Intersections

Chapter 18: Shocks

Hermione did not know how long she knelt on the ground, tears streaming down her face, before a cold, wet nudge on her wrist drew her back to her senses. Sniffling heavily, she blinked down in surprise at the massive black dog that was whining beside her, its ears flattened back against its head. The dog nudged her injured hand, whining, and Hermione winced as its nose brushed against the cuts, a stinging pain erupting along her palm. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers and watched as a tiny black button, covered with blood, fell onto the cracked pavement. Confused, she turned her attention to the crumpled bloodstained parchment that lay pressed against her palm. She lifted it out, unfolding it with shaking fingers, and looked down blankly at the loopy black print, stained here and there with flecks of her blood.

The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Something was moving at the edge of Hermione's vision. The black dog whined again, pawing at her ankles insistently, and she stood up on shaky legs, gasping as a house seemed to appear before her eyes, pushing its neighbors to the side as it expanded outward. Her heart pounding, Hermione looked around, trying to see if anyone else had noticed, but she and the dog were the only beings on the street. A foul smell wafted toward her, and Hermione wrinkled her nose at the overflowing bin-bags that sat to her right, sweets wrappers and crisps packets decorating the small, rusty gate that guarded the entrance to house Number Eleven. The house's dirty, cracked windows vibrated in time with a thudding, pulsing beat from an overly powerful stereo, and Hermione shivered as she took in the rest of the street. All of the houses appeared to be in derelict condition, including the one that had just appeared - Number Twelve.

The dog whined loudly and began to head toward Number Twelve. Hermione hesitated, staring after it, her muddled thoughts slowly clicking together like puzzle pieces lying forgotten in the back of her mind. "Sirius?" she breathed.

Sirius - the dog - stopped and looked back at her, growling in warning, and then motioned for her to follow with a jerk of his head. Hermione glanced at the parchment still crumpled in her hand and slowly crossed the bare, dry lawn to the battered, wooden door. It had no handle, but it did have a tarnished silver knocker in the shape of a serpent. Hermione frowned and looked down at Sirius. "How am I supposed to enter?" she asked.

Sirius the dog whined and nudged her right knee. Hermione's brow furrowed. "Oh," she said softly, spotting the wand sticking out of her right jeans pocket. She'd brought it along just in case something happened when she and Harry were flying. Her eyes widened as she pulled out her wand, thankful that it was her left hand that had been injured and not her right. "Sirius," she whispered urgently. "Harry -"

Sirius cut her off with a low growl, baring his teeth.

Hermione's mouth snapped shut, and she stepped back, startled and a little frightened. "What?"

Sirius looked at the door again, and then looked back at her.

"How do I open it?" asked Hermione, feeling slightly foolish talking to a dog, though she knew it was a person. "Will Alohomora work?"

Sirius jerked his head up and down, his tail wagging.

Hermione pressed her wand to the door. Her hands were trembling. "Alohomora," she whispered.

The door swung open to reveal a long hallway with flickering light. Sirius waited until Hermione had stepped in before pushing the door shut with one paw, transforming from dog to man in an instant. He drew his wand and tapped the door with it; Hermione heard the click of a lock, even though the door had no doorknob. Her eyes watered as she took in the peeling wallpaper and dusty portraits lit weakly by cobweb-covered gas lamps. It was as if she'd stepped into Charles Dickens' Great Expectations, and she half-expected the little girl Estella to round the corner and lead her to aged, decrepit Miss Havisham. Hermione choked as a hysterical laugh bubbled up from her throat. What was she doing thinking about Dickens at a time like this?

"Hermione," said Sirius quietly, his brow furrowed in concern. "Are you all right?" He gently took hold of her injured hand, pulling the parchment out of it. "Incendio," he muttered, and he quickly let go as the parchment burst into flames, a pile of ashes dropping onto the thin carpet. He turned her hand over, frowning as he examined the scabbed cuts along her palm. "What happened?"

"It was the model," answered Hermione. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance. "It exploded. Harry...he wanted me to take it..." Her hands and feet felt strangely cold, and she couldn't seem to make herself speak. Her breath sounded heavy in her ears, and she was shivering uncontrollably.

"Hermione." Sirius grasped her by the shoulders firmly. "Hermione, you're going into shock. Look at me."

