Choices and Consequences

Remembering Snape's lessons on blood-purging potions wasn't the entire solution to Harry's problems though. In the few lucid waking moments he experienced between dreams he was unable to persuade Madam Pomfrey that he had been poisoned, nor could he convince Mrs Weasley to tell Dumbledore of his suspicions when he awoke to find her fussing over him.

"Poppy says you're having hallucinations, dear," she told him, when he'd made his rather feeble protestations. "Here, your potions are ready."

He'd slurped up the potions - though one of them had tasted particularly vile, and wasn't one he could remember having taken during any of his stays in the Hospital Wing - and tried to persuade her again, but his strength sapped from him, and Mrs Weasley's maternal reassurances drowned out his efforts.

From what Voldemort's mystery visitor had said, Harry knew he had to do something about his poisoning sooner rather than later, since the prognosis for his future was pretty poor if he couldn't. He didn't know how he could convince his carers that it wasn't just a hallucination, and was beginning to panic a little.

His head still burned feverishly, most noticeably when he slipped out of his dreams and into a temporary wakefulness, and he seemed to be constantly dehydrated despite the liquids that were pressed on him every time he regained consciousness. He hadn't even attempted to open his eyes for more than a moment when he'd awoken, as his vision was compromised by dizziness and his stomach continued to rebel against the spinning sensation.

His scar seemed to be free from any pain for the time being, although he expected to be assaulted at any moment if his struggles to calm himself and attempt his Occlumency were any indication.

He'd had one more vision involving Voldemort - the Dark Lord was informing groups of followers of targets they were to attack. Harry recognised some of the names but could do little to warn anyone in his weak state, especially with neither of his carers paying any heed to his words.

He had slipped back into one of his dreams when he heard the voice in his head again.

"Remembered Snape's blood-purging potions yet?" it asked somewhat sardonically.

Harry grumbled to himself at the obtuse clues he was getting.

"Good. Try and concentrate on that lesson."

"It's no bloody good remembering the lesson if I can't dose myself up, is it?" Harry complained.

The voice in his head seemed amused at his frustration.

"Use your magic to cure yourself, Harry," it suggested.

"How?"

"Pull your magic together and concentrate, as though you were going to cast a spell with your wand, or to manipulate the elemental magic you've been learning."

Harry tried to concentrate, but found it difficult with the strange presence in his head, a bit like his subconscious standing up and telling him what to do.

He went back to the cantrips and calming techniques he'd learned during the summer, and slowly willed himself to relax, then gradually pulled his concentration into place and allowed his magic to flow into his person.

"Now what?" he asked gently, trying not to disturb the peace he'd found within himself.

"Concentrate on your blood. Think about what you need to change to purge it of the poison. Feel for the impurities and think about what they are. Remember what you learned about countering poisons and cleansing your blood."

The instructions made sense to Harry but he didn't have the slightest clue how it would work without him being awake and able to control his magic.

He was about to ask, but was interrupted by a searing pain in his forehead, and he immediately knew that Voldemort had managed to break into his mind again.

He was standing in a garden that he recognised. He knew it intimately, from the begonia beds under the living room window to the lawn that looked as though it had been manicured to the tiniest detail and painted a lush green. Even in the depths of winter, it seemed that the Dursleys managed to maintain their garden's lustre, and Harry idly wondered whether they paid a gardener to do it for them when Harry was at school.

Signs of recent snowfall dotted the garden in something of a contrast to the normal greenery, and Uncle Vernon's car had a thin layer of ice on the roof and windows that reminded Harry that it was the depths of winter.

It wasn't the weather that was the most worrying aspect of this vision though - it was the obvious signs of an imminent Death Eater attack.

Harry stood close to the hedge, casting diversion charms around the borders of the property to ward against any unexpected intrusions, and turned to see what his minions were up to.

His heart sank. If the Dursleys survived this attack, no doubt they'd point the finger of blame for it straight at him, even if the damage were limited to a slightly mussed lawn.

There didn't seem to be much chance of that being the extent of the damage though, as two Death Eaters came up alongside him and cast spells on the front door.

The door exploded outwards, showering those present with shards of wood, but Harry merely shook them off and called out to the house.

