Harry was several streets away from Privet Drive before he collapsed on a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from the effort of dragging his trunk. He sat quite still, anger still surging through him, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart.

But after ten minutes alone in the dark street, a new emotion took over him: panic. Whichever way he looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix: stranded, alone, with nowhere to go, having undoubtedly been expelled from Hogwarts for his burst of magic on Aunt Marge.

Harry shivered and looked up and down Magnolia Crescent, movement catching his eye. A tall figure was headed towards the main road, but turned just beforehand and began up the twitten between Numbers Seven and Nine. Another shiver ran down Harry’s spine—all the locals knew to avoid that path after nightfall.

It happened too fast. A second figure appeared from the main road, and followed the first. Harry’s instinct was confirmed when he heard the beginnings of a yell, quickly muffled. Abandoning his trunk, he pulled out his wand and ran. He arrived too late; a man was lying half-conscious on the ground, his shirt stained with blood, and there was no sign of the other figure.

Harry dropped to his knees beside the victim, and started frantically searching his pockets for a mobile phone. Didn’t all Muggles own one these days?

“You’re going to be all right,” he kept muttering, unsure if the man could hear him. “I’ll get an ambulance here.” There was no phone and he inwardly cursed. “I can call from a neighbour’s house—”

The man reached an arm out and seized Harry by the collar before he could get to his feet. “No.”

“You’re hurt, you need to get to a hospital; you’re going to have to let me go—”

The man moved swiftly, far too swiftly; before Harry knew what was happening he had been pulled sharply towards him, and was now pinned to the ground with the injured man on top of him, a sharp pain in his neck.

The pain lasted only a second, but Harry could feel there was still something there; it was like being under a local anaesthetic—he struggled, but even wounded, the vampire was stronger than him. His body grew steadily weaker and his head steadily lighter, as the blood was leeched out.

Then without warning, something came barrelling into the vampire and dragged him away. Harry tried to sit up but the world span; he turned his head slightly to the side and saw a huge black dog, snapping at the vampire.

Harry felt the side of his neck gingerly, but there was no longer any wound. He slowly sat up, just in time to see the dog receive a well-aimed kick in its face. It yelped and darted backwards; the vampire was on his feet now and drew a wand. “Stupefy!”

The dog crumpled, and Harry tried desperately to stand up but fell back. Remembering his own wand, he drew it out, but the vampire was putting his away.

Drinking Harry’s blood had obviously only helped slightly; he was standing, but clutching the fence to remain upright. He looked down at Harry, and his eyes fell on his scar. They widened considerably and he became, if possible, even paler.

“Oh, sweet Merlin, no …” He dropped to his knees and surveyed Harry in horror. “What have I done?”

“How about tried to kill me?” Harry replied, clutching his wand even tighter. “Not that you wouldn’t be the first …”

“Oh no, no, no … I never wanted—tried—I lost control—I’m so sorry …”

Harry wasn’t sure how to react. Their summer reading had included a background on Dark creatures, presumably for Defence Against the Dark Arts, but the section on vampires had made them sound pure evil.

He was feeling stronger now, and he made to get up, but the vampire grabbed his wrist.

“You should get out of here,” he said. “You’re going to Turn, and whoever finds me can’t find you too—they could guess what happened …”

“You’ve made me one of you.” Harry’s heart dropped as it sank in. He had been bitten; he was going to become a creature they studied in class. A creature the whole wizarding world was afraid of.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the vampire moaned. “I didn’t mean to … I swear …”

“What do you mean, whoever finds you?”

“The knife blade was silver. I don’t have long. I’ll try and get away but you need to be far from me.”

“I—don’t—why?”

“Because if anyone knows what you’ve become, Harry Potter—” The vampire broke off, shuddering. “No-one can know; you can’t tell a soul.”

“Why? What will happen?”

“Just trust me; the life you have now will be gone,” the vampire half-whispered. “Get out of here, now.”

Harry got slowly to his feet, and hesitated. Vampire or not, he didn’t want to leave the man alone and dying. But all he got for his concern was another, much louder, “GO!”

He stumbled from the alley, half supporting himself on the wall. It didn’t occur to him until he came out into Magnolia Crescent that he hadn’t even found out his name.

His trunk was still where he had left it. Harry was a few feet away when he heard something behind him. He turned to see the big black dog, now awake, running after him.

“Thanks,” he said out loud to it. “Shame you couldn’t have come a minute sooner.”

The dog whined, as if it knew what he had said, and licked his hand. Harry jumped, not in the habit of being licked, but petted the creature’s tatty fur anyway.

“Guess we’d better get out of here before the Ministry start swarming round. Know the way to London?” He was talking out loud more to quell the intense awareness of how alone he was than to just make a joke, and certainly wasn’t prepared for the dog to stick out a front leg.

Whether it was pointing in the right direction or not, Harry never found out, but he didn’t need to as there was a deafening BANG and a triple-decker, violently purple bus appeared out of thin air and screeched to a halt in front of them.

-

When Harry collapsed into bed at the Leaky Cauldron that night, he fell asleep immediately. The last thought that went through his head was disappointment that the dog had gone—Harry, although never having been over-fond of dogs, had half-hoped it would stay with him. But although it had hopped onto the bus with him earlier, costing him an extra six Sickles, it had disappeared the moment Harry had run into Fudge.

His sleep was dreamless, and when he finally woke he felt very strange.

Harry sat up slowly. His head was spinning, he was aching from head to toe and his stomach was gnawing with hunger. He wasn’t even sure if he was strong enough to stand up.

“Woof.”

He jumped, and looked over. The black dog from before was sitting on his floor.

“Hello again,” Harry mumbled. The dog bent its head, and Harry realised there were a number of potion vials on the floor just as it picked one up and deposited it in Harry’s lap.

The liquid inside was a very dark red. Harry swallowed, and looked back at the dog. It nudged him encouragingly.

“All right, here goes.” Harry braced himself, uncorked the vial and tipped the contents down his throat as one.

Thankfully, it didn’t taste half as bad as he expected. In fact it was quite pleasant. Harry figured his taste buds must be adapted for it now. No sooner had he swallowed the last of the vial, his aches started slipping away and he felt a lot stronger.

“You,” he told the dog, “are a genius. Where do you come from, eh?” There was no collar on the animal. It had to come from the wizarding world; no ordinary dog would have stolen blood for him. But what had it been doing in Magnolia Crescent? Could it somehow sniff out wizards?

Well, no matter what the answer, Harry was relieved; he gave it a grateful rub down and received a lick in thanks. The poor thing looked half-starved; he would have to return the favour and get it some food.

“Do you have a name, boy?” he asked, after checking it was, in fact, a boy.

The dog seemed to consider the question, before putting his head in Harry’s hand and making a snuffling noise. Harry chuckled. “Snuffles?”

“Woof!” He thumped his tail on the floor.

“Snuffles it is, then.”

When Harry examined himself in the mirror, he surmised that he didn’t look any different. Well, maybe a little paler, but there was nothing that would immediately identify him as a vampire. Examining his teeth, he realised that he could make his incisors grow at will—the rest of the time, they appeared normal.

Well, that was a relief. Visible fangs would have given himself away in a second.

He still felt hungry, so drank a second vial of blood and hid the rest in his trunk. “Come on then, boy,” he said to Snuffles. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

He ventured downstairs, Snuffles at his heels. Tom was happy to rustle up a hearty meal suitable for a dog, and Snuffles dug in eagerly. Harry hesitated when offered his own breakfast—did vampires eat? For the sake of appearances, he tried it, and was relieved when it tasted fine.

His mind on the blood upstairs, he figured it would only last him a couple more meals—he needed to find some way of getting more, today. Once they had both finished eating he looked down at the dog and said, “Hey, Snuffles, no chance you could help me find some more … of what you brought me?” He spoke quietly but was still reluctant to say the word out loud.

Snuffles thumped his tail on the floor, and immediately took off for Diagon Alley, Harry following. He led him through Diagon Alley and then turned into Knockturn Alley. Harry hesitated, bad memories of the last time he had been down this place—but needs must. He put on his cloak and his hood up before taking a single step inside.

After a couple of heart-thumping minutes navigating through shifty-looking shoppers, Snuffles stopped in front of an apothecary. Harry braced himself and pushed open the door.

Normal apothecaries were creepy enough in Harry’s view, with all the things in jars, but this one sent a real shiver up his spine. The man behind the counter was moving some of his stock around. Harry really didn’t want to go up to him and ask for blood—and then realised with relief that he didn’t have to. There was a whole corner filled with it.

Harry counted the vials. Assuming two per meal was normal, what was on the shelves would last until about a week into term.

“Excuse me?”

The shopkeeper looked up. “Yes?”

“Do you have any more of this?”

“No. That’s all our stock.”

Harry nodded. “Right. I’ll take all of it.”

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow, but started packing the vials up for transport, counting as he did so. “That’s … two hundred Galleons, please.”

Harry gaped. “How much?”

“It’s not exactly easy to get hold of, you know. Young ones,” he muttered. “Do you have the money or not?”

Harry checked his moneybag. “I need to go to Gringotts. Can you hold it for me till I get back?”

Somewhere between the apothecary and Gringotts, Snuffles vanished. Harry was disappointed, but figured he would turn up again like he had before, and withdrew enough money from his vault to pay for the blood and keep him till the beginning of term.

He turned the problem over in his mind as he made his way back. Two hundred Galleons, for less than a month’s worth of blood? How on earth could he afford it? All right, he had money now, but it wouldn’t last forever. Plus, he would have to find a way of getting it while he was at Hogwarts. What on earth was he going to do?

He would have to explore that option once he got there. Maybe there was an owl-order service for vampires? He would have to tell Hedwig not to deliver at breakfast, if that was the case. Otherwise …

Harry bought the blood and sneaked the lot into his room at the Leaky Cauldron, putting it in his trunk with the rest. Well, at least he knew he was sorted for the rest of the summer.

“Wonder if there’s some sort of guide,” he said thoughtfully, forgetting Snuffles wasn’t there. “Like a book you can buy called Becoming a Vampire For Dummies.” He sighed. Maybe Hermione would know of something …

He hesitated. Was asking her really a good idea? For that matter, was telling either her or Ron what had happened a good idea? He loved his friends and was fairly sure they loved him; but—but the vampire last night had been so insistent. Tell no-one. Considering what they were being taught this year, Harry could easily picture their friendship with him turning into fear, into rejection.

A lump arose in his throat and he sat down shakily, somehow feeling much lonelier now than he had ever felt since discovering he was a wizard.

What would happen if they knew? Would his best friends in the world really turn against him?

“Oh please, no,” he whispered, a tear escaping down his cheek. He wouldn’t be able to stand it if that happened.

Ron had been raised by wizards; he had grown up hearing all about vampires and—as far as Harry could tell—how they were Dark creatures; evil; dangerous. Hermione … she’d avoided that, and she was smarter; maybe she could see … but Harry wasn’t certain. And that thought scared him.

Harry dug out his Defence book again, and found the chapter on vampires.

Vampires are highly dangerous Dark creatures, he read, his heart sinking, with something of a reputation in the Muggle world. They appear as human beings, though usually pallid, and like werewolves can be either born, or made through a bite. Vampires live on blood, which is sucked from their prey’s necks by way of retractable fangs.

“Or bought from an apothecary,” Harry muttered.

Many myths about vampires’ strengths and weaknesses abound even in the wizarding world. Vampires are physically stronger than humans—

“I’m still human!” Harry half-shouted at the page. “I am!”

—but claims that religious artefacts can ward them off are false, and garlic is toxic only in large quantities. Vampires do, however, like werewolves, have severe adverse reactions to silver.

Good to know. He’d have to look out for that.

They do not flee from the sunlight, but do prefer the night and have extremely good nocturnal senses. Vampires are extremely difficult to repel, and only trained vampire hunters should ever attempt to kill them.

Harry’s mouth went dry. Vampire hunters? There were such things as vampire hunters? This was legal?

There are, however, several spells that can be used to defend yourself against a vampire attack, detailed below. Spells such as Petrificus Totalus can also be useful, although disarming is often pointless as the vampire’s weapons are innate. It is however important to note that many vampires who were Turned from wizards, can and do use wands; in these cases disarming would help but not end the threat. If a vampire is deprived of blood for too long, they become physically weak akin to dehydration or starvation for humans, and can die.

So, how long was ‘too long’, Harry wondered.

He read through the five different spells below. They all sounded pretty painful. Three of them resulted in a dead vampire. And the frightening thing was, they didn’t look very difficult to learn.

He scanned through the text again, trying to take in the information, and this time saw something he didn’t notice the first time—a footnote, located after the mention of Turning through a bite.

When a human is Turned, they lose their soul. The reason this is not like the result of a Dementor’s Kiss is because the vampire is not the body; it is a Dark spirit that invades in the soul’s place. Whilst memories are retained, the person that once resided is lost.

Harry read the tiny print a dozen times before it sunk in.

