Sometimes Bad is Good

Chapter Four

The air in his lungs were fire and brimstone, the very core of his pain and suffering. He pressed on, breathing in and out the fire in his throat as he plunged onward, swinging the sword of Gryffindor at the heads of the werewolves charging him.

One head ... Two heads ... Three heads, four, all rolling away from him with tails of blood behind them. The owners of said heads slump to the ground in bloody fountains, their paws twitching and scratching at the tiled floor as their very life force drains outward from their necks. Their bodies shift, their bones clicking and clacking quietly amongst the screams as they return to their human forms. Harry let out a small angry hiss when he spotted the scarred flesh above their elbows. They were all Fenrir Greyback's dogs, those who could change at will.

Shadows played around him, blurring out the vision that was the nearly destroyed Ministry Atrium. Where was Voldemort? Where was the coward that started this?

"Harry!"

Harry shot up from his prone position on the floor, his teeth bared and his muscles tensed to fight. Screams echoed in his ears, the sounds of falling debris and curses zooming by his head in loud hisses and crashes.

"Harry?" asked Hermione uncertainly, looking as if she was about to start backing away from him.

Harry blinked harshly and shook his head, shaking away the memories of that night that were clinging to him. He gave Hermione a small quaky smile and forced his stiff limbs to move, "Yeah, Hermione? What is it? What's wrong?" he asked, standing and stretching his achy bones.

"I just thought that you'd like some breakfast, and you can't have been comfortable lying there on the floor like that," said Hermione quietly, her brown eyes watching him worriedly as he stretched the bones in his back. "Harry, are you alright?"

"I'm absolutely fine," groaned Harry, listening to the satisfying cracks of the vertebrae in his back. "What time is it?" he asked, sighing in relief as the pressure in his bones and muscles ran away from him.

She looked doubtfully at him, but took his change of subject willingly, as she was almost as awkward when discussing her emotions as he was. "It's seven-thirty," she replied, leaning around him to look at the small clock on the mantelpiece, "well, seven forty-five, if you want to be specific." she said cheekily.

He rolled his eyes mirthfully and walked out of the parlor, gesturing her ahead of him politely and following her to the kitchen, "Was I really there all night?" he asked, cracking his sore neck and rubbing at the tight spots that were sat there. The least anyone could have done was give him a pillow, or a bloody blanket. Even if he was creature, no one knew what he was, so they couldn't exactly think that he was a human heater, now could they?

Hermione looked at him sympathetically and nodded, "Yes, we figured that you'd had a rough few weeks at the Dursley's and deserved a quiet night, you looked so comfortable just lying there in front of the fire, no one wanted to disturb you, least of all Mrs Weasley, so we decided to leave you be." she said, a small pensive frown shaping her lovely face.

Harry cast her a glance, "It wasn't that bad there this summer, I didn't have to do as much as before because of my injuries, and they'd somewhat respected me enough to hold their tongues if I said something odd. I can't really complain about this stay. They fed me and allowed me my things, and in turn, I left them alone and helped around the house," he said firmly.

"It shouldn't have to be like that, they should have done more than that, you shouldn't have had to clean and work when you were injured so badly," said Hermione pressingly, her face drawing a picture of concern and righteous anger on behalf of himself. "How can they be so cruel to their nephew; the last living relative they have on the Evans side of the family?" she asked angrily.