"Come out, come out, little Dursleys. Albus Dumbledore's little tricks can't save you now."

He saw Dudley's piggy little eyes cast a frightened glance out of an upstairs window, then duck down out of sight with a squeal.

The two Death Eaters conferred, then walked up to the front door and tried to push their way inside.

Strangely though, something barred their way. They pushed with greater force, but something prevented them gaining access to the house.

"We can't get inside!" the shorter of the two shouted, no doubt expecting some help. "There's some sort of invisible barrier!"

Harry cursed the ineptitude of his followers and screamed at the man to find another way.

The other man glanced across at him and shrugged his shoulders. He turned instead to the front windows, tramping a path across the flowerbed. He lifted the hem of his robe and wrapped his fist in the cloth, then stood back and swung an almighty punch at the glass.

Rather than shattering though, the glass held firm as though it was transparent rock, rather than double-glazing. The Death Eater shrieked in agony and leaped about in the garden clutching his fist in his good hand and swearing bloody revenge on the Dursleys for his injury. His plight seemed even more amusing to Harry when he leaped onto the slippery surface of the drive and promptly fell heavily onto his backside, causing him to ramp up the intensity of the swearwords.

Seeing his underlings' lack of success at entering the property, Harry growled at them to get out of his way.

He raised his voice and called out once again to the frightened residents of Number 4, Privet Drive.

"If you come outside, I'll do you no harm," he hissed loudly, not making any promises about what he might instruct his followers to do, a cautioning voice noted in Harry's head.

The other upstairs window shot open, and Vernon Dursley leaned out and spat down on the men.

"GET THE HELL OFF MY PROPERTY!" he yelled, assuming that simple bluster would have as much effect on these wizards as it apparently did on his co-workers. "I'LL HAVE NONE OF YOU FREAKS ROUND HERE! I'VE CALLED THE POLICE!"

Harry laughed at Vernon and cast a minor pain spell up at the window that sent him scurrying back into the bedroom with a scream.

"The Police?" he hissed back sarcastically. "What use do you think they will be to you?"

Either Vernon had judged the question rhetorical or he was too busy hiding under the bed, because he didn't poke his head out the window again to respond. Harry rather suspected the latter.

"The Muggle Police may be able to do little to assist, but I'm sure a few Aurors might change your mind, Tom," a familiar voice rose from behind him.

He whirled around to see Albus Dumbledore, attired in long purple robes, nonchalantly cleaning his half-moon spectacles on one corner of a white handkerchief as he considered the situation before him.

Whipping his hand down in a semi-circular motion, a blast of purple sparks shot from the tip of Harry's wand in Dumbledore's direction.

The Hogwarts Headmaster simply waved his hand casually and the sparks dissipated against an invisible shield a few inches away from the older wizard's body. His casual demeanour had disappeared in favour of a focused concentration.

The two Death Eaters that had attempted to enter the Dursleys' house took a quick look at one another and promptly Apparated away, to Harry's disgust. He'd deal with them later.

"You'll have no success torturing these Muggles tonight, Tom. They are under my protection," he said, drawing his wand from where it had been tucked inside his belt.

"I have no wish to torture them," Harry spat back, casting a vicious-looking curse as he did. Dumbledore sidestepped it neatly and let it hit the lamppost in the street beyond the garden, which creaked slightly but remained standing. "They are merely part of a much grander design."

He waved his remaining Death Eaters into an attacking position, which they took up somewhat nervously.

"Whatever your designs on them, they are under protection, a protection you cannot penetrate."

Dumbledore cast a brief glance at the approaching attackers, and with a twinkle of his eye they froze mid-stride, annoying Harry no end.

"Is that so? Potter's blood runs freely in my veins now too, old man," he hissed. "Whatever protection he has, I have. Your precious blood wards have no impact on me."

Dumbledore nodded, but seemed unfazed by the words.

"Then go ahead, try and enter the building," Dumbledore offered, sending a stunning spell at his adversary that was blocked with a simple shield.

"I need not," Harry replied dismissively, as though the thwarting of his attack on the Dursleys was of little concern to him.

He waved his wand in the direction of his motionless supporters, and the moved freely again.

