I don't know why, but P.O.D's instrumentals "Guitarras de Amor" and "Rain" always makes me think of Harry and Hermione, especially "Rain" with the crescendo at the end, maybe because I like it so much. Tranquil, somewhat melancholy, and sophisticated, and I've always associated those two to rain anyway. I find I seem to write better when I have that in the background.
Anyhow, some people commented on how Ginny seemed a little…forward so far, but I thought she was a little forward in the books as well (need I bring up that sickening birthday gift? I mean, when I read that, an image of Marilyn Monroe popped in my head singing "Happy Birthday, Mr President"…like, you'll see what you'll get after the song's over, and you don't get much more forward than that). She's a little more insistent here because she's getting a bit impatient with Harry.
I've got a couple of things to say still, but, instead of spoiling you now, I'll tell you at the end of the chapter.
Dreamscape
Chapter 3: "Of Pink Swirls of Smoke"
"Here you go, Harry," Ginny said, handing him a drink as he took a seat on the table in the Weasley dining room. "Pumpkin juice," she elaborated with a false demure smile belying the seduction in her eyes, "your favourite."
Again, Harry felt that odd lurch to his stomach, needing to fight down another wave of nausea. He hesitated only a couple of seconds, managing to hide his discomfort from mostly everyone-Hermione's sharp eyes were trained on him, he could feel it, and he knew she'd noticed. "Thanks Ginny," he mumbled, still completely confused at how his own body was responding to her, or even just thoughts of her, but he was beginning to think there was something wrong with him. It's not like she disgusted him. True, he wasn't too fond of her lately, but it was nowhere near disgust, and these waves of nausea that assailed him were truly out of proportion, and they'd only been increasing since the night of his `dream'.
"Well!" Molly Weasley's voice spoke energetically from the entrance of the kitchen. "Since Arthur's going to be home soon, and Harry's already here, why don't the girls come help me with dinner while we leave the men to their talk?" It was very obviously not a request, so Ginny gave a bored sigh and followed, while Hermione sent Harry a pleading look-to which he answered with a shrug-and lifted herself from the table to join the Weasley matron. Harry was left to stare into his glass of pumpkin juice, his earlier thought returning to him. What was wrong with him? He gave a deep sigh and lifted his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. He needed to talk to Ginny. In private. But not there, on her territory, where he risked the wrath of her mother, and, potentially, of her brother Ron. He took a sip of his pumpkin juice, only to feel his heartbeat thrumming loudly into his own ears as Ginny's face swam into his mind's eye, bringing with it another bout of nausea. Nearly dropping his glass, he brought his hands up to rub at his temples insistently.
"Galleon for your thoughts?" Ron asked taking the seat next to him, his hands still slightly wet as he'd just come back from the loo. Speak of the devil, Harry thought wryly.
"Not worth that much," he lied. "Just wondering what I'm doing here right now."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," the redhead mumbled, a deep weary sigh. "But you know my mum. Soon as she heard me and Hermione split, she had to call everyone here to talk some sense into us," he shrugged. "She wants to sew us back together," he scoffed. "Yeah, like that's happening anytime soon," he mumbled, taking a deep swig from the butterbeer that had been set at his place.
"Isn't it?" Harry asked, curious.
"Bloody hell, no!" Ron almost choked on his drink in his self righteous indignation. "Blimey, Harry, where did you get that idea?"
"I don't know," he shrugged noncommittally. "It's just that…the way you were that night you came back to the Hunt…you looked so…" he let out an aggravated breath at his inability to form the words. "I don't know. I guess you just looked like you'd die without her."
Ron puffed an amused breath. "You know, I've been thinking about that since the war ended," he began explaining. "I had this whole picture in my head about how things were going to be, you know?" Harry nodded. "Yeah, well, it wasn't like that," Ron scoffed again. "Not even a bloody little bit. She was always nagging at me again, still bossy, and it kept getting on my nerves. We were always arguing. Or at least we were when we were actually talking to each other. Not that I was any better, mind."
Harry gave him a perplexed look. "You wanted her to change?"
"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Ron corrected, but then seemed to consider it. "No, actually, maybe a little bit I did. It's like I wanted to split her into two different people. It's like on one side I wanted to keep our bossy know-it-all-mate, and on the other side I wanted `Hot Hermione'."