Sirius' eye color changed from grey to black to grey in the quivering light. Hermione focused on them, taking deep, trembling breaths as she struggled to get herself under control. After a moment, Sirius drew back, seemingly satisfied.

"Let's get your hand healed," he said. "Follow me - quietly. I don't want to wake anyone up."

"Wake who up?" Hermione asked, confused.

Sirius waved a hand, leading her down the entry way. "I'll explain later," he said in a low voice. Hermione noticed a large set of curtains hanging in front of the wall, as if something was hidden there. Most of the decorations seemed to have something to do with serpents. She frowned, wondering what kind of place Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was supposed to be. An ancient snake temple, perhaps? Did wizards worship that kind of thing?

"Down here," Sirius muttered, opening a door at the end of the hall to reveal a set of narrow stone stairs. They descended into a large, cavernous kitchen with a large fireplace at the far end. Iron pots and pans, probably very rusted, hung from the ceiling above. A long wooden table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by twelve chairs. Sirius pulled one out for Hermione, gesturing for her to sit down, as he grabbed a rag lying near the stove. "Scourgify," he said quickly, turning and lighting the fireplace as soap and bubbles erupted out of the rag. "Aguamenti." Sirius wrung the water out of the rag and came toward Hermione.

"I apologize, I don't have any Murtlap essence or wound cleaner at the moment," he said. "Was it glass that cut you?"

Hermione nodded. Her throat seemed to have closed up for some reason, and she was shivering violently.

Sirius' brow creased. He handed her the damp but clean rag, and she let out a hitched breath as the cold moisture hit her wrist. "Can you clean the wound?" asked Sirius. "I'll Transfigure the rag into a bandage once you've finished." He shook his head bitterly. "There's nothing useful in this place. I've been trying to clean it, but it's too big for a one-person job..."

Hermione nodded, staring at the rag for a moment, and then slowly rubbed the dried blood off her skin, letting out a little cry as the contact made the pain of the wounds flare up once more. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she held them back, focusing on her task. When she was done, she set down the rag on the table, feeling slightly ill as she examined some of the newly reopened cuts. There were two long but shallow gashes along the palm of her hand, and the top of her hand had been grazed four or five times, once in between her index and middle finger.

"You're certain that there's no glass left in the wound?" asked Sirius.

She shrugged.

He took her hand and lit his wand with a quick "Lumos," squinting for a moment.

"I think you're all right," he said, wrapping her hand with a clean white roll of bandages. "The cuts on your palm may scar a bit. I'll ask Dumbledore to bring some medical supplies when he gets here."

"Where are we?" asked Hermione, finally finding her voice.

Sirius smiled grimly. "This," he announced with a flourish, "is my old childhood home. It's also the new headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, because it's got every security measure on it known to wizard-kind. My father made the house Unplottable, and Dumbledore's got it under a Fidelius Charm. There are loads of spells on all of the entrances to the house - I spent some time modifying the ones on the front door so that you could enter, but I repaired them right away."

Hermione fixed her eyes on the table as she processed all of this information. Then she took a deep breath. "Sirius," she began quietly. "Harry - he's still at...at the Burrow. He was knocked over, unconscious...injured...I couldn't help him. Remus pulled me away. I'm sorry..."

"That wasn't Harry," Sirius said sharply.

Hermione's head shot up. "What? What do you mean?"

"They didn't tell you?" he asked, shocked.

Hermione stared at him, her chest tightening. "Tell me what?"

Sirius rubbed the back of his neck, his expression darkening. "Do you know what Polyjuice Potion is?"

"No," Hermione replied apprehensively.

Sirius ran a hand through his shaggy hair, clearly aggrieved. "Polyjuice Potion is a potion that can turn you into someone else," he explained. "A Death Eater's been using it to masquerade as Harry in the Burrow since Tuesday, when Harry was captured by Voldemort somehow. We didn't know until Wednesday, when Voldemort -" Sirius' voice shook, and he closed his eyes as if he were in pain. "Voldemort used Harry for some kind of ritual, and then he summoned the Death Eaters so that he could show off. Dumbledore found out, and then he told us - me, Remus, Molly, and Arthur. That was why I left. To see someone posing as my godson - it - "

Hermione jumped in her seat as Sirius slammed a fist down onto the table, looking murderous. He took a breath, shaking his head like a dog, and continued, "I left to prepare this place as the new headquarters. We knew that the Death Eaters would be attacking the Burrow, especially since they'd managed to plant a fake Harry there."

