Longest chapter yet!

And so we begin the rest of the story, what is always my favorite bit to read and write about: the aftermath.

Chapter 3: Somebody Catch My Breath

Harry knew he should get up.

He knew he should get up and go straight back to Gryffindor Tower. This thought turned dimly over in his mind as he lay there in the darkness. He knew that if he could just make it back to his own bed, just curl up under his blankets and sleep, then when he woke up he would find all of this to be a dream….

His muscles would not obey his commands to move; he told himself to sit up, to stand, but he might still have been Petrified for all the good it did. It seemed strangely to him that moving was a very dangerous thing to do. That if he moved, he might awaken something, might startle into life some lurking creature that was waiting in the shadows to devour him whole.

The robe Romilda had thrown over Harry was doing little to help defend against the draughtiness of the cupboard. Shivers wracked his body so fiercely they were almost convulsions, his chest shuddering oddly as though he were burning through the last dregs of an adrenaline high.

Harry stared into the gloom.

He wished that he could Apparate – disappear and reappear suddenly in his bed out of thin air, or maybe not even reappear at all….

He already felt as if he were Apparating. Already felt like he was being sucked through that unforgiving tube of dead space, his ribs constricting, his eyes blinded and sinking deeper into his skull, his breath crushed out of his body as he was pressed relentlessly into nothingness...it was easy to imagine, lying there in the cold dark, that he did not actually exist at all…that he had accidentally slipped onto some weird, forbidden plane where being alive or dead did not mean anything, and everything was the same thing and nothing all at once-

Harry gasped suddenly; he'd been holding his breath without realizing, and he gulped down great lungfuls of air, his brain buzzing…he noted faintly that he had stopped shivering, though he was still cold.

Extremely cold.

His body felt like a solid block of ice.

He slowly became aware of his glasses digging into the side of his face, and of the burning itch in his side where it met the carpet underneath him. The itching sensation seemed to spread as he focused on it, like little biting ants crawling over all over his skin, until Harry was seized by the overwhelming need to be somewhere, anywhere, but this wretched cupboard-

He sat up abruptly, his heart stuttering into overdrive at the sudden movement. He threw off the robe and reached blindly for his pile of clothes.

The clothes Romilda had stripped off of him, while he just stood there-

Harry moved with the odd, jerky, movements of someone who had fallen asleep accidentally, and awoken to find they had not yet brushed their teeth, nor changed into their nightclothes….

He staggered to his feet on autopilot and bent down to step into his underwear. They felt strange against his skin as he pulled them on; his groin was wet, and sticky -

Scrambling, Harry yanked on his shirt and trousers, snatched up his belt and shoes and robe, his hand going unconsciously into his pocket, checking for his wand. His hand closed around the wood, and the tingle of warmth that travelled up his arm was the tiniest of comforts. His knuckles brushed against the light, silky material of his Invisibility Cloak, which also lay inside his pocket. He heard, distantly, as though they were coming to him through a thick wall of glass, Dumbledore's words of caution to Harry two months ago, to always keep his Cloak on him, even within Hogwarts….

Just in case.

Harry wrenched open the door and slipped quickly out into the corridor, fighting a sudden growing blackness around the edges of his vision.

He quickened his pace and did not look back as the door slammed loudly behind him.

It sounded like the jaws of a great beast snapping shut.

Next thing he knew, Harry was standing outside the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, with no memory of how he had got there. The portrait of the Fat Lady shimmered oddly before him, and Harry realized he was looking at her through his Invisibility Cloak.

He did not remember putting it on.

"Who's that? I know you're there…" said the Fat Lady drowsily when Harry continued to do nothing but stand there silently. She sat slumped against the edge of her frame, her eyes drooping with the lateness of the hour. "You'll need the password, invisible or not."

But Harry's mind felt as blank and empty as fresh snow. His stomach dropped; he did not know the password. The space in his brain normally occupied by mundane, trivial facts seemed to have been erased somewhere in the past few hours….

"Dilligrout," said a hollow voice, and it registered dimly with Harry that it must have been him who had spoken. He had felt his lips move. The Fat Lady stifled a yawn and waved her hand about aimlessly in agreement, swinging forward on her hinges to allow Harry to climb through the hole.

