Thanks so much to TheDistantDusk and hp_fangal for looking over this chapter for me!

Enjoy!

Chapter 11: Face of Contusions

Ron turned over, kicking the tangled covers off his legs. He punched his pillow into a ball and tried closing his eyes again, only to open them seconds later with a huff. He couldn't get comfortable. There was no position that could make his mind turn off. Slowly, he pulled back the edge of his bed curtains.

Harry's hangings were shut.

Ron stared at what little he could see of them in the darkness, everything that had happened that night tumbling over and over in his head. His stomach gave a nervous swoop as Harry's quiet, shaky words came back to him.

She made me.

Ron swallowed hard. It still didn't feel real.

He had watched Harry close himself off, and stop wanting to eat. He had known something wasn't right, but he had never expected…this. Odd moments of the night Harry had told them about kept filtering back into his head. He knew now, didn't he, why Harry had come back so late from Dumbledore's office, and why he had acted so strangely the day after. It hadn't been because of anything Dumbledore had told him after all. He and Hermione had sat up in the common room waiting for Harry, until well past one in the morning, before finally admitting defeat and trudging off tiredly to their separate dormitories.

Ron blinked, squeezing a fistful of his pillow. While he had been sleeping comfortably in his own bed, Harry had been attacked and pulled into that closet, with no one around to help him. Raped, his mind supplied against his will. His stomach spasmed again, and he cringed. He did not even want to think that word, but it echoed over and over inside his head, in Hermione's voice, and he couldn't get it out. Nor did he think he would ever forget the look on Harry's face when she had said it.

Harry, his best mate. And…that. He did not know how to connect the two. Ron felt a burning shame that he had found himself imagining what must have happened in that broom cupboard between Harry and Romilda, how it surely must have gone. He didn't want to think about it, and yet the thought kept invading. She's a girl, Harry had said, like it was obvious, and before now, Ron probably would have agreed. But just tonight he had experienced for himself what it was like to be under that love potion…to be so out of control. And still he hadn't thought much of it, until Harry had presented him with what could have happened.

What had happened.

For just a moment, Ron imagined himself in Harry's situation, and what it really, truly must have been like, the fear Harry must have felt, and the thought alone was enough to make him want to vomit.

He had never once questioned before the fact that his own brothers were selling love potions out of their shop…that his mother had mentioned a time or two about the potions she herself had made as a girl at school…that Slughorn was still teaching them how to make them.

Hell, just tonight he had told Harry…oh god, he had told Harry it was just a joke.

He had reacted precisely as Harry had expected him to.

You can laugh, if you want….

Ron shut his eyes. He could see how easy it would be for someone to say it was a bloke's good luck for a girl to get him into her knickers, but he knew it wasn't so simple. Not when he had already seen how much it had messed with Harry's head.

And Harry had kept that secret inside him for two months, starving himself and lying to them and trying to self-medicate through the night, worried that he and Hermione would not understand. That they would think it was funny.

Ron threw his covers off entirely, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed, a need to check on Harry propelling him up. The floor was ice cold under his bare feet, but he paid it no mind as he crept across the space between their beds. Carefully, he pulled back Harry's curtains a few inches. He just needed to make sure.

Ron didn't dare ignite his wand, but the light from the window was just enough to see by. He stared down at Harry's thin face, half-buried in his pillow. Harry had always slept curled up on his side, as long as Ron had known him – the only exceptions being when he had been dosed with Dreamless Sleep, or when he was fully unconscious, like those three god-awful days after the ordeal with the Stone in first year. Ron and Hermione had been terrified out of their minds that he would never wake up again….

He squinted at Harry's shoulder in the darkness, looking for the tell-tale motion of regular breathing and watched for a moment or two, just to be certain.

Satisfied, Ron made his way quietly back to his own bed, leaving Harry's curtains open an inch just in case, hoping Harry wouldn't notice in the morning. He climbed back into his own bed and lay down, staring at the gap through which he could just glimpse the edge of Harry's pillow, until his eyes drifted shut.

Ron woke with a jerk, staring up at the canopy of his bed. He lay still, sure that he had been pulled awake by some sort of sound. After a second, it came again: a quiet groan from his left. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and looked over at Harry's bed. There was movement beyond the gap he'd left in the curtains. Wondering if Harry was perhaps about to be ill, he threw back his blankets for the second time and stumbled across to Harry's bed, moving the curtains aside.

Harry was still lying on his side, a sheen of sweat now dampening his hair, his shirt, a drop sliding down the line of his jaw. The hand that was visible was clenched in his pillow, white-knuckled and trembling. Harry groaned again, his face scrunching, and Ron reached out instinctively to wake him.

Harry's eyes opened the second Ron's hand touched his shoulder. He lurched up onto his elbow, wincing, and his other hand jerked halfway out from under his pillow. Ron saw that it was wrapped tightly around his wand. Harry's breathing hitched and he sat all the way up, relinquishing his grip on his wand as he peered up upwards. Strands of hair stuck to his damp forehead, nearly covering his scar.

"Ron?" he croaked, his voice thick with sleep. "What are you doing?"

Ron swallowed. "You were having a dream."

Harry's brow furrowed. His fingers flexed on the bedspread, and he looked up at the curtains as if examining them for a flaw. "You weren't supposed to hear."

Ron frowned at that, and even without his glasses Harry must have been able to tell. He sighed, rubbing at the side of his sweaty face.

"I usually put up a charm," Harry explained quietly. "Sorry if I woke you."

Ron moved the curtains back farther and sat on the edge of the bed. Harry glanced at him, perhaps a little surprised, but did not object. Ron was tempted to fetch his wand and give them some light, but something told him it would be easier for Harry to answer in the dark.

If he was being honest, it would be easier for him ask.

"It happens a lot?" Ron questioned, shifting his knee up onto the bed.

Harry shrugged. He wiped most of the sweat from his face with his sleeve and looked at the bedspread. "Yeah."

He looked younger, somehow, without his glasses.

"I knew you were getting up loads of times," Ron said, wincing slightly in sympathy, though he didn't think Harry could see. One of the other boys stirred, and he lowered his voice even further. "But I didn't know…." He swallowed again. "That's what you wanted those tablets for, then."

Harry didn't answer, but he didn't have to. He slumped forward and rested his forehead against his hand, the other lying limply in his lap.

Ron didn't think he had ever seen Harry look so defeated.

On impulse he reached out and put a hand on Harry's back. He half-expected Harry to flinch or to move away, but Ron was relieved when the only thing that happened was his back tensing up a little. After a few seconds, Harry's breathing seemed to become slower, deeper, and, gradually, the muscles underneath Ron's hand relaxed. Neither of them moved for a long minute.

Ron's throat constricted painfully. He could feel the knobs of Harry's spine jutting out sharply against his palm. Aside from his glimpse earlier, it was the first in a while Ron had truly seen Harry without his ridiculous layers of clothing, in just a t-shirt so thin and worn it could only have been one of his cousin's hand-me-downs. The difference was startling.

Eventually, Harry shifted slightly and Ron's hand fell back to his side.

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said very quietly, and he sounded more like himself than he had in a long time. "You should get back to bed."

Ron accepted this as the small victory it was and stood up, bumping Harry's shoulder lightly with his knuckles. He heard Harry settling back down under the covers behind him and by the time he had wrapped his own blankets around himself again and looked over, he was surprised and a bit pleased to see that Harry had left his curtains open a few inches.

Scrawny git, he thought with an inward sigh.

Ron shut his eyes, listening to the sound of an owl hooting somewhere outside the window, and tried not to think too hard about what tomorrow was going to bring.

The phantom sensation of Ron's comforting hand eased Harry back to sleep.

He dozed, seamlessly swept along into the feeling of Hermione holding him to her, his body relaxing into the bed as it relived the memory of warmth, and safety…the dream he had woken from receded, leaving room for a different one…and the feeling of another pair of hands holding onto him….

Her hands were gentle in his, their fingers intertwined, and the touch was like bright sunlight, warming him, filling up all the empty spaces….She laughed, and he had never heard anything better, it was his own happiness put to sound.

Her arms went around him, holding him…safe again, and it didn't hurt….

She touched her lips to his, then, and they didn't burn...

He kissed her back, holding onto her as tightly as he could, afraid to let her go, afraid the light would die when she was gone. It poured into him like liquid gold, and he had never felt so content….

Harry slowly opened his eyes, his chest full of the kind of unrestrained joy only found in dreams, the aching happiness so strong it was almost sorrow. The dream began to fade as soon as he realised he was awake, but the feeling lingered. He lay perfectly still, determined to preserve it as long as possible, until it inevitably faded, a faint, mournful longing taking its place.

He blinked, hard, and stared upwards. The feel of Ginny's soft hand in his came to him again and the ache deep in his chest seemed to throb. It was only a dream, he told himself. The tantalising possibility that it could be real, however, of that happiness belonging to him seemed at once both maddeningly close and wholly unattainable.

His life had never been so easy as simply wanting.

Fully awake now, Harry remembered in a stomach-turning flash everything that had happened the night before, and dread came rushing in. He did not know how he was going to do this….Somewhere inside him, he knew he had done the right thing by telling Ron and Hermione all he had, but he could not prevent the massive surge of regret at what he was facing. A week, or they were going to find somebody to make him eat.

Knowing instinctively that the alarm was about to sound, Harry pulled his wand from beneath his pillow and refreshed the spell on his ribs before sitting up to switch it off. Quietly, he stepped out into the room, which had only barely started to lighten, and went about gathering his things. He had just sat back down on his bed, trainers in hand, when Ron stirred in his four-poster and sat up.

"Where you going?" Ron asked groggily, wiping his cheek.

Harry glanced at him, any remaining thoughts of Ginny dispersing, and rested his heel on the bed frame to do up his laces. "Down to the Quidditch pitch."

This was nothing new. But Ron's forehead wrinkled, as though something had just occurred to him. "I'm coming with you," he murmured, and moved to get out of bed.

"You don't have to do that," said Harry with a burst of nerves. He had not expected to meet resistance quite so quickly.

"I don't mind," Ron assured him, already moving around to his trunk to dig out a change of clothes.

"Really, Ron," Harry insisted as he stood. "I'll be back in an hour."

"What, are you afraid I'll run circles around you? Just want to see what all the fuss is about, besides I could do with a bit of exercise…."

Harry watched in dismay as Ron pulled a sweatshirt over his head. Try as he might, he could not think of a reason to refuse to let Ron accompany him. He knew it was no good.

