Breathe Into Me, Red
And this is how it looks when
I am standing on the edge
And this is how I break apart
When I finally hit the ground
And this is how it hurts when I
Pretend I don't feel any pain
And this is how I disappear
When I throw myself away
When Harry returned to Hogwarts, gnawing on the most recent memory of the Dark Lord, he felt as though he'd been pushed to his limit. The ever-present ache had reached a pitch he could only describe as starvation. He unpacked his belongings with gritted teeth, his fellow dorm mates unpacking alongside him.
He was called to the headmaster's office early in the day and dragged his feet as though they were made of lead.
"Hello, Harry," Dumbledore said, tone quiet as the Chosen One sat down. "I'm afraid I have no news of Sybil."
The Boy Who Lived gave a sharp nod, bitter. He kept his eyes on the floor as the man explained that they would view another memory. Harry paled at the thought but came to stand beside the Headmaster at the Pensieve.
Once again, it dawned on him that he recognised this recollection. He had seen it just nights prior through the young Dark Lord's eyes.
It was the same, but from Slughorn's perspective, right up until Riddle began questioning. The memory grew strange, as though viewed through a fog. The Potions Master immediately bristled at the barest mention of a book, verbally lashing the Slytherin from his office and instructing him never to go looking for such magic again. There was no mention of Horcruxes, as Harry remembered it.
"This is all purely theoretical, right, Tom?" Slughorn's words in his version of the memory came to him as he watched the carpet where the desk met the floor after they'd returned to the office.
"What do you make of that, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.
"Do you think that happened, Professor?" He questioned in return.
"As it appeared? No."
"Do you think someone altered the memory, Sir?" Harry asked, glancing at the headmaster and feeling unwell.
"I believe Horace himself tampered with it," Dumbledore said, watching the Boy Who Lived over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
"Why?" Harry pressed.
"I suspect he is ashamed. Forgive me, my boy, but I'm afraid once again I must ask too much of you."
Harry's head swam as the old man requested that he allow the Potions Professor to 'collect' him to gain a shot at finding the real, unedited memory. The Boy Who Lived had agreed. He had seen Voldemort's version of events. Through some accident of the magic that bound them, or a deception, he didn't know. He wanted it from Slughorn. The real memory.
He had dragged himself back to his Common Room some hours later, feeling drained and frightened.
He'd thought long and hard about everything he'd seen in his dreams as he lay in bed that night, between the periods of raging hunger that rendered him thoughtless, hidden with the curtains drawn. Silencing charm in place.
Why would the Dark Lord want him to know about this? About Horcruxes and Slughorn? Something that Dumbledore seemed very interested in seeing? For this reason, Harry doubted its authenticity. He felt sure that it was meant to be divulged to the headmaster, walking them towards an ambush. That was what Harry would have done before. And so, the Boy Who Lived had held his tongue. A silent refusal to participate was his only solace as the need rocked him to sleep.
Harry found Hermione in the Common Room that morning as he attempted to sneak out before the others rose for the first day of classes.
"You didn't write," she told him, her lips pursed. Harry noted that her eyes were red, as though she'd been crying.
"I'm sorry," A pang of guilt hit him. "I thought you were mad at me. About Malfoy."
"I was." She jutted her chin, "I am."
Harry glanced at the portrait hole, then back to his friend.
"That's no excuse not to write. Ron and Ginny… didn't either." She had snapped this, but her voice broke. Harry stepped towards her, putting his hand on her shoulder.
"I didn't know. I am sorry, Hermione." He'd almost said he'd been too distracted, but she would ask why. Undoubtedly, take offence.
He had noticed that his hands shook minutely, not particularly noticeable but enough to worry him. His spellwork had grown sloppy, his aim and mind less focused, as though he were wading through neck-deep mud.
Hermione's eyes had narrowed, taking Harry's tired demeanour as an indication that she was boring him. The way his eyes kept trailing to the portrait hole didn't help. She shrugged out from under his hand and out of the Common Room.
"It's fine," she hissed as she went.
He sighed as he watched her go and waited at least ten minutes before he ducked out after her.
Over the days that followed, Harry had begun brewing calming draughts in the Potions classroom after hours, under the supervision of Slughorn. He figured it was a good way to get closer to the man and take the edge off the monumental hunger that hadn't let him rest for weeks. He used the Half-Blood Prince's book to ease the brewing, though he distrusted it. He had thought that he should get rid of it multiple times after his run-in with Malfoy, but he hadn't.
The draughts helped, but only slightly so. He got the feeling he was on borrowed time. He didn't know if he was a danger to himself. A danger to the ones he loved. He bit the thought down as he stirred his cauldron three times clockwise.
"How goes the craft, Harry?" The Potions Master asked, looking up from the paperwork at his desk.
"Oh, very well, Professor. I've got a great teacher." He felt the compliment had come out wooden, but Slughorn chuffed in response.
