Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

“Alright, hold him, m’boy, hold him!” said Slughorn. “I’ve got the necessary here in my bag, it’s not a difficult antidote. …”

Ron paid no attention to their conversation; he kept scanning the room, pushing forward with determination.

“I don’t see her, Harry, where’s she? Where?”

“She’s not here yet,” said Harry, holding Ron in a tight headlock to stop him from crawling under the sofa while watching Slughorn opening his potion kit and adding a few pinches of this and that to a small crystal bottle.

“Not here yet? That’s good, that’s good!” said Ron fervently. “How do I look?”

“Very handsome,” said Slughorn smoothly, handing Ron a glass of clear liquid. “Now drink that up, it’s a tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives, you know, and make you even more charming to the ladies.”

“Brilliant, that’s exactly what I need,” said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the antidote down noisily.

Harry and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, Ron beamed at them. Then, very slowly, his grin sagged and vanished, to be replaced by an expression of utmost horror.

“Back to normal, then?” said Harry, grinning. Slughorn chuckled. “Thanks a lot, Professor.”

“Don’t mention it, m’boy, don’t mention it,” said Slughorn. “It’s only a little help, only a little help.”

Ron collapsed into a nearby armchair, looking devastated, staring blankly at his knees in disbelief.

He thought of those terrible words and thoughts he had just said, and he even wanted to die. What had he done?

“Pick-me-up, that’s what he needs now.” Slughorn continued, now bustling over to a table loaded with drinks. “I’ve got butterbeer, I’ve got wine, I’ve got one last bottle of this oak-matured mead. Well, why don’t we open it and celebrate Mr. Weasley’s birthday? Nothing like a fine spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love. …”

He chortled again, and Harry joined in. This was the first time he had found himself almost alone with Slughorn since his disastrous first attempt to extract the true memory from him. Perhaps, if he could just keep Slughorn in a good mood … perhaps if they got through enough of the oak-matured mead …

“There you are then,” said Slughorn, handing Harry and Ron a glass of mead each before raising his own. “Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph —”

“Ron —” whispered Harry.

But Ron, who did not appear to be listening to the toast, had already thrown the mead into his mouth and swallowed it.

There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat, in which Harry knew there was something terribly wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not.

“Yes, well—Robert, may you find even more lovely young —”

“Ron!” Harry shouted.

“Oh, yes, you’re right, of course it’s Ron!” said Slughorn in surprise, thinking Harry was correcting him.

But something far more alarming had happened — Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth, and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. He was poisoned! ɽÅNỖʙÊS

“Professor!” Harry bellowed. “Do something!”

But Slughorn seemed paralyzed by shock, staring at Ron in horror, utterly unsure of what to do.

In the blink of an eye, Ron twitched and choked: His skin was turning blue.

“What — but —” spluttered Slughorn.

Harry knew he had to do something, so he leapt over a low table and sprinted toward Slughorn’s open potion kit, pulling out jars and pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron’s gargling breath filled the room. Ron had been poisoned and needed an antidote.

Then Harry found it — the shriveled kidneylike stone Slughorn had taken from him in Potions … the bezoar!

He hurtled back to Ron’s side, wrenched open his jaw, and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron gave a great shudder, a rattling gasp, and his body became limp and still.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the heavy breathing sound like a broken bellows.

……………………………………………………………………………………

By the time Ron was taken to the hospital wing, it was already late in the afternoon. That was when Evan, Hermione, Ginny, and the others finally got word of what had happened.

When they arrived, Ron was lying still as death on the hospital bed.

Madam Pomfrey had drawn the curtains around him, isolating him from the rest of the ward.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had just left to go to Dumbledore’s office.

The hospital wing was eerily quiet, with only Harry sitting at Ron’s bedside.

“Will he be okay?” Hermione asked worriedly, moving to sit next to Harry.

“He’s out of immediate danger, but Madam Pomfrey said it was a deadly poison and he’ll need to rest for a long time.”

“What on earth is going on?” Evan asked. Another attack planned by Malfoy?!

Harry retold the story he had already recounted, many times to Dumbledore, to McGonagall, to Madam Pomfrey, and others.

It had to be said, this was not one of Ron’s better birthdays.

First, Romilda Vane’s powerful love potion, then Malfoy’s deadly poison. Poisoned, and then poisoned again…

Shortly after Evan and the others entered the ward, Fred and George, who had received the news, also rushed to the hospital wing to visit Ron.

“We heard what happened. Unlucky, isn’t it?” said Fred, looking sadly at Ron on the bed. “And on his birthday, too. We actually got him a gift.”

“But this isn’t how we imagined handing over our present,” said George grimly, putting down a large wrapped gift on Ron’s bedside cabinet and sitting beside Ginny.

“Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was conscious,” said Fred.

“There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise him —” said George.

“You were in Hogsmeade?” asked Ginny, looking up.

“Right. So, after handing over part of our production line to Muggles, George and I suddenly found ourselves with extra funds — quite a bit, actually. So, we were thinking of buying Zonko’s,” said Fred gloomily. “A Hogsmeade branch, you know, Hogsmeade is much closer to the school, but a fat lot of good it’ll do us if you lot aren’t allowed out at weekends to buy our stuff anymore. … But never mind that now.”

He drew up a chair beside Evan on the far left and looked at Ron’s pale face.

“Let’s talk about Ron. Can anyone tell me how he was poisoned?”

Harry sighed, and seeing that everyone was looking at him, he retold the story he had already recounted, it felt like a hundred times.

“… He drank the mead and fell to the ground, and then I got the bezoar down his throat and his breathing eased up a bit, Slughorn ran for help, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey turned up, and they brought Ron up here. They reckon he’ll be all right. Madam Pomfrey says he’ll have to stay here a week or so because it was a deadly poison … keep taking essence of rue …”

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