"Suit yourself, then. Try to keep up," Harry challenged with a lot more certainty than he felt, and he pulled the Cloak out of his bag as he headed for the door, Ron hopping one-footed into his own trainers right behind him.

"Since when did they start posting trolls around?" Ron grumbled, swiping the dirt off his clothes as he and Harry emerged from the passageway into the grounds.

It was easy enough for Harry to get around them with the Cloak, but it had been a close thing with both of them under it.

"A few weeks ago," Harry supplied absently. He stuffed the Cloak back into his bag, his stomach tightening. He prayed to make it through the next hour without incident; mornings were rough anymore, and he did not want Ron to see him like that. Not after everything he, Harry, had already admitted to him. His face grew warm at the thought and he increased his step, reflexively putting a slight distance between them. He wished he were alone. For a brief moment he considered abandoning this morning's run and suggesting they go straight back to the castle, but that would have only made him look more of an idiot.

Ron followed Harry into the changing room to drop their bags, and then there was nothing else for it.

The two of them set off at a jog, Harry opting for the first time to skirt the inside border of the pitch in mind of a slightly shorter, less taxing route. He immediately settled into the lead despite his breath already beginning to come up short – Harry had always been fast. Unbidden, one of his many memories of escaping Dudley's gang at school sprang to mind, and he gave his head a small shake, dislodging it.

Ron's footfalls sounded steadily just behind him. "It's cold as bollocks out here," he gasped, and Harry grinned in spite of himself. He wanted to tell Ron it wasn't as bad the more you got going, but he didn't have the air to spare.

They completed one lap, and Harry could already feel a stitch growing in his side. His breathing was coming quicker and quicker, and his head pounded as Ron gradually pulled up beside him, catching up. Ron glanced at him, and Harry straightened his shoulders, his body slipping automatically into better form. He stared at a point on the stadium wall, telling himself he only had to make it to that point, and then the next when he had passed first, and the next…pain was sharpening in every part of his body, his muscles cramping, and it all looked impossibly far away. He could not, however, stop for a break, for he knew he would not be able to start again. His stomach tightened, rolling. Ron kept glancing at him. Harry began to feel a little as though he were drowning, panicked and breathless, and there was no way to possibly hide it….

The last of Harry's energy burned up, and his feet slowed to a near stop.

Ron slowed next to him. "Whoa," he panted, reaching out to grip Harry's arm as the usual blur began to cloud Harry's vision.

Stumbling away from Ron, Harry put a hand to the wall and fell to his knees, hunching over as he retched onto the grass. Ron took a knee next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, supporting him as he vomited up nothing but bile.

As the cramps subsided, Harry closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Ron said nothing, and when Harry finally opened his eyes again they looked at each other. Ron's hand was still on his shoulder; he did not seem surprised, and Harry wondered if Ron had been expecting something like this from the moment he had offered to come with him.

"You're not doing this anymore, Harry," he said, his fingers pressing into Harry's shoulder. "You're not."

Harry wiped his mouth on his sleeve and averted his eyes. A light gust of wind whistled across the pitch, and he shivered. "It helps."

"It's not helping," Ron objected. "You don't have the energy for this. C'mon…."

Still gripping Harry's shoulder, Ron took his elbow and helped him to his feet. Feeling steadier, Harry turned in the direction of the changing rooms, but Ron held onto him for another moment, his grasp beginning to make Harry's wrists itch again.

"No more. Yeah?" Ron's eyebrows raised slightly, as if trying to remind Harry that they had a deal.

Stopping running had never, technically, been part of that deal, however, and Harry could not help his brain slithering off in all directions to attempt to come up with an alternative solution. Feeling too tired and trapped to argue, Harry nodded, still panting, and Ron released him.

He would have to consider it later, Harry thought as they made their way back across the field. He had agreed to try to eat because truthfully he'd had little choice in the matter, but he balked at the notion of doing nothing at all to balance that out.

Gloomily, Harry wished that he had somehow come up with an excuse, that he had not been stupid enough to allow Ron to come with him. He found he could not be wholly ungrateful, however, as they made their way back into the castle, up the steep slope of the secret passageway and what seemed like far too many staircases to Harry, for Ron helped to keep him upright more than once.

By the time they returned to the dormitory, Harry was quite happy to collapse back into his four-poster and sleep, eager to think of nothing until breakfast.

Ron woke him what felt like mere minutes later.

Harry fished around for a fresh change of clothes and waited for Seamus to finish up in the bathroom (he had started to wonder, at this rate, if he would be able to casually strip his clothes off in front of anybody ever again). Ron met him with a bracing sort of smile when he emerged, and Harry followed him down the spiral staircase.

Hermione was seated in a chair by the fire when they came down, petting Crookshanks absent-mindedly in her lap, and when she caught sight of them she seemed to jump a little and gently but hastily moved the cat out of the way, surging to her feet.

"Harry! Ron! Did you sleep alright?" She wrung her hands as she looked from Ron to Harry. Her face was slightly pale as if she herself had not slept, and Harry's heart twisted with guilt.

Harry shrugged a shoulder, and Ron glanced from him to Hermione, making the face he always did when he was trying to wordlessly communicate information to her. Harry's annoyance flared, but then died almost as quickly as it had come; in the last few weeks, they had borne the brunt of his temper more than he wanted to admit even to himself. They had shown him more patience than he had earned, and it was only fair he tried to return it.

"You didn't either," Harry pointed out to Ron. Ron opened his mouth to argue and then snapped it shut, half-shrugging.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Hermione said quietly, and her eyes wandered over Harry's face.

Harry rubbed his wrist against his thigh and would have suggested heading down to the Great Hall if only to get her to stop looking at him like she was, but it was a very close call which scenario he found less appealing.

Perhaps sensing this, Ron cleared his throat. "Breakfast, then library. Wonderful suggestion, Hermione, took the words right out of my mouth," he said airily, nudging her in the back.

Suppressing a smile, Hermione batted his hand away and took hold of Harry's elbow as she turned toward the portrait hole. She let go very suddenly a second later as if she had just realised what she was doing and clasped her hands together again, the remains of her smile falling from her face.

The itch spread up Harry's arms, and doubt about the wisdom of sharing what he had with them resurged. Butterflies were dancing in his gut at the prospect of the meals he would now be spending with them – he did not think he could bear for Ron and Hermione to tread around him so lightly on top of that. To think about Romilda every time they touched him, or looked at him….

They climbed out into the corridor, the portrait of the Fat Lady closing behind them, and before Harry could lose the courage he reached out a hand to stop them both. Ron and Hermione looked at him in slight surprise, and he glanced right and left, checking to make sure they were quite alone.

"Listen, I know what I said last night was –" disgusting "– weird. But you can put it out of your heads, alright? I told you, and it's done. We don't have to – I don't want to talk about it again. You don't have to worry."

Ron shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, wincing slightly, but he nodded.

Hermione's jaw worked back and forth, inspecting his face. Her fingers started twisting together again. She took a deep breath as though making up her mind. "Alright. We won't talk about it if you don't want to."

Harry nodded gratefully, swallowing. Hermione smiled a bit tightly, and the three of them set off again without another word.

The entrance hall buzzed with voices, students flowing in and out of the Great Hall. Harry's nerves redoubled as they descended the stairs, his mind still unable to fully consider the fact that he was about to be bloody supervised at breakfast because of his own big fat mouth. He spotted Ginny as they neared the doors and his heart pounded a little faster in his chest as it remembered the strange, indefinable happiness of the dream he had awoken from that morning. Ginny turned and her eyes fell almost immediately upon him as if his thoughts had been projecting themselves to the entire room.

"I was wondering if you lot were going to sleep all morning," Ginny greeted them, and Harry's gut squirmed with more than just nerves.

"You two go on," he told Ron and Hermione, but they did not move, clearly unimpressed and possibly remembering the previous occasions in which Harry had eluded them at mealtimes. "I'll be there in a minute," he said firmly.

They relented, somewhat reluctantly, and Ron looked between Harry and Ginny curiously as Hermione pulled him away by the hand. Harry nodded Ginny over to a corner out of ear-shot of the students still milling about.

Harry knew she was expecting an explanation from him for the odd turn of events the night before. Her relief at Ron's return to normality upon their arrival back in the common room had been short-lived after she had got a good look at the three of them, sober, silent, and exhausted. Harry in particular had felt none-too-talkative and done little more than assure her that her brother would be perfectly alright before heading straight to bed.

Ginny leaned against the wall now, hands crossed behind her back and simply waited for him to speak.

"Ron's fine, Ginny," Harry told her again. "Back to his usual self."

"Still a git, then," she pronounced sagely.

Harry fought not to smile, and even with her hands hidden it was very difficult not to think of taking one in his to see if it felt as warm as it had done in his dream. Her brown eyes were focused on him and it did nothing to help. "Slughorn brewed up an antidote straight away," he explained.

Ginny nodded slowly, her gaze wandering over a group of students and then back to him. "A love potion, I assume?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Harry admitted unwillingly. "It was just a mix-up, that's all."

"You were pretty upset," Ginny said quietly.

Harry put his hands in his pockets, shrugging. "I don't like her very much. Romilda, I mean." Ron had said her name enough times Harry knew it had been obvious who the chocolates were from.

Ginny's lips pressed together, and she hummed in agreement. "I've heard her and her little friends talking about sneaking you some," she revealed disdainfully, and the bottom fell out of Harry's stomach. "But I didn't think she was bold enough to actually do it."

Harry swallowed, his fingers clenching in his pockets, and hoped his voice wouldn't come out a croak. "You've heard her talking about it?"

Ginny shifted, bringing her hands back around and crossing her arms. Her nose wrinkled like she had smelled something foul. "Doesn't really bother to keep her voice down much, does she?"

"No," said Harry quietly, thinking of Romilda's group giggling all the way off the Quidditch pitch after trials. "She doesn't."

Ginny sighed. "Well, I reckon it could have been worse."

Harry brought his hands out of his pockets and scratched at his wrist, but said nothing.

"C'mon, we'd better get in there before Ron and Hermione think you've been kidnapped," said Ginny, rolling her eyes and pushing away from the wall.

"You haven't eaten yet?" Harry asked with a swell of hope as she turned to walk with him into the Hall.

"I may have," Ginny admitted, "but if I ever say no to another bacon sandwich, please know it's a Death Eater in disguise and you've got my permission to hex the wanker."

Harry laughed, nearly surprising himself with the sound, and grinned at her back as she led the way through the doors.