"I already have what I require," he continued. "I have his mind. I wanted his soul as well, but for now, his mind will do."

"And what will you do with it? His mind is a tenuous thing by itself, not controllable for long, even for one of your powers. You will never have his heart and that is what truly matters," Dumbledore responded with a sad smile, moving sharply to summon one of the Dursleys' large stone plant pots to block the Killing Curse that came his way almost instantly.

The shards of the pot showered the Death Eaters, who now started to back away, unwilling to get caught in the crossfire.

"Pah! All your talk of 'love' and 'heart' is a fallacy, Dumbledore. I have the true power over him now! Your little prophecy has only one possible ending."

"You sound certain of that, Tom. Perhaps you have not considered every possibility. You know the full prophecy now?"

The Headmaster's words were calm and even despite his constant movement to block curses and summon objects as he spoke. His breath faltered little as the attack on him increased in its intensity as his opponent unleashed his rage against Dumbledore's shields.

"Of course I know the prophecy. I knew it as soon as I entered the boy's mind, days ago."

His annoyance flared even higher as he saw the Disapparation of the remaining Death Eaters from the corner of his eye.

"Then why do you persist here?" Dumbledore asked. "Why do you not flee the country to escape the risk that Harry is the one who will defeat you? You could live a life of luxury a million times over were you to cease this futile crusade."

Harry felt a flicker of uncertainty as Dumbledore mentioned him as being the one to defeat the Dark Lord, but it disappeared almost instantly.

"What need have I for luxury?" Harry spat. "There is nothing in luxury that will settle the fire that now burns in my soul. Revenge is the only thing that remains. I have the power to achieve it, and not even you will stand in my path."

The fireballs that Harry conjured and threw at Dumbledore were swatted aside and vanished before they could cause any damage to the surrounding greenery or even melt the ice.

Dumbledore inched closer and closer to him, his arm waving in a semicircular motion above his head that seemed to create a rainbow of colour, washing over him and providing him with a protective shell that even Voldemort could not penetrate.

"Your soul departed long ago, Tom," he intoned formally, and reached out, "and you are alone against the world."

It appeared for all the world as though Dumbledore was going to pat him on the cheek, whether in sympathy or condescension it was impossible to tell. Then, at the last moment, he flicked his wrist, and a puff of dust burst out from his sleeve, catching Harry right in the face.

With his opponent distracted, Dumbledore tried to force an opening.

"Legilimens!" he cried, and attempted to force his way into Harry's mind.

The dual presence in the Dark Lord's mind immediately rejected the prospect of being invaded by Dumbledore's Legilimancy, and he opted to flee.

"NOOO!" Harry screamed and Apparated away to safety.

Harry awoke from the vision and felt the warm trickle of blood running from his scar, across his forehead and down his nose. With his eyes still closed, he couldn't tell who else was in the room, but could feel the presence of two or three people. Someone stood over him with a damp cloth, cleaning the blood away from his face and cooling his forehead.

His head throbbed mercilessly, and he wanted to scream his frustration at being so helpless.

"Voldemort! ... Dursleys!" he panted through the pain, the words coming out in a raspy wheeze. He felt hands on his shoulders holding him down firmly as he struggled.

"It's okay, Harry," he heard Ginny's voice ring out, far too loudly for his comfort. "Dumbledore's already gone there. He said something about alarms ringing."

Harry relaxed slightly, but felt the world lurch around him as his stomach took another of the unsettling leaps it had been prone to ever since arriving at The Burrow.

Another straw was put to his lips and he tasted the familiar flavour of Madam Pomfrey's sleeping potion, though how much more he really wanted to sleep, he wasn't particularly sure.

He heard Madam Pomfrey order Ginny out of the room, and that was the last thing he heard before he slipped easily into unconsciousness and, for a while at least, slept dreamlessly.

When the dreams did return, they were nasty. From his earlier words, Harry understood that Voldemort was again able to influence his dreams, and these were of the kind he expected from his adversary.

He started off in a forest, walking alone along a path in near darkness. The wind continually carried sounds of wolves howling in the distance, and the shadows between the trees formed shapes that drew his eye as they flickered slightly. It gave the impression of something, something even more ominous than the Grim that Harry had thought was following him around three years previously, about to leap out at him.

