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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
Chapter 9. Grimmauld Place
It was so cold outside. Harry ducked his head against the biting wind, shivering. Struggling forward through the snow, past the gate, he looked up. He’d finally arrived at the house in Godric’s Hollow. His home, whole and inviting, a warm glow spilling from the mullioned windows, and Harry could see people in the front room. His heart sped up at the sight of them.
In a daze, he approached, unable to believe what he was seeing. His father was sitting on the couch, smiling. Sirius stood at the mantle, his head thrown back in laughter. He looked younger than Harry had ever seen him before.
Then he saw her, his mother, walking into the room. She stopped to kiss his father on the cheek before joining him on the couch, a steaming mug in her hands.
Harry’s heart ached with longing as he pressed his face to the glass. Slowly he put a hand to the window, tapping lightly with his frozen fingers. Lily looked up from her tea, surprise in her eyes, while James rose slowly from the couch, staring at him, the smile sliding from his face.
“Dad,” Harry called. “Dad, it’s me. It’s Harry!”
There was excitement and longing in his voice as his father approached the window.
“Dad, let me in.”
But the shock on his father’s face had turned to fear and then to sadness. Slowly he shook his head.
Harry stared at him, bewildered.
“Dad?”
Now Sirius appeared at the window, and Harry turned to him, thinking his father must not have recognized him. Of course, he wouldn’t. He hadn’t seen Harry since he was a baby, but Sirius would know who he was.
“Sirius,” he called. “Sirius, it’s me. I need you to let me in. Tell them who I am, Sirius. It’s me, Harry.”
He banged his palm on the window.
“No, Harry,” his father said, his voice muffled through the glass. “Son, I can’t let you in. I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“But…” Harry replied, confused and hurt. “But it’s cold, and it’s taken me so long to get here. I’m so tired. Please let me in.”
Then his mother was there, too, tears in her eyes as she stared at him. He stared back at her, drinking her in. She raised her hand to his so that they would be touching if not for the pane of glass separating them. A wave of longing broke over him.
“Mum, please,” he pleaded.
“My sweet boy,” she cried, her voice cracking. “My beautiful boy.”
Harry’s eyes welled up with tears at her voice, his heart aching at her words.
“I need to come in,” he told her. “Mum, open the door, okay?”
“No, Harry,” Sirius said then, shaking his head, denying him. “No…you have to go back, Harry, you can’t stay here.”
“Please!” he yelled, feeling angry now as his mother turned away from him, her hand to her mouth, crying into his father’s embrace.
Harry couldn’t understand what was wrong with them. Why weren’t they happy to see him? He ran to the door, yanking on the handle, wailing in frustration when it wouldn’t open for him. Banging on the door, sobbing now, he begged to be let in.
“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Please let me in.”
He was pounding on the unyielding door with his fists, ramming his shoulder against it, hysterical at their refusal to open it. He could still hear her crying on the other side.
“Please, Mum, please,” he begged, sliding to his knees, pressed against the barrier that separated him from them, heartbroken at their rejection. “Please don’t leave me out here.”

“RON!” Hermione screamed. “Ron, he’s in here. Oh, My, God, Harry!”
Ron rushed in behind her, wand out.
“FUCK ME!” he yelled, horrorstruck when he caught site of Harry who was sitting propped against the side of the tub, his face white as a sheet, resting on the edge.
Harry’s arms were thrown over the sides as blood ran from them, dripping off his fingertips and into the tub, pooling in the bottom, and running down the drain.
“Shit, Shit!” Ron chanted as he slid his arms under Harry’s armpits. Clasping his hands around Harry's chest, Ron dragged him out of the bathroom and back into Sirius’s bedroom, where he deposited his limp body on the bed. Hermione had already torn off the dusty duvet and was ripping the top sheet into strips.
“I think he’s still alive, ‘Mione,” he told her shakily. “Barely.”
He seemed unable to move then, in shock at what he was seeing. Hermione pushed him aside and grabbed Harry’s wrist.
“Don’t you leave us,” she begged as she quickly bound the terrible wounds as best she could to stop the flow. “Don’t you dare leave us!”
Harry was covered in blood so that she couldn’t see exactly where he’d cut himself, though it seemed to be welling up from everywhere. Wrapping his arm from wrist to elbow, she secured it tightly there then moved to the other arm, which wasn’t bleeding nearly as much. Apparently, he had done so much damage to the first arm that he wasn’t able to complete the work on his other.
“Oh, Merlin!” Lupin exclaimed in horror when he staggered into the room and saw Harry on the bed. “What did they do to him?”
