Chapter 8: Hours on Empty: Part 2

Harry slept like the dead.

Though he'd gone to bed no later than half past seven in the evening, he did not wake until nearly the same time next morning, his body stiff and aching slightly, and he knew immediately he had not moved an inch all night. He sat up slowly. His limbs felt as though they were tied down with weights; he stared with heavy lids at the sunlight seeping in under his bed curtains. The light swirled hypnotically the longer he looked at it. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his thoughts as slow and dull as if he were drugged. Which, he supposed with a slightly loopy smirk, he probably still was. Harry might have sat there forever, entranced by the strip of light, but he gradually became aware that his throat was very, very dry; he swallowed uncomfortably and commanded his sluggish arms to pull back the curtains with difficulty.

He was met with the sight of Ron, sitting up and yawning widely, his arms stretched high over his head. "'Morning…." he told Harry groggily.

Harry swung his cement-filled legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, rubbing the sleep slowly out of his eyes. He let his arms drop heavily to his knees and stared at the pitcher of water on his bedside table, which appeared to be impossibly far away.

"You alright?" Ron asked as he, too, moved to perch on the edge of his own bed, scratching his head and yawning again. He watched, frowning slightly, as Harry struggled to pour himself a glass of water.

"Yeah," Harry rasped after he'd taken a few sips, the water easing a cool trail all the way down to his stomach. "Think I slept too much," he slurred, licking his lips. He snorted quietly in vague disbelief. He'd slept….

"Good," Ron said with a resolute nod, and got up to search for his school robes.

Yes, thought Harry, and he squinted blurrily at his pillow as the other boys began to stir, it was good.

Harry followed Ron and Hermione down to breakfast, listening to them bicker about something he did not possess the concentration to follow properly; the sound of it bothered him less than usual, however, and he found himself perfectly content to walk behind them silently, staring about. Everything looked somewhat surreal, like a fuzzy, out-of-focus dream, and the constantly looming threat of dizziness he'd got used to lately hovered even closer, making it necessary for him to grasp firmly onto the railings every time they descended a flight of stairs.

As soon as Harry sat down next to Neville in the Great Hall, the same dishes he had requested the night before appeared in front of him, only the vegetables had been replaced with more fruit. Harry stared at them. A deep hunger surged to life in his belly, much stronger than his usual pangs, and his eyes wandered a bit guiltily to the other plates filled with bacon and eggs. Harry helped himself to a whole grapefruit, a handful of strawberries, several slices of apple, and, before he could talk himself out of it, a spoonful of scrambled eggs and a piece of bacon. He ate quietly, the sound of Ron and Hermione's voices dulling to a drone in his ears, until Neville waved a hand in front of his eyes, asking anxiously if he was alright. Harry startled a bit, looking up to find the three of them watching him curiously.

"Fine," he assured them, and went back to his plate, only to find that it was already empty, including the bacon and eggs. A squirming sense of shame spread all the way out to his fingers as his friends resumed their conversations; he hadn't meant to cheat, really he hadn't, but he was so hungry. He wondered distantly if it was the sleeping tablets making him feel so ravenous…he couldn't remember if that had been listed as a side effect or not…he would have to check when he got back to his room….

Breakfast finished in a blur, Harry doing his best not to stare off into space again, and he heaved his heavier-than-normal bag over his shoulder and trailed listlessly after Ron and Hermione to the Transfiguration classroom for their first lesson.

Professor McGonagall strode up and down the rows of desks after they had all settled in, collecting homework. Harry sat silently when she came to him, having nothing to hand in, and as McGonagall stared down at him over the tops of her square spectacles, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, scrutinizing.

"No homework, Potter?"

Harry shook his head mutely, staring at a spot over her left shoulder, unable to meet her eyes. He wanted to apologise, but he did not know what to say, he had no excuse to offer – Harry braced for a reprimand, for points to be docked for his negligence, perhaps even for a detention…but McGonagall simply gave him one last look, the corners of her mouth turning downwards in the barest trace of a frown, and swept away to her desk. Harry and Ron stared after her in shocked disbelief. Never in living memory had Professor McGonagall neglected to punish someone for failing to complete her coursework.

Harry expected Hermione to fume at this inexplicable show of indulgence or leniency or whatever it was, but she was instead staring over at McGonagall with a thoughtful look on her face as she slowly pulled her copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration out of her schoolbag.

Transfiguration passed in much the same haze as the rest of the morning had done – Professor McGonagall paced slowly back and forth at the front of the classroom giving a complex lecture Harry could not even attempt to decipher, and his head drooped further into his hand as Hermione scribbled furious notes beside him. His lethargy lifted slightly towards the end of the hour, but that only made room for a low thrum of anxiety about his slip-up at breakfast to creep up under his skin, and he put his hands under the desk to scratch where Ron and Hermione would not see.

"What d'you reckon, McGonagall going soft in her old age?" said Ron as they left the classroom, elbowing Harry's side as though congratulating him for winning some sort of contest.

"She's not that old," Hermione said automatically, but her voice lacked any real reproach. She still looked pensive and, Harry thought, a little relieved, though he might have been imagining it – his surroundings still did not seem fully real to him.

"I thought you'd be cross," Harry told her. "She's never let you off like that…."

"Yes, well, she's never had the occasion, I've always handed in my homework, haven't I?" Hermione said reprovingly, but her expression relaxed a bit as she looked at him. "Come on, we'll be late for Potions if we don't move…."

Hermione did not say anything further on the matter of Professor McGonagall's behaviour, and Harry let the subject drop, reaching into his bag to pull out the Marauder's Map instead. Hermione rolled her eyes at the sight of it, but Ron moved in closer to look over Harry's shoulder, muttering, "What's old ferret-face up to now?"

Since the whole Dark Mark fiasco, Ron had seemed a bit keener on keeping tabs on Malfoy, and Harry, glad to have company at last in his 'obsession,' as Hermione liked to call it, readily shifted the Map to give Ron a better view as he tapped the parchment with his wand and mumbled, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Harry and Ron bent over the Map as the little black lines and dots appeared, and it took each of them only a second to find Draco Malfoy. They looked up at each other at the same moment, then turned to see over their shoulders in unison. According to the Map, Malfoy was not thirty feet behind them, but it was impossible to see him among the sea of students thronging the corridors.