Sirius' chair scraped loudly across the floor, and he began pacing, anxiety written all over his face. "Apparently Harry escaped from Voldemort on Thursday night. Dumbledore sent him instructions to go to his aunt and uncle's house, but he hasn't arrived there yet. We don't know where he is."

Hermione gaped at Sirius, her eyes wide as the information slowly sank in. Harry's behavior for the past week suddenly made much more sense. She felt sick to her stomach. Whoever had been posing as Harry, she'd ridden a broom with him, held him around the waist, even fantasized about kissing him...she'd trusted him with her life, and not only that, but with her heart. "Oh, my God," she whispered, paling. Her arms were beginning to shake again - arms that had hugged an impostor, a stranger, and her whole body felt dirty. She wanted to run to the shower and scrub herself until her skin was red and raw, but she felt frozen to the chair, unable to move. "Oh my God..."

"Tea," said Sirius abruptly, bringing her back down to Earth. He moved to the stove and put the kettle on. "You need tea."

"But..." Hermione stared at Sirius uncomprehendingly, trying to sort out her thoughts. "But Remus...Remus still taught Harry in lessons, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley acted the same way toward Harry. If they already knew that Harry was - wasn't Harry, but actually a Death Eater, why didn't they try to capture the Death Eater right away?"

"That's what I suggested," Sirius replied, as he slammed down two cups of tea jerkily, "but Dumbledore said that it was better to wait." Sirius ran a hand through his hair agitatedly. "He said that we should lure the Death Eaters in, give them a false sense of security so that we could take them off-guard when they tried to attack us. We knew that they'd do it today, so we were prepared. If they found out that we already knew about the fake Harry, then they would have tried to attack the Burrow immediately, when we didn't have backup from the rest of the Order."

Hermione numbly examined the end of her singed plait, feeling the ash crumble between her fingers like her view of life for the past week. "They didn't tell me," she whispered. The sense of betrayal threatened to choke her; she struggled for air. "Why didn't they tell me that Harry wasn't really Harry? Why didn't they tell me? Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice rose shrilly, and she glared at Sirius furiously.

Sirius looked taken aback. "I -"

A deep, insidious voice emerged from the shadows, cutting him off. "Kreacher hears the Mudblood screaming, oh yes, savage beast like it is, oh, my poor mistress, if she could see Kreacher now..."

"Damn," muttered Sirius, turning to face the ugly, short creature that had come out from somewhere behind the kitchen. It had a bulbous nose and many folds of skin, and white tufts of hair were sprouting out behind its pointy, drooping ears. Hermione fought to keep herself from grimacing as she caught sight of the filthy pillowcase that was draped across its hunched body.

"Filthy Mudblood, invading mistress' house -"

"Kreacher!" Sirius snapped. "Go to the drawing room and clean the windows. Now."

Kreacher bowed, its nose touching the floor. "Kreacher must do as master says," he croaked, his bullfrog voice echoing through the silent room. "Oh, my poor mistress, if she could see Kreacher now, mistress' son, shame of her flesh..."

"Now!" Sirius barked.

Kreacher slinked out of the room, still muttering under his breath. "Kreacher must listen to the blood-traitor master, but Kreacher will not clean for the Mudblood, oh no..."

Sirius turned back to Hermione, his jaw clenched. "I'm sorry about him."

"What was he?" asked Hermione tentatively. Sirius was obviously touchy about this Kreacher, whatever it was.

Sirius' face lit with surprise. "Oh - you don't know. That was a house-elf. They're usually bound to old pureblood families - like servants." He grimaced. "I never did get along with Kreacher. I think he went round the twist when my dear old mum died."

"Your mum?" said Hermione. "I'm sor--"

Sirius cut her off. "No," he said roughly, waving a hand. "Don't be. I hated her. She would have hated you if she'd ever met you." He sighed as Hermione sent him a bewildered, hurt look and explained, "You're a Muggleborn. You come from a Muggle family, but you were born a witch. My mother - along with most of the rest of my family" -Sirius spat out the last word as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth - "was very supportive of the pureblood Slytherin ideology. Purebloods are wizards who can trace their magical heritage back through several generations.

