to check on them and turn off the lights for the night, she took one look at her hand still resting in his, shared a moment of eye contact which communicated that he was going nowhere, and nodded approvingly. McGonagall was his favourite staff member, but Pomfrey had secured herself a very strong second place.

With the lights off, he drew his wand and lit a soft lumos, not caring that it took on its natural but technically incorrect emerald hue. It was only there so he could watch the door, vigilant for whoever had hurt his friend to come around looking to finish the job. He almost wished they would, just so he could have at them. His lumos glowed a deeper green at that thought.

He kept that light lit all through the night, though his arm was tingling and his fingers numb by dawn. He only ended it when Pomfrey returned and lit the torches. The idea he shouldn't have had enough magical power to do that only occurred when it was over. He imagined Hermione's face when he told her he'd kept a spell going all night. How she would flit between elated and academically focused, questioning everything about his feat except that he had managed it. Telling him it wasn't possible without calling him a liar. She was good with words like that.

"Harry," she whispered suddenly, breaking him from his daydreaming.

He looked down to find her head rolled in his direction, a tentative but weary smile on her lips. Her brow was sweaty, her blindfold soaked, and her skin pallid, but she looked far more alive than she had all night.

"I'm here," he assured her, marvelling that she had known who he was without him saying a word.

"Where am I?"

"Hospital wing."

"Oh, yeah," she mumbled, trying to roll over and jerking awkwardly as her good arm refused to follow. "Harry? My hand?"

Harry startled as he noticed he still held her hand in his - he'd known it, but sometime in the night it had been forgotten, or perhaps just accepted, judging by how wrong his skin felt when he let go. She flexed her hand, and he did too - the cramp pains from moving it were an unpleasant surprise.

"Did you hold my hand all night?" she asked, incredulous.

"Uh. You did ask me to."

"I didn't think you'd-" she muttered, then broke off, sighed, and laughed softly. "Of course you did."

"Was I not supposed to-"

"Thank you, Harry."

"It wasn't weird?" he asked, thinking in hindsight it was. He had sat and held a girl's hand all night. He didn't know what that meant, if anything, but instinctively he knew not to mention it to the Weasley twins, which was a red flag all by itself.

"I did ask you to," she repeated, grinning reassuringly. How is she the one trying to reassure me right now?

"How are you feeling?" he enquired, moving on swiftly because he still thought it was a bit weird.

"Like crap. But I've had worse," she sighed. "It's stupid, but I'm more worried about facing the whole school and their questions than my injuries."

"They might not be as interested in you as you'd think," Harry said, carefully as he searched for the appropriate words. "Not like that, anyhow."

"What do you mean?" Hermione snipped, suddenly alert. "What happened?"

Harry gulped, and decided to just break it bluntly. Hermione could make of it what she willed.

"One of the Ravenclaw sixth years, Penelope Clearwater… She went missing last night. They still haven't found her."

A/N

Sorry Hermione?

Nice to see you're still here Stevem1, and thanks to the guest reviewer I'm assuming is the same person across several reviews.

This chapter breaks the 100k word count of actual story, whoo! About 60k more to finish book one, so the pace mostly picks up from here.

Edited slightly from first upload, because I screwed up some minor continuity, like the idiot I am.