The End of All Things

Yes, I know I'm a little later than promised, but I didn't get the beta'd chapters back until today, and I had to finish some homework before I could make the final edits. Deepest apologies, and please enjoy!

Chapter 13: Breaking In

“She said what?”

McGonagall didn't reply. Harry's question had been rhetorical. He hadn't even been speaking to her at all, really.

Derek only barely managed to grab Harry before he made it to the fireplace. It was clear Harry was intent on Flooing back to the Burrow.

“Harry, I just told you. She--”

“There has to be a reason! She wouldn't just decide she doesn't want to see me anymore without a reason! And if you won't let me write to her to ask her, then I'll have to see her myself!”

“Harry, did it ever occur to you that she might have decided to stop writing to you in order to keep you safe?”

“What?”

“Letters can go astray, Harry. Hermione knows that, as well as you do. Unlike you, she seems to take these threats seriously. It may have taken her a while, but I think she realized how dangerous it is to have any sort of unnecessary link between you and the outside world right now. Besides, it'll be one less distraction for you to deal with.”

Harry stared at her. Derek loosened his grip on Harry's arm, now that Harry was no longer fighting to get to the fireplace.

“What did you say to her?” He asked in a low tone.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hermione wanted to write to me. She was worried about me. She decided that staying in contact with me was a good idea. She wouldn't change her mind. What did you say to her to make her stop writing to me?”

“What makes you think I said anything?”

“What did you do then? TELL ME!”

None of them noticed Mrs. Figg watching as Derek took Harry upstairs, the young man still yelling at McGonagall.

“OOF!”

Hermione barely managed to catch herself in time to prevent her nose from smashing into the hearthstones of the kitchen fireplace.

Mrs. Figg shushed her sharply. Hermione stood up quietly and mouthed where is he?

The older woman gestured to the hallway. Hermione followed; they almost made it to the door before a light appeared around the height of their knees.

“Miss Hermione?” a voice squeaked.

“Dobby?” Hermione whispered. “Why are you down here?”

“It's Dobby's job miss, to greet whoever comes to the house. Is Miss here to visit Master Harry Potter?”

“Um, well yes. But we didn't want anyone else to know I was here.”

Dobby nodded. “You won't need to worry Miss. Nearly everyone has gone out on another search. The only ones here right now are Dobby, Master Harry Potter, and Master Derek.”

Mrs. Figg snorted. “I still don't see why they left him to guard Harry. They're not really on the best speaking terms right now. Harry feels Derek betrayed him by reporting his letters to McGonagall.”

Hermione nodded. Mrs. Figg had filled her in on Derek's spy job.

“I suppose McGonagall convinced Derek it would be for Harry's own good. Now Derek just feels guilty. He thought there was no harm in your writing to each other.”

Dobby tugged Hermione's sleeve. “Is Miss here to help Master Harry Potter?”

Hermione nodded. “He just wanted to talk for a while, I think.”

Dobby's ears drooped. “I don't think that's a good idea right now, Miss.” He said sadly.

“Why?”

“Dobby wasn't watchful enough over Kreacher, Miss. Kreacher put something bad in Master's dinner. He's very sick right now.”

Hermione paused. “Just how sick is he, Dobby?”

- - -

Harry now knew that the toilet at Grimmauld Place had three large chips in the paint on the inside of the bowl. If he held his head a certain way, one of them looked like a flower.

Not that he could hold his head in that sideways position very long. Keeping his face pointed straight down over the bowl seemed preferable, and would make cleanup easier later.

He'd thought he had finished vomiting long ago. His stomach disagreed. Granted, dry heaving was better in some ways, but he just wanted to go back to bed.

He heard someone enter the bathroom behind him. He was sure it was Derek; Dobby's footfalls wouldn't be so heavy.

“Go away traitor, or I'll aim at you.”

“Glad I'm not a traitor then.”

Harry turned his head so fast he didn't have time to think about whether he wanted to be seen by the owner of that voice in his current position. By the time embarrassment overruled shock, Hermione had soaked a washcloth in cold water at the sink, knelt down beside him, and pressed the cloth to his forehead, pushing his head back so she could look into his eyes.

“Dobby wasn't kidding. I don't think I've ever seen you this sick.”

“I don't think I've ever been this sick in my life.” Harry said lightly.

Hermione smiled. “Dry heaves are awful, aren't they?” She reached past him and flushed the toilet.

