This chapter got to be so long that I've split it into two, so here is part one - part two is also completed and will be posted in a couple days after I've had a chance to edit it!

Be aware that these chapters involve slightly more in-depth descriptions of disordered eating behavior, and Harry will only continue to adapt and adjust his behaviors until he starts accepting help.

Please take care!

Oh, and Happy September 1st! :D

Chapter 7: Hours on Empty: Part 1

Goosebumps erupted all over Harry's skin as he examined himself, shivering and half-naked, in the dim light of the bathroom mirror. Cold water dripped off his nose, his chin, streamed down his neck in little rivulets, and he swiped it from his eyes, not bothering to dry the rest of his face before slipping his glasses back on. He had been pulled from his bed, again, by that dream of screams and panic and red light…Harry sighed wearily, the searing images of blood-red flashes dissipating in the cool bathroom as reality slunk back in.

He had more pressing concerns at the moment than tired old meaningless nightmares.

Like what he was going to say to Ron when he woke up. Ron's stricken expression burst before his eyes again, and Harry winced, the memory making his gut swoop. He'd been an absolute idiot, being so thoughtless….

But as he looked his bare torso up in down in the mirror, Harry had to admit he was not quite sure what Ron's problem was. He tilted his head slightly, pinched the skin over his left hip bone, rolling it experimentally between his fingers. Frowning, he turned to the side and raised an arm, bringing his other hand up to trail over his ribs, his fingers slotting into the spaces between them, like puzzle pieces. Dropping his arms, Harry grasped the edges of the sink and leaned forward, his eyes sweeping over his face, the slight hollowness of his cheeks….

He supposed, as he continued to stare at himself, that he really had lost some weight. A few pounds, maybe.

Another shiver ran up his spine, this one having very little to do with the chill of the room, and a tiny, weak voice struggled to the surface of his mind: What the hell are you doing? This is madness….

But it wasn't mad, not really, not when Harry thought about it. The weight loss was nothing, it was simply a side effect. Of what Harry had to do, what he needed to do, to keep everything…balanced; that thought alone instantly calmed him. And in any case it didn't seem nearly as bad to him as Ron and Neville had made it out to be.

As for what he was going to tell Ron, he had a few hours yet to work that out.

Harry looked away from his reflection and swiped the last remaining droplets of water from his face as he slipped silently back into the bedroom. Careful not to make a sound, he gathered up his things and made his way to the door, stuffing his worn and faded running sweats into his bag as he went.

The moon shone brightly into the darkened, shadowy corridors as Harry crept his way down to the Entrance Hall, peering out of the windows as he passed. There was not yet even a hint of sunrise, and Harry was glad of it – he could take all the time he wanted this morning.

Pausing by a window, Harry pulled out the Marauder's Map and gave it the cursory scan that was routine by now, but Malfoy's tiny dot was installed in the Slytherin area of the dungeons, completely immobile. Harry had expected it; he'd got into the habit of checking the Map every time he woke in the middle of the night, always with the same result, but he couldn't help but feel that little plunge of disappointment as he stowed the Map back in his bag. Harry sank onto the bench-sized windowsill and rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses.

He was so tired.

He sat there for a moment in the silence of the castle, face pressed into his hands, and let himself indulge in the thought of going back to his soft, warm bed. But he knew all too well there would be no use in it. There never was. His nightmares decided when he would wake, and he did not get second chances.

Pushing his glasses back into place, Harry stood and hauled his bag back over his shoulder, concentrating instead on not dragging his feet as he continued on his way.

The Entrance Hall was darker than the floors above, and Harry was halfway down the grand marble staircase before he was brought up short by the sight of someone standing by the front doors. Harry froze with one foot hovering in the air over the next step, panic racing down to toes before remembering he was covered by his Invisibility Cloak. He tiptoed down a few more steps, squinting at the mysterious figure. With a small start, he realised it was Tonks.

Harry knew she'd been one of the Aurors stationed at the school as extra security this year, but he hadn't seen her since the students had arrived in Hogsmeade at the start of term. Why was she here standing watch over the front entrance? There hadn't been any guards for Harry to slip past on any of the other mornings he had sneaked out…then again, he'd never gone out quite this early before, either. As Harry watched, Tonks paced past the left door and bumped into a suit of armour, sending its spear clanging to the floor.