His heart beat wildly as he imagined the forthcoming horror about to confront him, but he steeled himself and forced the frightening thoughts away, reminding himself that it wasn't real.

"I refuse to be scared by this," he insisted to himself, as he picked his way gradually along the path, keeping his eyes peeled for signs of danger and tried to steady his fast-racing pulse. He tried to lighten his mood by remembering Professor Trelawney's reaction to the supposed Grim in his tealeaves, and chortled a little.

As though his determined exhortations had been heard, the scene changed abruptly. He tripped over a tree root, more clumsily than even Tonks could have managed, and fell, travelling through the air, well beyond the point where he should have struck the ground, the darkness around him masking any sensation other than the air rushing past him as he continued to fall.

He opened his mouth to scream, to ease the pressure he could feel building up in his lungs and to desperately yell his defiance. Suddenly he realised something amiss - he was still falling.

"How big a drop could this be?" he wondered. With a slight mental chuckle he vaguely considered whether, even if he were to scream, anyone would hear him.

Just as this thought crossed his mind, he found out exactly what the threat to such a drop was.

The lights seemed to come on, and there below him, some twenty metres away was the bottom. There wasn't much that Harry could think in the time between seeing his fate and impacting with it, but the glint of light off the sharp metal spikes that rose to meet him made him turn his head away to avoid staring at his fate, and had he been less stout of heart, he might well have died then and there with cardiac failure.

He hit the spikes. Hard. And screamed.

He landed on his back and the spikes penetrated his body in several places. Both arms and both legs had multiple punctures and he could see the tips of the spikes protruding through the upper sides of his limbs. He could feel the blood running out of a wound in the back of his skull where it had ricocheted off the side of one spike, and he could feel a number of places on his back that had been ruptured. He was also a little bit concerned about the spike that poked straight up through his stomach, and didn't like to think about the damage inside.

Then the pain hit him.

He screamed again.

The dreams might well be just dreams, but the pain seemed very real. Between howls of agony, he wondered idly how long he could keep this up before his mind was totally destroyed.

On the positive side though, even if he was stuck here, impaled on these metal spikes, at least he couldn't bleed to death here. As he tried to push the physical sensations of pain away and seek refuge in his mind, he wondered what Voldemort had in store for him next, but didn't have to wait long to find out.

The odd dichotomy between his mental ramblings and musings and the torture he was experiencing made his brain grind to a halt for a moment, but he was re-invigorated by movement in front of him.

A group of Death Eaters approached, dragging a captive, kicking and screaming, between them. Harry's heart sank.

Ginny's fists and feet had apparently had some impact on her captors judging by the split lips of the hobbling men that carried her. Her hair, darkened by blood that oozed from a deep gash on her forehead, streamed back from her face in some places, and sat in thick matted strands in others, and her expression screamed the denial that her body was unable to fully express.

The Death Eaters secured her wrists behind her, then conjured up a crucifix of wood, binding her to it, and raising it in front of Harry.

"See what you risk?" the closest of them intoned solemnly, as he turned towards Harry, his voice unfamiliar and unemotional. "You apparently fear no punishment to your own body, therefore we must take it out on hers."

"NO!" Harry screamed, willing himself off the spikes to defend Ginny, but unable to move any further than he had been able to in his waking moments back in Percy's old bedroom.

He ground his teeth as the Death Eaters circled the cross, slowly disrobing Ginny, item by item, by casting cutting hexes at her. They cared little whether the hexes hit cloth or skin, and by the time her outer robes fell from her frame, leaving her dressed just in knickers and a bra, Ginny's body was a bloody mess, her screams echoing across the horizon, and her eyes pleading with Harry to save her.

It was the latter than affected Harry most. She so desperately needed his help, yet he was unable to do anything. He could sense her accusing him of inaction, demanding that he come to her rescue, yet knowing he was unable to.

Harry screwed his eyes closed to block the scene out. He willed himself to calm down. He repeated his cantrips time and time again as he attempted to filter out Ginny's screams and the mad cackling of the Death Eaters assaulting her.

"It's not real, you know," he heard suddenly, the voice sounding welcoming in his ears, and dragging his attention away from the sight of his girlfriend being molested.