Harry lowered his head. “Bet my face is red right now. I hoped no one would see me like this.”

“On the contrary, you're very pale.”

“Mmm.” He didn't feel he had the energy to say anything else.

“Can you stand up?”

“Yes.” Harry was determined to pass this off.

Hermione put a hand under his arm and pulled him up. As soon as she let go, Harry fell to his knees again.

She grimaced. “Your brain may say yes Harry, but I think your stomach carries the deciding vote in this case.”

Harry couldn't answer. Not that he could have added anything to that, anyway.

Some minutes later, Harry's stomach had stopped trying to jump into his throat. Hermione sat on the edge of the bathtub, pulling Harry back to sit between her legs. She kept the washcloth on his forehead, insisting that she wouldn't let him move until at least ten minutes passed since the last time he knelt over the toilet.

Harry wasn't up to complaining. He was so tired he felt he could fall asleep where he was. He felt a little feverish, and wondered vaguely just what it was Kreacher had snuck into his dinner.

He'd thought the steak tasted a little off, but he'd been too angry to really care. He'd been so angry he was surprised he'd been able to eat at all. When McGonagall had told him that Hermione didn't want to stay in contact, he'd never really believed her. He'd quickly come to the conclusion that the Order was trying to keep them apart. He knew Hermione would never just abandon him.

And the proof of that currently sat behind him, holding a cold compress to his forehead.

He never thought he would see her again this soon, though. True, he'd come up with half a dozen ideas on how to escape and go visit her. If the Order wouldn't let him write to her, he would tell her himself.

Hermione, as usual, had been a step ahead of him.

He'd thought he'd have a million things to say to her. He'd been so surprised to see her standing at the bathroom door, after he had just emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet that he couldn't think of anything to say.

He tried to think of something, anything. He couldn't bring himself to mention the contents of his letter.

“Why can't you just let me rot in peace?” He mumbled.

“Do I really need to answer that?”

He could tell she was smiling. “Why did you come? How did you come?”

“Mrs. Figg came to get me. She showed me a certain letter that she rescued from the fireplace.” Harry tensed. “I couldn't read most of it, since it was burned, but I could tell you wanted me to come. As for how, since Mrs. Figg is a member of the Order, she has permission to bring guests with her through the Floo network. Which is fortunate, because I never would have made it through alone, what with all the protective charms put around this place.”

Harry smiled. “Mrs. Figg, huh? I always knew I liked her.”

Hermione glanced at her watch. “I think it's been about fifteen minutes. Do you want to try to stand up again?”

Harry groaned. “Can't I just say here? The floor's soft enough, really.”

Hermione didn't answer. She threaded her arms through Harry's and stood, pulling him up with her. He smelled like sweat, and freshly cut grass.

- - -

Derek put his Gameboy aside. No point trying to distract himself any longer. He'd put off apologizing long enough.

Derek liked Harry; he had since he'd heard the first words Harry said to McGonagall after she told him they were taking him away from the Burrow. In Derek's book, any person who could deliver effective, specific, and verifiable threats to a woman with a glare like hers earned respect, at the least.

He sighed, running a hand through his short brown hair, mentally composing what he was going to say to Harry. He decided it would probably be best to let Harry yell at him a bit more, if he was so inclined, before attempting to apologize. Although, if one were to judge from the sounds he had heard issuing from the bathroom when he'd passed it earlier, Harry yelling at anybody in the near future seemed unlikely.

He wondered where Kreacher was right now. Doubtless, Dobby was certainly making him regret poisoning Harry's food, or whatever it was he had done.

“Dobby?” he called.

The elf promptly appeared.

“Is Harry a bit better? I want to talk to him.”

Dobby said, a bit too quickly, “Oh no Master Derek. Master Harry Potter is still very ill. Very very ill.”

“Huh.” Derek said suspiciously. “Well in that case I'd probably better take a look at him. If he's not getting better, maybe we should take him to St. Mungo's.”

Dobby followed Derek down the hallway, past the bathroom (Derek covered his nose as they passed) to Harry's bedroom, the elf stammering excuses, trying to keep Derek away from Harry.

Derek wondered what he was hiding.

His question was answered when he noticed a female figure ducking quietly out of Harry's room.

“I'll be right back, okay?” Her voice was certainly very pleasant, lowered in concern.

Derek ducked back into the shadows as the young woman (whom Derek was sure was Hermione) straightened, turned, and looked around, making sure she was alone before heading toward the staircase.

