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
- 42
- 43
- 44
Chapter 42. The Countdown Begins
"Oh, fuck me," Harry groaned in dismay when he awoke the following morning with Ron's mouth around him under the blankets with a hand wrapped firmly around his shaft.
"I'd love to if you're offering," Ron replied with a chuckle before slurping the head of Harry's cock into his mouth again.
"It was a cry of exasperation. Not an invitation, thick head," Harry muttered darkly, glancing myopically around the familiar room and finding them alone.
While he did owe Ron one hell of a thank you for yesterday, Harry couldn't offer him what he continued to make perfectly clear he wanted. Not yet, anyway. Ron might be able to curl his tongue and snog like he invented it, he might be able to command Harry with his own cock like a trained whore, but he did not yet have the power to compel Harry to roll over and allow Ron to fuck him. The idea still terrified him. He'd survived it more than once. Yet the farther away he got from those traumatic events, the more frightened of it he became. It pissed him off actually.
The pain he could handle. It wouldn't kill him, but mentally, he feared it would shatter him, collapsing all the fragile bindings that held him together. It was a critical weakness, and he was under no illusion that it wouldn't be used as a means to rip him apart and break him completely if he ever found himself in Voldemort's clutches. Tom would look straight into his mind and see the thing that frightened him the most. Harry would be handing him the weapon of his own destruction. But he hadn't found a method to defend against it, or the courage yet to confront it.
Shifting on the bed into a more comfortable position, Harry groaned as his limbs, heavy and weak from strain, voiced their displeasure over his ill treatment of them. God, he ached everywhere. His body was sore in places from muscles that hadn't seen use in a very long time from their evening flying excursion and in other places where they were utilized too much from their other late night activities.
Though he'd finally slept last night like he'd been concussed, his body was still suffering from fatigue. Harry was both astonished and amused that Ron still craved more. He knew that Ron's plans had been scuttled by him for several days in a row, but it seemed he intended to make up for that in one night, as if he were behind on his orgasm quota for the month and blamed Harry, intent on punishing him for it.
"Isn't there a limit to how much your insatiable sex drive can demand from me in like a ten hour period?" he questioned weakly, reaching beneath the blanket to stroke Ron's head. "Aren't your lips sore yet, or your tongue?"
"Huh umm," Ron replied, the denial a humming in his throat that sent delicious vibrations down Harry's cock.
"Fuuuucckk," he moaned, curling his hips up in response, but Ron pulled back, releasing him instead.
"Do you want me to stop then?" he asked challengingly.
"I'll bloody throttle you if you quit now, you bastard!" Harry growled, gripping Ron by the hair to try and force his head back down.
Snorting in amusement, Ron complied. But unlike the aggressive Ron he'd been last night, he was gentle with Harry this morning, perhaps aware that Harry was a bit tender. The resulting orgasm built in him gradually before cresting, rolling over him almost effortlessly like a long contented sigh after a held breath. It was a bliss that left him boneless on the bed and craving at least twenty-four more hours of sleep to recover his senses. Ron, perhaps, felt the same as he laid his head down, pillowed on Harry's upper thigh with an arm thrown over him, and nuzzled against his spent cock before he went still.
Harry lay there stroking Ron's hair for a few minutes, feeling slightly apprehensive about this renewed level of intimacy between them. He shouldn't have agreed to come to bed with them last night. Especially this bed. Sirius' room was full of ghosts. They called to him like a siren song. The spirits whispered of home, promising him shelter and safety in their embrace, but it was an illusion.
Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a few more minutes to relish the weight of Ron's body against him. His head lay cradled against Harry's hip, his steady breath disturbing the hairs on the inside of his thighs, tickling the sensitive skin as he traced a finger around the shell of Ron's ear before reluctantly pulling his hand away to steer them back into more familiar waters he could better navigate.
"You're going to suffocate down there if you don't get some fresh air," Harry warned Ron, lifting the blankets to peer down at the top of his head. "Hermione's already up and we need to get moving too. We have consequences to face with Griphook for yesterday, remember? So if you want your turn, you better get up here, unless you were planning to see if I could jerk you off from down there with my feet."
Looking up, Ron grinned toothily at him. Then he bit Harry on the lower belly, pulling the flesh up between his teeth, stretching it until Harry groaned before releasing it so the skin snapped back into place. He kissed the spot as he rolled over and crawled up Harry's body. Then he threw the covers off, exposing them both, and sat down on Harry's stomach. Harry grunted against the pressure on his full bladder, pulling his legs up to balance some of Ron's weight.
"Can you really do that with your feet?" Ron asked enthusiastically.
"Well hell no, you idiot! I mean, it's not like I've actually ever attempted it before. I'm not that limber," Harry said incredulously. "You don't really want me to try, do you?"
"Nah. I was just curious," Ron replied with an obnoxious smirk. Then he stuck his rolled tongue out at Harry, the ends curled towards the center forming a small tube.
Harry frowned up at him before flashing his own flat tongue back at Ron. "You weigh as much as Hagrid, you know?"
"Been letting Hagrid sit on your lap, have you? I'd like to see that sometime."
"You'd like a lot of things you're never getting," Harry grumbled, irritated with himself for walking right into that one. You'd think he'd have learned by now not to try and out banter a Weasley. "Aargh!" Harry growled, slapping Ron's thigh when he wiggled his hips and pressed down harder on Harry's bladder again. "Stop! You're going to make me piss myself."