"Shhhh!" she whispered, flapping her hands frantically at the suit as though it could hear her and replacing the spear quickly in its hand as the clanking echo dissipated slowly into nothingness. A ghost in a waistcoat and a three-cornered hat glided through the west wall and passed over Tonks' head without looking at her.

"My dear lady, do try and keep it down, the occupants of this noble castle are still as yet swathed in the supple bosom of sleep these small hours," he droned in a morose sort of voice, "Ahhh blessed sleep, it has been over a century since last I…."

His voice trailed away, waxing poetic about his last corporeal nap as he disappeared through the wall opposite. Tonks pulled a face, sticking her tongue out at the wall through which the ghost had vanished, and muttered something about inappropriate use of the phrase 'supple bosom.' Harry bit back a grin as he pulled the Map out again. There was a secret passageway out of the castle a couple of floors up, Harry knew – Filch knew about it, too, but the caretaker's dot, hounded closely by the one labeled 'Mrs. Norris,' was on the opposite side of the castle at the moment, patrolling a hallway on the sixth floor. Didn't he ever sleep? Harry thought with annoyance. But the man was out of the way, at least, and Harry quietly retreated back up the staircase as Tonks started to pace back and forth again before the front doors.

Ten minutes, two staircases, and a dirty, steep slide down later, Harry emerged from behind a group of willow shrubs on the east side of the castle near the greenhouses. Glancing around quickly to make sure there were no more surprise guards lurking about, Harry set off around the castle towards the Quidditch pitch, wiping his grimy palms on his trousers as he went. A distant splash echoed over the grounds and Harry looked over at the lake to see one of the giant squid's massive tentacles sloshing about in the shallows. The moonlight glinted brightly off the waves, and Harry, thinking of the extra hours he had before dawn, mulled over the thought of trying to get as far he could round the lake after his usual four laps around the pitch. Buoyed by the thought of the extra challenge, Harry squared his shoulders and quickened his pace towards the pitch.

Ice cold water beat down on Harry's head, plastering his fringe to his face as he sat huddled on the floor of the changing room showers. Intense shivers wracked his body, making the side of his head bump jarringly against the shower wall, but he hardly noticed. His stomach cramped sickeningly again and he leaned quickly over to the side, retching. Nothing came up but a tiny stream of bile, and Harry curled up again, ducking his head between his knees and breathing heavily.

He had blacked out again.

Near the lake, right under the beech tree where his father and Sirius and Lupin had once sat relaxing as fifth years after their O.W.L. examinations. He had woken up, face pressed uncomfortably into the grass, the sky considerably lighter than it had been when he'd lost consciousness. It had been a dreadful, sickening feeling, waking up like that, forgetting utterly for a moment where he was, and then had come the realisation that anyone, anyone, could have found him lying there like that out in the open….

He had managed to drag himself back to the Quidditch pitch, staggering, half-blind with his heart threatening to burst behind his ribs, but it had been a very close thing, and he'd nearly collapsed again from the effort.

Harry's stomach rolled again as he sat there in the shower, and he tucked his head down a bit further, grasping his forearms and digging his nails in as hard as he could to ground himself. Harry had been close to death more times than he wished to remember, and this did not truthfully feel much different from any of those times…the thought did nothing to comfort him as he crouched there, struggling to draw a proper breath.

After a few more minutes, the world around Harry seemed to stabilise, and he raised his head cautiously, releasing his grip on his arms. The cold water stung a little as it washed over his arms, and Harry peered myopically at them – his nails had left ragged bloody crescents where he'd dug them in, and he watched, blinking, as the water washed away the blood in little tiny rivers that swirled around the drain and then disappeared without a trace. Harry stared at the drain a moment longer, then reached up, bracing himself against the tiles, and climbed gingerly to his feet. He bumped the tap over to 'hot,' confident now that the heat and steam were not going to make him pass out again. His whole body jerked at the sudden change in temperature, and he stood there, hunching under the blistering stream, once more wishing miserably that he was back in his bed, worrying about nothing more than Quidditch and homework and Seamus talking in his sleep.

When he felt marginally more human, Harry stepped out of the stall, wrapped a towel around his waist, and groped about for his glasses before he headed back around to the lockers to change. As he rounded the corner, however, Harry stopped so suddenly that he almost slipped on the wet floor.