The common room was dark and silent. Stray books and papers littered the tables and chairs, their owners having gone to bed long ago. There were no flames left in the grate. Not even a single ember. The fire was dead, and Harry moved soundlessly across the room as though he were too…as though he were a ghost, wispy and frail and not-really-there….

He crept silently up the stairs and pushed open the door to the sixth year boys' dorm.

This room, like the one below, was also dark. And oddly silent. The usual sounds of snoring and tossing and turning were glaringly absent, and this only increased Harry's strange sense that he had walked into a peculiar dream…his feet carried him without thought, and he found himself standing beside his bed. He glanced over at Ron's. The curtains were open – Ron was lying flat on his stomach, an arm dangling over the side of the bed, his mouth wide open on the pillow….

Harry stood there, looking down at Ron, considering him as if he were some fascinating specimen who belonged to another species. A species to which Harry did not belong, anymore….

"You're a really good kisser, Harry."

All of a sudden, the idea of falling straight into bed no longer seemed appealing – Harry couldn't stand the feel of his clothes against his skin, they were too tight, too much, they were strangling him – they'd been on the floor of that cupboard, they were dirty, and they were making him feel dirty-

Harry turned abruptly, tugging at the collar of his shirt, and stumbled towards the bathroom.

The room lit automatically as he entered and he shut the door quietly behind him, remembering at the very last second not to slam it. He couldn't wake the others, they couldn't see him like this, they couldn't know….

As Harry locked the door, an oddly detached calm came over him, walling off the thumping panic into a space so small it hardly seemed a part of him, like it belonged to another Harry, a Harry who was standing just behind the real one. He pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, rolling it up and placing it on the counter, careful even now to keep it safe, to take care of it…he stripped off the rest of his clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket in the corner, avoiding looking in the mirror over the sink.

He did not want to see his reflection. Did not want to see whatever it was he could feel written all over his face. He wondered if his eyes were still their same bright green, or if they had faded to something duller.

Perhaps it wouldn't even be his face at all, the one that everyone told him looked so much like his father's. Maybe he would see a stranger's face, an imposter that looked like him but wasn't. Or maybe he would see some kind of monster. A monster with a big, black hole where a chest was supposed to be….

Harry removed his glasses, his blurry vision a strange relief, and put them on top of the Invisibility Cloak that had been his dad's, too, just like Harry's face, and his hands, and his wild black hair…he wondered what his father would think of him, what his mother would think, if they could see him now…see their son losing it over-

Over…what?

Sirius would probably say Harry was less like James than he'd thought….

Harry gripped the edge of the sink and squeezed his eyes shut.

Less like James-

Sirius had said that to him once, and Hermione had got so angry-

Harry lurched toward the toilet and fell to his knees in front of it, emptying the contents of his stomach. He heaved until only bile came up, and sat back, wiping his mouth. The sour smell of vomit permeated the bathroom, and Harry quickly flushed the toilet, his stomach rolling again. Goosebumps rose on his bare skin, and he staggered to his feet to turn on the tap in the shower. He waited, trembling, for the water to warm up and then stepped under the spray – the warm water barely did a thing for Harry's icy skin, and he turned the knob as far towards hot as it would go.

He stood there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, head bent, letting the water beat down on him. It was now so hot it was scalding. Harry watched dispassionately as his arms and his belly and his feet turned bright red. He could barely feel it. He still felt weirdly cold, like a deep chill had penetrated him clear through to the bone and taken hold, and nothing so ordinary as a hot shower could pry it out of him….

Harry hugged himself tighter. What the hell was wrong with him?

There were strange gaps in his memory of the past few hours, and he kept recalling them in disorienting flashes….

Romilda's lips on his neck-

Her fingernails scraping his scalp-

He had kissed her back.

He had liked it. He remembered that.

Her hand trailing down his stomach, plunging into his pants-

Harry reached out, bracing himself against the tile as his stomach turned over again. He felt dizzy. The steam of the shower must have gone to his head….

He'd had sex.

The fact was so astonishing, so colossal, that he couldn't seem to wrap his mind around it. He had snogged a girl, and seen her naked, and shagged her. And she had seemed to enjoy it. A lot. So…why did he feel so...heavy?