Ron was naked as the day he was born, his cheeks flushed from heat and his hair a flaming riot around his head as he sat grinning down at Harry. His lips were swollen and chapped from overuse. His proud member stood erect in a thatch of copper curls against the smooth skin of his stomach. He looked so fucking shagable that Harry's already much abused cock stirred again in interest.
Really? he thought incredulously. Fucking hell! His thirst was just as insatiable as Ron's. Bellatrix would be furious at how easily they could get a rise out of him when she had to work so hard for every single erection she could obtain from him during his imprisonment. Though she'd likely take a great deal of sadistic satisfaction in knowing that when she came for him in his dreams now, he always woke terrified and sickeningly ready for her.
Leaning down, Ron planted his arms on either side of Harry's pillow, relieving the pressure on his bladder as he brought his face in close to Harry's. Ron tried capturing his lips then, but Harry kept thwarting him. Mouth open, tongue poised at the rim of his teeth, he teased Ron, letting him almost achieve his goal before turning his head to the side or tilting it up so Ron only came into contact with his jaw or chin at the last minute.
Ron sat back up, frowning in frustration at Harry who was smirking up at him. He ran a finger over Ron's hardened length then, teasing him further, stroking him like a pet as he pouted up at him consolingly.
Closing his eyes a moment, the smile slowly reappeared on Ron's face. They glinted menacingly when he opened them again and stared down at Harry. Then he snagged Harry's wrists before pulling both his arms up to pin them over his head. Trapped now, Harry finally surrendered as Ron leaned forward again, trailing the tip of his tongue over Harry's stomach and up his sternum, the head of his cock following the slick path he'd made up Harry's body. Moistening his chapped lips then in anticipation as Ron bit him on the chin, Harry moaned. Then Ron was snogging him with those lips and tongue that had so recently been wrapped around him. He could taste his own release on Ron's tongue. He could taste Hermione there, too, which made his dick give another feeble lurch of longing.
God he loved kissing Ron. Each time felt just like the first time. The same mini-explosion went off in his brain, the same electric current shot through him, making his heart pound while heat flared between them as if an actual chemical reaction occurred when their saliva mingled. There were probably a thousand things about Hermione that made his pulse race, not the least of which was having her mouth on his, but with Ron it was something entirely different. It was the feeling of being claimed, of being utterly possessed. Harry didn't know how he did it. Lavender must have been one hell of a good tutor.
Though he would have happily remained right where he was, flat on his back with Ron on top of him, he still fought feebly to free his arms from Ron's grip. Part of the thrill of being possessed, for him, was the fight to resist it. Sliding his hands under Ron's bum then when he'd succeeded finally, Harry urged him upwards. Releasing his mouth, Ron stared down at him questioningly before complying. Harry scooted the pillow up with his elbows, shifting himself so Ron could crawl farther up him, straddling his chest. Then Harry opened his mouth in invitation. Holding onto the headboard, still on his knees, Ron leaned forward and slipped his eager cock past Harry's waiting lips.
"Oh my, God!" Ron moaned, his eyes widening is surprise when he slowly slid into Harry's mouth and down his unresisting throat to the root.
In this position, Ron had the freedom to set the pace and the depth, which had been Harry's intent. He wanted to give Ron the opportunity to fuck his mouth without restraint in compensation for the parts of his body he could not, and might not ever be able to relinquish. Granting his lover that much power over him in some fucked up way made Harry feel powerful, too. Yet another thing to add to his list of deviant proclivities.
The look of awe on Ron's face at this deep throat feat amused him, but actually it wasn't terribly difficult for Harry to accommodate his full length with his head in this position and his neck not bent. All he really needed was good control over his gag reflexes, which luckily, he possessed.
Not that he was a slouch in the fellatio department. He was certainly no longer a novice at least. Neither was Ron. What Ron may have lacked in his initial technique, however, he'd made up for in enthusiasm. He was good, Harry would give him that, but he fancied himself better. He'd at least never raked anyone with his teeth before, even though he would have liked to once. Harry couldn't begrudge Ron that though. Circumstances had required him to be a much faster learner, and the consequences for failure were far greater than a slight reproach from your lover.
Legs trembling and shoulders taut, Ron gripped the headboard harder while curses streamed unchecked past his lips on panting breaths, pistoning his hips faster when he realized Harry could take it and was actually encouraging it.
With Ron straddling his shoulders, Harry's arms were now trapped under Ron's body, leaving Harry with only the use of his mouth to bring him off. He was helpless to defend himself against the battering to his throat, but Harry wasn't afraid. He'd done it before, after all, though not voluntarily, and not because his hands had been restrained then. Pure panic and sheer stupidity had simply prevented him from realizing it for a while. At the moment, however, he still didn't have full use of the fingers on his right hand, and while Ron might think him ambidextrous, his left was still much weaker. But he wasn't totally without resources. Reaching up with his left hand, Harry stroked Ron's flexing backside, his finger trailing between the crease of his arse.
"Bloody, fucking Christ!" Ron gasped when his hand continued farther down between his spread legs, stroking Ron's perineum and the underside of his balls with his thumb. Harry knew Ron liked that spot, a lot.