“No,” he whispered, eyes prickling again. “That—that can’t be right.”

He had no soul? No! Surely—surely he’d have been aware of losing it! But apparently not.

He’d lost his soul.

But what did that mean? What did ‘lost’ mean? Destroyed? Or moved on like if he were dead? Or something else entirely? If he died, would he just cease to exist? Would he ever get to see his parents again? He believed in an afterlife; most wizards did. Or was his soul already there, with his mum and dad?

Harry wiped his face furiously, head swimming with questions, and glared down at the book which provided no answers. A footnote? His soul was only worth a footnote?

Suddenly furious, Harry snapped the book shut and threw it was all the force he could muster at the wall.

And then he was crying properly, for the first time in years. As far as he could tell, he had died; and it wasn’t at all how he had imagined it. And he cried because he was certain, now, that there was no way he could tell anyone what had happened to him.

He was truly alone.

A restless night left Harry exhausted and confused.

Was he really Dark? He didn’t feel Dark. He didn’t feel different at all, save for physically. Did that mean the book was wrong? How on earth was he supposed to know?

Maybe there would be books for vampires in Knockturn Alley, Harry thought with a shudder. It might be worth a try. He didn’t like the thought of going back into that place; but last time he had looked as shifty as everyone else and he hadn’t been bothered. Maybe that was the survival trick.

The plan was to go there after breakfast, but before he could get out of bed, he was struck with an unpleasant pain. He was used to abdominal cramps; after long periods of being half-starved at Privet Drive, he would always eat too much the moment he was allowed lots of food, and regret it the following day. But this was much, much worse than normal.

Maybe vampires couldn’t eat normal food after all? He’d had regular meals the day before, more out of habit than a need for them; plus an ice cream because, well, he loved Florean’s sundaes. Obviously that hadn’t been a good idea.

Harry lay on his bed, trying to block out the pain, searching desperately in his Defence book for any mention of vampires eating or not—nothing. Not that he had really expected it. It wasn’t exactly written with a vampire readership in mind.

He spent the rest of the day dozing, plagued with insecurities. The pain gradually lessened, and early evening Harry fell asleep entirely, sleeping much more soundly than the previous night. When he woke late morning, the pain was gone, and after his breakfast—just the blood, this time—he felt much better, and ventured forth to Knockturn Alley.

As before, Harry pulled his hood up and made his way carefully down the street, looking out for anywhere that looked like it might sell books. He was just passing the apothecary he had bought the blood from when someone strode out unexpectedly, and Harry crashed into them.

“Sorry,” he mumbled quickly, trying to keep his face hidden.

“Look where you’re going,” a voice snapped.

Harry went cold. It was Snape. Keeping his head low and hoping the man hadn’t recognised him, Harry made to retrace his steps, but a moment later a cold hand clenched on his arm and dragged him back, and his hood was ripped off his face.

“Potter,” Snape snarled, though he did it quietly. “Do you have a death wish?”

“N-no,” Harry stammered

Snape began dragging him back the way he had come, out of Knockturn Alley. Once they were safely in Diagon Alley, he rounded on him, eyes flashing.

“Maybe you can enlighten me as to the intention of your little escapade, Potter. A dare, was it? Or are you nurturing your criminal tendencies more than I gave you credit for?”

“No,” Harry mumbled.

“Well then, what?”

His mind was blank. The last person he wanted to find out the truth was Snape. But what on earth could he say?

“Well, Potter?”

“Research,” Harry said suddenly. “For, um, Defence Against the Dark Arts. The textbook didn’t answer all my questions so I thought—”

“So you thought you’d just skip over the nice big Defence section in Flourish and Blotts and get some first-hand experience,” Snape finished. “Potter, I’m sure even your—what passes for a brain—can tell that that alley is not one for the precious Boy Who Lived to wander in, let alone completely unsupervised. You get all sorts of Dark wizards in there; even Dark creatures.”

Yeah, Harry thought bitterly. Like me.

“Where are your relatives?”

Harry didn’t know how to answer this. Obviously Snape hadn’t heard about the Marge incident. Good. But if he didn’t know, Harry had no interest in enlightening him. “Around,” he said vaguely.

“That is not very helpful, Potter. Where exactly?”

“Why do you care?” Harry said before he could stop himself.

“Watch your tongue,” Snape growled. “Whilst I have no interest in being babysitter to a big-headed, reckless Gryffindor who thinks the world revolves around him, I will not let anyone say that I left the Golden Boy alone to get himself cursed, killed or turned into a vampire.”

Oh, the irony.

“Now where are they?”

“All right,” Harry grumbled. “They’re not here; I’m staying by myself in the Leaky Cauldron.”

Snape snorted. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Just ask Tom, he’ll tell you.”

“You’re really here alone?” Snape sounded incredulous.

“It was Cornelius Fudge’s idea. Well, sort of.”

“Then the Minister is quite clearly a bigger moron than I thought.” Harry was taken aback. “He left you—you—free to wander at your own will, with Sirius Black on the loose?”

“He seemed to think I’d be safe in Diagon Alley, sir.”

“The Minister obviously doesn’t know you like I do. If he did, then he’d realise that Harry Potter is simply too superior to keep to the restrictions for his own safety.”

“That’s not true!” Harry protested.

“Then what were you doing in Knockturn Alley?”

Snape had him, and he knew it. Harry bit his lip, and Snape looked triumphant.

“Well then; since it appears no-one else is inclined to keep you in line, I’ll just have to do it myself.” Before Harry could react, Snape had seized his wrist, drawn his wand in a loop around it, and said, “Retinaculum infans.” A glowing band briefly encircled where the wand had been, before disappearing. Harry felt suddenly trapped.

“Magical leash, Potter. You cannot stray from Diagon Alley until such time as you leave for Hogwarts.” Harry’s mouth fell open in horror. “If you try to venture into Knockturn Alley, or the Muggle world, or indeed any place in which you don’t belong, I will know—and believe me, the consequences will be most unpleasant.” Snape considered thoughtfully. “Perhaps I shall even re-cast the leash when we get to Hogwarts.”

“Sir!” Harry said in a strangled voice.

“It’s for your own good, Potter. And I for one do not wish for another year running about saving your worthless hide. Now get out of my sight.”

Harry fled, desperate to get away from the man, though he tried unsuccessfully to hide it.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. How was he supposed to find out what he needed now? A magical leash … Thank goodness he hadn’t run into Snape before he’d bought the blood, or he would be in even deeper trouble.

But that still left him with a huge problem.

In desperation, Harry headed to Flourish and Blotts, but all the books on vampires seemed to be from the Defence perspective. He didn’t want to buy too many for fear of raising suspicion, but picked out the ones he thought would be the most useful in informing himself of what to look out for. There was no mention anywhere of how to heal a vampire, so Harry hoped he would never have to know.

-

With the prospect of being leashed at school, Harry had to consider his diet carefully. So far, he’d been drinking two vials, three times a day, which felt like the right amount to fill him up. But with no idea how he would get more, Harry made the painful decision to ration it to make it last longer. One vial, three times a day—half what he should have, but even then he knew it wouldn’t last him till Halloween.

The unfortunate side-effect was that he now felt permanently hungry. Still, he was used to it, living with the Dursleys; and he figured that it was better than drinking his full now and then having to go without completely later on before he found another source. Diagon Alley had been no help in trying to find a mail order service; and besides, if it was as expensive as the apothecary had been, he would clean out his vault in no time. He wouldn’t be able to sneak into Hogsmeade with the leash, even if they had somewhere there. Snape might have some blood for potions use, but Harry couldn’t very well get it from him either. Otherwise, he was stumped.

Harry found himself yearning to tell his friends everything; no doubt Hermione, if she put her mind to the problem, would come up with an answer. But he knew he couldn’t. They were the best—really, the only—things he had in his life. The only things that really mattered, anyway. He wasn’t going to risk it.

-

Harry missed Snuffles. He had thought—hoped—the dog would turn up again, but it seemed his new friend had abandoned him. Maybe he had just stuck around as long as Harry had needed him for, then gone off to help some other wizard—or vampire—who needed it? Well, it didn’t matter. The only living creature he knew wouldn’t reject him, and he had gone. Harry was officially alone.

Since the leash had been cast, Harry had been spending most of his time in his room, struggling to see a way through. But by the fourth day, he was resolved enough was enough. He was done with moping. He had some freedom here—albeit limited—and he was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.

He forced himself out into the sun, exploring the shops, buying all his school provisions and didn’t try to test Snape’s leash. The last thing Harry wanted was to bring the slimy git running. He finished his homework at Florean’s, pleasantly surprised to find that a couple of sundaes per day was perfectly acceptable to his stomach as long as he didn’t eat anything more, and coveted the Firebolt on a daily basis. He was actually enjoying himself, and wouldn’t have cared at all about the leash if he didn’t have the uncertainty of the blood’s source hanging over him.

“So, what have you been up to here, Harry?”

The open-ended question, posed to him by Hermione, was the first one that Harry had to think carefully about answering since his friends had turned up—for an hour or two, it had felt almost as if Harry had never been bitten; as if things were back to normal.

Almost.

Now, at a dinner Harry was trying not to eat without drawing attention to the fact, he had to stop and think through his answer properly before he spoke. His first thought had been to tell her about Snape’s advanced strategy to keep him in line, and have a good moan about the greasy git—but then he would have to explain why Snape had cast the leash in the first place, which would lead to questioning why he had been in Knockturn Alley.

So Harry, feeling uncomfortable at the thought that he was going to have to get used to lying to his friends—or at least, omitting certain facts—edited his answer thoroughly, so it sounded like all he had done was browse and do homework.

“Harry, dear, are you not feeling well?” Mrs Weasley said after he had finished, giving him worried looks. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly, and shovelled in a mouthful of chocolate pudding to please her. It was sumptuous, and he looked longingly down at his bowl, but he didn’t dare have any more. Not unless he wanted to be ill on the train tomorrow.

Fortunately, everyone was shortly distracted by the discussion over how they were getting to King’s Cross the next day, and nobody noticed that Harry hadn’t eaten any more. By the time the meal had finished and Harry had gratefully escaped to his room, he was famished, and gulped down a vial of blood before sorting out his luggage.

-

Harry had something else to occupy his mind that night; and he was strangely grateful, despite what it was. So, a mass murderer was after him. Logically, he knew Black couldn’t be worse than Voldemort—right? But for some reason Harry couldn’t explain, he felt more scared than he knew was rational. Why?

Forget it, he told himself. It’s just late and you’re tired. Things will look more in perspective tomorrow.

The next day, however, Harry felt the same. In spite of this, he put on a brave face when he informed Mr Weasley he knew, and attempted to keep it when breaking the news to Ron and Hermione.

Harry didn’t get much of a word in after that for a while. His friends worried over Black, then the subject of Hogsmeade came up. Harry admitted he couldn’t go, but didn’t bother to correct Ron when he suggested sneaking out. The Diagon Alley leash was quite clearly gone, but the moment Snape caught up with Harry, he knew the man would be re-casting it.

That was a thought. Harry zoned out while the others bickered about Crookshanks. Snape had to actually get to Harry to cast the leash, right? Well, maybe if Harry could avoid him until he found out what he needed to know … Of course, that meant hoping he wouldn’t have Potions first thing.

To be on the safe side, maybe he should stay up that night, and try and get some answers. Harry had sneaked into the Restricted Section once before as a first-year, and it hadn’t gone well; but … well, what other choice did he have?

“You’re not eating?”

“Not hungry,” Harry mumbled as he passed Hermione her Cauldron Cake.

“But—”

“What about him?” Harry nodded towards the sleeping Lupin, hoping to distract her.

“Yeah,” Ron said, “looks like he could do with some food.”

Hermione turned her attention to the new teacher, and Harry sighed, hoping he had dodged another bullet. Unfortunately, he was hungry; and he also knew the moment he took out a blood vial, Hermione would guess what it was. He was going to have to wait until after the Feast, and hope his stomach didn’t growl audibly in the meantime.

-

When Harry walked into the Great Hall with Hermione, he noticed a lot of people whispering and pointing to him. He still felt very shaky—probably a combination of the Dementor and hunger—and when he saw his reflection in one of the goblets, he realised he looked awful. His attention was caught as Dumbledore stood, and finally, he felt calmer—probably the calmest since he’d been Turned.

After the announcements had been made and the Feast began, Harry tried to throw himself into conversation to draw attention away from the fact that he was eating a lot less than normal. It was difficult, faced with the array of mouth-watering foods, to remember that he could no longer heap anything he wanted on his plate, and he tried to select the foods he enjoyed the most and savoured the taste, resisting the temptation to try and quell his hunger (which he knew wouldn’t work, and just make him ill tomorrow). At least so far today he had only had the one piece of chocolate.

He, along with Ron and Hermione, were eager to talk to Hagrid, but Harry was nervous about going near Snape yet. But since Snape’s attention seemed to be focused on sending Lupin filthy looks, he dared to venture to the teachers’ table after the feast with them, and congratulated Hagrid on the teaching appointment before being shooed away.