Derek smiled and looked down at Dobby. The elf regarded him warily.

Technically, Derek was well within his rights as a member of the Order, and as Harry's guard tonight, to immediately remove Hermione from the house. But, like Mrs. Figg, he felt that in this case it would be more important to follow the spirit of the law rather than the letter.

His orders had been to watch over Harry, and keep him safe.

Derek felt sure that Hermione meant Harry no harm, and a visit with her could do him more good than anything else right now. He also pitied anyone who might try to get past her and harm Harry tonight.

Derek winked at Dobby as they heard Hermione coming up the stairs.

“Ahem.”

Hermione nearly dropped her tray, loaded with tea and a bottle of magical medicine that Derek recognized as an anti-nauseate.

Before Hermione could offer any explanation for her presence, Derek raised a hand to forestall her.

“Take care of him.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to go back to his room.

“Thank you.” she whispered behind him.

“Whatever for?” he said, in a detached tone.

Humming the Mexican Hat Dance, he headed back towards his room.

- - -

“Was that Derek I heard in the hall?” Harry asked immediately on Hermione's reappearance.

“Yes. And before you get all worried, I don't think he's going to rat me out.”

“Hmph. Wonder why he changed his mind.”

Hermione said nothing. She had a feeling that Derek, like Mrs. Figg, had been an unwilling participant in keeping them apart. She didn't broach the topic though; that was for Derek and Harry to discuss.

She poured a spoonful of medicine and gave it to Harry, who didn't protest, though he grimaced at the flavor. She poured the tea next, and both sat in silence, sipping from their cups, neither one feeling the inclination to speak.

Sirius, who had been sleeping under Harry's bed, poked his nose against Hermione's leg.

She laughed and picked up the puppy, putting him on the bed next to Harry.

“I think someone's worried about you,” she commented as Sirius immediately crawled onto Harry's lap.

Harry stroked Sirius's head, and considered telling Hermione why he needed her here, but he knew that if she understood how badly he needed her, just to keep from going nuts, cooped up in this house all day, she'd probably refuse to leave before McGonagall returned and discovered her the next day.

Hermione considered asking Harry what was wrong; why he had asked her to come, what was bothering him, but she knew that he would only tell her when he was ready, and that if she pressed him too soon, she might get nothing from him.

So both sat quietly, Harry sitting up in his bed, with his back against the headboard, petting Sirius (who fell asleep after a while) and Hermione in a hard wooden chair pulled up to his bedside.

Dobby appeared at the doorway some time later to find the two finished with their tea, hands joined, looking at nothing.

The elf whispered, “Dobby has prepared a bed for Miss Granger. It is very late Master Harry Potter.”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

“Can't you stay a little longer? Just until I fall asleep?” the words were out before he could stop them.

“Sure.” Her answer was just as quick, and just as not-thought-out.

Dobby bowed himself out of the room, unnoticed by either teen, as Harry slid under his blankets. He reached for Hermione's hand again as soon as he was covered.

He started to drift off several times, but woke up each time and checked to see that she was still there. After about the sixth time this happened, Hermione brushed her hand over his forehead and whispered, “Its okay, Harry. I'm not going anywhere.”

Harry sighed and closed his eyes, and this time, sleep claimed him.

Though Hermione had been intending to leave, she found herself unable to. Her eyes continued to watch the young man less than two feet away from her, his face relaxed, at peace. It was a surprise to her, realizing how tightly he must control his features during the day, when he was awake. The only times she could recall seeing him anywhere near this...this vulnerable had been those few times she had seen him asleep in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, unconscious from an accident, or merely sleeping off his latest ordeal. She was reminded of how he'd looked, sleeping after the third task. That had been more than two years ago now, she realized. It's amazing how time flies.

Sadness wasn't the only thing she felt, watching him. She had heard that everyone looked younger when they slept, but for Harry, that wasn't quite true. His face was lit by moonlight coming in the window, giving his hair and skin a slight silvery cast. Even his scar appeared lighter; if she turned her head slightly, it didn't even look like a scar, more like a faint shadow on his forehead.

Though she knew Harry wouldn't appreciate that description, she thought he looked beautiful.

She never noticed growing more tired, never made a conscious decision to climb onto the bed next to him, turning her body so that they lay in opposite directions, her head at his feet, their right hands, both bearing similar scars, still joined between them.

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