Harry practically spit the little sip of pumpkin juice he'd just taken right back into its glass. Through a bout of coughs he managed to stutter. "H-hot Hermione!?" Thankfully he'd managed to keep his voice low enough so that none of the women in the kitchen might have heard him.
"Oh, come on, Harry, you can't lie to me and say you haven't noticed," Ron said, giving him strong pats on the back to help free his wind pipe. "You're the one that was always complimenting her and telling her how not ugly she was."
Harry grinned widely at this. "I don't think telling a girl how not ugly she is would rate very high on the compliment scale, Ron."
"Hey, better than my `Hey, Hermione, you're a girl, aren't you?' Bloody brilliant that was, I tell you," he mumbled, rolling his eyes at his own antics as Harry gave a genuine laugh. "But, seriously, mate. You can't tell me you didn't notice how hot Hermione's gotten," he insisted, pointing a finger to the kitchen doorway where Hermione's lightly dressed silhouette could be easily discerned. "Bloody fine figure she's got, I tell you. If it wasn't for the hair though…"
"Hey, I like her hair. She wouldn't be Hermione without it."
"See? I knew you weren't serious about all that `She's like a sister to me' crock and bull you were trying to pass on me that time," Ron grinned, pointing a derogatory finger at him.
"Of course I was," Harry replied readily, and honestly.
"Bloody bullshit!" Ron shouted, obviously not believing Harry for a second.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" Molly's voice could be heard from the confines of the kitchen. "Watch your language!"
"Sorry, Mum!" He shouted back to her, though he didn't sound apologetic in the least. "Come on, Harry," he continued his earlier train of thought as though nothing had interrupted him in the first place. "I got a sister, okay? And the way you treat Hermione, and the way you look at her..." he drifted off, shaking his head.
"What?" Harry asked, confused. "What about it?"
"Look, I don't treat or look at Ginny like that, and my brothers don't either. I don't know anybody who acts like that toward a sister. And let's be completely honest here, Harry, I've seen you staring at her mouth lately," Ron added offhandedly.
Harry blinked owlishly at him. "What?"
"Hey, I don't blame you, her mouth is sexy," Ron continued. "You used to look at it back in school, too, but you stopped around the time you started going out with Ginny," a brief pause and then, "I guess one of the reasons why I was so fixated on her was the fact that you seemed like you wanted her, and she wanted you, too, and I was jealous, because I didn't want you to have one more thing that I didn't have," he concluded. "That's why I was so stuck on her. Well, that, and the fact that everyone was so convinced we were destined to get together that we started believing it too."
Harry shook his head, feeling as though something in his existence had just tilted slightly, his own world shifting to stand on a different axis. "I never even thought about Hermione like that, because it was obvious you liked her, and there's just no way I'm going to look at my best friend's girl like that, especially when she's my other best mate. And besides, I'm with Ginny, Ron," he told him, with a point of exasperation in his tone. But for how long? He thought, as he felt a nearly blinding pain in the gut at the thought of her, making his eyes nearly water, the taste of his blood in his mouth as he bit his cheek to keep a sound of his distress from leaving him.
"Yeah, but for how long?" Harry blinked owlishly again, and it took him a few seconds to realise Ron had mirrored his thought.
A deep sigh escaped the young dark haired wizard, as he shook his head slowly in defeat. "I don't know," he honestly replied, his eyes training on his uncertain girlfriend as she walked by to stand in an angle of the kitchen he had a clear view of, laughing at something out of his line of sight. His pain increased in intensity, his own heartbeat hammering in his ear. "With the way things are going I really don't know, but I have to tell you, it feels really weird talking about it with you. Shouldn't you be mad at me, as her brother? Shaking your fists at me as the guy who might hurt your little sister. Like you were before."
Ron shrugged. "Things change," he mumbled again, taking another swig from his butterbeer, the bottle nearly empty. "Things have really changed since we got rid of the big bad snake. And Ginny…I mean, she's my sister, and I love her, and all that stuff, but…it's like she's not right for you anymore. Like, it worked in school, but now it's just not working anymore. You're different, I'm different, Hermione's different…but Ginny's not. Or just…not as different as us, you know?"
