Dreamscape

Well, I haven't written anything of this kind in a long time. I'd been stuck writing script format (both as a hobby, and as a job—for a friend of mine who makes independent movies) and realized I really missed prose. This idea hit me like a ton of bricks, and it wouldn't leave me alone until I finally sat down to write it out, so here's the first chapter. I apologize ahead of time if the writing is choppy or not very smooth, but like I said, it's been a long time, and I didn't even send this to be proofread, because I just wanted to post it as is, and know how this was. Not even my heinous little sister would read it for me, so be kind and drop me a line.

For anyone who still cares about BoNM, I haven't given up on that, but in one of the fifteen changes of residence I went through since the last update I lost my notes on it, and now I'm lost. I don't remember anything but the main plot line, and all the satellite happenings are lost (mostly because JKR tried to kill my ship, and in my anger, I forgot what I'd planned originally), so until I manage to reconstruct at least most of what I had planned, that's on the back burner, but I will finish it, I promise! It means too much to me to be left at that.

Oh, one more thing before we start. The ending part, where Harry dreams of the funeral…I was holding back tears as I wrote it, so I hope it affects you as it did me. In any case, you're in for a bumpy emotional ride.

And now…on with the fic

Dreamscape reality

Chapter 1: “Voices from the mist”

“Absolutely not.” Harry spoke with vehemence. “The three of us or nothing at all.”

The Minister of Magic looked rather put off, sitting in the Weasley living room on a ratty old armchair, across from the overstuffed couch currently occupied by the Golden Trio who saved the Wizarding World...and by Ginny Weasley—who was sitting on the armrest closest to Harry, entirely draped over him, making him quite uncomfortable considering the situation. He felt rather annoyed that she'd insisted on staying to hear this conversation as he wasn't really sure he could trust her and her temper around someone like Minister Scrimgeour.

Ron looked rather pleased with Harry's declaration, his chest puffed out and a hand in his hair ruffling it. Hermione, he noted, seemed a little bashful at the thought, though a smile played at her lips.

“Honestly, Harry, you don't need to do that. You're the one that did it. It's only right that it be your monument,” she told him quietly. “You should learn to take credit for what you did on your own.”

“You know she's right Harry,” Ginny spoke up, running a hand through his hair, in a way that was not only distracting, but somewhat disturbing, considering the tone of the conversation and their present company. “If there's going to be a statue, it should be of you. You're the hero,” Harry sent her a significantly ticked glance, yet she continued on, not noticing, or not caring. “Besides, it'll be a much nicer statue without them in it.”

There was an indignated “Hey!” from Ron, but Harry saw Hermione's slightly embarrassed—yet flattered and entirely lovely—smile from just a few minutes prior disappear, her eyes falling to her hands, linked over a book on her lap, her plump lower lip caught between her teeth. He knew very well how conscious Hermione was of her looks, feeling as though her appearance was almost inadequate. She'd always considered herself plain and Ginny's ever increasing little jibes at her were only strengthening that belief in her. Added to the fact that Ron didn't seem to care enough to tell her otherwise, at least not in recent times, Hermione's confidence in her physical traits was next to nil.

It was honestly beginning to get on his nerves.

Not bothering to hide the indignant point in his tone, he turned to her, his eyes slits lit from within by a green fire. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Her eyes widened, a touch of fear evident, along with a note he couldn't decipher. “N-nothing,” she stuttered. “Just that as the Minister said, they want a monument to make the community feel safe and sheltered. To make any possible future Dark Lords think better about who's going to take them down.”

It was so obvious Ginny hadn't understood any of the things that had been said thus far. Hermione looked like she was about to go into one of her patented rants, ready to talk her down a peg or two, before remembering their present company. She cast an inconspicuous glance at the Minister, and bit that fleshy lower lip again, her fingers curling tighter around her book, willing herself to remain quiet.

Harry had no such qualms. “No, Ginny,” he told her, his voice a vicious hiss, almost as though he was speaking Parseltongue. “The Minister only wants to do something that will make them look good in front of all the people that realized the only thing their Ministry was able to do in a time of crisis was lock up innocent wizards.”

“Now, that's not true,” Scrimgeour sputtered indignantly.

“Isn't it?” asked Hermione, her initial hesitation gone. “You're trying to tell us that building a giant statue of him—not only in your Ministry, but in Diagon Ally and Hogsmeade as well—isn't just to waist galleons in the useless attempt at making people think that he was working on your council the whole time. Forgive me, Minister, but you will find me quite sceptical on this point.”

The Minister said nothing, though he was obviously seething, his face turning very interesting shades of puce, his mane shaking.

Harry sighed finally. “Whatever your reason, my answer remains the same. It's the three of us or nothing at all.”

And Ginny's temper appeared. “But that makes no sense!” She shouted, standing and flipping her hair about. “You can't always be the nice guy, Harry! They didn't kill Voldemort, you did! You're the hero; it should be your statue!”

Harry's temper responded. “I'm no hero, Ginny,” he didn't shout, or thrash about as she had. His voice was low, menacing, the effect strengthened by the fact that he was whispering the words so close to her, towering over her despite the fact that they were almost even in height. “I didn't kill anyone. Voldemort did it all by himself. His spell backfired. Again. The only thing I can take credit for is managing to live until that moment, and that only happened because I had them with me. Because they helped me in making him weaker. The three of us were forced to become fugitives for almost two years. Ron disobeyed his parents, left his safe sheltered life to help me. Left his comfortable home, and the protection of his family to run for his life in places no human being should be forced to travel through. And Hermione? I don't even know what your problem with her is, since you used to be friends, but you have no idea of the lengths to which she went to keep me alive. She left Hogwarts, the only place on Earth where she felt in her element, and she left it to go hiding in the country while Deatheaters were always on our heels. She gave up her parents! Sent them to Australia without any memory of her!”

The room had stilled. The air in it had become stale. Ginny, for some reason, looked scared of him again, which made him deflect. He dropped himself back on the couch, feeling heavy and tired. “I'm no hero,” he repeated. “If you want a hero you should go to Neville Longbottom. Everything he did, he did on his own.” This seemed to give him an idea. “I will allow the Ministry to make a statue representing myself, alongside Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, but I also request a recognition of some kind for Neville Longbottom,” her faced Scrimgeour again. “Those are my terms, and I won't negotiate on them,” he spoke, standing up, “I have nothing else to say on the matter. Good day Minister,” and with that he left the room, Ron and Hermione following after a hastened word of parting to the older man. Ginny, stalked after them without as much as a backward glance.

“What was that?!” She screeched at them, her temper returning. They turned in unison to see her with her arms crossed, her feet tapping, and her features arranged in a rather unbecoming scowl.

“What was what, Ginny?” Harry asked her, his face and voice tired.

“Bringing Neville into the picture? Why? Why should he get recognition when I did just as much as he did for Hogwarts? Don't get me wrong, Neville's a good friend, but if he gets some appreciation, so should I!” She spoke heatedly, indignantly.

The Trio exchanged a confused glance, of eloquently raised eyebrows and shoulders, wondering how to reply to that. Ron seemed to be the only one who knew what to say, giving her a question of his own. “Why?”

“Oh, shut up, Ron!” she shouted at her brother. “Don't you understand how embarrassed and humiliated I was in there?”

“You just don't get it, Ginny,” Harry told her, angry again. “You're the one who embarrassed us. When the Minister came in and you threw a tantrum about wanting to know what he had to say to me, you embarrassed us. When you almost sat on me, acting like we were about to snog in the Common Room, you embarrassed us. When you questioned my word, you embarrassed us. When you shouted like a spoiled little contradicted child, you embarrassed us, Ginny. I know I've told you I don't respect the person that the Minister is, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be disrespectful to him,” he turned on his heels ready to leave, when he remembered something else she'd said. “As for Neville,” he started again. “I know you did a lot at Hogwarts, but last time I checked you weren't half of a prophesy, and you didn't slay Voldemort's familiar entirely on your own, so I think he deserves recognition just a little more than you.”

He turned his back on her, exhausted, and this time truly ready to leave. He looked to Ron and Hermione with an apologetic lopsided grin, “I'm going to go home and have a rest. I'm feeling a bit tired.”

“You do that, mate,” Ron said, giving him a strong pat on the back.

“Yes, Harry, try to rest up a bit,” she told him, placing a hand on his shoulder and rubbing it in a comforting manner. “You've been out of sorts for a while now; you look like you need it.”

He didn't know why, but Harry was surprised she'd noticed. No one else had.

Then again, Hermione always noticed everything...especially about him.

-----

He couldn't fall asleep. His single bedroom flat had always felt empty, but he'd had to turn down Ron's idea of a flat to share among the three of them—being caught between their on-and-off rocky relationships would have been hell. Still, on nights like this, when he couldn't find the rest his body and mind needed, he craved a comforting presence. Not to talk, because talking would only bring his anger and indignation to the forefront of his mind, but to just feel like he wasn't alone. To feel like there was someone who could understand without the need for words. To feel a comforting touch.