“Lupin, we need a healer quickly!” she told him frantically. “Go and find Madame Pomfrey. She’s the only one I trust to see him.”
When he continued to stand there with his mouth open, she shouted, “REMUS… please!”
Turning, he fled from the room without another word.
“Hurry!” she called after him.
Then she turned back to Harry. She didn’t know what else to do for him. She was trembling with fear at the sight of him. His face was pure white, making the dark bruises under his eyes even more prominent. Blood had dried on his face from his nose and mouth. He was lying on his back, his legs dangling off the bed where Ron had deposited him, his arms thrown out from where she had worked to stop the bleeding, still nude, still covered in blood.
“Ron, help me get him all the way onto the bed.”
For some reason, she didn’t want anyone else to come in and see him like this. But Ron still hadn’t moved. He just stood there, staring blankly at Harry.
“Ron!” she called sharply again, and he slowly turned to her. “Help me move him. Please, Ron.”
“Right, okay,” he finally agreed, blinking rapidly and nodding his head.
Carefully, they dragged Harry into the middle of the bed, resting his head on the pillows. She draped what remained of the sheet across his lap, and then they both just stared at him, watching his shallow breathing, counting the minutes, at a loss as to what else to do.
It had taken them almost an hour to find him after he’d pulled them out of the dungeons of Malfoy Manor and dropped them in Ron’s bedroom. Then before she could even comprehend what had happened, or how, he was gone again. And then Arthur and Lupin had burst in, wands out, followed closely by Molly and George. It took them thirty minutes just to get out of the Burrow. Molly was hysterical at the sight of them. Everyone was yelling, crying, asking questions, and Hermione and Ron were frantic to get free. Finally, they had managed to convey that Harry was in serious trouble and that they had to find him.
Breaking into teams of three, they searched every place they could think that Harry might have gone, terrified they would run into Death Eaters searching for them. God, if they had been much longer, he might already be dead.
She stood there, holding herself together by the elbows, still in Ron’s too-large shirt and a borrowed pair of Ginny’s jeans, her feet bare, with Ron who was still shirtless, his chest and arms now smeared with Harry’s blood.
There were heavy footfalls on the stairs suddenly, and Hermione whirled around, wand up, as Lupin came running back into the room, quickly followed by Madame Pomfrey. At the sight of Harry, the healer threw a hand to her mouth and let out a wail of despair.
“Oh, my dear!” she gasped as she hurried towards him, throwing her bag down beside his head.
Hermione stepped back, giving her room to do her work. Watching helplessly as the healer poked and prodded him, poured potions down his throat, and muttered incantations under her breath while the bandages on Harry’s arms continued to darken with his blood.
Realizing that Harry was in the best hands possible, Hermione turned to Lupin again.
“Remus, we need to put up protective enchantments. It’s not safe here. The Death Eaters could come barging in at any moment, and I don’t think we can move him. Can you help me, please?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, tearing his eyes away from Harry to focus on her.
“Do you know how to perform a Fidelius charm?” she asked.
“I have never done one, no, but I know the incantation.”
“Ron, come and help us,” she told him.
Dully, he looked at her and nodded. Then they left the room, giving Harry and the healer some privacy.
First, they sent messages to the others who were searching for Harry, having forgotten them in their haste to get him medical attention. Then they went to work, throwing every protective charm they could think of on the house. By the time they were finished, nearly everyone had converged on Grimmauld Place. All of them clamored for news, peppering them with questions on where they’d been, what had happened, how they’d escaped, how Harry was, and still Madame Pomfrey hadn’t made an appearance.
Finally, Hermione managed to send them all away, begging them for privacy, promising them news as soon as it was available. When everyone had gone, she and Remus cast the charm to conceal the house, making Hermione the secret keeper. Then in relief, she staggered into a chair in the drawing room, mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted.
It was three hours before Madame Pomfrey finally appeared in the drawing room, looking haggard. Strands of her hair had pulled loose from the confines of her bun, tear tracks stained her face. Hermione jumped to her feet when she saw her.
“Madame Pomfrey, is he going to be okay?” she asked hurriedly.
“I have done all I can for him,” she told them sadly.
Wringing her hands helplessly, she stood quietly for a few minutes before she went on.
“I’ve been treating that boy since he was eleven years old. I know every injury he’s ever suffered. I know what he’s endured in his short life, but this ....”
Her voice trailed off as her lips trembled.
“I have never seen so much suffering,” she whispered, her hands beginning to shake now. “His wounds are so numerous, his body so battered, so bruised and broken, that frankly, I don’t know how it is that he’s alive at all.”
She burst into tears then, her professional manner completely lost.
“Poppy!” Lupin said in surprise, rushing to her.