The rhythm of Ron's thrusts had become uneven which threw off Harry's breathing pattern momentarily, but he quickly regained it. Gathering the swaying scrotum that were crashing into his chin with his fingers, Harry curled them into his palm, digging in his fingernails to pin them back while still firmly rubbing up against Ron with his thumb.
Crying out, Ron pressed his hips forward, forcing his cock as deeply as he could into Harry's mouth and came. Harry was unable to swallow around his girth, but as far down Harry's throat as his cock was wedged, he didn't need that reflex to accept Ron's seed. He did need to breathe, however. Fairly quickly. Thankfully, Ron emptied himself before panic could set in, and pulled back. Propped on his arms to hold himself up, Ron rested his forehead against the wall and slipped out of Harry's mouth, leaving both of them gasping for breath.
"That... was fucking... incredible!" Ron wheezed.
"I aim to please," Harry quipped hoarsely.
"I can honestly say that I've never once believed a word of Freud's penis envy theory until I walked in on that display," Hermione announced breathlessly from the doorway as both of them turned to look at her in surprise. "Damn it all, but I wanted to be you just then, Ron."
"I'm not sure who Froid is, or what he's been telling you about penises, but it's pretty damn fabulous being me right now," Ron replied with a weak chuckle. "I'll tell you that."
"Let me up, you bastard," Harry complained, slapping Ron on the rump. "I'm in desperate need of a piss."
With a groan, Ron swung his leg over Harry's chest and dropped onto his arse on the bed.
"I leave you two alone for five minutes!" Hermione huffed. "And nearly missed out on all that."
"You've been gone longer than five minutes. I think Harry went that long between breaths."
"In your dreams," Harry countered, crawling off the bed. "It took you less than thirty seconds from beginning to end. I never even got winded."
"Bullshit!" Ron cried in outrage, to Hermione's snort of amusement. "I lasted at least forty-five which is about forty seconds longer than you managed last night with Hermione."
"Well," Harry replied defensively. "She's a hell of a lot better at it than you, Ron, and a damn sight prettier."
"Nice," Ron snorted in response. "Well, it took a lot of effort for me not to come immediately. Did you see what he was letting me do to him?"
"Yes, Ron. I saw, and it sounds like I didn't miss much of it," she teased. "Though I'll admit that I was a bit alarmed at first that you were attacking him when I first walked in."
"He was," Harry replied dryly as he came to stand next to her. "He's just that inept."
Hermione pulled him into her embrace when he reached for the bag in her hand, and Harry slid his arms around her waist instead when their lips met. He held her against him for a moment before pressing his face into her neck. She was fresh from a shower, her skin dewy and pink. Her hair was damp and smelled like flowers and Harry smelled like sex. A lot of sex.
The image of the three of them all on their knees on the bed last night flashed suddenly in Harry's mind. Hermione between him and Ron, her thighs spread wide, her back arched with her hands on Ron's shoulders for support and Harry's at her waist as he drove into her from behind.
The memory of it made him shiver. It was the first time he'd ever done it like that, but hopefully not the last. In fact, he'd like to do it again, soon. But not right now, not until he'd scrubbed the smell of their previous sex off him, he was clean again, and they had more time.
"I'm a bit shagged out for the moment, Hermione," he apologized, stepping back from her and picking up his discarded clothes from the night before to hide the fact that his body was once again calling him a liar. "But I'll make breakfast if you want."
"That sounds like a fair trade," she replied with a grin.
"Get your arse off the bed and into the shower, you lazy lump," Harry called to Ron over his shoulder as he turned for the door after donning his pajama bottoms for the trip down the stairs. "We're due a thrashing and I'd just as soon get it over with."
"Don't you want to take a shower with me first?" Ron asked, grinning like a devil when Harry turned back to stare at him disbelievingly. "I'll wash you're junk for you this time instead of just your hair."
"If it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass. I need a break from your hands vigorously rubbing my junk for a little while."

They were running fairly late by the time both he and Ron got cleaned up, which wasn't going to win them any points with Griphook. So Harry made a quick breakfast of eggs and soldiers before they set off for Bill's.
Griphook did not disappoint when they finally arrived for what Harry had begun to liken to an all day detention. The goblin was simply furious. The brief tongue lashing Harry had received the day before when he'd told Griphook they were taking the afternoon off was but a taste of what he gave the three of them for the better part of an hour today. The excuse that Harry had been ill yesterday did not play well against the knowledge he'd already gained from Dean last night that they'd played Quidditch in the evening. In the end, it wasn't Ron's temper that had to be kept in check, or even his own. It was Hermione's.
"You sit there on your backside, like the world owes you a favor," she fumed when she'd finally had enough. "Complaining about the accommodations, and the food, and the company you're forced to keep. You tell us self-righteously of the dangers you're facing and the sacrifices your making to help us as if those dangers and sacrifices aren't just as real to us or far greater. But might I remind you that unlike yourself, none of us are here for our own personal gain. Our cooperation isn't being bought for the price of a sword. Our only reward, if we don't die in the attempt, is simply one obstacle down and the beginning of the next in a bid to end this war. A war that you're all to happy to let rage on until the entire wizarding population annihilates each other while you sit back and polish your prize. But you don't believe this is your war, do you? Oblivious to what it could mean for each and every magical race if he should succeed. You're motivations for helping us, however repugnant I believe them to be, are your own, but I will not allow you to chastise us like children for not taking this seriously, as if we think it's some game. I've been as tolerant of your own selfish behavior as I'm willing to be. If you want to leave, the door is that way," she snarled, pointing behind her. "See where it leads you."
