Author: George Weasley's Girlfriend

Disclaimers: They're not mine. Not the character, not the plot… hell, I even stole some of the dialogue. All of that belongs to Ms. J. K. Rowling, who writes the incredible Harry Potter series.

A/N: At the ending of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s/Philosopher’s Stone a certain magical chess game is played and Ron is left unconscious and on his own, Hermione only returning to get him several minutes later. I always wonder what happens in those missing, yet implied scenes that seem to pop up in Harry Potter books. So, being the glutton for punishment I am, I decided to write in the scene where Hermione wakes Ron and they go up to the Owlery to send out a post for Dumbledore. What happened in my imagination? Read on...

"... It’s like ice."

"Quick, go, before it wears off!"

"Good luck -- take care --"

"GO!"

Hermione turned and ran through the purple fire. She half-expected to be reduced to nothing but ash, and was remarkably relieved to feel a mere tickling sensation as she took hurried steps through the flames. Finally, she stepped away from the flames, which quickly dissipated behind her, leaving her facing the door that had led her into the room with the potions in the first place. Please be okay, Harry, she prayed.

Quickly, Hermione turned and edged her way around the unconscious troll, which looked a little too close to consciousness for her taste. The pool of blood reminded her of what might become of her best friend if she didn’t hurry. She ran through the next door, not bothering to close it behind her, and back to the chessboard. The stone pieces had all been reset to their original positions... but Ron was laying to side, as if he was a broken piece cast away carelessly.

"Oh, Ron!" Hermione cried out as she saw her friend’s limp body resting motionlessly near the wall, a few feet from the end of the board. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene: Ron was slumped against the wall with the extra chess pieces, and there was a trail of blood leading from Ron's spot on the board to his unconscious form. For several minutes, she couldn’t move, frozen with indecision. Then adrenaline kicked in and she rushed to his side, feeling his forehead. She noticed a broad gash across his left temple, most likely caused by the impact of the queen’s stone arm. "Ron, please wake up," she whispered, shaking him. Swallowing hard, she pulled out her wand and tried fervently to remember some sort of Charm or spell that would awaken him, or heal his injury if nothing else. Suddenly, a muffled noise behind her, coming from the door that led to the troll. At first, she thought the troll had regained consciousness, but then she realized that it was Harry’s muffled, half-panicked voice: "Snape...to...kill me..." Hermione fought the urge to go and try to step into the battle. It was Harry’s fight, not hers.

"Ron, come on, you lousy prat. Wake up," she hissed. Then, she remembered. "Ennervate," she said hopefully, waving her wand across his face. She prayed that she remembered the Awakening Charm that Professor Flitwick had taught her.

"Mmm...what...what happened?" Ron whispered, his eyes fluttering open. His blue eyes seemed to be out of focus until he saw Hermione leaning over him. " ’Mione?" He murmured, confused.

"Yes, it’s me, Ron," Hermione replied, feeling her heart beat faster. "We have to go get Dumbledore...Harry’s in trouble."

"I...I‘m sleepy...Head hurts a lot...what hit me?" Tears filled Hermione’s eyes.

"You don’t remember your moment of glory?" she whispered, trying to lighten things. She knew he had always played second fiddle to the famous Harry Potter and was constantly overshadowed by his brothers. Now the memory of a vital part of Harry’s success in getting as far as he did had been robbed from Ron’s mind.

"Something about...chess...big and stone...ouch, it hurts," Ron murmured, touching a fingertip to his temple. He pulled his hand away and looked at the blood on his fingers. "I think I need to go to the infirmary, Herm..." He trailed off, eyes drooping.

"No, Ron," Hermione said anxiously, shaking him awake again. "Please stay awake. We have to get Dumble...Ron..." His eyes opened again, and his usual spark was faded, perhaps some from the injury. "We have to go. Do you understand? Snape is trying to kill Harry in there!" Ron’s eyes widened.

"You saw him...we have to...get Dumbledore...he’s the only one who can..." With these words, he tried to raise himself to his feet, wincing. Hermione reached out to help him, but he shook her off. "Can do this myself... don’t need your help," he insisted.

"If you weren’t so bloody stubborn, Ron..." Using the aid of the wall, he was able to shakily get to his feet. He leaned heavily against Hermione who had an arm around his waist and tried to walk him towards the door. "We need to get to the Owlery... can you walk that far? We’ll need to get on the broomsticks to get back up to the third floor corridor..."

"I can d--"

"LIAR!" It was unmistakably Harry’s voice.

"We have to go," Hermione said hurriedly. She pulled Ron along, arm firmly wrapped around his middle. Somehow, they were able to get to the door that led back into the room with the flying keys. Hermione leaned Ron against a wall and picked up two broomsticks. "Can you ride a broomstick?" she asked.

Ron shook his head fervently, desperately trying to ignore the pounding in his head, but uttered a muddled "yes" and reached out to snag one of the broomsticks from Hermione. He mounted it with a certain degree of uncertainty and nodded to Hermione, who was already straddling her broom. Hermione reached out and opened the door to the small room they had dropped into, the one with the Devil's Snare in it. With the absence of a large light source, it had once more flourished in the dark corners. Hermione slowly flew up, checking for Ron over her shoulder.

