Hermione bit back her tears. She still had a job to do. She turned around, lit her wand and ran. She jumped over the troll's legs in one big leap and ran on. She didn't stop until she reached the chess chamber. The pieces had arranged themselves in the starting position again. Cautiously she squeezed through between the white pieces. She felt very alone, with the black pieces before and the white pieces behind her. Ron was still lying motionlessly at the side of the board. She hurried over and knelt down next to him. She could see that he was breathing. A big welt was on the side of his head and a little blood had seeped into his hair.
She put a hand on his cheek, and softly called, “Ron.”
He didn't move.
“Ron, wake up!”
She shook him lightly. He didn't move. He looked fast asleep, not even pale. Like a normal sleeping child, completely at peace with the world. But the world wasn't at peace with them at the moment, they had to hurry.
“Ron!” she called louder. She held his head steady with one hand, but placed the other on his shoulder and shook hard. She didn't want to move his head too much; he probably had a concussion.
Ron didn't react to the shaking either. Hermione tried to remember the first aid instructions she had read ages ago, in a different world. She took Ron's hand and pinched it hard. Ron didn't wake up.
She started to get desperate. Every second delay was one more second Snape had to kill Harry, and in a magical duel, a single second could suffice. She pulled out her wand and pointed it at Ron, but she couldn't think of any spell that might be useful. She had read of many medical spells like Ennervate, which was used to wake unconscious people, but they were far too advanced and dangerous for her. She settled on a spell that produced a cool stream of air and pointed her wand at Ron's face. With her free hand she kept shaking him, occasionally calling his name. Ron still didn't move. Hermione wished she could conjure or at least channel water, that might have helped.
Water. There was water in the tunnels. She could collect some there. Frantically she searched her robes for something Transfigurable and found a quill. Not much, but it would suffice. She stood up and ran towards the white pieces. Suddenly the pawns moved. They lowered their lances and pointed them at her. She stopped just in time to avoid being stabbed.
She turned around to face the black pieces, and a horrible thought struck her. What if the black pieces wouldn't let her back to Ron if she went past them? She couldn't risk that.
She went back to Ron and started to drag him across the chessboard, wishing that the simple Levitation spell they had learned worked on living things. Ron was heavy. She finally managed to drag him past the black pieces and laid him down in the doorway. Then she went ahead. There was indeed a tiny stream of water running along at one edge of the passage. She transfigured the quill into a phial and bent down to collect some of the water. Then she returned to Ron and poured it over his forehead.
Ron still didn't move. Now Hermione was getting angry.
“Wake up, Ron!” she cried, shaking his shoulder hard. “If you don't wake up soon, Harry may die! Are you listening? Harry will die if you don't wake up!”
She took his hand and pinched it again.
“Ouch!” Ron cried, sitting up suddenly.
“Ow,” he said, grabbing his head.
“Finally,” Hermione said.
“Hermione? What happened? Where's Harry?”
“Harry's facing Snape alone. We must get out of here and send an owl to Dumbledore. Can you stand?”
“Alone?” Ron cried, staring at her wide-eyed and forgetting about his sore head. “Why aren't you with him?”
“I'll tell you later, we have no time to lose. Can you stand?”
“I think so. Help me up.”
She pulled him to his feet. He stood very wobbly, leaning heavily on her, but he stood.
“All right,” she said. “Let's go to the key room, we'll need the brooms to get out.”
Ron nodded and winced at the movement, putting his hand to his head again.
“Bloody thing,” he muttered. “How stupid could I be, letting it just hit me?”
“You were amazing, Ron,” Hermione said quietly. “Come on, I'll help you.”
Together they walked down the passage to the key chamber. There they came upon the next problem. Hermione doubted that Ron would be able to ride a broom in his state.
“Don't worry,” he said, reading her thoughts. “If I can walk I can ride a broom too.”
He stepped away from her, took a broom and swung his leg over it. Then he pushed away from the ground and rose a foot in the air.
“See,” he said. “No problem.”
He didn't look at her, though, and Hermione noticed that he was gripping the handle very hard.
“What are you waiting for?”
She shook her head and took a broom for herself.
“You're so thick-headed, it's a wonder the queen didn't break her arm hitting you,” she told him.
