Harry did not go to breakfast the next morning. He couldn't bear the thought of Snape's dark eyes judging him. He felt tired and scared and humiliated anyway; and even the idea of eating made him feel nauseous.
He could feel his cheeks heat up as he remembered the previous night. He couldn't believe he'd passed out in front of Snape. He couldn't believe he'd passed out at all, for that matter. After all, he'd had breakfast that morning. He'd gone far longer on a lot less. Just that past summer he'd had to last a whole week without food after the Aunt Marge debacle, and he'd been fine then. Weak, tired and a bit dizzy. But fine.
He ran his fingers through his untidy hair. The common room seemed too small, and for the first time he felt claustrophobic inside the stone walls of Hogwarts. Suddenly desperate to be away from everything, he stood up abruptly mid-conversation, muttered a hasty goodbye to a bewildered Ron and Hermione, and hurried down onto the Quidditch pitch.
He still had half an hour till practice started but his mind was racing and right now he needed the freedom flying offered him.
Launching himself into the air on his Nimbus 2000, Harry soared through open sky, looping and spinning upside-down in exaltation. Yet he couldn't seem to clear his mind the way he normally did, instead reliving the events of the previous evening.
Harry didn't know what to do. Snape had seen his bruises. Snape was going to take him to the Hospital Wing and with a wave of her wand Madam Pomfrey would know everything and Snape would tell the Slytherins and everyone would know what a freak he was. His mind filled with images of Malfoy cackling about how even his own family couldn't stand him.
Harry pushed his broom down sharply, the sudden drop as he raced towards the ground blocking out the mocking laughter which echoed round his head.
He could feel tears in his eyes, but he pretended it was just the wind. He forced himself to calm down, breathing deeply. There was no use in being sad, he reminded himself harshly – Uncle Vernon always said crying was for babies, or for people who someone gave a damn about, and Harry didn't agree with him on much, but he did think his uncle was right on that one.
He turned sharply, his elbows inches away from grazing the goal post. He needed to come up with a plausible explanation for everything, preferably before he was dragged to the Hospital Wing.
He could do it. He'd done it before.
The first step was to make sure you knew exactly what information the other person held. And, more importantly, what they did not. So what did Snape know? He had no idea about the Dursleys. Harry was certain of that given all the times Snape had blamed his 'doting relatives' for Harry's 'spoilt' temperament. All Snape knew was that Harry wasn't eating much, and had a couple of bruises on his arms. He couldn't know about Harry's broken leg, or the faded lines across his back from Aunt Marge's cane. If he had, surely it would've come up in his lecture the previous evening.
Harry felt a sense of hope for the first time that morning as he clung to the rationale. Snape didn't know about the Dursleys. So Harry just had to convince him that there was nothing sinister at play; that he was just a scared little boy, too proud to admit he'd been having nightmares about Black that had made him lose his appetite. He was arrogant too, and embarrassed to admit that the bruises on his arms came from falling off a bike while trying to impress the neighbourhood kids. He was so proud, he'd even made up that lie about his cousin so he wouldn't have to reveal his humiliation. Snape would buy that, hook, line and sinker. Harry was sure of it. He could do it.
The tightness in his chest eased just a little, and Harry relaxed his speed a fraction, so that the wind was no longer whipping against his face. He caught sight of Oliver and the twins walking onto the pitch and hastily forced his mouth into a smile as he landed on the ground beside Katie Bell.
"Right," Wood began, "Now that everyone's here, I want to talk through some new strategies before we start."
George groaned audibly, while Fred muttered about Wood having no respect for the sanctity of the weekend. Harry grinned at their antics, his mood picking up as he settled in to Wood's lecture on formation and tactics.
"Cracking catch," George congratulated Harry as they landed on the ground three hours later. "I thought you were going to fall off your broom for sure."
"Or get smashed in the face by a skilfully aimed bludger," Fred chimed in.
Harry laughed. "Like the one that knocked Oliver through the goal-post?"
The twins chortled. "I reckon that would've been worth at least 200 points in a real match," George said proudly. "He deserved it too. We spent forty minutes looking at those bloody diagrams."
"I swear they get worse every year," Fred complained, "I couldn't even follow what was happening in that last one."
"Maybe you'd find it easier if your eyes weren't closed," Harry said, exchanging a grin with George.
Fred never got the chance to respond, for their conversation was interrupted by Snape stalking over, a thunderous glare on his face.
