Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

What it comes down to	By : melinda1293 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 115219 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
Chapter 14. Dreaming in the Drawing Room

Harry sat on the couch in the drawing room with a blanket draped over his shoulders, grasping a steaming mug of tea with both hands because he was still shaking, still trying to recover from the trauma of his bath this morning and from the more recent terror of the trip downstairs. Being hovered down a flight of stairs was not something he planned to experience again if he could help it, not while conscious, anyway. If he would have to endure that again tomorrow morning or tonight to get back up the stairs, he planned on just camping out here on the couch indefinitely.
Ron had to hold him by the arm, trying to keep him steady, to stop him flailing around, as Hermione directed him down the stairs from behind them. They’d opted out of the full body bind because the idea of being held under that curse again made him go pale and start to shake, just at the suggestion. Still, he was surprised he’d actually made it out of the bathroom at all this morning. What a fucking disaster he was making of everything. He couldn’t seem to hold himself together for more than an hour at a time.
He was good this morning when he woke up. Well, he was sore as hell, and his head was pounding again, but he knew where he was at least. He hadn’t awoken from a nightmare this time. He was calm when he found Ron lying asleep next to him, bewildered but calm, as he’d lain there watching him, trying to decide what to do.
He needed to go to the bathroom, but he didn’t think he could get there on his own. Maybe if he crawled, but even then he didn’t know if he could make it. And then what was he going to do? How was he going to stand up in front of the toilet? So he lay there trying to decide if he should wake Ron and ask for help. Then he lay there trying to figure out how he was even going to ask for help if he did wake him. He couldn’t speak, and it hurt to work his jaw. Plus, he didn’t know how to pantomime that he needed the loo without looking like he was asking Ron for a wank or something. But then Ron stirred, his eyes blinking open, and it turned out to be easier than he’d imagined.
Everything was cool, then when Ron helped him up, though he was hurting like hell by the time they’d made it into the bathroom. His bladder was so full, every step made him whimper in pain and grit his teeth at the urgency of his need. Then it all started to fall apart again when he looked at his arms after Ron had removed the bandages, and he saw again what he’d done to himself. He remembered what it felt like to slide the cold blade of the knife over his own skin there in that same room, to feel the sting as the flesh parted beneath it, and the pain bloomed. The sensation was so familiar to him, it was almost welcoming, like a friend. He remembered that sense of release as the blood flowed from him, taking the pain with is as it slid rapidly down his arms and over his hands. And he remembered that feeling of relief as the warmth drained from him, making him drowsy, light headed, blessedly numb.
He knew it was wrong to want to feel that wonderful release again then, staring at his arms. He knew it was totally fucked up, but he felt the pressure building in him again since he’d first woken up. The need for that same relief had paralyzed him as he sat there staring at the angry slashes. He’d wanted to slice open his skin again to let the poison run out of him because it was fucking with his senses, messing with his mind, and building in his veins.
The skin around the raw wound felt numb and cold, alien, as if he were touching someone else’s flesh and not his own. The numbness felt like a portal, like a gateway to that feeling. It felt like a promise. As if all he had to do was pull the puckered, swollen edges of his flesh apart again to let it out. And he wanted the numbness back, wanted it to swallow him again because his head ached with memories, and his heart bled with grief, pumping more poison into his veins.
Harry hadn’t even gotten control of himself to push those thoughts away before Ron was pulling him to his feet again, touching his bare skin, embracing him. Then he slid his hand down Harry’s back and into his boxers. Ron had smelled of sex, of musk and dried sweat, distinctly and utterly male, and Harry just panicked. He couldn’t help it. Filled with an overwhelming dread, his body was telling him to fight, to flee, his mind not able to override the instinct. His reasoning was clouded with terror at what he thought Ron was going to do to him.
Then everything was okay again. After he’d calmed down, things seemed back under control. But then after getting a bath, relaxing in the healing water and thinking he was pulling it together again, to have Hermione suddenly there and adding her scent to the mix? Fresh from a shower, damp haired, pink skinned and smelling of lavender, she’d flooded his senses as she crowded him in the small room where he’d tried to make it all go away once before. It was just mental and emotional overload. He was lucky not to be comatose right now, he thought.
