Just Following Orders

A/N: One comment about a review I've gotten: Yes, Harry's still an idiot. It's only a year after Half-Blood Prince, and he's been Horcrux-hunting and Death Eater-fighting. He still hasn't learned some of the social basics. Plus, well, read on.

Short chapter, I know, but things will pick up soon.

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Harry was the very picture of misery as he followed Anne back to her flat. Wonderful, Potter, just brilliant. Make a whole new country's girls think you're a blithering idiot. Think you can try kissing this one and making her cry at the same time?

The next thought came out before he could suppress it: Nah, you'll probably just get her killed.

Harry had often heard of people talking about physical pain and emotional pain as if they were two completely different things. For those people, maybe they were. But for Harry, they had always been one and the same. Intense positive and negative emotions were always attached to physical sensations with him. The rush and thrill of exuberant joy, the savage fire of anger, the excruciating pain of hatred, especially Voldemort's hatred . . .

At any rate, the pain that lanced through Harry at that moment was just as real and tangible as if someone had reached into his chest and squeezed something vital.

He stumbled, and Anne glanced over her shoulder at him.

"Sorry, I . . . oh, forget it," he muttered, putting his head down and shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, waiting for her to start walking again.

To his surprise, she turned completely around to face him, and her expression was less angry than it had been back at the diner. "Believe it or not, I'm not a total bitch. I'm just tired and cranky, and your lunch ate up most of my free cash." She glanced around, and grimaced. "This isn't exactly the best time and place for sharing and caring, but . . . " She shrugged. ". . . if you want to talk at my place, I'm a pretty good listener. C'mon," And with that, she turned and started walking again.

Harry hesitated for a moment, then followed after her, his mind awhirl. He'd had people like him or hate him, treat him like a hero or treat him like dirt, but for people he actually met -- as opposed to the general public who only read about him in the newspaper -- it was usually one or the other. He'd never met anyone quite as changeable as Anne, and he didn't know what to make of her. Was she genuinely interested in what he had to say, did she just feel sorry for him, or was she just making sure he didn't run off before he paid her back?

Then he cursed himself for ten kinds of idiot. Here he was, in a strange city, where no one knew him, following a girl he didn't know, who was a lot stronger than she looked, and who knew he was carrying a lot of money in his wallet. She might well be leading him off somewhere isolated so she could rob him. He had his wand hidden in a sheath on his back, like a Japanese swordsman's -- baggy T-shirts had their uses, after all -- but he was reluctant to use magic on Anne until she proved that she meant him no good, and if she managed to surprise him . . .

Before he could resolve this internal dilemma, they had reached the dubious sanctuary of Anne's apartment.

* * *

Anne had only one chair in her apartment. Since the only other place to sit was the bed, they instantly and wordlessly agreed that Harry would take the chair.

"So," Anne began as she settled herself, "How does a guy who looks like he's been wearing the same clothes for a week happen to be carrying around, what was it? Two thousand pounds? I remember there's some European money that's worth almost nothing, something like a thousand of them for a dollar, but I know it isn't pounds."

Harry blushed. He knew what he looked like, in Ron's old Cannon's shirt and an old pair of jeans. "Ah, well . . . it is my money. I didn't steal it, if that's what you're asking."

Anne looked at him strangely. "No . . . I don't think you did. I'm not always good at telling when people are lying to me, but you have this great big 'open book' vibe. Either that, or you're the best liar I've ever met, and I've met some real champs."

"Can you just accept that it's my money, and that I didn't mean to get this far without changing it to dollars?" Actually, he'd never meant to get this far at all, so technically, he wasn't really lying. Was he?

Anne gave him a hard look. Maybe he was an 'open book' after all. "Okay, so I didn't mean to come to America at all. It was kind of an accident. I just . . . started running, and ended up here."

The hard expression turned amused. "'Started running, and ended up here?' As in, across the ocean and halfway around the world? Don't tell Nike, or they'll kidnap you and make you do their ads."

Harry fidgeted. He really didn't want to be talking about this, and saying anything more would only convince Anne that he was crazy.

She cocked her head to once side, giving him that strange look again. "Okay, so you're a runaway. How old are you?"

That was easy, at least. "I'll be eighteen on the thirty-first."

"Are you planning to spend your birthday living on the streets?"

Wham! The question hit him right between the eyes and made him dizzy at the same time that he had to try to think. "I . . . I guess not. I just . . . I need some time away, you know? I just . . . I just finished something I've been working on for a long time, and I'm not ready to face the world again." Then he surprised himself by yawning.

"Sorry to be boring you," Anne snarked. Then she blushed. "Oh, that's right. You must be, like, jet-lagged to the max. How long have you been awake?"

There she went, making him think again. He glanced at his watch. "Um . . . Either nine hours, or twenty-one. I think it's the latter."

"Crap. No wonder you can't lie worth a damn, you're probably lucky you can even talk." She got up off the bed and looked around. "Okay, even I'm not mean enough to make you sleep on this floor. Get in the bed and get some sleep."

Harry blushed again. Now that she'd called attention to it, he realized how tired he was. But he still had his manners. "I couldn't take your bed. Not after everything else you've--"

"Do it," she interrupted. "I'll figure out what to do with myself later. Just . . . let me turn my back so you can get your pants off. Those jeans are not touching my sheets." She whirled, turning her back on him to face her "kitchen," which consisted of a tiny stove and one small set of cupboards.

Too numb to do anything but obey, Harry took his shoes and socks off, stripped off his jeans, and slipped under the covers.

He was asleep even before he managed to tell Anne that she could turn around again.