"Quite easy with the right student." He'd winked at Harry and returned to his work.
The Boy Who Lived hadn't found a way to broach the subject of Tom Riddle. It seemed obscene to spring it on him, and he didn't feel it would work. So, he brewed in silence, glancing up at the man now and then, pondering what he could possibly say to get the Professor to divulge what was probably one of his most shameful secrets. This, and trying to ignore the pain he was constantly in. Growing, as it always did, as the night wore on.
He bottled his potions and thanked the Professor. As soon as the door closed behind him, he uncorked a vial, downing it as he walked through the Dungeons. The ache he had grown so familiar with spiked in his gut, and Harry worried he wouldn't make it back to Gryffindor Tower. He willed himself faster while the furious starvation slowed him down. His breath came in tiny, harsh bursts, making his head swim from a lack of oxygen.
He wasn't going to make it. The calming draught had done next to nothing.
He'd nearly slowed to a crawl when he gave up and collapsed into the room closest to him. Storage, he thought dumbly, as he drew his wand and cast Silencio while he fell to his knees, then forward onto his stomach. His hands didn't bother to catch him. His vision swam at the edges as the room tilted, colour slowly draining from the world as he writhed, begging it to stop. He held his wand so tight his whole body shook. He was torn apart inside, his mind screeching under the weight of the agony. He couldn't do this. He couldn't.
"Please, please, please-" He wasn't sure if it was his own voice he could hear, if the sound was inside or outside of his head, as he lost consciousness.
"But, Professor, I don't really have a home to go to. I don't want to go back there. Surely the other teachers won't mind if I just stay in the Slytherin dormitories until the new school year starts?" He felt desperate, pleading with Dumbledore with his eyes and his words. It made him feel weak. But he had begged regardless.
"Forgive me, Tom, but you must return home."
Harry registered that the man didn't seem at all regretful, his eyes glittering with dislike as he sent the Boy Who Lived out of his office.
He leaned heavily against the door and steadied his breath before saying, "You can't fight it forever, Potter."
Harry burst awake, still in the storage cupboard, unable to tell the time just by looking at the room. He fought to his feet and struggled to cast a Tempus charm. One in the morning. Fantastic, past curfew, half out of his mind in the Dungeons without his invisibility cloak.
He wished he'd had the good sense to take the map with him, at least. He didn't want to run into Malfoy, or any Slytherin, in the state he was in.
He opened the door as quietly as possible and peeked at either end of the corridor. Thankfully clear. He used his hands and his muscle memory to guide him through the dark halls, listening carefully as he ignored the discomfort in his middle. He was grateful to reach the lighter parts of the castle, and more blessed still to reach Gryffindor Tower without incident.
He only allowed himself to think about the dream once his curtains were drawn and silenced. The memory Tom Riddle had addressed him directly.
It was dawning on Harry that he was getting closer to useless with each passing second. Struggle as he might, there was no escaping what lurked in his head and turned in his gut. He stumbled mindlessly through his classes, his magic hardly responding to him as he groaned through the hours, excusing himself to scream in locked, silenced, empty rooms three to four times a day.
He had asked Ginny one night if she knew of anything better than a calming draught when it came to soothing panic. She hadn't. In the past, he would have asked Hermione. He didn't.
He had unwillingly pulled away from his friends in his haze, feigning illness. He knew that Malfoy was still creeping around in the Room of Requirement. He could not address these things, locked as he was in his own mind. He could feel their eyes on him, his friends, and his teachers.
With what felt like the last ounce of his strength, he slipped his invisibility cloak over his shoulders in the dead of night and moved, slowly, to the library. Where he'd hoped against hope that he would find anything, a charm or a potion, to ease his suffering. Images of Bellatrix writhing on the floor of the Atrium, then the memory of Richard screaming in the grass in much the same manner, came to him unbidden. He shook his head fiercely, growling at the empty hallway as he steadied himself against the stone wall, digging his knuckles into the bricks.
His arms and legs were unreliable, shaking. Sweat was pooling on his brow, and he wondered if he was going to vomit. A panic had begun to spread. There would be no hiding this. He'd declined rapidly; the hunger had reached a crescendo and had not relented as usual. He had been wracked by it for hours. His breathing sped up as he struggled with the fact that he wouldn't get to the library. That if by some miracle he did, he wouldn't find anything. Someone was going to find him right where he was. And then they would investigate.
His heart was pounding with such ferocity that he almost didn't hear the hushed voices of someone coming down the corridor. He had brought the map but hadn't checked it in what now felt like hours.
Parkinson and Zabini rounded the corner, whispering to each other. Parkinson was a Prefect, so it didn't shock Harry to see the pair this late at night, though he was certainly not pleased. He sucked in a breath as they approached him, and he willed himself into silence, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself not to hear them.
The hunger intensified as if to insult him, spreading through his limbs like heat. He wasn't doing this. He wouldn't do this.
