Well, there you go. Please take a moment to hit reply and share your thoughts. It helps to know what you’re thinking of the story. I’ll admit to being a bit stunned at how timely this part of the story turned out when considering all that’s going on in the NFL!
Much thanks and appreciation to my beta team, Sherylyn, Arnel and Sue for their time, comments and suggestions. They truly make this a better story.
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Category: Post-Hogwarts Characters:None Genres: Drama Warnings: Mild Language, Mild Sexual Situations Story is Complete Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 210 Summary: Muggle and magical illnesses are separate. Until they’re not. Harry has always had a discernable enemy. This time, he’s fighting an invisible and indiscriminate threat. Part of the Cuts universe. Hitcount: Story Total: 112777; Chapter Total: 5492 Awards: View Trophy Room Author's Notes: |
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Alarm Harry stood in the center of his bedroom wearing nothing but his pants and his litany of scars. He stared straight ahead, pretending he wasn’t there. This was so incredibly awkward. Vivian Scott, dressed in full protective gear, was looking over his skin for any sign of a pustule. This was the part of the exam he always detested. Vivian did her best to remain detached and professional, but Harry couldn’t ignore the fact that she was one of his co-workers, seeing him in nothing but his pants. No wonder they were called Unspeakables. He'd never be able to look her in the eye at work again. Ron had expressed the same discomfort when it was his turn, but he hated the entire assessment. Harry knew the importance of the exams, but he hated them whilst they were happening. Vivian had offered to do all three of the blokes at Grimmauld Place together if that made them more comfortable, but Harry thought that would be worse. The opportunity for George to wreak havoc and humiliation would be too much for the mischievous man to avoid. Harry feared his naked chest with all its scars would somehow end up on the packaging of some new product. Does your chest look like this? Try our new Chivy Chest Enhancer — and Harry would be the ‘before’ picture. “All right. You can get dressed, and we’ll check mental acuity next,” Vivian said at last, writing something on her chart. “Did you find anything?” Harry asked, slamming his T-shirt over his head and hastily pulling on a pair of track pants. “No changes,” Vivian replied. “Good. Now, let’s see, first you want to know the date,” he said, starting the next check for her by telling her the date. Vivian’s lips curved slightly in what he supposed could count as a smile, but she moved along. “And who is the Minister for Magic?” “Kingsley Shacklebolt, who succeeded Pius Thicknesse, who was under the control of the Death Eaters, so I really don’t think he ought to count. Rufus Scrimgeour was the last real Minister before Kingsley,” Harry said. He knew he was rambling, but felt desperate to dispel the awkwardness from the physical check. Vivian nodded. “I hadn’t realized you were such an over-achiever, Potter. Robards should be made aware you’re angling for his job,” she said, this time giving him a genuine smile. Harry chuckled. “That was always more Hermione’s role.” “Was it? Shocking,” Vivian deadpanned. “I’m going to tell you three random things that I want you to try and remember, all right? Cauldron, sprouts, ball. Can you do that?” “Cauldron, sprouts, ball,” he repeated dutifully. “Very good. Now, keep those in mind. Can you count backwards from one hundred in threes?” she asked, and Harry began counting. It had been several long days since Ginny had been confined. Vivian came to the house every other day to check on the others, but a medi-witch came daily for Ginny. She hadn’t really deteriorated, but both her fatigue and short-term memory difficulties had become obvious. Harry continued visiting her in the mornings before anyone arrived, and again in the evenings after the medi-witch had left, but he was growing more and more distressed by her slipping mental acuity. She’d begun demanding to know where he’d been, even though his routine hadn’t changed, and he saw her at least twice a day. George had put an Extendable Ear beneath Ginny’s door, and they’d all been using it regularly to communicate with her, even when the medi-witch was there. At first, the stern witch who’d been on duty hadn’t been impressed, but after seeing Ginny’s enthusiasm over speaking with the others, she’d begun encouraging its use. She told them all to remind Ginny of past shared experiences and keep her memory as sharp as possible. Ron and George both felt better that there was something they could do to help their sister. Harry hadn’t told them of his excursions into Ginny’s room, but he thought Hermione, at least, suspected it. He was having difficulty concealing his paralyzing concern. He'd gone off food again. His stomach was in such upset, it had lost all appeal. Of course, that