Ron and Hermione had found seats at the far end of the Hall near the staff table. Trepidation heavy in his veins, Harry sank down onto the bench opposite, and the thread of nervous energy coursing through him turned sharply like a knife in his gut.

The same dishes full of fruit and plain cornflakes that had appeared at his place every day since he had made his request to the elves materialised in front of him, and Harry eyed them in longing disappointment. The knowledge that he would only make things more uncomfortable for himself if he refused to follow through with this new arrangement of Ron and Hermione's was the only thing that kept him in his seat.

That, and the fact that Ginny's elbow brushed his arm as she sat down. True to her word, she grabbed a bacon sandwich and pulled a sleeping Arnold from her pocket, placing him on the table dangerously close to Harry's hand.

He could do this.

Harry knew without having to look that Ron and Hermione were watching him. He took a piece of toast from a half-empty platter and started in on it. The reminder that he had not made it the full distance on his run that morning pressed on him as he chewed, and the dry bread felt like sandpaper going down his throat. When that was gone, he poured himself a glass of water, drawing out the process as long as possible and took a swig while he watched Ginny gently prod Arnold awake to feed him a bit of bacon.

Ron cleared his throat, and Harry glanced up at him. Ron nodded significantly at the plates full of sausages and beans and eggs between them, raising his eyebrows. Nausea dipped low in Harry's stomach at the notion, and he grabbed another piece of toast instead, clenching his jaw.

Hermione, it was clear, was attempting to appear as if she wasn't paying attention to Harry at all and was failing miserably. She brought a cup of coffee to her lips and didn't move it for three whole minutes while she watched him tear his piece of toast in half, and then tear that into even smaller pieces.

With a sigh, Hermione finally set down her cup. She grabbed herself a slice of toast, buttering it generously, and plopped three sausages, half of a tomato, and a fried egg onto her plate before reaching across the table to switch her plate with Harry's. Ginny looked up at this, briefly eyeing Hermione and then Harry and the food in front of him; Harry waited until she had looked away again to catch Hermione's eye and shake his head once.

But Hermione nodded back at him and Ron kicked his foot under the table, and Harry looked down at the plate with chagrin. It was less than he would have eaten even two months ago, but it still seemed like far, far too much to him. Grudgingly, he picked up the toast and took a bite. The butter instantly squeezed out onto his tongue and he dropped the bread back to his plate, swallowing only because he knew he could not spit it out. How long had it been since he'd had butter? He picked up his fork and decided to work on the tomato instead.

Harry let his gaze wander over the other students at the table as he chewed, watching them eat. He wondered privately if any of them would have the self-control it required to do what he, Harry, had done to himself. What he was still burning to do. It took massive willpower, every minute you were awake, and Harry acknowledged with a bitter kind of pride that he was quite good at it. Hell, he'd practically been training for it since he was a kid, he thought.

He could feel that power he had held over his head, over his body, slipping with each bite he took, and the very strong sense came over him that if he finished he would be losing, somehow. Faltering at the idea, Harry set his fork down and nudged his plate away, knowing he was done. He took a deep breath, feeling instantly more at ease.

Ron and Hermione stared at the sausages, egg, and toast left on his plate in open disappointment. Ron tried to nudge Harry under the table a second time, but Harry looked instead at Arnold, the tiny little thing now quivering with delight as Ginny pretended to let him fall in the yoghurt dish before catching him at the last moment.

He had six more days to figure this out, if Ron and Hermione kept to their word – they were not going to report him for skipping one meal.

And he was going to take what he could get.

Unfortunately, as it was Sunday, there were no classes to distract Ron and Hermione's attention away from Harry. Their dissatisfaction with his performance at breakfast was palpable all the way to the library, and he couldn't bring himself to look at either of them until they had all settled together at a table near a large window.

The three of them dug out their books. Instead of laying out all of her own homework, however, Hermione produced a square scrap of parchment and a quill and slid it over to Harry.

"Let's have it, then," she insisted. "What have we got due this week you haven't finished yet? Or started," she added as an afterthought.

Harry stared at her. "Haven't you got Flitwick's essay left to do?" She had been fretting about it for two days.

"Yes, but I think I'll be alright," said Hermione dryly. "I've been averaging one hundred and four percent on most of the assignments – "

Ron snorted. "Is that all?"

" – it's not my marks we've got to focus on right now, it's yours if you're going to pass this year."

"Oi."

Hermione barely spared him a glance, but it spoke volumes, and he conceded, pulling the parchment to him and scratching out a list of all his assignments that had been piling up. Hermione fished around in her bag while Harry wrote and by the time he was done she had pulled out a packet of pumpkin pasties, which she swapped Harry for, plucking the list out of his hands and tossing the small packet on top of Harry's books.

Stiffening, Harry placed the pasties off to the side as he opened his Transfiguration book, but he had barely found the chapter he was looking for before Ron had picked up the pasties and set them firmly back down right on top of Harry's text. Harry looked at the packet for a long moment, resisting the temptation to glare at both of them, but finally he picked it up, very slowly, and peeled back the wrapping. Ron watched him until he started to nibble at one of them, and then went to his own work.

Hermione scanned Harry's list, marking things off and making notes. "Start on these ones, I'll work on the rest," she instructed, handing the paper back to him.

Curiously, Harry gathered up the designated assignments and gave them to her. He observed in disbelief as she began to go down the multiple choice questions Professor Sprout had set them, marking off the correct answers.

"I thought cheating was a cardinal sin."

Hermione sniffed. "You're clever enough to understand all of this, we've just got to get you caught up or you won't regain any ground. We'll go over it later," she explained, her eyes moving rapidly over the page.

It was a sign of how badly Harry had fallen behind that Ron did not point out the gross unfairness of this compared to the myriad occasions Hermione had told them both to stuff it when they had asked for answers to the homework.

"Give a few here," Ron said, holding his hand out for some of Harry's assignments, and then he went to work as well.

Harry sat there looking at the both of them, his throat clogging unexpectedly with emotion. Feeling grateful and incredibly humbled that they were risking their own marks in favour of helping him, he steeled himself and finished off the first pumpkin pasty, returning to his Transfiguration reading with renewed determination. In the space of the next thirty minutes, Harry managed to get the second pasty down, aided both by the fact that Hermione had now moved on to outlining one of the essays he needed to write, and by the thought of a possible solution to Ron's ban on his running he had been subconsciously brainstorming all morning.

The hours ticked by, punctuated only with the scratch of Hermione's quill and Ron's frequent longing looks out of the window onto the sunny grounds where some of the younger students were spending the remainder of their care-free weekend playing and laughing. Harry gradually became more and more uncomfortable, the food sitting uneasily in his stomach and the pain in his ribs returning after too long without attention; he tried to read the words on the page, to organise them into something coherent, but his frustration only grew until he slammed his book shut with a grunt.

"How do they expect us to remember all this? Abernathy's six millionth principle of changing bats to marshmallows, or whatever the hell it is – " Harry burst out, startling Madam Pince at the front of the room, who threatened in a hiss to toss them all out if they did not quiet down. "Be right back," Harry muttered grumpily, rising from the table. "Got to check something." He headed off across the library, aiming for the Transfiguration section to make it look convincing.

Once safely hidden behind a row of shelves, Harry brought out his wand and tapped it against his side. He sighed in instant relief. Pressing a hand against his stomach, he wished he could vanish the contents just as easily as he had his pain. The taste of sugar in his mouth was setting his teeth on edge…he scratched his arm and took a deep breath, composing himself before heading back.

Hermione and Ron looked at him warily when he returned, and he slumped into his seat, his arms still prickly. "Sorry…."

Hermione took pity on him. "Here, I'm nearly done, we can start going over the chapter…."

"I'll finish it," Ron offered quietly, taking Harry's last assignment from her, and Hermione opened her own Transfiguration text and began to explain the concepts they were supposed to be covering in class, showing him her notes and highlighting useful tips.

Harry found it a little easier to concentrate, listening to her voice instead of trying to read, and it made him feel much better that she stumbled over an idea herself once or twice – clearly he was not the only one who did not understand it all.

By lunchtime, the three of them had collectively ploughed through nearly all of Harry's workload, and they abandoned their books more than gratefully as they stood, stretching.

Harry followed Ron and Hermione down to the entrance hall, desperately attempting to turn his mind off, but instead of heading for the doors to the Great Hall, Hermione turned towards the basement stairs. Harry looked curiously at Ron, but Ron merely shrugged, nonplussed. It was obvious where they were headed, however, when Hermione stopped in front of the painting of a bowl of fruit.

Hermione reached out to tickle the pear and explained to Harry, a bit apologetically, "I thought it might be easier for you to – if there weren't so many people around…."

Harry's face heated, but he could not argue with this. Hermione and Ron watching him made it difficult enough; perhaps he would have better luck than he'd had at breakfast if he wasn't surrounded by a dozen of his classmates. Bracing himself, he stepped silently into the kitchens after her, Ron trailing behind.

The cavernous room was as noisy and bustling as every other occasion Harry had visited, and it did not take long for a house-elf to pop into existence right before them, bowing low to the floor.

"What can I be doing for the wizards today?" the little elf squeaked enthusiastically, her wide eyes moving to each one of their faces and back again.

"We were wondering if it might be alright if we took our lunch here?" Hermione asked her kindly. "If it's not a bother, I know you've all got a lot of work to do – "

"Of course it is not being a bother, miss! This way…."

The elf led the way over to the table that would have been belonged to Hufflepuff had they been in the Great Hall, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione took three seats at the far end near the massive fireplace. Harry glanced around, wondering if Dobby was working in the kitchens that day, half-hoping he wasn't, and as if this thought had been his cue to turn up, Dobby appeared suddenly at Hermione's elbow. The other elf scurried away at once, as though afraid Dobby might be carrying a contagious infection.

"Harry Potter!" Dobby exclaimed, beaming. He scrambled up onto the bench next to Hermione so he could see them all properly. "And he has brought his friends!"

"Hullo, Dobby," said Ron, grinning. "How've you been?"

"Wonderful, sir! Harry Potter has been to see Dobby three times this year," he said happily, his eyes looking mysteriously wet. "And Dobby has wondered if he would be seeing Ron Wheezy and Miss Hermione…."

Ron and Hermione both turned to look at Harry at this mention of his previous trips to the kitchens. Harry shifted in his seat. "Dobby, we wanted to get some...some food. Who do we – ?"

"Oh Dobby can take care of that, Harry Potter, sir!"

