"It wasn't your fault." Harry's voice interrupted him. His eyes remained on Hermione's face; he did not look at Ron. "It was mine. I trusted that diary too easily. I believed what it said. Hagrid kept Acromantulas—Hagrid was the culprit—it was all lies. It made me think I was searching for the truth, but really, it was leading me in the opposite direction."
Ron looked at him, his eyes still red-rimmed. "Where's the diary?"
"Headmaster Dumbledore dealt with it. It won't appear again." Harry's voice was flat. He did not mention Horcruxes, Voldemort, or the thing in the diary that had screamed as black flames burned it to ash.
There was no point in telling him. Ron didn't need to know any of that. Neither did Hermione.
She lay here now. Even though she could not move or show any expression, Harry knew she could hear him, so saying nothing was best. She did not need to worry anymore.
Harry stood beside Hermione's bed for a long time. Long enough for the lamplight to fade from warm yellow to grayish white, long enough for the first streak of dawn to appear outside the window. He did not sit down. He only stood there with his head lowered, staring at Hermione's gray-white face, which would no longer move. His hands hung at his sides, his fingers slightly curled, as if waiting for a hand to reach over and clasp his.
But that hand did not reach for him. It lay atop the blanket, curled in the same position it had been in on the floor, as though it were still gripping something. But its palm was empty.
A full week had passed since Hermione's Petrification Incident. During that time, Hogwarts had sunk into a strange, unsettling calm. No new attacks occurred,