They flew up the tunnel to the Devil's Snare's chamber. Hermione looked if she could find the flute she had dropped earlier, but she couldn't see it. They would have to fly past Fluffy.
Before she could say a word, Ron flew straight into the vertical tunnel that led up to the trapdoor. He gained height rapidly. Hermione flew after him, hoping that she could catch him should he fall. But he didn't. He flew faster and faster, finally clearing the trapdoor and rising past a very surprised Fluffy. He came to a halt inches below the ceiling, looking down at the dog which was barking madly and jumping in the air to reach him. Ron was hovering too high, though.
The dog was so focused on Ron that Hermione was able to fly by completely unnoticed. She grabbed the harp that Snape had left and landed at the door. The moment she began to play the dog stopped jumping at Ron; a few seconds later it had once again fallen asleep. Ron swooped down and landed next to her.
“Right,” he said, “where now?”
“The owlery. Which way is the fastest?”
“Entrance Hall and Whining Staircase,” Ron said immediately. “Let's go.”
They hurried down to the Entrance Hall. Filch called after them once, but they ignored him, and he couldn't catch up. They reached the Entrance Hall just when the front door swung open. In came none other than Albus Dumbledore himself. Before either of them could say anything, he asked, “Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?”
They nodded, dumbfounded, and Dumbledore ran off with surprising speed. They stared after him.
“How'd he know?” Ron asked finally.
“No idea,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “Well, that much about the owl. Let's go back to Gryffindor and free Neville.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ron said. “And we'll probably have some explaining to do.”
Hermione grimaced at the thought.
“And even more if Filch catches us now,” she said.
“He won't,” said Ron. Hermione looked at him. “I picked this up in the corridor,” Ron explained, holding up Harry's Invisibility Cloak. “Come here.”
She stepped closer to him and he covered them in the Cloak. Together they walked up to the Gryffindor tower.
Neville was still lying on the floor. His eyes were red; he seemed to have spent a lot of time crying, but he was sleeping now. Hermione went over to him and performed the counter-spell. His stiff body relaxed and his arms slumped to the floor, which woke him up. The moment he caught sight of them he scrambled up and ran towards the boys' dormitories, but Ron had blocked his path. Hermione moved to block the portrait hole too. Neville stared from one to the other like a trapped animal.
“Sorry, Neville,” said Ron, “but you'll have to allow us to explain.”
Neville's shoulders slumped and he dropped into a chair. They sat down opposite him.
“Where's Harry?” Neville asked.
“We hope he's well,” Hermione said. “He had to go on alone. Dumbledore has gone after him.”
“So he'll be expelled?”
“No! That is, we hope not. We tried to prevent Snape from stealing – something important. So nothing should happen.”
“Snape – stealing something? A teacher?”
“You know what Snape is like,” Ron said. Neville nodded.
“Anyway,” Hermione continued, “you know the dog we found that night? It's guarding this something, along with quite a few other traps, and Snape found out how to get past them. The teachers didn't believe us, so we went and tried to get it ourself.”
“A very stupid thing to do,” came a voice from the portrait hole. They leapt up.
“Professor McGonagall,” said Hermione, “I can explain -”
“That won't be necessary Miss Granger.” Professor McGonagall looked rather angry, but also decidedly uncomfortable. “I guess I have to apologize,” she said. “I shouldn't have ignored you today. Apparently the protection on the Stone not even failed to keep Quirrell out, even three first-years managed to break through.” She sighed. “What do you have to do with this all, Mr Longbottom?”
“He tried to prevent us going out at night again, Professor,” Hermione said. “I had to curse him, so the least we could do was to give him an explanation.” She hung her head.
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, “we shall see about that. For now I'd like to hear how you knew about all of this.”
“Wait a moment, Professor, you said Quirrell,” said Ron. “Why him, we thought Snape -”
“Quirrell was the one who tried to get the Stone. He's dead now. That is all I know.”
“How's Harry?” Hermione asked.
“He's in the hospital wing. He's unconscious and will probably remain so for a while. Now, I'd like to hear your story.”
And so they told her about how they found out about the Stone, though they tried to keep all blame off Hagrid. When they were finished, Professor McGonagall stood up.
“Thank you,” she said. “I know now that I shouldn't ever underestimate you three again. Now, I suggest you all go to bed. You still have classes tomorrow. You can visit Mr Potter afterwards if he's awake.” She paused. “The headmaster has asked me to leave all consequences of tonight to him. I will tell him about the curse; I'm sure his reaction will be appropriate.”