Wasn't this what people were supposed to do? What teenagers were supposed to do?

He was sixteen. Wasn't that about right? And he was pretty sure he was the first of his friends to do anything like…this. Didn't that give him…boasting rights, or something?

He imagined, for a second, the awestruck look on Ron's face when Harry told him.

"Blimey…you - ? With a girl? You actually did it? Wow…what was it like?"

He could see Fred and George giving him the thumbs up and winking at him and wiggling their eyebrows every chance they got….

So why didn't he feel like telling them?

Why did he feel like making sure that no one, ever, found out about it? If this was how sleeping with someone made you feel, Harry wondered how anyone ever brought themselves to do it more than once.

His forced calm faltered, and he grabbed a face cloth, lathered it heavily in soap, and started scrubbing every inch of himself he could reach.

The friction was comforting – it warmed him up, and he scrubbed harder till his skin was an even angrier red than before – he scoured his arms, his legs, his chest, his groin, cleaning away all evidence of his and Romilda's activities, every trace of her that she'd left on him. He felt like she was under his nails, in his hair, beneath his skin...

He scrubbed feverishly until the muscles in his arm throbbed, and when he brought the cloth away from his body there was blood. Harry looked down at himself curiously and saw that he'd rubbed away a patch of skin on his stomach.

Where Romilda's fingers had lingered-

It wasn't big. A square inch or two, right below his navel. Harry stared at it for a minute, impassive, as the water washed away the last of the blood, and then wrung out the rag, making sure there was no tinge of red left on it. Nothing for the other boys or the house elves who did the laundry to find.

Harry shut off the water and stepped out. He stood there for a moment, dripping on the rug, and then reached suddenly for the stack of large, fluffy white towels, as if only just remembering that drying off was what one usually did after washing.

He wiped himself down and wrapped the towel around his waist, having no fresh clothes to change into. His mouth still tasted of sick and he went over to the sink to quickly drag his toothbrush around his mouth a few times. He gathered up his glasses, which he did not put on, and the Invisibility Cloak, which he did – he did not truly need it to leave the bathroom, he supposed, even if someone woke up. He and his roommates had all seen each other naked, or nearly so, a hundred times over the last five years. But for some reason it felt different this time, and the thought of one of them seeing him shirtless at the moment felt (unbearable) awkward.

Waving his wand to douse the magical lights, Harry opened the door and slipped out into the main dormitory. He let his eyes adjust for a second and then padded over to his trunk, tossing the towel into the laundry and pulling on a clean t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He removed the Cloak and crawled, finally, into the soft comfort of his bed.

Harry stashed both wand and Cloak under his pillow and pulled his blankets snug around himself, up to his ears, glancing at the bedside alarm clock.

It read: 2.03 am.

He had enough time to get some sleep before his first class of the day, but Harry soon realised his body had decided sleep wasn't going to happen. He tried closing his eyes a few times, but Romilda Vane's grinning face played unremittingly across the backs of his lids, until he gave in and lay there buried under his blankets, completely unmoving, staring steadily out the window as the sky lightened slowly from inky black to a soft, pale lilac….

The drone of dozens of voices drifted up to Harry as he descended the staircase to the common room. He stifled a groan and checked his watch again; he'd felt sure most of the other Gryffindors would have gone down to breakfast by now.

The idea of facing so many people made him want to sink straight into the ground.

He'd lain awake that morning until the other boys had begun stirring and then, stiff and sore, quickly tugged his curtains closed and waited for them all to make their way out of the room. Ron had called his name hesitantly, and Harry, fearing Ron might peek in if he didn't get an answer, managed to croak out a raspy, "I'm up." And Ron had left.

After allowing what he thought had been sufficient time for everyone else to filter out into the rest of the castle, Harry had finally dragged himself from the warmth of his bed. His body had seemed weighed down by solid lead, but he knew he had to go to class.

There wasn't any reason for him not to be able to go to class.

So he'd splashed some cold water on his face and attempted to tame his hair, hoping that he didn't look as bad as he felt.

Now, Harry leaned against the smooth stone wall of the spiral staircase. After a second, he took a deep breath and steeled himself, descending the last few stairs in a hurry-

And nearly collided with Ginny Weasley.