Harry nodded, taking a deep gulp of the pumpkin juice, in an attempt to ease the discomfort the subject of their current discussion seemed to have on him all the time. "Yeah," he answered pointlessly. He needed to change the subject. Since the topic had shifted from Hermione to Ginny, he'd started to feel some severe pains in his stomach, feeling as though there was a hook inside him that kept getting tugged. Thankfully, Ron wasn't as oblivious as he seemed.
"You alright, mate?" He asked concerned.
Harry only managed to shake his head. He realised he'd begun to sweat, his breathing had become heavy, his heart was hammering the blood through his body. His eyes were trained on Ginny's figure in kitchen; he couldn't seem to look away, as he saw her taking a bottle of butterbeer and uncorking it. He needed to take his eyes away, for his own sanity, but it was as though he'd been bewitched. He brought a hand to grasp at the spot on his chest where his heart was pounding so strongly it seemed to make the whole room pulse with every beat. Magic was rolling off of him in small waves, though only Ron was close enough to feel it, and he was beginning to panic, too, Harry could see it in his peripheral vision. Ron's voice was slurred by the heavy thrum of his best friend's heartbeat, but the concern in it was evident.
Yet, through all this, Harry couldn't drag his attention away from what was still his girlfriend. He watched, almost horrified, as he saw her looking back to the other two occupants of the kitchen before, inconspicuously, taking out the smallest potion vial Harry had ever seen-shining with a slight, yet intense, pinkish glow-and dropping it's contents within the bottle she'd prepared for it. Harry watched, almost mesmerised as the liquid swirled on its own to mask itself within the butterbeer, small wisps of pink smoke lifting from the glass to then disappear entirely. Harry eyes grew wide as Ginny turned, the butterbeer in her hand already extended in offering, and his senses, now entirely trained on her, picked up her voice almost too easily, his eyes discerning every slight shift of her lips as she pronounced the words: "Here, Hermione, have some butterbeer."
And something inside him seemed to snap.
He pushed Ron off of him forcefully, unintentionally making him fly to the floor, every hurried step he took echoing in his ears, the hooks within him pulling insistently-injuring him, yet not hindering him in the least-the magic pulse released by his heart getting stronger with each beat, alerting those in the kitchen of his presence before he even stepped through its doorway. He saw Ginny turn to face him, the smile she'd been giving Hermione died on her lips as she faced Harry's enraged-murderous-green fire glare. He could see Hermione's concern for him painted on her face from the corner of his eye, and still, he could not drag his senses away from the youngest Weasley. Ginny was terrified. She ought to be.
He saw his own hand reach for the bottle of butterbeer, holding it from the bottom with its mouth pointing outward, swinging his arm out in a fast swiping motion toward the wall of cabinets at his side where various kitchen utensils were being animated by various spells. The contents of the bottle were shot from it in a spray of bubbly yellowish liquid that everyone's eyes trained on almost automatically-everyone's but Harry's and Ginny's-and those paying attention to the concoction gasped in unison as an intense pink began to rise in pretty swirls of smoke from the spilled drink.
Harry eyes never left Ginny's, though he felt as though those imaginary hooks inside his stomach were ripping it open and making him bleed internally in the most profuse manner. Hermione was increasingly concerned for him, as was Ron who'd joined them in the kitchen. Harry was sweating profusely now, he could feel his shirt nearly plastered to him, itching his skin, some blood was trickling from his lip from earlier, probably when he'd been biting his cheek to keep from crying out. His whole body was shaking, but he wouldn't break eye contact with Ginny. "What did you put in it?" his voice was raspy, scratchy, gasping, and barely there, but it seemed to make it even more intimidating.
"I-I d-do-" Ginny stuttered, but stopped to clear her throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me, Ginny," Harry threatened, "I saw you. What did you put in it?"
He kept staring her down as she looked at the spilled butterbeer she'd spiked. Hermione had neared to him, placing a hand to his own that was still clenched over his heart. Her small touch made his hold loosen, just barely, his breath coming to him a little better, and Ginny noticed. And she was angry.
"It was a lust potion," she answered spitefully.