-

Harry waited until he was certain the other boys in the dormitory were asleep before slipping out of bed and donning his Cloak. He had butterflies in his stomach, which had nothing to do with the fact that—as was normal now—he was still hungry after his real dinner.

He had formed a backup plan in case the Restricted Section failed. But the backup was incredibly risky; and if it didn’t pan out … he had another idea, but that was going to be impossible with the Dementors out there.

The library after dark was just as creepy as he remembered. Harry let himself in and headed straight to the Restricted Section, hesitating before he stepped over the rope. Like the last time, he was sure he could hear the books whispering to each other about the intruder.

Harry scanned the book titles for anything even vaguely related to vampires. Moste Potente Potions … Dark Magical Theory … A History of Necromancy … Vampirology …

Aha!

It wasn’t the only vampire book on the shelf. There was a whole set of them, all written by someone called D. O. Apprang:

Vampirology: Soulless and Sentient?

Vampires: A History of Bloodshed.

Vampires: Why Wizards Should Be Worried

Vampirology: The Hidden Evidence

Vampires and Werewolves: What to Do When Someone You Know is Bitten

Harry’s eyes widened at the last one. Finally! Granted, it was him that was bitten, not someone he knew—but that didn’t matter, right? This was what he had been looking for!

Hoping against hope that none of them would scream, Harry prepared himself to run, and carefully levitated the most hopeful book off the shelf.

Nothing happened, so he did the same for all the others, packing them in his empty schoolbag. He could still hear the other books whispering, a lot louder now; he moved to the other side of the room, sat down at a table and, at arm’s length, opened the What to Do book. He needed to know if it held the answers he needed before he retired to bed.

When nothing horrible happened, Harry flicked quickly to the contents page, running his eyes down it for any mention of food, blood, feeding … anything even vaguely related. When that didn’t pan out, he turned to the introduction.

Many a wizarding family has been torn asunder by The Bite. Werewolves and Vampires are both created from humans by the bite of another—

“I’m still human,” Harry whispered, but this time the protest was half-hearted.

—and it is vital to know how to act should such an unfortunate event occur.

Although I have lumped these two creatures together, there are different approaches to take for each, which I have detailed more clearly in later chapters. The first and most important thing for you to be aware of is that a werewolf cannot be a danger until the next full moon. The vampire, on the other hand, Turns the night the bite is received, or the next one if the bite occurred in daylight.

Either bite should be immediately reported to the Ministry of Magic, but a new vampire should be avoided or, if possible, restrained, until officials arrive. These days, vampires are no longer automatically hunted, but have to be tagged by the Ministry. Hunters are only sent if the vampire is deemed to be too dangerous, which most of them are.

It should be emphasised that your friend, or relative, or whomever received the bite, will still appear to think and act as they did as a human. DO NOT be taken in. A vampire is no more than the shell of—

Harry slammed the book shut, eyes prickling, and a chillingly familiar voice said, “Who’s there?”

Snape appeared in the doorway, his wand aloft. Harry swallowed, and silently placed the book back in his bag.

“Whoever you are, you’re in very deep trouble,” Snape snarled to the room. He didn’t move from his spot, and Harry had squeeze nervously around his teacher, for once grateful he was so skinny, in order to escape into the corridor.

Well, that had worked out well. There was no point trying to put the books back—besides, they could still hold information that could be useful—but Harry doubted he would find the answer to the blood question in there. Since Snape was still standing in the library, Harry figured he wouldn’t have a better chance to put Plan B into operation.

He hurried as quietly as he could down to the dungeons, and into Snape’s stores.

He’ll kill me if he catches me, Harry thought, but the thought that he could die anyway if he didn’t find a source of blood was enough to fuel his desperation.

Faced with the shelves and shelves of jars, Harry searched them as quickly as he could. It was some time before he discovered a familiar vial.

It was the same distinctive shape as the ones Harry still had in his trunk, and filled with the same colour liquid. He had no doubt that Snape had bought it from the same apothecary. There was only one vial, though—it wouldn’t last him long. Still, every little helped. Harry picked it up—then noticed the label.

Dragon’s blood, it said, in Snape’s writing.

Well, that certainly explained why it was so expensive.

A shout of anger from the corridor made Harry start, and to his horror, he dropped the vial. Blood and glass splattered everywhere. He pulled at his Cloak to make sure he was covered, just as a livid Snape appeared in the open doorway.

“Who’s in here?” he snarled, wand outstretched. His black eyes fell on the mess on the floor, and travelled upwards to where Harry was.

Later, Harry couldn’t explain what sheer recklessness drove him to do it. One moment he was panicking as he could see Snape comprehending that the intruder was invisible and taking aim; the next moment he had forgone magic altogether, lowered his head and shoulders and charged at Snape like a bull.

It was a move that had worked once or twice on Piers Polkiss (the rest of Dudley’s gang were too heavy; Harry had nearly broken his neck trying to headbutt Dudley), and it worked on Snape too, like a charm. The startled man fell backwards with an “Oof!”, and Harry vaulted him before speeding up the corridor.

He might have escaped, had he succeeded in knocking Snape to the ground hard enough. But to Harry’s disappointment, Snape recovered far too quickly. Harry was halfway up the Grand Staircase when he heard the shout, “Impedimenta!”

It felt like something had run into him; he stopped dead, then fell backwards down the stairs, finishing in a crumpled heap at Snape’s feet. His Invisibility Cloak was ripped off.

“POTTER! I might have known,” Snape seethed, glaring down at him. Before Harry could move, his teacher grasped him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him upright, before dragging him to his office.

“How,” Snape hissed once he’d pushed Harry into the chair in front of his desk, “dare you steal from me!”

“I wasn’t—” Harry lied desperately.

“Don’t lie to me! This is exactly why you need a leash, you intolerable boy! Since you seem utterly incapable of keeping to the rules! You do realise that thievery is not tolerated at Hogwarts, don’t you? How would you like to be expelled?”

Harry couldn’t breathe. Snape looked triumphant. Oh Merlin; he couldn’t be expelled. He couldn’t.

“B-but—I didn’t take anything!”

“You had the intent!” Snape snarled.

Harry’s mind whirled. “You can’t prove that! I—I—” He searched wildly for any explanation; anything. “It was just a … a dare! You can’t expel me just for being in the room!”

Snape scowled. “You are correct—I cannot. But for vandalising my property—”

“It was an accident!”

“Have you any idea how much dragon blood costs, Potter?”

Yeah, Harry thought. Too much.

“Since you did not successfully take anything, I will not take this up with your Head of House.” Harry felt sincerely relieved at that. “However, do not think you are getting off lightly. You have detention with me until further notice; you will repay me for the dragon’s blood; you have lost your House a hundred points; and I will be hanging onto this.”

Harry’s eyes widened as Snape gestured to the Invisibility Cloak. “I have to say, this explains a lot,” Snape said with a glance at it.

“Sir—please—”

“Silence!” Snape snapped. “I am perfectly within my rights as a teacher to confiscate this item. Especially considering its owner tried to take something from me.” Snape glared at Harry even harder. “What was in my stores you were so desperate for, Potter, hmm? Brewing a few illegal potions, are we? If you are, you’re even more stupid than I gave you credit for. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if you poison yourself or blow up half the school.”

Harry bit his tongue and said nothing.

“Well, then,” Snape said, “that brings us back to the leash.”

Harry jumped to his feet. “No!”

“Potter—”

“Sir, please!” Harry said, panicking. “Please don’t do it—give me more detention, take more House points, take all my belongings away—anything! Just please don’t do this!”

“It’s for your own good, you stupid boy.” Snape seized Harry’s arm. Harry squirmed, trying to wriggle out of Snape’s grip, but all he succeeded on doing was causing pain. “Will you keep still, Potter! You’re behaving like a toddler. You’re just going to hurt yourself.”

“You can’t do this!”

“I can!” Snape thundered. “And I will, and the more you fight me, the more restrictions I will put on it!”

Harry stopped pulling away. He hated giving in, but he knew deep down Snape would get the leash on him one way or another. He also knew if he kept struggling, Snape would do good on his threat and stop him being able to go to the Quidditch pitch or something.

“That’s better.” Snape cast the spell, and Harry again felt trapped—but this time the feeling was worse. “You are now restricted only to the areas of Hogwarts that students are allowed to be in, at those particular times. In addition, you are not allowed on the grounds after dark. If you test me, I shall restrict you further. Now go to bed. Straight to bed. If you take a single diversion, I will know.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered, defeated.

-

He struggled to wake up the following morning. For a start, having been awake half the night, he still felt exhausted. Secondly, he was regretting that last, irresistible slice of treacle tart for dinner last night. At least the pain was nowhere near as bad as the first time, though.

Harry dragged himself to the Great Hall, and tried his best to block out the Slytherins swooning across the room and focus on distracting Hermione from the fact that he wasn’t eating any breakfast. Fortunately, the timetables were being handed out, which did most of that job for him.

-

The pain didn’t leave until the end of Transfiguration, but by that time Harry had too many things on his mind to notice much. He followed his friends to the Great Hall out of habit.

“Harry,” Ron said in a low, serious voice once they were seated, “you haven’t seen a great black dog anywhere, have you?”

Rather than answering straight away, Harry busied himself filling his goblet with water, wondering how his answer would be taken. “Well—yes.”

Ron let his fork fall with a clatter.

“It wasn’t an omen,” Harry added quickly. “I mean, it was an actual real, flesh and blood dog. How can that be an omen?”

“I don’t know, Harry …” Ron sounded very anxious. “I don’t like it. How do you even know it was real?”

“I don’t think an omen would lick me,” Harry said with a small laugh. “No, he was definitely real. He followed me around for a couple of days while I was in Diagon Alley, and I gave him some food. That’s all there is to it. I think he must have been a stray.”

“There you are then, Ron,” Hermione said as if that settled it.

“But—” Ron didn’t sound convinced. “That can’t be a coincidence! Harry meeting a dog that looks like the Grim and then it turning up in his teacup—”

“Of course it was,” Hermione scoffed.

“Or,” Harry said with a forced grin, “maybe the tealeaves got confused and were predicting my past instead of my future, and that’s why Snuffles appeared in them.”

Even Ron sniggered.

“Hey, it fits.”

“Yeah … guess it does,” Ron said, smiling hesitantly.

“Honestly,” Hermione sighed.

“And I suppose you have a better explanation?” Ron rounded on her.

“Yes. It’s nonsense.” Hermione propped open her Arithmancy book. “I think Divination seems very woolly …”

“Well, he hasn’t been sacked,” Ron said, flopping down into a chair next to Harry’s in the crowded common room. Harry let out a sigh of relief. “He reckons it’s only a matter of time, though.”

“They can’t sack Hagrid,” Harry said flatly. “We were there; it wasn’t his fault—”

“We told him that,” Hermione said.

Harry gazed miserably out of the window at the light in Hagrid’s cabin. He hadn’t told Ron and Hermione why he couldn’t go to visit. They had looked a bit surprised when he stayed behind. Harry didn’t want to, but it had been getting dark and he wasn’t about to test the limits of Snape’s leash. Trust the git to stop him even being able to visit his friend.

This couldn’t go on. He had to find a way around the leash. But how?

Ask Hermione, a voice in his head said.

If I admit Snape put me on a leash, I’ll have to tell her why. How can I explain being in his storeroom?

He couldn’t think of a way. He was going to have to get out of this mess himself.

-

“Hey, what happened to all our points?”

Harry felt a guilty twist of his insides as they paused outside the Great Hall. Hermione was staring at the giant hourglasses, stunned. She wasn’t the only one, either.

“I don’t understand.” All the other hourglasses had started to accumulate points, and Slytherin already had twenty-five. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were tied at seventeen. But the Gryffindor one was still completely empty, with the brass numbers at the bottom reading. -64, and quite a large group of Gryffindors were puzzling over it.

“No-one takes that many points away on the first day …”

“We’ve never been in minus numbers before!”

“What on earth happened?”

“Professor!” Hermione called out to Professor McGonagall as she passed, heading for breakfast. “Why has Gryffindor got so few points?”

Professor McGonagall looked intently at the hourglass, frowning slightly. “Somebody must have lost Gryffindor a lot of points already.” Harry tried not to look guilty as everyone started theorising on who it was that had got into such serious trouble this early into term. Still … it looked like Snape hadn’t told Professor McGonagall what he’d done. That was one relief at any rate.

The relief was short-lived as Harry saw, with horror, Snape venturing out from the dungeons. Harry crossed his fingers so hard he thought he’d pulled a muscle, but it didn’t work. Professor McGonagall saw him.

“Ah, Severus … I don’t suppose you have any idea why my House is lacking in points this year?”

Harry wished the ground would open up and swallow him as Snape, with raised eyebrows, looked past the other teacher to him. He had a mad urge to run; but that would just make him look like a coward as well.

