About Harry

Hermione

I keep my shield on as a precaution for half an hour. When nothing happens and I don't hear any sound, I take it down and tip toe to the living room to peer inside.

He is on the sofa, sleeping. In his hand there is an empty vial. It doesn't take me long to make two plus two. All those empty vials are nothing less than sleeping potions.

I've never trained as a healer, but I don't think it can be that good to take that many, and God only knows how many he already got. Together with alcohol and drugs. He is basically poisoning himself.

I need to find where he keeps them and make them disappear. I tremble at the thought of when he will find out, but it must be done.

I got here just in time. I ought to stop this madness before it's too late.

After Voldemort's bringing down, I was afraid something of the kind may happen, I was prepared to intervene in such a case. However, as years stretched on in a seeming quietness, I grew amazed at his capability to lead a normal life. An exceptionally strong mind. But there is a limit to everything.

And he started to be dangerously close to it when Lily died. Everybody noticed he wasn't the same afterward. I guess his mind started to waver then. Slowly he recovered and, I believe, only thanks to Ginny's support. But now he hasn't got anybody to support him.

Well, I'll do my best to be that support and what more, I'll do it without lulling myself with romantic fantasies. I'll do it as a friend, or I won't do it at all.

My mind is occupied by determination mingled by gloom reflecting on the situation, as I sat beside him taking the vial from his hand. He looks so innocent while sleeping, so different from the person who tried to attack me less than one hour ago.

I caress his unshaved face and I sigh. The poor man. He seems doomed for infelicity.

Well, I've got a lot to do here before he awakes.

_____________

The house is now clean. It took me two whole hours. I'm exhausted but I still must find where he keeps the potions.

I start to fumble in all the drawers and cupboards. I hesitate when in one of them I find crammed in several framed pictures. Family pictures. I realise now the walls are bare.

He hid them here and, judging by the state of the frames, it hasn't been a quiet affair. I almost cut myself with some loose glass.

Sadness pervades me. They look so happy in these pictures. Life has been very unfair with Harry; it's reserving him only challenges and hardships with very brief spaces of serenity that only have the power to exasperate the sorrow now.

I close the drawer and I keep looking for the potions, but only half-heartedly, I've to be honest. The only break he gets is in sleep.

I found them finally. They were in the kitchen, under the sink. There must be at least twenty of them, plus the ones he already drank. How in the name of heaven he managed to get hold of so many, I have no idea. St. Mungo's surely doesn't give them so easily and absolutely not in these large quantities. I refuse to believe Ted is procuring them. He must have found another way.

I make them disappear but for two or three I hide somewhere else in case of emergency.

I go upstairs to prepare for the night. I linger in front of his room where the bed is made. When I got there to clean there was an unbelievable mess. Wardrobe, drawers, all were open, the content scattered on the floor.