Chapter Thirteen

Those Lost Hours

Harry wasn't sure anymore . . . not of how long he paced back and forth across the shop floor. Not when the sun had begun to set outside the shop walls. Not how many times he'd come back to the cauldron to peer anxiously at the twisting, death-trap-looking staircase that was Hermione and his father's only hope of getting out.

He hadn't any idea how many times Professor Snape rolled his eyes at his restless movements. Had lost track of how often Remus tried to offer words of comfort in hopes of helping him keep calm, despite that the normally serene-on-the-surface werewolf was showing signs of agitation, himself.

Hunger pangs came and went. No matter how many times his treacherous stomach urged him to step away for just a moment to run down to Diagon Alley and grab something to eat—just a few minutes, there and back before anything could go sideways without him here—he ignored the discomfort.

He'd even tried a time or two—much to Snape's protests and Remus outright pulling him back—to get to the staircase, himself. He had no intention of wandering about those tunnels down there, but if he could just get down the staircase, he could wait for them at the bottom and feel at least a little less useless in this situation.

Yet, he realized after the fourth try—when he managed to get far enough before Remus caught him that he'd swung a leg over the lip of the cauldron—that the staircase was not as easily accessible as it appeared. There must be a protective charm on it to keep out unwanted parties, as the moment his foot neared that top step, the image of it wavered.

At first, he found himself consumed by anger as he guessed the staircase an illusion, which meant Hermione and his dad might not be able to get out, after all. But then Snape had helpfully tossed in a piece of crumbled stone broken off from the floor. The bit of stone bounced off the steps and downward with sharp, resonant clacks. He also supplied the fact that the staircase had not been visible before Hermione had tumbled into the enchanted vessel.

Putting their heads together, the three realized the steps were charmed to only be accessible to those already in the cauldron, or who knew how to dispel the charms on it. It didn't matter to Harry that this all made perfect sense when considering a wildly paranoid bunch like the Dark witches and wizards who had frequented Knockturn Alley's establishments.

All Harry knew was that far too long had passed before they heard sluggish, dragging movements from within the cauldron.

He didn't notice that he practically knocked Remus and Professor Snape out of his way as he rushed back to the cast iron edge. Just as fast, he dropped to the floor, ducking out of the way of a flying black cat as the creature shot from the cauldron.

Harry and Remus exchanged a glance before turning a questioning look on Severus.

Severus waved dismissively as he returned to the cauldron's side, himself. "I'll explain later." Peering over the edge, he reached in, not waiting for Harry and Remus. "Give her here."

By the time the other two joined him, a ragged and weary James—for all the world looking as though they'd been missing for far longer than the better part of a day—had deposited an unconscious Hermione in the other man's arms.

Remus and Harry scrambled to help James, each grabbing one of his arms and hoisting him out. "What the hell happened in there?" the werewolf demanded in a gentle, airy whisper as they set James on his own two feet.

Swallowing hard, James looked to each of them. His only response was a mute shake of his head as he offered a shrug that seemed to drain what precious little energy he had left. He turned his attention on Severus, then, seeming in need of confirming that Hermione was safe.

And then he collapsed.


Hermione's mind was dark . . . fuzzy. She felt as though she were drifting awake through layers of rich, gauzy fabric. Her head ached, but only a little—just the faintest throbbing around the edges of her skull.

Blinking open her eyes, the first thing that greeted her was muted light. She knew this sort of lighting, it was the nighttime illumination of a— "Hospital?" the word escaped in a rough whisper, as though she'd not used her voice in weeks.

Her eyes closed again and she swallowed. Her throat didn't quite hurt, but it did feel tight. Strained. And her limbs were heavy and she simply wanted to go back to sleep, but she couldn't. She had to find out what had happened and how she'd gotten to St. Mungo's. The last she remembered . . . .

Forcing open her eyes once more, she carefully lifted herself up on her elbows, her gaze blurry and unfocused as she tried to think back. The last she remembered . . . .

Actually, she couldn't remember anything after starting to investigate the first of the cauldron tunnels with James and Bat. Her brow furrowed as she chewed at her lower lip in thought. If she last recalled being there, and now she was here . . . there was no telling what might've gone on during her lapse in memory.

Had those tunnels scrambled her thinking? She had been trapped with one of the men she couldn't seem to stop herself from thinking about climbing, for pity's sake! Had she given up her cautions and sensibilities for however long they'd been down there?

The witch cringed and shook her head. One of . . . ? Just who the bloody hell else besides James Potter was she imagining—Hermione immediately shut down the question when she felt the answer starting to skitter past her mind's eye in the form of a lanky, sandy-haired werewolf.

Snatching up her pillow from behind her back—careful not to disturb Bat where it lay curled in a ball at the head of the bed—she pulled it into her lap. The cushy material bunched between her hands, she pressed her face into the cottony surface and muffled a shriek of frustration.

A sound tearing through the room then startled her.

Whipping her head up from the pillow, she looked about the room. Her shoulders slumped, feeling touched as she saw them. Each of them nodded off in their own chair, Harry, Professor Snape, and the aforementioned lanky, sandy-haired werewolf, were all slumped or sprawled in comical positions.

Lips tugging into a confused pout, she turned her attention to the other bed in the room.

James Potter was laid back, slumbering deeply. On the night table beside him was an array of potions and magical concoctions to match the collection on hers.

She was positive now that the disruptive noise had been one of the males in the room snoring, but now they were all perfectly silent. Still as a stone, she sat, watching them all and waiting.

After what seemed so long she felt in danger of falling back to sleep, Harry's head fell backward, and with that movement, that same loud, grating sound choked out of him. So loud, he seemed to momentarily startle himself, the young man snapped up his head, darting a bleary-eyed glance around and then immediately nodded off again, slipping into quiet slumber, once more.