“Why Minerva, I suggest you ask Mr Potter. He lost one hundred points on his first night.”

Unlike Professor McGonagall’s enquiry, Snape had replied in a loud enough tone for it to carry around the entire Entrance Hall. Harry felt himself go scarlet in shame as all the Gryffindors threw him nasty looks. Hermione and Ron didn’t glare at him, but looked both surprised and hurt.

Great. Now what was he supposed to say?

Professor McGonagall also looked shocked, and disappointed. It was the disappointment that was the worst. Harry felt a lump in his throat and had to look away from her searching gaze. He felt someone tug on his arm, and stumbled into the Great Hall after his friends.

“What was all that about?” Ron hissed once they had sat down. “Harry?”

“I …” Harry’s mouth was dry, and he knew his friends were never going to buy it, but he had to try. “Snape caught me out of bed the first night back.”

“Harry!” Hermione looked stern. “What were you doing?”

“I was only walking,” Harry said lamely. “Just … stretching my legs after the long train ride. But he assumed I was up to no good so he took points … and gave me detention.”

“But—how’d he catch you?” Ron said, puzzled. “Weren’t you wearing the Cloak?”

“I … knocked something over when he was there,” Harry muttered. “He jinxed me and took it.”

“He took your Cloak?”

“Confiscated it. Said it’s for my own good,” Harry said bitterly.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other. Harry could tell they knew he wasn’t being straight with them.

“Okay,” Hermione said slowly, as they seemed to have reached an unspoken agreement not to challenge his version of events. “But why didn’t you just tell us straight away?”

“We wouldn’t hold it against you, mate,” Ron said.

“Even though it was a stupid thing to do and Professor Snape was right to take points—though I agree he shouldn’t have taken so many.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry muttered. “Look, I feel bad enough, okay?” He glanced up, and wished he hasn’t as he saw almost the whole Gryffindor table staring daggers at him. “Great, it’s like first year all over again …”

-

The next week was difficult to say the least. Everywhere Harry went, he had to put up with his House-mates’ hostility, the Slytherins’ glee, Dementor taunts and on top of it all, he was out of ideas.

The books he had stolen from the Restricted Section—now buried right at the bottom of his trunk; he didn’t dare risk trying to return them with no Cloak—had proved themselves not only deeply infuriating to read, but hadn’t helped the sustenance situation one bit. Harry had grown more and more depressed, the more details he read. And still, his questions about his soul had not been answered. The books had all been clear that he no longer had one—but the authors hadn’t cared to wonder where it had gone, or if it still existed at all.

Then there was the question … if Harry was actually Dark now, as all the books said he should be, why did the thought of drinking blood straight from one of the thousand people who lived in the castle with him, make him feel so nauseous? Harry couldn’t understand it, but he knew he would rather die than bite another person.

At least he thought he finally knew why the thoughts of Sirius Black and the Grim scared him so much.

One the one hand, if he was already as good as dead, what was the point in hanging around? Was he no more than a solid ghost? Would he even age? Vampires were immortal (if not invincible) after all. He didn’t want to have to spend an eternity in isolation.

But the thought of death—proper death—scared him much more now than it ever had before. If he had no soul anymore, then surely he would just … stop. There’d be nothing. Eternal nothing. The thought terrified him, and was the only reason he didn’t seriously consider trying to perform one of the more fatal anti-vampire curses on himself, to finish the job.

But being frightened of death didn’t make life any easier.

September passed without too much more drama. Although Harry was definitely still being treated frostily, it wasn’t as bad as it had been, and for the most part he was able to ignore it.

He still hadn’t told Ron and Hermione about the leash. He wasn’t sure why not. Maybe because it felt too humiliating. He had tried looking them up in the library, and found that they were usually only used to keep disobedient children in line. He couldn’t find a single case of someone using it to discipline a student.

He had also, to his dismay, discovered that they could only be removed by the castor willingly removing it, by the castor dying, or by trained Ministry officials. The only exceptions were a couple of cases where a child had performed unusually powerful accidental magic which severed the connection.

In other words, short of murdering Snape (“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered) or appealing to the Ministry of Magic for help (potential suicide), he was stuffed.

Food continued to be a struggle. He could often feel his friends’ eyes on him at mealtimes, Hermione’s especially; at least so far no-one had asked him outright what had happened to his appetite. As for his actual nourishment, with no ideas how to get more, he had rationed his blood further, to two vials a day instead of three in desperation.

At least one evening a week, Snape had Harry serving detention in the dungeons. The only good thing Harry could say about it was that it was an excuse not to be at dinner. Snape had him scrubbing cauldrons, preparing potions ingredients and cleaning up after classes, for three hours straight every time. Harry always emerged from them aching fit to burst and ready to collapse into bed.

-

After the drama of Halloween, Harry was more than frantic. He was now drinking only one vial a day, with very few left over, and the lack of sustenance was taking its toll. He felt tired all the time, and struggled to concentrate in class, even Defence Against the Dark Arts. Detention and Quidditch practices left him so drained he was constantly afraid he would pass out.

If I can’t find more, he thought fearfully, I am actually going to die.

For the millionth time, he wished he could just ask someone for help; but every time Harry looked at Ron and Hermione, hesitating, he knew he couldn’t do it. Even the thought of eternal nothing paled in comparison to the thought of losing his friends.

He was so engrossed in his dark thoughts on the way back from Quidditch practice, that he nearly ran into something.

“Woof!”

“Snuffles!” Harry gasped. “How on earth—”

Snuffles butted his hand, and Harry got the message and gave him a pat, followed by a grateful hug. “Wow, boy; I have no idea how you got all the way here, but I am so happy to see you.”

Snuffles whined and licked him, before tugging on Harry’s robes with his teeth.

“What is it?”

The dog just kept pulling at him, so Harry got back to his feet and followed, hoping he wasn’t going to bring Snape running.

Snuffles led him around the castle, to the foot of the North Tower. With every step Harry took, he could feel the leash protesting, like something was tightening across his chest; it was, after all, dark and his practice was finished. It was only a matter of time before Snape turned up.

“Snuffles,” Harry said anxiously, “I really should go back—I’m not supposed to be out here—”

The dog scrabbled at something in the wall, and pushed a brick in. There was a great grinding noise, and a section of the wall shifted out of sight, just big enough for Snuffles—or Harry—to crawl through.

“Wow,” Harry whispered, for a moment distracted from the impending danger. “How’d you know that was there?”

He received only a bark in response. Harry squatted down and squinted into the darkness. The room beyond was dimly lit, with a cluster of broken classroom furniture inside and a tapestry patterned with animals. He vaguely recognised it.

Snuffles closed the doorway, and took off like a shot across the grounds. A moment later, Harry knew why, as he heard someone approaching. He scrambled to his feet and, against every instinct, ran to meet them.

“So,” Snape hissed after Harry nearly collided with him—again. “The great Potter can’t follow a simple instruction, can he?”

“I just thought I—heard something,” Harry said quickly. “But it was just a … bird.”

He could see Snape didn’t believe him. “Potter, do you want to remain on your Quidditch team?”

Harry’s heart missed a beat. “Y-yessir.”

“Then I suggest you return to your common room immediately and stay there, and do so after every practice like you are supposed to do. I will not warn you again. Do I make myself quite clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry fled.

-

The first chance he got, Harry made his way to the room Snuffles had directed him to. It was only a storage room, and according to Professor McGonagall, not technically out of bounds. He had taken refuge in there a couple of times to get away from devoted fans, or taunting classmates. The door to it wasn’t very noticeable, and he had never run into another person in there.

When he arrived, he took a seat on the floor, and almost immediately the hole in the wall opened. Harry jumped, and beamed as Snuffles bounded eagerly towards him.

“Thank you for coming,” Harry said quietly, giving the dog a rub down which he seemed to enjoy. “I can’t tell you how lonely it’s been.” Snuffles whined, as if to offer sympathy. “Thanks. You’re the only one I can talk to about this. I don’t know how much longer—” Harry’s breath hitched and he couldn’t continue.

Snuffles nuzzled his cheek gently, wiping away the tears Harry hadn’t meant to shed. Harry continued petting him whilst he struggled for words. He could feel that Snuffles was still very thin, perhaps more so than before.

“You too, huh?” Harry said with a sigh. “I don’t know what to do, Snuffles. I’d—I’d rather die than bite someone else. But I’ve got virtually no blood left, and—and I’m so hungry …” He trailed off miserably. “Can you help me? You did before. Please?”

Snuffles gave a quiet “Woof!”, gave Harry a quick goodbye lick and padded back to the secret door. Harry watched him go, hardly daring to hope.

He waited for what felt like an age. Finally, Snuffles returned, tail wagging in triumph, with something clutched in his jaws.

Harry stared as Snuffles deposited the rabbit on the ground, and nudged it towards him pointedly. It was quite clearly dead, but freshly so.

He understood what he had to do. The part of him that had always had his meat cooked from a packet, squirmed at the thought. But the hunger won out. Harry picked up the rabbit and, with his eyes closed, bit into its neck.

The taste was different from the dragon’s blood, but not unpleasantly so. There was also more than could fit in one of the vials. Harry drank until he couldn’t get any more, and only when the rabbit was drained dry did he take a breath.

He hadn’t really considered hunting wild animals before—probably because of the obvious difficulty doing so within the boundaries of his leash. But Snuffles wasn’t leashed.

“Good boy,” Harry said.

When Harry had woken up to find himself in the Hospital Wing after the Quidditch match, he had panicked.

“Mr Potter, will you stop trying to get up,” Madam Pomfrey said sharply, pushing him back down onto his bed for the tenth time.

“But—”

“No! You need rest. If you won’t stop fighting me I will have to restrain you.”

Harry blanched. Now she sounded like Snape. When had Hogwarts turned into Privet Drive?

So far, she didn’t seem to have noticed anything odd about him—well, she had muttered about his colder-than-normal body temperature, putting it down to the Dementors; and made a couple of pointed comments about his thinner stature—but shown no sign of putting two and two together. Yet.

Unfortunately, Harry knew he was in trouble if he didn’t get out of the Hospital Wing as soon as possible. Even if she didn’t realise what he was, if he stayed here, he wouldn’t be able to feed. And with Snape’s leash, he couldn’t sneak out during the night.

He needed to get out now. But how to get past the matron? She was insisting on keeping him in for the rest of the weekend. What if by Monday he was too weak to make the journey?

Harry considered the problem over his dinner. Madam Pomfrey was breathing down his neck, and he ate as little as he thought she would let him get away with. When she reluctantly took the tray away, he took a big risk.

He leapt out of bed—as much as he could, not exactly in full health—hurried over to the door she had disappeared into, and heaved a bedside table up against it. He then pulled a set of curtains across the window in case someone walked in, opened it up, and looked wildly out.

Now he had a problem. Summoning charms weren’t taught till fourth year. Harry leaned right out of the window-sill, eyes searching, and could have cried in relief when he saw a crow perched on the edge of the roof, almost directly above him.

It was the only spell he could think of, and he hoped it wouldn’t miss. Harry took quick but careful aim, and whispered, “Diffindo!”

He felt incredibly guilty as the bird let out a screech and fell, its wing broken. Harry wasn’t the youngest Seeker in a century for nothing—he reached out a hand and just managed to catch it, earning himself a very sharp nip on the fingers as the crow struggled for freedom.

A rattling doorknob followed by a loud banging signified Madam Pomfrey was trying to come back into the ward. Harry forced himself to stop feeling sorry for the bird—he couldn’t help but think of it as his victim. He hadn’t bitten anything alive before.

Sorry, Harry thought miserably. It’s me or you.

He wrung its neck, instantly feeling nauseous, but knew it was the kindest approach. The moment the bird was dead, and beyond feeling what Harry was about to do to it, Harry sank his fangs in and drank what he could before depositing the dry body out of the window.

Madam Pomfrey was still banging, and yelling for help. Harry hurried to remove the table, and the door shot open, knocking him in the face.

“Ow!”

“Oh, sorry, Potter!” Madam Pomfrey looked frazzled. “What happened there?”

“Um, I think the door was just stuck,” Harry lied, not looking her in the eye.

“Hmm … well, back to bed, young man. Now.”

Harry knew he couldn’t do that again. But at least he had something in his system to keep him going till Monday. He wished he could have escaped, but Madam Pomfrey would have tracked him down like a bloodhound and done good on her threat to tie him up. He had no choice but to stay, and hope that for once, luck would be on his side.

-

It looked like it was, for the most part. Madam Pomfrey hadn’t discovered his secret, which made up for the fact that during Monday’s classes, Harry was fighting the most unpleasant stomach pain of his life. Madam Pomfrey had made sure he ate what she gave him, in amongst tutting at his skinny frame. She had let him go reluctantly, telling him firmly that he was to keep it up, and Harry had lied again, telling her he would.