"He's following us…." Harry murmured suspiciously.

"Of course, he's following us," said Hermione a little impatiently. "He's going to Potions, isn't he, we all are…."

But Harry could not accept this explanation: Malfoy had left the Transfiguration classroom well before they had, and as Harry continued to watch him on the Map, it seemed as though he was taking care to maintain that same thirty feet or so of distance behind him, Ron, and Hermione as they moved through the halls. Ron, like Harry, kept glancing back all the way to the dungeons. But Malfoy pretended to be searching through his bag every time they managed to catch him looking, and Harry tried to quell the disquiet that crept upon him as he warily considered any possible reason Malfoy could have for stalking the three of them through the castle like a slithering predator ready to spring.

Harry continued to keep an eye on Malfoy's movements throughout the rest of the morning, and he spent so much time with his eyes boring into the back of that infuriating blond head of his in Potions that Hermione audibly sighed more than once and even Ron shot him a look of slight exasperation. But Harry continued to stare, as if he could somehow see through Malfoy's thick skull to his brain, and see what it was he might be planning….

The weird, drugged-out state that Harry been stuck in since he'd woken up lifted almost completely by lunchtime. Regrettably, this only permitted him to feel even more uneasiness about Malfoy's behaviour, not to mention a distinct resentful annoyance at Hermione's refusal to take it seriously, and a keen awareness of the hunger pains that had not abated in the least since breakfast. He was in such a foul mood by midday that it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stick to his planned food at lunch and refrain from snapping at Lavender Brown to shut up when she giggled shrilly at a joke Seamus told her.

Dinner was much the same. Only it was made about five times worse by the fact that Romilda sat down two seats away from Harry, the barest tinge of purple in her cheeks the only sign of what been done to her – "Madam Pomfrey got Professor Slughorn to brew something up, it was a potion in my shower gel that did it, it was an easy antidote in the end…." she could be heard telling her friends – and in spite of Harry's intense hunger, he suddenly felt the nasty urge to refuse to eat a single thing. It was only the memory of Ron's disturbed expression at the sight of Harry's weight loss that kept him in his seat, and he shoveled some mushrooms and peppers onto his plate with great reluctance.

Harry went to bed early again, despite having been assigned another mountain of homework for the week. In the privacy of his four-poster he re-examined the packaging of the tablets Kreacher had got him...headache, dizziness, stomach pain, changes in appetite...

Harry frowned. That did explain it, then. He sat there for a moment, turning the box over idly in his hands, debating...was it really worth it? Bargaining a good night's sleep for the risk of wanting to eat more than he should? But in the end the prospect of dreams full of screams and pain or, worse, dark broom closets, made the choice for him, and he quickly popped a second tablet out of its tray.

The following week fell into a pattern that Harry seemed to observe from the outside rather than participate in himself. Wake up. Slog through the morning. Rabbit food (Harry remembered wryly that that's what Uncle Vernon had called it when Dudley had been sentenced to his diet). More rabbit food. Sometimes straying from that when his body managed to beat back his brain…guilt (desperate, awful guilt) when he did stray, and he scratched. Endless piles of homework, and he tried, he tried but he couldn't focus. The days blurred together, and he needed sleep, and he took his tablets, and he was too tired. He was cold. He was frustrated and worried and hungry, so hungr –

"Will you please put that map away?"

Harry glanced up at Hermione in annoyance, though her tone when she badgered him about his preoccupation with Malfoy had shifted more towards pleading than disapproving the past few days.

"You never tell Ron to quit looking at it, do you, and he's just as convinced as I am that Malfoy's up to all this Junior Death Eater rubbish…." Harry pointed out, regretting that Ron was already down at dinner waiting for them; he could have used the backup. His eyes found the Slytherin's dot again, which was positioned, predictably, not very far away from him and Hermione at the moment.

"No, I don't," Hermione said meaningfully, but she did not say anything else as they descended a narrow staircase.

Deciding not to even attempt to interpret that, Harry ignored her and kept his gaze trained on the Map – ever since Monday morning, Malfoy had been sticking to Harry, Ron, and Hermione like glue – well, this wasn't exactly true. He'd been sticking to Hermione like glue. Harry had checked the Map as often as he could between classes and meals, and, almost every time, Malfoy had been there, lurking somewhere behind them – except for when it was only Harry and Ron. Malfoy seemed to lose interest then. Sometimes Harry caught sight of him on the Map, loitering outside the library or a bathroom, like he was waiting for Hermione to come out. Harry's insides writhed and seethed furiously at the thought, a venomous hatred pulsing in his brain, and he glanced over his shoulder again, catching a glimpse of Malfoy's pale, pointed face through the group of fourth year Ravenclaws that stood between them.

Making up his mind on the spot, Harry decided that the time for caution had long since passed and he hastily refolded the Marauder's Map and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Got to go to the bathroom – you go on, I'll see you in a minute," he told Hermione quickly as they came around a corner, already turning away from her.

"Hurry up!" she called after him, and she disappeared down another staircase.

Harry doubled back to the corner of the corridor and leaned against the wall, doing his best to appear casual and thoroughly innocuous as the cluster of Ravenclaws walked past. A couple of the girls giggled when they saw him, which did nothing to improve Harry's frazzled nerves, and he just barely stopped himself fixing them with a withering glare. A minute later, they had also climbed down the stairs, and then there was only one more set of footsteps making their way up the hallway.

Harry waited silently, barely breathing as he drew his wand.

Malfoy came around the corner and Harry sprang forward, seizing the front of Malfoy's robes, ignored the outraged "HEY!" that echoed furiously through the halls, and pulled him roughly around to slam him up against the wall.

In the split second that Malfoy was frozen in surprise, Harry brought his wand up, jabbing it threateningly into the side of his neck. Malfoy immediately began struggling, clutching at Harry's wrists as though the touch of the wand at his throat had released him from his shock. Malfoy's nails bit into Harry's flesh, and Harry let a low growl, yanking Malfoy away from the wall and slamming him back again…blood was pounding in his brain, a blinding rage surging up inside him, rushing up his throat, making his face burn and his fist close even more tightly around his wand….

"Get off of me!" Malfoy snarled, stray strands of his blond hair flying around his face as he plunged a hand into his robes and pulled out his own wand, pushing it sharply up underneath Harry's chin, right over his jugular. But Harry did not release him, and they both stood there, breathing heavily, with their wands pressed against each other's throats, glaring at one other with unadulterated hatred and disgust.