"I know," he replied. "But that doesn't help."

"Concentrate, Harry. Focus on controlling your heartbeat. Calm yourself down."

He gritted his teeth and forced himself into that obstinate frame of mind where he believed he could do anything, then gradually worked at putting everything else out of his mind as he slipped into his relaxed, meditative state.

"Good," the voice complimented him. "Now try and find his presence, and force him out."

Harry probed around in his mind, searching for the hint of Voldemort's presence that he could grasp hold of and eject. Suddenly, he spotted it, and wondered how on earth it had ever escaped his attention before.

The presence was a slinking, slimy thing, with what Harry could only describe as a strong odour of hatred. It slid around inside his mind, jinking from place to place, leaving a lingering stench wherever it went.

It also had a vaguely familiar feeling, as though it belonged in Harry's mind - that it understood him.

Harry recoiled at the realisation that this had been a part of him the previous year, directing his emotions and channelling his anger. Its mere existence disgusted Harry, and he moved swiftly to trap it.

He pushed his probing out to the very extremities of his mind, and tracked Voldemort's trail in his memories.

It touched on a thought about the Dursleys here, a memory of the Chamber of Secrets there, then dipped into a well of remembered experiences during the Tri-wizard tournament, searching, seeking something to use against him, darting around to try and make the most efficient use of the time to infiltrate Harry's memories.

It moved decisively to his memory of Sirius's death, and suddenly seemed to pick up speed, as though it had found the scent of something it was keen to track down.

It started following a linear path, and Harry tracked it from Sirius's death in the veil room in the Department of Mysteries, through Harry's attempted use of the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange. It tarried there a moment as though enjoying the experience, then continued steadily through the battle between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord in the Ministry Atrium.

Harry guessed now where the trail was heading: straight to his knowledge of the prophecy.

"Time to act, then," Harry decided.

He allowed the tainted presence to inch its way into the memory of Harry's return to Dumbledore's office that fateful night, and slowly, slowly, cut off all avenues of escape, then ran right up the same memory line, and trapped the presence in place.

He felt it pulsing as Voldemort realised he had been detected and isolated and attempted to shake off the shackles that Harry had imposed.

He wasn't strong enough.

Harry's mental probe came right up behind the presence and squeezed it tightly, so that it had nowhere to go, then forcibly propelled it out of his mind.

He sighed deeply, and looked around.

Ginny, the Death Eaters and the crucifix were all gone, as was any sign of the metal stakes or the injuries that Harry had suffered at their points.

The sun beamed down on a scenic view across a series of meadows, occasional trees breaking up the landscape providing oasises of shade.

He sighed and smiled at the view.

A young man popped into existence before him. It was something of a strange experience, even though Harry was used to seeing wizards Apparate, because it was almost like looking into a mirror. The dark-haired, green-eyed young man smiled at him.

"One thing down. One to go," he said, and Harry immediately recognised the voice he'd been hearing all along.

He had so many questions.

"You're me?" he asked.

"Sort of," the dream-Harry replied. "I'm more a manifestation of your sub-conscious."

"Wow! I sub-consciously know how to use words like 'manifestation'!" Harry thought with amusement. "So what do I do now?"

"Now you have to purge yourself of the poison."

"Wait! I remember. We discussed this before!"

The dream-Harry nodded sagely.

Harry once again settled into his meditation, then pulled his magic into place, running it through his veins and analysing what he found.

"That's disgusting!" he exclaimed when he reached his conclusion. "The structure of my blood has totally changed!"

He thought for a moment.

"Can I use my magic to completely change my blood?" he asked his dream-self.

"Yes." He replied. "Think about what you need to change. Concentrate on applying that to your whole body. Think about how your blood should feel if it were clean."

He projected an image of thick, crimson blood flowing through his veins, and compared it with what his was currently like.

The difference was startling. At the moment his blood almost felt like it was curdled - a slow-moving crust forming over the top of it, preventing the oxygen getting to where it was needed, and a foul, sick-looking miasma to it.

Once he was happy that he understood the differences, he sat on a rock that mysteriously appeared out of thin air, and placed his hand upon his chest, staring out across the sun-dappled and lush meadows in the valley in front of him.