"Voldemort and the Death Eaters - most of whom are pureblood - believe that purebloods are superior to Muggles and Muggle-borns, and that the world would be better off without so-called 'tainted blood.'" Sirius' face twisted. "'Mudblood' is a slur for Muggle-borns, and 'blood-traitor' is a slur for purebloods - like the Weasleys - who believe in treating all wizards equally, regardless of their heritage. As you can tell, Kreacher, like most of my family, believes in all of that rot." He glanced at Hermione. "None of it's true, of course. Lily Evans, Harry's mother, was one of the brightest and most powerful witches in the world, and she was Muggleborn just like you."

Pausing to drain his teacup, Sirius continued, "I had enough of it by my sixth year at Hogwarts. During the Christmas holiday, I ran away to J--to the Potters' house and lived with them till I came into my inheritance from my Uncle Alphard. My parents, of course, didn't give me anything - they'd already written me out of their wills and blasted me off the family tree. I bought a little house of my own, but it's long gone now." He looked down into his teacup, depressed. "I never thought I'd have to be stuck here again."

Hermione didn't know how to respond. "It's not that bad," she said bracingly, glancing around the kitchen that could have served as a set for a horror film. "You can leave sometimes, can't you?"

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. "I'm still a wanted fugitive, Hermione, in the magical and Muggle world. No, I can't leave."

"You can as a dog," Hermione pointed out, not even certain as to why she was arguing this point. It was easier to focus on this than on everything else that had just happened.

"Not anymore," Sirius countered, his hands curling into fists. "Wormtail has apparently gone back to his master. He'll have told Voldemort about my Animagus form. I'm trapped here until we capture Wormtail and I can be proven innocent."

Hermione had no answer to that. She finished the remains of her cold tea and numbly examined the leaves, remembering, randomly, her third year at Witsford, when Cecilia had bought her something called The Little Tea Book as a birthday gift and insisted that they try to predict their futures using tea leaves. Hermione had complied, reluctantly, but hadn't believed a single word, especially after Cecilia insisted that some of Hermione's tea leaves looked exactly like a piece of bacon, and then a monkey, and then a pelican. Hermione couldn't remember now what the symbols had meant. She wondered what Cecilia would say if she ever found out the truth about Hermione's current schooling.

"Can you tell me what happened at the Burrow?" asked Sirius, interrupting her thoughts once more. "How did you get hurt?" He frowned. "Remus told me that he'd send you here early, before the Death Eaters arrived, so that you wouldn't have to get involved."

Hermione met Sirius' gaze unwillingly, her cheeks burning in shame, and described how she and Harry - no, the fake Harry - had gone flying and spotted the Dark Mark, heading straight into the battle. "He Summoned my astronomy model - a Christmas gift from one of my M-Muggle friends in London - and tried to make me take it for some reason. I don't know why. Then someone - I think Remus - made the model explode...the glass hit my hand." She gulped in some air, her body cold as she continued, "I - I tried to get to the...the fake Harry. Remus kept holding me back, but I wouldn't listen. He put something into my hand - a button, and that parchment with the address, and then I was here." She ran a finger across the dirty wooden table and studied the pattern she left behind in the dust, flicking the remaining dust off her fingers with a small cough.

"Hold on," said Sirius, his eyes narrowing. "The Death Eater tried to make you take the astronomy model?"

Hermione nodded. "He pushed it towards me. I don't know why it was so important."

"And you said that your Muggle friend from London gave it you?"

"As a Christmas gift," replied Hermione, her breath hitching in her throat."It was from my friend Daniel. He loves astronomy. He said he wanted to give me something by which I could remember him..." Hermione's voice trailed off as she remembered Daniel and Richard's distant behavior during their visit over the winter holidays. Polyjuice Potion can turn you into someone else...Hermione's stomach curled. It wasn't possible...she didn't want to believe it...

"It was probably a Portkey," Sirius mused. "But I don't know how he would have stopped anyone else from touching it beforehand. And I don't know where a Death Eater would want to take you...maybe to Voldemort..."

"Wait, a - a what?" she asked, trying to keep up. "What's a Portkey?"

"Oh - it's usually a small object that looks like rubbish," Sirius replied distractedly. "The button that Remus gave you was one - that's how you got here. It transports you from one place to another within a matter of seconds. Very useful for minors, since you can't Apparate yet. But usually you need Ministry authorization to make one, unless you're Dumbledore..."

"A Portkey," repeated Hermione distantly, committing it to memory even though word felt strange and heavy on her tongue.