"Why have you been following her?" Harry demanded through clenched teeth, twisting Malfoy's robes viciously in his fist.

Something like astonishment flickered in Malfoy's grey eyes, and Harry felt a savage burst of satisfaction; Malfoy had not been aware that Harry knew exactly what he was doing. But Malfoy's face contorted into an ugly grimace as he spat, "Who?"

"You know exactly who I mean! Hermione, you slimy little – "

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter. Why would I possibly want to follow that little Mudblood around?"

Harry's vision nearly went blurry with rage as adrenaline coursed through his veins, his ability to keep from hexing Malfoy into oblivion hanging on by barely a thread. A sharp pain flared suddenly in Harry's chest, and then his vision really did seem to be going blurry as a wave of dizziness overtook him.

"I know it was you, Malfoy, the graffiti, that Dark Mark," Harry panted, trying desperately to hold himself together as another pain flared in the region of his heart. "You're not going to get away with this, you'll be chucked out for good…I know it was you," he said again, pushing his neck even more firmly against Malfoy's wand, half-wishing Malfoy would try something, would give Harry an excuse to fight him, to unleash all the anger and frustration and panic that had been simmering underneath the surface for so long.

But Malfoy shoved Harry away from him, and Harry's grip broke easily as another swell of lightheadedness crashed over him. Malfoy straightened his robes with a few sharp tugs and ran a hand smoothly over his head, slicking his hair back into place as he smirked at Harry.

"Prove it," he whispered.

Harry glared at him, his breath catching harshly, channeling the force of his outrage and loathing to keep himself on his feet. "You stay the hell away from Hermione, you understand me? You touch her and I swear I'll – "

"You'll what? It's a free country," said Malfoy, "And I don't take orders from stinking half-bloods…." He looked Harry briefly up and down, his lip curling as he took in the sweat at Harry's brow, his heaving chest, the hand shaking around his wand. "What's wrong with you, anyway?" he sneered. "Golden Boy of Gryffindor losing his nerve?"

Malfoy gave a derisive snort and set off down the hall, bumping Harry's shoulder forcefully as he went. Harry wanted to turn and go after him, to call out a retort, to do something to wipe that bloody smirk off his face, but it was all he could do to stagger unsteadily over to the wall as Malfoy disappeared around the corner.

Harry dropped more than sunk onto the floor, leaning heavily against the wall and gasping for breath, clutching at his chest, which was now bursting with pain. With sharp, jerky movements, Harry dug out the Invisibility Cloak and swung it over himself, cringing at the thought of anyone coming along to see Harry Potter sprawled out, sweating and trembling helplessly on the floor. The pain in his chest seemed to be suffocating him, and Harry wondered suddenly if he was having a heart attack. It was beating so fast in his ears…what if he died, right here in this hallway?

A hysterical thought popped wildly into his head, and he wondered if he shouldn't take the Cloak off so no one would trip over his body –

But after a few minutes, the pain lessened, and then dissipated, and he could breathe again.

Harry pulled himself shakily to his feet, still trembling underneath his father's Invisibility Cloak. He stared at the spot of stone floor where he'd just been sitting, as though expecting some sort of dark apparition to rise up out of it and attack him.

Harry shook himself, rubbing his knuckles nervously against his hand, and set off quickly down the corridor, keenly aware that he was already very late for dinner, and that Ron and Hermione would be wondering where he was.

A cool, slight breeze ruffled Harry's hair as he walked along, the vast blue sky silent above him. His footsteps were muffled and uneven, and he looked down, discovering with pleasant surprise that he was walking upon clouds as white and fluffy as fresh marshmallows…well, of course. Why shouldn't he be walking on clouds? Everyone did.

Patterns swirled hypnotically up in the atmosphere, winding and curling like snakes, and Harry leapt gently off the surface of clouds and floated up to one of them with ease, thinking that it was really very pretty…he reached out his fingers, and touched it – the swirling thing broke open, and a murder of crows, each with six bulging eyes and four ravaged wings, burst out of it, flapping around him in a frenzy, attacking his face, his hands, pecking at his eyes, and Harry threw his arms over his face, curling into himself as the murder bore down upon him, driving him down through the clouds, and Harry was falling, falling fast….

The crows disappeared as suddenly as they'd come, and Harry looked around to find that he was standing in a dark cave, rosy pink firelight flickering sinisterly off the damp walls. He was naked. There were disembodied eyes, scarlet and slit-pupiled like a cat's, staring at him from every dark corner, and he backed away, hitting a wall, out of which long, thorny vines grew in an instant, winding around his legs and arms, binding him against the clammy surface. Terror exploded in his stomach, and he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out...a school bell rang, loud and sharp, echoing around the cave, whose floor kept shifting and changing like quicksand, and a girl appeared in a puff of purple smoke right next to the pink fire, roasting squares of chocolate over the flames as though she'd been sat beside it all along. She smiled at Harry as the chocolate dripped into the fire, each drop transforming into a tiny Snitch as it fell, and then flying away before Harry could catch it…he strained at the vines holding him to the cave wall….

The girl laughed, an ugly screeching sound, and suddenly she was standing right in front of Harry, her dark hair swirling around her. She caressed his face with a hand that felt like sandpaper, and Harry knew that if she wanted to she could score the flesh right off his skull….

The vines holding him down disintegrated to ash as she pressed her body to his, but still he could not move. She kissed him then, a thick, bubbling liquid pouring into his open mouth, choking him – the girl stepped back and looked at Harry sadly.

She spoke, and her voice echoed as though there were three of her speaking together. "I'm so glad you came to see me. I've been waiting. I've been eating rats to survive, you see…." She gestured over to a pile of little skeletons, and only their eyes remained, staring back at Harry blankly….

'I'm so sorry,' Harry wanted to say, and he wasn't sure whether he meant it for the rats or the girl, but he suddenly found that he had no mouth, only a smooth stretch of skin below his nose, and he looked down at his own body to find that he was a skeleton, too, as if all his flesh had been melted away.

"It'll be okay," the girl soothed. "You have me, now…." And Harry's horrified gaze found her face, which was now grey and taut – she looked dead. Dead like the four corpses standing behind her with sunken expressions of accusation and hatred on their gaunt faces as they looked at Harry, blaming him, he knew, for what had become of them….