"…It doesn't matter; it looks like all of Potter's friends have abandoned him. That makes things easy for Draco." Pansy muttered, her voice low but close enough to him now that he'd heard her clearly.
"Imperio," Harry whispered, wand already raised.
His head hit the stone with some force as he slid down the wall, gasping. Zabini punched Parkinson three times in the face before she hit the floor, unconscious. The Slytherin looked at his fists and Pansy on the ground like he'd seen a ghost. Harry's hooded eyes followed Zabini under the invisibility cloak as he ran from the corridor as though chased.
Harry was horribly ashamed to feel relief. A tangible, delicious relief.
He had used a second Unforgivable: a double life sentence in Azkaban. The thought sent a revolting shiver through him, and he pushed it away, refocusing on Charms' class. Hermione and Ron sat on either side of him, and chatter had begun to flow between the trio with more energy than it had in over six months. His friends still seemed stiff around each other, but Harry was happy about the progress despite what had inspired it.
As far as he could tell, nothing had happened to either Parkinson or Zabini due to his actions. He'd seen them the very next morning at breakfast, both deep in conversation with Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. Pansy's face was spotless, healed sometime during the night. He guessed it hadn't been Madam Pomfrey. He'd avoided looking at the Slytherin table after that, afraid they would somehow see what he'd done in his eyes.
Harry knew that these golden hours would be short-lived. He would once again fight hunger and face the unfortunate reality that he had broken something. He now held a secret that could destroy everything he'd worked so hard to build. He was a danger to everything he held dear. If he wasn't careful and didn't find a way to end this, it would all unravel in his hands.
Ron showed him a crude drawing of Malfoy and Snape, and Harry laughed, pushing the thoughts back where they had come from.
He had resumed watching Malfoy on the Marauder's map with more focus. He sat in his bed, idly eating liquorice wands that Ron had volunteered to him after dinner as he watched Parkinson, Crabbe, and Malfoy stand outside the Room of Requirement. The Boy Who Lived wished he had a way to see what the blonde was doing inside. He wasn't thinking about the Imperius. The thought made him ill.
His eyes wandered to the Gryffindor Tower, and after a quick inspection, he noticed that Ginny wasn't in her bed. Neither, he realised, was Ron, nor were they in the Common Room. It was close to two in the morning, and while it hadn't surprised him to see the Slytherins gathering for extracurricular activities, he was shocked that the Weasleys were out of bed.
He rapidly scanned the map and saw them walking down a corridor near the Divination Tower. Curiosity got the better of him as he slipped out of his curtains, stuffed the map and his wand into his waistband and threw his cloak over his head.
He followed them on the map and on foot, wondering why they had snuck out without him. Without telling him. The siblings had stopped in a classroom Harry knew to be empty.
When he reached it, he pressed his ear to the door, hoping that he could hear them. Ginny was talking, but he couldn't quite make out the words. He strained and realised that the young Weasley was casting, muttering what sounded like spell-work.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She said, interrupting the rhythmic chanting, her voice shaky. There was a moment of silence, disturbed by a sob and a crunching sound that made Harry's stomach lurch, his hand hesitating above the doorknob. Ginny stopped crying and resumed her soft chanting. It didn't sound like any spell he'd heard before.
The Boy Who Lived stepped back, frowning. He looked down at the map and confirmed that Ron and Ginny were indeed on the other side of that door.
He waited for the pair to come out, and they did after around fifteen minutes. Harry watched, dumbfounded, as Ginny exited, wracked by silent sobs, tears streaming readily down her face as she choked from the force of it, steadying herself against the wall as she dragged herself down the corridor. And Ron, blank-faced, staring straight ahead and ambling beside his distraught sister.
Harry stood in the hallway and stared after them long after they had vanished around the corner.
Harry had been watching the youngest Weasley, but it became a higher priority after that night. He spent as much time with her as he could outside of class. He observed her closely for any sign of, well, anything. He visited the library with far more frequency, searching for anything that could explain what was wrong with him and how to fix it. He brought Ginny with him and sometimes Ron. Hermione would ask too many questions, so they would lie and tell her they were going to the Pitch to run drills, then hide away in a dark corner of the library and talk in hushed whispers.
Neither of them asked why they were pulling the wool over Hermione's eyes or why they had taken up residency in the library. He suspected they would ask, but they gave him as much grace as they could afford. As he was them. He often felt Ginny's stare while he read, flipping through page after page of useless information. He was sure she felt him watching her as well. Since he had found them in that abandoned classroom, acting bizarrely, there had been no further odd behaviour.
He watched her now, two books in her lap, one on top of the other, as though she was trying to hide the title. Harry had been using the same technique. They were alone; Ron had opted to go to dinner early. Ginny looked up and locked eyes with him, each silently questioning the other for a moment before Ginny looked away, shaking her head, and stood.
"I'll see you in the Great Hall, Harry." She smiled and excused herself.