"We should have made one for Harry." Sirius' voice broke. His shoulders fell and he dropped his face in his hands, trembling just as he had when he'd told Harry and Hermione what had happened the night Harry's parents died. Across the table, Hermione gazed at him, her heart aching for them both.

"It's not your fault," she said softly, knowing the words were hollow and saying them anyway.

The fireplace provided little light. For a moment they simply sat there in the stifling darkness, lost in their own thoughts.

"Tuesday," Hermione whispered to herself. She remembered Tuesday well. That had been the day Sirius and Remus served Harry Firewhisky, the day Harry had started acting differently....Hermione's stomach gave a strange jolt, and she let out a little gasp. "Polyjuice"--turned people into other people, she thought quickly, and "Firewhisky"--Remus would never be so irresponsible -"Harry" - had asked her not to mention the incident -

Sirius frowned at her guardedly. "Hermione?"

"Yes...I think - it makes sense now - right?"

"Come again?"

"I - I know how Voldemort took Harry," she blurted out in a rush. "I know how he did it."

"What?" Sirius' eyes sharpened. "How?"

Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and hurried to explain Tuesday's events. Sirius inhaled sharply when she told him how the Death Eaters had deceived both her and Harry using the Firewhisky. "I shouldn't have left Harry alone," she whispered, feeling hot tears press against her eyelids. "I could have stopped them from taking him. I could have prevented the whole thing."

Sirius studied her, his expression unreadable. "It's - it's not your fault," he said haltingly, echoing her own words back at her. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known."

Hermione nodded miserably. She knew Sirius was right, but she couldn't help but heat up with guilt and shame. Her whole world had been upturned within the past hour. Her whole life - well, recent life - had been a lie. And how far back did the deception run? Had Daniel and Richard also been Death Eaters in disguise? The same two Death Eaters who impersonated Sirius and Remus, even? Then they definitely would have known that Harry couldn't hold his liquor, that he would get sleepy after drinking just a little bit. They hadn't wanted to talk to her, either, probably because she was Muggleborn. And they hadn't talked to anyone else. And to think, she'd let them stay in her house - let them meet her parents and sit at her breakfast table, introduced them to her friends...

Hermione felt as if she couldn't breathe. She'd put everyone in danger, including her own parents, and now she could do nothing to change it. She needed to call her parents. She needed to warn them. In her mind's eye, she saw the Dark Mark hovering above her parents' dental office in London, the breaking glass and screams and smoke. She couldn't bear to put her parents through that again, not when they'd just moved away from it all, not when everything was going so smoothly. "I have to...I have to tell them," she whispered, her chest heaving as she took in panicked breaths of air, "I have to make sure they're all right..." The guilt was threatening to crush her, and blackness was starting to encompass her vision. "It's my fault..."

"Hermione!" Sirius' voice came from a great distance. "Calm down, calm down -"

"I - I think I'm going to be sick," she whispered, and the last thing she saw was her own dusty fingerprint in the wood as she tipped forward onto the table.

--------------------------

"Argh!"

Harry's cry rang out through the small waiting room of the hospital as he jerked awake and slapped a hand to his forehead, his scar burning furiously. Voldemort was beyond angry at the moment. Harry closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the rage, but no images flashed across his vision - his scar simply blazed with pain. Biting his lip hard, Harry recalled his Occlumency lessons, and, pushing aside all thoughts of Snape, he struggled to build concrete barriers against the fire that threatened to overtake his mind and body.

"Are you all right?"

Harry shook his head, focusing on his Occlumency as the fire abated slightly. He opened his eyes, blinking back tears and meeting the sharp brown gaze of the concerned doctor peering down at him. "Sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "My - my head hurt."

"D'you want me to take a look at it?" asked the doctor, straightening up in a blur of white. "You looked like you were in an awful lot of pain there."

Harry swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, heat rising in his cheeks. "No. No, I'm fine. Could you give me the time?"

The doctor sent Harry a dubious glance. "It's ten-thirty in the morning," he answered. "You sure you're all right?"

"Fine," said Harry shortly. "I'm fine." He flattened his fringe down over his scar and smiled weakly. "Thanks."

"All right then..." said the doctor, frowning. "My name's Doctor Clellan, lad, and I'm on the third floor in room 302. You don't hesitate to come find me if it hurts again, all right?"