"Surely we could get it ourselves," Hermione protested, rising out of her seat. "There's no reason you should have to wait on us."

"Dobby can think of no greater honour, miss!" he squeaked, waving her back onto the bench. He scampered away eagerly and returned a minute later, balancing three plates on his spindly arms. He placed two identical ones, full to heaping with ham and chicken sandwiches, mashed potato, and roast beef and vegetables, in front of Ron and Hermione, and placed the third in front of Harry. Hermione took one look at the plate of tomatoes, mushrooms, and an apple and turned to Dobby.

"Harry's going to be having the same as Ron and I today, Dobby, if you wouldn't mind."

The expression on Dobby's shining face might have meant he had seen Christmas come early. "Of course! Dobby has been hoping Harry Potter would change his diet, Dobby does not think that – "

"Thanks, Dobby," said Harry quickly, cutting him off, and Dobby nodded emphatically, snapping his fingers, Vanishing Harry's food, and running off to fetch another plate.

Ron coughed, starting in on a chicken sandwich. Dobby returned with Harry's meal and very reluctantly excused himself to continue his kitchen duties. Harry stared sullenly down at the pile of food.

"Just do what you can," Hermione encouraged, her eyes flicking briefly between him and his plate before turning back to her own.

She and Ron ate and talked, refraining from drawing Harry into the conversation, perhaps to give him the illusion of privacy, but they sat more stiffly than usual and it was several minutes before Harry could even bring himself to pick up his cutlery. The pumpkin pasties he had eaten seemed to have blocked up his throat, and he managed only two bites of vegetables before he made the mistake of trying the mashed potato. He set his fork and knife down again as his stomach rolled.

Harry closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He could feel Ron and Hermione's gaze on him, even as they kept talking.

After several minutes in which Harry did not move, their conversation lulled to a stop, and Hermione said quietly, "Come on, Harry."

No, came the nasty little voice inside Harry's head, but he opened his eyes and retrieved his fork.

He made it precisely two more bites, his heel bouncing against the ground underneath the table, before sliding his plate off to the side. A house-elf came to take it away at once before either Ron or Hermione could say anything, and Hermione sighed as Harry looked away and watched a group of elves heave a giant cauldron onto a flame.

"We'll try again at dinner."

Harry's hackles rose immediately at her tone, like he was a child refusing to eat his Brussels sprouts, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ron's fingers tighten around his knife, and he forcefully reminded himself that they were only worried.

Hermione ordered a glass of pumpkin juice from another passing elf and set it down in front of Harry. Knowing he had little choice, Harry sipped at it while they finished their lunch, and managed to get half of it down by the time they got up to bid Dobby goodbye.

For the rest of the afternoon, Harry laboured over his last three assignments, relieved that Ron and Hermione were able finally to move onto their own work, and the vague guilt he had felt all day on their behalf eased a little. The sun set outside the library window as Harry came to the concluding paragraph of his final essay, the light casting a pleasant orange glow over the table; he breathed in the dusty, leather-bound smell of the room and, for a moment, it was easy for Harry to pretend their lives were simple and unencumbered. It took only minutes for the sun to fall below the edge of the mountains in the distance, and then everything seemed colder again.

Harry put the finishing touches on his essay and rolled it up straight away, stuffing it into this bag, amazed and thankful he was finally done with homework for the first time in a month. His fingers ached and he flexed them gingerly, turning in his seat to lean gratefully against the wall.

Ron was snoring lightly, head resting in his hand, and Hermione nudged him. "Ron, it's time for dinner…."

Ron grunted and didn't open his eyes.

"The Cannons are rubbish and they were fools for not trading Gudgeon last season," said Harry flatly.

Ron's head fell out of his hand as he jerked and sat up. He pointed a finger at Harry sternly, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Gudgeon single-handedly pulled them through that match against Falmouth, and you know it."

Harry smirked. "Every time," he told Hermione.

Shaking her head, Hermione began gathering up her books, Ron following suit. Harry didn't move, still massaging his spent fingers. Anxiety tumbled through his brain again, so familiar it was draining.

"I don't suppose you'd believe it if I said I wasn't hungry," Harry remarked, his tone dry.

"Funnily enough, no," said Ron lightly, standing up and stuffing his parchment away.

Harry dug his thumb even more firmly into his palm. "Didn't think so."

He sat where he was, fixed to the bench, until Ron and Hermione had both finished packing up and stood looking at him expectantly. Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to move.

They went down to the kitchens again.

Harry was tempted to suggest the Great Hall – he had not done any better at lunch than he had at breakfast, after all, and he admitted to himself that he had missed Ginny's presence more than perhaps he should have. But the thought of the packed room was less than pleasing, and he kept his thoughts to himself.

Harry led them all to seats at the opposite end of the long table this time, slightly more out of the way of the buzz of activity. Dobby, of course, found them just as quickly as he had done earlier, his joy at seeing them twice in the same day bordering on catatonia.

"What can Dobby get for Harry Potter and his friends, sir?"

Harry wished he wouldn't put it like that, but he couldn't bring himself to correct the elf, not with so much open sincerity brimming in his eager eyes as he practically danced on the spot.

"Maybe," Ron started, glancing at Harry, "you could pick something you like? Or, did like, anyway. I dunno, something you would have eaten – well, before?"

Ron and Hermione looked at him hopefully. Harry could not think of anything he could stomach that they would approve of, and he gestured for them to make their orders first. He tuned them out, wracking his brains in an odd kind of panic as if he were sitting an exam, and when Dobby's too-big eyes fell on him again he still had come up with nothing.

"Er – shepherd's pie, thanks," Harry mumbled, seizing on the first thing that came to mind. Mashed potato and ground meat was not going to do him any favours, but the memory of Mrs. Weasley making it for their last meal before returning to school sprang up, and he thought, just maybe, that might help get him through. Dobby procured their plates and scurried away again. Harry felt a bit guilty as he watched him go, knowing he was probably itching to stay and talk to them.

As was the case so often now, Harry felt like an invisible hand was restraining his own from lifting the forkfuls of food to his mouth. The potato stuck at the back of his tongue, and though his stomach rumbled demandingly, every swallow was a battle.

One week. Time's up mate….

Harry tried to remember what it had been like, sitting around the table at the Burrow with the Weasleys before the start of term. What it had been like to want to be full.

Harry thought of Ginny sitting next to him at breakfast as he watched her play with Arnold.

He could do this. He could.

He put bite after bite of beef and gravy into his mouth, his empty stomach delighted, his mind screaming at him that this was wrong. Before he knew it, he was halfway through, and he paused, scratching at the itch climbing up his arms.

"Oh, don't scratch, Harry…please don't…." Hermione pleaded anxiously. Her hand jerked on the table, as though she wanted to reach out and stop him.

Harry forced himself to stop with difficulty, clenching his hand into a fist on the tabletop, and picked up his fork again. He strong-armed himself into a few more bites. The slimy thing that felt like a parasite inside him squirmed beneath his skin.

When all was said and done and the elves had whisked his plate away once again, Harry had managed three-quarters of his meal. Though he hadn't finished, Ron seemed to relax as though he had let go of a breath he had been holding, and Hermione gave him a radiant smile as she ordered him another pumpkin juice.

He wanted to refuse it, and after what he had just accomplished he felt he had the right, but the indisputable truth of how much they had both helped him that day compelled him to bring the glass to his lips and drink.

He reckoned he owed them far more than a sodding glass of pumpkin juice.

The following few days played into much the same pattern.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione continued to take their meals in the kitchens, and despite not being too keen on having the elf's shining eyes on him while he was trying to eat, Harry invited Dobby more often than not to sit on the bench beside him, solaced by the fact that at least one of his friends was so very easy to please.

Harry struggled with his meals, but he managed to finish more than half his portion during most of them, and he continued, however reluctantly, to choke down whatever drinks he could stomach that Ron, Hermione, and Ginny handed to him. He was forced to acknowledge that, in some ways, he felt better. He did not become quite so exhausted after climbing a flight of stairs; his mind felt like a room stuffed full of cobwebs that was slowly being cleared; he followed one of McGonagall's lectures without spacing out too terribly often (and perhaps he looked like he had a bit more energy too, for he could have sworn that Professor McGonagall had a slightly pleased look when he walked into her class on Wednesday, though he could not be too sure he hadn't imagined it).

He missed his running. He missed getting out in the mornings, away from the school, away from Ron and Hermione, with a breath of fresh air and a temporary escape from his head. Harry had, however, at least come up with a different way to give himself some physical work to do.

As Ron now seemed to be hyperaware of Harry coming or going from the dormitory in the middle of the night, this left exercise he could do with only his body weight. Sit-ups had seemed the obvious, simplest choice, and he had attempted them in his four-poster the first night. The mattress had been a bit too soft for proper leverage, so Harry had instead sneaked out onto the floor underneath his Invisibility Cloak to a spot out of the way at the end of his bed and got to work. It was extraordinarily difficult, trying to keep quiet in the middle of it, particularly with all the blood rushing in his ears and making it almost impossible to gauge how loud his breathing was. Ron had stirred once or twice, and Harry had to pause each time until he settled.

Guilt rushed up inside Harry every time he thought about what Ron and Hermione would say about it. But they could not know how thoroughly impossible it would be for him to stick to their plan for him to eat without some way to siphon it off. Even with this new routine and his improved energy, the prickle under his skin, the sting and the weight and the cold in his blood, only worsened, paying him back for every single bite he swallowed.

Ginny was the only bright spot in his day.

Harry no longer got to see her at mealtimes, of course. The closest contact they had was during Quidditch practice on Tuesday, and he spent so much time watching her speeding up the field to put the Quaffle through the hoop that he had nearly taken a Bludger to the face and let the Snitch escape more than once. He had sat down beside her in the changing rooms after, while they removed their muddy boots, too tempted to pass up the chance to talk to her, and they had chatted about the Chasers' performances for what had seemed far too short a time.

"Don't forget to drink some water," Ginny had said as she left, and patted him lightly on shoulder.

Harry had not been sure whether he was ashamed or glad to admit that her touch had lasted him the rest of the day, kindling another dream that night of her face, of her hands, displacing any others of dark broom cupboards and long hallways without end.

"Has Ginny seemed a bit down to you?" Harry asked Hermione.

The two of them sat perched on a low stone wall in the courtyard, wrapped in their cloaks. The cool autumn air felt good in Harry's lungs, but he shivered as a chill swept through him. Hermione noticed and cast a warming charm. Grateful, Harry loosened his arms around his chest.