He looked up when Dobby came into the room bearing a tray loaded down with breakfast items, and he could see it as well as smell it for the first time in a long time since his glasses were perched on his nose again. Harry was so grateful to have them back, relieved to finally be able to see clearly again. He’d felt like he’d been blind as well as mute. Like all he’d needed was another silencing charm around him to be blind, deaf, and dumb. With his sight back, now he only lacked his voice. But Ron had promised him some parchment and a quill, and his fingers itched to hold them in his hands. Anxious to be able to write what he wanted to say (even though he didn’t know exactly what that might be), he was keen to be able to answer more than just “yes” or “no” questions with his head, eager to truly communicate.
They were eating in the drawing room because Harry couldn’t make it down another flight of stairs to the basement kitchen. He felt bad at the trouble he was putting Dobby to as he set the large, heavy tray on the coffee table in front of him. Ron and Hermione were in chairs opposite him, and they helped Dobby set out the stack of plates, silverware and napkins. Harry looked at the bacon and eggs longingly. Even the toast made his mouth water. He was sure that he would be served broth again, but then Dobby uncovered a steaming bowl of porridge.
“Harry Potter’s Weezy told Dobby to make Harry Potter some porridge,” the tiny elf told Harry in his squeaky little voice, beaming at Harry when he sat up straighter and lowered his mug.
Porridge had never been his favorite, but right now it looked like the most wonderful thing in the world. Dobby smiled at the eagerness on Harry’s face, looking delighted to have pleased him.
“I thought you might like something more filling than just broth this morning,” Ron explained with a shrug when Harry looked up at him.
Nodding gratefully, Harry shook with anticipation as Dobby set a tray on his lap.
Oh, God! It was so wonderful, creamy and warm, laced with cinnamon and brown sugar. Harry fed himself, and much more successfully than he had last night with the broth because the porridge clung to the spoon and didn’t fall off too much when his hand shook. It felt so good sliding down his raw throat, into his empty stomach that had been waiting for weeks, and which had been complaining so loudly all morning. He thought it may have been the best thing he’d ever eaten in his whole life, and he devoured almost the entire bowl. Then, feeling unfamiliarly content with a belly swollen with porridge and warm tea, fresh from a bath, clean shaven and comfortable, with his stomach working happily to digest his first proper meal in ages, Harry promptly fell asleep.
He woke to find Madame Pomfrey sitting on the coffee table in front of him, Ron and Hermione still sitting across from him. It couldn’t have been very long since he’d fallen asleep. He still felt incredibly full. Someone had pulled his glasses off and tucked the blanket around him, though.
“You look much better this morning, Mr. Potter,” she told him. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about.”
Rubbing his eyes, Harry tried to stifle a yawn, but couldn’t. His jaw popped painfully when it stretched open, ending on a moan as he tried to sit up, searching for his glasses. He found them sitting on a small leather-bound book on the end table beside him. It was a journal, a quill and ink bottle sitting beside it. Hermione, he thought, and he glanced over at her to confirm it. Sliding his glasses on, he pulled the book into his lap, running his hand over the soft worn leather of the cover before flipping it open. The first few pages had been torn out, her private thoughts maybe, the journal given over for his use. He stroked the first blank page with his fingertips. Running his finger along the edge where the other pages had been roughly removed, he acquainted himself with the texture, introducing himself to his new means of communication.
They’d left the bandages off him after the bath, knowing that Madame Pomfrey would just have to remove them again when she came, which he was thankful for because the skin itched wherever it was healing. It felt good to have the wool blanket rub against him when she slid it over his bare shoulders and down his back to examine him.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, peering into his eyes.
Harry pointed to his head for a moment. Then remembering, picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink well and began to write, slowly, clumsily at first.
“He hit his head yesterday after you left,” Hermione confessed hurriedly after Harry had gestured to his head, and before he’d finished writing.
Madame Pomfrey immediately ran her hands over his head, tilting it down for her examination as Hermione had done before her.
My head aches, and I’m dizzy a lot, he wrote while she gently rubbed her fingers in circles over the tender and still sizable knot on the back of his head.
“Hmm,” she said when she’d released him. Reading his words, her lips pressed together in a thin line, and Harry saw Ron shift uncomfortably behind her.