Once, he'd thought Ginny could be the one to provide that for him. In those weeks before The Hunt, when he'd just been a normal teenager exploring his budding relationship with a very fanciable girl, she been lovely. Cool and all around perfect.

During those long months of running, he'd likened her to the light at the end of a long tunnel. A beacon of light in the midst of an oppressing, enveloping darkness.

Now, outside of the safe walls of Hogwarts—where his title of “Boy-Who- Lived-and-Conquered” was so much more real, where he received daily visits from the Ministry of Magic and outrageous job offers from every corner of the Wizarding World, where he was hounded by reporters day and night—Ginny's perfection was fading rather fast. He was discovering that Molly Weasley had been a little too permissive with her only daughter; not instructing her in what life was like outside the safe walls of Hogwarts castle.

If Ginny wanted to stay with him, she would have to learn to understand beyond what was `said' and what was `implied' in conversations. And she definitely needed to learn composure.

He was still so angry at her for her earlier display, and his anger was very hindering to any sleep he should be reaching. He needed some comfort. He'd never sought out such a thing before, not to this extent, not even during The Hunt, but he really felt that he needed some kindness and understanding.

Like when Hermione had understood how tired he was beyond the encounter earlier in the day. When she'd placed her hand on his shoulder, rubbing it softly to infuse some of her caring warmth into his aching muscles. The way she'd always understood and cared, more then anyone else, more then she was expected to, simply more...more...more Hermione...

It was with those thoughts that he fell into sleep, to dream his oddest dream to date.

--

Harry seemed to be floating in a sea of white mist, present—wherever he was—but unable to do anything. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to interfere with anything. He was a spectator, but to what, he had yet to know.

“Lily, I really don't think this is a good idea,” a strong male voice spoke from somewhere within the enveloping fog surrounding him, sounding as though the very mist made up the voice. He knew that voice. He'd heard it often in his childhood `visions', and in the graveyard in Little Hangleton—when his wand had connected with Voldemort's—and in pensieve memories.

As though to confirm his suspicions, a female voice answered, a voice too familiar to mistake. His mother's voice. “I can't believe you, `Monsieur Prongs'! The prankster extraordinaire is chickening out on me.”

“Hey, I'm not chickening out!” He replied indignantly. “It's just that I remember what it was like at that age. When they told me I was doing something that I shouldn't be, I put even more effort into doing it.”

“Yes, I remember,” she intoned dryly. “You were quite insistent in your pursuit.”

“It's part of my charm. And I suppose you're trying to tell me you don't have a single stubborn bone in your body,” his tone was sarcastic and playful.

“Point taken,” she giggled. Was this the kind of relationship his parents had? A sort of camaraderie with light teasing and affectionate tones? He'd never been able to imagine what their interaction might have been like, the pensieve memories he'd gotten from Snape had seemed to paint them as two people completely incompatible, and Remus and Sirius had never told him much of what they might have been like together. “Besides,” she continued, “I'm not trying to tell him he's doing something he shouldn't.”

“Oh?” his curious tone was, again, very obviously sarcastic. “And here I thought you were just upset that people have been comparing you to Miss Ginny Weasley to point out the `perfection' of the match she makes to our son.”

“Hey!” she was definitely offended. “You know she started that comparison herself, and of course it upsets me! I would have never been draped over you like a common tart in front of the Minister of Magic!”

James chuckled. “Yes, that was rather...odd. I remember when I introduced you to our Minister at the time; you started lecturing him on the injustice of our judicial system. And I'm sure old Rufus found the Weasley girl quite `inappropriate'.”

“Quite,” she agreed. “But aside my reasons against her, I'm not trying to make Harry's decisions for him,” she reasoned. “He's been quite capable of surrounding himself with the right people up until this point, and I'm quite proud of him for that. I just realize that he's going through a tough time, that he feels lost and doesn't really know which direction to go in, so I'm going to put him in an objective situation.”

“By showing him what it would have been like if he didn't live to tell the tale?” He asked, this time sounding genuinely curious as to how that might work.

“I find that death makes most people entirely objective,” she explained.

He chuckled lightly. “Right as usual, love.”

And Harry found the mist fading, the warmth of the voices leaving him while he tried to chase them again as he was falling into something that much felt like a pensieve memory.

He ended up on the Hogwarts ground. For a second, he thought he'd ended up in a recollection of Dumbledore's funeral, but that idea was discarded immediately. The old Headmaster's tomb was right next to him, and it had obviously not been recent.

The serving had ended, and people began to scatter, giving him a better visual of the situation.

Considering the conversation he'd overheard while in `Limbo' (he didn't know what else to call it), he wasn't surprised to see it was his own funeral. His name inscribed on the brand new tombstone, the date showing the night in which everything had ended. Few people were still around, and he recognized them all. The remaining Weasleys—Molly and Arthur, Bill, Charlie and Fleur with Victoire, Percy, George, Ron, and Ginny—Neville, Luna, Hermione, and a few of the Hogwarts professors he'd respected during his studies, including Professor McGonagall and Hagrid.

Nobody was speaking.

Ginny was sniffling lightly, Ron looked white as a sheet, Arthur was rubbing his sobbing wife's back, and everyone looked solemn. Hagrid made it sound like a blow horn was being played each time he wiped his nose with his handkerchief

Except Hermione. She looked as though she wasn't there at all, like her mind was elsewhere, and an empty shell had taken part to the ceremony for form's sake.

Bill was the first to speak, noticing that Victoire was getting restless with the tension around her. “Maybe we should start going,” he didn't specify where, but it was pretty obvious to everyone that he was only thinking of taking his wife and child away from that grave.

Nobody moved to follow him, not even Fleur.

“Did you see how they all were?” Ron asked, still pale as before, his voice haunted. “It was like it was a party. Like they thought `Hey, too bad Harry Potter died, but at least he took the Snake Bastard with him so he's off our backs',” he sounded disgusted and nauseated at the idea.

“Yes,” Professor McGonagall agreed. “It had been much the same when his parents died. If Dumbledore hadn't insisted, they would have probably been left without a proper burial. As though they had not been friends, or even people. Just pawns,” her voice trembled, her lip was twisted in disgust, making a stark contrast to her usual strict tight-lipped expression.

“If it hadn't been for him, Fleur and I would have never met,” Bill spoke quietly.

McGonagall nodded. “He wasn't the most dedicated student, but he gave me more reason for pride than anyone else I've ever taught.” Around her, other teachers agreed.

Madame Pomfrey gave a sniffling chuckle, “I think he spent more time in my hospital wing than anyone else. Probably more time than he spent in his own dorms.”

A watery uncertain laugh from a few of them. Most remained quiet.

“We had so little time together,” Ginny had said sadly. The air became thick again, and Harry wondered if that was what it was like to die, with everyone speaking of him in the past tense, as though he'd never really existed, as though it would be fine to write his name in a couple of books, talk about him every once in a while, without truly remembering much of him at all. His name called in a toast every now and then by total strangers and that's it.

“What is wrong with you people!?” George shouted out. “It's only been three days! Can't you wait a little longer before just casting him off as nothing but a memory?! Honour him for a little bit longer at least, we all owe him at least that much!” he spoke heatedly, almost echoing the thoughts that had been running through Harry's mind. Most had the decently to blush, while Ginny looked guilty and uncomfortable.

She cleared her throat lightly. “I think I'll go talk to Dean for a little. He looked like he needed a friend."

If his peripheral vision hadn't been so good to begin with, and aided by long years of training as a seeker, he might not have understood what happened next. Hermione seemed to snap out of her catatonic state with an angry snarl, her body spinning toward Ginny, adding speed and force to the reel of her arm, as her closed fist made an almost frightening sound of collision with the redhead's jaw. Hermione's face was a mask of anger—hatred—and disgust.

People flew to help Ginny up, as the strength of the blow had sent her crashing to the ground in a bad fall all around. “You don't deserve to stand here and honour him,” Hermione spat, her lowering lip trembling, her whole frame shaking in repressed emotion.

“Hermione!” Molly Weasley shouted in her best `scolding mother' tone. “That was entirely uncalled for.”

“No it wasn't,” Hermione, surprised to have found that Mr Weasley and George had almost echoed her words. “It's been three days, and she's running to her ex-boyfriend while standing on her deceased boyfriend's grave,” she did something uncharacteristic for the clever bookworm that she was. She spit in Ginny's face the second that she'd been helped to her feet. “I went easy on her.”

“You don't have the right to do this to me!!” Ginny shouted at her, offended tears shining in her eye, a large, swollen bruise making itself known and covering almost the entire length of her jaw on its left side. “You don't know what he was to me! He meant more to me than he did to you!”

No one was fast enough to stop Hermione's hand for making contact a second time, though this time her palm had remained open, and through the nearly deafening slap she'd managed to curl her fingers right before her hand lost contact with Ginny's cheek, allowing her practical nails to dig short but deep scratches into the otherwise perfect skin. Two of the scratches were lightly bleeding.

