Reviewers, I salute you all. But specifically:

spacecatdet: Whoever you are, you rock. That was funny. Thanks for reading. :D

O r i g i n a l 1: Wow, lots of questions! Unfortunately, I can only answer one and not even that well. Forgive me in advance.

You asked for further details of how the Dursleys are mean, because you couldn't see how they were really bullying Harry.

The best I can do is to give you my definition of bullying. Bullying is the umbrella word that encompasses harassing, terrorizing, or subjugating somebody. It doesn't need to be physical or even overt. In fact, the worst kind of bullying is rarely the kind that leaves a mark. Anyway, graphic Harry abuse is not the point of the story, although this chapter does have some gory details.

Nickel Nerd: As they say, everyone has to go sometime. Glad to bring some happiness into your last remaining free days. Enjoy. :D

Part Three: The Burrow

The left wing of the Trauma ward at St. Anthony's was much emptier than the right, so no one noticed the sudden clangs and shouts that emanated from a broom closet at the end of the hallway. Molly and Arthur Weasley stumbled out, followed by two mops and a bucket. After a struggle to put everything back, they smoothed out their clothes and walked off, trying to act natural.

"Oh, I do hope we're close to Harry!" Molly said.

"Me too," Arthur agreed. "I'd hate to ask too many questions, it could blow our cover."

The Weasleys kept close to each other and attempted to look like doctors, which, considering neither of them had any idea how doctors acted, was not very easy. They eventually reached the busier area of the Trauma ward. After watching one doctor wander by with a clipboard, Arthur decided to do the same thing.

Grabbing two random clipboards off a nearby desk, he handed one to Molly and hissed, "Look official."

Molly raised an eyebrow at her husband, but didn't argue. She began to peruse the papers on her clipboard like it made some sense to her, although it made none at all. These medical charts were so bewildering, with all the strange symbols for medication and hardly any room for the patient's name. They continued to meander down the hallway together, talking quietly, until they got a stroke of luck.

A young doctor was wandering by with a nurse at his side, and saying, "Yeah, just finished setting that John Doe who came in. Heard what happened, didn't you?"

Molly and Arthur ducked behind a corner and listened. Obviously the nurse had shaken her head 'no,' because the doctor continued.

"Yeah, the emergency crew saw someone dump him out in front of the doors. Poor lad was beaten within an inch of his life. Couldn't be more than fourteen, and he had so much blood up his nose he was choking on it. There was a drama down there, I can tell you! Binks said he threw up all over a nurse, and someone else was screaming about medical instruments taking flight, but it stopped as soon as they got him sedated."

"That's weird!" said the nurse.

"Yeah, well, we're thinking it was a poltergeist made the instruments fly about." (This made the nurse laugh.) "And he's doing a lot better, now."

Molly and Arthur looked at each other, peaked and upset, respectively. They were not sure Harry was doing better at all.

"So," the doctor continued, "Check on him as soon as you can. When he comes around, let the police up to see him. Perhaps he can give his name." ("Please-men? Here?" Molly squeaked quietly. Arthur shushed her.) "Oh, and Plastics is coming down for his nose, but have them take a look at his forehead. He's got some kind of scar there. It doesn't look that fresh, so I don't know how much help they'll be, but ask."

"Right. You off?"

"Almost, just need to finish his chart. 'Night, Bea."

"'Night, Evan."

Arthur's eyes went wide, but they kept still as the doctor walked right by them, carrying Harry's chart, followed a little later by the nurse. Mr. Weasley took his wife's hand and pointed in the direction the doctor and nurse had come from. Mrs. Weasley steeled herself, nodded, and put down her clipboard. Arthur did the same and they slipped into the patient area of the Trauma wing, constantly looking over their shoulder for Bea.

Arthur stared around, fascinated at all the beeping machines and oddly attired Muggles asleep in the beds, their limbs in plastic braces and casts. Molly, meanwhile, knew they had a few minutes at best before that nurse came back, and was frantically looking for Harry, all the while muttering about the dratted doctors and please-men being underfoot.

She peered through five curtains with no success, but the sixth one she pulled back made her gasp. Arthur turned his attention from a Muggle who seemed to be nothing but plaster and came hurrying over. Molly pulled him behind the bed's curtain and re-fastened it.

Both of them looked down, and for several seconds were so struck by the enormity of what they saw that neither of them had anything to say.