Harry and Ron stood in stunned silence as Hermione stomped past them and over to the chair in the corner of the room. Slamming her bag down on the table, she took her seat and folded her arms across her chest.
"Well then," Ron said after a few minutes of Hermione and Griphook glaring daggers at each other. "If the unpleasant parts are over finally, perhaps we can get down to business?" When no one voiced any objections, he dropped down onto the end of the bed and turned to Harry. "Chuck us that package the twins gave you yesterday then. Maybe there's something in there that we can actually use."
Harry obliged, removing the tiny package from his jacket pocket where it had remained last night, having forgotten about it. He handed it to Ron while Hermione removed her ream of notes, fresh parchment, and a quill.
"So," Harry said when they'd inventoried the contents which contained a little bit of just about everything Fred and George's shop had to offer. "While some of these things might come in useful, like the decoy detonators and the darkness powder, none of them are going to get us past the guards at the doors. And without a plan for that, everything else falls apart."
"Is there any way we can get our hands on those secrecy sensors they use?" Ron suggested. "Maybe disable them in advance so you two can sneak by under the cloak?"
"No," Griphook answered. "They are locked securely in the bank when not in use and tested for effectiveness every morning."
"Bugger."
"Yes," Griphook agreed. "Quite."
"Well, a Confundus charm is the only real option we have left then. We're only going to get one shot at this, though," Harry warned them. "If it fails, we might be able to get away with our lives, but we'll never have another chance to try again."
"I agree. They will enact new and greater defenses if they detect an attempted breach," Griphook confirmed.
"Better make it count then," Ron suggested.
"Just make sure you aim for the face, Harry," Hermione instructed. "They won't be able to see you under the cloak, and Ron and I will try to keep them distracted for you, but with those shield cloaks of Fred and George's on, their bodies will be protected. Straight to the face is the only way the spell will hit them instead of rebounding onto you."
"I know," Harry admitted irritably. "Okay, then assuming we get past the doors, then it's into the lobby and up to the counter."
"We will use Bogrod, fourth station on the right from the entrance. He is known to be in sympathy with the Dark Lord, and will therefore be more eager to accommodate Ms. Lestrange.”
“Well, if he’s as enamored with the Dark Lord, and as keen to please as you say he is, Griphook, then he’s our best hope of showing Bellatrix to her vault without her key and without asking too many questions.”
"I agree, Mr. Potter."
They continued to walk through the plan, going over the obstacles they might encounter and their intended solution for them one by one while Hermione furiously scribbled down the steps in a sort of short-hand outline. No doubt she would write them out again more neatly tonight, probably color coded and in triplicate.
"And Bob's your uncle!" Ron pronounced at the conclusion of the recitation. "That's it then, yeah?"
“That's it then," Griphook confirmed. "We must now come to a consensus on a date in which to carry out this plan.”
Harry hesitated, looking nervously to Ron and Hermione. He knew it was coming, but he wasn't prepared for the suddenness of the suggestion.
"Are you sure we've gone over everything, Griphook?" Hermione asked, her own apprehension showing on her face.
"There is nothing left to discuss," the goblin announced crisply.
"Monday, then," Harry blurted, before he lost his nerve. "We'll plan to do it on Monday."
"Monday is the busiest day at the bank, Mr. Potter," Griphook reminded him. "Perhaps tomorrow, a Wednesday would be a more suitable date?"
"No," Harry argued, feeling a momentary flash of panic at the thought of going tomorrow. "The more people at the bank the better, I would think. We'll draw less attention to ourselves that way."
"Perhaps that's true, Harry," Hermione agreed. "But we also add that many more variables into the equation as well as more witnesses. The more people present, the greater the chance of running into someone we'd rather not meet."
"Damn it. You're right," Harry conceded. "And the more people we put in harm's way. All right. Wednesday, then. A week from tomorrow," he quickly amended, turning back to Griphook.
The goblin frowned, his greedy black eyes boring into Harry's a moment before he inclined his head slightly. "As you wish," he finally agreed.
A sense of dread washed over Harry. A week. They had seven days left.

A renewed sense of urgency had fallen over all of them with the date finally having been set. That evening, when they'd returned from Shell Cottage, Hermione began experimenting with transfiguring Ron’s appearance while Harry studied the diagram of the bank interior and the underground vaults that Griphook had sketched out, trying to commit the passages to memory.
“Well, Harry? What do you think?” Hermione asked after more than an hour.
Harry looked up into Ron’s grinning face, though he didn’t look remotely like Ron at the moment with his features totally distorted. Still, it gave Harry the creeps slightly, even though there was something off about it that he recognized immediately.
“The hair color doesn’t match with his skin tone,” he replied, studying her spell work with a critical eye. “You can tell he’s really a ginger. It’s a dead giveaway that it’s a disguise. I think it needs to be something like sandy brown, or maybe a very dark auburn," he suggested. "And give him a beard to make him look older. God knows he can't grow a decent one on his own.”
"Fuck off," Ron growled indignantly.
“Hmmm,” Hermione said thoughtfully, scrutinizing Ron. “I think you’re right. Come back, Ron.”
Ron had already taken several steps towards the door when she called him back. “Don’t I even get a chance to see for myself, or get a vote?” he whined, turning back to face her.