"A little," Hermione mused. "I think she's just concerned." She gave Harry a pointed look.

Harry already knew this, and he was almost certain there was more to it than that. There must have been. Ginny seemed alright, really, for the most part. Stressed, of course, Harry thought, with all the preparation for her O.W.L.s, and she acted herself most days. But he had seen her the day before coming down from the girls' dormitory and her eyes had looked a bit red around the edges. He wondered if she had been crying. His heart twisted at the thought.

Ginny almost never cried. She would not be doing it simply for him.

Perhaps she was not over her split with Dean, Harry thought.

"She's been wondering where we've all got to since we haven't been in the Great Hall," Hermione went on conversationally.

"She hasn't asked me," said Harry.

"Probably scared you'd bite her head off," Hermione countered, eyeing him reproachfully.

"No, she's not," answered Harry absently. Ginny had never been much intimidated by him. Well, his moods, at least. She had long outgrown being intimidated by his fame. It had been years now since she had sent him that awful singing Valentine….

"What?"

"What?" repeated Harry, a little startled. He realised he was grinning and straightened his face at once.

Hermione's brow scrunched as she observed him, mild curiosity turning up the corners of her lips.

Hurriedly, Harry went on as if hadn't just been caught daydreaming about his best friend's sister. "I reckon she knows when not to push people," he said a bit pointedly.

Hurt flashed across Hermione's face, and Harry immediately felt like a prat. He ruffled his hair in agitation.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said in a low voice. "I don't know why I…." He tried to think of word unpleasant enough to describe himself and couldn't. He waved a hand vaguely to encompass his whole being.

"It's alright," Hermione said quietly, glancing down and crossing her legs. She appeared as if she wanted to say something more but bit her lip.

Harry cleared his throat. "What did you, er, end up getting on your Charms essay?" he asked as a peace offering.

Hermione smiled against her will but gave in, as Harry had known she would, and said, "Ninety-nine percent."

Harry winced. "Rotten luck, there."

"Oh hush," she laughed, and Harry knew he was forgiven.

Ron came trudging across the courtyard then, chilled and stone-faced. "Let's get back in the warm," he grunted.

"Alright?" Harry asked, eyeing him as he and Hermione stood.

The three of them had passed Romilda on their way down from the sixth floor and by the time they had made it outside, Ron had marched off by himself, kicking rocks out of his path and muttering something about clearing his head. Hermione had appeared as though she would have liked to stomp off, too, only she hadn't wanted to leave Harry alone. Harry was still slightly taken aback by their reactions.

Ron nodded curtly. The tips of his ears were still red.

Frowning, Harry went to lead the way back into the castle, then paused, turning back. "You get used to it," he told them.

He had meant it to help, but the obvious disquiet in their eyes as they went back inside together told him he had probably only made it worse.

Harry awoke on Hallowe'en, drowsy and yawning. He rolled out of bed and moved quietly to the floor next to his trunk, hiding himself safely underneath his Invisibility Cloak, his body settling automatically into its new pattern. The tender skin of his back shifted uncomfortably against the floor again and again as he dragged his chest up to his knees and back down in a sit-up, over and over as the sun rose slowly outside.

The other boys were sleeping heavily, and he managed to make it the full hour he had set for himself without incident. Breathing as silently as he possibly could, muscles spent and shivering, Harry staggered to his feet and retrieved a fresh change of clothes. He pulled his jeans on, his mind still down on the floor, wondering if he should have tried to manage a few more repetitions. He tugged his belt closed and paused, frowning.

It was tighter than it had been yesterday.

Only by the tiniest fraction, but Harry could easily feel the difference. Panic started to rise, and he immediately found himself wondering how he could possibly get out of breakfast. This collided violently in his head with the keen awareness that it was only three days until the deadline Ron and Hermione had given him, and that if he screwed it up now, he could very well find himself at the mercy of Madam Pomfrey. The thought only made his panic spiral higher, and he cast about the room for a distraction before it could completely overtake him. Remembering the Marauder's Map, he seized it from under his pillow and sat down heavily on his bed scanning the parchment, flicking his eyes from room to room, searching, as always, for Malfoy, and the evidence that would damn him.

They were supposed to eat in the Great Hall.

It had been Harry's idea, to Ron and Hermione's surprise, for he had gone down to Hagrid's after classes the day before to speak to him. Ron's theory that Hagrid might have passed on the information that Ron and Hermione had told him during their last visit had been tugging at his brain for days, stoking an uncomfortable paranoia. There were those odd moments, too, that Harry had rather thought some of the teachers had been watching him at dinner. He knew he had some damage control to perform, and quickly.

Harry was fairly convinced he had managed to ease Hagrid's mind, explaining that he had only been feeling a bit off recently and that he thought it must be passing. He had even got down a whole serving of Hagrid's apple crumble, something he thought he ought to have been congratulated on seeing as such a thing was a feat in and of itself under the best of circumstances.

It had seemed perfectly clear to Harry that the best way to seal the deal was to make sure he was in plain view of the staff table while he was supposed to be eating. The prospect normally would have had him heading for the hills, but after the past few days of relative success with Ron and Hermione, he had thought it was doable enough.

Now, however, descending the stairs with them, Harry was not so certain, and he wished fervently that he had just kept his mouth shut about abandoning their new habit of eating in the kitchens.

There was nothing for it now.

The Great Hall was festooned with the traditional floating candles and live bats that swooped around the enchanted ceiling. Orange streamers were strung from the sconces and the giant pumpkins Hagrid had grown for occasion sat at various places around the room, glowing from the inside.

Harry dropped into his seat across from Ron and Hermione, ducking as several bats swooped over his head. Dean, Parvati, and Lavender looked surprised to see them all there, but Harry ignored them. He glanced around hopefully for Ginny, his spirits punctured slightly when she was nowhere to be found. Sullenly, he scooped some food onto his plate. In spite of himself, he stole a peek at the staff table. Hagrid looked up at the same moment from a conversation with Professor Vector and gave Harry a little wave.

Harry waved back, irresistible guilt burning his insides as he turned to stare down at his plate. He had been managing this for days, there was no point in fumbling the momentum he'd got going. He attempted to shut out the feeling of his belt cinching around his waist, replaying against his skin in a never-ending loop…his knee jiggled up and down as his nerves screamed for an outlet. Parvati, sitting on his right, noticed, and Harry forced his leg to stop.

A great deal depended on him being able to choke down this meal. And the next one, and the next one, his brain supplied unhelpfully. He picked up his fork and speared a hard-boiled egg.

He had already given up so much of his own control to please Ron and Hermione, his brain started in on him….What was the point?...Even if he made it a week without fucking up, then what? He would just have to keep going, and keep eating…he had already gained weight again, even with all the sit-ups, and it had only been four days, and there was no end in sight….

Hopelessness pulled hard at him…there was no winning, was there?

Harry tried to make his hand move, to bring the fork to his mouth. The relentless part of his mind that wanted nothing more than to starve the contamination inside of him raged at the thought, fighting harder than it had in days. He didn't want to do this.

Harry slowly began cutting up his egg. He started Ron going on the finalist prospects for the Quidditch World Cup next summer, bringing his fork up every time he had something to say, as if the only thing preventing him from taking a bite was his pressing need to add to the conversation, hoping the illusion would suffice. He cut his pieces of egg into smaller pieces, and stirred them around his plate with intention.

Harry laughed with Ron and took the tiniest bites he possibly could. See? he thought. Don't mind me.

Hermione eyed his plate as she spread jam on her toast, and when she looked away, Harry scraped everything together so that it took up less space, looked like some of it was gone…he grabbed a couple of scones and plopped them onto his plate, taking one and tearing it into bite-sized sections.

Nothing to see here, Hermione.

Time dragged, and Harry's foot started bouncing again. Parvati shot him another look and slid closer to Lavender, but he paid her no mind.

Finally, the bell rang and Harry stood with relief, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "We'll be late for Defence," he told Ron and Hermione, hoping to hurry them along without question.

As he had feared, however, they both surveyed his plate as they got up and their expressions darkened. Harry made his way along the table as if he hadn't noticed, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ron grab some toast and wrap it in a napkin.

Due to the fact they would have been better off trying to scale Mount Everest stark naked than passing food in Snape's class, Ron kept the toast safely tucked away in his bag all first period, until the bell rang again and half the class trudged off to head down to the greenhouses for Double Herbology.

The moment they were outside, Ron was on the offensive.

"Eat," he growled at Harry, thrusting the parcel of toast at him. Harry did not take it. Huffing in frustration, Ron grabbed his wrist, forcing the bread into his hand, and pushed it back to Harry. "Eat."

Hermione, walking solemnly next to Ron, said nothing.

Equal parts defiant and humiliated, Harry stuffed the bundle into his pocket without a word. He did not look at either of them. He attempted half-heartedly to console himself that he would do better at lunch, but he already knew in his heart that he would not, and the future seemed to close in upon him as if he were racing through a narrow tunnel to meet a brick wall.

Herbology was a tense blur. Professor Sprout set Neville to work with the three of them, and at one point he was forced to intervene when Ron attempted to beat back their Venomous Tentacula with such ferocity he nearly severed one of its spindly, sneaking limbs. Hermione carried on in Ron's place, listening somewhat distractedly as Neville advised her how to properly bind the injured tentacle, Harry and Ron standing silently beside one another, holding back the rest of the belligerent plant with great difficulty.

An hour and a half later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione finally stepped out of the greenhouse, sweaty and irritated, into the mild wind that never seemed to die down now that they were nearly into November.

Harry marched up the sloping lawns beside them, highly, impossibly aware that it was time for lunch, weighing his limited options.

Hermione and Ron turned automatically toward the Great Hall as they entered the castle. The two of them stopped after a few steps and turned back, realising Harry was not with them, and he stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot.

"Come on," said Ron firmly.

Harry did not move; he looked past them, at the groups of students milling about happily around the tables weighed down with jack-o'-lanterns full of sweets and goblets of coloured candies. His eyes found Ron and Hermione's faces again. He shook his head, and started off in the opposite direction.

They followed him, as he knew they would, but Harry faced them again as they reached the first corridor off the stairs.

"I can't," said Harry flatly. "I know what you're thinking. But I can't."

"You can, Harry, you've been making such progress," Hermione begged him. "Please, just come down with us."

Ron crossed his arms, his face set.

Harry knew in his gut that the choice before him, to simply walk downstairs and join them for lunch, was significant somehow, but in the end he did not truly feel as if he had one at all.