Harry looked as though he had been hit several times by a truck. One of his closed eyes had gone purple and puffy. His left cheek was cut. He wore a clear breathing mask over his mouth (Molly noted his chapped lips) and his bloodied nose was very swollen underneath its bandages. His left arm was bent at the elbow, completely encased in white plaster. Arthur tried to fight his own panic by explaining a few things to Molly, who seemed to be miles away.

She gently touched the two plastic discs stuck high on his chest; the rest of it was covered by bandages. He wore no gown, and even though a few sheets covered the rest of him, she could tell his right leg was propped up on a pillow and probably encased in the same strange white stuff as his left arm. The discs on him seemed to be attached to a funny beeping box on his right, and something was dripping into him from a bag that hung on a metal hanger. His round glasses sat on a small tray next to his bed. Arthur picked them up and pocketed them.

Molly set to work and conjured a few blankets. They landed gently in a folded pile on top of Harry. "Dear, you're the Muggle expert. See if you can turn off those things without causing a ruckus. I'll get to work on the memory charm."

Arthur did as his wife asked. Because of his extensive knowledge of plugs, he managed to unplug not only the beeping machine but the machine that controlled the drip. Then he turned to the rather sticky task of getting Harry disconnected from everything. The needles in the boy's arm and hand were simple enough to remove, and it was easy to get the mask off, but there was nothing for the discs. Arthur just ripped. They came off fast, but left little red welts and Arthur was immensely glad that Harry was still asleep, although how was a bit of a mystery. He supposed the Muggles must have given him some sort of sleeping draught to keep him from fidgeting.

He turned to Molly, who was whispering and holding up her wand, her eyes closed. A strange blue mist was emanating from it and spreading outward very fast. In a moment the whole Trauma wing was full of it, but Molly kept muttering the charm over and over, eyes closed, until Arthur looked out of the window that was near Harry's bed and saw the blue mist leaking out the doors on the ground floor. Molly had managed to fill the entire hospital with her mass memory charm.

Finally she opened her eyes and looked at Arthur, who nodded. She finished the incantation. The mist vanished, and both distinctly heard the nurse, who couldn't have been five feet from the curtain around Harry's bed, say, "Why am I going in here again?" This was followed hard-upon by retreating footsteps.

The police officers waiting downstairs in Emergency couldn't recall why they'd come to the hospital in the first place, and departed to grab some pasties for dinner.

And no one even noticed the doctor putting Harry's chart into the Trauma department break room's shredder, his face relaxed, and his eyes remarkably glazed.

"I'll get Harry ready to go," Molly said, wiping her brow. A memory charm that large was difficult, even for a fully-qualified witch. "Contact Albus, would you?" she said, bustling around her charge and wrapping him in the blankets.

Arthur closed his eyes and concentrated, and as soon as he opened them, he felt something jiggling in his pocket. He lifted out the broken thermometer, which had taken on a golden glow, and looked at Molly. She'd gotten Harry completely wrapped up except for his right hand, which he'd need to touch the Portkey. Arthur held it, Molly kept a finger on it, Harry's hand was placed limply upon it, and all three of them vanished.

The effect of Madam Pomfrey's news was sobering. After Hermione's outburst in the bedroom, the Hogwarts nurse quickly found herself ringed by upset, angry faces (most framed with flaming red hair), and the Weasley children had milked her dry of all the information she had regarding Harry. She was not happy to re-tell the whole ghastly thing. But she knew it would be easier on their mum if no one was begging her for details, so she explained to all of them what she knew.

The twins stalked off looking murderous, Ron followed them, Ginny and Hermione helped Poppy make up the guest bed, and after that there was nothing to do but wait.

Ron made himself useful by getting drinks for everyone. The twins both asked for a shot of Firewhisky, but Ron quipped sullenly that if he knew where it was, he'd be having it all himself. Ginny and Hermione were sitting on the sofa, talking half-heartedly about plans for the rest of the summer. Madam Pomfrey was sitting in an arm chair reading a book and the twins were discussing business at the kitchen table, jabbing at a bit of parchment with quills and arguing over inventory. Even though they were talking about things like Pucker-Up Prawlines, their mood was sober.

The sudden appearance of Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Weasley in the middle of the living room caught everyone's attention. Mrs. Weasley looked rather tired and lost and Mr. Weasley was a bit white-faced, holding a large bundle of blankets. Ginny jumped and Hermione started to rise, but Poppy was faster. She quickly had a hand on Arthur's shoulder and led him down the hall to the guest bedroom.