“Were you experiencing the headaches before you hit your head?” she asked.
Harry thought a moment before nodding.
“You need to get plenty of fluids,” she instructed, nodding to herself in confirmation. “The headaches and dizziness are signs of dehydration, though I’m sure that crack to your head isn’t helping matters. I want a glass of something beside you at all times, doesn’t matter what it is, water, pumpkin juice, tea, whatever. I want you sipping on it while you’re awake, even if you’re not thirsty. Understand?” she asked.
He nodded his head again.
“How about your ribs?” she asked then. “I can tell your jaw is still painful.”
Yes, he wrote, but not that bad.
What he’d written wasn’t really true, however. His jaw was still hurting quite a lot, but he hoped to convince her to remove the restriction on his diet because he was eager to return to solid food as quickly as possible even though he knew it would hurt like hell to chew.
My ribs when I cough mostly. Then they hurt pretty bad.
“Mmmm hmmm, and how about that cough?” she asked when she read what he’d written. “I’d like to listen to your lungs, if I may?”
She worked on him for a long time. It was slow going, with her asking questions and waiting to read his responses. Still, it was the most normal conversation he’d had in weeks, though his hand was cramping and his fingers were stained with ink. Thank God, he hadn’t been able to damage this arm as badly as the other or he wouldn’t be able to hold the quill at all! Finally, she pulled out a small rubber ball about the size of a snitch from her bag while he flexed the fingers on his left hand for her the best he could, and she tested his grip.
“Here,” she said, dropping it into his open palm. “I want you to use this to strengthen this hand. You’ll lose the use of it if you don’t work with it. And it’s going to be mighty hard for you to catch any more snitches if you can’t grasp the broom with your other hand.”
Closing his fingers around it, she continued. “Keep it in your hand. Squeeze it as often as you can. Work to build up the muscles or they’ll atrophy. All right?”
Harry nodded, feeling alarmed again at how much damage he’d done to himself as Madame Pomfrey rewrapped his left arm, leaving off all the other bandages. It was a relief not to have to look at the scar anymore.
“Now, your lungs are clearing, but your fever seems to be returning,” she told him after she’d finished.
Harry saw Hermione scoot to the edge of her chair, leaning in closer at the pronouncement.
“Just a low grade fever,” she added in an appeasing manner when Harry raised his eyebrows at this news. “A few degrees above normal, but I want these two to keep an eye on it for me.” She pointed over her shoulder at Ron and Hermione.
“Mr. Weasley tells me you’re refusing the pain potions,” she said then as both a question and a statement.
Harry glanced up at Ron for a moment, and then to Hermione, who went pink and stared at the floor, before he nodded and dipped the tip of the quill back in the inkwell.
I can manage my own pain, he wrote. I don’t want it. It knocks me out.
“I know you can, Harry,” she said truthfully, looking at him sadly. “Most people would still be flat on their backs right now if they were in the same condition as we found you. That’s if they were alive at all, mind. But it may explain why your temperature’s elevated. The strain it’s putting on your body to fight the pain may be causing it. I can give you something else, something that won’t cause drowsiness,” she offered, but Harry shook his head firmly.
He’d lived with pain a great deal of his life. It was a feeling he was intimately familiar with. He knew how to handle it, how to mitigate it, how to work through it. He’d even welcomed it on occasion. It could help to clear his head sometimes, help him to hold his focus, and right now, it kept him grounded in reality. The potion took that away and brought on the numbness. Harry needed the pain to fight against his desire for it because the potion anesthetized his flesh and his thoughts, and he didn’t want to fall back into that place. He was afraid that if he did, he wouldn’t have the strength to crawl back out again.
In the end, she finally gave up and let him have his way. Harry knew he could be really stubborn sometimes, but they didn’t understand, none of them. They couldn’t understand his need to be in control of this one thing when everything else was chaos, when his future was determined by Dumbledore and Voldemort and the damn prophecy, when his feet were set on a path he couldn’t step off of, and his here-and-now was controlled by Madame Pomfrey and Hermione and Ron.