had only made Ron, Hermione and George more mindful of his behavior. Thus, they’d all been shadowing him like mother hens during the daylight hours. They were driving him mad. Harry continued counting, “88…85…” “That’s good,” Vivian interrupted. “Now, I want you to hold both arms out in front of you and shut your eyes. Leave them there until I tell you to stop.” Harry did as instructed, concentrating on keeping both arms balanced as he knew she was watching to see if either arm dropped. “All right. What were the three words I told you to remember?” she asked. “Cauldron, sprouts, ball,” he said mechanically. “I’m going to ask you a few questions about your childhood,” she said, writing a few more notes on her parchment. Harry didn’t care for this part of the exam, either. He knew she was checking his long-term memory, but his childhood was a topic he tried to avoid at all costs. There were several times he’d had to make something up, but then had to carefully try to commit what he told her to memory in case he answered differently on a later exam, and she’d think his mind was slipping. “What was your favorite game as a child?” she asked. “Tag,” he said, not about to get into the real ‘rules’ of Harry-hunting. That one was easy. It wasn’t as if he’d ever played many other games, anyway. “And where did you grow up?” “Little Whinging, Surrey,” Harry said. He knew all the Weasleys had to list the names of all their siblings, but Vivian had been tactfully sensitive to Harry’s lack of a real family and accommodated the questions to fit him. “Very good. Now, can you levitate that pillow for me, please?” she asked, pointing to a green pillow with the Harpies’ logo embroidered onto the front. Mrs. Weasley had made it for Ginny after she’d made the first team. He remembered how excited Ginny had been that her mum had used thread that perfectly matched her team colors. Harry pulled his wand from his back pocket, gave it a quick swish and flick, and said listlessly, “Wingardium Leviosa.” The small pillow that had so pleased Ginny rose in the air and hovered above the bed for a few moments. The bed was unmade since Harry never bothered; Ginny wasn’t sleeping there. Disheartened by that thought, Harry let the pillow fall back onto the bed. “One more,” Vivian said briskly. “Can you light the end of your wand for me, please.” “Lumos,” Harry said, and the wand tip lit. Vivian nodded. “Very good. All right, that wasn’t too bad, was it? I just have to check in with Ms. Granger, and barring anything significant with her, I’ll see you all on Thursday.” “Nox. Ron and George were okay, then?” Harry asked. Vivian frowned. “You know I can’t tell you that. Go ask them,” she scolded. She was always very tight-lipped when it came to their personal evaluations. It was laughable, really, because as soon as she left, they all would gather in the kitchen to compare stories. George’s embellishments were growing more and more outlandish every day. “All right then, have any more of Ginny’s teammates tested positive — and you don’t have to give me their names, just the stats?” Harry asked. He’d already worked out how to get around her tight-lipped policies. “Actually, I’m cautiously optimistic on that front. There have been no new cases from the initial level two group in the past two days. It doesn’t mean it won’t happen, but it’s a good sign.” “So, the ones from the team who haven’t caught it aren’t going to?” he asked. Vivian tilted her head, but didn’t quite nod. “We’re hopeful that’s the case. We’re keeping everyone confined, but the focus is shifting to the new level twos — your group — the ones that have been living with those who contracted it.” “What about the first Harpies’ player who became ill? How is she doing?” he asked, holding his breath slightly and hoping to hear about an amazing recovery. Vivian didn’t comply, however. “I’m afraid that news isn’t good. She’s lapsed into a coma,” she said. Dread filled Harry’s soul, and he clenched his fists, trying to master himself. Ginny was only a short time behind her in symptoms. “Harry, it doesn’t mean the same will happen to Ginny. The range of symptoms has been significant amongst the cases,” Vivian said softly, warmth creeping into her tone. “Some are only experiencing minor memory loss, or gaps in their cognitive function.” Harry cleared his throat “Has there been any progress on a cure?” “We’re still testing, but nothing conclusive.” “What about the Muggles, and the rest of the Wizarding world outside of Quidditch? What’s happening there?” he asked, feeling so cut off from the rest of society, trapped within these walls. “It’s spread further in the Muggle world, but heavier in the wizarding one. That exhibition match spread it exponentially here. The Muggles have limited their travel, but it has appeared on the continent whilst it’s only in the United Kingdom on the magical side. All large gatherings have been cancelled in both populations. The Muggles are holding off the start of their school year until October,” Vivian said. “And Hogwarts?” he