Miss Weasley gave a terrified shriek, while McGonagall, looking rather reluctant, asked for Hermione to be restrained. Ron and George each grabbed one of Hermione's arms, but she didn't look to be struggling. She'd never been one for catfights anyway. The few times she'd come to hands, she'd gotten her point across without having to roll around in the ground like a rabid dog fighting for his stolen bone. She was hardly one to change her philosophy so easily.

“I know what he was to you, Ginny,” her voice was threatening, an angry snarl making her voice quiver. “Guess he's not much of a Hero worth worshipping now that he's dead, eh?” Her tone was entirely derogatory. “Go ahead. Go crying to Dean of how he was everything you'd ever dreamed of since your mother first told you bedside stories about the `Boy-Who-Lived'. How he was the Knight-in-Shining-Armour that was supposed to sweep you off your feet into your personal Happily-Ever-After. How lost you are now that you don't have your Hero to dote upon anymore. How you'll never stop longing for his beautiful face, and his athletic body, and his bewitching eyes, and his fetching scar, and his amazing Quidditch skills, and whatnot. But don't ever step foot on this grave again. And don't ever imply that your fleeting fancy of him was anywhere near to the feelings I have for him.”

Ginny remained staring at her for a few moments, obviously humiliated by Hermione's anger, yet finding no sympathetic faces—even among her family—with the exception of her mother, the very woman who had spoiled her to that point. With a huff, she turned on her heel and stalked away, the rest of them following her, rather reluctantly, along with the Hogwarts staff. George looked at her apologetically, “I gotta go. If I don't get back the store might blow up,” that got a chuckle out of Hermione; she nodded at him, and raised her hand to pat his arms.

“I know,” she told him, “and I know you were as close to him as Ron and I are. How much it hurts to lose them both. That he was a shadow member of most of your pranks.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Hermione really did notice everything about him.

George looked like he had his heart lodged in his throat, but he still managed to give a strong nod. He turned to the grave, giving the tombstone a strong pat, and his voice quivered, but it was full of affection as he said: “Catch you later, Harry.”

Harry had to swallow a lump from his throat as he watched the only remaining twin walk to the Hogwarts gate with his shoulders straight.

Hermione turned to Ron, the only other person that had stayed behind. “You don't need to stay with me, Ron. I know this makes you uncomfortable.”

He looked sheepish, his hand going to the back of his head. “You sure? I can stay,” though he didn't seem convinced.

Hermione gave him her patented `all-knowing-bookworm' grin. “Yes, I'm sure. I think I'd rather be alone for a little while.”

Ron watched her, a concerned frown on his face. “You gonna be alright?”

Her expression turned to annoyed. “I'll be fine.”

That convinced him. He started walking, but stopped a few steps later. “Do you want me to say anything to them back at home? Send some food later?”

“I don't need food, but I'd like you to give your mother a message for me,” she requested. When he nodded she continued. “Tell her I'm not sorry. Not in the least. Not even time will change that.”

He looked down at his old shoes. “Do you want to say something to Ginny?”

“No,” her reply was dry and immediate. “I know she's your sister, but I've lost all respect for her. She no longer exists to me.”

Again he nodded, and, giving one last long look to the name embossed on the grave, turned to walk away. Hermione watched him go all the way to the front gates, hardly blinking until she saw him disapparating. She turned to the marble stone behind her, her fingers running over the top of it in an affectionate caress. Harry could almost feel as though her fingers had run a fleeting line across his shoulders, and it made him shiver. He watched her kneel, and her hand shifted to tracing the letters of his name.

And then her whole demeanour changed. Her composed front crumbled, the expressionless lines of her face contracted and stretched into a mask of pure pain, her breath caught as she tried to inhale a shaking breath, and she sniffled, her lips pursing in an attempt to keep the sounds in. She only succeeded in making herself hiccup, and that single act seemed to be her downfall.

He watched helplessly as she crumbled against the tombstone, falling on it with her whole weight, hanging on it as if it was the only thing keeping her linked to the world while bitter tears slipped down her cheeks, burning indelible traces of her sorrow upon her face. Sounds of terrible anguish escaped her. Loud and impossible to contain, her sobs shook her slight frame terribly, screams of agony left her as though they were being pulled by her, the sound of her despair filling the Hogwarts grounds. She tilted her head back to look above her, and the clear blue of the sky around her seemed to mock her, making her stark pain that much more intense.

“It shouldn't be like this,” she managed to whisper before other dreadful sobs escaped her. “Why doesn't—“ her words stolen by an anguished hiccup, yet she continued on, as though she knew he was standing there, and needed to ask him those questions that seemed to burn through her heart, forcing the words through her laboured breathing. “Why doesn't anybody mourn you?”

Her sobs were getting quieter, but no less intense, no less painful. “If you really had to die for them, why couldn't they mourn for you?” Her face was painted with an angry colour, though her lips were pale and chapped, like that of the dead. “If the sky had to take you then why doesn't it mourn you as well?”

Harry couldn't take this anymore. This watching without interference while her pain for him tore him apart. If he couldn't be her friend and help her, he needed to leave. Somebody needed to pull him away from this—whatever it was. Someone needed to wake him up.

And as though the gods had decided to answer his prayer, he felt his conscience being lifted from that reality, Hermione's anguished, terrorised face was fading slowly, and he could feel his body—his real body—being shaken awake, his senses returning to it.

And suddenly he was there, back in his bed in his lonely one bedroom apartment, staring at the ceiling…and…Ginny's face? What was she doing there? Did it really matter?

No. It didn't.

All that mattered was that he couldn't seem to stop his whole body from shaking, the sweat covering him feeling like molten ice, his face burned by heated angry tears.

His mouth felt as though it had forgotten how to function, his stomach turning…churning…

He bolted out of his bed, nearly collapsing on weak legs, and managed to get to the bathroom just in time to embrace his toilet, losing what little food he'd managed to actually eat the day before. And while he was there, he thought to himself that he really didn't fancy speaking to Ginny quite so soon after what he'd…experienced.

To be continued…

See? I told you so. Be kind and leave a review, or write me at Robbygal@hotmail.com

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Wow, I'm completely awed and blown away by the positive response I got from this. I really didn't expect it. Thank you all so much.

Okay, here's chapter 2, though I feel I should explain something first. Harry and Hermione completely hijacked this chapter. Yep, they grabbed the reins and took it wherever they wanted to, almost disregarding what I had planned for them to say or do. As a matter of fact they did! They weren't even supposed to go into the dream, Hermione wasn't supposed to know about it, but now she does. As a result, everything else I had planned for this is changing. Anyway, if any of the dialogue seems repetitive it's entirely their fault! I practically had to beat them with a stick to get back on track. Oh, and once again, sorry if this seems choppy and not all that smooth.

I hope you don't find this anticlimactic, but Harry and Hermione wanted a nice chat, and it's their story, I'm just the one they chose to write it, so who am I to stop them, right?

And now, on with the fic.

Dreamscape

Chapter 2: “On a cast iron bench”

Considering the state of mind he'd been in upon his awakening, Harry guessed that he really wasn't in any condition to do anything but what he'd done.

Not that accepting Ginny's grovelling apology was necessarily a bad thing.

He just wasn't sure whether or not it was the right thing.

But she was still his girlfriend, so he had to forgive her…didn't he?

Shaking his head in hopes of dispersing his confused thoughts, Harry looked back at Ginny. Her big blue eyes were pleased and still slightly pleading as she kneeled before him while he sat at the edge of his bed.

She was lovely. From her bewitching eyes, to her lovely hair, to her thin but well drawn lips, to her lithe—if maybe too thin—figure. She was absolutely lovely.

He was just beginning to notice how her attractiveness wasn't as attractive to him as it once seemed to be. And he definitely didn't feel up to giving into the gleam she'd gotten in her eye as her hand inched up his thigh.

Taking hold of her hand, Harry removed it from his leg, and held it down on the mattress. “I'm still feeling a little sick, Ginny,” he told her, hoping that the memory of his hurls and the sounds that she must have heard not twenty minutes earlier would deter her.

They didn't. If anything, a seductive smile seemed to add itself to her gleaming eyes. “I'm sure I could make you feel better.”

For some unknown reason, that seemed to bring bile back to his mouth and made his stomach lurch. He cupped his hand over his lips and forced it back down, but Ginny couldn't ignore that. Her sultry look disappeared, and she removed her hand from his and crossed her arms under her small breasts in annoyance, a huff of displeasure leaving her. “I guess there's no reason for me to stay if you're not even up to make-up sex,” she grumbled.

He gave her one of his usual penetrating stares. “As far as I know we haven't even had sex yet.”

“Exactly!” She huffed again, standing up in her annoyance to look down at him. “I was hoping we'd got to it for once.”

Harry leaned back on his elbows, but the look he was giving her completely smothered any seduction the pose—and the fact he was only wearing a loose pair of Quidditch pants—might have had. “I don't think I like the idea of our first time happening after a row and right after I've managed to vomit anything I've eaten in the last three days.”

“Ugh!” She exclaimed, a disgusted, unbecoming look deforming her pretty features.

“Exactly,” he told her, mimicking her earlier answer.