Being utterly dependent on them for everything right now — when he could get up, when he could go to the bathroom, when he could eat — wasn’t a position he fancied, though he was immensely grateful to all of them for everything they were doing for him. He was willing to submit to almost any demand they made of him. He just had to have this one thing, something that shouldn’t even seem all that important to them, petty and childish in their eyes, perhaps, because they couldn’t understand the peril of giving in.
She shook her head, probably lamenting what a difficult patient he was being, he thought, and got to her feet. “Continue to get up and around,” she instructed. “But do try to be careful not to crack your skull again. For once, I’d like to find you injury-free.” She sighed. “Maybe just come over to have a cup of tea sometime instead of mopping you up, all right?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
He nodded, feeling like a child being criticized for being clumsy. Turning to Hermione then, she pulled a potion bottle and a small jar from her bag and handed them to her.
“The exercise after so long being dormant is likely to cause muscle cramps, which can be extremely painful. Use the cream to rub into his muscles to relieve some of the soreness since he won’t take a potion, then, if you would for me, dear. Like I showed you,” she told her, and Hermione nodded.
THANK YOU!, he wrote in large letters, turning the journal towards the healer and getting her attention by slapping his hand on the pages as she’d started to leave. She stared at it a moment, and then her eyes welled suddenly with tears.
“Of course, Harry,” she whispered, walking back to him. Then she ran her hands over his head, smoothing his hair and kissed his forehead, her hands cupping his face. It took him totally by surprise, alarming him slightly.
“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” she called brokenly over her shoulder as she turned and hurried out, leaving him quite stunned and bewildered in her wake, staring after her with his mouth open.
Ron sniggered at the look on Harry’s face, and Hermione kicked at him with a huff of exasperation. Harry stared at her then, hoping for an explanation, but found there were tears in her eyes, too. He had no idea what the hell just happened, but he knew he was missing something. Harry could be thick sometimes, he knew, but he didn’t understand what any of that meant. Why had she reacted like that? He’d just tried to thank her for everything she’d done for him, and he’d made her cry. Harry sat like that for a while, trying to puzzle it out, while Hermione sniffled and wiped at her eyes, and Ron tried to keep from looking at either of them, biting down on his lips to keep from laughing and earning himself another kick from Hermione.
In the end, Harry gave up thinking on it and set the quill back on the table, leaving the journal in his lap. Picking up the ball, he rolled it in his good hand, squeezing it, testing its resistance, and running his fingers over its smooth surface. Then he dropped it back into his left hand and wrapped his fingers around it, working them open and closed for a few minutes while Ron and Hermione watched silently. Then Hermione left her chair and returned a few minutes later with a glass of pumpkin juice, setting it wordlessly on the table beside him.
It was another hour at least before he felt drowsy again. He and Ron had made another trip to the bathroom together, and he was steadier on his feet this time. Still, he was exhausted by the time they’d returned to the couch, eager to relax back onto it. He curled onto his side, his head inclined against the armrest, trying to get comfortable when Hermione sat down on the coffee table in front of him like Madame Pomfrey had done before, facing him. Harry looked up at her.
“Are you tired?” she asked.
He nodded his head. She nodded back and, moving slowly, cautiously, she reached up for his glasses. Harry saw Ron’s wand slide into his hand behind her in the chair. He saw him gripping it firmly, bracing himself for Harry’s reaction, but he was okay. He wasn’t panicked this time.
As both of them stared at each other, Harry let her slip them off his face, fold them and set them on the side table. Then she conjured a pillow and helped him slide it under his head while he stretched out along the couch. He still clutched the ball in his left hand, and the journal was still held to his chest with his right, and he resisted her attempts to remove it when she’d pulled the blanket back over him, though he didn’t know why. She didn’t fight him, however, letting him cling it to like a talisman, stroking its soft cover with his thumb.
“Goodnight,” she whispered, laying her hand on his cheek, running her thumb along the side of his nose where his glasses had left indentions in the skin, then under his eye and along his cheekbone. He closed his eyes at her touch, sighed deeply, and fell asleep.
He had strange dreams, though. He dreamt that he and Ron were sitting across from each other back in the tent, tossing a quaffle back and forth between them, while Hermione read The Tales of Beedle the Bard for the hundredth time, throwing irritated looks at the pair of them.
“We still have two more Horcruxes to find,” she finally barked angrily. “And you two aren’t doing anything to help.” Slapping her book closed, she glared at them.