"Oops, sorry, Harry!" said Ginny, straightening up from where she had been kneeling on the floor. "Arnold's just been making a bid for freedom again," she smiled, shaking her head fondly and opening her cupped hands to show him. Arnold the Pygmy Puff sat nestled between her palms, making odd little cooing noises.

"'S alright," said Harry quickly, readjusting his bag, "It was my fault, wasn't watching where I was going…."

Ginny looked at him carefully, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. "Are you okay, Harry?"

"'Course I am," he said, forcing a smile. "Have you seen Ron and Hermione?"

Ginny nodded her head towards a far corner of the room, where he saw them seated together at a table. The tight obstruction in his chest seemed to ease a little.

"Thanks," said Harry, and headed off before she could say anything else.

He could feel Ginny's eyes on him as he made his way across the room.

"There you are!" Hermione exclaimed as he approached. Crookshanks, whom she had been petting absently, jumped hastily off her lap as she stood up. He gave an indignant sort of meow and slinked away, tail twitching high in the air. Ron whipped the Fanged Frisbee he'd been playing with at a pot plant, missed, and hit a miniscule, curly-headed first year girl in the knee, shouting a hasty "Sorry!" as she cried out in surprise and earning a look of deep disapproval from Hermione.

"Good thing you're not trying out for Chaser, eh, Ron?" Seamus called from across the room and he and Dean Thomas both rolled around in their seats, roaring with laughter.

Ron scrunched up his face and ignored them, turning to Harry instead. "At this rate, we're gonna have to start setting three alarms just to get you up in the mornings – c'mon, breakfast, I'm starving." And he led the way out through the portrait hole.

Breakfast did not sound appealing to Harry in the least, but he was glad of the excuse to leave; the buzz of the crowded common room had touched off a headache near the back of his skull, and he was quite keen not to run into…anyone he might not want to run into. As soon as the portrait of the Fat Lady closed behind them, Ron looked around furtively to make sure they were alone, leaned in, and said in a low voice, "So? What happened last night?"

Harry was so startled he almost tripped over immediately. His heart leapt into this throat, his mouth going dry. "What d'you mean?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

"With Dumbledore!" explained Hermione, giving him a look of exasperation. "We waited up for you for ages, but it got to be so late…we figured you'd tell us everything in the morning."

"Oh," said Harry, his shoulders relaxing slightly as relief swept over him. Dumbledore. Had that really only been last night? "Right."

"What time did you get back? You look tired…."

"Never mind that now," Ron said, flapping his hands at her. "What did you do, what did he teach you?"

They were looking at him intently, and it was slightly off-putting. "Er, well, we talked about Voldemort mostly…." Harry trailed off, wracking his brains. His meeting with Dumbledore felt like a thousand years ago.

Ron flinched, as usual, at the mention of Voldemort's name, but Hermione lit up as she stared at Harry. "Oooh, what did he tell you?"

Harry shrugged. "He told me about Voldemort's family, about his parents –"

About how his mother had tricked his father into taking a love potion, tricked him into marrying her, and having a child with her -

Harry rubbed his knuckles against his palm; he felt suddenly cold again, like he'd been doused with a bucket of ice water. "Listen, can we just talk about something else?" he asked, nettled. He didn't look at either of them.

"You said you'd tell us everything Dumbledore told you!" Ron said indignantly as they descended the staircase to the fourth floor.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't that interesting," Harry lied. His voice sounded odd. Flat.

Ron and Hermione were both staring at him.

"Harry…are you alright? You're very pale," Hermione said, her voice heavy with concern.

"I'm fine," Harry said shortly.

The three of them were silent for a few steps, and then Ron said awkwardly, "Is it…was it scary, or something? The stuff Dumbledore taught you? I mean, this whole prophecy thing is mad, I'd be terrified it were me, we wouldn't blame you if – "

Hermione was nodding her agreement, but Harry cut him off. "I told you, I'm fine," he said tersely. "And I'm not scared about anything."

