Everything hurts when Harry wakes up. He lets out a sharp little sound of pain, shifting himself in bed, and a mercifully cool hand touches the hot, clammy skin of his forehead. "Give me a moment, Potter, I'll give you something for the pain," Madam Pomfrey's voice says quietly, missing its usual brisk tone, and she holds an unstoppered vial to his mouth. Harry inhales, nose filled with the familiar scent.

"Auxilian Elixir," Harry croaks out, and he drinks the contents of the little bottle. The effect is almost immediate: Harry feels cool, tingling pressure run all over his skin, soothing the pain it runs over, and he drops back against his pillow, staring up at the blurry ceiling.

"You've been comatose for two days, Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey says quietly, and as Harry carefully leans up against the headboard, she hands him his glasses. He puts them on, looking up at her concerned face, her lips pursed as she analyses Harry's face, obviously looking for anything she needs to immediately treat. "What spell did you use?"

"Spell?" Harry asks, feeling the dry crack in his voice and reaching with a slightly shaky hand for the glass of water next to his bed, drinking from it greedily to help his parched throat.

"You burned veins in your right arm, Potter," Madam Pomfrey says seriously, looking down at him with a frown on her face. "Magical exertion." Harry stares at his right arm, which seems completely fine. Magical exertion, he'd have thought, would have left something cool - maybe lightning style swatches of scarring all up the skin. "The damage was on the inside, under the skin. I've fixed it as best I can, but it's best you not cast any spells for the rest of the week."

"Bombarda," Harry answers. "Hermione taught it to us like a half hour before - I didn't know any other spells that could stop him."

"Not as bad as it could have been," she says, nodding her head. "Professor Dumbledore will come in to speak with you now. You feel up to it?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Harry says, "I'll send you some flowers." She laughs, putting her hand over her own chest for a moment, and she seems honestly amused at the comment - it's nice to see Madam Pomfrey laugh.

"You have enough of your own, I should think," she says briskly, and she walks off with a smile still on her face. Harry furrows his brow slightly at the comment, but then he turns his head, staring at the collections of sweets beside his bed, as well as big, bright daisies in a vase. Harry smiles, reaching out and brushing his thumb over one of their thick, white petals.

"I believe Mr Zabini collected those for you, Mr Potter," Dumbledore says in a light and friendly tone and he slowly steps into the room. He's wearing deep, blue robes today, but his long beard remains tucked neatly under the purple belt that keeps them cinched at his waist. In a parallel universe, Harry expects the old man is actually quite fashionable.

"They grow at the edge of the forest," Harry says. "He knows how to make poison out of the stems, apparently, but I'm glad he just put them in a vase." Dumbledore gives a low chuckle, slowly lowering himself into a chair at the side of Harry's bed, and Harry draws his hand away from the vase.

"You have numerous letters awaiting your attention, of course," Dumbledore says, and he indicates a neatly made wooden box on the floor beside Harry's bed, filled with neatly folded sheets of paper, twine-tied scrolls and coloured envelopes. "You have achieved astounding popularity for such a young man."

"Hermione keeps saying my hair adds to my charisma," Harry replies, not really able to think of anything serious to say, and Dumbledore smiles at him, his ancient face showing all sorts of new wrinkles as his lips move. "Is Professor Snape okay?"

"He is just fine. Young Ms Granger and Mr Malfoy are quite well too - they were mildly over-exerted, but they didn't sustain similar damage to yourself. Professor Snape's head wound was quite healed by the Stone's powder - an inspired idea, Mr Potter, under the circumstances." Harry remembers the thick, hot feel of Snape's thickening blood under his fingers as he rubbed in the powder, and he suppresses the urge to retch.

"He's not going to live forever or anything, is he?" he asks. "It just healed him?"

"The flesh was knitted together by the restorative properties of the Stone, but he did not drink the Elixir of Life. He will lead his life as he would have done," Professor Dumbledore answers delicately, and Harry lets out a small sigh of relief. "Ms Granger has informed me that the three of you were intent on preventing he get the Stone."