“I suppose. But Harry’s right. The color is wrong. I’ll leave everything else. Just let me work on that part a bit more.”
“Fine, but make my nose a little smaller, too, would you? This thing’s getting in my way.”
“It’s the same length. I just made it more bulbous.”
“Nice. Well, if you would please, make my beak a little smaller if it’s going to be this fleshy. Okay? I feel like I’m going cross-eyed because it’s the only damn thing I can see.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
Harry returned to Griphook’s drawing, now studying the bank’s interior as Hermione and Ron continued to bicker.
Still engrossed in the drawings, Harry didn't look up immediately when someone plopped down on the couch next to him sometime later. He did, however, when a hand was placed high on his thigh and began inching upwards. The face Harry looked up into, though, was not familiar. It was the face of a stranger, a man's, sitting much too near him and touching him entirely to intimately. He panicked.
“NO!” he shouted. “Don’t touch me!” Scrambling backwards on the couch, Harry was frantic to get away. He only stopped when his back came up against the arm rest on the far side of the couch, his legs pulled up against his chest, his body hunched around them protectively. Finally, his mind overrode his panic and he realized that it was only Ron, transfigured.
“I’m so sorry,” Ron apologized, hands up in a placating gesture as Harry clutched at his chest, trying to breathe. “Hermione, undo it. Hurry!”
“I’m okay,” Harry said shakily, still gasping. “I’m all right. I… I just didn’t remember, I guess. I didn’t know who you were… just some stranger... touching me… a… a Death Eater or something. Jesus Christ!” His heart was still hammering, and his whole body was tingling as he shuddered before blowing out a lung full of air, feeling sick to his stomach and light headed.
“Fucking hell, Harry! I’m sorry, mate,” Ron apologized again as Hermione quickly returned his features to normal. “I didn’t mean to scare the shite out of you. I called your name twice, but you were in your own world or something. I should have known better than to pull that, though. I’m truly sorry.”
Harry stood up on shaking legs, needing to work the tension and adrenaline out of his limbs for a minute. “It’s not your fault I’m mental, Ron.”
“It’s my fault I keep making you mental,” Ron argued. “Damn it, Harry. I’m never going to stop fucking things up with you, am I?”
“I said I’m okay, Ron. I’m fine… really. Just… just don’t touch me like that when you don’t look like yourself. Okay? Even if I know who you are at the time, I don’t think I can handle that.” Slowly, he sat back down on the couch, though still as far away from Ron as he could manage. “Remind me not to take my eyes off either of you when you’re transforming. Particularly you, Hermione. The very last thing in the world I want is to see you turning into her, but if I don’t see it, and know it’s really you, I might do something terrible.”
“Oh, I hate this plan! I wish we had another option. I don’t want to put you through this, Harry,” she said sympathetically, coming to sit next to him on the couch and stroking his arm.
“I know. I hate it, too, but there isn’t another option. This is the best shot we have of getting into that vault. I promise I’ll do my best to hold it together. Just… just try not to speak to me very much when you’re Polyjuiced. Hearing your words coming out of her mouth is probably going be traumatic enough to give me nightmares for weeks if I don’t have a complete mental breakdown first.”

Harry had trouble sleeping that night, but not from actual nightmares. It was simply acute anxiety of the looming deadline that prevented him from getting any rest. When he awoke the next morning, his first thought was that exactly a week from today he'd be waking up, getting ready to make one last trip to Shell Cottage to collect Griphook. His invisibility cloak would be tucked inside his jacket, and he would be walking alongside Ron, who would be transfigured into a stranger, with Hermione, cloaked in Bellatrix's body, on his other side. He shuddered with revulsion at the thought.
They spent the whole day with Griphook going over and over the plan as they intended to do every day until the last day. Taking turns, they recited every detail from memory, the others correcting what they got wrong until Harry's already hoarse voice was threatening to abandon him again completely.
Hermione put honey in his evening tea to soothe his throat. His eyes felt gritty from tiredness when he crawled into his bed that night and lay on his back. Thinking; it's Wednesday night, this time next week, if they made it out of the bank alive, they would be sleeping in the tent out in the middle of nowhere.
They'd agreed privately to Apparate first to the top of Stoatshead Hill where they'd taken the Portey to the Quidditch World Cup the summer before their fourth year. Meeting up there first in the event that they got separated before Apparating again together to some, as yet still unknown, destination for the night.
He closed his eyes. Tomorrow there would be six days left. After several hours of fruitless tossing and turning, he finally left his bed and spent the rest of the night curled in the chair in their room where he dozed off and on before returning to his room in the morning before they woke and found him there.
He was incredibly tired the next day and found it hard to concentrate. He kept getting things wrong in his narration, which was frustrating Hermione and especially Griphook. His forehead prickled uncomfortably and the light hurt his tired, dry eyes. Feeling shaky and slightly queasy when his head started to throb dully, he excused himself finally to make a trip to the loo to splash some water on his face.
He jerked backwards abruptly when he reached for the doorknob as if he'd been struck by lightning, his scar suddenly exploding in excruciating pain. Clutching his head at the wild rush of images and emotions that flooded through the connection he shared with Voldemort, Harry cried out in agony. Then his legs were crumpling underneath him, and he was falling into blackness.