He sped up to walk ahead of them, but not before he saw Ron and Hermione exchange a look out of the corner of his eye. Irritation flared in Harry's gut, but they both dropped the subject and none of them spoke again until they had reached the Great Hall and settled into their seats. Harry spooned some scrambled eggs onto his plate and picked up his fork, staring down at the food. His stomach clenched unpleasantly.

"Harry…you should really be eating more than that," said Hermione tentatively as she surveyed his plate. "You've just had a growth spurt…."

Harry glared at her and pointedly speared a bite of egg on the end of his fork to pacify her. Ron appeared to be deciding whether or not to intervene, and compromised by taking a giant swig of pumpkin juice, which he promptly choked on. Hermione rolled her eyes.

After a brief round of coughing, Ron took a deep breath, and then, very red in the face, turned to Harry again. "I just realized, you haven't heard! Not unless Dumbledore told you, but he can't have done, it happened so late. Everyone in Gryffindor was talking about it this morning…."

"Talking about what?" asked Harry. He lowered his fork, curious despite himself.

"The second-floor corridor," Ron told him. "Someone wrote stuff all over the walls, all this anti-Muggleborn rubbish, it was disgusting…."

Harry's heart stuttered, his mind immediately jumping to Tom Riddle, and the Chamber of Secrets, and giant basilisks with poisonous fangs. "You mean like…?"

Ron shook his head quickly. "Nah," he reassured Harry, "That diary's gone, innit? But it was the same idea…." He glanced uneasily at Hermione, but she only shook her head.

"It said something about 'Mudbloods' and how all of us should go back where we came from or die painful deaths or some dross like that," she said briskly. "No one really knows, do they, the teachers had most of it cleared up before anyone really saw? They don't seem worried, and neither am I," she finished coolly, and pulled out her Arithmancy textbook, propping it open against a milk jug.

"Oh come off it!" Ron scoffed. "Since when do the teachers know everything about what goes on in this place? Merlin knows we've done our share of breaking the rules without them noticing a damn thing…."

Hermione sniffed, and Harry almost smiled.

"Do they know who did it?" he asked, his eyes wandering automatically over to the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy sat laughing at a joke Pansy Parkinson had just told him. He looked entirely too smug, in Harry's opinion…Malfoy noticed Harry staring and winked, bursting into another round of laughter.

"No," Ron said, and scowled, his eyes following Harry's gaze. "But I can think of a good bet…."

A companionable silence settled over them as Ron and Hermione tucked into their meal. Harry pushed his eggs around his plate, contemplating what they had told him. His mind seized on the welcome distraction, and he turned it all over in his mind…he wondered whether Malfoy (for Harry was already convinced it was him) would be stupid enough to risk doing something like it again, and if it might be possible to catch him at it….

Hagrid came in halfway through breakfast and smiled brightly at Harry, waving. Harry smiled back, with a mouth that didn't feel quite like his, and watched absently as Hagrid turned to talk to Professor McGonagall. Harry entertained himself with highly pleasant scenarios involving Malfoy being expelled, until he realized that Ron and Hermione were both finishing up.

Harry took a last sip of water and leaned down to grab his bag. "What have we got first today? Charms?" He couldn't quite remember. His timetable seemed oddly fuzzy to him, like it had been years since he'd had to follow it. When he received no answer, he looked up.

Hermione and Ron were staring at him. They looked curiously at each other, and Harry wondered, annoyed, why they were acting so strangely until Hermione said slowly:

"It's…Sunday, Harry."

Harry stared back at them, his brow furrowing. Sunday? That didn't seem right….

But he supposed it would have be. Yesterday had been Saturday, the day Dumbledore had scheduled to meet with him; it made sense, now, why all the Gryffindors hadn't cleared out of the Tower by the time he'd got up.

"Oh," Harry said. "Right, yeah, 'course…Sunday…."

After a minute, he realized he was staring off into space, and he shook his head.

Ron and Hermione were still looking at him.

"Are you sure you're alright, Harry?" Hermione tried again.

But Harry waved her off and stood, forcing a laugh. He shouldered his bag. "I'm fine, Hermione, can't a bloke forget the day of the week once in a while? Fancy going for walk, then, since we don't have class?" he asked, trying to sound thoroughly sane, and hoped they'd go for his suggestion. The magical ceiling of the Great Hall was a clear, bright blue, dotted with puffs of fluffy white clouds. It was a nice day to be outside. He didn't want to have to go back to Gryffindor quite yet, if they didn't need to….