"I'm sorry," Harry told them seriously. He really was. "I'll see you in Charms."

He started down the corridor, Hermione's voice ringing out behind him, "Wait!" Without turning back, he pulled his Cloak out of his pocket, throwing it over his head so they could not follow him.

Harry wandered through the halls, sickening worry and self-reproach churning up his insides. He had expected to feel better, if only a little, not having to face another meal, but the pleasure of liberation did not come. They were going to be so disappointed in him.

He was sorely tempted to go back to the dormitory, grab his broom, and spend the afternoon flying. To skip his Charms lesson and all the revising he had to do and feel the wind on his face just for the hell of it. His troubles had always seemed that much less important when he was on a broom.

Harry carefully avoided bumping into the other students on their way to lunch and finally slipped the Cloak off when he was sure no one was looking. Sighing to himself, he acknowledged that skiving off again to go flying would only improve his mood for the moment, and that the better idea was to head to the library. If he was going to piss Ron and Hermione off by not eating, the least he could do was get some of his homework done.

As though his day could not have got any worse, Peeves came zooming out of a classroom just as Harry was stuffing his Cloak back into his pocket.

"There once was a wee little totty,
Who often did things that were naughty,
Is he Chosen or hollow?
Where he goes trouble follows,
Whether love him or hate him he's POTTY!" Peeves chanted in an off-tune wail, and broke off cackling.

"Sod off," Harry told him dully. "Heard the Bloody Baron's been hanging around this part of the castle."

"Nice try, Potty!" Peeves guffawed, turning over in mid-air to drift next to Harry upside down. "The Baron hasn't left the dungeon in days, has he?"

Harry ignored him, but Peeves followed him down the next corridor, blowing raspberries. He seemed to grow bored of this after a few minutes and reached inside his jacket, taking out a small bag, untying the string, and upturning the bag right over Harry's head, sending a cascade of marbles down upon him.

"OUCH!" Harry bellowed, the marbles bouncing painfully off of his skull and rolling away in all directions, the sound echoing off the walls. He whipped out his wand furiously, aimed it Peeves, and said, "Impedimenta!"

Peeves cackled again, barely dodging the spell as he shot up toward the ceiling. "No magic in the corridors, little Potty, you're breaking the ruuuuules!" he said, and he swooped around at top speed, retrieving his marbles and pelting them at Harry one at a time.

To his credit as a Seeker, Harry caught all but two and Vanished them so they were out of Peeves' reach. "Knock it off!"

Peeves stuck out his tongue, scooping up the last two marbles and lobbing them at Harry again half-heartedly, and Harry backed away towards the library doors, keeping a sharp eye on him.

"Oopsie!" cried Peeves, and a second later Harry found out why as he collided hard with someone behind him, a stack of books tumbling to the floor.

Regaining his balance, Harry rubbed his bruised elbow and knelt to help pick up some of the books. "Sorry – " he began as he swiveled around on his heels, but the apology died on his lips as he saw who it was.

Malfoy stood there scowling, a hand pressed to his stomach in pain. Harry straightened up slowly, his anger at Peeves multiplying tenfold in a different direction. "What were you doing in there, Malfoy?"

"The library?" Malfoy scoffed. "I don't know if you've ever heard of them, Potter, but there are these useful things called books – " He took out his wand with a flourish and waved it, sending the books on the floor sailing back into his arms.

Harry glanced quickly down at the one he was holding: Stealth and Subtlety: A Guide to Secrecy Spells. Malfoy snatched it out of his hands and shoved all of the volumes into his bag.

"I wouldn't expect you'd understand, the only books you read have probably got pictures in them," said Malfoy.

Harry barely heard him.

"You're dead," Harry told him, his voice as cold as ice, and Peeves, still bobbing up and down in the hallway, let out an obnoxious 'ooohing' sound behind them. "Daddy's not here for you to go running to anymore, and you're done, Malfoy. I swear, you're done."

Hatred thundered through Harry's body, and in that moment he loathed Malfoy worse than Snape, worse even than Umbridge and Bellatrix, and his ribs throbbed with the memory of the corridor, and of Hermione's mangled leg, and what had nearly happened to her.

What do you think you're doing, are you mad?

And it was Ginny's voice alone that kept him from raising the wand held too tightly in his hand.

Malfoy looked to be resisting the same thing. "Careful, Potter," he uttered, his lip curling. "You had better enjoy being Dumbledore's favourite boy again while you can. Your time will be over soon…then we'll see which of us ends up dead."

"Yeah," said Harry. "We will."

With enormous effort, he tore his gaze from Malfoy's, knowing he had to leave now or risk losing power over himself, and stepped around Malfoy towards the library doors, stowing his wand.

"Surprised the big Chosen One's got time to talk to Slytherins at all," Malfoy called, getting in one last jab, "what with all the doting admirers I'm sure you've got lined up to bed."

Harry froze in his tracks, his heart dropping into his stomach. He turned back around, very slowly. "What did you just say?"

Malfoy snorted, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "What, you expected the precious Boy Who Lived could shag one of his silly little fans and half the school wouldn't hear about it? Not that I'm surprised, probably the only way you could get any – "

Harry's fist sank into Malfoy's stomach, breaking off the words abruptly, the force of it knocking Malfoy to the ground in a crumpling heap. There was nothing but ugly red, and a molten, vicious rage, nothing but a loud rushing in Harry's ears as he found himself next second on top of Malfoy, with no thought in his head but inflicting as much pain as he possibly could, and he punched, and punched, and punched –

"MURDER! MURDER IN THE FIRST-FLOOR CORRIDOR! MURDER!" The scream echoed off the walls as Peeves streaked off through the air down the corridor. Madam Pince came flying out of the library, shrieking at the sight before her.

Harry's knuckles sank into Malfoy's stomach over and over, cracked against Malfoy's jaw, his nose – Harry's fingers were soon slippery, covered in something wet, and still he did not stop – more screams filled the hallway, and Harry realised distantly that they were his own. Malfoy struggled, flailing, and caught Harry hard on the nose, but Harry was hardly aware of the pain, or the wetness on his chin. He pulled his arm back again –

The blast of a spell sent him flying backwards off of Malfoy, skidding across the floor and coming to a stop five feet away. Harry was on his feet again in an instant, his mind still soaked in hot, seething fury, his sights on Malfoy alone. Arms seized him from behind, holding him tightly, pinning his arms to his sides as he struggled for his freedom.

"Potter, you will stop this instant!" yelled a voice in his ear. "I will Stun you if I must!"

It was Snape.

This did nothing to calm Harry, but Snape did not let go, and after several moments Harry's exhausted body had no choice but to give out, and he went slack, taking in great lungfuls of air. Malfoy was moaning on the ground, stirring feebly. Snape released Harry now that he had stopped struggling, shoving him roughly towards the wall as he moved quickly to Malfoy's side and knelt.

"Fetch Pomfrey," Snape commanded the librarian, who still stood clutching her chest in fright, and when she did not move: "Now!"

Madam Pince scurried off the way Peeves had gone. Snape took out his wand, waving it, and out of the tip came a silver blur that streaked down the hallway and out of sight.

Harry leaned against the wall, still panting, and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. His nose ached, but he did not care. He watched Snape's back as he bent over Malfoy, his mind reeling.

Soon enough, Madam Pince came galloping back down the hallway, Madam Pomfrey on her heels, and the nurse gasped as she took in the scene. Her eyes flew from Malfoy on the floor to Harry, sitting silently against the wall, and back, and seemed to decide very quickly that Malfoy's case was the more urgent of the two as she crouched beside Snape. Harry reckoned she was right, judging by the bloody mass that had been Malfoy's face.

Next minute, two more people were striding quickly down the hall, and Snape stood.

Harry rose, too, dragging his body off the floor as Dumbledore and McGonagall reached the scene. Their gazes flicked to Harry where he stood bracing himself against the stone.

"I presumed you would like to witness for yourselves what he has done," Snape seethed, gesturing to Malfoy, who was still moaning as Madam Pomfrey assessed the damage.

Dumbledore gravely took in the sight before, examining, and his blue eyes fell again upon Harry and did not leave. McGonagall's shock was quickly dissolving into barely-controlled ire, and the look on her face made Harry want to sink straight into the wall. He looked away, glued to the spot in mortification.

"Potter was completely out of control, Headmaster!" Snape railed, his sallow face uglier for his anger. "I was forced to remove him from Mr. Malfoy myself, and still he sought to attack! If he were a member of my House he would be expelled on the spot, it is impossible to believe – "

"Thank you, Severus," said Dumbledore, and he remained as composed as ever, but his tone took on a sharp edge. "I think I shall be able to decide for myself what it is possible to believe. Professor McGonagall and I will take care of this matter. Thank you for alerting us. You have a student to look after."

Madam Pomfrey conjured a stretcher and moved Malfoy onto it, enchanting it to float ahead of her towards the hospital wing. "Be sure to send him to me, Dumbledore, if he needs," she instructed as she went, nodding to Harry.

Snape spared Harry one last nasty look and picked up Malfoy's bag, following Pomfrey without another word, his robes fluttering behind him. Madam Pince retreated quickly back into the safety of her library, leaving Harry, Dumbledore, and McGonagall alone in the hall with nothing but blood-stained stone between them.

Harry stood there numbly. McGonagall and Dumbledore approached him, and he straightened fully, his hand dropping from the wall. He tried not to think of what he must look like, nose, chin, and the front of his robes splattered with his own blood, his hand covered in Malfoy's. He looked down at his fingers for the first time and was startled to see how much there was. He felt sick, staring at it, but he couldn't stop.

"Explain yourself," McGonagall said shortly. Her voice strained with closely kept anger.

Harry stared at his hand, horror creeping in.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean – " he croaked.

"Didn't mean to!" McGonagall fumed. "That boy was unrecognisable! I have never seen anything so disgraceful, so heinous – this was not an accident, Potter! Nor is this the first time you have resorted to such violence, if I might remind you of the last time you condescended to a similar appalling display of Muggle dueling against Mr. Malfoy at a Quidditch match! You will explain! Now."

Her every word felt as though it were stabbing him in the chest. Dumbledore said nothing, his eyes still fixed upon Harry.

Harry attempted to unstick his throat with difficulty. "He…said something to me." It sounded lame, overwhelmingly insufficient, even to him, but it was the truth.

"He said something to you," McGonagall repeated in flat disbelief. "And what on earth could he have possibly have said to provoke you into something so – so – brutal?"