Ron was sitting there on one of the benches with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped between them, gazing doggedly up at Harry. They looked at each other in silence for a long moment.

"You look like hell," Ron said evenly.

Harry blinked slowly, contemplating the wooden legs of the bench on which Ron sat. Without a word, Harry walked around behind him, pulling his bag out of his locker. He glanced at Ron's back, but he had not moved to turn around, so Harry slipped on his underwear and jeans and t-shirt before doing exactly what he knew Ron was expecting him to do and walking back around to sink down onto the bench opposite. The floor was icy under his bare feet, and he leaned over to dig through his bag, fishing out a pair of socks. As he pulled them on, he noticed his hands were still shaking, and he clasped them together, finally looking up at Ron.

"What are you doing up so early?" Harry asked him lightly.

Ron hesitated, ever so slightly, and Harry could tell it was one of those moments where Ron was gearing up to do something he found a bit awkward, but necessary. "Making sure you come to breakfast."

Ron's tone was firm, and resentment coiled in the pit of Harry's stomach. He had suspected an attack like this, and he fought to keep his voice perfectly even. "I'm not a kid, Ron," he said. "And I'm not – "

" – hungry, I know," Ron finished for him, and Harry noticed that the tips of his ears were red. Ron's hands jumped momentarily into the air, like a man at the end of his tether. "I don't care, Harry, I don't care anymore if you're not hungry, you've got to eat something. I don't care if it's treacle tart or chips or, hell, a pile of chocolate frogs, just something…." He ran a hand frenetically through his hair. "I know you're – you're stressed, and you've got stuff to deal with and everything, I know that, but you're gonna make yourself sick and – and I dunno…." He shrugged and shook his head slightly at the ground before looking back up at Harry, admitting very quietly, "I don't know what to do."

There was a gravity in Ron's expression that was not usually there, and everything Harry had rehearsed in his head all morning, every possible answer he had been prepared to tell Ron fell away when faced with the reality of it, leaving Harry feeling uncomfortably disarmed. He wanted to say something, to offer some sound excuse, to fix the look on Ron's face, and make everything better…easier….

Water dripped slowly from Harry's hair onto the ground, making barely audible little splashing noises in the strained silence.

A thought occurred to Harry then, however, and his resentment returned. "Is that why you've all been trying to shove drinks down my throat? You and Hermione been talking about me to Ginny behind my back, have you?"

Ron looked slightly guilty at that, but his ears turned an even brighter shade of red, and he said sharply, "No, Ginny's been talking to us about you, actually. It was her idea – she thought extra fluids might help a bit, and we all agreed – "

All agreed.

Harry tried to be angry about that, but the thought of Ginny's concern deflated him. The idea was more than a little embarrassing, but he could not help the feeling of warmth that spread through him as he considered the effort Ginny had put into trying to help him.

"Well, you all can cut that out, if you don't mind," Harry said, without any real heat. Ron looked as though he wanted to argue, but Harry went on quietly. "It's not as bad as you think…I'll get over it. I always do." He tried to smile reassuringly, but was not quite sure he achieved the desired effect; Ron continued to stare at him with that relentless worry in his eyes.

"Maybe…I don't know, maybe Madam Pomfrey can give you something to help? You know, like an appetite stimulant or something?" Ron suggested, so hopefully that it made something twist deep inside Harry's chest.

Harry picked at a thread on the hem of the t-shirt that had once belonged to Dudley. He had been telling Ron and Hermione over and over again that this…not-eating thing of his was all about a lack of hunger, but the fact that they believed this to be true nevertheless left him feeling a maddening combination of enormous relief and a profound sense of loneliness that he couldn't shake. Harry cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he managed in a low voice. "Yeah, maybe."

Ron grimaced in a sympathetic, encouraging sort of way and nodded slightly, as though it had all been decided. "Alright then, come on. Breakfast." He got up, his usual, casual air returning. "I wonder if they've got that raspberry jam this morning, the kitchens haven't sent that up in ages…."

Harry pulled on his shoes and jacket, moving a bit more slowly than he normally might have done.

"Yeah. Breakfast," he repeated heavily, scratching uneasily at one of his ragged wrists as he followed Ron out of the changing rooms.