"Whatever you do, don't stop once you've started," the dream-Harry advised.

He nodded and took a deep breath.

He pulled his magic into the tips of his fingers and willed it to spread throughout his chest and into his heart, down through his veins, out into his limbs, up into his brain, and to the very ends of his fingers and toes. He felt the circle complete itself as the magic returned through his veins to his heart, and he willed his blood to change.

His heart felt as though it would explode with the strain he placed on it as he forced it to cease pumping just for the briefest of moments as he purged the poison from his system and replaced his infected blood with a whole gallon or more of fresh, clean blood. Sweat broke out on his forehead and along his arms with the extreme effort and the heat.

Heat seared through his veins as the poisoned blood disappeared and was replaced, and he willed his heart to re-start, to circulate the fresh blood around his system.

The pain slowly left him as he felt the blood pumping around his body once more and he let his magic drain back into his fingertips.

"Thank Merlin for that!" his dream-self exhaled with a gasp.

"What?" Harry sat up with a start. "I thought you knew what I was doing!"

"I only know what you know. I'm you, remember?"

Harry spluttered for a moment, then acknowledged the logic of that.

"That was a bit of a risk then!"

The dream-Harry shrugged. "You needed to get back. We both know that. There was no other way. Pomfrey was adamant you hadn't been poisoned and didn't even tell Dumbledore what you said."

"I suppose I should wake up now."

"Not really. Even though you've been asleep a lot, it's not been a very restorative sleep. Just relax, and you'll wake up feeling a lot more refreshed when your body's really ready." He looked around and smiled gently. "Well, my work here's done."

Harry had a thousand questions that he really wanted to ask his dream self, but with that final comment, the apparition disappeared, leaving little for Harry to do but relax as he'd been told, and wait for his body to recover properly. He slept peacefully.

When he came to, he was relieved to feel almost normal compared to how horrible he had felt on awaking on previous occasions. Admittedly his throat was very sore, and felt as though he had been shouting at the team for a whole Quidditch practice, not that Katie would ever have stood for such behaviour.

His stomach felt rather empty too, and he hoped that this time when he opened his eyes the room would be steady around him, and he wouldn't feel as though he wanted to expel his stomach contents.

Cautiously he cracked his eyes open just a slit, and was relieved not to see the room spin before him.

He sighed heavily, and relaxed back into his pillow, taking in the room around him as he opened his eyed a little wider, and brushed away the sleep that clogged them.

There was a strangely muted white light peeking through the curtains that seemed a little at odds with the sliver of deep-blue, star-studded night sky he could also see. A small night-light provided the remainder of the illumination for the room.

Mrs Weasley dozed in an armchair a few feet away, her head lolling off to one side, looking dangerously close to slipping off the side of the chair and onto the adjacent desk. She held a copy of the Daily Prophet loosely in one hand, though from this distance Harry couldn't make out whether it was a recent edition, and what the headlines said, especially without his glasses.

Suddenly remembering them, he turned to the bedside table, where he almost instinctively expected them to be, but couldn't find them straightaway, so he squinted around the room trying to make out everything else and to spot where he'd left his spectacles.

On the desk next to Mrs Weasley's peacefully slumbering form were arranged what looked like potions vials, no doubt to be fed to him should he awaken again during the night. For once, he was glad that he'd been forced to take them: without the nutritional supplements and the analgesics that Madam Pomfrey had undoubtedly dosed him up with, he wasn't sure he would feel quite as well as he did - hunger and sore throat notwithstanding.

He levered himself out of the bed, wincing at the use of muscles that had been given little warning of such strenuous activity after their recent relaxation, and caught a nasty tang of something odious in the air. He grimaced briefly as he considered how bad he must smell, and eased his way across to the window.

He quietly lifted the latch and pushed it wide open. He took a deep breath of fresh air, the chill night breeze washing over him and sending shivers down his spine as he worked his tongue around the disgusting flavour that lingered in his mouth.

"Eugh!" he muttered quietly as his fetid breath steamed in front of him in the chill night air. "That's horrible! I need to clean my teeth!"