“I hate lying,” he said to Snuffles later after filling the dog in. He had spotted Snuffles in the stands during the match, and the dog seemed to have been quite concerned for him, covering him with licks when Harry had appeared. “I mean, lying to Snape’s one thing; it’s not like the git actually cares about me.” Snuffles’ ears had pricked at that. “He’s probably just trying to cause himself less trouble … But Madam Pomfrey, she’s the nurse. She means well. I don’t like lying to her … or anyone.”

Snuffles whined and licked Harry’s cheek. Harry sighed.

-

November passed slowly. Every moment he got, Harry would sneak into what he now thought of as Snuffles’ room. Since nobody ever went in there—the dust and cobwebs could attest to that—he smuggled the D. O. Apprang books into the room and hid them under a load of junk. Just in case. They had to be missed at some point, after all, and since Snape knew he had been out of bed in his Cloak that night …

Sometimes Snuffles was there in the room, sometimes he wasn’t; sometimes there would be a meal for Harry, and sometimes there wasn’t. The erratic supply meant Harry was still consuming far less than he needed, and what with the demands of classes and Quidditch practise, he still felt drained all the time.

But the real problem began when winter arrived. Snuffles’ offerings had gone from erratic to almost non-existent. He was sometimes there, whining mournfully as if trying to apologise, but most of the time Harry didn’t see him.

Since he had been living on rabbits, with a couple of birds and rats and, once, a fox, Harry figured that hibernation had been the cause of Snuffles’ hunting problems. He tried to assure the dejected dog that he didn’t blame him—which he didn’t—but Harry was worrying madly again. His leftover dragon blood had now all been used up, and if Snuffles couldn’t find anything else, Harry was going to starve.

When the last day of term rolled around, Harry had been without any blood for a week. He felt awful, but dragged himself out of bed to see his friends off to Hogsmeade in order to avoid probing questions into his health.

“Harry, are you all right?” Hermione asked, sounding concerned.

“’Course, I’m fine,” Harry said, a little too quickly. “Have fun in Hogsmeade.”

He began heading back to Gryffindor Tower, not really thinking about what he was going to do, but got cornered by Fred and George—and the Marauder’s Map. Whilst they were showing him how it worked—Harry almost forgot his troubles for a few minutes in wonder—he didn’t bother telling them that it actually wouldn’t help him get to Hogsmeade. Snape had made sure of that.

He waved them goodbye, and allowed himself a sigh once they had gone. As tempting as the map was, he couldn’t use it to help him. He pocketed it and continued his journey to the common room, hoping the twins wouldn’t mention the map to Ron and Hermione—they would want to know why he hadn’t come then.

It all came down to Snape, Harry thought bitterly. If Snape had just left him alone, then Harry wouldn’t be in this mess. He would be able to go to Hogsmeade with his friends. He would be able to visit Hagrid. And he would be able to go out hunting for himself, use a wand to find what he needed …

Mind you, did he really know any spells that would bring animals out of hibernation?

Harry scowled. He couldn’t even blame everything on Snape. It wasn’t fair. He needed someone to blame this on. And somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to blame the vampire that had Turned him.

He admittedly hadn’t thought about it much since that night. He still didn’t quite understand what had happened there. Who the attacker was, and who the vampire was. Maybe he never would know.

Harry began making his way to Snuffles’ room, in the vague hope that maybe there would be something in there that would make him feel a little less hungry and tired—at least for a while.

On his way to Snuffles’ room, Harry passed Crookshanks, and another cat. His thirst seemed to grow stronger as he laid eyes on them, and he thought with alarm that he was really in trouble if he was starting to think about feeding from people’s pets. He was desperate, but knowing how devastated he would be if someone killed Hedwig, determined to never be that desperate.

Feeling fainter, Harry slid down the wall and tried to get his breath back. Walking around Hogwarts had never been the easiest task—it was just so big—but nowadays it really seemed to take it out of him.

“Are you all right, Potter?”

Harry’s eyes snapped open. Professor McGonagall was standing two feet from him, concern in her eyes.

“Yeah … fine, Professor,” he tried to say firmly.

Her mouth twitched, and he thought he detected sympathy, but his eyes were drawn to something on the ground next to her. A large cage, filled with white rabbits.

His mouth started to water and his heart began to beat very quickly. It was an effort to tune back into Professor McGonagall’s words. “… not at Hogsmeade, Potter.”

“Huh?”

She frowned at him, looking less sympathetic. “If you’ve got nothing better to do than sit there feeling sorry for yourself, maybe you could assist me carrying these to my classroom?”

Harry wasn’t certain he had the physical strength, but he couldn’t miss the opportunity, and he knew she wouldn’t like it if he refused. “Yes, Professor.” He got carefully to his feet, and upon her instruction took hold of one end of the cage whilst she took the other end.

As they made their very slow way to her office, Harry wondered why he hadn’t thought of this before. Pets were off-limits—but these weren’t pets, exactly. Hogwarts brought in animals for the students to learn spells on—no teacher (well, except maybe Snape) would ever use a student’s pet in case something went horribly wrong. These creatures were destined solely to be, well, lab rats.

Harry counted the rabbits as they went. Twelve. They would hardly last him all of winter, but maybe if he got his hands on the replacements as well …

You’re jumping the gun a bit, he thought. How are you going to get your hands on these?

“Professor,” Harry asked, with difficulty for lack of breath.

“Yes, Potter?”

“Why’ve you brought these in right before the holiday?” The timing seemed rather odd to him.

“They were supposed to be here a week ago for a specific lesson,” she replied, irritation in her voice.

“Oh.”

Professor McGonagall checked her watch. “I have to go; I have to be in the Three Br—I mean, I have somewhere to be. Out, please, Potter.”

Through his muddled mind, Harry somehow got an idea. As he left the room, he stuck a screwed-up bit of old parchment in the strike plate. Professor McGonagall, fortunately, didn’t notice. Once she had swept off down the corridor, Harry tried the door.

It worked like a dream. The lock hadn’t gone in, so all he had to do was push the door open.

Now, though, he faced the problem of getting a large cage of rabbits all the way to Snuffles’ room. Unnoticed.

Harry pulled out the map, and whispered, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The ink lines spread over the parchment again, forming Hogwarts. Harry checked the ground floor for people—there were too many ink figures in the area to risk it.

Except …

There seemed to be nobody outside. Nobody at all. Well, there was a bit of a blizzard outside. Perhaps Harry could take advantage of this.

He opened one of the windows wide, and—with difficulty—levitated the cage out of the window onto the snowy ground outside. He climbed out of the window himself, closing it behind him, and slowly dragged the cage around the castle.

The cage was rectangle rather than square, and Harry compared the height and width to Snuffles’ secret door. It might just about fit. Hoping he was right, and after checking the map again, Harry opened it up and pushed the cage through.

He didn’t dare use the door himself, knowing it would probably be classed as ‘out of bounds’ and therefore the leash wouldn’t allow it, but walked back around to the front doors and made his way there that way.

Once he finally got to the room, Harry collapsed on the floor from exhaustion. After a few minutes to catch his breath, he crawled over to the cage of rabbits waiting for him. He opened it up and took one out, turning his back on the other eleven pairs of eyes in order to eat. He felt bad enough about it.

“Woof?”

It was startling to hear how human Snuffles could sound sometimes. Harry couldn’t help but smile as the dog emerged from the passage, staring at the cage.

“It’s okay, they’re no-one’s pets. They were just going to be Vanished or something in class.”

“Woof!” Snuffles allowed Harry to hug him, and settled down on the floor, panting. He had brought no animals, and his fur was full of snow. Harry gently brushed him off.

“Here.” He handed Snuffles the dead, drained rabbit, and the dog dug in hungrily. Harry figured he probably hadn’t eaten all week either.

“We’re a right pair, aren’t we?” he murmured, and Snuffles put his head in Harry’s lap. Harry scratched him behind the ears and he let out a contented sigh. “Don’t worry, boy. We’ll make it through till spring.”

“Woof.”

-

On their way back to Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione were in near silence, pondering what they had heard.

They both bitterly wished the teachers had noticed them in the pub. When they had started telling Rosmerta the story, both Ron and Hermione had frozen, curiosity stopping them from leaving or drawing attention to themselves. But the revelations had left them feeling hollow and hurt on Harry’s behalf.

Ron was the first to speak. “I say we don’t tell Harry.”

Hermione nodded in agreement. She could only imagine what he might do with the information. Go after Black, maybe. And get himself killed in the process. No … this story was staying strictly between them.

-

“Irma sent me to ask you for the Apprang books.”

Severus sighed, deliberately keeping his back to Pomona as he finished stirring the next batch of Wolfsbane Potion. If he didn’t want to be sacked for giving the werewolf a substandard concoction, he needed to get it right.

This happened every term. Since some of the staff—all right, mostly just Severus—were in the habit of ‘borrowing’ books from the library out of hours, the result was that occasionally, a title or a few would be missing from the shelves without a record of where it went. Irma usually waited a week for it to show up again before adding it to the list of Lost Books that was kept on every notice board of the castle. At the end of every term, she demanded all the lost books back from the staff on pain of … well, so far nobody had pushed her. Mostly they were in Severus’ possession.

“I haven’t got any library books,” he said when he was able to pause in the brewing long enough to answer.

“Er … are you sure?” Pomona said, sounding as timid as some of her students. “It’s just … I’ve asked the rest of the faculty already. And they were from the Restricted Section.”

“I don’t have them.”

“You couldn’t just take a peek, in case you forgot? Irma says they’ve been missing since the beginning of the year. The titles are—”

“I don’t care what they are; I don’t have anything by D. O. Apprang. Never did, never will.” Severus suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Why would he want to read that crap? It wasn’t worth the paper it was written on.

Pomona paused. “Oh. Well … if you don’t have them … it must be one of the students.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Severus muttered, reaching for his next ingredient. “Thieving little—” He paused, a light suddenly flicking on, and he performed a quick stasis spell so he could face Pomona, focusing his attention on her properly. “When did you say these books went missing?”

“The first night of term. Why?”

Oho. Potter. It had to be. The little sneak had been in the Restricted Section before he went to Severus’s stores. Well, he would greatly enjoy this.

“Oh, no reason,” he said, trying to sound off-hand. “I was just surprised Irma hasn’t started breathing fire about it by now.”

Pomona laughed with him.

-

Word quickly spread that twelve white rabbits had gone missing from Professor McGonagall’s office, but not many people seemed to be very bothered about it. Professor McGonagall, when Harry next saw her, seemed confused but resigned to the fact that she was going to have to order in more. Everyone else seemed to find it rather amusing, and there were various rumours circling over what the perpetrator had wanted them for.

Everyone except Snape.

Harry could feel the scrutiny whenever they were in the same room over the next few days. He did his best to ignore it, but to Harry’s horror, after several days Snape called him into his office for ‘a word’.

“So, Potter,” Snape said as Harry approached his desk. “What has our most famous kleptomaniac been up to this time?”

With an awful feeling about where this was going, Harry tried to blink innocently at Snape. “Sorry sir?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me. Professor McGonagall admitted you were the last person to be in the vicinity with the rabbits, apart from herself.”

“But I left the room with her, and I don’t have a key,” Harry said honestly. “How could I have taken them? What would I want with a load of rabbits anyway?”

“I don’t know, Potter—yet. But I am watching you and you mark my words, once I have found out what you are up to, your Hogwarts career will be over. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“Now get out.”

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.”

When Harry left the Transfiguration classroom, he had no intention of going to the Hospital Wing. Maybe he could just skip Divination from now on, Trelawney was so batty she probably wouldn’t … no, on second thoughts, if there was one student she was bound to realise was missing, it was him. Plus, the leash would no doubt alert Snape he was skiving. Harry would be in big trouble.

Instead, he headed towards Snuffles’ room, intending to curl up there for a kip during lunch since it was closer than Gryffindor Tower. Unfortunately, to get there he had to pass the Great Hall, and today there was someone waiting for him outside.

“Harry!”

He jumped, and his heart sank further as Ron and Hermione each grabbed hold of one of his arms. “Er … what are you guys doing?”

“What do you think we’re doing?” Ron asked as the two of them marched Harry into the Great Hall. “It’s lunchtime!”

“Yeah, I know but … I’m not really hungry; I’ll just meet you in—”

They stopped by the Gryffindor table and forced Harry down onto his seat. “Eat something, Harry,” Hermione said, folding her arms stubbornly. “Now.”

He had already tried to get away—fruitlessly—and since he wasn’t up to arguing either, Harry helped himself to a tiny helping of lasagne and began picking at it as his friends sat down either side of him.

It took him a moment to realise what had happened when Hermione, without asking permission, plonked a much larger portion on his plate.

“Er, Hermione, what are you doing?”

“You need to eat, Harry. Properly. Don’t say you’re fine because you’re obviously not. We’re not letting you leave this table till you’ve finished that.”

Alarmed, Harry stared at the heaped plate. “Hermione—I can’t—you can’t do that!”