He came to on the floor, being dragged into a sitting position against the wall as a new wave of confused sounds and panicked muttering swirled around him with the spinning of the room.
"What's happening to him? Has he gone mad?" he heard Griphook's guttural voice demand.
"Shut up!" Ron shot back. "Harry? Mate? Are you all right? Can you hear me?"
Harry nodded, still trying to blink the room and its occupants into focus. "Snape," he mumbled. "It was about Snape and something about the wand."
"Not here," Ron warned him, trying to silence Harry's confused confession.
"What is he saying? What is this?"
"Nothing that concerns you," Hermione answered tightly. "Just give him some space."
"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry groaned, clammy with cold sweat.
"Can you get up?"
Harry shook his head.
"Here," Hermione offered, conjuring a cold rag and handing it to Ron. "Put that on his forehead, over the scar. It might help the pain and calm the nausea."
Harry reached out a trembling hand for it, but Ron placed it on his forehead and held it in place. Harry moaned at the shock of the freezing cloth against his burning scar.
"Through the mark... he... he could track him through the mark," he continued to babble, trying to sort through the confusing images while his head throbbed and his scar seared. "He was causing Snape pain through it... a lot of pain."
"Okay, just hush now—"
"I think he was trying to kill him through the dark mark, but then he just lost the connection." He looked blearily up at Ron then. "I think Snape might have severed his own arm to save himself."
"Christ almighty!" Ron whispered in horror.
"But what was it about the wand... What does Snape have to do with the wand?"
"I don't know, but we can talk about it later, okay?" Ron urged him.
"Okay," Harry agreed, finally coming back to himself and to his surroundings somewhat. Realizing vaguely the things he'd just revealed to an audience that was not made up entirely of trusted allies. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right. Do you think you can stand now? Are you going to be sick?"
"No... I mean yes, I think I can stand, and no, I don't think I'm going to vomit anymore. Thank you," he said gratefully, staring up at Hermione. "That really helped."
Hermione nodded. "Ron, can you get him on the bed. I'm going to get him a glass of water." Then she turned to Griphook. "We're taking a thirty-minute break for Harry to recover himself."
"I'm all right," Harry argued, getting unsteadily to his feet with Ron's help.
"Are you communing with The Dark Lord?" Griphook demanded.
"Not now, you bastard!" Ron shot back, grabbing the goblin by his shirt and jerking him forward so the two of them were nose to nose.
"I have a right to know if Mr. Potter has a connection with He Who Must Not Be Named. It puts us all in danger!"
"You'll be in danger from me if you don't hold your tongue, goblin!" Ron growled. "If you can't stop it waggling, I'll cut it out for you."
"I'm not afraid of you, boy!"
"You should be, actually," Harry said calmly, touching Ron's hand to get him to release Griphook. "He can get very violent in defense of me."
"Thirty minutes, Griphook. Then we'll speak about this," Hermione told him sternly, before opening the door and ushering the glaring goblin ahead of her as she left the room to retrieve the water.
"It's not as if this is a secret, you know," Harry reminded them when Hermione returned with the water and locked the three of them in together. "Skeeter wrote about me falling out all over the place in the Daily Prophet after she saw it happen in Divination while she was sneaking around the grounds during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Remember? They used that later to say I was mentally unstable during their smear campaign of Dumbledore and me."
"Yes, Harry. Of course we remember, but the reason for the pain in your scar was never actually explained."
"Maybe not, but it doesn't really matter now. Does it? What's Griphook going to do with the knowledge? Sell it? To whom? To Riddle or to the press maybe? There's no gain in that for him. Tom's already aware of our connection and the Prophet has slandered me so much that his information won't help them sell more papers. I hardly think it could make me more undesirable to the public. I've already got the top spot."
"So what did you see?" Ron questioned him.
"I know the reason now that no one leaves his service. Death Eaters, I mean. Even if they try to run, the mark he brands them with allows him to track their whereabouts somehow, like a homing device."
"But Snape has been on the run for as long as we have after our escape. If The Dark Lord could track him, why has it taken so long to find him?" Hermione asked.
"Oh, I think he's sent people after him. Snape's just been too slippery to get caught. I think Riddle has been preoccupied with other things, like getting the wand, to go after him, himself. Not anymore though. Tom's rogue potions master just moved to the top of the list. Even ahead of me."
"You said something about the wand, that it had to do with the wand."
"That's right. He wants Snape dead very badly now, because of the wand."
"What does Snape being alive have to do with the wand?"
"Snape killed Dumbledore, Ron," Hermione explained. "If He Who Must Not Be Named thinks he's in possession of the Death Stick, then according to legend, to truly master it, you must win it by killing the previous owner."
"Maybe," Ron conceded. "But he's had the Elder Wand for some time. Why turn his attention to the greasy git now?"
"It's not working for him," Harry answered immediately, certain that his suspicions about the wand's loyalty were true. "He doesn't think the wand is as powerful as it should be and he's decided to remedy that."
"Didn't work though, did it?" Ron asked. "You think Snape got away again, don't you?"
"Well, Tom certainly does," Harry agreed. "He was furious when the connection was severed. If Snape was dead, he'd be jubilant, wouldn't he?"
"And you think Snape broke the connection by cutting off his own arm?" Hermione questioned shuddering with revulsion. "If he did, then he's likely dead anyway, or at the very least, gravely injured with a wound like that."