And it seemed that as fast as the excitement had started, it was over. Everyone watched Mr. Weasley walk quickly out of the room with his large bundle, and then went back about their business in a sort of stupor. Ron went back to watching the stew, quite literally. He wasn't even stirring it, just staring at the pot. The twins found themselves staring at the parchment between them. Ginny and Hermione had gone quiet.

And then Mr. Weasley came back into the living room, head down and walking fast, well aware that five pairs of young eyes were trained on him. He kept his back to everybody, mostly to keep the conversation between him and his wife private, but also so only she would see his wet face.

Mrs. Weasley was standing by the fireplace in a fog. She hadn't moved since her arrival. Mr. Weasley went to her and kissed her on the cheek.

"I'm g-going for Albus, Molly," he whispered.

She nodded at him slowly, still with that lost look in her eyes. "We'll keep dinner for you," she replied, in a husky voice she hardly recognized as her own.

Mr. Weasley nodded back, swallowing against the lump in his throat, and Apparated away with a loud crack.

Immediately the five pairs of eyes were trained on Mrs. Weasley, who finally set herself in motion and walked slowly over to the couch. She plopped down between Hermoine and Ginny, threw an arm over each girl, and sat staring blankly at the opposite wall. Hermione had never seen her look more pale or sad.

"I could never forgive myself if anything happened to that boy that I could prevent," she said softly. "And I think I could have prevented this."

Ginny took her hand. The twins came over as one and sat side by side on the coffee table, facing their mum and mirroring her tired, sad expression, while Ron simply walked over behind and put his hands on her shoulders.

"I disagree," Hermione said quietly. "You did everything you could. You saved him, Mrs. Weasley. You and Mr. Weasley both."

"Hermione's right, Mum," Ginny added.

But Mrs. Weasley wasn't listening. She wasn't even curious as to how they all knew what had happened, or why. Everything she'd heard from Albus, everything she'd seen at the hospital, it was coming down on her like a collapsing roof. She couldn't pay attention to what anyone was saying.

"You sh-should have seen him!" she spluttered.

That was all she managed. Two fat tears rolled down her face and she began to weep quietly, shaking like a leaf, too upset to breathe properly and horribly embarrassed to be falling apart in front of her children.

To everyone's surprise, Ron leaned down and hugged her. Hermione and Ginny barely heard him murmur "Hey, Mum, it's all right," and the twins didn't hear him at all, but Mrs. Weasley heard him. For a moment she stopped sniffling, distracted by how much her Ronald had grown up.

Petunia was in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner dishes as usual, humming tunelessly to block out the blare of the telly in the next room. Dudley and Vernon were watching football and cheering their team on, notching their yelling up to a violent fortissimo every time the referee shouted "Goal!"

Petunia sighed and started with the rinsing. She hated sports almost as much as she hated magic. How Lily had ever been so fond of that Quidditch rubbish, she would never know.

At the thought of Lily, Petunia's hands shook so hard she dropped the dish she was trying to rinse. It fell into the sink with a clatter and broke, and Petunia had to sit down and wait for the shakes to go away.

Harry's aunt was finding it extraordinarily hard to concentrate on doing the dishes. In fact, ever since Vernon had driven off to the local hospital with the boy and come home without him, she'd found it very hard to concentrate on anything at all. Responsibility was responsibility, even if it was to a natty-haired little brat.

True, that wretched, lying freeloader had somehow gotten her precious Duddy stuck in a window. (Used the "M" word, probably!) And of course Dudley managed to get himself out of it, clever boy. But the bit that Dudley had told her about scolding Harry, his cousin retorting with wild insults, and then slipping and falling down the stairs ...

Well, Petunia thought that sounded awfully strange. Harry was many unpleasant things, but clumsy was not one of them. She was jerked out of her thoughts by a sudden tap on the shoulder. With a start, she turned to see who it was.

And if Albus Dumbledore hadn't whispered "Silencio!" at her before getting her attention, the whole of Privet Drive would have heard her scream.

She shrieked and yelled until she was red in the face, to absolutely no effect, and finally bent over, heaving for breath. Dudley and Vernon were still in the living room, staring at the telly. Petunia finally decided screaming was no use, so she stood up to look at Dumbledore directly, with a sour look on her face, pursed lips, and crossed arms.

Dumbledore immediately flicked his wand at her, and she cleared her throat. Much to her surprise, a sound came out.