"Potter. My office. Now," he snarled. He turned away sharply, storming off towards the castle without waiting for Harry to follow.
"Blimey, Harry," Fred said as he watched the Potion Master's retreating figure, "It's not even midday and you've already driven Snape to contemplate murder."
"And on a Saturday as well!" George said admiringly.
"Almost beats our record. Little Harrykins is growing up so fast," Fred cackled, his eyes alight with mischievous glee.
"I'd better go see what I've done to upset him this time," said Harry, frowning slightly. The last thing he needed was more detentions for some slight offence.
"You probably smiled somewhere in his vicinity. He hates it when you do that." George's expression was entirely serious, and Harry snorted despite his anxiety.
"If you're not back in an hour, we'll be sure to give Ron our most heartfelt condolences." The twins sniggered, loudly discussing how they'd break the news to Oliver that he needed to look for a new Seeker, as they parted from Harry in the entrance hall – taking the stairs up towards the safety of Gryffindor Tower while he turned forlornly to follow the nearly out-of-sight Potions Master to the dungeons.
Harry felt his heart sink as he made his way down the familiar passageway that led to Snape's office. His body suddenly seemed too heavy to move, and he struggled to force himself to put one foot in front of the other. His could feel his heart racing in his chest. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe, until he finally had to stop entirely and lean against the wall.
He concentrated on his breathing, slowly inhaling and exhaling as he tried to calm his racing heart. In … out … in …
"Potter," Snape growled in a low, menacing voice, much closer than Harry expected, "Why, pray tell, are you loitering in the corridor? Was the meaning of the word 'now' somehow unclear to you?"
Harry flinched, the furious tone snapping him back to reality and upright once more. He stumbled, and had to fling his hands out against the wall again to stop himself from falling.
Looking up, he found Snape's dark eyes boring into him with such an intensity that he was forced to drop his gaze, staring at the rough grey stone beneath his feet.
Snape clamped his hand onto Harry's shoulder, and steered him into his office without another word.
Harry stared down at his feet as he sat on the familiar stool in front of Snape's desk. The professor had been eerily silent since they'd entered the room, but his obsidian eyes were burning a hole into Harry's head.
Finally, when it became clear that Harry wasn't going to say a word, Snape opened his mouth speak. "You skipped breakfast," he accused.
Harry blinked at him in bewilderment. He'd been expecting the man to ridicule him for what happened last night, or again chastise his dithering in the corridor. "Sir?"
His confusion seemed to anger the professor further. "You skipped breakfast, despite fainting from low blood sugar induced by malnutrition a mere twelve hours prior. And then you went and played Quidditch for three hours. Fifty feet off the ground, at risk of a repeat incident at any moment. Do you have no common sense whatsoever?"
Harry gaped at him. He opened his mouth to defend himself and then closed it again.
"What. Were. You. Thinking?" Snape thundered. "You could've collapsed fifty feet in the air. You could've died, Potter. Does that mean nothing to you? Everyone, from the Minister for Magic downward, has been trying to keep you safe, but your reckless, fool-hardy stunts make their efforts utterly worthless." Snape paused for breath, glaring menacingly.
"Sorry," Harry said, surprised by how small his voice sounded even to his own ears. He kept his eyes fixed on his hands.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," Snape demanded. "Tell me Potter, are you incapable of looking after yourself?"
"I look after myself fine!"
"You don't eat. You hardly sleep if the rings under your eyes and incessant yawning are anything to go by. You risk your life for pointless stunts. So forgive me, Mr Potter, if I disagree with your opinion on the matter."
Harry was breathing heavily again now, glaring at Snape. He had a furious retort on the tip of his tongue, but Snape continued before he could interject.
"Until you've had a full check-up with Madam Pomfrey, you are-,"
Someone banged suddenly on the door, distracting Snape from whatever new horror he'd been about to hand down. With a look of grim fury, Snape opened it with a flick of his wand, revealing Miles Bletchley, soaking wet and gasping for breath. He paused in mild confusion as he took in the tension in the room. Then, in-between gulps of air, he blurted out, "Sir. The common room's been completely flooded. Filch sent me to find you – says you've got to come."
Professor Snape stood quickly, sending one last poisonous glare at Harry. "You are dismissed Potter. For now. But rest assured we will continue this conversation later."
He strode out of the room after his panicked student.