“We can,” Ron said in between mouthfuls. “Look, mate, we’re only trying to help. And for the record, this was Hermione’s idea.”

Hermione shot him a glare.

“You’re not helping!” Harry spluttered.

“Please just eat it,” Hermione pleaded. “You’re skin and bones, Harry.”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not! I think you should talk to Madam Pomfrey.”

Oh please guys, not you too, Harry thought gloomily. “No! I’m fine!”

“No you’re not!”

Harry tried to stand up, but couldn’t leave his seat. “What the—what have you done?”

“Sticking spell. I’ll release you when you’ve cleared your plate.”

Harry turned pleading eyes on Ron, who paused in his own lunch consumption to give Harry a stern look. “Sorry Harry; I agree with her. You’re on your own.”

Now panicking, Harry looked back at the food. It wasn’t the amount here that scared him—he could probably get away with eating it if he didn’t have anything else that day. And even if he couldn’t, he knew he could survive the cramps, horrible as they were. But what scared him was the horrible feeling he had that his friends were not going to stop after just one meal. He didn’t know what would happen if they kept forcing food on him, and he was not at all eager to find out.

But what choice did he have? Bad stomach pains or losing his friends …

No contest. Harry began to eat, very slowly, in the hope that that would help him digest it. Hermione beamed, and Ron looked pleased too as he went back to his own food.

-

He couldn’t afford to eat slowly at dinner time. Harry had failed to escape his friends after the final lesson ended, and, as Ron reminded him, he had detention that night with Snape. Harry, once again stuck to his seat, didn’t stop to argue against the too-large helping and ate it quickly before hurrying to the dungeons.

“You’re late,” Snape snarled as Harry stepped inside the room. This wasn’t even true, but Harry couldn’t protest. He could barely stand as it was.

The classroom was filled with cauldrons coated in a very sticky black substance. Harry was immediately put to work while Snape, as usual, graded papers and made the odd derogatory comment.

Thanks to the Dursleys, Harry was normally pretty good at cleaning, even if he was getting slower and slower. But this stuff was near impossible to get rid of. He tried every single cleaning solution at his disposal, but it took ten minutes of elbow grease just to clean the rim. Of a single cauldron.

“Come on Potter, we don’t have all night.”

The evening passed agonisingly. By the time curfew arrived, Harry had done three cauldrons, and every muscle in his body was screaming. The cramps hadn’t even started; this was just from the manual labour.

“Well, Potter.” Harry was too exhausted to panic as Snape examined his handiwork. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any slower. Perhaps if you stopped moping about losing your place on the Quidditch team and actually focused on scrubbing, you would be able to finish your detention before midnight. Get back to work.”

Oh, terrific, Harry thought miserably. How the hell did Snape find out already? He hadn’t even had a chance to tell Ron and Hermione yet. If Snape knew, it probably meant the Slytherins knew as well.

Stop it, he told himself fiercely. Focus, like the slimy git said. Get this done and then you can sleep.

Sleep—yes, that was good motivation. Harry began work on the fourth cauldron.

-

“POTTER!”

Snape sounded furious, and Harry jerked awake, wondering what he’d done to incense him—

Oh. Right.

Eyes flashing dangerously, Snape loomed over him. Harry realised he was still sprawled over Cauldron Number Six, and hurriedly sat up straight.

“Does this look like Gryffindor Tower, Potter?” Snape hissed.

“Um, no sir.” Harry clamped his jaws together tightly to avoid yawning in his teacher’s face.

“Yet you seem somewhat confused as to the purpose of this classroom. It is not a common room or a dormitory, Potter. As such, you are not permitted to treat it as if it was.” Snape eyed him evilly. “Stand up.”

Harry swallowed nervously, and dragged himself to his feet.

“Sometime this week, Potter.” Once Harry was standing, Snape continued, “You are to serve the rest of your detention standing. Should your lazy backside come into contact with the floor again, I will place upon it a Stinging Hex so strong that you will not be able to sit down for a month. Is that clear?”

“B-b-but sir …”

“Don’t answer back, Potter! I said is that clear?”

Harry nodded shakily. “Y-yessir.”

Remain on his feet for the rest of his detention? He was having trouble keeping upright already!

Harry swayed dangerously as he finished the sixth cauldron, and moved onto the seventh.

Only twenty-three to go.

And then the cramps started. It was all Harry could do to keep from gasping aloud as the first one rippled through him. He seized the nearest desk to stop himself falling to the ground.

“Potter, what do you think you’re playing at now?”

Snape wouldn’t show any mercy, Harry knew. As much as he wanted to beg for reprieve, he bit his tongue.

“Sorry, sir,” he gasped. “Just—slipped.”

He was never going to last. He could barely move for the pain. His legs weren’t going to hold him for much longer.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

He would not pass out in front of Snape. He would not pass out in front of Snape. Anyone but Snape …

Harry tried taking a step in the direction of the door, but wobbled, his legs like rubber. He clung tighter to the edge of the desk, which he still hadn’t let go of.

“Potter?”

Harry shook himself, suddenly aware that Snape had moved. The man was now standing directly in front of him, frowning but not glaring. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Um …”

His vision was blurring. This was not good. Harry tried to make another break for the door, but after two steps, his legs gave way completely.

-

Severus was startled as his least favourite student collapsed in front of him. Potter was deathly pale and, Severus discovered upon checking his pulse, cold and clammy.

Drat. The boy was sick. Now he was going to get a nice little lecture from Minerva and Poppy on the importance of not keeping students in detention past their bedtimes.

He pushed aside the slight twinge of guilt that he’d assigned such a difficult task when the boy was already ailing, and examined him more closely. Potter was still conscious, which surprised him, but very groggy.

“S-sorry Professor,” Potter mumbled, trying to get up. Severus sighed in exasperation and pushed him back down. “Prof—?”

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, why did you not just say you were ill?” Severus grumbled as he conjured a stretcher. “Is your pride really that enormous? Gryffindors.”

“Like you’d’ve let me off,” Potter mumbled sleepily. “’M’not stupid.”

He cried out in surprise and tried to fight Severus off when he moved him onto a conjured stretcher.

“Ouch! Kindly save your juvenile temper tantrums for when I don’t have to deal with you.” Severus flicked his wand, the stretcher levitated, and he began the journey to the Hospital Wing.

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.

Well, that answered his question as to what happened when a vampire ate too much.

By Thursday dinnertime, Harry didn’t know how he would ever be able to sit up again. Unable to make it up to the dormitory, Ron and Hermione had tucked him up on one of the Gryffindor House sofas.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione said soothingly, wiping Harry’s sweaty forehead. “Maybe that roast was a bit much. It was almost a Ron-sized portion.”

“Oy!”

Harry didn’t know how to respond, but before he could figure it out, a particularly sharp pain clenched his abdomen and he jerked away from Ron and Hermione right before he vomited over the side of the sofa.

Later, Ron described it as the apocalypse. Harry didn’t want to describe it, but if he had tried, he would have said he had a pretty good idea now what a volcano felt like. Hermione went running for help before Harry could stop retching long enough to even notice, let alone stop her, and brought Professor McGonagall on the scene.

Harry had been brought, very unwillingly, to the Hospital Wing, though he had barely had the strength to remain awake after his ‘eruption’ ended, let alone fight his both friends and his Head of House. The few moments he was conscious, he was sure that his secret was about to be found out, and bade a miserable mental goodbye to his friends. He didn’t even notice that the crippling pain had finally stopped.

-

“You should have brought him to me weeks ago,” Madam Pomfrey huffed as she examined Harry. Ron and Hermione hung their heads in shame. “You said he hasn’t eaten properly since when?”

“The summer,” Ron said in a small voice.

“We’ve tried everything to get him to—”

“Everything except getting him medical attention, clearly.”

Hermione went even redder. She bitterly wished she had acted earlier. Harry was just so stubborn … She didn’t like forcing things on people even when she knew it was best for them. Harry always made her feel somehow guilty for mothering him. Knowing Harry wouldn’t appreciate her forcing him into anything, even for his own good, she had held back for far too long. And obviously the force-feeding had been a mistake in itself—she should have marched him straight to the Hospital Wing instead.

She could see Ron felt guilty too, but Hermione knew she was more responsible than he was. Ron on his own couldn’t have got Harry to the Hospital Wing, and whilst he had wits of his own, he wasn’t naturally observant. No … the blame lay squarely with Hermione.

Madam Pomfrey began quizzing them both on Harry’s eating habits (or lack of), and she shook herself before doing her best to answer as precisely as possible. She’d let Harry down enough.

-

“Welcome back, Mr Potter.”

Harry instinctively recoiled as he came to his senses. Every instinct was screaming at him to run away from the matron, who was standing next to his bed, but he knew without trying that he wouldn’t make it. He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to stand. He felt better for the sleep—all the pain had gone—but still extremely weak, and his stomach felt like something was writhing inside it.

“Um … morning?” he offered feebly. Surely if she already knew his secret, she wouldn’t be so polite …

“Actually, it’s Friday afternoon,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Nearly one o’clock.”

“Oh.” Harry couldn’t find it in him to care too much what time it was. What did it matter? He was too frail to escape, and it was only a matter of time before he was spotted for the freak he was—at which point, if the Ministry didn’t put him out of his misery, everyone else was sure to make him wish they had. Maybe Harry would be able to talk someone into doing it so he wouldn’t have to slowly starve to death.

He still didn’t want to die. But it was going to happen. He didn’t want it prolonged.

So really, what did he care what time of day it was?

The snake in Harry’s stomach gave an unexpected lurch, and Harry himself lurched for the edge of the bed again. A bucket popped into existence just in time.

“Oh, dear,” Madam Pomfrey said with a sigh. “There goes the nutrition potion. Perhaps a weaker one …”

She gently mopped him up, told him to wait for a moment, and went to see what the patient who had just arrived in the ward wanted. For something to occupy him, Harry looked over, and saw Lupin had carried in a first-year covered in blood.

Upon seeing the blood, Harry’s senses went on red alert. His mouth watered. His cravings intensified.

No, no, no! he thought, horrified. That wasn’t right—it was sick—it was … wrong. But he couldn’t help it. He was so hungry.

And he could smell her blood, all the way across the ward. Harry was simultaneously drawn to it, and sickened by the fact.

To Harry’s relief, Madam Pomfrey needed to attend to the student immediately, and whisked her away behind a set of curtains. Harry could no longer see the temptation, though he could still smell it. Desperate to take his mind off it, Harry tried to focus on Lupin.

“What happened to her?”

Lupin, who had been watching without paying any attention to what—or who—else was in the ward, jumped and whirled around to see Harry watching him. “Oh! Harry, you startled me.”

“Sorry.”

“Am I to take it I won’t have the pleasure of your presence in my class next period?” Lupin smiled at Harry and took the vacant seat next to his bed.

“That would be correct,” Harry said, trying not to think about how he would no longer be in any classes anymore.

“Pity … Well, to your question—nasty duel on the fourth floor. I’m not entirely sure what happened; her opponent scarpered when I came on the scene. The other Professors are on it.”

Harry nodded.

“What about you? Nothing serious, I hope?”

Harry tried to force back the lump in his throat. “Just a bug, probably.”

“Ah, so you’ll be back with us before we know it. Excellent.”

If Lupin had been trying to make Harry feel better, he was failing spectacularly.

A pause fell, and Harry wracked his brain for a conversation topic—something that would keep his mind off what lay beyond the curtain. “Professor Lupin …”

“Yes, Harry?”

“What’s under a Dementor’s hood?” It was a question he had been thinking about lately—when his mind wasn’t taken up with everything else, that is.

“Hmm …” Lupin said thoughtfully, looking Harry up and down as if trying to decide whether the answer was suitable to tell an invalid. Harry must have passed the test, however, for he continued, “Well, the only people who really know are in no condition to tell us. You see, the Dementor only lowers its hood to use its last and worst weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“They call it the Dementors’ Kiss.” Lupin briefly described how a Dementor could suck out the soul of its victim through the mouth, and Harry shuddered violently. For a moment, he was almost grateful that he no longer had one to lose.

“So—they kill—?”

“Oh, no. Much worse than that. You can exist without your soul, you know …”

Tell me about it, Harry thought.

“… as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you’ll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no … anything. There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just—exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever … lost.”

Harry forced back the lump in his throat, but something didn’t feel right about Lupin’s answer. He paused, trying to figure it out.

“So—without a soul—you can’t have a memory or anything?” he said slowly.

“That’s correct.”

“Not at all?”

Lupin frowned slightly, but nodded. “Not at all. Why?”

“Just …” Harry didn’t have a choice; he had to take the risk; he had to know. “What about vampires?”

Lupin stiffened. “Ah … that’s a different matter.”

“How? Don’t the same rules apply? I thought vampires retained their memories of being human before they Turned.”

“They do,” Lupin said slowly.

“So what makes them different?”

“Well … er … what do you know about vampires, Harry?”