“Whatever, I'll go home if you're so sick,” she grumbled, heading for the door with nothing more then a mumbled “Owl me when you're up to it,” thrown behind her as she left.

Staring at the door, Harry thought, once again, that considering his state of mind—and body—upon his awakening, he really couldn't have done anything but accept Ginny's grovelling apology. It was the normal thing to do considering she was his girlfriend.

He just wasn't sure it was the right thing to do.

And since when did normal ever fit into his life or his way of reasoning anyhow?

--

Harry had not been able to find any way to relieve accumulated stress since he'd left Hogwarts. Back in school whenever he was feeling strained, all he had to do was grab his beloved Firebolt, and head for the Quidditch Pitch for a couple of hours of very strenuous flying. The only place he knew of where he could safely fly outside of the Castle's walls away from prying Muggle eyes was the Burrow…and he really didn't think going there would relieve any stress whatsoever. Especially considering that just thinking about the kind of activities that Ginny would try to perform with him in the hopes of relieving stress seemed to bring bile back to his mouth.

Maybe there was something seriously wrong with him, he thought, considering the fact he was still a teenager, and the thought of sex with his girlfriend completely disgusted him, but right now he had other things on his mind.

And the stress kept building on him.

As a substitute to flying, he'd taken to walking around the Muggle neighbourhood near his flat—a lovely well kept rural area on the edges of London—and sometimes watching the happy families taking their children around, the friendly housewives chatting as they carried their groceries…sometimes it helped. Made it feel like in the end The War was worth it, even though the people that surrounded him didn't even know about it. Didn't know him.

He liked it.

But it couldn't replace the freedom and the liberation he found souring through a cloud on his Firebolt.

With a sigh, he let himself fall heavily onto one of the cast iron benches lining the small park he often wandered into when he needed to relieve the aforementioned stress. Right now, he really needed to leave all his cares behind before he began to lose his mind. Though he might have already.

What he'd experienced the previous night…that was no regular dream.

With all the Voldemort induced visions he'd endured since childhood, he likened himself an expert on the subject. He could tell a real dream from something else rather easily. For one, upon awakening from a real dream, Harry often hardly remembered what it was about, generally only retaining a feeling, or a foggy recollection at best.

What he'd experienced was clear, sharp and painful. Every word, thought, and feeling etched into the forefront of his mind.

For two, when he actually dreamt, Harry wasn't usually aware he was dreaming until he'd awoken.

He'd been perfectly aware—throughout the experience—that his body had been sleeping at the time.

For three, his instinct told him what he'd lived was real—though otherworldly and mystifying—and he'd learned long ago to trust his instincts. So as far as his instincts told him, his parents really had summoned him into a sort of `Limbo' to then bring him to some sort of Alternate Reality where he'd died the night he'd finally faced off Voldemort, just to view the reactions of his friends and loved ones to such a situation.

He sighed and turned his head to the sky, finding it a clear blue just like the one overlooking his supposed funeral. He was officially beyond confused. And yet there was clarity among it all. Which in the end confused him further. Where was Hermione when you needed her?

“There you are!” His head shot up. Did his baffled mind conjure an image of her out of desperation, or was she truly standing in front of him wearing a smile and a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a turtleneck? “Hermione?” His voice was quiet and surprised, at her nod, he grinned back. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugged. “Heard you weren't feeling too well, so I thought I'd come check on you, since you can't seem to take care of your own self,” she replied, easily slipping into the spot on the bench next to him, the close proximity not bothering her in the least.

“How'd you hear that?” He asked off-hand, rather embarrassed that she'd found out so quickly.

She blushed. “I was having an argument over the Floo with Ron when Ginny came back ranting about how you almost covered her in vomit.”

“That's not true!” He defended himself. She just raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, fine, maybe a little, but it's her fault! I told her I wasn't feeling well after I woke up.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded. “That's why I thought to check in on you. Imagine my surprise when I got to your place and the kindly older lady in the flat next to yours told me she saw—first a redhead girl of the kind she wouldn't wish on her grandchild for her apparent lack of morals—and then you, leaving in huff. She said you looked like death warmed over. Can't say I don't agree with her,” he gave an uninterested shrug. “She really likes you, though. She told me where to find you.”

Harry was glad for her presence, her usual tendency to babble covering up most of the continuous thoughts running through his mind, yet he was aware it wouldn't last long. “So was it Voldemort?”

Harry's head snapped to face her. “What?”

“Was Voldemort what you were dreaming about?”

He blinked slowly. He really shouldn't be so surprised by now to find that Hermione could always guess the source of his discomfort, but he still was. He was always floored by her intuition. Coming back into himself, he gave her a slow shake of the head, staring at her for a second, wondering if he should tell her what the dream had been about. “Didn't feel like it.”

And quiet descended upon them. Harry was battling with himself, one part of him truly wanting to discuss it with her, the other afraid she would think him crazy—even if she never had before. Hermione looked like she was trying to stop herself from asking, her natural curiosity fighting with the knowledge that Harry had his own times. In the end, the first to lose to the silence was Harry.

“Hermione?” His question was quiet and tentative.

“Yes?” Her answer was excited, and relieved that he was willing to open up on his own.

“Do you think it's…possible…for dead people to contact living people through dreams?” Merlin, he sounded stupid—and crazy!—and he barely suppressed the urge to slap his palm on his forehead.

She stared at him in surprise for a second, obviously not expecting him to ask anything of the sort, but still considering his words—and her answer—carefully. “Well, I don't think it's impossible. We've seen stranger things than that so far, haven't we? Many people have dreamed of loved ones who have passed away, some of them even famous. There are a good six witches and wizards that have had an apparition of Merlin in their dreams, and in religious writings there are loads of these cases, in the Bible and the like, often happening when they are assigned some sort of mission, or when they need to be enlightened,” she babbled away, but stopped herself from getting to far off the subject. “Who was in your dream?”

He sighed and slumped further into the bench. “My parents,” he told her, already waiting for her logical explanations about how his own love-deprived mind had conjured the image of his beloved dead mother and father in an attempt to fill the void left in him after he'd lost his purpose in the war…

But no such thing came.

She was still there, looking at him, contemplating him, quiet…waiting for him to continue. So he did. “I don't actually think they meant for me to hear them,” he began, “they were talking among themselves, sort of…arguing, but in a friendly…affectionate way.”

“Arguing over what?” Hermione asked him. He turned to look at her, noticing the genuine smile she was wearing after seeing the faraway look his eyes were showing.

And here Harry blushed again, embarrassed. Here she was definitely going to call him crazy. “Over whether or not they should show me what my mom wanted to show me.”

“And what was that?”

“My mom said she wanted to put me in an `objective position' and she said that in her experience there was almost nothing more objective then death,” Hermione drew in a sharp breath, but Harry had already made his grave, he might as well jump in it. “She showed me what my funeral would have been like if I had died with Voldemort.”

Hermione's earlier breath was released in relief. “Merlin, Harry, you had me scared for a second there,” she laughed lightly, holding a hand to her heart. Then she regained her composure. “So,” she started, her old analysing tone from school returning, “What did you see at your funeral to make you so sick?”

“Different things, really,” he shrugged, “wouldn't really know where to start.”

“What's the first thing to come to mind?”

“Well, it looked like most people accepted that I was gone right away, and cast me off quickly. Most of them were talking as if I'd been dead for centuries, till George got angry and shouted at them. Said they should have honoured me a little longer, or something.”

Hermione gave a little nod. “I'm sure he would,” she told him quietly, “he cares more for you then he lets others know—especially since Fred's gone, too.”

Harry felt a wry grin on his face. She'd said much the same in his dream. His smile disappeared quickly, though. “You're the one who reacted more strongly than anyone,” he whispered, his eyes clouded in the memory. “At first you looked like you weren't even there, until Ginny said something that made you hit her twice,” Hermione's eyebrows shot up at this in surprise, “and then when everyone else had left, you…you just fell apart…” he couldn't go into more detail than that, her desperation still haunting him.

“I thought that much would be obvious,” Hermione told him quietly.

“How could it be?” Harry asked confused.

“Well, honestly, Harry, think about it!” She huffed in exasperation. “You've been my guiding force since we were eleven, my whole life revolved around you. We broke rules together, studied together, and fought dark forces together. You're the only one who never cast me off, even if you liked Ron's company better. With you I always felt like I had a purpose. I felt as though it wasn't a bad thing to be a bossy know-it-all if it meant it would keep you alive a little longer. And if you weren't there, I can't even guess the sense of loss I could feel. You're my best friend, Harry. The single most important person in my life, the one who saved me from a troll in the girl's lavatory and gave me two amazing friends in the process. I imagine I'd fall apart at the seams if anything were to happen to you.”

Harry could only stare wide-eyes at Hermione's blatant honesty. He didn't think he could find anyone else who could open themselves up so completely to him if he searched the globe. Instead he found himself grinning. “Likewise,” and she was smiling back at him radiantly.

He saw her shaking her head as though to clear her thoughts and recollect them. “What did Ginny say to anger me?”