Hermione's hand stilled over his as he heard a terrified small breath being inhaled from her. His heartbeat was slowing now, but it was far from a good thing, his senses were becoming fuzzy, when he needed them sharp just a little longer. And again, it was Ron who was the only one who could come up with something to say that summed what was in most of everyone's mind. "Why?" His tone was strangely strangled and betrayed.
Ginny's eyes snapped to her brother, though Harry's were still glued on her, even if the edges of his vision were blurring, she was the only thing he was still completely focused on besides the touch of Hermione's hand over his. "Because I felt sorry for you," she told him, her tone bitter, making her words ring false. "Always pining for Hermione, but never getting any, it was pathetic. So I thought I'd get her knees to unlock a little."
"Ginevra Molly Weasley!" The matron of the house reprimanded. Nobody paid her any mind.
Harry's breath was coming heavier, but still ragged and uneven, though he managed to rasp out a "You weren't getting any either."
And her pretty blue eyes were on him again, livid. "Not for lack of my trying!"
And everything seemed clear in that one moment. His sickness, the nausea, the confusion. "What.." he started, but stopped as he fell on his knees, even the image of her becoming blurry now as he clung to Hermione's hand. "What did you do to me?" He managed to gasp, as consciousness began to slip from him, the soothing touch of Hermione's small hands as she kept him from falling completely to the ground helped him ease into the blackness taking hold of him, though through the fuzzy ringing that seemed to be surrounding him he could still make out their terrified, panicking, worried voices. Bloody hell… Someone get Saint Mungo's… What's wrong with him? Oh, Harry…
And then he was enshrouded in darkness.
Hermione was pacing.
There was nothing else to do in the small waiting room but that, and she found a small vicious joy in it, since it seemed to bother Ginny so much. She felt so betrayed that Ginny would do something like that to her, though, in a way, she could understand that the redhead had felt threatened by her considering her recent break-up with Ron and the fact that Harry wasn't responding to what Ginny had obviously been feeding for a little while. Merlin, how stupid could she have been! But Hermione couldn't think like that. She needed to cast all anger and desperation aside to try and figure this out, or she would go mad, fall apart at the seams and just collapse in a heap of anguish on the floor in despair. She refused to do that in front of anyone, so she needed to figure this out.
Okay, so Ginny had apparently become mute the second the Saint Mungo's staff arrived at the Burrow to give the first cures to the most famous living member of the Wizarding community, but that didn't mean that Hermione hadn't been able to piece things together. After all, she was the brain of the Golden Trio, it was what she was good at, and, by golly, was she good at it. Pacing helped. In this small space with no books or things to read and write onto, pacing was a good way to keep things organised in her mind, each thought attached to a number of steps.
The buzz of the journalists outside was grating on her nerves. Damn Molly for making her call to the Hospital so loud over the Floo. They'd been forced into this little space because it was the only one close enough that they'd managed to reach-without getting swallowed by the sea of Quick Notes Quills and Wireless Voice Vials-that was still attached to the room Harry had been taken into. Ginny and Molly had nearly been engulfed by them, and, if it hadn't been for Ron and Hermione, they would have likely blathered away everything to Rita Skeeter. Well, considering Ginny was still refusing to speak, she wouldn't, but Molly would have. Not that the woman meant harm, but she was about as good as Hagrid at secrecy. And she put too much faith in Wizarding newspapers, despite the fact she'd felt their falsity on her own skin and of that of her kin.
Hermione sighed. She could make conclusions all she wanted, but without Ginny's confessions, she wouldn't get anywhere. She at least needed to know what had happened to Harry, but the Healers were all still sealed away in that room, and, from the hurried in-and-out of various Healers-in-training, it looked to be a long thing still. She needed to know Harry would be okay. She needed it more than the air she was forcing herself to breath.
Sitting down next to Ron in one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought to them, Hermione sighed again, staring down at Ginny, yet again. Whenever her thoughts fell to Harry, and the danger he might be facing, looking at Ginny helped to take her thoughts away. They became angry, until she forced them back to their usual logical thread.
