Ever since Hermione had gotten Petrified, Harry and Ron had been hanging out with Neville, who didn't really have a crowd of his own. Neville wasn't a bad companion, though definitely not the same as Hermione. Luckily, he could help them with their Herbology homework.

Defense Against the Dark Arts had been Harry's favorite subject all year—not just because Sirius was teaching it, but because he enjoyed it and was genuinely good at it. But now Herbology had become his favorite subject. Every time he walked into Greenhouse Three, he saw the Mandrakes, and they gave him hope. Hermione would get better.

One cloudy day, about a week or so into March, Harry was heading to the Greenhouse Three with Ron and Neville, picturing the Mandrakes in their pots. Professor Sprout said that as soon as they started trying to move into each other's pots, they would be ready to cut up, brewed into a Mandrake Restorative Draught, and fed to every victim of the Heir of Slytherin. As a bonus, they'd be able to name him, too.

As the three Gryffindors were making their way across the lawn towards Professor Sprout, who was standing in front of the greenhouse, waiting to unlock it, Ernie MacMillan stopped them.

"Harry," he said. "I just want to apologize for suspecting you earlier. I know you would never hurt Hermione Granger."

"That's okay," said Harry. "I'm sorry for calling you a lemming."

"Not at all, my dear friend," Ernie replied, running ahead of them to meet his fellow Hufflepuffs (minus Justin). Harry, Ron, and Neville lagged behind.

"Tick-tock, boys, one minute late," Professor Sprout scolded, but she didn't take any points from them, luckily. Instead, they hung back as she went to unlock Greenhouse Three, several of the Hufflepuffs crowding around her.

And in an instant, Professor Sprout's face turned pale. Several of the Hufflepuffs, peeking in, gasped. Hannah Abbott fainted.

"MacMillan…" Her voice was oddly raspy. "Go alert Professor McGonagall. And you—" (she summoned a house-elf, who appeared dutifully at her side) —"Take Miss Abbott to the hospital wing."

Ernie MacMillan rushed off to the castle; the look of utter terror on his face was one Harry would never, ever forget.

"Not another attack," Ron groaned.

Who was it this time? The other two people in the castle Harry cared most about—Ron and Sirius—were both purebloods. Barbara and Phoebe were safely in Hogsmeade. No matter who had been Petrified, it couldn't be worse than what had happened to Hermione…right?

Wrong. Nobody was Petrified. It was much, much worse than that.

Not without a considerable effort, Harry managed to squeeze through the crowd into the greenhouse, his friends right behind him, and the grotesque sight that met his eyes almost made his knees buckle.

"Oh, Harry!" Neville cried.

It was the Mandrakes. They were gone. The shelf where they had once sat was full of completely empty pots. There was blood-red writing on the wall again, above the shelf; even in his haze, Harry could read the message the Heir had left:

YOUR CURE IS REDUCED TO ASHES. THE MUDBLOODS ARE WORSE THAN DEAD.

Harry slowly looked down, his heart beating out of his chest, and saw it. On the ground, there were indeed ashes—the remains of the Mandrakes. And they had been rearranged into a shape Harry recognized. He had seen it before on Regulus's left forearm.

"All teachers please report to the staffroom," Professor McGonagall's voice suddenly blared across the grounds. "I repeat! All teachers report to the staffroom. Emergency…"

And suddenly Harry felt sick to his stomach. As he watched Professor Sprout rush towards the castle, he made his way there too, without a clue where he was going. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. There was no use running; he couldn't escape from the nightmare his life had become.

Somehow Ron and Neville managed to lead him into the wizard's room on the first floor. The two of them just stood there, looking pale and terrified, as Harry threw up into one of the toilets. Without even remembering to flush it, he sat down on it, making noises so weird, you couldn't even call them crying, his hands over his face.

"Maybe it's not so bad," said Ron shakily, walking over to Harry. "Maybe they can get more."

"I-I don't think so." Neville shook his head tearfully. "Mandrakes are really, really rare. If they'd just been cut up, maybe Professor Sprout could have regrown them…but they were burned."

"So—so Hermione can't…" Harry gulped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Can't be saved?"

Ron looked like he was having a horrible epiphany. "If Mandrakes were so easy to find…"

"She could have just bought a Mandrake Restorative Draught at the apothecary," Neville finished.

"No," Harry groaned, looking up at the ceiling, trying to fight back tears starting in the corners of his eyes. "No…How could this…?"

"The perp probably didn't want to be found out," Ron said angrily. "So he destroyed the only way the Petrified people could be revived."

Harry wished Ron hadn't put it that way. Just as he'd put his face in his hands again, his whole body shaking uncontrollably, he heard the door open.

"So there you three are…" It was Sirius, holding the Marauders' Map in his hands. He, too, looked horribly pale. "Come on. I'll take you back to your common room."

"Sirius," Harry choked out. "They're—they're gone…all gone…"

"So I've heard." Sirius's voice shook, as did his hands, as he walked towards Harry and pulled him to his feet. "Come on, mate. You three, with me."

"I can't!" Harry cried, leaning on Sirius for support. "I can't feel my legs."

Looking concerned, Sirius took Harry's hand and led him out of the toilet stall, where Harry leaned against the stone walls, eventually sinking down onto the floor to sit in a miserable heap. Ron, Neville, and Sirius joined him.

"Is there anything we can do, Sirius?" Ron asked anxiously.

"I'm not going to lie to you guys," Sirius said quietly, biting his lip. "It doesn't look good. And the fact that the Dark Mark was there…"

"Please, tell me I'm dreaming," Neville was heard saying. Harry leaned against Sirius's shoulder, and Sirius put an arm around his godson.

"Not this time, Neville." Sirius's voice was miserable. "There's—there's nothing we can do."

"Sirius, what happens?" Harry asked, feeling bitter tears now making their way down his cheeks. At the moment, he couldn't care too much about the Dark Mark; he was too worried about what was going to happen to Hermione. "If someone is Petrified for too long, what happens to them?"

There was that dark, closed-off look in Sirius's eyes again. "Do you guys know what happens during a dementor attack?"

They all shook their heads.

"When a dementor attacks—gives you the Kiss—you get your soul sucked out through your mouth," Sirius said, his voice hushed.

"You're kidding!" Ron said loudly.

"I kid you not," Sirius told him. "I've seen it happen. Many times."

"So what does that have to do with Hermione?" Harry asked.

"The same thing happens if you're Petrified for too long." Sirius closed his eyes tight and shook his head. "Your soul. It leaves your body…only much slower. If you were eventually awakened, you would be just a shell. I've seen it. Dementors gave people the Kiss on a regular basis in Azkaban."

"What—what do they do…after they Kiss them?" said Neville shakily.

"They bury them," Sirius whispered. "Outside. Just like…just like those who died…"

And then it was Sirius's turn to bury his face in his hands. Harry looked at his friends; tears were now streaming down Neville's cheeks, too, but Ron looked frozen, his face as white as chalk. Harry just leaned into Sirius, not trying to get him to stand up. All the time he'd known his godfather, Harry thought Sirius could protect him from everything. As long as he could remember, he'd never had anyone to defend him, and then, suddenly, he did. But not even Sirius could fix everything.

But the worst part was that in this case, nobody could.