If he had to be honest with himself, Severus had to admit that confronting Potter about the rabbits was maybe not the best—not the most Slytherin—move. Now Potter knew he was onto him.

Severus was completely convinced that Potter had—somehow—succeeded in stealing both the missing library books and the rabbits. He had no idea why, but then, Gryffindors didn’t always need a reason to act like morons. Sometimes all it took was another little dunderhead thinking up stupid things for them to do to pass the time.

Where the stolen items were now, Severus had no clue. Since Potter didn’t know his suspicions about the books, Severus had ‘arranged’ a cross-House inspection to give him an excuse to hunt through Potter’s things. It had yielded nothing.

His tactic now was to follow Potter as much as possible. For some reason, to his frustration, the boy seemed to always be a step ahead of him.

-

The Marauders’ Map turned out to be very useful, as Snape kept to his word and always seemed to be on Harry’s tail. He had to check regularly, and dashed to Snuffles’ room only when the greasy git was far away.

Because of this, the rabbits lasted longer than they might have done. Christmas came and went, as did the Firebolt. The holidays ended, classes began again and Lupin started teaching Harry the Patronus Charm. Professor McGonagall received another batch of rabbits.

There was just one problem. Harry couldn’t get at them.

He didn’t know whose idea it was—Snape’s, he expected—but the rabbits were kept in an out-of-bounds dungeon, with, so he heard, several padlocks on the cage, which was magically fastened to the floor. Harry’s chances of getting to them were zero … and he had just finished the last one. It was still mid-January, and Snuffles had been unable to find them anything.

Harry stumbled on the way into the school from the Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw match. He was already feeling weak again, and he knew in his heart that he wouldn’t make it through till spring. But what was he supposed to do?

-

“Ron, I’m worried about Harry.”

If Hermione was honest with herself, she was rarely anything but, these days. Black on the loose was only part of it. She had sensed Harry slowly withdraw from everyone—he still talked, and laughed, and joked, with them; but she could tell something was different inside him. But something was definitely different on the outside as well, and she just didn’t know what to do about it.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Ron asked quickly, looking alarmed. “About Black?”

“No, no—I mean—well, have you looked at him lately?”

Hermione wasn’t blind. Harry had been eating next to nothing for months, ignoring her gentle encouragement, and Madam Pomfrey’s specific instructions. His clothes were hanging off him, and not just his old hand-me-downs. He looked constantly exhausted and kept zoning out in classes—it had got to the point Hermione was taking notes for him all the time. He had received several concerned (or in Snape’s case, gloating) comments from teachers that his grades were slipping drastically.

“Do you get the feeling he’s not telling us something?” she pressed as Ron thought.

“Well, that makes two of you.”

“Don’t joke, Ron; this is serious. Something’s wrong. We should have done something about it weeks ago.”

“Like what? We can’t exactly hold him down and force food in his mouth!”

-

Oliver,

I …

Harry hesitated, unable to bring himself to write the word ‘resign’.

He hated this. He couldn’t do it. But what other choice did he have? Wood was running the team into the ground and Harry couldn’t even keep up, let alone perform to his previous standards. He had been completely without blood for two weeks and was on the verge of collapse.

He was late to everything because just walking around the castle exhausted him. He had given up on going to the Great Hall altogether—Hermione had made her views on this very clear—but it was too much of a struggle to scale the Grand Staircase an extra three times a day. Between his classes, Quidditch practise, Patronus lessons with Lupin, and the detentions Snape still insisted on giving him weekly, he couldn’t do anything but sleep the rest of the time. He was falling asleep in class regularly as it was (and not just in History of Magic).

Something had to give. Preferably before someone found out Ron had been doing all his homework for him. Harry had tried to talk him out of it, but his friend was stubborn and he hadn’t had the energy to argue for long. Even Hermione didn’t seem to want to stop him.

Harry couldn’t stop his classes. Maybe if he dropped the non-core ones … he would be only too happy to do without Divination, but he knew Hagrid would be extremely hurt if he left his class.