“Only what I’ve studied.” Harry didn’t mention that this went pretty far beyond what they had done in class.

“Well … what you’re asking … it goes far beyond third year Defence, Harry. Or even NEWT level … I’m not sure I could answer a question of that—”

“Could you just try?” Harry said desperately. He could tell when he was being fobbed off but he didn’t care; he was going to get answers out of Lupin if it killed him. “Please, Professor? I need—I mean, I want to know! Really want to know!”

Lupin looked at him sharply, frowning slightly. For a long moment, Harry held his gaze. He could see the cogs turning in those amber eyes, but he couldn’t let it drop.

Finally, Lupin spoke. “It’s … really important to you … isn’t it, Harry?”

Harry nodded determinedly. Lupin glanced around them and dropped his voice to almost a whisper.

“I could get in a lot of trouble for telling you this, but since you have such a keen … academic … interest in the area …”

It was clear from his tone that he knew—or at the very least suspected—that Harry’s interest was not at all academic.

“There is a lot of debate about the nature of vampires that you don’t find in books. You won’t see it in the papers either. The Defence curriculum is made up of the majority view, which is, as you have so aptly argued, full of holes. The Ministry of Magic subscribe to the majority view out of fear and ignorance, and as such anything published that goes against the grain is either discredited or suppressed altogether. As such, we’re not allowed to teach anything else.”

“But … what do you believe?”

“Me?” Lupin gave a faint smile. “Let’s just say I have an empathy for those whom the wizarding majority see fit to reject.”

“So …” Harry pushed.

“Oh, yes—in answer to your question—the majority theory is that the reason a vampire retains their memories is because, whilst their own soul is lost, the body is now host to a Dark spirit. However, there is an alternative—and in my view, more logical—explanation; that the soul is still there, intact, and it’s only the body that undergoes the change. In which case, vampires are no more Dark than wizards. Unfortunately, there are very few wizards who believe this.”

“But you do?” Harry whispered.

“Yes, I do.”

There was a pause. Lupin seemed to be wrestling with himself.

“As a side note …” His tone confirmed that he thought it was nothing less than the main argument. “By all logic—and I’m speaking as a Defence Against the Dark Arts expert—if vampires were what the books say they are, then there is no way they would be affected by Dementors. For a start, Dementors have no affect on any Dark creatures. Dark wizards, yes, but that’s because they still have a human soul—otherwise Azkaban would be null and void. But Dark creatures are immune. Secondly, because any memories that might have plagued the human, wouldn’t bother an invading Dark spirit, because the memories wouldn’t belong to it. They would just be ghost memories, from another’s life. They would have little to no meaning to the vampire.”

Lupin paused for a long time while Harry struggled not to cry. “If you know of a vampire affected by Dementors, then you know he still has a soul. In my book, that makes him as human as any of those idiots at the Ministry who say different.”

Oh, Merlin. Harry couldn’t stop the tears anymore. He turned away, but Lupin made no comment and simply handed him a box of tissues, one hand on his shoulder. Harry scrubbed frantically, but before he could quell the childish snivels, they were interrupted by the bell.

Lupin looked up and sighed. “Harry … we’ll talk later, all right? I have a class to teach.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said in a strangled voice. “Professor …”

“Yes?” Lupin said gently.

“Th-thank you.”

He received a smile and a squeeze on his shoulder in return, before Lupin—after checking on the other student—left the ward.

With his teacher gone, Harry burrowed right under the covers in case anyone were to come in, and continued sobbing silently into his mattress. His emotions were in such a mess, he couldn’t make sense of them. The only thing he could make out was a great deal of relief.

Once the tears had finally subsided, Harry emerged and dried himself off properly, hoping he didn’t look too puffy-eyed.

What did he do now?

Lupin had certainly confirmed what a pariah he’d be once his secret was found out. And it would be. Once Madam Pomfrey realised that he wasn’t starving because of some eating disorder or whatever she currently thought it was.

Lupin could help him. The man was smart, plus he wasn’t on the leash, and actually cared about Harry—he’d be able to solve Harry’s food problem once and for all.

But still, Harry was hesitant. What if Lupin helped him—but then the Ministry found out? Lupin could get in big enough trouble just for telling Harry all this stuff. Harry wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Lupin got himself fired—or worse. If the Ministry would happily kill Harry, surely anyone that helped him would end up in Azkaban at the least?

No … he couldn’t let that happen. Harry felt like weeping all over again. He had finally found someone he thought he could trust, but he couldn’t go to him for help.

What was he supposed to do?

Harry tried to get out of bed, but as he had predicted, his legs wouldn’t take his weight. Madam Pomfrey appeared a moment after he had crumpled to the floor.

“And where do you think you’re going, Mr Potter?” She tutted as she helped him back into bed. Harry braced himself for a lecture, but as she continued speaking, his attention was caught by something else.

The cupboard at the end of the ward was open. Harry could see a piece of equipment that looked like a Muggle drip, and packs and packs of labelled blood.

“Potter!” He jerked slightly as Madam Pomfrey addressed him sharply. “Did you hear any of that?”

“Er …”

She gave him a sour look, and told him that he was going to have to try a fairly weak nutrition potion for today. Harry, knowing it would do no good to protest, accepted it willingly. It came up again an hour later.

During the afternoon, he watched Madam Pomfrey carefully. The first-year who had been brought in was obviously hurt badly enough to need a transfusion, or whatever the wizarding equivalent was called. Harry noticed Madam Pomfrey going in and out with blood packs.

It was torture, but he waited patiently, too focused on the task to fall asleep again despite his fatigue, and sure enough Madam Pomfrey eventually left the ward completely.

Harry couldn’t imagine she would be long, not with a patient in that bad a condition. He couldn’t hang around. He slid out of bed again.

This time, his legs held him, though they still shook and Harry felt like he might collapse any minute. But to have what he needed so close seemed to give him a boost, and he made it. Not to the cupboard—that was too far—but Madam Pomfrey had put one of the packs down on a table just outside the curtains. Harry picked it up with shaking hands.

He didn’t want to do this. This was human blood. But what choice did he have? It would just be the once … the one pack, enough to give him the strength to leave—to put his plan into operation.

Sorry, Harry mentally apologised, though he wasn’t sure who he was apologising to. Maybe the girl in the next bed who was supposed to get this. (Though to be fair, the cupboard was fully stocked, otherwise he would never have even considered taking it.) Maybe the donor, who had thought they were giving it to save lives.

No—he didn’t want to think who the blood actually belonged to. He wouldn’t be able to do it then.

Harry couldn’t make his way all the way back to his bed again. He had to do this now, hoping against hope that nobody interrupted. He sat down in relief in the nearest chair, unscrewed the little cap, braced himself and drank.

He tried not to think about the taste, or who it belonged to, or anything apart from the strength returning to his body. Once he’d finished, he stood up warily.

No shaking. No imminent collapse, although he was still exhausted and desperately hungry. But he knew he could do what he needed to do.

Harry pushed the empty pack into his pocket, and hurried out of the Hospital Wing.

-

By the time Harry got to Gryffindor Tower, it was curfew. The common room was packed, and Harry managed to slip through the crowds and up the stairs without Ron and Hermione seeing him.

He had pondered leaving them a note—but what would he say? Just writing “Goodbye” felt mean, but he couldn’t write the truth. Even if he didn’t have to face their reactions, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Got to think of something,” Harry muttered to himself, turning over different possibilities in his head. He didn’t want to just vanish and have his friends worrying forever about what happened to him. If that happened to either of them, he would be devastated. No … he needed to leave an explanation, even if it wasn’t the right one.

The problem would be stopping anyone finding him. Or looking for him even.

“And how am I going to do that?” Harry glared over at Scabbers, who had ventured out of Ron’s bedclothes, probably to see if Harry had brought him any food. “You got any bright ideas?”

Scabbers only squeaked.

“How do you stop someone looking for you?” Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I guess the obvious one’s fake your death … but I don’t know how I could do that. Not with Snape’s leash. I can’t even try anything till the morning or he’ll know.” Harry sighed. “And if Ron and Hermione think I’m still alive, they’ll keep looking for me. I know they will. Unless they know I’m a vampire. But I can’t let them know. So what do I do?”

He looked back at Scabbers, who for all intents and purposes looked as if he was listening intently, before snorting and turning away. “Like you’d know.”

Maybe Harry should just wait until morning and then monologue to Snuffles instead. At least he could understand what Harry said, even if he was only an animal.

Harry woke after a restless night with the taste of blood on his lips. It took him several minutes to realise that it didn’t taste human.

He sat bolt upright, which wasn’t a good idea nowadays. His head span, and even when it stopped he struggled to process what it was that jarred with his recollections of the previous night.

He remembered coming to the common room … debating his plan in the dormitory … cleaning his teeth and going to bed, followed pretty much immediately by sleep.

He’d cleaned his teeth.

And his last meal had definitely not been … Harry paused to recognise the distinct taste on his tongue.

Oh Merlin.

He tasted rat. That was rat’s blood. It was unmistakeable.

Harry wiped his mouth shakily, fear and guilt gripping him. Not to mention confusion. What had he done?

As sedately as he could manage in his panic, Harry scrambled out of bed and into the bathroom. There was a small amount of blood and hair smeared on his mouth, and he scrubbed it away. He began rinsing his mouth out with water, but found something stuck in his teeth and pulled it out.

Harry swore violently. It was the end of a rat’s tail.

Harry flushed it down the toilet and leaned against the wall, trying not to hyperventilate. Don’t jump to conclusions. It might not be Scabbers. There are other rats in this castle …

But only one that lived in their dormitory.

What the hell had happened? Harry hadn’t lost control like that before—and he would never have willingly eaten Scabbers, so there was no other explanation.

What if it had been Ron?

Harry felt like he might throw up. If there had been any doubts about his plan before, they had vanished. He certainly couldn’t stay at Hogwarts now, even if he didn’t care about his secret coming out. He couldn’t risk anyone else.

When he finally felt strong enough to re-enter the bedroom, he realised that the other beds were empty. The others must have got up before him. Since they probably all believed he was in the Hospital Wing, they hadn’t tried to wake him.

Harry searched everywhere, emptying every trunk and drawer and calling for Scabbers until his throat was hoarse. But there was no sign of the rat. He’d killed his best friend’s pet.

Ron would hate him forever.

Tears pricked at his eyes, but Harry forced them back. He was not going to start blubbing again. It was over. It was probably easier if they hated him. Maybe he didn’t need to fake his death. What time did he have, anyway? He was surprised Madam Pomfrey hadn’t herded him back to the Hospital Wing by now. No … he would just stick to the original idea—hide in Snuffles’ room until he died. Hurrying the end along, if he could master one of those spells.

He wasn’t going out of bounds, so the leash wouldn’t activate. Most likely he would never be disturbed again. And when they eventually found his body, they’d realise, and everyone else would hate him forever.

Harry picked up his bag, which he had packed last night, with just the Map and a photo of himself with Ron and Hermione … from happier times.

He checked his watch. It was breakfast time, but since it was also a Saturday, the chances of running into someone in the Entrance Hall would be high all day. The earlier he made it to Snuffles’ room, the longer he had to put his plan into place before Monday. Once classes started, if he was still alive, the leash would tell Snape where he was. He couldn’t risk that.

Time to go.

Harry took one last, miserable look around the dormitory, and made his way slowly downstairs. With every step he felt heavier, like he was walking to his own funeral—well, he was, sort of, wasn’t he.

I can’t do this.

I’m gonna die anyway. This way it’s on my own terms.

What about Ron and Hermione? I don’t want to leave them!

Better that than have them turn on me … right?

Harry shook his head to try and rid himself of the same circular arguments that had been plaguing him since he had first realised he wasn’t going to survive the winter.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered, his eyes burning. He blinked fiercely and took another step down the staircase.

You’ve got a soul, he reminded himself. Remember? Lupin promised. It won’t be so bad. You’re gonna see Mum and Dad again.

He had almost come to a stop, but at that thought, the argument stopped and he ploughed down the rest of the stairs as fast as his fatigue would allow him. Suddenly he felt lighter. He felt hope.

It wasn’t until Harry was halfway across the common room, mind and heart filled with his parents, that he heard the shouted argument in the room.

“… wasn’t Crookshanks, Ron! How many times; you’ve got absolutely no evidence—”

The light feeling shattered as Harry saw Ron was brandishing a bed sheet with a patch of blood on. He froze completely as Ron saw him. “Harry! What are you doing here?”

“Wh-what’s going on?”

“Someone’s damn cat ate Scabbers!” Ron’s face was red with anger and Harry squirmed, unable to feel any more guilty.

“It wasn’t him!” Hermione shrieked shrilly.

This was not at all how Harry wanted his last ever encounter with his friends to go. He stared at them as they began sniping at each other again. No, sniping wasn’t a strong enough word. Both looked absolutely livid.

He could stop them fighting. Save their friendship that looked like it was hanging by a thin thread. If there was one thing he had to do before he died, that was it.