Finally, the two eleven-year olds got back to the blocked off third floor corridor, where Fluffy, the three-headed dog, was waiting. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, the two landed and Hermione grabbed the flute that Harry had dropped on the floor. Her heart pounded again, hoping Harry was all right. Ron was leaning heavily on the broomstick, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

Hermione played a few notes and the beast's eyes drooped. She and Ron edged around it, giving the near sleeping beast a wide berth. Finally, they slid out the slightly ajar door and out into the hallway. Ron immediately fell back against the wall, his hand still clutched tightly around the shaft of the broomstick.

"Ron…Ron, come on…we need to get you up to the infirm--," Hermione said desperately. She heard footsteps and turned to see a confused Neville Longbottom searching the walls, probably for the portrait of the Fat Lady, an entrance into the Gryffindor common room.

"Neville!" she called. The small boy ran to her side.

"What's wrong, Hermione?" he asked, surveying Ron with wide eyes.

"Give me a piece of parchment… and a quill," she said hurriedly, holding Ron against the wall with one hand. Neville pulled one of each out of his robes, bewildered and handed them to Hermione. She hurriedly scratched a note to Dumbledore:

"Owl this to Dumbledore," she told Neville, shoving his things back at him. The pale boy nodded and took off down the hallway. She turned back to Ron, whose head had lolled to one side. "Ron? Ron, come on…you have to stay awake."

At that point, Hermione was cut off by footsteps down the hall and saw Professor Dumbledore walking swiftly towards the pair.

"Dumbledore? Oh…good, then…" Ron murmured, seeing the headmaster out of the corner of his eye. Professor Dumbledore was quickly at their sides.

"Miss Granger…" Dumbledore began, but Hermione cut him off.

"Harry's down there… Snape is trying to kill him," Hermione gasped to the older man. He nodded swiftly and conjured a stretcher quickly, then lifted Ron onto it.

"Please take him up to the infirmary to have Madam Pomfrey check on his condition." Dumbledore looked Ron over briefly. "He should be all right." With this, he brushed past them into the room that was supposed to be off-limits.

Hermione glanced around a little bit, wondering how to get Ron and the stretcher up to the infirmary, then remembered: she had her wand. She pointed her wand at the stretcher and followed it down the hallway.

"Hermi'ne?" Ron's slurred voice called.

"I'm right here," she assured him, still pushing the stretcher along with her wand, but coming to his side and, after a reluctant pause, took his hand in hers.

"Oh, my head hurts," Ron whispered, eyes flickering open dully. She swallowed back tears as her eyes flicked upward to the purple bruise and streak of blood on his temple. She forced her eyes to move back down and met his. "Is Harry going to be okay?" he murmured.

"Dumbledore's going to him…Oh, I hope he's in time," she said, biting her lower lip.

"No…Harry's got to be okay…if we'd just gotten to Dumbledore sooner…those lost minutes…" Ron was getting upset by what he was saying, but they were nearing the infirmary and Hermione didn't want to cast a Calming Charm to get him to settle down. "What would I do without Harry?" he whispered. "He's my best friend." At this point, tears began to slowly trickle down Hermione's face and she sniffed, wiping them away awkwardly with one hand.

"I'm sure he'll be okay," she lied. How could she possibly have let Harry, an eleven-year old wizard who hadn't even known the wizarding world existed at this time the previous year, go face-to-face with Professor Snape, a powerful wizard who probably knew loads of Dark Magic? She had been so stupid! It hit her hard that Ron had been thinking ahead, strategizing. He knew his strengths and weaknesses. He commanded the chess pieces and they obeyed. He knew he would have been taken sooner or later, so he left Harry with a valuable weapon to help him: Hermione. And what had she done? Run away! Hermione couldn't have been more ashamed of herself.

"What's this?" Madam Pomfrey's irritated voice asked indignantly. She stepped forward and Hermione realized they had made it all the way to the infirmary without her even noticing. "Oh, dear…" Madam Pomfrey magicked the stretcher away from her and brought him into another room, leaving Hermione alone in the hallway. Not knowing what else to do, she slumped into a chair outside the room and began to cry.

She cried for Harry, going over and over in her mind how stupid it was of her to leave him by himself. She knew loads more spells than Harry and two against one was much better odds, especially against an experienced wizard. She cried for Ron, who had unselfishly sacrificed himself for Harry. He'd used his skills and nearly gotten himself killed so that Harry could go on and fight against Professor Snape. And finally, she cried for herself, furious she had nothing to show for being involved; not a single scratch or bruise touched her pale skin. She was ashamed, knowing she could have - should have - done more.

There had been those lost minutes, lost minutes that could have cost Harry his life. The time she stood staring out at what happened she could have been using to get Ron up faster, get him to the infirmary faster, get to Professor Dumbledore faster. She finally stifled her sobs and wiped her face with her Hogwarts robes. Those lost minutes could have been the decision between life and death: Ron's, Harry's, perhaps even her own.

Lost minutes. The outcome between life and death. Time was so delicate and fragile and she'd torn it. She had lost minutes that could save lives. And Hermione Granger didn't know if she could ever forgive herself for that.