"Snape told me he didn't want it," Harry says, feeling stupid. "I should have realized- I should have figured out it was Quirrell that was after it, that Voldemort and Quirrell-" Harry remembers the sick carving of Voldemort's face into the back of Quirrell's skull, moving its lips and its face as if it belonged there. "I should have figured it out." Dumbledore is watching him, his blue eyes twinkling in the same way they always seem to. Harry wishes he could figure out what the old man was thinking. "But the Stone is safe, and Quirrell- he's dead, isn't he? I killed him?" Dumbledore's eyes widen, and he seems surprised for a moment.

"With the presence of Lord Voldemort sharing his body, Mr Potter," Dumbledore says, "The tax on his body would soon have killed him anyway. He would soon have died. You did not kill him." The words are said to comfort him, but Harry doesn't really feel comforted at all: there is no guilt for the words to soothe. He'd had to stop Quirrell from getting the Stone, had to stop Voldemort, and Harry doesn't feel guilty at all for what he did.

"I burned him," Harry says. "With just my hands. I've never done that before, and it didn't feel like accidental magic. What was that?"

"When your mother stood before your crib and shielded you from Lord Voldemort, Harry, I believe you were left protected by it. Voldemort cannot possibly touch you, for you are protected still by your mother's love." Harry thinks of the woman in the photographs beside his head, the beautiful, smiling girl, not even twenty five, with burnished red hair and such big, green eyes. He feels his eyes begin to water, and he drags his sleeve irritably over them.

"He's not finished, is he?" Harry asks, furious at how suddenly thick his own voice sounds. He's not going to cry. "He didn't die, I felt him- I felt him go through my fingers, like a ghost. He's not dead, not really."

"Lord Voldemort will no doubt do his best to return," Dumbledore says, and Harry nods his head, setting his jaw. Slytherin House, Harry thinks, is all about ambition, and Harry's ambitions haven't really been all that concrete until now, but he wants to kill Voldemort. That's an ambition in itself - he'll wipe the monster out. "Madam Pomfrey tells me you will be able to leave your bed for the feast tomorrow evening. I shall see you then, Mr Potter."

"Sure, sir," Harry says, staring at his bedsheets. "I'll see you."

---

Harry walks a little slowly as he stands from the Great Hall's table, and he smiles weakly at Hermione as she comes over to him. Draco had regaled everyone at the Slytherin table with everything that had happened, again and again, to stop Quirrell from stealing the Stone, and so tired of the story were the Slytherin students that barely any of them had bothered to quiz Harry himself.

"You look terrible," Hermione says honestly, and Harry laughs, shifting his body and feeling his limbs stiffly and slowly agree to move.

"Madam Pomfrey said I'll be like this for a little while. Apparently magical exertion can be quite serious. Who knew?"

"Literally everyone," Hermione tells him seriously, and Harry laughs again, ignoring the pain it puts through his chest. "Do you want to share a compartment on the train tomorow?"

"Yeah. I'm probably going to sleep for a lot of the way home, though," Harry admits. "One of the house elves said so long as I leave it on the train when we get off, I can borrow a pillow for the journey." Hermione nods seriously, and she then she throws herself forwards, hugging Harry so tightly he lets out a little noise of pain against her neck.

"Oh, God, sorry, did that hurt?"

"A little bit," Harry nods. "But it's fine." He looks up to the staff table, where Snape and McGonagall are stood on the raised platform still, talking very seriously together. Occasionally, one of them will point at Harry, so he has no misconceptions as to what the conversation is about. "Told you we'd beat you stupid Gryffindors," Harry says, indicating the green banners hanging merrily from the Great Hall's ceiling. Hermione snorts.

"Well, we'll beat you next year," she says firmly.

"I bet you a Galleon you don't."

"Mum always told me not to gamble," Hermione says, beginning to walk towards the door.

"You only say that 'cause you'll lose!" Harry calls after her, and he half-limps up to the staff table.

"You look well, Potter," McGonagall says unconvincingly.

"Isn't lying meant to be against your house code or something?" Harry asks, and McGonagall gives him a thin smile.

"Glad to see you're back to your usual self." Snape steps neatly from the dais, and he begins to walk with Harry from the Great Hall.

"Sorry," Harry says. "About thinking you were going to steal the Stone." Snape says nothing. "And, uh, you're welcome. For saving your life."