'I'm sorry!' Harry tried to tell them. 'I'M SORRY!' But he still did not have a mouth, and his body was fading away…the dark-haired girl stepped up to him again, whispering, "I can help you…" and moved into him, so that she became a part of him, and their bodies became one body, and Harry screamed, clawing at his bare bones –

With an almighty wrench, Harry dragged himself out of sleep and into wakefulness, still screaming so loudly he thought his throat might tear, the taste of iron on his tongue. His body attempted to thrash, to bolt up, but it was paralysed, stuck to the sweaty sheets as though a giant mass were sitting on top of him, pinning him to the bed. His scream cut off abruptly with a choked, desperate whimper – his lungs were frozen in his chest, his brain starved for oxygen, and with an enormous push of willpower, Harry forced his lungs to fill, to expand, and he sucked in the deepest breath he'd ever taken in his life. Sweat poured off of him, his heart hammering fit to burst, and a sharp pain in his tongue told him he had bitten it in his sleep.

Panic pounded through him, still unable to move, and he stared, wide-eyed, up at the canopy of his four-poster, trying to get his brain to communicate with his muscles. It felt like he was Petrified – terror slammed his heart against ribs, and he choked on a sob. Move, he snarled at his mind, move, move, move, move, MOVE!

His fingers twitched. His knees jerked. Slowly, the feeling returned, and he was able to drag himself up to rest against the headboard, panting heavily. He realised his face was wet with more than just sweat, and he thrust a hand jerkily back behind his pillow, seizing hold of his wand like a lifeline and clutching it to his chest.

"L-l-lumos," he whispered, his voice breaking. He coughed and tried again. "Lumos!"

His bed filled with light, and amongst the shadows cast by his rumpled bedspread, he saw a smear of blood on his sheets. Harry stared at it. He repositioned his wand and raised his trembling hands to his eyes. The outsides of his wrists were torn open again.

The damage was not nearly as bad as it could have been, and a small part of Harry was grateful that he had not been able to move properly in his sleep – he could not have asked Ginny to heal him again. The look in her eyes if he did was enough to make him want to crawl straight into a hole to shrivel up and die.

Harry clenched his hand into a fist, feeling the congealed blood underneath his fingernails, and he threw back his covers, forcing his wooden legs over the side of the bed. He doused his wand and pulled back his hangings. He had to make it to the bathroom. He had to clean himself up, but he didn't know if he could even stand….

Harry rose slowly, clutching at his bedpost for support – he could hardly feel his feet under him – the bathroom seemed miles away, and he tamped down the urge to give into despair. He focused every last particle of his brain on putting one foot in front of the other. He stumbled unevenly, barely making it to the bathroom doorway before he collapsed. His knees gave out and hit the floor with a sickening flash of pain and he bit down on a grunt, determined not to wake the others. Harry half-crawled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a shaking hand. He stared up at the sink, yearning for a drink of water, for a splash on his flushed, sweaty face, but he did not even have the energy to prop himself up against the wall, and he crumpled weakly onto the freezing floor, rolling over to stare at the underside of the counter, his heart thumping madly again from exertion.

The desire to call out for Ron like a child in the night rushed up inside him, and he felt traitorous tears prick at the corner of his eyes again as he lay there, prone and miserable. Harry curled up, like he had in his dream, and he pressed his eyes shut at the phantom sensation of gruesome, six-eyed crows pecking him all over, stabbing, hurting him.

Ever since he had started taking the sleeping tablets, he had slept more solidly, but almost every day he had woken up with vague memories of strange, eerie dreams that left him slightly on edge all morning. But tonight…tonight had been something else entirely. His nightmare had been so…real. Vivid and disturbing and unnervingly psychedelic, he had never had a dream quite like it. The image of his skeletal body intruded sharply, and he opened his eyes, looking down at himself just to make sure he was still all there. His hand twitched up to his mouth, feeling for his lips….

Four corpses staring back at him through empty sockets….

Harry shuddered, forcing his eyes shut again. He lay there for what felt like hours until some modicum of strength returned; he carefully placed his trembling palms against the floor and pushed himself up. He rested briefly against the sink before grasping the edge of the counter and hauling his shaking, shivery body to its feet. Determinedly avoiding looking at his reflection, Harry turned on the tap and stuck his hands under the stream, rubbing lightly at the dried blood. He winced at the sting, but when he was done they looked much better. Or he thought they did, anyway. He had left his glasses beside his bed. Harry splashed some water on his face, washing away the salty remains of the sweat and tears, and gulped down a few mouthfuls, feeling marginally better.

Breathing as deep and even as possible, Harry hobbled to the door and opened it, startled nearly out of his skin to find Dean waiting beside the door, squinting and sleep-mussed, on the other side.

"Harry," Dean whispered. "I was just about to knock, you've been in here for – are you okay?" he asked suddenly, taking in Harry's appearance. Harry could not see Dean's expression clearly without his glasses, but there was a slight note of concern in his voice, and Harry thought he saw his eyes flick down to Harry's wrists, which Harry shoved hurriedly behind his back.

"Yeah," Harry whispered back. "Sorry, all yours." He let Dean past him; Dean cast him another fleeting look and closed the door.

Harry dragged himself back over to his bed and dropped onto it wearily, his brain teeming with uncomfortable, unwanted thoughts. Abruptly, he shoved a hand under his pillow, pulled out the package of sleeping tablets, and threw them into the drawer of his bedside table, closing it firmly.

Well, that was the end of that, Harry sighed to himself.

Tonight had been ten times worse than any of his normal nightmares, and if he was being honest with himself he was a little relieved to have an excuse to stop; the dreamlike numbness that had coloured his whole week had been, he had to admit, nice in a way. But it certainly wasn't doing him any favours as far as his schoolwork situation went, which was now beyond desperate. He was certain he was in danger of failing about half his classes at this point. However, without a doubt the worst part had been all the extra food he had been unable to stop himself from consuming. Not to mention the fact that he'd felt so drowsy and slow that he hadn't managed to drag himself out of bed once for a morning run…a restless hum of anxiety pulsated just underneath his skin….