"Oh, I think Snape is cleverer than that," Harry replied. "I think he learned a lot under his Master's tutelage. I bet he's already sporting a brand new shiny silver arm, and a thousand miles away from the real appendage he left behind."
"Won't be silver," Ron said. "Too ostentatious for Snape. It'll be black... with a matte finish."
Harry snorted. "Probably."
"I never thought I'd ever be rooting for that bastard's continued existence," Ron muttered darkly. "But the very last thing we need right now is for him to be dead at the Dark Lord's hand and the Elder Wand's loyalty transferred."
"Hmm..." Harry said. "The thing is, I'm not sure−"
A loud rap on the door signaled Griphook's return, cutting off Harry's musings. Sitting up fully on the bed, he took another sip of the water before nodding to Hermione, who turned then to unlock the door.
"You've not been honest with me, Harry Potter," the goblin announced when he'd entered the room, his black eyes glittering angrily.
"Nor, I suspect, have you been completely honest with me, Griphook," Harry replied coolly.
"You have a connection with The Dark Lord!"
"I do. But it's not your concern."
"It is my concern, you foolish boy!"
"Call him that again−" Ron threatened.
"The connection is intermittent. I sometimes get flashes of thoughts when he's feeling powerful emotions. It's an affliction from his curse," Harry explained irritably, brushing the hair off his scar. "While it's incredibly inconvenient for me and sometimes incapacitating, as you just witnessed, it's no danger to you or this mission."
"Unless you are inconveniently incapacitated during our infiltration of Gringotts!" Griphook countered.
"The attacks are nowhere near as frequent as the Prophet has reported."
"But they do occur with regularity."
"You've been with me all day, every day for weeks now, and this is the first incident you've witnessed, is it not? Normally, I can control it," Harry lied. "I wasn't feeling well, as you know before it came on, and it just caught me unawares is all. It will not compromise our plan on the bank. I assure you."
Of course, he could promise no such thing. The truth was, of course, that the symptoms he'd experienced before his collapse were a warning sign of an imminent attack. He was just too tired or distracted to recognize them for what they were until it was too late.
"I should have been told of this. It is significantly late in the game to be discovering this now."
"There are a great many things about me that I've chosen not to share with you. Like why I'm willing to risk my life to break into the bank, or even what I'm after. That hasn't seemed to cause you any disquiet. You knew when you agreed to this that I'm fighting against him. You know he's after me and will kill me and anyone else around me if he finds me. Does it somehow make a difference if I have a connection with him that sometimes makes me ill?"
"It does if the connection works both ways."
"It does not."
"How can you be sure?" Griphook questioned.
"He tried once. Alright? It was an excruciatingly painful experience for us both and not one that he's likely to repeat."
"So he is aware of this connection, then?"
"He is," Harry confirmed. "And no happier about it than I am."
"Lunch," came Bill's gruff call followed by the rapping of his knuckles on the door.
Harry glanced at the door, and then returned his eyes to the goblin. "Well then. That's the full disclosure. If you still have reservations or intend to back out, now is the time to tell me."
Griphook said nothing, staring into Harry's eyes unblinkingly for a long time, as if judging the truthfulness of his words. Harry stared back until he grew tired of the stupid game. Crawling off the bed, he took the goblin's silence for acceptance and left the three of them standing in the room as he headed for the door to get some lunch.
He wasn't very hungry, though, and spent much of his time pushing the food around on his plate. His appetite had not returned by their evening meal either, which hadn't gone unnoticed by Hermione. When he'd pushed his plate away after only a few bites, she resolutely pushed it back in front of him with a stern glance.
"Harry, you must eat something," she warned him under her breath as she reached for her glass so as not to draw too much attention to him from the others. Particularly Fleur, who seemed to have made it her mission to monitor any changes in his health, having already worried over his pallid complexion during their earlier meal.
Sighing, Harry loaded up his fork, chewed the tasteless food, swallowed and repeated the process until more than half of his meal was consumed and she was satisfied.
He knew she was right, of course. Loss of appetite was his body's natural response to stress, but he couldn't very well expect to carry out this mission on no sleep and very little food.
It felt like a it had been a very long day when they finally headed back to Grimmauld Place that evening. They'd asked him to share their bed again, and he'd agreed again, curling up between them on Sirius' enlarged feather mattress to sleep after they'd made love.
Five days left, he thought when he opened his eyes the next morning with Ron's face wedged against his neck, Hermione's hair in his nose and her hand curled on his chest. Five short days.

For the next few days, Harry tried to keep up his strength. Trying to get as much sleep and food as his body would permit, and the times when he couldn't, trying to hide it from Ron and Hermione. Gratefully, he had no more flashes of Voldemort's thoughts, though he dwelled on the revelations from the last one endlessly. If what Ollivander had told him about wands was correct, then Riddle had not won the wand's allegiance by simply taking it from Dumbledore's tomb. Clearly Tom did not feel a kinship with the Elder Wand, at least, and was seeking a remedy. Harry found himself agreeing with Ron. Never in his life had he wished more strongly for Snape's continued safety. Yet, he was certain that something about that wasn't right.
