I heard the hiss again before I saw him.
Same time. Same sound. Same silence before it.
Like clockwork.
I didn't move.
Still curled on the bed, blanket haphazardly thrown to my waist, arm draped over the spot where the IV had been.
I'd pulled it out minutes before he arrived. Slowly, methodically, without flinching. The sting pulsed quietly beneath my skin, but I didn't show it. Pain was expected. It was everything else I didn't know how to handle.
I met his eyes as he stepped in.
No knock. No hesitation. Just him.
Tall. Composed. The usual black clothing like a second skin. Platinum hair a little tousled today, like he'd run a hand through it too many times or hadn't slept. But maybe that was wishful thinking.
"You're back," I said, voice flat and stripped of warmth.
He scanned the room with that unnerving precision, one sweeping glance that took in everything and gave nothing away. The untouched plate sat on the counter, dull and forgotten. His gaze lingered on it longer than usual. I wondered if he was disappointed.
"You need to eat," he said.
I shifted, leaning back on my elbows, lips twisting into a tight smirk. "Why? So I don't faint again and you get to play nurse?"
He didn't blink. Not even a twitch.
"You fainted because you refused sustenance," he said, calm as ever.
"I didn't trust the source."
"And yet..." He looked at me now, really looked. There was something simmering beneath the surface, something that almost felt like... awareness. "You slept in the bed. Let the IV run its course. You're picking your battles poorly."
That jab hit deeper than I expected. I pushed myself up, ignoring the sharp ache in my limbs. My body felt used, borrowed. Like it had moved on without me.
"You're very sure of yourself," I said.
He took a step toward the counter, pausing beside the tray like he might say something about it. He didn't.
Instead, "I saw him."
The words landed like a blow to the chest. It was like my lungs forgot how to work. My pulse stuttered, then surged.
"What?" My voice cracked.
He said nothing. The silence stretched.
I shot to my feet, the blanket falling, muscles seizing in protest. I didn't care. "What did you say? Where is he?"
Still nothing.
"What do you know?" I demanded, taking two steps closer. "You said you'd help me find him. So help me. Say something real for once. Not another cryptic threat or vague order. Not this... fake safety. Not just food on a tray and walls I can't get past. Tell me the truth."
He stared, unflinching. Then he said, evenly.
"If you let yourself die here, you'll never get back to Ron."
A hot wave of frustration and nausea rolled through me. My nails dug into my palms.
"You don't get to say his name like that," I whispered.
He took a step toward the door.
"You want to help him? Escape? Then stop starving yourself like a child trying to win a battle no one's watching. Stay alive. That's the only leverage you have left."
I hated that he was right. Hated how he always said exactly what I didn't want to hear because it cut straight to the truth.
I clenched my fists tighter, the sting grounding me.
"You still haven't told me why you're helping me," I said, voice quieter now, but still shaking. "What do you want from me?"
He didn't turn back. Just paused at the doorway, framed by the light like a half-shadow.
"Eat," he said.
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
That same dull, final sound.
I stood there, frozen. Jaw clenched. Blood roaring in my ears. My entire body taut with something I couldn't name.
Rage?
Confusion?
Fear?
Desperation?
I wanted to scream. To tear something apart. To make him feel as powerless as I did. I looked at the tray, then the window, then the door.
I did nothing.
Just sank slowly to the floor, like a marionette with its strings cut. Back against the cold wall beneath the tiny kitchenette window. The silence in the room thickened like fog.
The tray sat where he left it. Perfect. Untouched. Waiting. Mocking.
The food had gone lukewarm. Maybe cold. But still, it smelled like something familiar. Curry. Rice. Something soft and spiced that curled into my gut like memory. My stomach twisted, then growled, betraying me.
I buried my face in my arms.
He knew about Ron.
Or he said he did. It could be a lie. Another manipulation in a long, slow game I didn't understand. But if there was even a chance…
He was right. If I collapsed again, I wouldn't get far. If I died here, there'd be no Ron. No Harry. No answers.
I dragged myself upright. My legs trembled, and the room tilted slightly, but I reached the counter on sheer will alone. Picked up the fork. My hand shook.
I hovered.
Then, as if calling a truce with my body, I took one small bite.
Chewed slowly.
Waited for bitterness, for sleep to pull me under again. But there was nothing. Just warm spice and soft rice and...
God.
Something that tasted heartbreakingly close to home.
Tuesday dinners with Ron.
We always had curry on Tuesdays. Because we had enormous supplies of curry.
I didn't even like it that much back then.
But now, I hated how good it tasted.
Another bite.
Then another.
Until half the plate was gone, and I finally pushed it away.
This didn't mean I trusted him.
This didn't mean I forgave him.
It meant I needed strength. It meant I had to be clever. If he really knew something about Ron... if this wasn't just another trap, I had to survive long enough to find out.
I climbed back into bed that night. The sheets were cold again.
Same silence now.
But something in it had shifted.
Not trust. Not hope.
Just the will to keep going.