Ron and Hermione agreed but kept shooting Harry worried glances, and by the time they made it to the entrance hall, Harry could feel that bitter taste of panic trying to claw its way back up his throat. He stopped in the middle of the hall, his thoughts beginning to race…he could feel something coming on, something screaming to get out of him, and wished suddenly, desperately, that he was alone. But he did not want to wander off by himself…since he'd got up that morning, he'd had the most inexplicable feeling, a weird, childish urge to never let Ron and Hermione out of his sight again….

If they were always with him, then he couldn't be alone, and no one would be able to find him, and trap him, and steal from him -

The pressure in the back of his skull was growing fast, his head was pounding...

Ron and Hermione stopped, too, and looked back, realising Harry wasn't with them; Hermione came back over to him and peered into his face, frowning. She said something, but Harry didn't catch it…her voice sounded muffled…Harry stared at a single spot on the stone floor and tried to focus on breathing…his vision was going fuzzy….

Hermione said something again and reached out, gently putting a hand on his arm, and Harry's skin crawled, erupting in goosebumps where she'd touched him.

What was happening to him?

Harry flinched away from her.

"Er, bathroom – " he gasped and turned on the spot, pushing through a group of Hufflepuffs on their way to breakfast. Harry distantly heard Ron calling after him, but he didn't stop – he walked as fast as he could and when he was sure he was out of sight of any other students, he broke into a run.

Harry's feet carried him automatically to the nearest boys' bathroom, which was usually blessedly deserted this time of day. He hurtled inside and, after quickly checking to make no one else was in any of the stalls, locked himself in.

He fell back against the door, breathing heavily through his nose…his thoughts were spinning so fast it was impossible to catch up…he felt like he was spinning, he was so dizzy, and his hands were starting to tingle…Harry staggered to a sink and bent over it. He did not think he was going to be sick, but it had come on so suddenly last night, he'd had no warning…a dull pain flared across the skin of his stomach as he leaned against the porcelain, and Harry moved his robes and shirt out of the way to look.

He'd forgotten about the burn he'd accidentally given himself in the shower, the skin he'd rubbed raw, and he examined it for the first time. It had scabbed over but was still tender…it would be fully healed in a few days…Harry dropped the hem of his shirt and turned on the tap, splashing his face with cold water. It helped a bit. He tried to focus on calming down. He was breathing too fast, becoming more and more light-headed, he felt like he was going to pass out….

He needed another shower.

But he couldn't go back to the Tower, not yet, in case she was-

Harry turned the water quickly to hot and shoved his hands under the stream.

It instantly burned his skin, but he did not move, and before long he started to feel a little calmer…the pain was grounding him, and after a while his breath stuttered slowly back to normal. Harry opened his eyes (he didn't remember closing them) and looked down at his hands. They were a vivid, ugly red. Harry turned off the tap, his fingers aching, and gripped the sides of the sink. He stared, unseeing, at the drain.

He reckoned he should probably run some cold water over his abused skin, but he did not move.

Harry's eyes flicked up, taking in his reflection for the first time in nearly two days.

He did not look any different. He still had the same black hair, the same nose, the same green, almond-shaped eyes, like his mum's. Only his were stained a light purple underneath like he had never seen in the pictures he had of her.

He looked the same.

And, yet, there was something…off. It took Harry a few minutes to realize what it was.

He looked…weak. Like he might fracture at the lightest touch. He did not know if anyone else could notice - but he could. He could see it clearly.

The memory of himself cowering away from Hermione only minutes before sprang up in his mind, and the boy in the mirror grimaced. Harry felt a brief flicker of hatred, and he had a sudden, fierce urge to hit the face staring back at him, to punch, and punch, and punch until it shattered into a million broken pieces-

A knock at the door made Harry jump, startling him out of his thoughts, and he knew instantly that Ron had followed him.

Harry glanced at his reflection again, shaking his head to clear it, and went to unlock the door.