Her mind returned to the memory of an evening years prior that had always remained in her mind as a sour spot, when, around the dinner table one night, Molly Weasley had told them about how she'd managed to ensnare Arthur Weasley's attention through the use of love potions. The elder witch's tone had been a fond one in her recollection, and her reprimand to not do the same had been accompanied by a saucy wink which seemed to completely deflate the importance of those words.
Ginny was not evil. Hermione had no doubt of that. She was actually a decent person, after all, she'd been the only one to extend her friendship to the quirky Ravenclaw Luna Lovegood. But she had always been on the rash side, and far too pampered by her mother. If Ginny were to have asked her mother a more detailed recollection of those potions that had enthralled her father, Hermione had no doubt that Molly would have supplied, maybe going as far as giving knowledge of the books that had furnished her at the time, with nothing more than a passing warning that she shouldn't actually use what she saw or heard. After all, Molly always spoke of how she never threw away anything, and Hermione was very aware that the books centred on love potions from that period were not as censored as the ones that were around now. Many of the potions contained in those books bordered on illegal now, though Ginny wouldn't know that.
But guessing when the potions had been started was proving difficult for Hermione. Yes, Harry's interest in Ginny had seemed rather sudden. Alright, very sudden, and very strong, but he hadn't been a mindless puppet. Not even close. And at sixteen, hormones were strong. Harry's eyes would always train on her whenever she entered a room, and only with great difficulty he seemed to be able to stop, but that could have been simply because he genuinely liked her. And during the Hunt, he'd still always pined for her, thought that could have been because he'd begun to idolise her somewhat in that period, always lusting for what he couldn't have at that moment in time, as was nearly natural for young man of his age.
Hermione sighed again. This was proving pointless. She needed to speak to a Healer that knew what was going on with Harry, or all her conjectures would mean absolutely nothing. Also a good expert on potions was required. The best one had already been sent for the second Hermione mentioned that he might have been poisoned or slipped a potion, though she'd been told the expert wasn't allowed in until the patient's condition was stabilised. Hermione found this absolute rubbish, but a Healer-in-training explained that for his methods to work, the patient needed to be cleansed first.
Absolute rubbish.
She couldn't even go to the department reserved to Potions and Poisons because if she left the room, she might never be able to get back in, and she didn't want to leave that place until Harry was completely out of danger.
It was at that moment that both the doors to the room opened, the one leading to the mob of journalists was slammed right back closed by a mousy elderly woman in frazzled Healers robes who looked like she'd just come out of a duel versus an angry hippogriff, while the other door had been opened by the tired face of the Head Healer Hermione had only managed a quick glimpse of when he was carting Harry inside. A rather attractive middle aged man with salt and pepper hair and the looks of a man who'd seen far too much of his work. The lines of his face were more ragged and more pronounced then earlier, though he looked satisfied enough, and Hermione allowed herself a small bubble of relief.
The small Healer woman didn't even let him speak. "Has he been cleansed?" she said out of breath. Obviously, she must have been the expert on poisons and potions then. It occurred to Hermione that she might have even been the Head of that Department-considering the importance of the patient-might have even been in the department when they'd arrived, but she and the messenger assigned to get her had been slowed down by the sea of medias outside.
The other doctor answered with a shake of the head, and a weary sigh. "Why ever not!?" the lady asked outraged.
He sighed again. "I will get to that soon," he replied, and turned to Ron and Hermione to speak to them, likely because it was a widely known fact that they were the best friends of the Boy-Who-Lived. He ignored Molly's indignant huff, and the not-so-whispered comment of how she cared for the boy too. "First of all, my name is Healer Stephens, and I must apologise for the presence of all the media outside. Unfortunately, our hero collapsed in the first week of the new training period for Healers-to-be, and they are not prepared to hold them back. More experienced Healers have been summoned, along with Aurors, to restrain them."
"Thank you," Hermione told him honestly, as she could already hear the outrage of many of the journalists outside, refusing to leave. "But what of Harry?" Her voice was far too hopeful, and she knew it.