Harry did not answer. He could not tell them the truth.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," Professor McGonagall decreed sharply. "Potter, I am waiting."

Harry had nothing to give her.

"Fifty."

Harry stared at the far wall, digging his teeth into his lip, the seventy points he had already lost smarting like a dozen insect stings. The blood on his hand was beginning to dry, and he wanted nothing more than to wash it off. To escape McGonagall and Dumbledore's disappointment and clean himself up.

"One hundred points," snapped McGonagall as her patience failed.

Harry's shoulders jerked involuntarily as though she had slapped him. "Please, Professor," he beseeched her, sick at the thought of everyone finding out he had lost nearly two hundred points for Gryffindor on top of everything else. He finally met her eyes. "I'm sorry. I am. I – " Blacked out. The truth, for the most part, but he knew she would not accept it.

"Minerva," said Dumbledore quietly, and Harry's eyes snapped to him before returning quickly to McGonagall, worried what he would find in the aged face if he looked too long.

Professor McGonagall glanced sharply at Dumbledore, too, her lips pressing together. After a beat she said to Harry, "Very well. If you will not answer, so be it; there is no excuse, in any case, for what you have done. You will serve a detention with me Monday next, and however many more I deem fit. I will leave it for the headmaster to decide whatever else is necessary," she concluded ominously.

"Yes, Professor," Harry muttered, relieved, at least, that she did not seem inclined to dock Gryffindor anymore points.

"I am headed to the hospital wing if you have need of me, Dumbledore. I will supply you an update on Malfoy's condition, provided he is still breathing," added McGonagall, her tone full of reproach, and she left.

Harry felt about a hundred times more dreadful, standing there in the corridor with only Dumbledore. Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes up to the headmaster's face. Another drop of blood escaped his nose, and he wiped it with the edge of his sleeve.

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said, and he was surprised his voice came out at all.

"Come," said Dumbledore solemnly, gesturing to a door down the hall. At Harry's look, he supplied, "You need to sit down. You are trembling."

Harry hadn't realised he was. He glanced down at his shaking hands before following Dumbledore into the empty classroom. Harry collapsed more than sank into the seat at the desk closest to the door as Dumbledore closed it. He felt another trickle at his nose and he pinched the bridge, leaning forward and breathing through his mouth, falling easily into the routine he'd had to perform so often as a kid.

Dumbledore remained standing by the door, and there was a tense stretch of silence as Harry nursed his bloody nose.

"You are quite determined to keep your reasons for these actions to yourself?" Dumbledore asked him gravely.

Harry shrugged a shoulder. "Didn't have a reason," he said thickly around his blocked nose.

Dumbledore paused. "As Professor McGonagall has pointed out to you, you have perhaps made mistakes in the past, like the rest of us, but you are not a violent young man, Harry. I do not believe for a moment you would have done Mr. Malfoy such personal damage if you did not have what you saw as a very good reason for doing so."

Feeling cornered, Harry's anger started to rise again, and without thinking he exploded, "How about the fact that he nearly killed Hermione in that corridor and no one's done a thing about it?" He surged to his feet, pacing towards the opposite wall, away from Dumbledore. His hand fell from his face as his voice rose. "Or the fact that it's been him putting Dark Marks all over the school, or that he's gunning to be Voldemort's new slimiest Death Eater, or that book he had with him just now about sneaking around – "

"Stop," commanded Dumbledore, and Harry broke off, pacing slowly back and forth down the row of desks like a caged animal. "You must stop this, you are losing control of yourself."

"Malfoy – "

"He is not your concern," Dumbledore interrupted him again, and he sounded much sterner than usual. "Surprising as you may find it, I am well aware of a great many things that go on in this school, including the supposed activities of Draco Malfoy. Rest assured that he is being monitored closely. You, Harry, have more than enough else with which to occupy your mind."

Harry stopped pacing, working the inside of his cheek with his teeth, fighting not to argue. He knew nothing he could say would convince Dumbledore. They stared at each other.

"I know this is difficult for you, Harry, but you must trust me."

Swallowing his pride, Harry nodded curtly.

"If I find you have been brawling with him, or any other student, again, I will not be pleased. Do you understand me?"

Wanting to change the subject, Harry nodded again. Doing his best to keep his voice even, he asked, "When will our next lesson be, sir?"

Dumbledore hummed vaguely, surveying Harry. "That depends."

"On what, sir?"

"Oh, on several things, I think."

Harry's dying anger gave a pulse of irritation. Did the man always have to talk in riddles?

Dumbledore must have known what Harry was thinking, for he smiled in understanding, and Harry could not help but feel a little better, despite his best efforts. The rage that had driven him to attack Malfoy had long gone, and Harry, once again, found himself nothing but very, very tired.

"Remus Lupin will be back in the country in a few weeks' time," said Dumbledore conversationally, and a pleasant sort of burst went off in Harry's stomach. "Professor Snape provides him still with the potion for his transformations; ordinarily he collects his supply when the Order meet together, but he has requested to make a visit to the castle when he returns. He would like to see you."

Harry's delight at the prospect dwindled a bit, thinking warily of the way Tonks and Hagrid had looked him over, the way everyone seemed to look him over these days, as if he might shatter if touched too forcefully.

But Dumbledore was not looking at him that way, he realised. Perhaps Lupin wouldn't either.

"Yeah, I'd – I'd like to see him, too."

"Excellent," said Dumbledore, satisfied. "I shall give him the message."

The headmaster moved closer, weaving between the desks.

"Now. I am afraid Madam Pomfrey bests even me in the field of medicinal magic; though I am, as they say, 'not too shabby'," he said, and Harry almost felt like grinning. Dumbledore pulled his wand smoothly from his blue spangled robes and with his other hand reached up to touch Harry's chin.

Harry flinched at the unexpected gesture, and Dumbledore paused.

"Will you allow me?" asked Dumbledore quietly.

Feeling slightly foolish, Harry nodded. Dumbledore's hand returned and, very gently, supported Harry's chin, tipping his head up a little. The touch was warmer than Harry had expected, and he felt instantly calmer as the bright blue eyes inspected the damage to his face. "Hold still," uttered Dumbledore, and held the tip of his wand lightly to Harry's nose. In an instant, the pain was gone.

Dumbledore released him and stepped back, leaving Harry feeling oddly bereft.

"Thank you," Harry muttered, reaching up to feel his nose. His fingers were still covered in blood. Next second, however, Dumbledore had waved his wand again, and the blood had disappeared from his face, his robes, and his hands.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, spotting a streak of red on his sleeve where he had touched Harry's face.

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said automatically, but Dumbledore merely flicked his wand again and they were good as new.

"No matter." Dumbledore stowed his wand. "It is not my robes I am concerned for." He looked at Harry seriously for a moment, assessing him over his half-moon spectacles. "Have you any other injuries? Do you require the hospital wing?"

"No, sir."

"Very well, if you are certain," said Dumbledore. "Otherwise, Madam Pomfrey will have my head."

Harry did grin then.

"Now," Dumbledore continued, "if you are quite sure you do not need the hospital, I would at least like you to return to your dormitory and rest until dinner, please." Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Dumbledore continued without pausing. "Ah, but, of course, that reminds me! You missed lunch. I shall send a house-elf up with something, if you would like? After all, you must keep up your strength for whatever delightful detention Professor McGonagall has in store for you on Monday."

Dumbledore held out his arm, indicating Harry to precede him out of the classroom, and Harry recognised that it was the end of the conversation, his protests dying reluctantly in his throat as he headed for the door.

Harry was sitting on his bed when Ron and Hermione found him.

"We came straight up after Charms," Hermione started breathlessly as soon as she and Ron had burst through the door. "Neville said that Justin heard you attacked Malfoy and he's in the hospital wing! That's not true?"

Harry looked at her, then back down at his hands, scowling, and shrugged.

"Oh, Harry, you didn't," she moaned, sinking onto the edge of Ron's bed. She stared at him.

"Is it true you broke his jaw?" asked Ron. He seemed torn between admiration and displeasure, and Harry supposed Ron was still upset with him for ditching them at lunch.

"Dunno," Harry grunted. "Felt like it."

"Cool," said Ron, crossing his arms and leaning against Harry's bed post.

"It isn't 'cool,' Hermione snapped, glaring at him and then Harry. "You could be expelled."

"I wasn't," Harry told them. "McGonagall gave me detention. And took about two hundred points," he admitted grudgingly.

"What are you talking about?" asked Hermione dismissively. "There were only twenty missing from our hourglass after lunch."

Harry stared at her, shocked.

"What, she put them back?" asked Ron. "She really has gone soft, eh?"

"It doesn't matter," Hermione went on impatiently. "Harry, you really shouldn't have done that, what were you thinking?"

At last, the thing which Harry had been burning to ask them since he had been blasted off of Malfoy by Snape's spell. "Does everyone know?" he asked very quietly.

"Know what?" Hermione's eyebrows scrunched, confused.

"About…me. And Romilda."

Harry looked slowly from Hermione, to Ron, and back again, not sure if we wanted to know the answer.

"Of course not," Hermione assured him softly. "We promised, Harry. What does that have to do – "

"Malfoy knew," Harry choked. "He said half the school did, too."

"What?" said Ron sharply. "That's rubbish, how could they? We're the only ones you've told. Aren't – aren't we?"

Harry nodded, rubbing his wrist.

There was a pause, and then in a small voice, Hermione said, "I did hear a rumour."

"You did?" Ron demanded with a frown.

"What rumour?" Harry squeezed out past the knot in his throat.

Hermione's expression was extremely apologetic. "I – oh, Harry, it was weeks ago, and it was only a few girls talking in the bathroom, I didn't think anything of it! I knew it – it wasn't true." She broke off on the last word, looking very close to tears.

"Like I said, I never heard it, mate," Ron told Harry quietly after a moment. "No one would think anything of it. Parkinson probably heard it somewhere and told it to Malfoy, and he used whatever he could think of to get you fired up, that's all."

Harry nodded slowly, hoping they were right. He wasn't overjoyed at the thought of all of the school's girls giggling in bathrooms together about that, but he supposed he had been stupid to think Romilda would keep her mouth shut completely.

Ginny had heard her talking, too, she had said.

Miserably, Harry slumped back onto his pillows, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. He was so tired.

They were all silent for a minute.

"Are you coming down to the library?" Hermione asked him hesitantly.

He kept his eyes closed. "No, you go. Dumbledore told me to stay up here."

"Okay," she said, her voice low, and he heard her get up. "We'll let you rest for a while."