Hermione picked up on the slight air of tension as soon as Harry and Ron sat down beside her in the Great Hall, and kept throwing the pair of them questioning glances, but Harry did not feel remotely like explaining. He had decided, reluctantly, that the easiest way to get Ron off his back for the time being was to go ahead and try to eat breakfast like it was perfectly normal and not a highly difficult and complicated thing to do. Harry spooned a pile of food onto his plate, hardly noticing what it was, and focused all his concentration on mentally reciting the names of every professional Seeker he could think of while he mechanically brought forkful after forkful to his mouth and swallowed.

The feeling of the food filling up his stomach brought him back to himself more than once, and Harry forced his mind as hard as he possibly could away from what was happening. The conversations going on all around Harry dimmed to a vague ringing, his hands and feet slowly turning so cold they were practically numb, and when Ron and Hermione got up to leave the table, Harry followed them robotically, his fork clattering loudly against his plate as it slipped from his fingers, thinking in a far-off sort of way that maybe it hadn't been the easiest way after all.

Harry looked at his watch again as he passed Flitwick's office door for the third time, even though it had only been perhaps a minute since he'd last checked it. Ron and Hermione had left fifteen minutes ago for lunch after extracting a promise from Harry, who had claimed he'd had to go to the bathroom, that he would catch them up. Instead, Harry had been wandering the halls of the seventh floor, pacing up and down, knowing full well he couldn't follow them and trying to think of a way out of whatever would happen when he didn't show up.

Even the thought of taking a step down the stairs made Harry's lungs contract with panic.

A suffocating sense that the walls were trying to close in on him had hounded Harry since breakfast that morning; he hadn't eaten so much in what felt like months, and the fullness in his belly had been almost too much for him to stand. He'd even been struck by a brief madness and considered sneaking away to throw up everything he'd managed to get down, but Harry had immediately recoiled at the thought – he'd tried throwing up on purpose once, when Aunt Petunia had fed him leftovers that had seen better days, but it had not been an easy thing. And anyway, something about being sick on purpose felt vaguely to him like crossing some sort of unspoken line. So, he had endured the feeling as best he could, distracting himself as much as possible with pacing around his dormitory and, when Neville had asked him to play, a few vigorous rounds of Exploding Snap in the common room.

Harry did not know what he was going to say to Ron and Hermione when they inevitably tracked him down; he had come up with many an excuse in his day, but his brain felt tired and slow, strangled by nerves and pressure and lack of sleep. Not for the first time that day, Harry contemplated just sitting down to rest for a second, but the thought was only half-appealing. He had to keep moving, or he'd go insane….

His mind wandered to the Quidditch practice that had been rescheduled for that afternoon, and he busied himself with a mental rundown of all the drills he wanted to run with the team. He strolled past the gargoyle that marked the entrance to Dumbledore's study…Demelza had been having some trouble with her Sloth Grip Roll, he'd have to demonstrate that one again…the plain, wooden door of a broom closet came into view, and Harry crossed to the other side of the corridor, walking a bit faster…Ritchie showed a tendency to beat the Bludgers with quite a lot of enthusiasm, which was admirable but compromised his aim a fair bit, and they'd definitely have to do some target practice….

"Made it out of the bathroom after all, I see."

Harry stopped in his tracks and looked round. He had made it back to the portrait of the Fat Lady without his noticing – Hermione was coming towards him up the corridor.

"That's a relief, we thought you'd fallen in," she said dryly as she reached him. "Less paperwork for Filch now I see you haven't drowned in the toilets…."

"I'm touched," Harry deadpanned.

He knew at once that Ron had told Hermione what had happened the night before; her expression was mild, but her eyes kept flicking down to his chest like she could see through his shirt, and she had brought him a plate from the Great Hall. There wasn't much on it, he saw, but there were clear signs that she had tried to add extra calories. The roll was small but slathered in butter, there was a pile of ketchup over two sausages, and the mashed potatoes were absolutely swimming in gravy. Hermione handed it to him, and Harry took it reluctantly. It seemed to weigh a ton in his hand.

"Where's Ron?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a certain fondness in them all the same. "I left my bag in the Hall and he wouldn't let me go back and get it, he insisted on doing it himself," she said, shaking her head slightly.

Harry snorted, raising an eyebrow at her. "Gallant of him."

A flush crept up Hermione's cheeks, but she sniffed and said briskly. "Idiotic, more like, I'm perfectly capable of fetching my own things…."

