Thanks for my reviews, author alerts and the like :D It really brightened my day to see those in my inbox. And I know these are short chapters, but at least they'll be frequent :P
Harry woke up in the morning feeling rubbish. He could vaguely taste last night's dinner in the back of his throat, and he was still tired, despite knowing that he'd been asleep a good while. He groaned, and attempted to bury his way further under the covers, ignoring the cockerel he could hear outside. Bloody Weasleys – why'd they have to keep chickens of all animals? Just when he thought that he was safe, and that he'd be allowed a lie-in for once, the duvet was ripped off him by his so-called best friend. Harry glared blearily at Ron, fumbling around on the bedside table for his glasses. After putting them on, he stared at on, practically daring him to speak.
Ron dared.
"Morning chum! Mum wants us to go out and get rid of the gnomes today – they've been giving her some problems with the carrots." Harry moaned. But that was so much effort, and he was all hurty. When Ron blinked at him, Harry realised that he may have said the latter part out loud, and he blushed furiously.
"Sorry that you're… 'hurty', mate, but you've got half an hour to get up, or I'll get Fred and George to do it." Harry groaned and dragged himself out of his bed, moaning miserably when he hit the floor with a thump. The floors of The Burrow were so unforgiving, he thought with a scowl.
He'd somehow managed to manoeuvre his way into the bathroom and was brushing his teeth when he saw an odd sight in the mirror. Was it just him, or was his stomach… sticking out? Just the tiniest bit, but it definitely was. And he felt full, as if last night's dinner was still lodged in his stomach. Harry stared for a while longer, simply too shocked to turn away, the toothbrush hanging oddly out of the corner of his mouth.
Eventually he tore his eyes away from the mirror. Okay, so he was a little bloated. Well, they had had quite a big meal, and it was possible that it was just taking a while. He poked at his stomach experimentally, noting with distaste that it was squidgy. Another possible reason: he was getting fat. Obviously stopping Quidditch at the end of term had brought this on. For the holidays, he'd have to cut down on junk, and eat properly. Plus, he'd have to try and not give in to Molly's demands that he not only have seconds, he have thirds. And when he got back to school, he'd have to put a lot more effort into his sport.
By the end of the day, his stomach had gone down, and he didn't feel so heavy. He smiled triumphantly. So he wasn't fat, it was just temporary bloating. That was a relief. Harry didn't really want to have to double his Quidditch time. They were already on the pitch three days a week (which the Slytherins always complained about) – he didn't exactly need to up the time, did he?
That night, Harry went to sleep with thoughts of all the roast beef sandwiches with gravy that he wouldn't now have to miss out on. Yum.
Before Harry knew it, it was his birthday. However, he felt absolutely awful. For the past week, he'd not been able to keep a thing down, and the birthday party that the Weasleys had planned had had to be cancelled, which Harry had protested against (but been overruled, of course). In addition, every time Molly decided to cook something with gravy in the kitchen, his stomach would give a violent roll, and he'd be forced to race to the bathroom. Many times, he'd not quite made it, and he was embarrassed to have to ask Molly to clear up his messes.
Sometimes, he'd need the toilet really badly, and feel sick at the same time. Those moments were absolute torture, being sick into the toilet bowl, and at the same time, trying not to wet himself. He'd been unable to go to the Ministry with the Weasleys to see how Percy did on his Apparating test, and when everyone had come home gushing at the former Head Boy, Harry had retreated to Ron and his room and sulked. Everyone had just assumed he felt sick again.
It was at the point where Molly had called a Healer from St. Mungo's to take a look at him. Great, Harry thought sarcastically, my birthday gets to be spent being poked and prodded by a doctor. So much better than the Dursleys… Even as he thought the words, Harry felt guilty. Of course the Weasleys were better than the Dursleys. Harry had rejoiced the day Arthur asked him to move in with them, and he'd never regretted it before. And, he reminded himself, he still didn't.
Harry felt his stomach rumbling, and he looked down at it with a frown. He was getting podgy again, like he'd noticed a month ago when first coming home. Except now, it was… hard. Or firm, like muscle. And he'd barely been eating for the past month and a half, feeling too nauseous half of the time. In fact, he probably had a tumour, and was going to die slowly and painfully, Harry thought flippantly. As soon as he thought this, however, his eyebrows rose in shock, as he seriously considered the notion. But… he'd never get to be an Auror!
Harry shook his head, not allowing himself to entertain the thought that the Healer might come in and tell him that he was going to die. His stomach rumbled again, and Harry decided to make his way down to the kitchen. Maybe he could find something that wasn't completely repulsive to eat, and that he could keep down. Maybe an apple would go down well. At the very least, he had to try, before the sound of his stomach drowned out any other noise.
Wrapped in his blanket, Harry made his way to the kitchen, where he could head his surrogate family laughing away. Scowling at the thought of not being included in the joke (it was probably a family thing, he thought snidely), Harry stalked into the kitchen, and the laughing stopped. In only a second, the room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Feeling uncomfortable, Harry let out a surly "what?" noting that Bill and Charlie were at home, completing the Weasley clan. Ron was pale, and his freckles stood out in stark relief against his face as he pointed to the space above Harry's head in the doorway.
"Fred and George… they uh, perfected one of… their 'embarrassment' pranks. You… you put it above a door, and it tells you… if, uh, someone has done… you-know-what with… someone…" The silence somehow grew as Harry walked a little into the room and turned around slowly. There, just above where he had been standing was a hovering blue date: June 10th, 1995. Harry flushed, slowly and deliberately. They knew now. Knew that he was a slut who slept around with people before he was supposed to. Like they'd want him to stay in the house now, when Ginny and Ron had blatantly not turned up a date like he had… Like they'd want him corrupting their real children. Harry ran up to his room, shutting the door deliberately and slumping down in a heap on his bed, wrapping the blanket more firmly around himself. He wasn't surprised when no one came up to talk to him.