She left through the portrait hole.
Ron yawned.
“You know,” he said, “for once I have absolutely no objection to doing what a teacher told me. Good night, Hermione.”
“Good night, Ron. Good night, Neville.”
“Good night, Hermione.”
“Er, Neville?”
“Yeah?”
Hermione looked at her feet, not quite knowing what to say. Neville guessed it.
“I forgive you, Hermione,” he said.
She smiled.
“Thank you.”
Defence Against the Dark Arts classes were cancelled because the teacher was dead. Harry Potter was in the hospital wing, probably an inch from death. The third-floor corridor was accessible again. Those were the whispers that went around Hogwarts the next days. Rumours connecting the events sprang up everywhere. Harry Potter had fought Quirrell, who had wanted to become the next dark lord, in an epic duel, using some power he had, unknown to them, which he had used as a baby once before. Harry Potter had controlled some monster to fight the battle for him, a vicious, three-headed, fire-breathing dragon that obeyed no one but him, and if anyone got on his wrong side they might find themselves attacked. No, Harry Potter had attacked Quirrell because Quirrell wanted to fail him in Defence; the Defence teacher had managed to kill the monster but had then died from his wounds and Harry Potter would be carried off to Azkaban Prison once he had recovered.
Hermione could only shake her head at some of the rumours she heard. She found herself beleaguered by Parvati and Lavender for information. The problem was that Harry was still unconscious and Hermione didn't have any more clues as to what had gone on in the final chamber than the others. Ron and Hermione knew more about Harry's health though. They spent Saturday afternoon and Sunday sitting next to his bed. Saturday morning was the last Quidditch match against Ravenclaw, but without Harry Gryffindor lost terribly. At the foot of Harry's bed stood a table piled with sweets; Ron and Hermione themselves had put some there, but many other students were so impressed by what they heard that they sent gifts too. Fred and George had tried to send him a toilet seat, some insider joke Hermione didn't understand, but Madam Pomfrey had intercepted it. Ron was already helping Harry to get through the immense box of Chocolate Frogs, saying that Harry wouldn't be able to eat them all anyway. Ron seemed quite capable of eating them all though. Madam Pomfrey had healed his head wound in mere minutes the first morning after their adventure, he hadn't even had to stay in the hospital wing.
The problem was that it was two days since that night now and Harry still hadn't woken up. Madam Pomfrey assured them that he was recovering, but he was so pale, so terribly still.
In the afternoon of the third day, Madam Pomfrey stopped them outside the wing.
“Mr Potter is awake,” she said, “but he's very weak. I don't think he should have any visitors right now.”
“Oh, please, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione said. “I'm sure he would want to see us.”
“I'll ask him,” she said and went inside. A minute later she opened the door and let them in.
“Just five minutes,” she told them.
“Harry!” Hermione called as she saw him. She wanted to hug him again, but she doubted Madam Pomfrey would like that, so she reigned herself in. “Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to – Dumbledore was so worried -”
“The whole school's talking about it,” Ron broke in. “What really happened?”
“Settle down, it's a long story,” Harry told them. They sat down and Ron took a small box of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans. He eyed them suspiciously.
“Go ahead,” Harry laughed. “Dumbledore already picked out the earwax-flavoured one.”
“Earwax?” Ron said, horrified, and quickly put the box back on the table, instead opting for some Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.
“I suppose Ron already knows what happened up to the point we got separated?” Harry asked Hermione. She nodded.
“Well, I went through the black fire, but I didn't find Snape or Voldemort there.”
“Quirrell,” said Ron. “His classes are cancelled. Not that they were much use...”
“Yeah, well, I was quite surprised. He saw me coming and was facing me, and I said, 'You!', and he just said, 'Me,' and that he was wondering whether he'd be meeting me down there. He wasn't stuttering at all. It's just an act he was playing all through the year. He even was the one who tried to kill me at the first Quidditch match.”
“But – but it stopped when I set fire to Snape, didn't it?” Hermione asked.
“No. Quirrell said you knocked him over when you ran to Snape, so he lost eye contact. Snape” – he grimaced – “was trying to save me. What he was muttering was a counter-jinx. That's why he wanted to referee the next match, so he could watch me. Of course, with Dumbledore there it was useless.
