Black shadows shimmered at the edges of the room, swallowing the walls, coating the ceiling… they pulsed and surged then moved because they were living. Except not. The room was full of Dementors, their cloaked figures lingering, hovering, stalking, everywhere, surrounding and allowing no hope for escape. The air was bitterly cold, deathly cold. The smell of rotting flesh permeated the air, escaping the Dementors' lifeless mouths.

"Where is the boy?" came a voice. Chilly and sinister, low and hissing, slicing the air as a snake cut through grass. So cold, death sidling closer.

In the center of the room, the eye of the Dementor storm, were two figures. One tall and pale, bald and imperious. His eyes were abnormal, inhuman, serpentine. He had two slits for nostrils, there was no nose. His robes were made of black, airy material, as though he'd borrowed from the Dementors to clothe himself. He moved like a Dementor, gliding and ominous, dangerous and thirsting for death. He bared pointed teeth at the human figure before him. He was Voldemort.

The second person, a man, was doubled over on his knees before the dark lord. But he was not pledging or cowing. He was dying. He was breathing raggedly through broken ribs, he was coughing up blood on the floor by Voldemort's feet. His hands were useless, the fingers broken, unable to hold a wand. He curled his arms, tried to protect his crushed hands. It wouldn't matter. He was dead. He only breathed now, his heart only beat still, because there was something more than his life the dark lord demanded.

"I will not ask you again. Where is he?"

The man almost toppled, nearly collapsed to the floor, but he would not. He fought to stay at least on his knees. He'd lost the chance to die on his feet, but he'd not be killed on his back. "You…" he spat blood, sucked in a broken, wheezing breath, "should know better… than to expect… an Auror to… to answer you."

"Oh, but you will." The flick of a wand, the whisper like a gentle caress around the word "Crucio".

The man screamed and his body convulsed. A spurt of blood erupted from his mouth. The Dementors swirled closer, crows sensing a corpse soon. The air went from cold to frigid. Not long now, life was loosing hold.

Voldemort released the curse's hold. The man gasped and coughed. Blood pooled around his knees. His boneless, shapeless hands shook.

"The boy," Voldemort reminded the Auror venomously.

"I don't know… where he is."

Voldemort flicked his wand again, hissed in parseltongue, and the man cried hoarsely as both his forearms broke.

"Is his life worth yours, Auror?"

The Auror turned bloodshot eyes, sunken in a pale face, up to the dark lord. "Yes."

Magic, dark magic, surged like fire. Ice fire, a wall of cold burning just as sharply, surging with the dark lord's rage. The Dementors keened and circled the room faster, seeming to set it spinning. The Auror offered a last, blood-framed smile of defiance.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry bolted awake, opening his mouth to gasp for air, to scream, to cry, and instead he vomited. He gagged and coughed and finally was able to breathe. He sucked in air like he'd been underwater fighting to the surface.

In chunks his surroundings came back to him, starting inside and spreading out. He could feel the icy fear in his gullet, gripping his bones, breaking out on his skin in a cold sweat. He was shaking. He bent forward and grabbed his head where his scar seared painfully. His pulse throbbed, fiery hot on his brow, ice cold in his veins.

It was dark, night… he was in bed. The covers were twisted around his legs, the putrid smell of bile rose from the wet, warm pool of vomit between his knees. The silence of the night squeezed him, compressed him, and he wanted to scream but the cry would be worse than the quiet.

He hunkered in bed that way, hand over his scar, stomach roiling, heart racing, for several minutes before chaos began to settle. The night became innocuous, observer rather than attacker, and Harry shuddered. The pain in his scar slowly receded and Harry brought down his hand.

He stared down with night-adjusted eyes at the mess in his bed and his chest ached. Panic licked in a different direction. The mess he'd made, the trouble he'd be in for throwing up all over himself.

Harry dragged himself out of bed, put on his glasses, then gathered up his soiled bedding to clean up after himself.

❾¾ ❾¾❾¾❾¾ ❾¾❾¾❾¾ ❾¾❾¾

Miranda wasn't sure what woke her up, perhaps the same innate sense that used to rouse her in the dead of night to find Hermione was in the kitchen getting a glass of water. Much like she'd risen then, Miranda woke and slipped out of bed. Something was amiss, something she couldn't pinpoint. The house's quiet wasn't the peaceful silence of content sleep.