Pulling her into an embrace, he patted her consolingly on the back.
“That boy has been through too much, Remus,” she told him, wiping her eyes, getting herself under control again. “I have him heavily sedated right now. His body needs rest, time to heal. The potions and spells can only do so much. He is magically and physically exhausted.”
Sniffing, she pulled a tissue from her bag and blew her nose. After she recovered for a moment, she turned to Hermione and said, “Miss Granger, may I see you privately, please?”
“Of course,” Hermione replied, startled.
They stepped into the hallway, Madame Pomfrey pulling the door closed behind her.
“Hermione, I don’t know how much you know of what they did to Harry, but I suspect it’s enough. I need to examine you for injuries, and Mr. Weasley, too, I would think.”
“I’m fine,” Hermione argued.
“I insist. You both have clearly sustained injuries,” Madame Pomfrey responded briskly, pointing to Hermione’s raw and bleeding wrists. She lowered her voice. “Hermione, Harry was raped, as I am sure you know judging by the state of him. More than once from what I can tell. I need to examine you. I know you don’t wish to discuss this with me, but it’s important that we get you treated as quickly as possible.”
Hermione ducked her head, hugging herself again, heat rising in her face. She didn’t want to talk about this. Didn’t want to confess what had happened in that terrible place. Couldn’t face what Harry was forced to do to her. She didn’t want anyone to know, didn’t want anyone to ever know what happened. She shook her head in denial.
“It was Harry they wanted to hurt. They only kept us there to control him…as another way to torture him,” she explained with a sob. “I wasn’t … I’m not hurt,” she lied.
Madame Pomfrey stared at her while she continued to look down, trying to blink back tears.
“Well,” she said finally, clearly not convinced. “Take this potion for me anyway, dear.”
She pulled a small vial from her bag.
“It’s for…well…it will prevent any unplanned…any unintended consequences,” she finished awkwardly, pressing the vial into Hermione’s hand.
“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey,” Hermione mumbled.
“And Mr. Weasley?” she asked.
“No. Ron and I are both okay. Tired, hungry, a little shaken and bruised up, but we’re both fine.”
“All right, dear, let’s rejoin the others then.”
They stepped back into the drawing room.
“I am leaving instructions for Harry’s care,” the healer began to the room at large. “He will need a blood replenishing potion every two hours. The dressing on his arms will also need to be changed regularly.”
She paused, and after a moment she started again, more quietly.
“I cannot heal self-inflicted wounds so they will have to heal on their own, and he did quite enough damage to be getting on with,” she admitted, her voice shaking again. “He is severely dehydrated and malnourished. I suspect you two are, as well. I have laid out potions for that. Also, he has several wounds that are infected, including the bite marks to his back and shoulder.”
“Bite marks?” Remus interjected, looking thunderstruck, as if he knew who and what had caused them.
“It’s not the full moon for another week, Remus,” she reminded him. “There is an ointment for those wounds to help with the healing, though they will never fully heal, of course. And he has a fever as well that will need to be tended to, a potion every four hours for that.”
She sighed deeply, rubbing at her weary face and went on.
“His nose, jaw, and ribs are healing, but he will be incredibly sore when he wakes, which shouldn’t be for some time. Still, there is a pain relieving potion in case he needs it. I have written all of this down and left it with the medicines beside the bed. Please keep a record of what you’ve given him and when. I’ll be back in the morning to check on him.”
After staring at them solemnly for a moment, she turned to leave.
“Here,” Remus said, hurrying to show her out.
“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey,” Hermione called after her.
“Of course, dear,” she replied. “Please look after yourselves.”
And then she was gone, leaving Ron and Hermione alone in the drawing room, Hermione still clutching the potion she’d given her.
As Lupin was seeing Madame Pomfrey out, she and Ron took the stairs back to Sirius’ bedroom. They stood at the door. Hermione felt shaky now, the adrenaline gone from her, afraid to go in and see him again, afraid not to see him. Then Ron slipped his hand into hers, squeezed it, and turned the handle.
Even though she had seen Harry just a few hours ago in the worst possible condition, with the life draining out of him into the bathtub, it was still a shock to see him again now, looking so ghostly pale on the bed, so frail. Madame Pomfrey had re-bandaged his arms, and siphoned off most of the blood from his face and arms, though they were still stained. She’d replaced the bedding which had been smeared with blood, and had covered him to the waist with clean linens. His heavily bandaged arms lay at his sides over the blankets. His chest was wrapped tightly in more bandages, so that the scar from where the locket had fused itself to him during their escape from Voldemort at Bathilda’s house was barely visible over the top of it. Harry was covered in bruises on the parts of his body still visible. His whole face was swollen, his lip ragged and torn, his neck still red and raw. But the worst part was just how still and lifeless he was. Hermione just stared at him, unable to look away, or move, or think.