Harry raced back to Gryffindor Tower as quickly as his injured leg would allow, desperate to get as far away from Snape's domain as possible. He couldn't believe his luck at Snape being called away. The timing was perfect. Too perfect…
A suspicion formed in Harry's mind, and sure enough when he entered the common room, he found Fred and George dripping wet and too animated to be anything but guilty.
"What on earth did you two do?" Harry asked in amusement, taking in their innocent expressions.
"Nothing much," George said carelessly.
"A tiny bit of mischief," Fred added.
"Minuscule, really. Although a few Slytherins might be left with hard feelings against us."
"Though how they could possibly accuse us of being the ones to jinx the Slytherin common room with a never-stop rainstorm charm when there's absolutely no evidence of us ever having been anywhere close, I don't know," Fred shook his head as he spoke, droplets of water flying off his red hair and onto the scarlet rug.
"We couldn't let you get any more detentions with Snape. Ollie's heart wouldn't be able to take it." George nodded towards Wood, who was hunched over sheets of parchments covered in scribbled Quidditch strategies, with a look of feigned concern.
Harry grinned at the two boys, grateful they'd gotten him out of Snape's office before he'd had a chance to ask Harry any more difficult questions. Or give him yet another detention.
Harry thanked the twins again, before wandering over to the other side of the common room, where Hermione and Ron were immersed in conversation, their faces grim. They fell silent as Harry approached, and he knew they'd been talking about him.
Harry didn't call them out on it, too tired from his narrow escape from Snape to care. Instead, he collapsed into the chair next to them, allowing the fire to warm his freezing hands. "Snape is such a git," he said in answer to Hermione's unasked question. He proceeded to tell them the tale of how he'd been dragged to Snape's office, though he neglected to mention quite why that had been.
Severus stalked into the staffroom, casting a drying charm over himself with a silent flick of his wand. He dropped into a chair beside Minerva, lacking his usual elegance, and let out an irritated sigh.
"The Weasley menaces flooded the Slytherin common room," he growled without preamble.
Minerva's lips thinned, and she put her cup of tea back onto the table with a sigh. "I suppose you have proof?"
Severus scoffed at her. The idea that anyone but the Weasley twins would be involved was ludicrous. They were the only ones with the motive or – as much as Severus hated to admit it – the talent. The jinx they'd used was a complex one, modified from its original version so that that every time the counter charm was cast, it promptly began to rain somewhere else in room. Roger Davies or Otto Cresswell might have risked his ire for a similar prank… but neither had the aptitude to modify charms to such a degree. He scowled. This was precisely why the twins always managed the most chaos of all the miscreants about.
"I had Potter in my office," Severus said, as though that explained everything, "The twins were with him when I confronted him coming off the pitch."
"You had Potter in your office?" She repeated, as though the mayhem the twins had caused was inconsequential compared to this fact.
"The imbecile skipped breakfast to partake in a three-hour long Quidditch session, despite collapsing yesterday evening." Minerva's eyes narrowed in irritation as he spoke, but he pressed on before she could interrupt, "He simply cannot be allowed to play Quidditch, at least until Poppy's given him a full examination and determined he will not do himself injury. It just isn't safe for him to be fifty feet up in the air."
The irritation in Minerva's expression had faded into weariness as he finished, and it took her a long moment to reply.
"Only until his health improves," she finally consented. She reached for her cup of tea again. "Poor lad. He hasn't been himself this term. I suppose he's worrying himself to death about Black."
Though Severus nodded along, he found himself unable to agree with her assessment. He remembered the previous term, when Granger had been petrified. Potter had been terrified then, but he hadn't shut down the way he had this autumn. The brat had eaten and slept and remained as arrogant and defiant as he always had been.
No, Severus decided, there was something else at play.
As he mulled over the issue, he wondered why Poppy hadn't picked up on any of this when Potter had gotten his nose fixed. He knew she must've been hurried, for she'd left shortly after, but he'd never known her not to notify a student's Head of House if she had even the slightest inkling something might be wrong.
But Minerva had been quite clear that Poppy had said nothing to her when they discussed Potter the previous night. Although she had received a letter from Molly Weasley concerning the boy. Severus, remembering that Potter had spent the previous summer with the family (and the infuriating debacle with the flying car that had ensued), was struck with sudden suspicion.
"Minerva, might I see a copy of that letter from Weasley's mother you mentioned last night?"
If Minerva was surprised by his sudden question, she didn't show it. She merely agreed, and they walked together to her office in silence, both consumed by their own thoughts.
Harry made his way to the owlery, his leg aching fiercely by the time he reached the top of the West Tower.