Harry's demeanour straightened, as they had gotten to the point he'd truly needed to discuss with someone who might shed some light on all those strange thoughts and feelings that were escaping him. “Well,” he began, but found he needed to clear his throat before continuing, “the first time you hit her, was because, right after George talked down to everyone for casting me aside so quickly, she said she'd go talk to Dean. Said he looked like he needed a friend.”

“No!” Hermione gasped, scandalised. “She said that at your funeral? Or what might have been your funeral in some strange alternate reality?”

Harry burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. Only she could say something like that, as though she was analysing what she was saying while still trying to take everything in along with her righteous indignation. He looked to her, and found her looking down at her linked hands in bashful shame. “I'm sorry,” he told her honestly, “it's just the way you said it that made me laugh. I'm sorry.” Though, as a thought hit him, he grinned again, “But as least I know you really might have hit her if she said something like that.”

She smiled in return, though her bashfulness not leaving her. “Of course I would have,” she gave a little shrug. “Why did I hit her the second time?”

“After you hit her, she said that you didn't have the right to. She said that you didn't know what I was to her, and that I meant more to her than I did to you,” she didn't answer, but her shocked expression and the stillness in her small frame seemed to tell Harry that the answer Hermione had given in the dream might not have been far off from the one she would give in this reality. Added to what she'd already said about her reaction to his hypothetical death, it became almost obvious.

She cleared her throat, and looked at him. “What do you think about it?”

He shook his head, none of his confusion leaving him. “I don't know what to think anymore,” he sighed, yet again. “My mom didn't seem too fond of Ginny when I overheard her, and lately I'm not too fond of her either. I don't understand how she could have been so perfect before, and now that the war's over she seems something else entirely,” he slumped further into the bench, almost reclining in it. “I mean, I know The Hunt changed us, not necessarily for the better, but I thought she could be prepared for that…”

“I don't really think that's it,” Hermione replied, sighing as well and mimicking his position. “She was part of The War as well, if you remember, though on a different front. I think that in truth, during The Hunt, since we were always in such dreary atmospheres and extreme situations, we kept looking at certain things as though they were a beacon. Something wonderful to return to. And since the situations were so extreme, we raised our expectation too high.”

Harry raised an eloquent eyebrow at her. “We?”

She looked down at her hands in shame again. “Yes, we,” she told him. “At least I know I did,” Harry's eyebrow remained raised, urging her to continue, and, after another sigh, she did, “Before we were forced into running, Ron was suddenly nice to me. He was complimenting me, and it felt like he appreciated me, and we were fighting less. During The Hunt, he was back to being crude, rude, and obnoxious, but I told myself it was just because his nerves were shot, and because of the Horcrux Pendant we were lugging around. And then, at Hogwarts, when he remembered about the House Elves in the kitchens, that's when I finally thought it could work between us. Is seemed like he cared about the things I cared about, and had understood my point of view. Like he might be ready for a real commitment to me and my causes. But he's not. Ron's still Ron, and he will always be Ron, only now his head's inflating because of the recognition, and he's lazier than ever. We can't work anymore. I don't really think we ever could.”

Harry gave her a penetrating green-fire glance. “What do you mean?”

She gave an apologetic shrug. “We broke things off this morning. You know, that argument over the Floo that Ginny interrupted? Once we got ourselves straightened out we decided it just wasn't right for either of us, so our break up wasn't really a bad one, but I think we might not be too comfortable around each other for a while. Sorry.”

“For what?”

She gave another shrug. “For putting you in the middle like this. I know you don't like it when we fight because you're always stuck between us as a sort of shield.”

He shook his head. “Don't worry about it,” he dismissed. “It's just…it's weird,” he explained. “It always looked like it would be a sure thing between you two.”

“No, it's not possible,” she smiled sadly. “I love him, and he loves me, but it's not that kind of love. We're just too different, too incompatible, to be able to stay together without killing each other for long,” a pause, and then, “besides,” she shook her head in humour, “I'm not attracted to him in the least.”

Harry choked on air. “What?” He asked, completely shell-shocked.

“Oh, no need to be so overdramatic about it, Harry,” she waved his reaction off in a no-nonsense wave of her hand that was typical of her, “it's not that unusual. I thought I could bring myself to…learn to appreciate him, but it didn't happen. Red hair is not a turn on for me, neither are freckles, nor his rather crude attempts at romance. I'm just…not attracted to him. And I'd like to say that I'm above factoring that into a relationship, but I can't. Not that I wish for someone like Gilderoy Lockhart, that's all looks and nothing else.”

“Then what do you wish for?” He asked, genuinely curious.

“Well,” a slight blush painted her cheeks, giving her a very flattering demure look, though she was definitely not a demure little girl, “someone who treats me as an equal, who can understand me without criticism to what I do and what I like. Someone who can appreciate me and that I appreciate in return. And yes, someone that I feel attraction for, not necessarily based on looks, but attraction nonetheless.”

He nodded, thinking he might have understood, but not certain of it, “Doesn't sound very easy to find.”

She trained her eyes on him, giving him a deep penetrating—indecipherable—stare, then, after a moment's pause, she shrugged. “I guess,” was her vague reply, but she wasn't used to focusing a conversation on herself so much. “So what about you?”

“What about me?” he asked baffled.

She rolled her eyes heavenward at his stereotypical obliviousness. “What do you wish for? How does Ginny fall into that? How do you feel about her now that your perspective's changed?”

He huffed a smile. That was more like the Hermione he knew. Curious and full of questions. “Tough questions,” he mumbled with a sardonic smile directed at a rolling cloud passing overhead.

“Take them one at a time,” she reassured him. “I've nowhere better to be at the moment in any case.”

He nodded, rubbing his face with his hand, noticing the sharp scratch of his heavy unshaved shadowed skin. “What do I wish for?” She nodded encouragingly, and he sighed, fishing for the words within his mind. “I guess someone who can see beyond my scar and my family's money, who doesn't worship me, and isn't afraid of me. Someone who can keep up with me and talk to me honestly, whose fun, but can also keep composed when the situation calls for it. Someone who I like spending time with, and yes, someone who I'm attracted to as well,” his wry grin was back, his eyes glowing deeply green in self deprecating amusement.

Hermione grinned at him in mirth. “Doesn't sound very easy to find, does it?”

“Guess not,” he mumbled, the smile still playing at his lip at how she'd turned his words against him.

“So what about Ginny?” She continued. “How does she fit into that?”

Harry brought his hand back to his face, rubbing his heavy stubble again, a deep weary breath released through his nose. “I don't know,” he began. “In school she seemed so cool, you know? Relaxed, fun, and pretty.”

“And now?” She encouraged him.

“She doesn't seem so relaxed, or fun lately. And she definitely doesn't know how to keep her composure,” he told her, obviously referring to the day past. “Of course, she's still very pretty, but lately I don't really care either.”

He looked to Hermione to find her with an elbow on her thigh and her head resting on fists, studying him. She gave a noncommittal “hmm” sound, and he knew that she knew that there was something more to it, and it was up to him to tell it.

He took a deep breath, and asked her the one question that had been truly burning in his mind up until that moment. “Hermione,” he began, “tell me honestly: is Ginny just…worshipping me? Like some kind of hero?”

He watched her exhale slowly, shifting to hold her chin in both her open palms, her elbows leaning on her knees. “You know, before starting Hogwarts, while I was reading those books about you, in a way I think I idolised you as well,” she started, and laughed when she saw him looking completely perplexed at the fact that she seemed to have gone off course. “Don't worry, Harry, I have a point, I promise.”

“You always do.”

“And don't you ever forget it,” she laughed again, before straightening and continuing on. “In any case, when I first met you on the train, I recognized you right away—not because of your scar,” she told him quickly, since he was already raising his hands to brush his messy bangs down, “but because in one of my books there was a picture of your parents, and you were so obviously their child I couldn't mistake you,” A smile was slowly blossoming on her face of the kind he had never seen, not on her, not on anyone. “I don't know what I was expecting you to be like. I'd actually thought you'd be something of a bully, since you'd defeated the meanest wizard the community had known in the last half a century, but when I walked into that compartment, the whole notion crumbled. You were so small, listening to Ron and trying not to say anything that would scare him away, even if you found him so odd. It was obvious you were malnourished, and likely abused and bullied yourself, I found it the most endearing thing, and after that continuing to worship you as a hero was somewhat hard, but I was still fascinated by you. You were completely awed by what was around you, and so quiet and polite, yet still, I felt like you were emanating power—probably because of the intensity of your eyes—even at that age.”

“How did it change?” He asked her quietly.

“I don't think there was any one moment, it was just a gradual thing,” she explained. “Ron obviously found me annoying, so I never strayed too close, but I liked listening to you and your reactions, so I used to sit close enough to hear you without being noticed. Not that I was stalking you or anything, but in that period I'd felt so alone and isolated, so odd, and you were the only one that never said an ill thing about me—or anyone else besides Slytherins—and it was just very nice to hear that. I've always been very observant of those around me, as are you, but I paid a little more attention to you then I did to anyone else. Anyway, over time, listening to you and watching you made me feel like I was getting to know you. It was a little like having a friend, even though it wasn't actually real. By the time Halloween came around, and you rescued me from the troll—and I know it was you who decided to come and find me—I'd come to a conclusion.”