“Then Quirrell snapped his fingers and conjured ropes to bind be. He told me that I was to nosy to live. He also told me that he had let the troll in at Hallowe'en. Didn't like that we defeated it.” He chuckled and said with a sidewards glance at Hermione, “You could even say he did us a favour.” They all laughed.
“So,” Harry went on, “Snape suspected Quirrell and went to the corridor that night to head him off, so he couldn't do anything.
“Then Quirrell told me to be quiet. Dumbledore had hidden the Stone inside the Mirror of Erised, which stood down there. But Quirrell didn't know how and he went around and around, looking at the Mirror. I wanted to break his concentration, so I kept asking questions. What happened in the Forest when I saw him and Snape there. He said Snape was trying to threaten him to leave the Stone alone. But Snape really hates me, he was at Hogwarts with my father. They hated each other back then, and I think Snape carried it over to me.”
“That's stupid of him,” Hermione said angrily.
“Yeah, well, who ever said that Snape was fair?” said Harry.
“Quirrell saw himself giving Voldemort the Stone in the Mirror. But he couldn't get it, Dumbledore's plan was too brilliant for that. But I'll get to that later. Quirrell told me how he met Voldemort. He's completely mad. 'There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.' And he thought he deserved to be punished because he was so weak. He tried to steal the Stone from Gringotts, of course. I even saw him that day, when I first came into the Leaky Cauldron. Quirrell failed, of course, because Hagrid had taken the Stone away. Voldemort had to keep a closer watch on Quirrell. I didn't understand what that meant, at first.
“Then I realised that if I looked into the Mirror I would see me finding the Stone, so I would know where it is hidden. But I couldn't get to the Mirror. And then the oddest thing happened. Quirrell asked Voldemort to help him. And Voldemort answered. A voice came from somewhere, telling Quirrell to use me.”
Hermione gasped.
“Quirrell unbound me and told me to look into the Mirror. I saw myself pulling the Stone out of my pocket and putting it back there, and suddenly I had it, there in my pocket. That was Dumbledore's idea. Only someone who wanted to find the Stone without using it would be able to get it.
“I told Quirrell I saw Dumbledore giving me the House Cup and shaking my hand. Quirrell believed me, but Voldemort didn't. He demanded to speak to me, face to face. And then Quirrell took off his turban.”
He made a long pause. Ron and Hermione held their breath.
“Voldemort's face was in the back of Quirrell's head, sticking out like a parasite,” said Harry.
Ron gasped. Hermione shrieked.
“You saw him?” she asked.
“He looks terrible. I can't describe it properly. The face was completely white and the eyes were red, and it had no nose, just slits. But...” He wrung his hands, searching for words, but didn't find any.
“Suffice to say,” he said, “I was too scared to move. And then he talked to me.
“Told me unicorn blood kept him alive, but I already knew that. It was Quirrell I saw in the Forest. But the worst thing was that Voldemort somehow knew I had the Stone in my pocket. Told me to give it to him unless I wanted to die. As if he wouldn't kill me anyway. He told me lies, lies about my parents. That they died begging for mercy. My parents didn't do that,” he said forcefully.
“I called him a liar, and he admitted it. Told me the truth. That my father fought him. That my mother died trying to protect me. He said she needn't have died.” Tears were in his eyes now. “Then he told Quirrell to take me. Quirrell grabbed my wrist, and my scar hurt terribly. But somehow Quirrell couldn't touch me, his hands went all red and burnt. Voldemort told him to kill me, and I grabbed Quirrell's face and he cried in pain and rolled off me and I lunged after him and grabbed his arm. My scar was hurting terribly, but Quirrell couldn't do anything either. And then I fell unconscious. The last thing I felt was Dumbledore pulling Quirrell off me.
“I woke up this morning, with Dumbledore sitting by my bed. He told me that Quirrell had died after Voldemort had left his body. He told me other things, too. He told me he talked with Nicolas Flamel and they agreed to destroy the Stone. He told me why Quirrell couldn't touch me. It was because of mum. She died to save me, and thus somehow protected me. I still have it in my skin, preventing Voldemort or anybody possessed by him from touching me. It's her love.” Harry said the last sentence very quietly.