He had had a particularly pleasant afternoon that day. It had poured down with rain, forcing everyone into the common room, and Harry and Ron had spent their time procrastinating – forgoing their work on Snape's latest essay in favour of chatting and flicking chocolate frog cards at one another. Hermione had gone to the library, and it was only an off-hand comment about not knowing whether to buy a new quill or wait and see if her parents sent her one next week that jogged the boys' memories.
Hermione's birthday was only three days away.
Frantically, Harry and Ron had filled out an order form for a luxury eagle-feather quill, a bar of Honeydukes' Finest Chocolate and, as a joke, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints. However, Ron had become engrossed in a chess-match against Evie Proudfoot (a highly competitive second year) and so Harry had offered to send the order on his own.
Harry shivered as he reached the owlery. A September chill had solidified in the air over the past week, and the tower was cold and draughty as the evening light faded with the sunset.
"'Lo, Hedwig," Harry murmured, as his snowy owl flew down from the rafters and landed on his shoulder. He stroked her feathers gently, relishing the silence of the owlery. He loved the Gryffindor common room for its noise and life and chaos; it was so different from Privet Drive. And yet, sometimes, Harry craved the peace and solitude which his cupboard used to provide.
Harry stared out of the tower windows as the sun sank from sight and the grounds began a slow descent into darkness. He was just about to turn away, when he saw a shadow running across the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Harry squinted hard, trying to make out its shape. Then it raced into a beam of light from one of Hagrid's windows, and Harry recoiled in horror as he recognised the jet-black, mattered fur and skeletal frame. In his panic, he could have sworn he even saw the gleam of its yellow eyes in the light of the moon.
It was the Grim. The omen of misfortune Trelawney had warned him about. The one he'd seen the night he'd left Privet Drive… the night he had thought Vernon might actually kill him…
Before he could even blink, the spectre disappeared again into the black of the trees.
He clenched his hands into fists to quell their shaking. Even so, his fingers trembled as he fought to attach the order form to Hedwig's leg. At last, he managed it. She gave his ear a sympathetic nibble before winging away into the night.
He watched her out of sight, then turned, shrugged off his unease, and made his way as quickly down the stone stairs as his leg would allow, anxious to get back to the common room. He rounded the corner at full speed –
And slammed into something hard, completely losing his balance and tumbling to the ground.
"Mr Potter, is there any reason you're running round the corridors like a lunatic?" McGonagall said sternly.
"Sorry, Professor," Harry mumbled, pushing himself off the floor with a barely-stifled gasp of pain.
She paused, staring at him. Her normally severe expression softened a bit, into what Harry suspected, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, mightbe concern. "Are you quite alright? You're very pale."
"I'm fine, Professor," Harry said, trying his best to keep his tone normal, "Just late for dinner."
She frowned at him, and the knot in his stomach grew. She knew. Snape must've mentioned what had happened the previous night. That was just brilliant, he thought bitterly.
The professor looked for a moment as though she was about to say something, but then shook her head slightly.
"I won't keep you, then. Off you go, Mr Potter, and do walk this time."
Harry nodded contritely, relief flooding through him. He gave her a half smile as he continued on his way, working hard to keep the limp out of his walk.
He did not turn back. If he had, Harry may have realised McGonagall had remained as she stood, watching him out of sight with abject concern on her face.
Severus sat back against his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. In front of him lay Molly Weasley's letter, which Minerva had delivered to his office shortly before dinner. After a long day of dealing with miscreants, he craved the undisturbed peace of his chambers, and had order a plate of food there rather than braving the chaos of the Great Hall
The plate sat untouched at the edge of his desk.
Mrs. Weasley had made several complaints, all of which Severus had seen for himself in the boy. He was half starved. He was sleep deprived. He was favouring his left leg. But after that, the letter got more intriguing, for she wrote that Potter had arrived at her home the previous summer in a similar state.
The visit that had led to that damnable flying car, he remembered with another scowl.
But he banished the memory from his mind. He needed to focus on the problem at hand.
He scanned the next few lines again, his frown deepening with every word. 'Bars on his windows' … 'a can of soup a day' … 'suspicious bruises'…
The memory of Potter flinching, hands outstretched to protect his face, rushed unbidden to the front of Severus' mind. Followed by an image of the spark of fear in the boy's eyes when he had insisted that he visit the Hospital Wing… when he realised that someone would be performing a more thorough examination.
There was a pattern emerging. A pattern Severus knew all too well.