Harry nodded, flushing. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

The doctor walked away. Harry's face burned as the other people in the waiting room stared at him curiously. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the wall, trying to ignore the pounding pain in his temples and the boiling rage that jolted through his scar every few minutes. He still had another hour and a half before Uncle Vernon arrived. He just needed to make it through until then.

The ride in the ambulance had been short. Harry had nearly fallen asleep in the back, but the paramedics had kept asking him questions about Frank, and half an hour later, Harry had stumbled through the hospital doors awash with guilt, his head throbbing and his body aching from exhaustion. He'd told the paramedics that Frank had fainted somehow; he had a feeling that it wouldn't go over well if he revealed that he was a wizard and had shot Frank with a magical spell whose effects he didn't even know. As the doctors carted Frank off to the Accident and Casualty department, Harry had used the last of his energy to drag himself to the front desk and ring up Uncle Vernon, and then had staggered over to a seat in the waiting room and promptly fallen asleep.

I reckon I won't be getting back to that any time soon, thought Harry wearily, as his forehead seared with another fiery burst of pain. He choked down a gasp and hastily blinked back tears, his stomach rumbling with hunger. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing tightly, trying to abate the hunger. His wand, hidden in his waistband, pressed against him unpleasantly, while those in jeans pockets jabbed his thigh.

Harry wished he had some money to buy food. He'd left his purse back at the Burrow - he'd had no need to carry it around while he was there, and he'd never had any pocket money to start with, anyway. Gritting his teeth, he fiddled with one of the dirt-stained dressings on his wrists as his stomach nearly roared its way out of his body. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment and he quickly averted his gaze as an elderly woman sitting across from him lifted her head from her magazine and looked around.

"Hello," a high-pitched voice piped up near Harry's elbow.

Harry blinked and squinted down at the sandy-haired child looking up at him inquiringly. "Er," he said, feeling unaccountably awkward, "hi."

"Your tummy's very loud, you know," said the little boy. "And you smell funny, and there's dirt under your fingernails. I don't think Mrs. Carney would like you very much. She'd give you a scolding and then make you go to the washroom, and then when you came back she'd make you sit with your nose in the corner. That's what she did to Billy Starks last week, 'cause he forgot to wash his hands before lunch. He didn't mean to forget. It was just, he managed to catch a toad near the pond and he was showing everybody. Toads are awful hard to catch. I've never caught one myself. My name's Nicholas, what's yours?"

"Er," muttered Harry, his mind spinning. "My - my name's Harry."

"Hello Harry," said Nicholas, grinning, climbing up onto the seat next to Harry's. His face scrunched up as Harry's stomach growled again. "You must be very hungry. Mummy says that people shouldn't go hungry, but they shouldn't eat too much either. Is that why you're hungry now? Did you eat too much for breakfast so now you have to be hungry to make up for it?"

"I had a big breakfast," Harry replied tentatively, wondering where exactly this conversation was going. His face contorted as his forehead burned with another outburst of pain.

"What's the matter, Harry? Are you hurt? Mummy says that when you're hurt you go to the hospital. Is that why you're here?"

"Not exactly," answered Harry, blinking rapidly. "I'm waiting for someone."

"Of course you are," Nicholas scoffed. "It's called a waiting room. I can spell that, you know. W...A...I...T...and then I...N...G. That part sometimes trips me up, but Mummy says I'm real smart just for knowing that it's supposed to be there."

"Where's your mummy now?" Harry interrupted, hoping to stop Nicholas before he could go on.

Nicholas shrugged. "She said she needed to use the loo. I was waiting outside for her, but she was taking ages, so I went exploring. Billy Starks told me that if I ever went to a hospital, I should -"

"Nicholas Trey Pembleton!" someone screeched.

"That's Mummy," Nicholas informed Harry, as a short woman with flyaway dark brown hair barreled through the room and snatched her son out of the chair, pulling him against her.

"Don't you ever do something like that again! I told you to stay outside of the loo, Nicholas, why did you run off again? You nearly gave Mummy a heart attack! You and I are going to have a long talk when we get home. Don't expect to see outside of your room for a few days!" Mrs. Pembleton turned to Harry, sighing. "I'm terribly sorry. I hope my son hasn't been bothering you."

"Mummy, this is Harry," said Nicholas, squirming out of her grasp. "He's hungry. I heard his tummy all the way down the hallway!"

Harry flushed. "Er - he's exaggerating," he mumbled.