“It was Dumbledore who sent me the Invisibility Cloak. My father left it in his care.
“That's all, really. Oh, and Dumbledore is very unlucky with the Beans. Got a vomit-flavoured one in his youth and now the earwax. He doesn't like them.” He grinned.
They sat in silence. Ron broke it first.
“So the Stone's gone? Flamel's just going to die?”
“That's what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that – what was it? - 'to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure'.”
“I always said he was off his rocker,” said Ron, but he looked very impressed nonetheless.
“So what happened to you two?” said Harry.
Hermione gave him a very brief account of events after she went back, up to the point where they had met Dumbledore.
“D'you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron. “Sending you your father's Cloak and everything?”
“Well,” Hermione said angrily, “if he did – I mean to say – that's terrible – you could have been killed.”
Harry didn't look angry at all. He was staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.
“No, it isn't,” he said. “He's a funny man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I don't think it was an accident he let me find out how the Mirror worked. It's almost like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could...”
“Yeah, Dumbledore's barking, all right,” Ron interrupted him. “Listen, you've got to be up for the end-of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in and Slytherin won, of course – you missed the last Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by Ravenclaw without you – but the food'll be good.”
“You've had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT,” said Madam Pomfrey in that moment.
Ron and Hermione walked to the feast together the next evening. Harry would come directly from the hospital wing. As usual, heads turned when they walked by. Their involvement was one of the few constants in the rumours.
The Great Hall was decorated in green and silver, the Slytherin colours. A huge Slytherin serpent banner on the wall behind the staff table left no doubt about the House Cup winner. Looks followed them to their places, some dark and resentful, some just curious. They sat down at the Gryffindor table, leaving space between them for Harry. He appeared a few minutes later; his entrance was impossible to ignore. The hall fell silent the moment he stepped over the threshold as everyone turned to look at him. A second later everyone started talking loudly. A few cheers and thank-yous came from the Slytherin table. Harry didn't even turn his head as he walked towards Ron and Hermione and slid in the seat they had saved for him. People were actually standing up now to see him. Luckily Dumbledore arrived soon; his entrance shut the hall up.
“Another year gone!” Dumbledore launched in his speech. “And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were ... you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts ...
“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding and the points stand thus: in fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw have four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two..”
The Slytherin table broke into cheers, clapping and stamping. Harry looked like he might throw up. So did Ron. But the headmaster wasn't finished and raised his hands for silence.
“Yes, yes,” he continued, “well done, Slytherin. However, recent events must be taken into account.”
A hush fell. Does he mean...?, Hermione thought frantically. Dumbledore cleared his throat.
“Ahem. I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes...
“First – to Mr Ronald Weasley...”
Heads turned towards the red-head, who had become a red-face too.
“... for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.”
Deafening cheers broke out at the Gryffindor table. In one leap, they'd overtaken Hufflepuff. Percy was telling everyone who couldn't escape how it was his brother who had gotten past Professor McGonagall's chess set.
In time, the hall settled down.
“Second –“ Hermione held her breath, not quite believing this was true, but hoping she knew what was to come, “– to Miss Hermione Granger ... for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.”
Four hundred and twelve points. Heads swivelled in her direction. Her ears faintly registered immense cheering that made the dishes rattle, but she didn't acknowledge it. Fifty points up. Hermione felt tears welling up in her eyes and buried her face in her arms. It was like a dream; only, if it had been a dream, the shouting would have woken her.
“Third –“ Dumbledore called over the noise once that was possible, “– to Mr Harry Potter...”
The name had the effect of instantly quieting everyone.
“... for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house sixty points.”
Hermione jumped up with everyone else, yelling and shouting. Four hundred and seventy-two points!
“We've drawn even! We've drawn even!” she yelled, laughing at the stunned faces of the Slytherins.
The headmaster raised one hand and eventually the noise died down, to be replaced by expectant looks and whispers. What would happen now that there was a draw?
“There are all kinds of courage,” he said, smiling gently. Everyone held their breaths. The hall had gone absolutely silent. And into the silence, Dumbledore continued, “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points...” – the moment seemed to stretch out into eternity – “... to Mr Neville Longbottom.”