He smiled as he looked out into the Weasleys' back yard. The strange light he had seen from his bed was the stars and the dim glow of the lights in the lower floors of The Burrow reflecting off a thick blanket of fresh snow.

There were a few footprints - heavy indentations deep into the surface that emphasised the effort it had taken simply to cross the yard - leading from Mr Weasley's shed to the back door, but apart from that it lay largely undisturbed, a scene reminiscent of how Harry had long imagined a perfect Christmas-time night would appear, before the Dursleys had ground the last vestiges of hope out of him.

Leaving the window open to air the room, though not so full as to freeze Mrs Weasley, he headed for the bathroom to clean himself up. He tried not to think about who might have done that for him while he had been comatose, and returned from the bathroom feeling much more refreshed for the sake of a shower, clean teeth and a drink of cold water from the tap.

His stomach grumbled a little as he re-entered the room, which reminded him he'd not had much to eat in a while. Although the potions that he'd been fed had kept his nutrient levels up, they couldn't have been very filling, and his stomach gurgled again at the thought of some good, wholesome Burrow-cooked food.

He licked his lips and considered going downstairs to find something to eat. First though, he stripped the bedclothes from the bed and bundled them together, trying hard not to look too closely at the state that he had left them in.

He crept quietly down the stairs so as not to wake anyone and into the kitchen, grinning widely at the sight of the kitchen table laden with traditional Christmas fare: he could make out the faintest smell of freshly-baked mince pies, and could see them laid out on a plate next to some coconut-topped pastries. Sandwiches and cakes were strewn on trays laid out across the table, no doubt left over from this evening's supper, and he looked longingly at the slices of Christmas cake that had been served up, their rich currenty goodness making his mouth water.

He stuffed his dirty linen into the washing machine, and poured a handful of powder into the appropriate receptacle. He'd seen Mrs Weasley do this a time or two, and it was no different to what he would have done with the washing at the Dursleys. It was only when he gently pushed the door to, and heard it click shut, that the difference was obvious as, without him touching anything else, the machine started to hum with life and fill with water.

He dusted the loose specks of powder off his hands, and turned back to survey the room.

The kitchen had been decked out in crepe hangings, reds and greens almost as vibrant than, though less visually offensive as, the Chudley Cannons décor in Ron's room. The place seemed almost alive, restlessly content with the good cheer of Christmas. Hearing noises emanating from the living room, he poked his head through the door, and his eyes lit up with wonder at the scene.

Like the kitchen, the living room had been decked out in colour, resplendent with the joys of the festive season. The Christmas Tree that dominated one corner of the room was set off at a jaunty angle that would have infuriated Aunt Petunia, and its roots could barely be seen for the brightly wrapped boxes that perched underneath it.

He let his eyes wander around the room, revelling in the lifelike Santa Clauses, holly leaves and snowmen that had been enchanted to roam around the walls in the corners of the room. The crepe hangings were complemented with generous swathes of tinsel, which wrapped themselves around the nooks and crannies of the room, making each and every corner seem bright and welcoming.

Mistletoe hung from the ceiling, and Harry made a careful note of its location, so that he could be sure he was only going to be kissed when he was ready to be - Nargles or not.

"A real Christmas," Harry thought, casting his mind back to the dreary affairs he had sat through at the Dursleys, though perhaps they were only dreary to him because he was never made to feel a part of the occasion.

"A proper family Christmas," he concluded.

He sighed heavily, a combination of contentment and regret, glad now that he knew what Christmas was supposed to be about, yet missing the innocence of childhood Christmases that could never be returned to him.

What topped everything off though was that Ron and Ginny were huddled over a wizarding chess set, deep in concentration as they pitted their wits against one another.

His friends.

He smiled, and watched as Ginny absently tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, then scratched gently at her nose where it had been tickling her.

He stood there silently and watched them, listening to Ron grumbling good-naturedly about how much Ginny's game had improved.

"Has someone been teaching you?" Ron muttered, not taking his eyes from the board in front of him. "You never used to stop me winning with this offense."

Ginny just chuckled at him, and leaned back, stretching her arms up into the air and tilting her neck from one side to the other to ease the muscles. As she did, she caught sight of Harry stood in the doorway.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, jumping up from her stool.