"Ten points from Slytherin, Potter."

"We just won the House Cup!"

"Then next September, Slytherin will begin at a disadvantage." Harry lets out a loud noise of frustration, and he glares up at Snape's slight smirk. "Go to bed, Potter."

---

"Oi, Potter! What's this about you starting us on -10 points next year?"

"It's not my fault Snape is a pillock, Frank!" Harry grumbles as he gets off the train, hauling his trunk after him, and Francois comes forwards, ruffling Harry's hair and pulling him into a half hug.

"It is, Potter," Francois says as Harry tries, and fails, to get free. "It's definitely your fault."

"Get off!" Harry says, and Francois ruffles his hair once more before he lets him go, grinning down at him. "Go Floo back to France already." Francois laughs, and he gives Harry a little wave as he makes his way down the platform. Harry watches after him for a moment, shaking his head, and then he turns back to Hermione.

"You got hold of your trunk?" he asks.

"Yeah. I'm glad I got that featherlight enchantment on it," she says, dragging it behind her on its two wheels, and Harry nods his head. They walk together, and they exit through into the main part of King's Cross station. "Mum, Dad!" Mr and Mrs Granger come forwards, both of them leaning down to hug Hermione as tightly as they can, and Harry grins at them. Mr Granger is about 5'8" with hair cropped short to his head and thickly rimmed, square glasses, and Mrs Granger is a tall woman with hair just like Hermione's, thick and curly down to her shoulders.

"And you must be Harry," Mrs Granger says, "I'm Peggy, and this is Jon." Harry grins at them, putting out his hand to shake. "Where are your folks?"

"Oh, they're coming tomorrow," Harry answers with a shrug. "I need new clothes in Muggle London, and I want to pick up some books for the summer, so I'm just gonna stay at the Leaky Cauldron tonight and they're going to pick me up tomorrow." Dumbledore had said he had to go back, but he'd never specified he had to go back immediately. All three Grangers are staring at him in apparent horror. "What?"

"Harry, you can't possibly stay in London on your own," Mr Granger says, looking affronted at the very thought.

"Why not? I'll be fine."

"Harry!" Hermione says, "You can't- you're too young." Harry stares at her, and he wants to point out that he just fought a Dark Lord for one of the most desirable objects in the magical world, but Hermione had asked for him not to mention that to her parents, lest they figure out how dangerous her new school is.

"We'll put both of your trunks in the car," Mrs Granger says, "And then we'll go around with you, alright? We'll have a meal in London, and then we'll drive you back home."

"No, no, Little Whinging's an hour out of London, Mrs Granger, you don't have to do that! I'll be fine!" Mr and Mrs Granger have the firm, determined looks on their faces that Harry recognizes from Hermione's own - there's no way he can possibly convince them otherwise.

"What do you need in London, Harry?" Hermione asks, and Harry looks helplessly between the three of the Grangers, hopelessly outnumbered.

"Well..."

---

"Your parents," Harry whispers to Hermione as they stand on the driveway of 4 Privet Drive, "They're pretty amazing." She smiles at him a little, and Harry suppresses the slight inkling of jealousy he feels in his chest.

"You're my friend," Hermione says, a bit awkwardly, but still in the same very quiet tone, so that her parents don't hear. "I've never really had any, so I guess they're overprotective." Harry throws her arms around her, and they hug tightly. "Did that one hurt?"

"Yeah," Harry admits. "But not as much." Hermione pulls back, grinning brightly at him and showing all of her teeth. "I'll write you tomorrow."

"Oh, it's okay," Hermione says airily, "I know I'm at the bottom of your correspondence pile. If there's any emergency, though, just call the house phone - you've still got the number, right?"

"No, Hermione, in the five minutes since your dad handed it to me, I've lost it." She slaps him in the chest, and then remembers and looks guilty as he winces. "I'll see you next September," he says brightly, grasping at the handle of his trunk and holding his shopping bags with his other hand.

"See you next September, Harry," Hermione says, going back to the car, and Harry walks reluctantly up to the door of the Dursleys' home, ringing the doorbell with a resigned movement. 9 weeks with the Dursleys sounds terrible, but given the year he's had, it can't possibly be that bad.

He hopes so, anyway.