Dean came out of the bathroom and got back into bed. Ron muttered something in his sleep that sounded like 'can't go to the dance, got to help take these flowers to the zoo, I'm the manager' and Harry allowed himself a small grin. He turned over and stared at Ron's raised silhouette, thinking.

He'd just have to be a bit stricter with himself.

That was the safe thing. And the only way to make up for this last week – no more options or choices or leeway, he just had to grit his teeth and do it. Something subsided in him at the thought, like a monstrous serpent being lulled back into a doze, and Harry reached eagerly over to his alarm clock, setting it early enough for his run. After a second's thought, he pushed it back another half hour. He'd need time before breakfast to go down to the kitchens and tell the house-elves about the adjustments that needed to be made.

Harry buried his face in his pillow, thoroughly exhausted, and closed his eyes – the vivid, too-real images of his dream threatened to overwhelm him, and once or twice his eyes snapped open, expecting to see dozens of scarlet eyes staring at him from the shadows. Eventually, the sound of Ron's quiet snores and the promise of much more manageable days on the horizon eased him to sleep.

A storm was raging outside the window when Harry's alarm went off, testing his resolve to follow through with the plan he'd outlined for himself, and he momentarily let his eyes slip closed again, sinking back into his mattress, before he sat up with a jerk, jumping out of bed as suddenly as if he'd been poked with a cattle prod.

No choice, you've got to go, you said you'd go, Harry told himself firmly, and he shoved his glasses sleepily onto his face, taking comfort once again in the idea of a decisive, clear-cut routine, even as a flash of lightning cracked apart the sky outside the dormitory, followed by a low, ominous roll of thunder.

He had to stop by the kitchens first anyway, and the storm might have blown itself out by then. Gathering up his things, Harry left the dormitory, closing the door quietly behind him, and ran through his list of meals in his head, over and over again like a recitation, all the way down to the kitchens so that he wouldn't forget.

Ron and Hermione were not happy with him.

At all.

Nor was Ginny, for that matter, who had taken to sitting right next to Harry at meals whenever Dean was not with her.

None of them had actually said anything outright, yet, but he did not know how long that was going to last – their pointed looks from his plate, to his set jaw, and back again spoke volumes. As did the way they kept pushing dishes of food towards him, though, true to his promise to himself, he had so far wordlessly refused to touch any of it.

He had to follow The Rules, and The Rules told him exactly what he was allowed to have:

Breakfast: half a bowl of cornflakes with milk, or one grapefruit.

Lunch: an apple, a salad with tomato, and broth.

Dinner: Tomatoes, broccoli, and carrots, one cup each.

No snacks. End of.

Water.

Tea. No sugar, no cream.

Any more than that, and it was an extra lap around the Quidditch pitch. Even though sneaking out was a bit trickier these days – there were now security trolls posted outside all the secret passages during the night in addition to the rotation of Aurors guarding the front doors.

But this had not stopped him in the end – Harry knew how to get by trolls, after all.

Perhaps Ron, Ginny, and Hermione sensed that attempting to reason Harry into eating more would be ineffective (which, Harry thought with a fierce twinge of self-satisfaction, it would be), or perhaps it was the fact that Harry had now secretly started wearing two jumpers under his robes that eased their worry enough for them to refrain from commenting on his stringent eating habits. Harry knew he had lost several more pounds, and something told him that unless he kept it from showing, he was not going to like the consequences.

The tension between all four of them was palpable. Harry, who had already been trying to avoid too much contact with Ginny, was now doing everything in his power to make sure they did not run into each other in the halls or the common room, made more than a little difficult by the fact that Ginny was having none of it. She made an effort to engage him in conversation, even when he did nothing but mumble lame responses at her, and she continued to wave or smile at him when they saw each other outside of meals, even if he pretended he did not see it. She insisted on treating him normally, even as he was trying his best to pull away from her, and it was truly, inexpressibly maddening.

Ron and Hermione were taking much the same tack.

Even though neither of them were directly trying to address Harry's behaviour at mealtimes anymore, Hermione always seemed to attempt to bring the subject of food up organically. She would start conversations about the new line of sweets Honeydukes had come out with, or the best Christmas dinners they had ever had, or an interesting book of wizarding recipes she had found in the library. Harry largely ignored these attempts, partly because he knew exactly what she was trying to do, and partly because he had tried to warn her to watch out for Malfoy, that he was tailing her for some as yet unknown nefarious reason, and she had told him that he was being ridiculous, a transgression for which Harry had yet to forgive her.

Harry had told neither Hermione nor Ron about his confrontation with Malfoy, and he did not think it to be a wise idea at this point, for Ron, despite hating and suspecting Malfoy quite as much as Harry did, seemed to have taken it into this head to appoint himself Harry's keeper.

Every time Harry tried to disappear to his bed hours early, or go to the library by himself, Ron provided some excuse for Harry to stay, or be accompanied, as if he was of the opinion that Harry was spending too much time alone. An opinion Harry might have shared, if only Ron were acting a bit more like himself. As it was, Ron had become almost…Hermione-ish, expressing the concern that Harry was putting off too many homework assignments, and teaming up with Hermione to make a weekly schedule for Harry to follow so he did not fall too far behind. Harry privately and grudgingly agreed that Ron perhaps had a point, but it did not stop him missing his best mate and how things had been only weeks ago, before everything had got so…complicated.

Harry let out a low sigh, tapping his quill rhythmically against the side of the table.

He had decided to try to work out a response to Lupin – the man had sent another letter full of thinly-veiled worry, apparently having dismissed Harry's claims that all was well – taking the opportunity to do it while Ron and Hermione had been called away to a Prefects' meeting. But he could not think at all what to say. He stared dejectedly across the common room, watching a couple of third years have a riotous belching contest, empty Butterbeer bottles strewn about the floor around them…Harry wondered distantly if there was an acceptable way to say 'I really don't want to talk about Sirius, or anything else, thanks, but if you would keep sending letters anyway, that'd be great because it helps' but somehow he didn't think so….

The portrait hole opened and Ginny clambered through. Quickly averting his eyes, Harry focused on the letter before him and prayed that she would not stop to talk to him. As usual, however, the great cosmic forces of the universe did not see fit to take what he wanted into account, and Ginny came over, falling into the seat across from him and plunking down a plate of chicken and potatoes. "Hey. What're you working on?" she asked him amiably.

"Letter," Harry grunted, still staring at the parchment.

"To whom?"