asked. “The Board of Governors is meeting this morning to discuss doing the same. It doesn’t make sense to put all those children together like that. The train journey alone would be a virtual breeding ground.” Harry knew it made sense, but he had difficulty wrapping his head around the idea of a September first that didn’t involve the train taking students on a journey to begin a new year at Hogwarts. How would those poor first-years feel about the start of term being delayed? “What about those who didn’t attend the Quidditch Exhibition?” he asked. “There’s still been a spread, but nothing in such numbers. It’s actually a huge factor encouraging everyone to avoid large gatherings. If people will just stay home for a few weeks, it will virtually eliminate the spread,” she said, and her voice was back to that cool, clinical tone. “But what about those who can’t? People still need to eat, and they can get sick with other things,” he said. “Yes, you’re right. It’s not possible to completely isolate ourselves. That’s why we’re hoping we can find a cure. It’s simply not as instantaneous as we’d like it to be. Trial and error is the only way, and hopefully we’ll come across the solution sooner rather than later. For now, I need to see Ms. Granger,” she said briskly, gathering her notes. Harry shrugged, knowing she’d answered all she would for today. “All right. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” She nodded. “Try and stay positive, Harry.” He smiled woodenly but didn’t answer before he trudged down the stairs to the kitchen where Ron and George were already discussing their own exams. “I think she chose to do mine first today because she just couldn’t wait to get a look at me in my birthday suit,” George said, grinning widely. Harry’s eyebrows rose. He wouldn’t put it past the incorrigible George to strip entirely for his exam. “How did Vivian react to that?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking. Ron slid him a Butterbeer along the island countertop, and Harry caught it without taking his eyes off George. “What do you mean?” George asked, fluttering his eyelashes innocently. “He wants to know if you were really waiting for her starkers,” Ron said, grinning. “She didn’t run screaming from the house, so my bet’s on no.” Harry snorted. “I think it would take a lot more than that to frighten Vivian.” “Harry,” George said, affronted, “are you suggesting seeing all of me isn’t enough to send any witch into an ecstatic swoon?” “Ecstasy would require something impressive to see, mate,” Harry replied easily. George’s response was lost when the fire in the large kitchen fireplace flared green, indicating an incoming Floo call. “That’ll be Mum,” Ron said, walking over to it. The Weasley family matriarch had been making daily calls to check on all of them, and George had rigged one of the Extendable Ears with an extra-long cord reaching up to Ginny’s room along with a second one going in reverse, so that they could at least hear one another. The strain of being unable to properly see and care for her ailing daughter was showing in the brittle tone of Molly’s voice. “Hello, Mum. I’m here with George and Harry. Vivian is still up with Hermione,” Ron said as Mrs. Weasley’s strained face formed in the flames. “How are you all, dears?” she asked. “We all passed our latest checks, Mum. Nothing to worry about us,” George said, knowing exactly what his mother needed to hear. “The medi-witch is up with Ginny, but no change since yesterday.” “Oh, well, that’s good, I suppose. I wish I could just come over a few minutes to see for myself,” Mrs. Weasley said, and although Harry couldn’t see it, he knew she was wringing her hands. He sympathized with her. He was in the same house, and he couldn’t stop himself from sneaking in to check on Ginny. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have to no way to see her at all. “Don’t worry, Mum. We’re all looking after her,” Ron said. “Did you make anything for us today?” Harry knew that although Ron did enjoy the baked goods Mrs. Weasley always sent over, it was also his way of distracting her. They’d all gone round and round on this topic with her several times already. “Of course, I did. I want to make certain you’re all eating enough. Harry, did you have breakfast, dear?” she asked, tossing a basket of what smelled like freshly-baked scones through the flames. They weren’t allowed to use any kind of tool that would go back into The Burrow after dropping off their supplies, so Ron and Mrs. Weasley had developed a game of catch. Ron had once had to eat the biscuits off the floor when he’d missed, sending George and Harry into howls of laughter over his sub-par Keeper skills. “I’ve had breakfast, thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, glaring at George. Obviously, someone had ratted him out for not eating. George smiled innocently, grabbing a scone from the basket and tossing another to Harry. “Here you go, Harry. See, I’m making sure he eats, Mum.” Harry smiled through gritted teeth, ripping