The eruption of noise probably woke the owls in the distant owlery. Not only the Gryffindors cheered, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, who had yearned to see Slytherin lose, joined in the shouting and stamping. Neville looked much like when Hermione's curse had hit him, before he was buried under a crowd of people hugging him. It didn't matter that he had lost fifty points that night. It didn't matter that he had lost another thirty or so in Snape's classes. He had won these ten points, the only points he'd ever won, and they had propelled Gryffindor in the lead. Neville was the hero of the evening.
“Which means,” Dumbledore's voice boomed over the noise, “we need a little change of decoration.”
A moment later the green banners turned scarlet, the silver turned gold and the serpent became a huge lion. And under the lion's watchful eyes they feasted and laughed and had the time of their lives. There was simply nothing that could compare to Hogwarts.
The last school day was upon them. They received their exam results without much ceremony. Hermione was very pleased to know that she got the best marks of the year, by a fair margin even. The boys had received very good marks too, to their surprise. She wasn't surprised; they had worked very hard in the last weeks preceding the exams and it had paid off.
Everyone else had passed, too, even Malfoy's stupid thugs, which came as a surprise.
They made the trip to the station in the boats, not the carriages like at Christmas. Everyone had been handed the same notes not to use magic though. The scarlet train was already waiting to carry them southward, home. The journey seemed very short, and before too long they were pulling into Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station. They had to wait to get through the barrier, for a guard was letting them through only by twos and threes, lest they got too much attention from the Muggles on the other side.
“You must come and stay this summer,” said Ron while they were standing there, “both of you – I'll send you an owl.”
“Thanks,” said Harry. “I'll need something to look forward to.”
People called greetings to Harry as they left the platform.
“Still famous,” said Ron grinning.
“Not where I'm going, I promise you.”
They had reached the barrier and walked through.
“There he is, Mum, there he is, look!” a young red-headed girl screamed, pointing excitedly at Harry. It had to be Ginny, Ron's sister.
“Harry Potter! Look, mum! I can see -”
“Be quiet, Ginny, and it's rude to point.”
Mrs Weasley was a short, round witch with a very friendly face and hair as red as her children's. She smiled at the three of them.
“Busy year?”
“Very,” said Harry. “Thanks for the fudge and the jumper, Mrs Weasley.” Mrs Weasley had sent Harry Christmas presents.
“Oh, it was nothing, dear.”
“Ready, are you?” came a grumpy voice. It belonged to a fat man with practically no neck, looking furiously at Harry. So this is Vernon Dursley, Hermione thought. Behind him stood his wife, Petunia and their son, Dudley. What Mr Dursley lacked in neck, his wife made up for him. She was generally gangly, her lips seemingly permanently pursed in distaste. As for Harry's cousin, he was simply the fattest kid Hermione had ever seen. Both looked terrified of the lot of them.
“You must be Harry's family!” said Mrs Weasley.
“In a manner of speaking,” Mr Dursley said gruffly. “Hurry up, boy, we haven't got all day.” Without any more words, he turned around and walked away. Hermione was stunned. Harry had told them at length about his terrible relatives, but she hadn't quite believed him – until now.
“See you over the summer, then,” Harry said.
“Hope you have – er – a good holiday,” she answered, still looking after Harry's uncle. To her amazement, Harry broke into a grin.
“Oh, I will,” he said. “They don't know we're not allowed to use magic at home. I'm going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer...”
He hurried after them, throwing them a last grin before he disappeared in the crowd.
Hermione turned to Ron.
“See you, then,” she told him, smiling.
“Wait a moment, you don't even know my family yet,” said Ron. “Mum, Ginny, this is Hermione. Hermione, this is my mother and this is Ginny.”
“Hermione, is it?” Mrs Weasley asked. “Very beautiful name. Ron told us you're quite the brightest witch at school.”
“Did he?” asked Hermione, flushing. “He certainly never told me so.”
Mrs Weasley laughed.
“I would be surprised if he had. Well, have a good summer, dear.”
“You too, Mrs Weasley, Ginny. Bye then, Ron.”
“See you,” Ron said.
She pushed her trolley into the crowd, knowing that her parents would wait outside the station. A last look back showed her that Fred, George and Percy had joined the Weasley family and were embraced by their mother. She turned away from the picture of red-haired happiness. She found her parents waiting for her and rushed to greet them. But as she sat in the car, on her way home, she was already missing Ron and Harry.
The End