It was nice to just be able to lie down. Harry stared blankly up at the passing ceiling, not even really registering that Snape was walking beside him. He zoned in and out, blissful unconsciousness pressing in on the corners of his brain. But because he couldn’t quite remember where he was and what was going on, he fought it.

“Here we are, Potter.” Snape’s voice broke through the fog, startling him. “The Hospital Wing.”

Suddenly more awake, Harry tried to sit up in alarm. Snape scowled and pushed him back down on the stretcher with a reprimand, but not before Harry had seen the door.

Oh no. He couldn’t go in there. He’d never get out again. Last time he had got lucky; this time …

Snape stepped towards the door. Harry had a flash of inspiration. It was probably the most desperate thing he had ever done, and he was sure to regret it later.

“Greasy git!”

Snape froze, and turned slowly to face him. “I BEG your pardon?”

“Are you deaf?” Harry said. “Maybe you should clean your ears more as well as your hair. And while you’re at it, maybe you could try using this new invention, called soap, because you stink. Seriously, you smell worse than your potions, and that’s saying something.”

It took a moment for Snape to unfreeze from shock. When he did, his wand moved to point at Harry so fast, it nearly went up his nose.

“Do NOT think,” Snape hissed through gritted teeth, “that because you are ill, or the precious Boy Who Lived, that you can get away with talking like THAT to ME! The moment Madam Pomfrey allows me, Potter, I will have you in detention EVERY moment you’re not in class until you leave this school! You will never have free time again! That will be two hundred more points from Gryffindor, and if you EVER speak that way to me again, NOTHING ON EARTH will be able to stop me making sure you get expelled! Is that QUITE clear?”

Harry was already regretting his tactics, but as Snape tipped him unceremoniously out of the stretcher and snarled at him to get inside the Hospital Wing, he noted it had had the desired effect. Clutching the wall for support, Harry followed Snape’s outstretched finger to the door and, hoping Madam Pomfrey wasn’t in the ward, opened the door and slipped inside.

The matron was nowhere to be seen, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He slid down the door onto the floor, listening to Snape’s retreating footsteps and muttering.

He couldn’t leave once the man had gone—the leash would tell him. Harry was going to have to find somewhere in the ward to hide until the morning. With his legs refusing to take his weight, he crawled along the floor until he found a half-empty cupboard, and curled up inside.

It wasn’t too bad. It lacked the minimal comfort the Dursleys’ cupboard had offered, but it would do for now.

As Harry drifted off to sleep, he wondered whether there was any point in staying alive anymore. Oblivion still frightened the life out of him, but he was sure to die soon anyway. Hibernation wouldn’t end for weeks—he would never, ever make it. He realised he had long given up on finding another alternative. As scared as he was, he was also resigned. Why drag it out? Why fight to survive when he was certain to lose?

-

Harry was jerked awake after a few hours’ sleep by a couple of patients being brought in that were trying to continue hexing each other. He checked his watch, and found it was morning. Just late enough that the leash wouldn’t class him as out-of-bounds if he left the Hospital Wing—hopefully.

Thinking longingly of his bed, Harry waited until silence had fallen in the ward again, and then slowly slipped out of his cupboard.

There was no-one around. Harry was still in agony, but the few hours’ uncomfortable sleep still meant that, at least, he was able to remain on his feet until he reached Gryffindor Tower. He slowly crawled up the stairs to the dormitory and heaved himself into bed. It seemed he had only just closed his eyes when Ron was shaking him.

“Go’way,” Harry mumbled, pulling his pillow over him. “’S’Saturday.”

“I know, but Hermione will have my head if you miss breakfast.”

Right. The last thing he needed now was another meal. “Not going ‘n’ you can’ make me.”

For a short while, Harry thought it had worked, as Ron left the dormitory and he started to return to sleep. But it wasn’t long before he was being shaken awake again, now with an over-powering smell of food under his nose.

-

Harry appreciated that Ron and Hermione were acting from the best of interests. He really did. They were the best friends ever and every kind act just made the lump in his throat bigger. But by the end of the weekend, Harry was in agony.