off a bite. It tasted like dust, but he forced himself to swallow. “Well, I have some news for you all,” Mrs. Weasley said, sighing deeply. Harry braced himself for more bad news, actually gripping the edge of the island until his fingers grew white. The Weasleys had all been to the match. Had Arthur become ill? Harry felt nauseous at the thought. “What’s that?” Ron asked apprehensively. “Percy and Audrey have had to cancel their wedding plans. The function hall couldn’t accommodate a crowd, and it’s just too unsafe. Besides, with a bridesmaid and a groomsman unable to attend, it just seemed prudent to postpone,” Mrs. Weasley said, pursing her lips. “Of course, had it been here at The Burrow, we could’ve made do.” “Ginny and I still wouldn’t have been able to come, Mum,” George pointed out. “How’s Percy taking it? He doesn’t like it when his plans go astray.” If possible, Mrs. Weasley’s lips pulled together even tighter. “He and Audrey have decided to marry anyway, just the two of them, without any family there at all. They said they’re going to have a party for everyone when this is all over, and Ginny is recovered,” she said. Her expression told them all they needed to know about how she felt about this idea. “Good for them,” Ron said. It was quite brave of him, giving Mrs. Weasley’s expression, Harry thought. “Yes, well, they say it’s because they’d already had the date planned, and there’s no telling how long this will go on,” Mrs. Weasley said. “As I said, Percy doesn’t like when his plans go astray. He probably planned the date of his nuptials to coincide with the anniversary of his cauldron-bottom legislation or something as equally mundane,” George said. Before Mrs. Weasley could scold him, however, Hermione entered the kitchen, looking frazzled. “Hermione!” Ron said, jumping up and ushering her to a stool. “What happened? Did your exam go all right?” “What? Oh, yes, it was fine. Nothing new. I was trying to get Vivian to give me an update on the Mandragora testing, but she was being purposefully vague,” Hermione said, frowning. “The what?” Mrs. Weasley asked. Hermione looked startled, having not realized the Floo was in use. George covered for her. “I have the Extendable Ear here, Mum. D’you want to let Ginny know about the wedding plans?” Hermione looked puzzled, but Ron muttered, “Just wait a minute.” “Ginny, can you hear us?” George asked, speaking into the Extendable Ear he’d placed on the countertop. “Just speak, and they can hear you, too,” the medi-witch’s voice said. She’d had to explain to Ginny how the device worked the previous day, as well. Those in the kitchen exchanged worried glances. “I can hear you,” Ginny said, sounding rather frail. Harry’s heart clenched and it took all his restraint not to run up the stairs immediately. He grasped the countertop again to stop him from doing it. “Ginny! Oh, Ginny, is that you? I’ve been so worried,” Mrs. Weasley said loudly, unable to contain herself any longer. The one difficulty with speaking through the Floo this way was that sometimes Ginny and Mrs. Weasley had trouble hearing one another. “Why are you worried, Mum?” Ginny asked, sounding far more like herself. “I just wish I could see your beautiful face, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, her voice growing rather teary. “How are you feeling?” “Bored,” Ginny answered honestly. They all sniggered, and George raised his Butterbeer in mock salute. “Well, I suppose I could send you some wool and a pair of knitting needles, if you’d like,” Mrs. Weasley offered. “Something to keep you busy.” Harry’s face felt odd because it had been so long since he’d truly smiled. He couldn’t stop it now, though — Ginny hated knitting. “No, that’s all right, Mum. Thanks, anyway,” she said. “Well, I do have some news. I know you’ll be disappointed, but the wedding has been cancelled. It’s just impossible to get that many people together right now, and of course, it wouldn’t be right without all of you there,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Fleur must’ve taken that well,” Ginny said wryly. The kitchen went quiet, all of them exchanging uneasy glances. “Fleur, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked nervously. “Well, she’s talked of nothing but this damn wedding for ages now. She must’ve had a right little tantrum seeing all her carefully made plans going up in smoke. Are she and Bill going to postpone, or just call the whole thing off?” Ginny asked. Harry’s heart sank. She was losing time, confused about where and when she was. She was slipping away from him, and all he could do was sit here and watch it happen. Hermione’s nails dug into Harry’s shoulder. He hadn’t even been aware of her moving to stand behind him. He wanted to say something to her, to reassure her, but his tongue felt stuck and too big for his mouth. He could see Mrs. Weasley covering her own mouth with her hand in the flames, her expression bleak. It was Ron who gathered his wits first, as he blurted, “Bill and Fleur are already married. It’s Percy