"Trust me," Harry reassured her, "he knows you're more than capable by now – we both do."

Hermione's expression softened as she looked at him. "You look like you're about to fall over, Harry, come sit down…" she said quietly, and she took him by the elbow, steering them both over to the wall where they sank down onto the stone floor. Hermione's leg pressed against his, and Harry shifted away as casually as he could so that there was an inch or two of space between them. He set the plate down gratefully beside him.

"You should really try to eat some of that," Hermione coaxed, nudging his side gently.

Harry stared at the plate, watched the gravy drip heavily off the mashed potatoes…he knew Ron and Hermione were only trying to help, but it did not stop him wondering a bit ruefully when exactly they had become so interfering. Suddenly remembering something he had been wanting to ask, Harry turned sharply to Hermione.

"Did you write Lupin?"

Hermione looked slightly surprised at the change of subject, but hugged her knees and shrugged in a very so-what-if-I-did sort of way. "Yes."

"About me?"

"Yes, I did, I thought you two might be able to talk about – "

"Hermione," Harry ground out. "He doesn't need that, he's – " He looked around quickly, lowering his voice. "He's off doing something for Dumbledore, some sort of mission, and he doesn't need you distracting him with stuff that doesn't matter…."

"Harry, you're not a distraction to him. And it does matter, and since you won't talk to us – "

"There is – nothing – wrong – I've told you that," Harry huffed, running a hand through his hair. "Did you tell him about…about after tryouts?" he asked her accusingly.

"No…I didn't!" she insisted, when Harry fixed her with a look. "But I do think you should," she added stubbornly, returning a bit of his glare.

Harry shook his head in disbelief and pushed himself off the floor, moving deliberately so that all the blood wouldn't rush to his head too quickly.

"Where are you going?" Hermione demanded.

"The Owlery," Harry said shortly, dusting himself off.

"You didn't eat your lunch, you really need to – " Hermione started, rising to her feet.

"I will. I will, okay?" Harry said again at her stern expression, holding his hands up in a placating gesture and taking a few backwards steps away from her down the corridor before turning around and throwing over his shoulder, "Got to reply to Lupin, haven't I?"

"There had better be something of substance in that letter!" she called after him, and Harry heard the scrape of her picking his plate up off the ground as he ducked around the corner.

Whatever Hermione's intentions, the idea of Lupin asking Harry if he needed to talk simply because she had asked the man to do so was possibly one of the most mortifying things Harry could imagine, and he sent Hedwig off with a note apologising on Hermione's behalf and reassuring his old professor that there was, indeed, nothing to be concerned about.

Slumping down on the Owlery's steps, taking care to avoid a group of tiny mouse skeletons, Harry sat with his chin in his hands, poking dejectedly at a pile of straw with the toe of his trainer. A light wind whistled through the tower's glassless windows, and he huddled closer to the wall. He could not go back to Hermione and her ketchup-smeared-sausages, nor could he stay here and hide forever, as attractive as that option seemed to him. He'd been careless, far too careless, these past few weeks, and now Ron and Hermione (and apparently Ginny) were watching more closely than ever.

It wasn't like he didn't want to eat anything, exactly, it was just that Hogwarts fare was nothing but meat and butter and cream and sugar and fat, and Harry had developed a distaste for how…heavy it all was. He just couldn't eat enough of it to keep his friends happy. Harry closed his eyes and rubbed at them. What he needed was a way to eat enough to pacify them, without feeling like he wanted to scratch himself to shreds and vomit everything back up.

Harry suddenly sat up very straight; he'd just been struck by a brilliant thought, so clear and so simple he marveled that he hadn't thought of it before. Scrambling to his feet as quickly as he dared, he took the spiral stairs two at a time, careful not to slip in any owl droppings as he hurried down to the floor below.

Having just finished serving lunch, the house-elves of the Hogwarts kitchens were busy bustling about, stowing pots and pans and plates, magicking away spills and messes and unused ingredients with snaps of their little fingers. Harry jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a head-on collision with an elf carrying a teetering stack of large brass pots, and the tiny elf squeaked a hasty apology as he hurried on, nodding politely to Harry. Another elf passed by, and before Harry could put out a hand to stop her, she spotted him and stilled, looking up at him with an adoring, servile expression that made Harry distinctly uncomfortable.