"We must talk, you and I," he said quietly.

Petunia un-pursed her lips and replied, "Outside. I don't want Dudley or Vernon to see."

Dumbledore bowed slightly. "As you wish."

Mr. Weasley gently laid his burden down on the bed in the guest room. Then he handed Harry's glasses to Poppy, excused himself quickly with a nervous nod, and saw himself out. Poppy turned around and walked toward the bed, gathering her nerve. After watching Arthur shake so badly when he handed her Harry's glasses ... this was not going to be pretty.

She needed a moment after seeing his face. It was so swollen that it hardly resembled the friendly, gentle boy she knew from Hogwarts. If not for his wild, untidy black hair she would have assumed she was looking at Goyle with a black eye. So she got to work, feeling perhaps this would be easier in sections.

With a tap of her wand she mended his nose and then covered it, along with his eye, with Berebot's Bruise Cream, a yellowish, gunky substance that smelled terrible but worked very fast. His lips got some balm and the cut on his cheek got a dab of Windleworth's ointment. With this taken care of, she unwrapped him a little at a time and inched her way down, stopping along the way to mend bones, vanish casts, ease swellings, heal damaged organs, and repair torn muscles.

There was no sign that Harry felt anything, or that he was even awake. Poppy scratched her head. She knew Muggles made use of nasty stuff that Arthur had told her was called "asenetic," and it was meant to block pain while they cut each other open. But asenetic had very dangerous side-effects, and she had no idea how a young wizard would react to it.

Just to check, she performed a Scanning charm. It was simple: a quick spell and a gentle puff of air in the patient's left ear caused a diagnosis to fly out the other side of their head a few minutes later. While the spell made its analysis, she dressed Harry in clean pajamas (not easily done, since he couldn't help her at all), and tucked him into bed.

A voice rang out, surprising her slightly. "Current state: slightly concussed and flooded with Muggle pain medication. Predict waking in twelve hours, with agitation and disorientation, stiffness and soreness. Ongoing exhaustion for a few days. Use caution."

Madam Pomfrey nodded and sighed. Harry still had a bit of healing to do, but it looked like the worst was over. The bruise cream on his face had gone all soggy as a signal it had finished. The ointment on his cheek was almost done too, so she went to the small bathroom and wetted a rag to clean him up. After she'd wiped all the cream and ointment off him, he looked perfectly normal, scar and all, and she examined her work, tilting his face gently this way and that to see if the nose angle had to be readjusted. It looked fine.

So she packed up her wand and other supplies, pulled a phial of Pain Potion from her bag, and set it on the nightstand. She took Harry's glasses out of her pocket and laid them beside it. Then, after a moment's thought, she pulled out a Chocolate Frog and left it beside the glasses.

"Well, dear, my work here is done. You take care of yourself, now."

She said this quietly, tenderly, although she knew he couldn't possibly wake up or answer her. With a sweep of her robes she was out the door to give the Weasleys some final instructions. She was very glad to help Harry, but her sister was waiting at home to help her pack, and Aruba was calling.

Harry came around the next morning at seven, in exactly the condition the spell said he would. He was tired, aching all over, very groggy, and hardly able to see, as he couldn't feel his glasses on his nose and everything was dark anyhow. He tried to move. That was a no go, he was flat on his back and buried in blankets, but he at least managed a respectable squirm.

Something was wrong with him, he knew that much, but he felt safe. And so he immediately knew where he must be.

"Errgh," he said. It was half growl, half moan.

Fortunately, it was enough. Harry heard a rustling to his right, the moans and husky snorts of someone else waking up, and then felt two warm hands on his cheeks.

"Sirius?" he whispered.

The hands went away, and there was a very long pause.

The word just about broke Mrs. Weasley's heart. She was bending over him in the dark guest room, her hands on his face. Very slowly, she pulled away and sat down on the bed. Poppy had told her to expect Harry to wake up disoriented, but that didn't make this any easier.

Mrs. Weasley swallowed. "No dear, it's not Sirius. It's Mrs. Weasley."

"What – What are you doing in Sirius's house, Mrs. Weasley?" Harry mumbled, slurring his words. "Where's Sirius?"

Mrs. Weasley needed a second to master herself. She started moving her hands nervously and Harry felt someone brush his messy hair off his face.

"Sirius is gone, Harry. You're at my house. You're at the Burrow."