and Audrey who are cancelling.” “Oh. Right,” Ginny said vaguely. “The Death Eaters crashed that one, now a plague is ruining this one. The Weasleys don’t really have a good track record with big, fancy weddings. You had the right idea with eloping, didn’t you, Mum?” George asked, covering the awkward tension. ‘That’s not funny, George,” Mrs. Weasley snapped. “You all right, Ginny?” Harry asked, unable to stop the words. “Harry! Oh, I’m fine. How are you? I haven’t seen you in such a long time,” Ginny said. “I know. I hope to see you soon,” Harry said, clenching his eyes shut. He’d visited her just a few hours ago. She was getting worse. Harry was alone in the sitting room, his head resting on the back of the sofa, and feeling utterly miserable. The medi-witch was still upstairs, and he couldn’t get Ginny’s wedding slip-up out of his mind. He was losing her, and he was incapable of stopping it. He hated feeling so ruddy powerless. He compared it to the way he’d felt after Dumbledore had told him that his fate was to either kill or be killed. It was all so hopeless, and he simply didn’t know what to do with himself. He groaned, rubbing his hands on his forehead over his scar. “Cheer up, mate,” Ron said, entering the room and pouring two glasses of Firewhisky from the decanter on a side table. “We’re going to need this. Hermione’s making dinner.” Harry didn’t respond, but he took the glass when Ron offered it. “George volunteered to help her, so I thought I’d get out of the way. Game of chess?” he asked, already removing the board from beneath the coffee table. “All right,” Harry said, sitting up straighter and moving his pieces to the board. He didn’t really feel up to it, but it would give him something else to focus upon, and let him avoid talking, which the others all seemed to want to do. He had a good idea that they’d sent Ron up here to keep him company, no matter what Ron said. The fact that his mind wasn’t really into the game, however, became painfully obvious in about three moves when Ron took his king. “Checkmate,” Ron said gloomily. “Come off it, Harry. You weren’t even trying that time. At least put some effort in before you lose.” Harry sighed and began setting up the pieces again. He took a sip of the Firewhisky just to keep his hands moving, avoiding looking at Ron. The clock on the mantlepiece ticked abnormally loudly in the quiet room. “You’re not going to be any good to her if you let yourself get sick, mate,” Ron said, his voice very low, and his eyes on his own glass. “I don’t think letting it happen has anything to do with it,” Harry said, rubbing his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “I don’t mean Spattergroit. You need to take care of yourself. She needs you,” Ron said, his ears very red. He and Ron didn’t usually talk about emotional stuff without Hermione’s prodding, and Harry was so surprised, he looked up and met Ron’s earnest blue eyes. He swallowed. “I hate waiting and not being able to do anything,” he said in a very low voice, leaning over and putting his elbows on his knees, unable to hold Ron’s gaze. Ron leaned down as well, so they remained on eye level, and Harry looked at him through his fringe. “This is what Ginny feels every time it’s you in a hospital bed, mate. It’s what we all feel. The uncertainly is what gets you. You’re just on the other side of it this time.” If Ron thought he was helping, he was sorely mistaken. His words only made Harry feel worse. He grabbed at his hair, pulling it in bunches. “I don’t know what to do with myself,” he moaned, turmoil tearing at his insides like tiny shards of glass. “I can’t even think straight.” “I know, mate, believe me, I know. When we were in Malfoy Manor, and that Lestrange bint was torturing Hermione, I was out of mind, remember? I couldn’t think of what to do but climb the walls to get to her,” Ron said gruffly, his ears growing red. Harry’s eyes widened. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Ron talk about that dreadful time they’d spent listening to Hermione’s pained screams. All three of them tended to avoid discussing any of it if they could help it. “You were the one who kept your head then, because I couldn’t, remember? It’s the reverse now, so let me help you get through it,” Ron said. Harry shut his eyes tightly. “It’s not the same. There was something to do then, someone to fight. I don’t know how to fight this, and it’s driving me mad.” “Of course, you don’t know how to fight it; none of us do. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be there for her, and be there once she starts to recover,” Ron said. “She’s going to need you, so you have to hold it together now.” The vice-like grip on his insides tightened, and he felt as if part of his guts were leaking out. “What if she doesn’t?” he whispered the thought that been gnawing at him for days “What if she…” he trailed off, unable to say it, but Ron knew where his mind had gone. “She’s not going to die, and you bloody well know it. She’d kick your arse for thinking it. She’s a fighter, our Ginny,” he said vehemently. Harry couldn’t just accept that though, accept that it wouldn’t happen just because he couldn’t bear it. When had that ever worked for him before? “But, what if—” “Knock it off,” Ron interrupted forcefully. “You might be able to out-duel me, but I can still kick your scrawny arse in a good old fist fight, Potter.” “Go ahead,” Harry said listlessly, beyond caring. Ron sighed. “Harry, this is what I’m talking about. You need to snap out of it. Brooding isn’t going to help her.” “What is it you want me to do, then?” he snarled. “Pretend it isn’t happening? Go on as if my whole… as if… as if…” But he couldn’t go on. The words were stuck in his throat and his eyes were burning. He pushed off the sofa and helplessly turned away from Ron, refusing to look at him. It was all falling apart. In was achingly quiet for a few moments, and he thought Ron might’ve left, either in disgust with Harry’s attitude or discomfort at his display of emotion. He breathed deeply, trying to master himself, when he felt Ron’s timid hand on back. “It’s all right to be afraid for her, mate. I know what she means to you. I know the difference she’s made. You need to hold onto the good thoughts, and not let the bad ones rip you apart,” Ron said thickly. Harry pulled away and began pacing. A rage from somewhere deep inside him, a rage that been building for years, reared up and exploded out of him. “I’m so sick of this!” he shouted. Ron didn’t even flinch. “Sick of what?” he asked quietly. “I’m goddamn sick of fate, or chance, or whatever it is that keeps messing with Ginny’s life. She just happens to be the one Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort targeted. She has to be one of the people on the wrong end in catching this thing. She has to be the one to end up with me, and all the shite that goes along with it. She deserves more,” he said, his voice cracking. He left the words unspoken that it was his life, too. Enough was enough. He’d had enough, but Ron seemed to know what he was thinking, anyway. “You both do,” he said quietly. “What’s all the shouting?” Hermione asked, rushing into the room still wearing an apron. She looked alarmed, and her gaze went back and forth between them. “Nothing. I just beat Harry at chess again,” Ron lied smoothly. “Is dinner ready?” “Oh, yes, it is. It’s just spaghetti, but George made meatballs. Why don’t you wash up and come down to the kitchen?” Hermione said, still watching them warily. Once she left, Harry downed the rest of his Firewhisky. It burned going down, but did little to warm his frozen insides. “Thanks, mate,” he said gratefully. He didn’t mean for just sidestepping Hermione, but he didn’t have the words to express how much Ron’s friendship meant to him. Apparently, Ron didn’t need to hear it. “Don’t worry about it — but I get any extra meatballs,” he said, clapping him on the back. Once they’d reached the kitchen, they used the large sink to wash up. George stood in front of the oven wearing an apron that matched Hermione’s, and an enormous chef hat that kept slipping over his left eye since he didn’t have an ear on that side to hold it up. Hermione placed dinner on the table, and the rising steam from the pasta fogged Harry’s glasses. They all set about serving themselves, each apparently lost in their own thoughts. Hermione did her best to make conversation with little luck. Finally, she asked, “How is Angelina doing, George?” George shrugged half-heartedly. “She’s all right. We haven’t spoken yet today, but she usually checks in during the evening after you lot have all gone to bed.” “Sounds kinky,” Ron said, smirking. George grinned, looking pleased, but before he could respond Hermione snapped, “Grow up, Ron. I’m sure she’s worried sick about you, George. What does she say is the mood amongst people on the outside?” Harry couldn’t help but think it sounded as if they were all in prison. “She says half the people are scared out of their minds, and the other half think it’s all a hoax to divert our attention because You-Know-Who is back,” George said, rolling his eyes. “Barking mad.” Harry grimaced, ashamed of the small part inside him that wished the latter was true. At least that was someone he could fight. “Do the papers know about Ginny?” he asked instead. George shook his head. “They know there are four Harpies’ players and three Magpies who have it, but not which ones. There are also a handful of players from other teams who also attended the match. Ginny’s name has come up, but no one knows for certain that she is, indeed, unwell. Most of the false news is still about you, mate, and whether you’re still alive.” Harry rolled his eyes. “If I were truly dead even half of the amount of times they’ve reported I was—” “You have been dead more times than is normal, mate,” George interrupted. Ron snorted. “Yeah, you’d think they’d get tired of that story. Write something new. Be original and all that. Maybe have him grow a second head without a scar.” Harry gave them both a two-fingered