"Lupin."

"Oh, I miss him," Ginny said fondly, and Harry could hear the small smile in her voice. "I wish he could have stayed on as Defence teacher, he was a right sight better than Snape." She said Snape's name like a curse word, and Harry suffered a twinge of endearment. "Anyway, I brought you some dinner – roast chicken. Your fa-a-avourite!" She said in a sing-song voice, nudging the plate a bit closer to him.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," he said quietly, his eyes flickering up ever-so-briefly to meet hers before looking back down quickly as though he'd been burned.

"You're not, huh?" Her tone was neutral enough, but there was the faintest undercurrent of a challenge.

"I already ate my dinner."

"You didn't have dinner, Harry. Or lunch." She crossed her arms over her chest, and Harry knew that if he were to look up he would see that hard, blazing look in her eye again.

"Just because I wasn't in the Hall doesn't mean I didn't eat anything," Harry said coolly, brushing the feathered tip of his quill across his fingers. "I went down to the kitchens." He turned his head to watch the third years with the Butterbeer again to avoid the temptation to look at Ginny. He could feel her eyes boring into the side of his head.

They sat there together in silence for a moment.

"Damn it, Harry…." said Ginny, so quietly it was almost a whisper, and it sounded so unguarded that his heart twisted with guilt.

Just then Dean came down the boys' stairs and spotted Ginny. "Ready to go?" he asked her when he had crossed over to them, and Harry had never thought he'd be so glad to have Dean interrupt them.

"Yeah, let's go for a walk, we can go by the greenhouses. I've been dying to see Professor Sprout's new Flame Flowers – Neville told me about them," Ginny said, giving Harry one last glance. She stood and heaved her bag over her shoulder.

"Flame Flowers?" Dean asked curiously. "What do they do?"

"They don't do anything," Ginny explained. "They're non-magical, they're just nice to look at."

"Well that's a bit boring," Dean complained, and Harry felt a stab of annoyance, his eyes trained on his paper again. Was it so difficult to just go see some stupid flowers with her?

The two of them turned to go, and Ginny added loudly, "Maybe we can stop by the kitchens on the way. I'm quite sure the poor house-elves haven't had much company lately…." And she disappeared through the portrait hole hand-in-hand with Dean.

Harry tried to focus on the letter before him but had to give it up as a bad job. He twirled his quill in his hands and looked sideways at the plate of chicken. He supposed, really, that it wouldn't be so bad to have some – in spite of what he'd told Ginny, he hadn't had anything since his grapefruit that morning, which meant he had some calories to spare. He was a bit hungry…and Ginny had taken the trouble to bring it up for him….

So? said a nasty little voice in the back of his head. She left you to go off with Dean….

Besides, what was it to him if he didn't get lunch or dinner – he had gone far longer with less at the Dursleys', and he didn't really like to eat meat anymore anyway. Rolling up the nearly-blank parchment with a few sharp movements, Harry snatched up his quill and headed for the staircase, but his foot had hardly touched the first step when someone called his name. He turned to see Ron and Hermione coming in through the portrait hole.

"How was the meeting?" Harry asked them after they'd fought their way through the sea of people returning from dinner.

"It was great – "

"Yeah, a great big load of sh – "

Hermione cut him off with a sound like an angry cat, nodding pointedly at the first years sitting within hearing distance, and Harry smirked.

Ron shook his head bitterly. "Why have we got to sit there for half an hour and talk about the Hallowe'en decorations the school's going to put up? I mean, call me in two weeks' time when they actually need putting up and until then…." He snapped his fingers as though a brilliant idea had just occurred to him. "You know, I bet they're concerned we wouldn't be able to take all the suspense," he nodded sagely.

Hermione mouth twitched in a smile, and she turned back to Harry. "Listen, Ron and I were talking, let's go down to Hagrid's, we haven't been in ages…."

"Tonight?" Harry blinked.

"Yes, why not, we have some time before curfew – I saw him at lunch and he threated to sic Fang on us if we didn't come down to see him soon," she said, clucking her tongue. This was, after all, not much of a threat as Fang was about as harmless as a newborn bunny.

"It's only just over an hour till I've got to be at Dumbledore's office," Harry reminded her with a stab of regret. As eager and anxious as he was to begin his second lesson with Dumbledore, the thought of seeing Hagrid loosened the ever-present knot in his chest ever so slightly.

Ron shrugged. "We don't have to stay for long. C'mon, it'll do us all some good…."

"Yeah, alright," Harry conceded, and Ron and Hermione beamed.

They dashed upstairs to get their cloaks and ten minutes later they were striding down the sloping lawn in the crisp autumn air towards Hagrid's hut, where they could already see lights in the windows as dusk faded to darkness around them. A gentle breeze blew up from across the lake, carrying the faint sound of crickets and the hoot of an owl. For a second, Harry felt almost completely at peace with the world, and some of the worries that had been wrapped around his heart like a straitjacket fell away.

Fang's booming barks sounded from within Hagrid's hut as they approached, and they heard Hagrid's voice attempting to quiet him. Hermione made a nervous little noise behind Harry, and he looked round to see her staring warily at Buckbeak, who was secured to a post just outside the front door. Ron caught Harry's eye and rolled his own, and Harry patted Hermione's arm lightly, fighting back a grin as they climbed Hagrid's front stairs. Harry raised his fist to knock, but before he could, the door swung open and Hagrid's massive frame filled the threshold, Fang jumping at his back.

"Who's tha' – ? Oh, it's you three," he boomed cheerfully, smiling down at them, and he stood back to let them past. "Come in, come in – no, down, Fang – finally remembered me, have yeh?" He chuckled, but Harry glanced up at him, frowning, as they all removed their cloaks and sat down at the scrubbed wooden table, Fang bounding over at once to lay his head upon Harry's knee – he thought he had seen Hagrid's face fall for a split second after he'd opened the door.

"What have yeh lot bin up to, then?" Hagrid asked them, his back turned towards them as he rummaged about in the cupboards and started hot water going for tea.

"We've been terribly busy," Hermione told him, looking slightly harassed. "There's so much to learn this year, I don't know how we'll ever get through it all…."