"Is there anything I can be getting you, sir?"

"Er – yes, actually, sorry to bother you, but do you know where I can find Dobby?"

A look of mild disapproval crossed the elf's face, but she pointed over to the large brick fireplace at the other end of the room. "Over there, sir, but there is other elves, other proper elves, if you is needing something done…."

"No, thanks, Dobby'll do just fine, he's a friend, I wanted to ask him something – "

The elf shook her head in the direction of the fireplace, as though the idea of being considered anything but a servant by a wizard was cause for deepest embarrassment, but she smiled toothily as she looked back at Harry and gave him a low bow that brought her long nose almost to the floor. "If that is all you is needing, sir…." And she scurried away.

Harry made his way up between the long wooden tables that sat directly beneath their House-table counterparts in the Great Hall; Dobby came into view a moment later, wearing his tea cosy hat, a pair of bright blue shorts, and a couple of mismatched socks, and carrying an armful of freshly-washed teacups, which he promptly dropped with a magnificent crash as soon as he saw Harry.

"Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squealed, hurtling towards him and hugging him around the waist as Harry let out a stifled "Oof!"

"It's good to see you, too, Dobby," Harry grinned, patting the elf on the back as he squeezed Harry once more and released him.

"Oh, Dobby has been hoping to see Harry Potter again, it has been too long, sir – Dobby has missed him very much!" Dobby squeaked, beaming up at Harry and wringing his hands excitedly. "Would Harry Potter like some tea? If he does not mind Dobby saying so, Harry Potter is looking a bit peaky…."

"No, it's okay. Look – "

"Dobby is making a mess!" cried one of the other elves in a high-pitched voice, pointing to the heap of shattered teacups.

"Here let me – " Harry said, taking out his wand, but Dobby stopped him, patting his hand graciously.

"Harry Potter is very kind, but Dobby can do it, sir!" he said happily. He snapped his fingers, and the pieces fitted themselves back together instantly, forming neat stacks of teacups in midair, and then zooming over to a shelf set against the wall where they settled gently without a scratch. Harry stared, impressed, and Dobby giggled delightedly.

Harry shook his head and said, "Listen, Dobby, there's something I wanted to ask you."

"Anything, sir!"

"Are students allowed to make requests for meals? I mean, you know, their own individual meals?"

Dobby looked thoughtful for a moment. "Dobby thinks so, sir, there is no rules against it – only Corky tells Dobby about a student who came to Hogwarts ten years ago, from a pure-blood family, he was, and he made the kitchen serve him great steaks and fillets of fish and entire pheasants for every meal, and Corky says Professor Dumbledore put a stop to it straight away – "

"Oh, well that's alright then, this is nothing like that," Harry assured him, relieved and more than a little revolted. He dug around in his pocket for his spare quill. "Have you got any paper?" He'd used the last of his in his letter to Lupin.

Dobby disappeared instantly with a loud crack, then reappeared just as suddenly a second later, holding out his hand.

"Here you are, Harry Potter!" Dobby shrilled proudly.

Harry thanked him and sat down at one of the long tables, Dobby scrambling up onto the bench opposite to watch him.

The summer two years ago when Dudley's school had finally put him on a diet had been one of the most miserable times of Harry's life, but he couldn't help but be thankful for it now. Aunt Petunia had kept Dudley's diet sheet taped to the fridge, listing all the low-fat, low-calorie foods he was allowed to have. The nurse had sent home pamphlets, too, that Aunt Petunia had half-heartedly perused – she kept insisting the entire time that the school was sadly mistaken, there was nothing wrong with her dear Diddykins – and Harry, bored to tears one afternoon, had looked through them as well. Before that summer, Harry'd had little cause to know or care what a calorie was, or how many of them were in which foods, but the information was proving useful now as he scribbled down everything from the list he could remember. When he had finished, he handed the paper to Dobby, who looked over it quickly.

"Oh, but this will be easy, sir," Dobby exclaimed, practically jumping out of his seat in delight. "Hogwarts keeps all of these in its stores already…."

"Brilliant," said Harry gratefully, pocketing his quill.

"Does Harry Potter want the elves to start tonight, sir?" Dobby asked, looking up at him eagerly.

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks, Dobby." Harry smiled at him, and Dobby beamed, tears of happiness shining in his round, tennis-ball-sized eyes.