salute. “Oh, I could make a mint with a Harry doll with stick-on scars. Place ‘em anywhere, folks,” George said, laughing. “That’s awful,” Hermione said, shaking her head but grinning. “You know what’s weird though,” Ron said uneasily, looking around at them all. His tone put Harry on guard. “What’s that?” Hermione asked. “It’s a little under half of Ginny’s team who has it. That includes all the coaches and managers and other personnel, not just players who everyone is talking about. They were all at the match, so they were all exposed, and nearly half caught it.” “Yeah, so?” George said, but Hermione grasped Ron’s arm, shutting her eyes tightly. “So… if those are the odds… it should mean at least one more of us is likely to become ill before this over,” Ron said, his freckles standing out starkly on his very pale face. Harry gasped. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin because Ginny was ill. He wasn’t certain he could handle another of the most important people in his life also at risk. He’d rather it be him than any of them. When had fate ever cooperated with him, though? “That’s not necessarily true, Ron,” Hermione said, and they all turned troubled eyes toward her. “There are loads of factors that go into it — the length of exposure, the amount of contact, variability. Not all the teams have the same number of confirmed, either. There are fewer Magpie players, but more of their coaches have it than the Harpies.” “So, our house could be spared while another one has more than half become ill, you mean?” George asked. “Exactly,” Hermione said. “Or… it could mean that another home doesn’t have any, and more than two of us become ill,’ Ron said. There were a lot more leftovers than usual after the meal that evening. It took the medi-witch ages to leave that night, so Harry had to wait until it was already very dark outside his bedroom window to slip into Ginny’s room. The others had all turned in early. After Ginny’s confusion earlier that day, and the medi-witch reporting that she’d had a rough day of it, Harry was more than anxious to see her. He held his breath slightly inside his protective charm as he tip-toed across the room to her bed. She was curled on her side, and her eyes were closed. His heart sank. He really needed to talk to her, but he didn’t want to wake her. He supposed it would keep until morning; she looked peaceful. He gingerly sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb her. Her hair fell over her face, partially hiding her from his view, and his fingers itched to pull it back, but he remained still. He wasn’t certain how long he sat there, contemplating all that had happened that day, but it hadn’t felt all that long before she twitched, moaning slightly in her sleep. “No,” she whispered, pulling the blanket closer. He wondered what she was dreaming about. His most recent nightmares all revolved around Vivian telling them Ginny’s diagnostic scan was positive. He wondered if she was dreaming about the same thing. “No, I won’t do it,” she said, jerking her head and pushing the covers further away this time. Harry didn’t like seeing her distressed. He rested his hand on her shoulder, shaking it gently. “It’s all right, Ginny. It’s just a dream,” he said. “You’re all right.” In one swift move, Ginny sat bolt upright as if on a spring, staring at him wildly. He tried to smile, but she cowered away from him, pulling back and shoving his hand away from her. “Get away from me,” she hissed angrily. “Ginny?” he asked, confused. The fierceness in her eyes threw him off-kilter. “You were having a nightmare. It’s all right now.” “You’re the nightmare, and you’ll never control me again. I beat you, Tom Riddle,” she snarled, looking at him with such hatred and revulsion that he stood up and backed away from her, knocking into the bedside table and making the various potion phials and medical supplies that littered the top rattle noisily. “Ginny, it me. It’s Harry,” he said, attempting to keep his voice calm. “I know who you are. I know what you are. Get out,” she said through clenched teeth, her voice rising in pitch. Her sleep-tousled hair stood on end like an angry cat, and Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started using wandless magic. He didn’t know what he should do. His presence was obviously upsetting her, but he didn’t want to leave her alone in the throes of this horrible hallucination. “Ginny,” he pleaded, one final attempt to rouse her from her torment. He stretched his hand toward her placatingly. “Get out!” she screeched, her eyes wild and unfocused. She picked up one of the empty phials and hurled it at him. It shattered against the wall above his head. “Get away from me! Get oouuuuut!” Harry flung open the door, and her voice echoed down the silent and empty stairway. Dodging yet another potion phial, he stumbled onto the landing, heart in his throat and fear clutching at his insides like the Inferi had on a black lake many moons ago. |
| Reviews 210 |
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