“Which is?”

“That you really are a hero. Not necessarily because of what happened when you were a child or because you're strong and powerful, though you are that, and of course, you're not perfect. You have your human flaws. But you're a hero because you care. Because if there's someone that needs rescuing, you'll do it, no questions asked. Even if you don't like them or know them very well. And I decided that, even though that's a wonderful thing, worshipping you wasn't the right thing to do, because worshipping is nothing but sitting by the sidelines, waiting for you to return triumphant, and I couldn't do that. I'd stopped worshipping you somewhere between the train ride and the feast, and what was before turned into deep admiration, and a need to help you stay alive,” she told him finally, and he didn't know why, but he felt that her candour and her honesty were the most beautiful thing he'd encountered until that moment, and he found himself trying to swallow a lump in his throat, blinking back tears.

Thankfully, she either didn't notice, or chose not to comment, and continued on. “If you'd asked me before our fifth year whether or not Ginny was worshipping you as some sort of hero, I would have told you that she absolutely did, as it had been obvious by how she was around you. Then she came to me about it, in the summer before fifth, and I was honest with her. I told her the boy she idolised didn't actually exist, that the person she spoke about with dreamy eyes was completely different from the Harry Potter I know. We spent an entire night talking about this, and, come morning, she seemed to have understood. And from there the new Ginny was born. The Ginny you started adoring in sixth year,” she told him, her eyes unfocused on some point ahead of them, misty with the recollection of events. “And if I have to be completely honest, I did have doubts about her the day of Dumbledore's funeral, when she simply accepted your leaving to sit at the sidelines praying for your safe return. I used to ask myself how she could just let you walk away when she was supposedly so taken with you…and then I berated myself for doubting her. She was a friend after all, and I was supposed to trust her. I remembered that she'd been a victim of Voldemort during the whole Chamber ordeal in second, and of course she wouldn't want to deal with Dark Magic and Deatheaters and evil megalomaniacs again. But I don't know. All that time you two were separated and she was at school feeling like the Princess locked in the tower waiting for her Knight-In-Shining-Armour might have set her back to her initial adoration of you—but that's just conjecture on my part. And now that you've been together again for a while I don't really know anymore, Harry. I can't read Ginny's mind, or heart, and I don't think she'd be able to answer that question for you either. I can tell you that she's not really prepared yet to face everything that being Harry Potter's Girlfriend truly entails, but she could learn. It's up to you to decide whether or not she should. And don't ask me for more than that, because I know that even if you listen to my opinion, it really won't facture into whatever your decision may be.”

He wanted to tell her that wasn't true, but he couldn't really. It was true. Even when she was the voice of reason, he always did what his gut told him to, and, in any case, she'd already given her opinion on the subject, though she hadn't come straight out to spell it out for him. “Fair enough,” he conceded.

She gave a strong nod, and slumped back against the cast iron bench with a strong exhale. “Well, I don't know about you, but this whole discussion's made me hungry. How about you show me a nice little venue we could go eat at? My treat,” she offered.

“That,” he said, pulling himself up, and offering her his hand to stand, “sounds like a wonderful idea.” She readily took his hand, and laughed as she was lifted to her feet. He looked at her, a genuine smile lighting his features, making his eyes glow. “When was the last time we spoke like this?” He asked, thinking that it had been far too long since he'd felt anything like what he was now.

But his question seemed to shadow her sun as her demeanour darkened. “Before Ron left us on the Hunt,” she answered almost too readily.

And Harry felt his heart clench.

He was about to open his mouth—to apologise, to do…something…to rectify the way he hadn't been there for her that night, though he just didn't know what could be said to excuse him—but she stopped him. “You don't need to say anything, Harry. I know how you were feeling that night. Angry and betrayed. Cast away. I felt much the same, so I don't hold anything against you.”

“You should,” he told her honestly. Darkly.

She shook her hand, a small forgiving smile curving her fleshy lips. “No,” she reassured him, “I know you too well to do anything of the sort,” and he felt relieved, and forgiven. “Now, come on, I'm famished.”

And so they headed away from the park and its comfortable bench. Most of Harry's doubts had been reassured, his confusion ebbed, his stress relieved…for the moment. He didn't know what, but he knew there were several things—important things—that were still eluding him.

To be continued

Well, this is it for now, next chapter coming to you in a couple of days. I looked this over about thirteen times, but I don't think I managed to hide the fact that I'm too used to script format by now. T_T sorry about that. Stay tuned and be nice and drop me a line either in the review or by email at Robbygal@hotmail.com

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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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Hi, it's me again. I don't really have much time to leave a comment, as I'm only allowed on this computer for something like 15 minutes, so I'll let you know, I wasn't given much time to proofread. Point out any mistakes you might see, and I'll fix them in a second sitting.

And for those of you that know me: cringe. There is a newspaper article ahead. Bwahahaha. Yes, I still suck something terrible at writing in that format.

And sorry if this is somewhat boring. It's a transition chapter, and the title doesn't really mean anything, I just didn't know what to name the chapter (sheepish grin) ^_^.

Dreamscape

Chapter 4: “No more nonsense”

“Well, Miss Granger, it appears, based on Madame Pomfrey's reports and your log, that Mr Potter's poisoning could not have been started very long ago,” Healer Jenkins concluded, rubbing her face wearily.

“But there has to be more!” Hermione exclaimed. “Don't you have any way of finding out what's in his system?”

“And how is it you suggest we do that?” Jenkins asked, slightly frazzled and anxious, “I remind you that they placed him in Stasis. His magic's flow has been stopped at a moment in time, I cannot examine him. All we know is that it's some type of love potion…possibly lust as well. Which one has yet to be determined.”

“Didn't you take any samples first?” Hermione was almost outraged.

“Of course we did!” the Healer replied, nearly insulted. “But do you have any idea how unbalanced his magic is? Being able to get a clear reading of it could take months. This could go faster if we knew precisely who did this, and, though it is clear as day to you and I,” Hermione's eyes shot to the Healer, surprised, “Yes, Miss Granger, I can put two and two together, and I've come to the same conclusion, and I understand that we cannot ask anyone to come forth and admit to nearly poisoning to death the Boy-Who-Lived. It is not up to the Healers to persecute culprits. If Mr Potter so wishes, it will be up to him once he is released from his current state,” Healer Jenkins assured her. “But I must admit, I wish we could be told exactly what had been inflicted on him.”

Hermione nodded, knowing that Healers could press charges only in the eventuality that the patient could not—and, even though Harry was in Stasis, it was with the promise of an eventual recovery, so it really was out of Healers' legal premises.

She angrily brushing back some hair from her face. There had to be something more, she would not give up like that. How could Harry's magic be that unbalanced? It shouldn't be more than a love potion gone wrong—terribly wrong—but that ought to be easy enough to detect. There had to be more. As much as she wanted to think that Ginny was a better person than what she was appearing to be at the moment, Hermione was seriously beginning to doubt that Harry's infatuation for her had started naturally. The more she thought about it, and Harry's behaviour at the time, the more she was convinced it had been magical. The obvious first hypothesis would have been that she'd gotten a potion from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and begun to use it somewhere in the beginning of sixth year, but it couldn't have been any of Fred and George's love potions. Those were registered, and would have therefore been detected right away by Madame Pomfrey during one of Harry's all-too-frequent visits to the Hospital Wings. Besides, Weasley potions were also very watered down, and worked in a way that they left the body of the intended person after a few short days without a trace.

Maybe whatever had begun back in their sixth year had somehow imprinted itself a little too strongly onto Harry...but potions were like real poisons, they would eventually be purged from the body by natural means. And, in any case, Harry could not have been potioned into liking Ginny back in sixth year. There was definitely something more that they were overlooking.

And what about Harry's vision where his parents had come to him? It was in no way a premonition, or a vision of the future, as Harry had clearly recognized the date inscribed on the tombstone as one that had already come to pass, and Hermione really did not put any stock in those. But it was in no way a simple dream either. A hallucination? No. Harry's recollection of it was much too calm, he was in control during the dream, though he hadn't been able to interfere, and, well, Hermione just felt that it was more than a simple hallucination. It must have been Harry's influence, but she was not going to say her instinct was wrong.

How come the dream had started right at the time in which Harry had been affected by this sudden turn? Could Lily's words have started a reaction in Harry? No, she only showed him a possible outcome, and that couldn't have turned into a physical reaction…unless…

“Of course!” She exclaimed in excitement. “I can't believe I didn't see it before!”

“See what, Miss Granger?” Healer Jenkins asked, looking rather sceptical.

“Doesn't it strike you as strange that Harry's body refused the potion so strongly, even though it might not have been all that harmful?” she asked, the cogs in her mind turning and working faster than ever.

“Yes, of course,” she answered readily, looking as though she'd been thinking of it all along herself, “even the use of multiple potions at the same time doesn't seem to warrant such strong reactions if the initial diagnosis of possible potions is accurate.”