"Which things would Harry Potter like us to send up for him, sir?"

"Doesn't matter," Harry shrugged. "'Long as it's off that list."

Dobby nodded emphatically so that his bat-like ears flapped against his cheeks, and he folded up Harry's list and placed it carefully in his pocket, patting it reverently. "Of course, sir, anything for Harry Potter…."

A wizened old elf shuffled past the table behind Dobby, and Harry looked over, a bit surprised to see that it was Kreacher; Harry had nearly forgotten he'd sent him to come work at Hogwarts after inheriting him. Another thought occurred to him then, born of the reminder of the exceptional capabilities of house-elves, and Harry nearly called him over, but he glanced quickly at Dobby, unsure. Dobby liked Harry very much, but he had no master, and he was an employee of Dumbledore's – Harry did not truly know how far Dobby's loyalty stretched in either direction, and he did not know if Dobby might feel the need to report what Harry intended to ask of Kreacher.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, Harry thanked Dobby again, who scurried off to start gathering Harry's requested foods, and left the kitchens. After the door had closed behind him, Harry glanced left and right, making sure he was quite alone, and then called into thin air, "Kreacher!"

With a loud crack exactly like Dobby's, Kreacher materialised out of nowhere right in front of Harry. The house-elf gave a low bow, his filthy loin cloth slung across his hips, and looked up at Harry with an expression of pure hatred and disgust. "Master called for Kreacher?"

"Yeah, I've got some instructions for you," Harry told him, crossing his arms over his chest.

Kreacher's ugly little face twisted into a grimace. "What is it Master would like Kreacher to do?"

"First," Harry said, "I might tell some people I've come to the kitchens for a meal every once in a while. If anyone asks, you're to tell them I have, no matter if I haven't, got it?"

Kreacher nodded, his beady eyes narrowing.

"And second…I need you to get something for me."

It was a nice feeling, Harry thought, walking down to dinner with Ron and Hermione without a terrible sense of dread for once.

His friends had been at him at as soon as he'd got back from the kitchens, but he had waved off Hermione's concerns about what he might have written to Lupin, and informed the both of them that he'd been down to see Dobby, who had offered him tea and biscuits. Which was, strictly speaking, true. This had seemed to soothe them, and the quiet unease that had lingered between Harry and Ron all morning had all but evaporated by the time they had made their way into the grounds for their afternoon Quidditch practice on a field now blessedly free of any Death Eater insignias.

A pleasant rumble of chatter filled the Great Hall and Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved along the Gryffindor table, looking for empty seats; they found three together and as Harry sat down, to his relief and delight, little dishes popped silently into existence around his plate, some filled with strawberries and slices of apple and grapefruit, others with steamed broccoli or carrots. There was a large bowl of salad, peppered with cherry tomatoes and bits of cucumber. Ron and Hermione gaped.

"How did you do that?" Ron demanded as Harry picked up his fork and started scooping broccoli onto his plate.

Harry shrugged easily, adding some carrots. "I asked Dobby to send some stuff up for me when I went down to see him," he said, and was surprised how refreshing it felt that it wasn't even a lie.

"That's allowed?"

"Apparently."

Ron raised his eyebrows, impressed, but Hermione looked highly affronted. "You mean you're giving those house-elves extra work? They've already got enough to manage, and they're not even paid – "

"Please, they jump at the chance to do more work, they like it," Ron told her in the patient tone of someone instructing a small child as he helped himself to a healthy portion of shepherd's pie. "And they don't want to be paid, they think it's insulting – you would think you'd have got that by now considering you're supposed to be the most brilliant student in this place…hey! I wonder if I could get them to send up puddings for every meal," he added with a dreamy, far-off look in his eye.

Hermione had turned slightly pink, and she appeared to be torn between feeling offended, or pleased at Ron's assertion of her brilliance.

"I don't think you could," Harry explained, saving Hermione from having to form a reply. "Dobby told me there was a student a while ago, some spoiled pure-blood prat who always wanted them to serve him pheasants and things – I reckon if you order something, it's got to be just, you know…normal."

Ron sighed disappointedly. "I suppose I could still ask for that raspberry jam, at least…."

Harry glanced up at the staff table as Ron trailed off, quite sure that someone had just been watching him, but none of the teachers were looking in his direction, and after a moment or two he returned his attention to the dishes in front of him.