Harry opened his mouth to apologize, to tell her that he didn’t have any idea where to look for the other Horcruxes, but no words came out. Then he remembered that his voice was in his journal so he looked around for it, but she’d already stormed out of the tent by the time he’d found it. Ron got up and went after her, leaving Harry alone in the tent and feeling guilty for wanting a break from the Horcrux hunt for a bit.
Then the tent flaps parted, and he looked up, ready to apologize to her properly. Having finally found his voice, he held it clutched it in his fist. But it was Macnair who stepped inside, not Ron or Hermione. Moving in slow motion, he straightened up, carrying a bucket full of potion and a ladle, bluish smoke billowing over the top as he moved forward. Harry froze in horror at the sight of him. His journal slipped from his slack grip and fell to the floor, taking his voice with it so he couldn’t scream for help. He scrambled backwards, away from his torturer, but it felt like he was moving through quicksand.
Harry was shaking all over as Macnair grinned at him with his yellowed teeth, coming closer, spooning up the potion and letting it splash back into the bucket as he came. Then Harry hit the tent pole in the middle of the room, and his arms were suddenly behind his back, tied to the pole. He was nude again and terrified as Macnair ran a hand down his chest and grasped his limp cock, using it to pull himself against Harry, breathing in his ear.
“I’ve been lookin’ for you,” he said, pulling on Harry painfully again, squeezing. “Greyback and I thought we’d pay you another visit,” he breathed into Harry’s ear.
Harry could see the tent flaps part again as someone else entered. He knew who it was before he ever saw him. The dread filling him made him whimper in panic as he tugged frantically to try and free his arms.
“NO!” He was screaming without sound when Macnair leaned into him again, releasing his cock to grind against him.
“You were such a good whore, Potter,” he growled, his voice heavy with desire. He licked Harry along the neck, biting his ear as Harry turned his head away from him and squeezed his eyes closed. “Rudolphus told me this potion would make you beg for it. Said a little of this, and you’d get on your knees for me, open your mouth for me, and spread your legs for me.”
Macnair was punctuating every thought with a thrust of his hips, reaching behind Harry to stroke his arse, running his finger between his clenched cheeks while Harry, blind with terror, fought to free himself, to scream for help.
Harry jerked awake with a start, his heart trying to beat right out of his chest as he stared wildly around the drawing room, searching for Macnair and Greyback. Then a blurry someone was rushing towards him, having leapt up from the chair Hermione had been occupying. Overcome with fear, Harry opened his mouth in a silent scream, peddling backwards on the couch as they came.
“No… Mum!” Ron yelled from the other end of the couch, pulling his wand and jumping up, sounding as terrified as Harry was.
“PROTEGO!” he bellowed, and a shield erupted between Harry and Mrs. Weasley. She ran headlong into the invisible barrier and bounced backwards as it expanded between them; she and her husband on one side, and Ron and Harry on the other.
Mr. Weasley caught his wife before she hit the ground, but Ron took no notice. He had one hand held out towards Harry, palm up, his fingers splayed, and his hand shaking. His other hand was gripping his wand, pointing it at his own mother, holding her off with a shield, but his eyes were on Harry and full of fear. Harry was crouched against the other end of the couch, still wild eyed in panic. Trembling violently and chest heaving as he hyperventilated with fear, he was ready to spring off the couch and run for the door if anyone moved.
No one spoke. They were all frozen in place, looking stunned, looking like bizarre participants in a game of musical statues when Hermione hurried around the corner at the commotion with her wand drawn. Dobby was at her heels, carrying a loaded tea tray.
Harry swallowed several huge gulps of air. After a few moments, his skin still crawling with revulsion from the dream, he slowly raised both hands to Ron in a gesture of surrender; trying to tell him he was okay, that he was harmless. He held Ron’s eyes as he slid his back down the couch so his knees were pulled up against his chest. Only then did Ron drop the shield.
Wrapping his arms around his knees, Harry laid his head on top of them, still shuddering violently, tucked up into a ball on the corner of the couch. Still, no one spoke, everyone still in shock as Ron dropped heavily onto the other end of the couch. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley returned slowly to their seats, while Hermione stepped cautiously into the room.