"No chance," Ron grumbled, still eyeing his chess pieces warily. "Harry's no good at chess - he can't have been teaching you."

"Idiot!"

Ginny rapped her brother on the side of the head with a knuckle and leaped across the room at Harry, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his chest.

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed belatedly, his features strained as he rubbed the spot where Ginny had attacked him. "How are you, mate?"

"Better, I'm glad to say."

To Harry's astonishment, Ginny leant back and thumped him on the chest, tears clearly flowing from her eyes as she remonstrated with him.

"Damn it Harry!" she sobbed. "I thought you were going to die! You were so weak! Madam Pomfrey said your heart even stopped!"

Harry carefully grabbed hold of her wrists to stop her continuous assault of his chest, and pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head as she cried into his pyjama top.

"There, there," he soothed, a little clumsily. "Everything's alright now."

The sobs died down as he put his arms around her shoulders and hugged her, reassuring her that his presence was real, solid, verifiable fact.

"So, what happened, mate?" Ron asked, looking a little bemused at his sister's antics.

He grinned at Ron over Ginny's shoulder.

"I'll tell you when everyone's here, if that's okay?" he suggested. "It isn't so interesting that I'd want to tell it twice."

"Well Dad should be home soon," Ron noted. "He's been really busy at work, but even on Christmas Eve they're normally let out by eight o'clock."

"Christmas Eve?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you think we've been so worried?" Ginny interjected, her voice coming out from somewhere near Harry's armpit initially, before she disengaged herself from him a little. "It's the second time this term that you've been out of it for a full week!"

"Er, technically, it's not term-"

"-thank you Ron.

"You've been ill for weeks, too. Don't say you haven't," Ginny argued when Harry seemed about to protest, "I could hear you grumbling about feeling thick-headed - if it were Ron I wouldn't have been worried-"

"Hey!"

"-but you're not normally quite as bad as that, especially since you started doing Occlumency."

Harry conceded the point.

"Anyway, Mum and Madam Pomfrey have been taking turns looking after you, feeding you potions and trying to keep your temperature down. Apparently you've been hallucinating and all sorts, and they were really worried about you."

Ginny's voice rose again a little at this last statement, fright clearly evident in her tone. She giggled a little hysterically, finding something funny.

"Your room stank something awful, you know," she said between stifled giggles. "Madam Pomfrey was quite insistent that everyone stay out when she was cleaning you down."

Harry blanched, then glowed crimson with embarrassment at this reminder of his helplessness and the need to be so intimately catered for. It could have been worse though, at least Madam Pomfrey was used to dealing with stricken, bed-ridden patients.

"I left the window open to get some fresh air in," he pointed out in mitigation.

"What about the sheets?"

"Oh, I already put them in the wash."

She sniffed the air. "You've had a shower too!"

"I don't want to hear any more," Ron put in.

"I just need to know where your Mum keeps the clean bedclothes," Harry half-asked.

"Oh don't worry about that," Ginny giggled again, pulling Harry close again. "You can share my bed."

"Argh!" Ron covered his ears at Ginny's statement, and Harry blushed an even deeper shade of red, if that was possible.

"I'm not sure your Mother would agree to that!" came a new voice from the doorway.

"Dad!" Ginny unwound herself from Harry and flew towards Mr Weasley to give him a big hug to welcome him home.

"Good to see you up and about again, Harry," Mr Weasley noted with a smile. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Harry repeated his offer to tell everyone together, and Mr Weasley departed to round up the appropriate people, using the Floo to contact Professor Dumbledore and John Christopher, the latter at Harry's insistence.

Ron also left the room to wake Mrs Weasley from her slumbering vigil, and Harry and Ginny were left alone together.

"You know, this is the first proper family Christmas I've had," he smiled down at her, touching his lips to her forehead. "I'm glad I'm well enough to enjoy it."

"So am I," she responded, tilting her head up to look him in the eyes. "During the last few days, that's the best Christmas present I could have wished for." She reached up to the back of his head and pulled him down to her, kissing him gently, then gradually more forcefully as they stood there under the mistletoe.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," she murmured against his lips.

"Merry Christmas," he replied softly, adding almost as an afterthought: "Yes, I think it is."