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The summons to Dumbledore's office came the next morning, delivered by Professor McGonagall over breakfast. She didn't say much, only that the Headmaster wished to see him after his first lesson.

Harry expected some kind of reprimand — maybe for missing the feast, maybe for something else entirely. But when he stepped into the familiar, round office, the atmosphere was calm. Warm. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, hands steepled, eyes bright behind his half-moon glasses.

"Harry, my boy," he greeted with a smile. "Please, sit."

Harry did.

For a moment, there was silence. Then: "How was your summer?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry blinked. "Er… it was okay. I mean, it was nice seeing everyone. 'Specially Sirius."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Good. I'm glad to hear it." He paused, cleared his throat. "I received a letter from Sirius, a few days prior to the start of term."

Harry felt his stomach tighten. "Oh?"

"He's noticed that you've been… struggling, lately. Which is, in all honesty, to be expected, after everything you've been through. He has requested that we keep an eye on you, these first few weeks." Dumbledore said gently. Harry looked down at his hands, fingers twisting in his lap. "Harry," Dumbledore continued. "I hope you know, my door is always open, should you ever need to talk."

Harry nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

"Professor McGonagall feels the same," Dumbledore added. "You may find it easier to speak with her. Or perhaps one of your friends. Whoever you choose — just remember, you do not have to carry everything by yourself."

Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Thanks, Professor."

Dumbledore gave a soft smile. "You are very welcome."

And with that, Harry was quietly dismissed, stepping back out into the corridor with a strange mixture of guilt and relief simmering in his chest.

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No matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn't focus. He spent most of his lessons staring blankly out the window, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Words blurred on the page. Instructions passed him by without sinking in. When professors asked him questions, he blinked at them like they were speaking Mermish. Hermione had taken to giving him small nudges under the desk to pull him back to earth. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone — not entirely. But as long as they left him alone, he didn't mind the pretence. He smiled when he was supposed to. Laughed, sometimes. Just enough to make it look like he was okay.

Okay. Harry liked the sound of the word. Harsh. Jagged. Round but sharp, curved but linear. It sounded broken but glued back together. Exactly how he wanted to be.

Glamours helped. For a while, at least. He cast them every morning in front of the mirror, watching as colour returned to his face, dark circles faded, hollow cheeks filled out. He adjusted them carefully — not too perfect. Too healthy would raise suspicion. Just enough to be left alone, without any enquiries.

But even those were starting to slip.

Some days the spell stuttered, flickering at the edges like an old film reel. Other days it failed completely. He told himself it was just a fluke. A lapse in concentration. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. He was getting weaker. And weaker magic meant less control — over everything.

Letters from Grimmauld Place came regularly, as promised. Neatly written notes from Remus, longer ones from Sirius, always ending with "Write back, okay?"

Harry did.

But his replies were short. Mechanical.

Lessons are fine. Ron and Hermione are fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine.

He never mentioned the skipping meals. Or the razors. Or the black, dragging weight that settled in his chest like lead. He wanted to convince them everything was fine — so he kept saying it. As though them believing it might eventually make it true.

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