"No, he's not," another voice croaked. It was the elderly woman who had been reading a magazine. She was watching them with avid interest. "Poor lad's stomach's been calling for food since I arrived," she told Mrs. Pembleton, shaking her head. "Disturbing my reading, poor thing."

"Oh my," said Mrs. Pembleton, looking down at Harry with pity. "Haven't you any money? Or are you waiting for an operation where you're not supposed to eat for some time?"

"I - I just -" Harry's face burned, curling in on himself as his stomach growled insistently. "I...I don't have my purse with me. It...was lost."

"Mrs. Carney says we're supposed to give food to the hungry people, Mummy," said Nicholas. "'Cause most of them are home...homeless. Are you homeless, Harry?"

"Nicholas! That's very rude," said Mrs. Pembleton sharply. Her face softened. "Why don't you come with me to the dining hall? I'll buy you a spot of lunch."

"I couldn't," Harry protested, even though he badly wanted to accept. "I don't...want to impose on you."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," Mrs. Pembleton reassured him. "In fact, Nicholas and I were just on our way to the dining hall. I'm sure he wouldn't mind some company, and I certainly wouldn't either. He can be such a handful."

"I think you should come, Harry," said Nicholas, who was bouncing up and down with excitement. "Maybe I won't even have to eat my vegetables."

A raspy chuckle escaped from Harry's throat. "I don't...I don't know..." he demurred uncertainly.

"Oh, just go on, boy," croaked the elderly woman. "Your stomach's been disturbing this whole room for the past half an hour. The sooner it's filled, the sooner we can sit in peace."

Mrs. Pembleton smiled at Harry expectantly. "Well?"

"All - all right," Harry mumbled.

"Up you get, then."

Harry tried to stand. His legs gave way and he immediately fell back down into his seat. "Ow," he muttered, trying once more and failing.

"Let me get a wheelchair for you," said Mrs. Pembleton hurriedly. "Nicholas, I want you to stay here with Harry. You're not to leave this room, do you understand me? I'll be back in a moment."

Harry watched her hair fly around the door, briefly reminded of Hermione. An ache settled in his chest. He hoped that Voldemort hadn't got to her or the Weasleys or Dumbledore. He hadn't even managed to warn them, and he had no way of contacting them now that he was out in the Muggle world. His two-way mirror was gone, and he didn't have an owl; he didn't know how to cast the weird silvery thing that Dumbledore had used. Harry frowned, trying to think against his pounding headache. Before he and Hermione had moved to the Burrow, before Dumbledore had given him the mirror, Harry had figured out a way to contact him...how had he done it? He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles, gasping as a fiery jolt lanced through his scar.

"Cor!" Nicholas' voice rang in Harry's ears, making the pounding in his head increase tenfold. "That's a wicked scar." Clambering onto the chair, Nicholas peered at Harry closely, his mouth dropping open as he almost pressed his forehead against the teen's. "It's shaped like a lightning bolt!"

"Yeah..." Harry whispered, taking a shaky breath as the pain from his scar subsided.

"Nicholas, get down from there. Here you are, Harry," said Mrs. Pembleton, pushing a wheelchair toward them with a nod to the elderly woman in the room. "Let's get you in, now."

Harry avoided her gaze, his cheeks flushed, as he climbed into the wheelchair reluctantly.

"Are we going to the dining hall, Mummy?" asked Nicholas, as Mrs. Pembleton wheeled him out of the waiting room. "But doesn't Harry need to go to the washroom first? His hands are dirty..."

One rather embarrassing trip to the washroom later, in which Nicholas nearly pushed Harry into the stall instead of to the sink, Harry was enjoying the first full meal he'd had in days. Staring at the food, he forced himself not to eat too quickly as he listened to Nicholas and his mother argue across the table. He noted with distant relief that his scar was no longer burning.

"Mummy, these vegetables taste bad," Nicholas whined.

"Nicholas, hush. There's nothing wrong with them."

"But - but what if they're spoiled? Mrs. Carney says that if you eat spoiled food, you can get very ill."

"It's a good thing we're in the hospital then, isn't it? They'll be able to fix you up right away."

"But Mummy, Harry isn't eating his vegetables!" cried Nicholas, pointing a finger accusingly at the teenager.

Harry's face burned, and he quickly stuck some sprouts into his mouth.

"He is now," laughed Mrs. Pembleton.