As Hermione pointed out, Snape had killed Dumbledore, which legend would say would make him the owner of the wand. Yet Dumbledore had not killed Grindelwald when he'd taken possession of it. He'd simply beaten Grindelwald in a duel, which had been enough, it seemed, for the wand to recognize Dumbledore as its new master. Harry knew what it felt like when a connection was made between wand and owner. He'd handled nearly every wand in Ollivander's shop it seemed trying to find his match with the Holly and Phoenix feather wand that finally chose him. The Blackthorn wand he'd used as a replacement had always felt alien in his hand, but not Draco's wand. Harry felt an affinity with it, too, which didn't make any sense to him. He'd not won it from Draco. He'd simply taken it, swapping it for the Blackthorn like Voldemort had done with Dumbledore's. Why then would Draco's wand work for him and the Elder Wand not for Tom? Was it simply that the Elder Wand was a much more powerful magical object? Something about it nagged at him, and it had to do with Draco. He could not put the pieces together yet, but the answer was there, somewhere. He just had to find it.
On the final day, they broke at lunch, leaving Shell Cottage to return to Number Twelve. Harry knew it raised suspicion with Bill for them to head home so early, but there was nothing for it, really. They each knew the plan by heart and could recite it backwards and forwards. There was nothing to be gained from sitting locked together in a room and driving each other crazy when they had things that needed their attention at home.
They'd put off collecting all their scattered possessions, none of them truly wanting to face the prospect of packing their things up and securing the house. Even though they told themselves it was only for one night. That's not the way it felt, to Harry at least. He kept trying to tell himself it was just anxiety at their first real mission since their capture, but it didn't ease his sense of dread. There was a feeling of finality in this trip tomorrow, an ending that hung over them like a black cloud. Harry felt certain that they'd never be coming back here. He thought they both sensed it, too, but none of them voiced it aloud. Instead, they busied themselves crawling around in every crevice of the place in search of misplaced objects. Harry tasked himself with preparing dinner while Hermione packed their things away in her beaded bag, working mostly in silence.
After their meal, they returned to the Drawing room, still transfigured to resemble the Gryffindor Common room, but unnaturally clean. It gave the place a museum like quality that Harry didn't like at all.
In the weeks since Dobby's death, the place had taken on a much more lived in quality with bits of parchment littering the floor, the couch cushions in a constant state of disarray and half drunk mugs of tea littering the tables. Now the only thing out of place were the three sets of clothes laid out neatly on the table for tomorrow and the three nervous teenagers who would be wearing them engaged in awkward small talk to pass the time.
Harry had remained mostly silent, which was another of his automatic responses to stress. Ron and Hermione, in contrast, usually became excessively chatty when nervous. Tonight was no exception. Harry began to tune them out, his thoughts turning inward as he thought over the long path that had led him to this day, the Horcruxes that were left, the Hallows he'd chosen not to seek, Dumbledore's last secrets in Snape's memories that still remained to be revealed. He thought of what tomorrow might bring, and what would happen if things went tits over tea kettle and they were captured again. The sudden memory of that vivid nightmare made him shudder.
Turning his hands over in his lap, Harry examined his palms. They were pink and smooth, harmless to look at. Did he actually have control of it? Could he summon his magic on command if need be? Harry glanced at Draco's wand lying on the table beside him and reached for it. The wand immediately warmed in his grip, that familiar sensation of kinship rekindled which sent his mind spinning again, searching his fragmented memories for answers.
"Harry?"
It was right there, he thought, twirling the wand in his fingers, a memory very close to the surface now.
"Harry?" Hermione called again, more loudly this time.
Harry blinked. "Hmm?" he responded absently, glancing up at her finally.
"You're off in your own world. What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," he answered. "Nothing at all, really."
"Well, it's getting late. We need to get to bed. Will you come with us?" she asked.
Harry shook his head. "No, I... I don't think I'll be very good company, Hermione."
"I don't want you to be alone, Harry. Not tonight. Please?" she pleaded.
"I'll be fine," he assured her. Getting to his feet, he pulled her into his embrace. "Don't worry about me," he murmured into her hair before kissing her on the cheek. Then he released her and walked from the room before either of them could try and persuade him further.
As much as he would have liked taking comfort from them tonight, Harry wanted to give them this last night together in case it was their last, in case things went bad tomorrow and he was forced to honor his promise to Hermione. The thought made him physically ill, the fear making him weak. He'd told her that he'd lay waste to all of them if there were no other option, but even assuming he could summon the courage and his magic to do it, he would not be able to join them. The flames might consume everyone around him, but they would leave him physically unharmed.
He would be completely shattered, devoid of the will to live, but left alive he would be and utterly alone in the world. There would be no comfort in the safety of death for him, no absolution of his crimes. And when he did finally succumb, once everyone he loved had died and it was finally his turn, there would be no one waiting for him on the other side. Not a single soul willing to unlock the door and let him inside to join the people he'd spent his lifetime grieving. What awaited him was an eternity out in the snow. A lifetime of hell watching them through the mullioned windows with no hope of entry. Harry's hell would not be an inferno of flames, but a bitter, all consuming cold.
He shivered at the thought, feeling cold and desolate. He tried to sleep, curling up in a ball under the blankets for warmth, but the inferno raging under his skin had never warmed him. It might make him hot to the touch, but like all fevers, it left him chilled.
When he couldn't stand the solitude any longer, he finally crawled off his bed and padded quietly into their room where the empty chair sat waiting for him. Curling up in it, he tucked his knees against his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees, waiting in the darkness for their last hours to tick by and their last sunrise to come.

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What it comes down to