“Healer Jenkins, are you aware Harry's very easily capable of overthrowing an Imperious curse?”

The older woman blinked owlishly for a couple of seconds. “No, I did not know,” she said, surprised, “but I don't quite follow how that has anything to do with this.”

“Harry always said it was almost natural to overthrow that curse because, whenever someone tried to order him into doing something with it, his own mind—and magic—answered back with a `why should I?',” Hermione explained.

“Yes, and?” obviously, the Healer had no idea what the girl was getting at, even if she'd appeared exceedingly clever from the beginning.

“Well,” Hermione began, trying to find the right way of warding her quarry, “what if Harry's magic realised there was something wrong? What if he realised he was forced into thinking and feeling something that wasn't really there to begin with? What if…” and here she took a deep breath, her voice coming out whispered, her conjecture already a reality in her mind. “What if his magic tried to fight back?”

The older witch opened her mouth, her breath already drawn in for a reply which died on her lips right away as it looked like she'd answered her own question before even issuing it. “Well…” she considered, a hand moving to her mouth so she could start chewing on a nail in thought, again, she looked to Hermione to ask something, but found her own mind supplying the answer before the question was brought forth. She did this a couple more times, and Hermione found herself smiling. It looked like her guess wasn't as unbelievable as she might have thought if the Healer hadn't turned it down right away.

“So, you're telling me that it's his own magic that interacted wrongly with the potions?” The Healer asked again, though now she had an uncertain tone. “I'm sure Mr Potter is a very powerful wizard, but I've never heard of anyone able to fight off the effect of a potion with the unintentional use of his own magic. It is theoretically possible, but I don't think even that could have caused such a strong reaction, no matter the amount of power he is possession of.”

“Healer Jenkins, you misunderstand me,” Hermione smiled. “I think the rejection on his magic's part of the mind altering agents of the potions might have been the catalyst to this.”

With a raised eyebrow, the woman's attention had been captured by Hermione. “Tell me, Miss Granger, when did Mr Potter begin to show signs of change in the recent past?” she ordered, sitting at the edge of her seat.

“I'd initially thought the reaction to these potions had started with his symptoms—four days ago, to be precise—but I must say, I underestimated things. If I have to be honest, they began a couple of weeks ago,” Hermione began. “I noticed that Harry seemed a little less…enamoured than he had been before. He'd never been a mindless puppet, but he would go along with almost anything she said after a short argument,” she explained. She felt somewhat relieved that she could speak freely enough with the Healer, if not just to avoid the circles in the conversation required to keep Ginny's name absolutely clean, at least for her peace of mind—to be able to take it off her chest. “While instead, the last couple of weeks he was a little less accepting of what she did and what she said, and, five days ago, they had their strongest argument to date. It wasn't a row of any kind, but it did look like it placed their relationship between a rock and a hard place.”

“What you're trying to tell me is that you think he'd been rejecting the potions' effects for a while now, and it culminated after that argument where his magic was very aware there was something not quite right with the whole situation,” it wasn't a question, so Hermione didn't bother answering. The Healer brought her hand to her chin to rub it in thought. “It's not implausible. It's actually quite possible that you are right, but there is still much that we are missing.”

“Yes, I'd thought that too,” Hermione agreed, “And I have an idea.”

“Well then, please, do enlighten me,” the elder witch encouraged.

“We'd begun our hypothesis on the basis that Harry's poisoning had been recent, and that the main problem was that the doses were too strong,” the Healer agreed. “I think that's where we made a mistake,” Jenkins gave her a surprised sceptical look. “It's true, the potions can't possibly have been started too long ago, but I think the doses were rather small. She wanted a strong hero, not a mindless puppet.”

“The problem with that is that he would not have been quite so taken as most people who resort to these methods wish for,” the Healer interjected.

“Precisely!” Hermione exclaimed. “Come on, what would a teenage girl do if her hero wasn't treating her like the princess she wished to be?”

The woman shrugged. “I think she'd just be frustrated. She'd either up the dosage, or switch to a different potion.”

“That could be an idea,” Hermione conceded. “But why change something that, in its own way, is working well? He liked her, and he was still his usual heroic self without having lost any part of his personality.”

Jenkins looked lost for a moment, her eyes darting around looking for an answer, and, slowly, Hermione saw dawning behind her horrified eyes. “She tried to mix and match.”

“Right,” Hermione answered grimly. “That's why Harry's reaction was so out of proportion. Because he was rejecting several different potions at the same time, even if the doses were all small. His mind refused to bend that much.”

The Healer nodded, looking like she was going to be sick. “They might have reacted terribly with each other as well.” Hermione gave a desolate nod as Jenkins placed a hand on her knee to push herself up. “Well, at this point, I'll go speak to the team who's in charge of doing the magic reading. Tell them to work in layers,” she sighed heavily. “With his magic fighting so strongly, it will take even longer than we'd initially thought to get a clear reading.”

“It's too long!” Hermione exclaimed. How could they be even farther from reviving Harry after all they'd just discovered?

“Do you have a better idea?” The Healer snapped, her nerves as shot as the young woman's.

None that immediately come to mind, Hermione replied mentally, she shrugged, though her thoughts were as active as always. There had to be a way to analyse Harry, one that could go around his magic's instinctive fighting reaction. And, as though someone had hit a switch to give light, the idea hit her. “His blood…” she whispered, awed that she'd never even thought of something so elemental before.

“What?” Jenkins asked, her patience already too thin.

“His blood!” Hermione insisted, though the Healer obviously had no idea where she was going. “In the Muggle world, when Doctors—Muggle Healers—need to find out what is ailing someone they examine the blood. Substances remain in the bloodstream for some time before being purged by natural means, and potions shouldn't dissolve before their effects run out, so Harry's blood should still be thick with the potions!”

Dawning once again seemed to appear behind Jenkins' eyes. “We wouldn't have to worry about interfering with his magic…we could act directly on him now,” she whispered, as though she was speaking the realisations that came to her without meaning to share them with Hermione. “Stasis stops his magic, but his body still functions, meaning the blood continues to flow…”

“We could purge his blood while he's still in Stasis,” Hermione suggested.

“It wouldn't completely rid him of it,” Jenkins answered.

“But is should cleanse him enough to be able to lift the Stasis,” Hermione replied.

Jenkins smiled. “I'll need to modify some of my instruments. I'll get started on it right away. Would you like to assist me?”

Hermione was surprised and flattered. “I would love to, but I have I need to check on other things first,” Jenkins lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “There's something we're missing. It's got to be the root of everything, and if I don't find out what it is, this is never going to end. If you don't mind, I will join you once I've gotten to the bottom of this. It shouldn't take long if I'm right.”

Healer Jenkins looked at her, giving her a sad look of understanding, and nodded. “Do what you must,” she left, leaving Hermione feeling tired and alone. With a heavy sigh, the young girl forced herself up. Hours had past since she'd first stepped into St Mungo's. She hadn't slept, or eaten, or taken a break. She wouldn't do any of the above until she'd gotten to the bottom of this. Taking a moment to collect her strength, Hermione left the room in search of Arthur Weasley.

Thankfully the Head of the Weasley House was easily found in that horrid little room they'd been assigned to the day before, sitting on Ron's side, facing his wife and daughter. It looked like a serious argument had taken place, because the women's eyes were rigged red, Ron looked like he'd been hit by a cartload of bludgers, and Arthur was staring the girls down. Molly was staring at him, alternating her looks between imploring and accusing. He wasn't giving in.

When she'd stepped through the door, they all turned to look at her, though Molly and Ginny turned away instantly. Ron and Arthur stood and approached her quickly.

“Oh, Hermione, there you are,” the man welcomed her with his arms open in a fatherly hug, which she returned easily, drawing comfort from him. Merlin knew, she needed it.

“Did you figure anything out?” Ron asked quietly, his back to his mother and sister, his words a quiet whisper, though, considering Ginny's penchant for eavesdropping and his mother's interest in other people's business, it might have been useless. She nodded, but remained quiet.

Arthur caught on right away. “Why don't we step outside for a word?” and they did, the three of them, finding a dark corner of the larger waiting room theirs faced on. Hermione pulled some complex privacy charms over them, and one to check for extendable ears and the like. Not finding any, she felt safe enough to speak, though still very aware that caution was the better part of valour.

“Healer Jenkins and I figured out what the problem was, though there are still some things that I need to look at,” she looked at Arthur. “I have a favour to ask of you?”

Arthur didn't hesitate at all. “Of course, anything I can help with.”

“Did you ever notice Ginny with a book? Some sort of textbook, but not the kind that Hogwarts would issue,” Hermione knew she sounded like she was pulling at straws, but she didn't care.

Arthur seemed to consider this. “Well, I remember she used to always carry a book with a very faded cover a few years ago. I was never able to read the title, but it was pretty heavy looking, so it was likely a text book. I saw her reading it again about a month ago,” he answered.