He had mumbled something about an all-night detention with Snape, which had caused Ron to grouch about the ‘greasy git’ (Harry felt a stab of dread as the words triggered his memories from the night before) and Hermione to seethe and mutter about complaining to Professor McGonagall. Harry had quickly begged her not to and promised it was fine, he just needed some sleep and he wasn’t going to give Snape the satisfaction of having complained to another teacher.

They accepted that, though reluctantly, and didn’t question Harry sleeping the entirety of the weekend—but insisted on bringing him food at mealtimes and practically forcing it down his throat.

With every meal, Harry felt worse. The aches from scrubbing gradually lessened, but the cramps increased with fervour. He wondered, again, what happened if a vampire ate too much human food—did they die? Harry felt like he was going to explode if he ate anymore (yeah, that would be a dignified death). Or did the pain just get worse and worse until they couldn’t take it anymore and ended their own life? If you could call it a life.

By Sunday afternoon, Harry was dozing rather than sleeping heavily, now constantly aware of the pain. It dawned on him that he had no plan for the next day. Monday meant Potions … Potions meant Snape. Snape meant either full-time detention or being dragged back to the Hospital Wing. Either would kill him.

Maybe … maybe it was time to give in. Harry couldn’t stand the thought of dying in front of Snape. He could stand even less the thought of his secret getting out. He had no other choice left. He was going to have to end things himself.

Those D. O. Apprang books were still in Snuffles’ room, but Harry couldn’t even get out of bed. What was he supposed to do? Ask someone to fetch them for him? That wouldn’t reveal his secret in the slightest …

Before Harry could work out an alternative, Ron and Hermione arrived with dinner.

“No, guys,” he tried to say flatly, but his voice sounded as weak as he felt. “I can’t. Please. I swear I’m gonna erupt if you make me eat anything else.”

As usual, his protests fell upon deaf ears, amid assurances that it was only for his own good. Harry tried to fight back, but as always they had the upper hand.

Harry bit back cries of pain as his stomach tightened further, burying his head in his pillow to muffle any that escaped and clutching at his midriff under the covers. Oh, Merlin. He couldn’t take anymore of this; he couldn’t. It was so ridiculous to feel so full and so empty at the same time, but the irony was lost on him. All he knew was that it was bloody painful and he needed it to stop.

It took Ron nudging him sharply before he realised they were still talking to him. “Sorry, what?” He turned over to see them.

“I said, when were you going to tell us you quit the Quidditch team?”

Oh, yeah … the Quidditch. Harry had almost forgotten, lost in a haze of pain and trying to get away from his friends. “Oh. Er …”

“Please tell me it’s not true?”

“Sorry, Ron,” Harry said in a low voice.

“But—why?”

He hadn’t prepared for this. He couldn’t tell the truth. At least, not the full truth. He repeated more or less what he had said to Professor McGonagall, unable to meet their eyes. Ron looked as if he was bracing himself for an argument, but Hermione gave him a sharp nudge and pointed look, before wishing Harry a good night’s sleep and leaving him alone.

-

Harry’s plan to get to Snuffles’ room and use one of the spells fell through, as he couldn’t avoid Ron and Hermione. He had managed, through some miracle, to drag himself out of bed every morning for the next four days, but didn’t have the physical strength to get away from them.

He couldn’t understand how he had managed to continue his routine for as long as he had. Sheer willpower, he supposed. How he did it, he had no idea. The weekend’s sleep had probably helped, but he was still being force-fed by his friends three times a day. The pain was utterly crippling but, somehow, he managed to stagger to and from classes.

He had dreaded Potions, but Snape had taken one look at him, rolled his eyes and from then on ignored his presence. Maybe he didn’t want to risk Madam Pomfrey’s wrath by setting Harry physically demanding detentions straight after being released (or so Snape thought) from the Hospital Wing. Even Harry’s weekly one seemed to have been forgotten. Well, Harry certainly wasn’t going to remind him.