"Gone?" he repeated faintly.

"Yes dear, gone. Sirius ... Sirius is dead, sweetheart," she said softly.

Mrs. Weasley put her hands back on Harry's cheeks, and she could feel a mass creeping into her throat as she spoke. The way Harry was looking at her, not quite blankly, not quite normally, a tear leaking out of one eye for no apparent reason, and the fact that he seemed to have forgotten about his godfather ... Was it the pain medicine, or a concussion, or ...?

"No, he's just hiding. He's hiding ... behind the veil, with the rest ..." he trailed off.

And he closed his eyes. Mrs. Weasley gasped. But a minute later Harry moaned, and opened his eyes again, and seemed to come back to himself. He blinked at her like he was really awake this time, like he was seeing her and not a ghost.

"Mrs. Weasley?" he asked, with a bit more assurance and a touch of alarm, since she was now openly crying, "What happened? Where am I?"

Mrs. Weasley leaned down and hugged Harry to her, getting her arms all around him but still keeping him on his back. Harry, who was a little stunned, simply allowed it. It never occurred to him to fight her off like her children usually did when she got carried away. She kissed his forehead (yet another foreign sensation), wiped the wetness off his cheek, and sat back.

"Oh Harry dear, you gave me such a scare. I thought you'd lost yourself."

"Lost myself? How? Mrs. Weasley, what's going on?"

Mrs. Weasley waved at the fat little lamp on Harry's night stand. It turned itself on, although dimly, and Harry found he could see a little better. Mrs. Weasley put his glasses on him, smiled gently, and started at the beginning. She talked, he asked questions, and in the end she explained everything. Well, not precisely everything – she wasn't sure she wanted Harry remembering he threw up on a nurse or lodged medical instruments in the walls of the Emergency department – but other than that, he got the whole story.

Harry was very surprised.

It was a lot to take in. Had Dudley really done all that to him? He couldn't recall anything beyond his eye, his leg, and that last blow to the head. And where was Hedwig, now that she'd gone to the Order for help? The Weasleys had freed him from a Muggle hospital? He'd been in hospital? Really? These thoughts chased each other around in Harry's brain for a bit, not exactly settling into place.

He still felt dull and fuzzy from the pain medication, and really, really exhausted. However, he could definitely say one thing for Mrs. Weasley's story: it jived with the lingering sore spots all over him, which apparently were the remnants of Madam Pomfrey's intensive healing work. He decided to take her word for it and not try to remember the whole thing.

And so Harry spent the next three days in what seemed to him some earthly outcropping of heaven. Mrs. Weasley saw to every basic need he had, and took any opportunity to fuss over him like he was one of her own. She started his recovery by feeding him a glug of Pain Potion, which was most appreciated, and set to work manipulating his arms and legs to get the stiffness out. Then she drew the covers over him, tucked him in tight, and encouraged him to go back to sleep. After twenty straight days of yard work, a terrible medical ordeal, and now finding himself in an absurdly comfortable bed, he didn't need much convincing.

In fact, the first thing to wake him again was a pleasant surprise. He was having some ridiculous dream about playing Quidditch against a team of clowns when something landed gently on his belly. He kept his eyes closed, realizing that he was not flying on a broomstick but warm and safe in bed, and waited. The something was still on him, and the something had feet. He could feel it walking along the covers and finally stop on his chest, where it let out a soft hoot. He opened his eyes.

Hedwig had her feathery face right in his, staring at him intently, matching his green gaze with her amber one. He smiled at her blearily. She seemed to have every feather in place, her usual inquisitiveness, and a full stomach. At least one of them had made it out of the Dursleys' house in a modicum of health.

"'Lo, Hedwig," he said quietly, his voice cracking all over the place. "You look well."

Hedwig, in response, leaned her pretty head forward and nuzzled his nose. She'd never done this before, which alarmed Harry somewhat. He imagined he must have been spectacularly mangled to earn such a distinctly un-owl-like display of affection. So he freed one of his arms (quite a job, Mrs. Weasley had really wedged him in) and brought it up to pet her.

She hooted softly again and leaned into his hand. Then she gave him another tickly owl snark and swooped out of the room. He watched her go, very pleased she was all right, but the urge to sleep quickly overcame him again and he went with it. The fat little lamp on the nightstand, sensing he'd drifted away, turned itself off.