"He is out of immediate danger as we've managed to stabilise his heart rate and magic," Ron and Hermione slumped in their chair, tears of relief escaping them, while Molly cried of joy holding onto her daughter, who looked like the faith of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. "We have been forced to put him in a Stasis, though, and he's still suffering from some internal bleeding, though not as severe as it was initially," Hermione gasped, her tears becoming bitter. A Statis was like a medical induced coma, though it actually entailed blocking a person's body in time. It meant the Healers didn't know what to do with Harry, didn't know what was wrong with him, and, though he was out of immediate danger, he may stay in Stasis for years to come until the means to cure him could be found. "It seems his attack was induced by some kind of overdose. At first his magic tried to expel whatever was bothering his system, which resulted in intense outputs of polluted magic, but those very outputs weakened him far too much and left him even more susceptible to what was attacking him. Unfortunately, we cannot detect the potions or poisons guilty of this. In any case, there was a severe case of rejection by his body and magic to whatever it was he was taking."
Through the haze that had fallen over Hermione's mind, she managed to focus an accusatory stare upon the Head Healer. "Taking?" Her tone carrying a very evident threat.
Despite the fact that a man with a commanding presence like him was facing what was merely a young girl, he felt dwarfed by her, even if she was still sitting, but he refused to back down. "It would not be so unusual. Many young celebrities fall into that, especially after a traumatising experience such as the one he's lived recently," Stephens continued.
"Healer Stephens, I can guarantee you, Harry's never been fond of poisons or potions. He's never abused of any, and his flat is nearly empty of them. When he does require one, which is not often at all, he comes to me, and I have a very detailed log of anything he's ingested in the last two years. Anything before that can be supplied to you by Madame Pomfrey of Hogwarts," Hermione explained, her eyes small slits trained on the man.
"If you don't mind, I would like very much to see that log, Miss," the mousy woman who'd remained quiet until that moment. "I will send two of my Healers to Mr. Potter's place to see what potions he does have, and which of those has been used recently."
"Who're you?" Ron asked, suddenly reminded of her, and always out of the loop.
"Healer Jenkins, child," she told him briskly, hardly sparing him a look. "How about this log, Miss?"
Hermione nodded, standing to her feet, heading for the exit of the room, where, from the sound of it, any and all journalists had been removed. "Come with me," she spoke to the woman, "I'll fill you in on his symptoms on the way," as Hermione was certain the woman hadn't been told a single thing yet.
"Very well," and together they left, Hermione's mouth already running a mile a minute, asking the older witch about ways to detect potions that have been through a person's systems already, and how long back they could be traced. After all, Healer Stephens had mentioned overdose, which, for Ginny meant a first degree attempted murder. Getting information out of her would result in serious tragedy, and she would come to it, only if no solution was found. The only thing left to Hermione was her logic, and the help of what seemed a competent Healer. She hoped it would not come to Ginny.
And in all this, Hermione's mind went back to that conversation on a cast iron bench and the `dream' Harry had told her about. She knew that the starting point of it all had been that day, between the argument in front of the Minister, and the voices of his parents, and his awakening from the sight of his own funeral.
She had a sharp mind. It was the only thing she'd always prided herself of along the way, and it was what would save Harry-as it had before-and, hopefully, spare Ginny of a terrible empty future. She may never speak to Ginny again once this was over, but she could not wish that on her. Even if the girl had tried to have her brother rape her by giving her a Lust Potion. Hermione knew, it was desperation and foolish irrationality to drive her too it.
She would figure it out, she was sure of it. And, with that thought in mind, she hurried her step, and hoped that all would be best. For Ginny, but especially for Harry and herself, to keep that horrible reality he'd seen just a few nights prior from becoming a reality.
To be continued.
Okay, so a couple of things before I send you on your way to review ^_^. First, this chapter wrote itself out so quickly, that I only read over it twice before posting it (I always feel that you shouldn't kill the flow of creativity with useless flourish) so I apologise ahead of time for any grammar and spelling mistakes. Second, I know the use of potions and such has been way overused and abused, and it may seem like an author's desperate attempt to get a plot back once a wall has been hit, but I assure you, this in not that case. The use of potions was planned from the beginning, as well as Harry's collapse, so bear with me on this. And that's about all I have to say as far as this goes. Oh, no, wait, one more thing, this story will only be a few more chapters long, because I'd never planned for it to be long, so I warn you ahead of time, there is not much left. With all that said, now you can go review, or drop me a line at Robbygal@hotmail.com
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