"Agh, yeh'll get through it jus' fine, always do, don' yeh? Brains like yers?" he said, bringing over a tray laden with three enormous mugs, a cup the size of a small bucket, a teapot, and plate of rock cakes. "All three o' yeh," he added gruffly, winking at Harry and Ron. Hagrid poured out the tea and passed a steaming mug to each of them. Harry wrapped his hands around his gratefully, soaking up the warmth.

"I'm sorry we didn't carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid," Harry blurted out, and he meant it. None of the other sixth years had signed up, either, and Harry couldn't help but feel guilty. "We wanted to. We really did, it's just – " He glanced at Ron and Hermione for help, but they merely grimaced. Hagrid, however, waved him off.

"Never mind, knew yeh probably wouldn't be able ter, in the end," Hagrid smiled, though a bit sadly. "'Sides now I can spend a bit more time with Grawpy, he's learnt nine more words – nine! An' Dumbledore's got 'im all set up with a nice big cave in the mountains, now – good thing, too, he was always scarin' the unicorns an' the Thestrals right outta their wits on account of rippin' up all those trees when he was livin' in the Forest, poor things…."

"Well, that's – er – good," Hermione offered. "And you are being careful, Hagrid, aren't you, I mean, you are being safe…."

"O' course I'm safe, Grawpy wouldn' hurt a fly, least not on purpose anyways, he's too sweet," said Hagrid, taking several big gulps from his massive cup.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione glanced at each other and looked away very quickly; 'sweet' was the very last thing any of them would have chosen to call Hagrid's little brother, who had, on the last occasion Harry and Hermione had met him, terrorised an entire group of angry centaurs into fleeing for their very lives. Hermione coughed and changed the subject to the decorations going up for Hallowe'en ("I thought we'd decided it was too early to be talking about this," Ron muttered to Harry out of the corner of his mouth) and Hagrid spent the next fifteen minutes proudly informing them on the status of the giant pumpkins he was growing for the Great Hall in the vegetable patch behind his house.

There was a blazing fire going in the hearth, and the heavy weight of Fang's head on Harry's knee was a soothing comfort – he sipped at his tea, the mug still warm under his fingers, and listened to Hagrid talk as he sank into a comfortable drowsiness.

"So, how's yer Quidditch practice comin'?" asked Hagrid, and Harry sat up a bit straighter, blinking.

"Great," said Ron, attempting to take a bite of rock cake then setting it gingerly back down on the table as he massaged his jaw. "The Cup's got Gryffindor's name on for sure, really good team this year, and Harry's a brilliant captain – "

"Of course he is," Hermione said staunchly, and Harry could not help grinning at both of them.

"When's yer first match?"

"Six weeks," Harry told him. "Slytherin."

"And yer up for it, are yeh?" Hagrid asked, eyeing Harry with the same troubled look in his eyes he'd had when he had first opened the door and clapped eyes on the three of them.

"Yeah," said Harry, taken aback. "Why?"

"Dunno," Hagrid said, turning his cup in hands, still surveying Harry's face with a deep frown. "Yer lookin' a bit pale, is all. Thinner, too, I reckon. Have yeh been ill or summat?"

"No," said Harry, a bit defiantly, and he looked to Ron and Hermione to confirm this, but they were both staring back at him steadily with expressions that said quite plainly that they agreed with Hagrid. Hermione's jaw wiggled slightly, as though debating whether or not to say what she was thinking, and a spill of hot anger tinged with betrayal seemed to fill him up all the way to his throat: Was this why they'd asked him to come? So they could recruit Hagrid to their campaign to make Harry do what they wanted?

Harry opened his mouth, but as soon as he did, Hermione seemed to come to a decision and she said, very quickly but deliberately:

"It's because he won't eat."

Hagrid's cup stilled in his hands. There was a heavy silence for a second, in which Harry fixed Hermione with his fiercest glare. Her lip trembled slightly, but she crossed her arms and did not look away. Fang whined at Harry's knee.

"Whadda yeh mean he's not eatin'?" Hagrid said in a low voice, narrowing his eyes at Ron and Hermione as though wondering if had understood correctly. But before either of them could answer, he rounded immediately on Harry, his expression ominous. "What do they mean yer not eatin'!"

Fang scuttled off to hide under Hagrid's bed, and Harry couldn't help but wince under the force of Hagrid's indignation. He sat there with the three of them watching him, feeling mutinous, and stared at a barrel of giant grubs in the corner, grinding his teeth together. He wrenched his jaw open and said shortly, "I eat."

Ron snorted forcefully. "Barely."

"I do – "

"You were. Well, sort of," Hermione said, and though Harry was not looking at her, he could hear the threat of tears in her voice. "And I thought…but now it's, it's practically nothing, Harry – "

"I don't want to talk about this," Harry ground out, his temper rising, and he tightened his hands around his mug in an effort to contain himself.

"Well, that's too bad," Hagrid growled. The cup in his hands groaned as he squeezed it, threatening to shatter, and he let go of it quickly. Hagrid sighed heavily, getting control of himself, and brushed one of his dustbin-lid-sized hands through his wild hair in agitation. "I know that yeh – yeh've had a hard time of it lately, but yeh can't just - just give up, Harry…yeh gotta take care o' yerself – "

Harry stared so hard at the barrel of grubs that everything began to blur together. He felt like screaming at them all, he could feel himself shaking with suppressed anger. They were not being fair, they didn't get it. He wasn't giving up. He was trying. He was trying so hard…they could not know, any of them, how much it was costing him to keep himself together….

"I've got to go meet Dumbledore," Harry said, fighting to keep his voice even, and stood automatically, refusing to look at Hagrid's face – he did not want to see the worry there, or acknowledge that the guilt of disappointing Hagrid might even be enough to make him stay.

"That's not for half an hour," Ron insisted. "Mate, c'mon – "

Harry grabbed his cloak and threw it around his shoulders. "Gives you lot more time to talk about me then, doesn't it?" he snapped, though his voice caught on the last word, rather ruining the effect. He turned around and strode towards the door.

"I'm tryin' ter talk to yeh, if yeh'd just sit down fer a minute! Harry, come here – " Hagrid called after him, his voice cutting off abruptly as Harry slammed the door behind him, breathing heavily. He took off towards the castle, shoving down a mixture of relief and hurt when Ron and Hermione did not follow him. Good, he thought viciously, stay there and fill him in, leave me alone….He could not believe the two of them, using Hagrid against him like that…and now Hagrid knew, and Harry had to avoid him, too, and he didn't want to do that.