Harry slept a lot that first day. Mrs. Weasley managed to wake him a few times, successfully tempting him on each occasion with honeyed porridge and hot sweet tea. He woke himself a few times too, stumbling clumsily out of bed and staggering stiffly into the guest bathroom.

The second day was better. Mrs. Weasley still came often, sometimes with food and sometimes to help him stretch out. He again slept quite a bit, although not as much as the first day, and he privately decided that if he was going to be laid up, this was the way to do it. It was already getting easier to move about. Harry spent a few minutes looking around his room and found, to his surprise and delight, that someone had gotten his trunk from home and put it in the closet. All his old clothes had been cleaned, patched, ironed, and hung up neatly. Mrs. Weasley's doing, probably. He couldn't help but smile.

Things really picked up the third day. Ron stopped by with a glass of water for Harry (which Ron proceeded to drink, much to Harry's amusement) and looked very relieved that his friend was doing so well. They played several games of Exploding Snap and talked about Quidditch. The Chudley Cannons were having a game in a month, and Ron said he was going to try and wrangle some tickets, but only if Harry would come. Harry agreed at once.

Ginny came in with a change of pajamas for Harry, "for later," and ended up staying an hour. She told him all about her last exciting date with Dean Thomas, bored him half to death, and only stopped talking when he pretended to doze off. Unfortunately, pretending to doze off lead to actually dozing off, and when he next woke, someone had taken off his glasses and she was gone. He just hoped she wasn't mad at him. With any luck she would put it down to exhaustion.

The twins just barged in without any excuse at all, pumped both Harry's hands forcefully, told him that business was continuing to grow, and proclaimed they were going to do something horrible to Dudley in defense of an egregious, completely unprovoked attack on "their Seeker." Harry pointed out that the twins had left school. George insisted a Gryffindor was a Gryffindor. Fred finished that a Quidditch player was a Quidditch player. Harry grinned.

Hermione came by near the end of the day, and a good thing, because Harry, having plenty of time to think, had grown increasingly worried about the talk he'd had with Dumbledore at the end of the year. In fact, by the time she showed up Mrs. Weasley had propped him up with pillows, since he insisted he couldn't sleep. He was just too worked up to close his eyes.

It was that dratted blood charm, which had occupied his mind more than it should have since Dumbledore had told him about it. At the moment it had him even more worried than the actual prophecy. The whole business about only being safe if he was physically in the house where his mother's blood dwelled didn't seem like something one should muck about with, and besides, the issue of safety and space didn't just concern Harry – it concerned everyone within blasting range.

But Hermione wasn't the cleverest witch in the year for nothing. They started the visit by talking, worked their way up to arguing, and after fifteen minutes of really going at it Hermione had been reduced to listening impatiently and rolling her eyes while Harry panicked.

"Hermione, you don't understand. At the end of the year, Dumbledore said I'm only safe as long as I reside where my mother's blood dwells. And that, for better or for worse, means number 4 Privet Drive. Voldemort's got nothing to hold him back, now. If he finds me here, he'll get me and probably take out everyone else in the process! I can't stay at the Burrow!"

"Harry, of course you can stay here! Don't you know who arrived just after you? As soon as Madam Pomfrey finished up and Mrs. Weasley pulled herself together, she Disapparated and came back a few minutes later with a few guests. The Weasleys have got half the Order under their roof!"

Harry blinked at her. "You're having me on. Who's here?"

"Well, Professor Dumbledore, to start with. And he's the only one Voldemort was ever afraid of! He's staying with us while you get better, and so are Professor Lupin and Professor Moody. And then ... well, I don't know what'll happen next, but the point is you're safe, and we're all safe, and Dumbledore means to keep it that way. Don't worry, Harry. Nothing's going to happen while he's here."

"But Hermione ..."

"Harry, please, I'm telling you, everything's fine." She soothed. "Come on now, let's get you back under the covers. You need to rest."

She was, as usual, correct. Harry made a few exasperated noises, which she assumed were attempts at arguing with her, but she could see that she'd eased his mind somewhat. She took away pillows until he was laying flat, helped him get under the bedclothes properly and brought all the covers to his chin. The conversation had obviously exhausted him; he allowed her to tuck him in without a fuss.

"Comfortable?" she whispered.

He barely managed "Yes thanks," before nodding off.

Hermione bit back a laugh. She took off his glasses and laid them on the bedside table, very happy that her friend was doing so much better. If Harry was cognizant enough to be worrying over other people, he would be fine in no time.

To be continued ...