“That’s it!” Ron finally said angrily after another moment, getting to his feet again, still shaking. Harry jerked his head back off his knees in frightened surprise, staring at him.
“No one is allowed to come near Harry while he’s asleep from now on,” he told Hermione as she approached him, as if it had been she who had suggested it. Then he turned to his mother. “You can’t just run at him like that,” he said incredulously, gesturing wildly. “Not when he’s had a nightmare that bad. It’s scared the shit out of him. You don’t try to wake him up, and you let him come back to himself on his own!”
“Ron,” Hermione said quietly, laying a hand on his arm.
“No! I’ve had enough,” he replied, pulling out of her grasp. “You don’t understand,” he said pleadingly, turning back to his parents, whose mouths hung open at his tirade. “It’s not safe. You don’t know what’s happened. What it’s like. The hell he’s been through. That we’ve all been through.”
“Ron, that’s enough,” Hermione said more firmly.
He stared at her a moment, looking shocked at his own words, deflating under her stare. His sudden anger was bleeding out of him. Then he clamped his lips together, dropped his arms and sank back onto the couch looking miserable.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized then to his parents after another minute. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to Harry and Hermione.
Hermione gestured for Dobby to come into the room then when everything had gone quiet, and he did, staring around at all of them with his huge eyes while Harry reached for his glasses and slid them on with trembling hands. Mrs. Weasley was sniffling when Harry grabbed his glass of pumpkin juice and took several long swallows while Dobby set out the tea service.
He looked around for his journal, which had fallen off the couch in all the chaos, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu from the lingering nightmare. Finally locating it, he tried to bend down to retrieve it, but Dobby beat him to it, picking it off the floor and returning it to him.
“Thank you,” he mouthed, and Dobby went red, still looking nervous after what happened. Harry felt a bit red himself, embarrassed at the scene he’d created in front of Ron’s parents. He’d caused Ron to yell at them, to protect Harry from them, two of the people he was most fond of in the world, whom he hadn’t seen in almost a year. Wanting desperately to bring the focus off himself, Harry needed to dial down the stress on everyone in the room. He had to stop fucking everything up again and pull his shit together. He’d been thinking everything was going pretty well after the disastrous start to the morning, until that awful dream. But it was just a nightmare. He knew it wasn’t real this time, and he really didn’t want Ron to have to drag him into the bathroom and beat the hell out of him for making his mother cry. So he took another couple of breaths, flipped the journal open, and put quill to parchment.
You finished doing your nut? he wrote and turned it to Ron, who stared at the page a moment, his eyebrows disappearing in his hair in surprised disbelief. Then Harry saw his lips quirk at the unexpected words.
“Yeah,” he replied finally, somewhat stoically. “I guess I am…You?” he asked.
Harry nodded his head. Hermione just stared incredulously at the pair of them like they really had gone mental, still standing near enough to them to witness the exchange. Maybe they had gone mad, maybe they all had.
Sliding the journal back into his lap then, Harry looked nervously up at Mrs. Weasley. Still hoping to avoid that beating, he lifted his hand to her in invitation. She immediately left her chair and came to him, her eyes still red, looking in danger of bursting into tears as she sat down on the couch next to him. Ron scooted over, appearing even more surprised that Harry allowed her to pull him to her. She gathered him into her arms, laying his head on her generous bosom and began stroking his hair. Harry let her, allowing her to mother him, giving himself over to it, giving his permission.
He had no memory of ever being comforted from a bad dream before, and he wondered if his mother had ever done this for him as a baby. Then he wondered if babies even had bad dreams as Mrs. Weasley continued to stroke him soothingly while he relaxed against her.
Hermione took the chair Mrs. Weasley had vacated when it appeared that she had no intention of returning to it while Harry was allowing her to coddle him, something she’d clearly been desperate to do since the moment she’d met him that first time on the train platform.
Dobby served them all tea and biscuits, and even Harry was allowed to have some, though he soaked it in his tea first before biting off small pieces. He sucked on it until it had gone completely soft in his mouth before swallowing it. He must have slept through lunch, he decided, because his stomach was empty again. They all chatted around him while they sipped their tea, going over things they’d obviously discussed before for Harry’s benefit. Harry occasionally wrote a question or a thought in his journal while everyone paused to learn what he’d written; and they spent several pleasant hours together after the horrible beginning.