Folding her lips on a grin, Hermione held back a laugh. Mystery solved.

Well, one mystery, and a flippant one, at that. She was no closer to answering the big, glaring, mildly panic inducing question of what had happened in the cauldron tunnels.

Pushing the pillow out of her lap, she flipped back her flimsy hospital blanket and eased her legs over the edge of the mattress. The tiled floor was cold beneath the balls of her bare feet as she crept across to the side of James' bed.

Peering quickly back over her shoulder toward the slumbering trio, she chewed at her lower lip. Her hand dropping delicate on his shoulder, she shook him lightly. "James?" she whispered.

He stirred, muttering something as he turned his head toward her. But his eyes remained closed. James Potter merely yawned and then went quiet, again.

She exhaled impatiently, the breath rushing from her nostrils as she shook her head. "James?" she tried again, jostling his shoulder with just a bit more force.

"Hmm? Wassit? Wha?" The barely intelligible sounds tumbled from his lips as he blinked a few times. Bleary, narrowed hazel eyes found hers. "Hermione?" he said, his voice low as he spared a second to look about the room. "You're okay?"

The witch gave herself a cursory glance. Of course, she felt like she'd been in a fight and her head seemed to weigh a metric ton, but considering she had no idea what sort of gauntlet of enchantments they might've faced down there . . . . "Fine, I think. I can't . . . how long were we missing down there?"

"I'm not even sure," he answered, his eyes closing as he snickered at their mutual confusion. "There's got to be a clock around here, somewhere. Last I remember, before I fell in after you, it was . . . noon, maybe? And I think it was dark when I pulled you out."

Hermione leaned back from him, affronted that she needed to be rescued. "You had to pull me out?"

He shrugged against the pillow and let out a sigh, the sound affectionate but weary. He'd had a feeling she wasn't going to be happy to hear that. "As far as I can recollect, I was literally a few minutes behind you. Any longer and neither of us would've been able to drag the other one out."

That made sense, she supposed, if they had been dealing with charms that altered one's perception of time. "Because I was down there longer, okay, yeah." She turned her attention from him long enough to search for a clock. There on the otherwise blank wall between their beds an old timepiece was hung, ticking steadily. 4 am.

That meant she'd lost a rough sixteen hours! Oh, she knew it could've been much worse, but still, over half a day simply unaccounted for!

Over half a day she couldn't remember of being lost and alone with him.

"James?" He didn't answer, seeming to have fallen back to sleep.

Her shoulders slumping, she observed him a moment in the low light. His dark hair was a mess, and his beard had grown back in a bit—not as thick or unkempt as when they'd first met, but certainly fuller than after he'd had that chance to clean himself up following the final battle's end. The old-fashioned hospital gown he was in—that they were both clad in, now that she had observed it—was closed mid-chest, and she caught a glimpse of those same dark hairs that had caused her thoughts to go a little haywire the night of the remembrance ball.

His features . . . now that she was able to openly stare at him with no distractions, she noticed that while the beard obscured it, there was a resemblance to Harry.

Wincing, she turned her head to look at the young man in question a moment. Well, certainly, she'd always noticed he was handsome, but . . . did this mean that under the right circumstances, she'd be wildly attracted to him?

Harry did that odd head-bobbing snore again and she arched a brow. No, probably not. She adored him, but certainly not in that way.

Giving herself a shake, Hermione returned her gaze to James. This wasn't over. She shook him again. "James?"

"Wha? Howssit?" His head snapped up as he cracked open his eyes. Locking them on her face, he groaned and let his head fall back into his pillow. In some other far off and highly questionable situation, he was certain he'd be happy to wake and find Hermione beside him and clearly feeling quite insistent, but this was not it. "Merlin's sake, woman. Let a man sleep."

"I will, just one more question, please!"

Well, that made the decision for him. He already knew he couldn't say no to her, 'specially not when she was looking at him with those big brown eyes of hers all enormous and pleading. His body sagging against the bed, he sighed. "Okay. Then you'll let me sleep?"

"Yeah." She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender.

"What is it?"

Unable to help her caution, she glanced back at the others again before she managed to ask, "What happened when we were down there?"

He shrugged, turning onto his side—toward her—as he let his eyes drift closed. "Your guess is as good as mine. I can't remember." James yawned and smooshed his cheek more tightly against his pillow. "G'night, Hermione."

Her heart sank as she nodded. "Goodnight, James."

Yet, as she was about to return to her own bed, he shifted a bit and the movement tugged the opening of his gown to one side a little. The curious sight of bruising caught her attention. Waiting to be sure he was snoozing, she crept closer for a better look.

Yes, there was definitely a bruising on the side of his neck and down his shoulder, the blooms of purple and dark blue unmistakable. Yet . . . mixed with the blooded patches of skin, there was a rashy sort of red, like raspberry mark. At first she thought perhaps the area had been rubbed raw by whatever impact had caused the bruising, but . . . .

Leaning dangerously close, she touched the splotchy bit of red to find the skin was smooth, undamaged, the broken blood vessels beneath it. She remembered now he'd bruised a rib. When he'd stripped down for her to bandage his midsection, she'd gotten more of an eyeful than she'd willingly admit, and there had been no such marking on his neck at the time.

"Oh, no." The words left her lips without sound. James Potter had a love bite. One that hadn't been there over half a day ago.

Pulling back, she watched his face carefully, assuring herself he was still asleep. She could be wrong. Yes, of course. Many things could break only the capillaries; it didn't have to be what she feared it was.

But still . . . .

Her heart hammering in her chest, Hermione turned on her heel and headed for the bathroom, determined to check herself over in the mirror in search of any similarly suspicious marks.