Harry went to bed early that night. He begged off dinner, claiming he wasn't feeling well, and in light of his unusual behaviour that morning, Ron and Hermione did not seem to have any trouble believing this.

After mumbling his goodnights to them, Harry trudged slowly up the stairs to the dormitories. He had two essays and a sketch for Herbology due tomorrow, but he reckoned he would just have to find time in the morning. He was utterly exhausted, even though all he'd done that day was sit out in the grounds in the sunshine, and then, when Hermione had insisted on dragging both him and Ron to the library to get some work done, dozed off on a stack of books.

There hadn't been any…run-ins with Romilda, but Harry had found himself on high alert all day, constantly glancing around himself, and scanning every room he walked into for any sign of her…well, Moody would have been proud, Harry thought dejectedly, and despite his impromptu nap in the library, he felt more tired than ever. It was with great relief that he pushed open the door to his bedroom.

But Harry had hardly taken one step inside when he froze. The room was empty of any other occupants, but it felt…not quite right, like there was something here that shouldn't be. Harry's eyes searched the room and fell upon his own bed – there was a box sitting on it.

A box that had not been there this morning.

Harry approached it cautiously, as though afraid it might jump up at any second and bite him. It wasn't wrapped, but tied neatly with a curly pink bow. There was a folded red note on top that simply read 'Harry.'

Harry's heart sped up, beating a tattoo against his chest. He was quite sure he knew who the package was from, and he reached out mechanically, almost against his will, to pick up the note. It smelled of rosy perfume. Harry unfolded the paper.

Inside it said 'For last night' with several hearts drawn next to it.

Harry stared down at the bold, curling script, the letters blurring together, and then his fist closed around the paper, crumpling it in his hand. The box on his bed drew his gaze, and he saw that it was a container of chocolates.

Harry stood stock still for a moment and then, quite suddenly as if he'd been planning it, the straining tension that had been building inside him all day snapped like huge elastic band and he seized the chocolates, hurling them at the wall as hard as he possibly could.

They hit the wall with a hard thwack but did not burst open, like he'd hoped, and simply fell to the floor, landing behind his bedside table.

Harry stood there, breathing hard, and tried to determine what it was he was feeling – a dozen conflicting emotions had rushed up inside him all at once and interpreting them was like trying to discern a murmuring voice on a staticky radio….

She had been up here, in his room, had touched his blankets, his bed….

A blazing burst of anger pushed to the forefront and he seized on it immediately, letting it fill him up and burn away everything else.

He viciously ripped up the note in his hand into little tiny pieces and let them fall to the floor, where they lay spread about like so much St. Valentine's Day confetti. Harry dug around in his pocket and pulled out his wand, pointed it at the pile of shredded paper, and snarled, "Incendio!" He watched as the pieces of Romilda's note burned up into nothing and then Vanished the ashes, leaving no trace.

Harry had no clue when she had come up here, or if anyone had seen her. If anyone had seen the package she had left sitting out in the open, for all the world to see….

"I'm sure I'll see you soon, Harry…."

His eyes burned, a lump rising in his throat, and he sank down on his bed, burying his face in his hands. Hot, boiling tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, but he squeezed his lids shut tight and did not let them fall.

He was not going to cry over this.

Over a girl giving him a stupid box of sweets. He pressed his fingers into his eyes until he saw stars; his chest was constricting again, his insides felt clawed up and raw, like a wild animal was fighting to escape them. For a brief moment, Harry had an overwhelming desire to go find Ron and Hermione, to tell them about everything that had happened, about him being Confunded and Petrified and force-fed that potion, and about how even his own bedroom wasn't safe anymore because she'd been there-

But it sounded stupid, even to him, and he could already hear Hermione's rational explanations about how Harry must have really wanted it to happen – he and Romilda couldn't have successfully done that, could they, if he hadn't? He saw, in his mind's eye, Ron waving him off and telling Harry not to worry, it was normal…it's not that big a deal, don't question it. Be grateful. Any bloke would kill to be in your shoes….

Harry growled in frustration, ripping a hand from his face and bringing it down, hard, to smash against the wooden bedframe. He had to bite his lip to stifle a shriek of pain, but his mind felt instantly clearer. He felt more in control of himself, and the lump in his throat began to dissolve.