Lupin returned after a few moments. Entering silently, walking towards Harry as if in a daze, he came around the side of the bed near Harry’s head. Then he just stared down at him, like her and Ron. All of them stood there silently for a long time, watching Harry’s abnormally still form. Then Remus lifted a hand to Harry’s forehead, carefully brushing back his matted fringe with his fingertips.
“The last time I saw him, I cursed him,” he confessed in a low voice full of anguish.
“Remus,” she began.
“And he was right, of course. I was a fool, and he was right.”
“Remus, he’d forgiven you before you’d even made it out the door,” she told him. “You know that. Harry loves you. He was only trying to protect you.”
“We tried to find you…we did,” he whispered.
Hermione didn’t respond because his confession was to Harry. He blinked back tears and sniffed, his body trembling with grief.
“You were right. Your father would have been ashamed of me, Harry.”
“Remus, please,” she pleaded, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You need to go home to Tonks. I’m sure she must be worried.”
He was alarming her. She had never seen him so undone before.
“Rest,” she declared. “We all need some rest. Why don’t you come back in the morning with Madame Pomfrey, all right? I’m sure Harry will be much better then.”
Lupin watched Harry a minute more before finally nodding his head in reluctant agreement.
Hermione watched him go with relief. Tonks would take care of him. For a long time after he left, she and Ron still stood there. Silently, they watched Harry; Ron still holding her hand, squeezing her fingers, stroking the backs of her knuckles with his fingertips.
“I’ll keep watch, Hermione,” Ron spoke finally, startling her. “You need to rest, too.”
It was if a dam had burst within her at his words. Turning in to him, sobbing, she was suddenly weak with grief, finally able to let it go now that everyone else had gone and it was just the three of them again. Wrapping his arms around her, Ron held her to his chest, holding her up while she fell apart, clinging to him.
When she’d finally cried herself out, he helped her onto the bed next to Harry, conjured a blanket out of thin air and draped it over her. Then he pulled the chair over next to the bed and dropped heavily into it. She turned away from Harry, facing Ron, her knees curled into her body. He slipped his hand back into hers, and she fell asleep like that.
She woke a few hours later, though it seemed like only a moment. She was groggy and unsure where she was, what had woken her, but then Ron was there again.
“I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered. “But I was hungry, so I went down to the kitchen to see if there was anything left here to eat. I found some crackers and salami.”
His stomach growled.
“Plus, it’s time for Harry’s potions.”
Hermione sat up, hungry herself. They had a meal of hard salami on crackers with water in the middle of the night by moonlight. Then they gave Harry his scheduled doses of fever reducer and blood replenishment potions. And then she couldn’t go back to sleep, though Ron told her to, that he would keep watch through the night. Instead, she curled up at the head of the bed, tucked the blanket around her, and stared at Harry’s silhouetted form.
“I’ve never seen magic like Harry did,” Ron said quietly after a long silence, and it was a long pause again before she answered.
“He shouldn’t have been able to breach the wards at Malfoy Manor or at the Burrow. He Apparated us out of there, but it wasn’t exactly Apparition, was it? It didn’t feel like that. I thought I saw…I thought I saw him transform into … something … at the Burrow, right before he vanished.”
“I saw it, too. Just for a moment. Then those flames and he was gone.”
They sat like that all night, sometimes talking quietly, sometimes sitting in silence while Harry lay unmoving on the bed next to her.
The next morning Hermione felt stiff and sore. Maybe from so many days in the dungeons, chained to the wall, maybe from the Cruciatus, maybe from simply sitting so long with her feet tucked under her on the bed that night. But when Madame Pomfrey and Lupin arrived that morning, she had a hard time getting off the bed.
Madame Pomfrey watched her, and she knew she must look a fright. Her face felt puffy and swollen from crying so hard the night before on Ron. She hadn’t bathed since before they were captured. Looking herself over, she realized that she was still wearing the mismatched assortment of clothes, and the shirt had Harry’s blood smeared on it from where she had wiped her hands. Her wrists were red and raw. The skin had torn in several places and the blood had dried, mixed with dirt. Her hands were still stained with Harry’s blood, too, caked in the creases and grooves of her skin and around her fingernails. She was suddenly overcome with the urge to get clean.
“Ron, while Lupin and Madame Pomfrey are here with Harry, we need to go back to the campsite where we were captured,” she told him.
He looked up at her in alarm. “What?”