Faint sounds from the laundry room and a sliver of light from under the door drew Miranda like a moth to a flame. She pushed open the door and blinked.

Harry was at the washing machine, manhandling his bedspread into the open appliance. The room smelled awful, like sickness. Harry was alone in the room, standing there wearing only a T shirt and boxer shorts.

"Harry?"

Harry whirled away from the washing machine and set wide, scared eyes on her. "I'm sorry!"

Miranda moved into the room, frowning. "Sorry?" When she got closer she could see Harry's clothes were damp with sweat, sweat that still glistened on his face. Her sleep-mused confusion began to inch toward genuine concern.

"I threw up, but I'll clean it up," Harry looked desperately at the smelly blanket half-stuffed into the washing machine.

Maternal instinct reared its head when it clicked. Harry was sick. That was the thing amiss in her home. She studied Harry a moment, the sweaty brow, the damp hair, and she moved without thought. She reached up to touch his forehead to check for a fever as she'd done with Hermione more times than she could count.

Harry jumped back. He shied from her hand and tensed, waiting.

Miranda, for the first time since the boy had come into her home, wanted to hold him as she'd seen her daughter hug him. He was bracing to be hit. What that meant made Miranda equal parts furious and devastated.

"Harry… I'm not going to hurt you."

Harry looked warily at her, eyes still glassy and expression tight. He didn't look quite fully awake. Miranda beckoned him gently to come closer. "I just wanted to see if you have a fever."

Harry hesitated, never took his eyes off her, then he stepped closer. Miranda carefully brought up her hand and ran her fingers under his bangs, brought her palm to rest on his forehead. Harry was shivering but he stood rigidly still.

Miranda frowned. He wasn't running a fever, in fact, his skin was cold. Disturbingly cold.

Harry pulled away and moved to continue shoving his blanket into the machine. "I'll clean it, I promise."

Miranda caught his arm gently, simultaneously touched his shoulder with her other hand, and said softly, "Harry, don't worry about that."

"But I…" Harry looked up at her, expression lost.

"Shhh… it's okay, I'll tend to that. I want you to come lie down. Do you feel like you'll be sick again?"

Harry blinked at her, uncomprehending, then he mutely shook his head. Miranda softly worked Harry's hands free of the blanket. He didn't want to let go.

"Missus Granger?"

Miranda turned and saw Kimmy in a pair of pink silk boxers (a gift from Hermione) standing in the door to the laundry room. Her eyes were wide and worried as she looked between Miranda and Harry. "Is there trouble?"

Miranda unconsciously tugged Harry closer to her. Harry held himself tensely at her side but didn't fight or try to pull away. "Harry's not feeling well. Could you do me a favor and fetch him a clean shirt?"

Kimmy nodded and vanished.

Miranda, with some coaxing and light tugging, led Harry out of the laundry room and into the living room. She turned on a single light and steered Harry toward the couch. Kimmy showed up with a fresh shirt and a moist washcloth that smelled faintly of wildflowers. Miranda took both and nearly kissed the elf on the top of her head for her forethought. Instead, she said, "Thank you. Do you know where the spare linens are?" She'd never shown the elf where anything in the house was, she'd never asked nor expected Kimmy to do any housework, but so far Kimmy had seemed to know where to find everything.

Kimmy nodded and dashed off again. Miranda turned back to Harry, who was standing and staring blankly at the living room.

"Harry, dear, take off your shirt."

Harry blinked at her, gaze empty and dazed, then he did as told and peeled off the damp, smelly shirt.

Miranda took the washcloth and gave his torso a quick wipe-down, trying to rid him of some of the sweat and stench before she had him change into a clean shirt. She slid the wet cloth up the back of his neck and over shoulders without drawing a response. Harry stood still, almost comatose, while Miranda cleaned him off. Kimmy returned with a blanket and pillow, which she wisely put on the couch.

"Thank you, Kimmy," Miranda said, "I can see to it from here."

