Just a short chapter. I've actually had this written for some time, but don't really know where to go from here. As always, thanks for reading and for your comments.

Chapter Ten

Once the full moon ended, I would need to talk to Lupin. Lupin brought with him his own set of problems—mainly that his presence meant that we could no longer ignore the black dog that wasn't in the room. Black.

While I didn't think Lupin blamed me in the way that Potter did, Lupin was "cracking up," as Potter so eloquently put it. I did not judge him. The loss of Black, again, seemed to have unraveled him. It was an open secret that the two were partners and had been since they were teenagers. Black's death, though, to Lupin, was so much more than the loss of his partner. Now Lupin was totally alone. The last of his set. There was no one to play "remember when" with, or have a drink with on a rainy Tuesday night. And because Lupin had lived through this once before, when Black was in Azkaban, he was well aware that the loneliness never really stopped being unbearable.

When I dropped off the Wolfsbane Potion for the month for him, he looked thin and wan. His flat was a disaster and it looked like he hadn't left it for weeks. "I don't even know if I want it, Severus," he told me lowly. "It would be a mercy to not feel human for a while." I didn't answer him. He must have took my silence as anger at ingratitude, because he was quick to apologize and thank me profusely for brewing the potion. He also added that he would kill himself before he ever bit anyone. On that grim note I left his flat.

This is why I have no meaningful adult relationships. A man who is grieving the loss of the man he loved his whole life, a feeling I am acutely familiar with, tries to talk to me, and my only response is to drop off a potion and leave.

Throughout the night I checked on Potter. I'm sure he was upset with me, but he hid it well. Eventually he appeared to be actually asleep and not just pretending. I felt myself relax ever so slightly. There was no way I could keep this up, pulling all-nighters at my age was simply not possible. I set a charm to alert me if Potter left his bed and instantly slept.

The battle of wills had not ended in the morning. When I weighed Potter but did not tell him his weight I could feel the anger and anxiety rolling off him, combined, of course with fear. The fear that if he did not know his weight at every single moment, then he would explode, expand, gain fifty pounds over night. His blood pressure was crap.

"Did you purge last night?" I asked him. Potter flushed and stared at the floor. I took that for a yes. Dammit. This is exactly what I was afraid of—I was in no way set up to provide the kind of care he needed.

"Did you even get anything up? You barely ate anything last night. And you know that purging won't help you lose weight," I said evenly as I recorded his data in a log.

"It's not as good as not eating, but seeing as you are force feeding me, turning me into a fat fucking cow for slaughter, I have to do something," he snapped at me.

"Language, Potter," I said coldly. "You're going to gain weight, I won't sugar coat it for you, or pretend like that's not going to happen," I continued in the same tone. Potter gave a humorless laugh.

"And I'm supposed to just accept that? Just be okay with getting fat, letting myself get out of control?" He looked at me defiantly. "Because I'm never going to be okay with getting fat."

"I know." I sat down at the table. Let the boy rage. I knew how he felt, the twist of fear before the number on the scale settled, the incredible rush of anger at gaining, or relief at maintaining, the incredible satisfaction of losing. But then how quickly that satisfaction turned to fear, because now the stakes are even higher. That was just one more pound to have to keep off. Now you have to lose from this weight. And it only got harder. "Isn't it exhausting? All of the work that goes into it. How much effort it takes not to eat. To cut into your skin. To hate every fiber of yourself, all day, every day. Isn't it so hard to do all of those things and still have to put on a happy face for the world?"

Harry was staring out the living room window, his back completely straight as he turned away from me.

"It must be exhausting," I said more gently. Potter didn't move. "What's the first thing you do when you get up in the morning, Harry?" He was silent. "I think it's get on the scale. And I think it's the last thing you do before you go to sleep. Get on the scale, get off the scale. Get on the scale, get off the scale." He swiveled half way, so I could only see his profile. "How many times a day do you weigh yourself?"

Harry was silent, but I could see him swallowing hard.

"Hundreds," he said quietly. I didn't say anything for a minute. Silence, I had learned, could be more profound than long speeches ever could.

"I know you don't want to do this. But I think that maybe a part of you does. Part of you doesn't know how much longer you can live this double life." Potter closed his eyes. "And in fact, maybe part of you is relieved that you've been called out on it. So maybe, for right now, you can think of this last month before the term starts as a break from pretending. You don't have to lie or cover up. You don't have to enjoy being here. But you don't have to be the Chosen One. Or the boy who lived on Privet Drive. You can just stay here. Eat your meals and don't throw them up. Don't cut your skin open. That's all." Potter finally met my eyes.

"Fine," he said lowly. Fine. Good enough.

Several uneventful—thank God—days passed. Potter ate all his meals and looked better rested. We barely spoke to each other, which seemed to suit us both. I set hi to work making basic Potions to replenish my stores, which he did without complaint but not without errors.