“I threw my bag, my beaded bag into some bushes before we…before…I think it may still be there. Everything we own is in that bag, Ron. We need it,” she said pointedly.
Though it was clear from the look on his face that he was terrified of going back there, he agreed to go and be back quickly. Mercifully they did find the bag quickly, only after a few minutes searching. Both of them were shaking when they reappeared.
Madame Pomfrey was still with Harry when they returned, so Hermione took the shower she was so desperate for while they waited.
She took a long time, scrubbing her body fiercely, trying to wash away the fear she’d felt when she found herself back in the woods where their tent had stood that night, and the remnants of Malfoy Manor that still clung to her every pore. She rubbed the skin raw, crying as the blood on her thighs and hands and wrists washed down the drain, her blood, and Harry’s. Shaking all over as several layers of dirt and at least two of skin followed. And she fell apart again as it stung when she ran the soapy rag between her legs, cleaning herself gingerly. Then she washed her hair over and over. She kept lathering it up and rinsing it out, feeling like it wouldn’t come clean. Finally she just stood there, with the water running over her, until it ran cold, trying to pull herself together again.
When she got out, she brushed her teeth until the gums bled and scrubbed her face until it stung. She dressed in her own clothes then, trying to avoid looking at the bruise on her thigh when she pulled on her jeans. When she was finished, she stood in front of the mirror a long time, clutching the potion Madame Pomfrey had given her the night before, staring at her reflection in the foggy mirror. Finally, she drank it down, as tears rolled down her cheeks again.
Emerging from the bathroom, dressed in her own clothes, her hair damp around her shoulders, she did feel better, though she was sure she probably looked worse than when she went in. Every inch of her skin stung, the clothes chafing against it, and the skin on her face felt stretched, pulled too tight over her cheeks.
Ron was waiting for her when she emerged. He was sitting in the hall directly across from the door. He looked up at her when she opened it, and she realized that he’d been out here the whole time.
“All right?” he asked quietly.
She nodded at him, though she felt like crying again. He stood then, facing her, standing close.
“I think I could use one, too. Wait for me?”
She nodded again, handing him the bag that contained all of their possessions. She’d left her dirty things on the floor of the bathroom. She’d have to launder them later today, she thought.
When Ron exited the bathroom, he looked as pink as she probably did, though he took considerably less time than she had. They went down to the kitchen, where they joined Lupin at the table. Mrs. Weasley had sent Lupin with baskets and baskets of her wonderful cooking, and she and Ron ate as much as they could hold, talking with Lupin, between mouthfuls, about Harry, about the wandless magic he’d done.
He wanted to know how they’d escaped, and she told him what led up to it, what Harry had done, deliberately skipping over what he’d done to her, going red when she could feel Ron’s concerned eyes on her, though he remained silent.
In turn, Lupin told them what Madame Pomfrey had told him about the strange circumstances of Snape turning up in her infirmary by portkey, unconscious, only hours before their escape. Then about how he’d fled Hogwarts almost immediately after he’d regained consciousness.
They talked about the commotion they heard outside their cell before Harry had been led in, how they thought the Order had finally come to their rescue, about what Bellatrix had said about Snape’s betrayal, about Draco returning their wands.
Then Madame Pomfrey appeared in the kitchen, looking just as weary as the night before, and she sat at the table with them for a while, drinking a cup of tea that Lupin had made for her.
They departed together again after Lupin checked on Harry while Madame Pomfrey insisted on looking her and Ron over until she was satisfied that they were not badly injured. Before she’d left, they were both sporting matching bandages on their wrists, and each was forced to drink a potion for the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse.
Then they returned to Sirius’ room, taking up their positions from the night before, waiting for Harry, watching him.
Hermione knew when Voldemort had returned to Malfoy Manor that morning. Knew the minute he’d learned what had happened. She knew when he’d turned his wrath on his followers because Harry suddenly started moaning, his scar going bright red against his abnormally pale face. His whole body seized up, and then he started to thrash on the bed, convulsing, biting his own tongue, screaming, though he no longer had a voice.
It went on for so long, and Hermione could do nothing for him except put him in a full body bind to stop him injuring himself further from the thrashing after she and Ron had tried, unsuccessfully, to hold him down. She spoke soothingly to him, trying to coax him out of the vision, crying again when blood started dripping from his nose.
Voldemort’s fury must have been incredible to witness. It went on for over an hour, until she thought he would kill Harry with the vision, undoing all of Madame Pomfrey’s work, reversing what little progress he’d made, and leaving him even more frail on the bed. Then, when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, that evening his fever started to spike.

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What it comes down to

Chapter 9. Grimmauld Place