"Thanks," he mumbled vaguely, half-dozing already, and he heard their footsteps retreating steadily down the stairs.

Harry crept silently into the dark, empty common room, a blanket around his shoulders. The fire was still blazing in the hearth, and he sank onto the sofa in front of it, the warmth washing over him as if he were sinking into a hot bath. His shivers eased a little.

It was one of the bad nights.

None of them were great, to be perfectly fair. But this go round he had managed no more than twenty minutes' sleep at a time, tossing and turning, constantly waking from dreams both old and new, of Petrified ghosts and Dudley's gang, Cedric's staring eyes and giant chessboards….

His brain turned and turned with a hundred thoughts, and he wished more than anything to throw a wrench into the gears, to stop the turning for a second. He thought longingly of his sleeping tablets, but this made him remember the weird, highly disturbing dream that had made him stop, and he drew the blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

Harry did not know how long he sat there, staring into the fire, before he heard a quiet noise and looked up to see Ginny standing by the staircase to the girls' dormitory.

"Oh. Sorry," she whispered, hesitating at the threshold. "I didn't think anyone else would be up…."

"You don't have to go," Harry told her quickly, his voice soft, his stomach fluttering. "I don't mind."

Ginny smiled a little, pressing her lips together, and crossed the room. Harry's heart stuttered into a quicker beat when she came to his sofa instead of one of the armchairs. "Budge over," she demanded. "You got enough blanket for two?"

Harry slipped the blanket from his shoulders, weirdly and suddenly conscious of things like how messy his hair must look and what his elbows were doing, and threw it over both of their laps as she settled down next to him. Her hip brushed his, and a pleasant thrill raced up his spine.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Ginny asked softly. She was holding a vacuum flask, and she began to unscrew the top.

"Not really," Harry admitted as he watched her. "What's that?"

"Hot chocolate. Want some?" She carefully poured some out into the large lid.

Harry knew he should take it. He had had neither lunch nor dinner – he had sent Dumbledore's house-elf away when it had visited him with a tray of sandwiches, and ignored Ron, pretending to be asleep, when he had tried to wake him for dinner. He had not had breakfast, either, and with mild surprise Harry realised he hadn't eaten a single thing all day. Ginny would have scolded him, if she knew.

It almost made him want to tell her.

"Sure," mumbled Harry, accepting the cup from her. He took a sip and, despite the sweetness, found his belly was so achingly, satisfyingly empty that he was actually able to enjoy it. "Thanks."

"Any time," said Ginny, drawing her socked feet onto the sofa and sipping slowly straight from the flask, blowing on it to cool the contents. "You skipped a pretty good Hallowe'en Feast this year. Dumbledore hired an undead theater group to do a skit, and it was awful," she said happily.

"Sorry I missed that," said Harry, his lips twitching.

He turned the cup slowly in his hands.

"So do you just happen to walk around with hot chocolate up your sleeve all day?" Harry asked. "Or are you running a cocoa distillery out of the girls' dormitory?"

Ginny laughed, and the firelight dancing over her face made Harry stare. He shook himself and took another swig of his hot chocolate, burning his mouth.

"I've always got some when I go to sleep. Habit, I guess. Mum would always make it for me after I had – after first year," she said, and her expression darkened as she looked into the fire, her laugh lines fading. "I had trouble sleeping for – well, for a while. Still do sometimes."

Harry had a flash of her, much smaller and paler, lying still and cold in a puddle of ink.

"I'm sorry," he told her earnestly.

"It's okay," Ginny said, glancing at him. "It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't important," said Harry, and the words came out more strongly than he was expecting. "I'm sorry people forget, sometimes. I'm sorry I forget. You don't deserve that."

Ginny stared at him, surprised and, he thought, a little touched. "Thanks, Harry. That…that means a lot."

He gave her a small smile, and she smiled back.

"Anyway, Dad gave me the flask," she went on, glancing down at her lap and tucking a strand of hair quickly behind her ear, "and Hermione helped me with the Refilling Charm. We haven't covered those yet, and I couldn't get it quite right…."

"Nor have I," Harry admitted dryly, and Ginny grinned.

"You'll get there eventually," she said in mock-comfort, patting his knee over the blanket.

Harry's gut tumbled, and he was torn between wanting to get up off the couch and asking her to do it again. They were silent again for a moment while Harry sipped his hot chocolate, and Ginny picked at the neck of the flask with her thumbnail.

"I heard what you did to Malfoy today," Ginny said, and her tone was even, but Harry could hear the admonishment in her voice.

Harry lowered his cup to his lap. "I already got enough of a lecture from Dumbledore. Besides, like you haven't Bat-Bogeyed your fair share of people…."

"I've never put a wizard in the hospital with my bare hands," Ginny countered. When Harry said nothing, she sighed. "Look, Harry, you don't have to talk about it, and I'm not saying you shouldn't be angry about the things that git's done, I just…think the energy you're pouring into this – obsession, or whatever, with him is the wrong sort. And, honestly, I don't think you're in a good state of mind to know when to stop. You might have done some real damage to him if Snape hadn't stopped you."

"Good," said Harry bitterly.

"Really?" she challenged him. "Is that what you really think?"

Harry's sense of unfairness at the whole situation urged him to say yes, but he remembered vividly the crack of his knuckles on Malfoy's jaw, the blood spurting from his nose, the way his fist had sunk into Malfoy's gut over and over and over –

The truth was, despite everything Malfoy had done, everything he was, Harry felt sickened with himself. His thoughts must have shown on his face, for Ginny went on without waiting for him to answer.

"I don't think you would have got off with only a couple of detentions if you had managed more than you did. You could have been in real trouble."

"Yeah, I know," Harry admitted quietly.

Ginny let that sink in for a minute. Then she said a little more lightly, "Still, good to know you can beat a man up. Hidden talent?"

"Hidden?" Harry said, smirking. "I beat him up last year, too…."

"Oh, right. You did," Ginny said, shaking her head in disbelief. "And a life-long Quidditch ban did nothing to dissuade you from your life of crime, I see."

"Nah, I guess not." Harry grinned tiredly at her. "Besides, it wasn't a lifetime ban, it was only while Umbridge was here." He paused. "You told me that last year, that it wouldn't be forever. It really helped."

"I'm glad it did," she said, gazing at him steadily.

The fire and the chocolate had made Harry warm and content, and with Ginny so close it felt almost as if he were floating. "Yeah," he said quietly, staring back at her. "Me too."

Their hands were sitting close together, almost touching, and all Harry had to do was move his an inch, and take her hand in his. He ached to do it, to find out if it would feel the same as his dream, if her skin was as smooth as the skin that had touched his face as he slept. The opportunity lay wide open before him, waiting for him to take it, but surely he couldn't. He couldn't….

Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry closed the distance between their hands, wrapping his fingers around hers, and they slotted together perfectly. The warmth of her palm against his was a strange relief, like a fond memory he had long forgotten, and her skin was not as smooth as his dream but infinitely better because it was real, impossibly warm and imperfectly calloused in his.

Ginny's eyes widened ever-so-slightly as she and Harry both looked up from their joined hands into each other's faces. Her gaze shone with surprise and what looked, perhaps, like a bit of hope.

Ginny shifted the tiniest bit, her body leaning into his almost infinitesimally, and Harry's eyes flitted down to her lips. He felt himself move towards her, too, and he was close enough that he could smell the warm chocolate on her breath. A lock of hair fell from her shoulder to frame her face, the tips of their noses inches apart. Her hair was so beautiful…her black silky hair…the fire crackled in the grate…the little fire in a jar…he didn't want to think about it, not now, not with Ginny so close and perfect next to him, but Romilda's hands held his against the floor, and his back burned against the carpet underneath him and –

Harry jerked, his hand slipping out of Ginny's, the blanket falling off his lap as he shot to his feet. Lights popped in front of his eyes, and he backed away against an armchair. The hot chocolate soaked into the carpet where he had spilled it. He heard a familiar rushing in his ears – Ginny said something he couldn't hear, and he collapsed into the armchair. His windpipe felt suddenly much smaller than it should have done, and he struggled to drag air into his lungs. The chocolate churned in his stomach…he shoved his sleeves of his sweatshirt up, feeling too hot.

Ginny settled onto the coffee table in front of him as his head fell into his hands. "Breathe, Harry, breathe…."

Harry listened to her voice, held onto it, and after several long minutes, he felt his heartrate return to normal. The two of them sat in the quiet for a while, Harry's head still in his hands, the fire the only sound apart from his breathing.

Harry heard Ginny shift on the table. Very quietly, she asked, "Did I do something?"

Harry shook his head. "No…it's not your fault. I'm sorry."

Ginny didn't say anything. Instead, she reached out, and Harry felt her fingers rest very lightly against one of his hands. Gently, she traced the tendons there and said, almost to herself, "You're so thin…."

Harry's heart twisted. He realised he did not have his extra layers on and, of course, the blanket had fallen off of him. There was nothing to protect her from seeing him.

You're so thin.

She had not said it like 'you're ugly' but simply as a statement, full of quiet heartbreak. He thought of the hot chocolate Ginny kept on hand to chase away her own nightmares, and he thought, maybe, that there was no one who could understand him better.

Harry looked up at her finally, lifting his head out of his hands, and her fingers fell away from him.

Now would be the perfect time to tell her. To explain why he could not bring himself to kiss her, even though sometimes it was nearly all he could think of. He was not sure he could do it, he was still too fresh, too raw from telling Ron and Hermione...

The thought of Ron sobered him.

Ginny's eyes were full to the brim with concern, and the awareness of what they had almost just done hung thickly in the air between them. It took everything in Harry to finally speak.

"We should both probably get some sleep," he muttered, pulling his sleeves back down around his wrists.

Ginny swallowed, her gaze falling to the floor. "Yeah," she agreed, and she smiled very tightly when she looked back at him. "You're probably right."

They both stood, Harry pulling out his wand to clean up the mess he had made of the carpet. He picked up the lid to Ginny's flask, and she gathered up his blanket, and they handed them back to each other, their fingers brushing.

"I hope you get some rest, Harry," said Ginny sincerely.

"Thanks," he said softly. "You too."

Harry waited for her to pass him, but as she did, she reached up and placed one of her warm hands along his jaw, briefly pressing her lips to his other cheek, just in front of his ear. Then she turned away and made her way slowly up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, trailing her hand distractedly along the wall, looking back for one last glance at him as she went.

Harry stared after her with his blanket draped over his arm, shivering, until she had gone.