Hermione didn't dare to hope. “Would you know where she keeps it?” If she was right, Molly would have placed loads of charms on it to keep her children away from it—including something preventing summoning charms.

“The last time I saw her with it, she was in her room. It was on her desk,” he told her. “She was reading from it, and writing on scroll of parchment.” He stood, and began heading for the exit.

“Dad, where are you going?” Ron asked, surprised.

“To get the book,” Arthur replied with a tone to his voice that made it seem as though it should have been obvious. “It could save Harry, couldn't it?”

Hermione and Ron approached him quietly and quickly. “Yes, but I think it best if I go. I just need to look at it. If you brought it here, I'm afraid it could prove terrible for your family.”

Arthur's face shadowed. He looked ashen and grief-stricken. “Yes, of I'm trying to condemn her, but I can't help but wish to protect her.” course,” he mumbled. “I know she did something terrible, but she is still my daughter,” he looked imploringly, rubbing his face in a desperate attempt to bring colour back into his face. “I should blame her, but all I can think about is that I need to protect my little girl.”

Hermione smiled. “As you should. I know you love Harry as much as Ron and I do, but no self respecting father should ever turn his back on a child,” she reassured him, giving his arm a comforting squeeze.

“Why don't you hate her?” Arthur asked, looking on the verge of tears.

Hermione's expression darkened. “I can't let myself hate her. If I do, that will be all I'll be able to focus on, and I need to keep thinking about Harry. I need to keep trying to find a way to help him, or I will fall apart at the seams and wallow in hatred and desperation,” she explained, her honesty and clarity being almost a sharper stab at Arthur's heart than her hatred might have been. “Once this is over, Ginny will no longer exist to me. I have lost all respect for her, and she will be as dead for me, but right now, I need to think of her as a victim of her own foolishness, or I will lose the right track.”

Arthur was obviously injured by her words, but Hermione was nothing if not honest, and he could only appreciate that in a girl when his own daughter had nearly poisoned a man to try and fake his feelings for her. He nodded, his eyes shining. “May I at least accompany you?”

“Yes, please,” she told him with a small smile, and turned to Ron. “Can I ask you to stay here just a little longer? I want someone I trust close to Harry.”

He sighed, running a hand through him mop of red hair. “Yeah, sure, I can handle them a little longer.”

And with that they separated, Ron returning to their horrid little waiting room to be alone with his mother and sister, while Arthur and Hermione headed for the Apparation Room.

Upon landing from her spin, Hermione was lucky enough to land on her bum, or she might have landed against the fireplace after being knocked into it by a stunner. Obviously, she was more tired than she'd liked to admit, but that didn't stop her from having her wand out and facing the direction from which the spell had come from in no time flat.

“Wait, George, it's us!” Arthur shouted, and Hermione saw a familiar mop of curly hair popping out from behind the couch to look at them.

“Dad! Hermione!” he exclaimed, looking as the world's weight had been lifted from his shoulders the second he saw them. “What happened? I came for dinner last night and nobody was here! Just a mess of butterbeer in the kitchen and some drops of blood on the floor. I kept waiting for someone to contact me, just like you told me, dad, but nobody came.”

Hermione flinched at the reminder as she saw the few crimson spots dotting the floor. She'd remembered Harry's mouth had bled a little the night before. “We left a note,” Hermione said, “it was in the middle of the table.”

“Oh,” Arthur mumbled, his tone guilty, “I took that with me,” he pulled a ruffled piece of parchment from his pocket. “When I read it I was so worried I just crumbled it up and stuffed in here. I didn't know you were coming for dinner, George, or I would have left it for you.”

“Oh, George, I'm so sorry I didn't tell you!” Hermione berated herself. “Everything happened so fast, and I was in a panic until they told us Harry was out of danger, and then I got sidetracked helping the Healer to figure out what was wrong with him so that we could take him out of Stasis.”

“Harry's in Stasis!?” George shouted, worry and surprised clean in his face and voice. “What happened?!”

“Well, it's a bit of a long story actually,” she began, but, before she could launch into a detailed retelling of the past hours, an owl came swooping in, carrying a thick newspaper. Hermione let out a horrified gasp as she read the cubical characters of the headline. “Oh, no!” The second the owl released the parcel, Hermione grabbed it, not even sparing the bird a glance as it turned around and left the way it came. She opened the paper, and read aloud.

“BOY-WHO-LIVED IN CRITICAL CONDITION

Has long time girlfriend of the Hero of our world been poisoning him?

By Rita Skeeter

Last night, at 5:47pm, new Healer-In-Training for St Mungo's hospital C.C., received a most startling emergency call over the Floo Network. A desperate Molly Weasley—dear woman well known to most as the only mother figure in the life of our young hero—was shouting for help. Apparently, Harry Potter had collapsed inside her kitchen, where she'd been busy making his dinner. Naturally, the answer to such a terrifying call was answered instantly, in spite of the obvious lack of trained staff available at the moment. This reporter, along with many others, was immediately on scene with hopes of giving you, dear readers, positive news of his conditions. However, we found most of the staff, uncooperative, unprepared, and uncouth—”

“Can you skip over her nonsense, and get to the part where she talks about Ginny?” Arthur requested, not really wanting to hear Rita's usual garbage.

Hermione agreed. “Yes, of course, just let me find it…oh, here!

After being deprived of the rights granted to everyone in this profession, most other journalists dispersed, but not this reporter—who went to great lengths and subterfuges to give you a story. It was not easy, but here it is. Though the staff was not about to release any statements on our hero's condition with reporters, they were more then willing to speculate with each other.

It appears that our hero has been poisoned by deadly doses of love potions. That's right, dear readers. Love potions. It must be terrible for the Boy-Who-Lived to know that some of us appreciated his heroism a little too much. Oh, but wait! He doesn't know. The poor dear has been placed under Stasis almost immediately after his emergency treatment. It looks as though his condition is quite terrible. According to voices within the medical facility, he will not be released from his comatose stage anytime soon.”

“Come on, get on with it,” George urged, hysterically. Obviously, he did not know what was going on, and the commotion was not easing his mind. Hermione, however, ignored him and continued reading.

“And who, might you ask, could do something so horrifying to the young man who saved us all? Well, common speculation points a finger at long time standing girlfriend of our hero, Ginny Weasley. Why would his very own girlfriend poison him with a lethal dose of love potion? It seems that Harry Potter's infatuation with young Miss Weasley might have been magic induced as well. Many of the recently graduated Hogwarts students—peers of our hero—found that his interest for the girl, started in his sixth year, was sudden and unexpected—as potion induced attractions are. Could he have slipping from her potion's hold? Could that be reason enough to up his dosage to a lethal one? This reporter believes so. However, we may only be certain of Miss Weasley's guilt the moment Mr Potter is able to press charges on her...”

Hermione stopped reading. There was no point in continuing with that nonsense. Rita Skeeter had passed judgement on Ginny Weasley. The Wizarding World would believe. Unfortunately, they would believe the truth for once and Ginny's life would be ruined. As much as their community seemed to encourage shady dealings such as love potions, being discovered using such a subterfuge resulted in social suicide. Even if Harry did not pursue her legally, she would be recognised as a criminal, a conniver, a dishonourable woman. Such a reputation could never allow her to marry a wizard, and would warrant nothing but terrible treatment everywhere. She would be bullied and persecuted everywhere she went within the magical world. Most likely, she would have to resort to leaving the Wizarding World if her family was not able to shelter her well enough.

Hermione couldn't find it in her to be sorry for her. Her crime was her foolishness, it warranted some sort of punishment.

“What the hell is this!?” George's angry outburst made her jump and return to herself. She couldn't allow herself to think like that. “This can't be true!”

“I'm afraid it is, George,” Hermione answered him. “That butterbeer in the kitchen is incriminating enough,” she explained. “Harry saw her filling it with a lust potion so he spilled it on the floor.”

George's eyes were wide and disbelieving. “She was going to give Harry a lust potion?”

“No,” Hermione's tone was detached, as though she was nothing but a soulless shell made to retell an obvious fact. “She was going to give me a lust potion.”

“What!?” Arthur asked shocked, letting himself fall onto the sofa. “How can you not hate her?” he asked again.

“I've already answered that question,” her tone was brisk. No nonsense. “Now, please, show me where that book is so that I may help Harry.”

She didn't need the book for the possible potions that might be in Harry's system at the moment. She needed it to know what had started it all. It was time to stop getting sidetracked. She had to focus solely on Harry, and finish this.

And she would.

To be continued.

Okay that's it for this time. I'm sorry you had to wait a little longer than usual. I had planned on having this out by Tuesday, but the computer I use for most of my writing is also the one my family uses for it's business—yes, I write on the job! What do you want, it's boring! I have nothing to do but sit there and wait for people to come in!—anyway, my dad installed a new program to keep track of our stock, and it interfered with the signal from my keyboard, so I couldn't write. This computer, the one equipped with Internet, I unfortunately don't get much access to, so it was somewhat tricky juggling this chapter. Hope you still enjoyed it, but let me know what you thought. Leave a review or drop me a line at Robbygal@hotmail.com

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