He learned about their move to Muriel’s, and how everyone was doing all crowded there together. Harry remembered Muriel from the wedding as a fairly unpleasant woman. She’d said Hermione had skinny ankles, he remembered for some reason, and he recalled, too, all the things she’d said about Dumbledore. But however abrasive she was, she obviously cared for her family to allow them all to come and live with her. He remembered what she’d said about Ginny’s dress that day, also. She’d complained that it showed too much cleavage. The image of Ginny came into focus in his mind then, the memory of how beautiful she’d looked that day. That was the last time he’d seen her.
He blinked it away, the image of Ginny and Muriel at the wedding, and the memories of the day they truly began their long difficult journey. Hurriedly writing again, he asked about Fred and George. He learned that they were driving Muriel completely mad. They’d closed down their shop in Diagon Alley and were back doing a mail-order-only business, busy inventing new products again.
“Arthur’s left the Ministry until this all blows over,” Mrs. Weasley was saying. “And we’ve pulled Ginny out of Hogwarts, of course. It’s just not safe anymore. Now, don’t you go worrying about us, Harry,” she warned sternly at the look on his face. “None of this is your fault. We’re all safe,” she assured him, patting his hand.
But she was wrong. Snape had been right. All of this was his fault, all of it. He’d brought this on all of them. Everyone he was close to was suffering because of him. So many of the people he loved had been murdered, maimed, tortured, forced into hiding all over the country, or imprisoned, living in fear for their lives, or of having their children taken away, all for supporting him.
She kept trying to reassure him, but he couldn’t hear her anymore as he sat stiffly on the couch, his mind playing images in his head. Things remembered and things imagined: the Dark Mark hovering in the skies over each of them, looking over their shoulders for a glimpse of those red eyes and the bolt of green light while he sat here in Grimmauld Place barely able to feed himself or get himself to the bathroom without assistance. The images left him feeling paralyzed again, feeling like he’d turned to stone. He could feel the poison building up in his veins again, overwhelmed suddenly at how long the path in front of him still was, the path that ultimately ended with Voldemort.
Hermione eventually hurried the Weasley's on their way, making excuses for him. She said that he needed to sleep, that he was worn out and was still recovering, that he needed his potions. Mrs. Weasley kissed his head, stroking his hair like Madame Pomfrey had done, promising to return the next day while Harry stared glassy-eyed around at them all. Feeling the numbness spreading over him, Harry watched them make their goodbyes to Ron and Hermione, kissing them on the cheeks, grasping their hands, hugging each other while he sat silently on the couch.
Ron and Hermione let him be when they were alone again, engaging in small talk and busying themselves around him. Letting him brood, they let him work his way back to them on his own, and he was grateful. He’d let Mrs. Weasley coddle him, comfort him, but it was as much for her as it was for him. He needed to work this out on his own.
It took him awhile. He’d found the small rubber ball tucked down between the couch cushions, and he squeezed it compulsively in his left hand while he wrote the same words over and over in his journal in miniscule writing:
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Apologizing to every single person who’d been harmed by him, Harry checked their names off a list in his mind, until the poison had finally drained out of him, and the numbness in his brain subsided. Until he felt like he could put down the quill and not take up the knife.
They had dinner in the drawing room, as they had all their meals that day, and it was back to soup for Harry, but it was a heartier potato soup, not the thin broth as before. Then they made their way back upstairs for the evening, stopping at the bathroom one last time before continuing up the stairs on foot, no one even suggesting using a hover charm. It took a very long time. Harry’s legs hurt, the muscles in his thighs and calves burning, and he had a stitch in his side like he’d run a marathon by the time they finally arrived in Sirius’ room. He was completely exhausted, his whole body aching again by the time he was laid out on the bed. It had been a very long day for all of them.
Hermione set a fresh glass of water on the table beside him, but he was asleep a moment later.

~ . ~

This one came out a lot faster than usual. I like to keep my story stalkers on their toes like that, LOL . Trying to stay one step ahead of them :)
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What it comes down to

Chapter 14. Dreaming in the Drawing Room