Harry fumed all the way back to the castle and up to the seventh floor, coming to a halt in front of the gargoyle that stood sentry outside Dumbledore's study.

Ron had been right, of course; it was a while yet before he was supposed to present himself for his lesson, and he stood staring at the gargoyle, doing his best to master his temper and rubbing irritatedly at his wrists over his robes, trying not to scratch. After a few minutes, feeling jumpy and restless and desperately wanting something else to think about, Harry gave the gargoyle the password and stepped onto the spiral staircase that carried him up like an escalator to stand in front of the gleaming oak door of the headmaster's office, hoping that Dumbledore would not object to him showing up a little early.

Harry knocked a bit harder than he meant to, and he heard Dumbledore's voice from within call "Enter."

Dumbledore was standing in front of one of his office's many shelves, a very large book open in his hands, and he looked up, his silver eyebrows rising in faint surprise as Harry entered. "Harry! Gracious me, is it eight o' clock already?"

"Er – no, I'm sorry, sir, I know I'm early. I – I can come back…." said Harry, unsure, his hand still on the doorknob.

"It is no matter, Harry, indeed a pleasant surprise, come in," Dumbledore smiled kindly, and Harry stepped away from the door. As he moved further into the room, Dumbledore lowered his book, peering more closely at him. Harry supposed something of his anger and resentment must still be showing on his face, for a crease appeared between Dumbledore's eyebrows, and he closed the book entirely and set it down on an empty corner of his desk.

"What has happened to you?"

"Nothing," Harry said at once. His heart seemed to be beating somewhere in the region of his throat. He realised abruptly that he was trembling, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

"What has upset you?"

"I'm not upset."

"Harry…." Dumbledore chided gently, his expression stern.

Harry shook his head, averting his gaze from the headmaster's penetrating scrutiny. "It's…I had a row with Ron and Hermione, it was nothing…."

Dumbledore paused. Harry knew he was still watching him. "That is understandable," he said softly. "I would imagine that their perception of things differs a great deal from yours, at the moment."

Harry frowned. He looked back to Dumbledore in confusion, but before Harry could ask what he had meant by this, a voice issued from one of the portraits above their heads.

"I have just spoken with Lourdes," said the painting of Sirius's great-great-grandfather, Phineas Nigellus, as he sidled back into his frame. "Hanson would like you to know that he's available on the – "

"Yes, thank you, Phineas," Dumbledore said repressively, cutting him off, and Phineas looked round in surprise.

"Ah," he said, spotting Harry. "Yes, of course. We shall discuss the matter later, Headmaster…." And he settled into his painted armchair without another word, staring down his nose at Harry with unusual interest as though he were examining a strange new specimen.

Dumbledore circled his desk, sitting down, and gestured for Harry to do the same. "I am truly sorry to hear you have been arguing with your friends. It happens even in the closest of relationships, I'm afraid – I find it usually works best, under such circumstances, to sincerely listen to each other's concerns." His chin lowered a fraction of an inch, and he studied Harry over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. "Have you been confiding in them?"

Harry fidgeted in his seat. "Sir?"

"You asked me, I believe, after our first lesson together if you would be allowed to tell Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger everything I had told you – have you discussed it with them?"

"I…." Harry recalled, dimly, the conversation in which Ron and Hermione had interrogated him about his time spent in Dumbledore's study, and how he had balked at the thought of discussing Merope and Tom Riddle and the circumstances surrounding their union and the subsequent birth of their child…. "Not really," he said finally.

The Pensieve sat on the desk between them, throwing little specks of silvery light onto the surrounding portraits and ceiling. Harry stared at it, wishing that the headmaster would just get down to business and start their lesson so he could focus on something besides the uncomfortable buzz pricking under his skin. Dumbledore lowered his head another inch, trying to catch Harry's eye, and Harry unwillingly met his gaze.

"As I said before, you need your friends, Harry. Keeping secrets from them will only make things more difficult for you, and for them," said Dumbledore shrewdly, and Harry got the distinct impression that he was not only talking of passing on the matters of these lessons. He wondered, again, what Dumbledore had meant by Ron and Hermione's perceptions differing from his own, but Dumbledore was already standing, indicating the Pensieve on the desk, and after a brief review of what they had covered previously and an introduction to where they were headed next, Harry was plunging face first into the cool surface of the contents of the Pensieve and falling down through darkness into Dumbledore's memory of a boy Voldemort.

Quite a while later, after Harry and Dumbledore had emerged from their viewing of a shabby little London orphanage run by a Mrs. Cole and the calculating, disquieting version of a young Tom Riddle who had spent his childhood there tormenting the other children, they sat with the desk between them again and discussed the boy-Riddle's tendency towards secrecy and domination, and his odd, magpie-like habit of trophy-collecting.

The sky outside the window had now grown dark and starless, and Fawkes was dozing softly behind the door with his head under his wing.

"And now, Harry," said Dumbledore, "I think it is time for bed. But firstly, I would like to ask you something."

Harry, who had made to stand up, sank back into his chair and waited, apprehensive.

Dumbledore considered him for a moment, and Harry rather thought that the usual twinkle in the piercing blue eyes looked just a bit dimmer. Dumbledore pressed the tips of his long fingers together. "I want to know," he said gravely, "if there is anything you would like to tell me."

Harry remembered Dumbledore asking him much the same thing in second year, when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, and people had been getting Petrified left, right, and centre, and Harry had been so worried that he might actually somehow be the heir of Slytherin...

Harry thought, now, about his growing dread about Malfoy and what he was doing following Hermione around. He thought about the broken skin on his wrists. About the empty ache in his belly, and the sleeping tablets in his bedside table. He thought about how he was just the tiniest bit nervous to leave Dumbledore's office when they were done here, because last time there had been someone waiting for him…he thought about the extra layer of Mrs. Weasley's jumpers he was wearing at that very moment, to protect himself from the cold, and from suspicion. He thought about how very, very tired he was.

"No, sir," Harry said in a flat voice, looking into Dumbledore's bright blue eyes. "I can't think of anything."

In the corner, Fawkes let out a low, soft, musical cry.

A/N: Why yes I did use the "What has happened to you?" exchange between Harry and Dumbledore from HBP, because I've always loved that moment, and it is so fitting and perfect for the point they are at here.