"But..."

"No buts, young man! Eat your vegetables, or I'm not making pudding tonight."

Nicholas scowled and shoved a forkful of sprouts into his mouth, making a face as he swallowed. "Where'd you get the scar?" he asked Harry. "Billy Starks has a scar on his face, too. He said he got it 'cause he was climbing a ten-foot tree and then he fell off the tallest branch. Ten feet! That's awful high. Did you fall off a tree too?"

"Er...no," said Harry, willing himself not to flinch as he repeated the lie his aunt and uncle had told him for so many years. "I...got it in a...car crash."

"How old are you?" asked Mrs. Pembleton.

"Fifteen," Harry answered, pushing around the last pieces of beef on his plate.

"Oh," murmured Mrs. Pembleton, her brow creasing. When Harry didn't say anything, she continued, "We're here to visit my mother. She came down with a case of pneumonia last week, and she can't get rid of it."

"I'm...sorry," said Harry, unsure how to respond.

"What are you here for, then? Are you visiting someone?"

"He's waiting," Nicholas answered, nodding importantly. "He told me so."

Harry bit his lip. "I'm waiting for my uncle," he said, "but I'm...I'm visiting someone too."

When the meal was finished, Harry thanked Mrs. Pembleton and Nicholas for their kindness, and then blushed as they helped to wheel him into the lifts and into Frank Bryce's room on the third floor. "Think nothing of it," said Mrs. Pembleton, patting Harry's shoulder gently. "You'll be all right getting back to the waiting room?"

"Yes," said Harry, as he strained to wheel himself over to Frank's bed. "Thank you - thank you very much," he said, sincerely.

"Good bye, dear. It was a pleasure to meet you. Come along, Nicholas."

Nicholas waved at Harry with an open grin. Harry's heart twisted at the trusting expression on the little boy's face, and then the beeping of the hospital machines drew his attention to Frank, who was lying silently on the bed, his arm connected to the dripping IV, his heartbeat spiking slowly on the electrocardiogram with steady beeps.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, leaning forward a little so that he could see Frank's wrinkled face. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully. "I wanted to thank you before I left. Thank you for taking me in...for taking care of me. I'm sorry that you got cursed because of me and that you ended up in hospital. You shouldn't have been involved. It's my fault..." Harry's hands twisted, and he bit his lip. "I'm sorry," he repeated quietly. "And - and thank you..."

Beeeeeep...

Harry's head jerked at the unending, shrill sound. The electrocardiogram displayed a flat green line, a big flashing "0" on the screen. Harry felt himself go numb with shock and horror as a nurse rushed into the room. "Oh, no," she sighed as soon as she spotted Harry. "I'm sorry, dear..." She steered Harry out of the room; Harry didn't protest. "We'll take care of him," she said, trying to sound reassuring.

A group of orderlies rushed past Harry in a haze of blue and white, shouting things that seemed like mere noise to Harry's ears. He gripped the handles on either side of the wheelchair and watched as they pulled a bed out of the room, Frank's prone form blurring in and out of his vision as it disappeared down the far corridor. He was gone...

"Lad?"

Harry looked up into sharp brown eyes that were vaguely familiar. "Doctor...Cl-Cl--something," he said blankly.

"Doctor Clellan," said the man gently. "Lad, I thought you might want this. I think it belonged to your grandfather and I didn't think you'd want to lose it."

Harry blanched. "What?"

The doctor held out Frank's walking stick. Harry's mouth parted slightly and he grasped the walking stick, laying it across his lap with shaking hands. A lump formed in his throat, and he didn't trust himself to speak as he looked up at the doctor, trying to convey his gratitude.

Dr. Clellan gazed back at Harry with sympathy and then started as his pager rang obnoxiously on his waist. "I'm sorry, lad," he said. "I need to run." He motioned to a passing orderly. "Mary? Can you take this boy down to the waiting room?"

"Yes, doctor."

"It'll be all right, lad," said Dr. Clellan, giving Harry one last look before turning into one of the rooms.

The ride in the lift was oppressively short and silent. Mary wheeled Harry back to the waiting room. The elderly woman from earlier was gone, replaced by a new, different set of people. They barely spared a glance at Harry before returning to their books and magazines. Harry didn't notice. He clutched Frank's walking stick and stared in front of him unseeingly, his head and his heart numb and empty as he waited for his uncle.