Hermione was still frowning disapprovingly at their talk of giving the elves orders, but as she watched Harry tip some more strawberries onto his plate and begin to eat, her indignation seemed to melt away, and by the time dinner was over, though Harry pretended not to notice, both Ron and Hermione were beaming at his empty plate.

Upon their return to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione had her homework out and spread across two entire tables so quickly it might have qualified as a magic trick, and Ron shared an exasperated look with Harry before pulling up a chair beside her and digging out his own homework with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked in bewilderment, pausing in her search for extra rolls of parchment when Harry did not join them.

"I think I'm just going to – uh – go to bed," he said, nodding his head toward the stairs.

"What, and miss all the fun?" said Ron, watching Hermione pull out a colour-coded revision sheet and eyeing it as though it had done him a great personal injustice. "If we're lucky, we could be here till morning, eh?"

"As enjoyable as that sounds," Harry said sarcastically as Hermione pursed her lips at Ron, "I'll have to do it in the morning, I'm knackered – "

"You won't have time in the morning, we've got Transfiguration first thing, and you haven't answered the questions about cross-species transformations, I know you haven't," Hermione insisted, gesturing at her own finished copy of the sheet McGonagall had given them.

This was, in fact, true, and Harry was keenly aware that indeed he probably would not have enough time next day, but he couldn't bring himself to be too fussed about it, not with the alluring prospect of a real night's sleep dangling before him, and he waved indifferently over his shoulder as he turned toward the stairs, Hermione muttering something about 'reaping the consequences' under her breath behind him.

Ginny sat cross-legged playing with Arnold on the rug by the fire and she looked up as he passed. "Good night, Harry," she said pleasantly, herding Arnold around her legs away from the hearth.

"'Night," Harry mumbled, feigning a yawn to avoid looking at her properly, and sped up the boys' staircase.

Harry glanced about the room as he closed the door behind him, making sure it was empty, and made a beeline for his bed, slipping his hand underneath his pillow and feeling around. His hand closed around a small box, right where he'd told Kreacher to leave it, and he pulled out the container of sleeping tablets with a little thrill of victory. The package looked exactly as he remembered it; Aunt Petunia had once come back from the chemist's with them when Harry and Dudley had been about six, though what she had to lose sleep over Harry could not have said, and they had lurked in the medicine cabinet half-used for years until they'd finally been thrown out.

Harry changed quickly and climbed onto his bed, pulling the hangings closed and putting up his usual Silencing charm before ripping the box open; a paper insert fell out onto his lap, and he unfolded it, scanning the tiny print. A small bubble of apprehension swelled in his gut as he read through the list of would-be side effects, but it did little to dissuade him; he had been operating on bursts of restless, interrupted sleep for months, and he was already far past the end of his rope. He had considered, once or twice, going to Madam Pomfrey out of sheer desperation, but that would have been impossible to do without it leading to questions that Harry did not particularly feel like answering. He might have easily instructed Kreacher to take any potions he needed from the hospital wing or the dungeon's stores, but that, too, would have led to suspicions, and with a house-elf's rather useful ability to Apparate in and out of Hogwarts now at Harry's disposal, this had all-around seemed the best option. A little niggle of guilt hovered at the back of his mind that he had not been able to pay the shop from which Kreacher had stolen the tablets, but the only money Harry had on hand was wizarding gold, and he didn't expect a Muggle chemist would have much need for Galleons or Sickles.

Two full blister packs of tablets slid out as Harry upturned the box. He picked up the first one, popping a single tablet out of the plastic, and shoved the packs and the little paper back into the box before slipping the incriminating package under his pillow.

He stared down at the tablet in his hand – he marveled at how such a little thing could look so big – his heart hammering as though he was doing something much more treacherous than sitting in bed in his pyjamas. Thoughts of what his friends would say if they could see what he was doing attempted to break in, but he squashed them impatiently, and before he could change his mind, he popped the tablet into his mouth and tilted his head back, swallowing it dry.

He slid down under the covers and rolled over, dragging his blankets up to his neck. He tried his best to relax, to calm his mind, and his bone-deep exhaustion pulled at him like an anchor on a sinking boat, rolling black waves washing over him as he lay there…his eyes slowly closed and within minutes, he was asleep.