Kimmy opened her mouth to protest, to insist she tend to Harry, but perhaps she recognized a mother's touch and felt it was more fitting than a house elf's, for she gave in and disappeared.

"Missus Granger?" Harry's cracking voice brought Miranda back to her task.

"Harry?" she came around to look him in the eye. The glazed look was dissipating and it was some semblance of Harry looking at her again. He looked confused, exhausted, frightened, and embarrassed all at once. He self-consciously brought up his arms and crossed them over his bare chest. Miranda backed off with the washcloth. "What happened?"

Harry blinked a few times then his brow furrowed. "I had a nightmare," he said lowly. "I woke up and… I'm sorry. I was a little confused. I thought… I thought I was at the Dursleys'." Harry tucked tighter into himself, as if he could disappear if he just wished for it hard enough.

Miranda felt an anger she rarely experienced race through her. She forced calm into her lest she upset Harry, lest he think she was angry at him.

Harry looked vulnerable standing there in just his boxers.

"Here you are, honey," Miranda gave him the clean shirt. Harry startled, glanced up at her as though she'd done something unimaginable, then took the shirt and put it on. He rubbed at his forehead a moment then looked back toward the hall, in the direction of the bedrooms. "I'll just go finish cleaning up…"

"You'll do no such thing." Harry froze then turned to look uncertainly at her. Miranda offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'll take care of that, I don't want you to worry about it." She put down the washcloth on the coffee table and stepped closer to Harry. Careful not to move too quickly, she brought up her hand to feel his forehead again. Harry tensed, but not nearly as badly as he had before. He was still cool to the touch, but not as cold as he'd been before.

"How do you feel?" she asked gently, without thought raking her fingers through his damp hair then moving to rest her palm upon his cheek as she tried to bring his face up so she might look into his eyes.

Harry's jaw was working but he couldn't seem to make any words come out. He looked up at her, agape, swallowed, and pulled back from Miranda. He looked unsure.

She didn't want to push him, he seemed so fragile right now.

"Lie down," Miranda bade and directed Harry to the couch. When Harry hesitated she said, "We'll see to putting clean linens on your bed in the morning, for now I want you to sleep on the couch."

Watching her with a strange look on his face, Harry wordlessly lay down on the couch, turned on his back, placed his head on the pillow, and looked up at Miranda with an openly questioning light in his eyes. Miranda covered him with the blanket, pulled it up to his chin, then sat down on the edge of the couch beside him. Harry stared up at her. He looked like he was setting eyes upon an alien creature the way he was staring at Miranda, something almost akin to both wonder and disbelief.

Miranda tried to dismiss it as she gently took his glasses off and placed them on the coffee table. "Are you comfortable?"

Harry nodded dumbly.

"Do you need anything? Something to drink, maybe a nice cup of chicken broth?"

Harry pressed his lips tightly together and for a moment he stopped breathing. Miranda, concerned, leaned closer and rested her hand on his unmoving chest.

"I… no," he finally replied.

Miranda brushed her hand over his hair again. "Well, if you need anything you wake me, okay?"

Harry breathed unevenly and gave a half-nod.

"All right then, feel better," Miranda said and, without thinking, bent forward and placed a kiss on Harry's forehead. She hadn't planned to do it, it was what she'd done so many times for Hermione when she was sick that it came to her second nature. When Miranda drew back she saw tears in Harry's eyes.

Harry draped one of his arms over his eyes, hiding the tears, though nothing could conceal the way his chest hitched and his lips trembled. Miranda could see the fight he was putting up to not show her the weakness of crying. In kindness, in consideration of Harry's unspoken wish, she got up and left the room when everything in her told her to stay and console him, to mother him. She left him alone and went to his room where she stripped the bed of the remaining sheets. She went to the laundry room and finished the task Harry had begun in a nearly semiconscious state of mind. It was some time later that she passed by the living room yet again on her way back to bed. There wasn't a sound from the boy on the couch, he'd not made so much as a peep, and Miranda let him be. As she walked by she could swear she saw, in the corner of the dark living room, the glint of reflected light off a pair of orb-shaped eyes.

Though Miranda had not been raised to trust a magical creature such as an elf with such an important task, she trusted Kimmy to keep watch over Harry.