No, he was not going to tell Ron or Hermione. He was not going to tell anyone.

Harry's exhaustion seemed to increase tenfold as he sat there. He slumped back on his bed fully clothed, not even bothering to kick off his shoes. His pillow smelled of roses – the sickly-sweet scent invaded Harry's nose and clung to his cheek. He wondered if Romilda had sprayed his sheets with the same perfume she had used on her note and felt the corners of his eyes prick again. But the thought of getting up to strip the bed was unthinkable, and he waved his wand tiredly, muttering a Freshening Charm. It helped marginally – he had never quite got the hang of cleaning spells….

Harry turned over, wand still in hand, and closed his eyes, praying to anyone who might be listening just to let him sleep.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Harry rolled over, half-asleep, putting his back to the door. He did not want to see anyone….

Don't come in here, he thought sluggishly, go away…leave me alone….

But the door opened a second later and he heard Ron call softly. "Harry?"

The door closed. Quiet footfalls over to Harry's bed.

"You awake?" Ron asked, still more quietly.

Harry kept his eyes shut…he did not think he had the energy to open them anyway….

"Hermione was worried, she wanted me to come check on you…."

Through his grogginess, Harry felt a vague sense of gratitude that she had sent Ron and not come up herself…had not trespassed where she wasn't supposed to be….

"We brought you back some dinner, in case you were hungry."

Ron's voice was barely a whisper now. There was the sound of a plate sliding onto the bedside table. The smell of roast beef and vegetables.

Ron sighed.

Harry felt his shoes being taken off…his glasses were gently removed, and he heard Ron fold them and place them on the table….

He did not take Harry's wand from his hand.

There was silence again…the hair on the back of Harry's neck prickled, and an image of Ron standing there, staring down at him, filled his mind….

Then there were footsteps crossing the room again, the door opening, and Ron was gone.

The next time Harry woke, there was more than one pair of footsteps ascending the stairs, and though his back was to the alarm clock, he knew it must be late. The door opened again and he could tell all four of his dorm mates were coming in to get ready for bed.

Seamus laughed loudly at something Dean had just said, and Ron quickly shushed him.

"Keep it down, will you?" whispered Ron furiously. "He's not feeling well."

Harry felt all their eyes linger momentarily on his prone form.

"Is he alright?" came an anxious voice.

Neville.

The sounds of trunks opening and pyjamas being pulled on….

"Yeah…." Ron said lowly. "Yeah, I think so. Just not feeling well…."

As the other boys climbed into bed, Harry found himself wondering listlessly what they would all think if they knew the real reason he wasn't feeling well…if they knew it was because he'd had sex…had sex with a pretty girl, who'd left him chocolates next day….

He knew what they would think.

They would all laugh themselves silly….

Harry dug his nails sharply into his arm as a wave of self-loathing crashed over him, so strong it made him feel ten years old again, huddled on the little cot in his cupboard in Privet Drive, adrift and alone and waiting…waiting for a long lost someone to rescue him, and take him away from his nightmare.

Author's Notes:

To the guest who left me that very lovely, detailed review on the previous chapter: Thank you so much for taking the time to write that. Honestly, it was...amazing. It really confirmed for me the reason I'm writing this fic - I think this kind of subject material needs to be discussed in a serious, non-apologetic way. It's important for people to know that this kind of stuff happens in the real world, and it's not funny, it's not sexy, and it's not a joke. Harry is my very favorite character from anything, ever, and though I'm doing (and will do) horrible things to him in this fic, it's for a purpose. And there's no need to worry: he will get his happy ending. Recovery isn't linear, and Harry has a long way to go, but good things are in store for him by the end of it. I hope you continue to read and love this story! Most of all, I hope you take care of yourself. Thank you again.

And a huge, huge thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! It really makes my day. :)

Finally, I started a tumblr for this a while ago ( anhourofwolvesfic . tumblr . com), just as sort of a companion blog where I could gather inspiration for/stuff that reminds me of this fic. I do post some stuff related to future events so maybe beware of possible spoilers? But probably nothing you can't gather from the warnings (and especially the tags if you were to spot this story on ao3 lol). Anyway it's there to peruse if you're interested in lil fic extras!