Harry couldn’t stop the detentions either. The more tired he was, the less scrubbing he was able to do, and the more Snape piled on him. If it had been for anything else, Harry would have seriously considered asking another teacher for help in reigning Snape in—but he didn’t want Snape to start (if he hadn’t already) trying to convince the rest of the staff that he was a thief. Harry couldn’t give up the anti-Dementor lessons either—for him it seemed to be a necessary life skill.

So that just left Quidditch. The one luxury he had left. Except now, it wasn’t so much a luxury as something he was failing miserably at. The team were trying optimistically to tell him that everyone went through rough patches, and he would be fine, but Harry wasn’t certain they believed it.

I resign from the Quidditch team. Harry Potter.

There. He’d written it. Some Gryffindor he was, delivering a note. But the last thing he felt able to do was stand against Wood’s bulldozer will.

A lump rose in his throat, but he wouldn’t allow himself to cry as he sent Hedwig off with the resignation, ending his—and Wood’s—dream of winning the Quidditch Cup.

-

“Wood was looking for you at breakfast,” Ron said in a low voice as they sat down in the Transfiguration classroom.

“Oh?” Harry tried to keep his tone casual. “Did he … um … say why?”

“No. But he looked livid. You didn’t miss practise or something, did you?”

Harry was saved from formulating a reply by Professor McGonagall calling the class to attention. He knew he would have to tell his friends at some point that he had quit—and come up with a reason why that they would believe—but he wasn’t about to do it in class, where they would inevitably make a huge scene.

The lesson passed in the haze that was now normal to him. He nearly fell asleep three times, each time jerked back to life by Professor McGonagall snapping at him. At the end of the lesson, she said in her sternest voice, “Potter, a word, please.”

Harry mumbled to Ron and Hermione to go on without him, and approached her desk. To his surprise, once the door closed on the last student, her expression softened slightly as she looked at him.

“Take a seat, Potter.” She flicked her wand and a chair appeared in front of her desk. He sat down obediently, and she sat down as well, looking at him critically. “Now, tell me. Is there something wrong?”

Harry blinked at her, his sluggish brain slowly processing that she didn’t appear to be telling him off. “Sorry, Professor?”

“Your attention in class lately has been lax to say the least; you keep falling asleep at your desk; and now Oliver Wood informs me that you have decided to resign from the Quidditch team without a word of explanation.”

Harry swallowed. He really didn’t want to have this talk with Professor McGonagall. As his Head of House and an unabashed Quidditch fanatic, she had a vested interest in wanting to keep the best players on the team. She was also the one who had pulled the strings to get him on in the first place. He didn’t want her to think he was ungrateful for that.

“I don’t want to, Professor,” he said quickly. “But I just can’t do it anymore. You said yourself, I can’t keep up. My work’s been suffering and my performance in practise has been bad—just ask Oliver. I thought it would be better to give them some time to find a replacement than hang on until the match and then let everyone down. I don’t want to let them down again. I know it’s only, what, a week’s notice, I’m sorry, but—”

Great. He was so tired he was babbling.

“Potter, my concern here is not the upcoming match,” Professor McGonagall said. “My concern is why you felt the need to quit. Do not take this the wrong way, but you look awful.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry muttered. He already knew that. Sometimes he wished the myth about vampires not having reflections was true. “Can I drop Divination?”

The abrupt change of subject seemed to stun his teacher. “Pardon?”

“Divination. It’s not a core subject, so can I give it up? I’m not learning anything in it except how to predict someone’s death with theatrical flair, and I really need the extra time to …”

Sleep.

“… catch up.”

Professor McGonagall looked sympathetic, but hesitated. “I’m afraid the rules say a non-core subject can only be dropped within the first six weeks of, or at the end of, a year.” Harry’s heart sank. “But, considering it seems to be a health issue … I will talk to the Headmaster …”

“Thanks Professor!”

“… while you see Madam Pomfrey.”

Harry’s heart missed a beat. “M-Madam Pomfrey?”

“Yes, Potter, Madam Pomfrey,” Professor McGonagall said shortly. Harry knew she was already very familiar with his reluctance, even from before he was Turned, to go to the Hospital Wing for anything non-life-threatening. “You are quite clearly ill. And,” she added, “you have submit to an examination in order to drop Divination.”