"A Muggle ghost. A boy. His name is Simon, and he was ripped apart," Harry says matter-of-factly. "He's a bit younger than we are."
"Muggles don't become ghosts," Hermione says faintly, unsure.
"Don't they?" A puzzled look flashes across Harry's silvered face. "I don't remember that."
"You don't remember anything," Hermione says. She has little energy to spare, but enough for her to force bitterness into the accusation.
Plaintively, "I remember some things. There was a red-headed boy, wasn't there, Hermione? Or a lot of them. Maybe a girl as well? Their hair was like blood. I remember that." He looks at her; she looks away. Ron's hair had been like blood, yes, all stained and spattered with gore on the half-melted beach. She wondered whether there are any strands left out there, or whether the birds have stolen it all for their nests.
"...a little golden bird, and a nice man with golden eyes. He was a wolf, too. I do remember, really I do."
Hermione sighs. "Tell me more about Simon."
"Hermione," Harry whispers.
"This island is cursed."