“Hermione,” Harry said quietly, “could you—um—give us a minute?”

“Hmph! No need to say it, Harry; I know you always side with—”

“I’m not siding with anyone!” Harry said quickly. “I just need to talk to Ron in—in private. Please?”

“Fine!” Hermione whirled around, tears in her eyes. “I’ll be in the library. I’ve got better things to do with my time than listen to stupid unfounded allegations!”

“Unfounded?” Ron spluttered. Hermione chose to ignore him and strode off.

Harry watched her go, his heart breaking. This wasn’t how he wanted it to go. He hadn’t exactly pictured a tearful goodbye, but he’d rather hoped they would at least all part on good terms. Still …

“Unbelievable,” Ron muttered angrily. “You believe me, right, Harry?”

Harry squirmed even more. “Um, Ron …”

“What?”

Harry swallowed hard. “Crookshanks didn’t kill Scabbers.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Because I—” Harry’s breath caught.

“Go on.”

“I did,” Harry whispered.

Ron’s eyes expanded to the size of planets. “WHAT?”

“I’m sorry!” Harry burst out. “Ron, I’m so sorry; I swear I didn’t mean to—it was an accident—I’m so so sorry!”

“I-I don’t understand,” Ron stammered, looking flabbergasted. “What happened?”

“I-it was an accident, Ron.”

“Yeah but what happened? Come on, Harry; you owe me an explanation!”

He was right. Harry clenched his eyes closed against the threatening tears. He couldn’t stand to see Ron’s face. After what Harry had done, Ron deserved the truth.

“Ron, I—” Harry took a deep breath. “I’m a vampire.”

There was a long silence.

“I-I was Turned in the summer; I’ve been living off rabbits and stuff but—but they’ve all gone into hibernation and I couldn’t find anything—I swear I never meant to hurt Scabbers; I just lost control—”

“GET OUT!” Ron suddenly yelled, his face scarlet. Harry scurried towards the door. “GET AWAY FROM ME! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

Harry tore through the Entrance Hall, Ron’s yells ringing in his ears. His plan was forgotten in his desperation to put as much space between himself and the rejection as possible. Oh, it hurt, it hurt so badly … The tears were flowing freely now, he didn’t care, he just needed to get away …

It wasn’t until the leash tightened so suddenly it yanked Harry backwards onto grass, that he even realised he had run out of the castle and across the grounds. Before him lay the Forbidden Forest. Harry didn’t stop to catch his breath; he scrambled straight back to his feet. With still no thought to his plan, he fought to keep going, his head pounding and his mind full of nothing but getting away. The harder he struggled, the more painful the leash became, but he couldn’t move an inch. Reason had gone out of the window. He had to get away, he had to …

Harry would have kept struggling all day long if he had had to, but as it happened, he didn’t need to. The memory of Ron’s rejection kept circling in his head, and the emotional pain kept building, until—

SNAP!

The leash gave way, and Harry suddenly surged forward, crashing straight into a tree and falling back to the ground. How long he lay there, trying to get his breath back, he didn’t know.

“Well, well, well, Potter.”

The part of Harry’s brain that normally processed Snape’s presence and set off the ‘danger’ warnings seemed to have malfunctioned. Harry just stared up at his Potions Master, noticing him but not really caring.

“So. Not only does the Great Potter see fit to defy me again and go hurtling carelessly into trouble, but he’s broken his leash. Tell me, Potter, what made you so desperate to go into the Forbidden Forest for that you performed powerful accidental magic?”

Harry just blinked up at him.

“On your feet, Potter. Now.”

When Harry didn’t move, Snape seized him by the arm and dragged him to his feet. Once he was upright, Harry thought on some level that he would prefer to remain so than let himself fall over again, so he made an effort to stand.

“Obviously detentions are having no effect on you,” Snape growled as he half-dragged him back over the grounds. “And the leash is no longer an option. The first opportunity I get I will be discussing your impending expulsion with your Head of House and the Headmaster. Until then, you are to stay in Gryffindor Tower. If you ignore this instruction, be it on your own head. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said absently.

Snape forcefully escorted him all the way to Gryffindor Tower and told Harry to get inside. Harry did. His friends were gone, and no-one else paid him any attention. Harry listened to Snape’s retreating footsteps.

Snape was gone. No more leash. Harry was free to go.

Once Harry was positive Snape wasn’t coming back, he slipped back out of the Tower, ignoring the rebuke from the Fat Lady, and ran again. He left the castle, taking one last look at the place that had once been his home. He fled across the grounds and ventured deep into the Forbidden Forest.

Why he made for the Forest, he didn’t know. Somehow it didn’t feel like a threat anymore. It felt … safe. Here, he couldn’t hurt anyone. And no-one could hurt him. He was free.

Harry ran until he couldn’t run anymore. When he stopped, the exhaustion that caught up with him nearly made him pass out. The energy he had gained from the last helping of blood was ebbing away. He was so tired. He needed sleep. Lots of sleep. And he didn’t want to ever wake up.

A thought struck him that made him groan. The books with the spells in … they were all back at the castle. Great. Looked like he wasn’t going to be able to hurry along his own death after all.

Harry curled up at the foot of a large tree, in a patch free from snow, and pulled out his photo of himself with his friends. Laying eyes on Ron’s face just brought the pain back afresh, and he wiped a teardrop off the photograph before putting it away.

-

Sirius never noticed his own hunger. He wasn’t important. Only Harry mattered. Even getting hold of Pettigrew had taken a back seat compared with the more urgent problem.

It had been weeks since Sirius had been able to catch something for his godson to feed on. How Harry had survived in the meantime was a miracle—it certainly showed how resourceful he could be in a crisis. But Sirius knew he was running out of time, and he couldn’t bank on another miracle showing up.

Not for the first time, he considered seeking help. It was obvious that Harry hadn’t gone to anyone for help himself, and Sirius was sure he could find someone understanding who could set the boy right. Remus was working at the school, wasn’t he? Of all people, he would be sympathetic. Albus, as well; he was well-known for his more, as the Ministry called it, ‘liberal’ attitudes towards the magically marginalised. Even Minerva McGonagall would be a viable ally. The problem was, the moment Sirius revealed himself, he would be Kissed or re-incarcerated before he could impart the message. And then Harry would be on his own.

Sirius trudged the Forest paths, nose to the snow-covered ground, stopping every time he picked up the faintest trace of something resembling food—but it was no good; everything was underground or out of reach. If he had a wand, he might have been able to do something, but without one …

He stopped suddenly as a familiar scent came to him. He sniffed five times before deciding that his nose wasn’t wrong. It was Harry.

The scent was recent. Sirius was both confused and concerned. Why had Harry been in the Forest? And how?

Sirius supposed Harry could have been looking for him, or for food. Well, he hoped Harry had had more luck than he had been having. But from what he had been able to deduce from Harry’s one-sided conversations with Snuffles, Snape (Sirius couldn’t believe the greasy git had managed to swing a teaching post; what had Albus been thinking?) had placed Harry under a magical leash. So how had Harry even been physically capable of coming this far?

Well, there was only one way to find out. Sirius followed the trail.

Harry had covered a lot of ground. By the time Sirius thought he was catching up with his quarry, it had gone dark. It was never easy to tell in the Forest, but Sirius was positive that it was late evening. Since the trail was heading deeper and deeper into the Forest, he quickened his pace. Harry, alone in here at night … the thought of all the things that could happen to him nearly paralysed Sirius with fear.

Harry!

At last he saw him, but it didn’t look good. Sirius raced over to the figure on the ground.

Sweet Merlin Harry, what were you thinking?

Harry was either asleep or unconscious, huddled at the foot of a large tree. He was at least not lying in the snow, but he was cold as ice, dressed only in thin jeans, trainers that looked soaked through, and a hand-knitted Gryffindor jumper.

If either of your parents could see you now, you’d have the lecture of your life coming, Sirius thought grimly and with a stab of sadness. He took a quick look around, but they were alone, and Harry was soundly out. He transformed.

It was the first time for a while he had been in human form. He shook his head groggily to throw off the canine instincts, and lifted Harry up in his arms.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said quietly to his godson, who didn’t stir. “Come on, let’s get you out of the cold.”

Sirius knew the Forest inside-out, and he knew that there was a place they could shelter from the wind and the cold and the little snow that made it past the tree-tops. He had been sleeping there himself throughout the winter—as safe as Harry seemed to think the storeroom was, he didn’t want to risk sleeping in the castle.

He carried Harry to the shelter, anxious over how light the teen was, and hoping against hope that he could get those green eyes to open again. It was a long walk, and felt much longer lugging a thirteen-year-old boy (no matter how light he was) and with only two legs. It must have been pretty late by the time they made it.

“Here we are,” Sirius murmured soothingly to Harry as they arrived.

In a patch of large oak trees, one of them was huge. Wild ferns and creepers grew all over the trunks and the forest floor; Sirius had to set Harry down on the ground and gently pull the icy plants aside. Underneath the large tree in among the tangle of roots was a hollow, just big enough for a couple of small adults to bunk down in.

Sirius lowered Harry through the narrow gap into the hole, and slid in after him. He had no cloak or anything he could offer him, but it would be warmer in here than outside. Harry stirred slightly, and Sirius froze, ready to transform if needed, but Harry went still again a moment later.

You’ll be okay, Harry, Sirius thought firmly. I promise.

Something caught his eye on the floor, and he picked up a piece of parchment, his hands trembling. It was a list of passwords.

Crookshanks, he thought. You’re a genius.

Still, he wouldn’t be heading into Gryffindor Tower tonight. Pettigrew would have to wait. Keeping Harry alive was the priority.

Sirius pocketed the passwords, retrieved Harry’s wand from his pocket, and left the hollow.

Harry had gone to sleep on the ground in the Forest. He had rather hoped, if he had to be honest, that some creature would find and kill him so he didn’t have to starve to death, and quickly so he didn’t wake up. When he was jolted awake by something furry and wet poking him sharply, he flinched on automatic, before realising it was Snuffles.

“Woof!” Snuffles said upon seeing he was awake.

Harry squinted. He couldn’t see much, but he could feel that he had moved—been moved, rather—while he slept. He was underground, in a very small space—he and Snuffles practically filled the gap.

“Hi, Snuffles,” Harry said sleepily.

Snuffles whined, as if to say, What are you doing here?

“It’s over,” Harry whispered. “I ate Ron’s pet rat.” He felt rather than saw Snuffles stiffen, as if the news was a shock. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. You’d be better off away from me. I don’t want to—” Harry choked up. “I didn’t mean to … I don’t even remember; I was so hungry I was completely out of it …”

Snuffles licked his cheek in what might have been meant to be a comforting gesture.

“You should probably stay away from me, Snuffles,” Harry said miserably. “I don’t want—I don’t want to kill you too.”

“Woof,” Snuffles said, thumping his tail on the ground. If Harry hadn’t known better, he would have said it sounded stubborn. After a moment Snuffles nudged something small and feathery into Harry’s chest.

Harry fumbled for whatever it was, realising after a moment that it was a bird about the size and shape of a crow. “Snuffles, you …” He took a deep breath and pushed it back at the dog. “You take it.”

Snuffles whined.

“There’s no point me having it,” Harry said miserably. “I’ve lost everything. I can’t go back. Everyone will know by now. I’ve got nothing left to live for … certainly not my friends. And I won’t go back to the Dursleys. It’s over. I just want it all to stop.”

Snuffles nudged him firmly.

“If I hang around I’m just gonna be alone for eternity. I don’t want that. I’d rather be with m-my mum and dad.” Harry’s throat tightened and he paused to take a shuddery breath. “So that’s what I’m gonna do.”

He dog whined again, picked up the bird and pushed it in Harry’s face firmly, pressing it right against Harry’s mouth. Harry turned his head away. Snuffles whined louder.

“No, Snuffles. You have it. I don’t want to live anymore.”

-

No matter how hard he tried, Sirius couldn’t get Harry to drink whilst he was awake. He stopped trying, and once he was sure Harry was soundly back asleep, he forced Harry’s mouth open and placed the bird’s neck in it.

Instincts took over, and Sirius could have died with relief as, even in his sleep, Harry drained the bird dry. At least that should keep him going for a while, hopefully until Sirius could figure out what to do.

Harry was in a much worse state than he had thought. Suicidal. Sirius had to get word to someone—but who, and how? He could use Harry’s wand while Harry was asleep, but he had no access to writing utensils and conjuring charms had never been his forte.

Perhaps … perhaps if he were to catch Pettigrew, force him to confess, so that Remus or Albus or Minerva would listen to him long enough for him to explain the situation? But if the little rat had gone …

-

“For Merlin’s sake, Severus. Do we have to discuss this now?”

Severus scowled. “The sooner we discuss it the better. Potter has been breaking rules since he arrived this year and detentions are having absolutely no effect.”

“Aside from perhaps sending him to the Hospital Wing,” Minerva said pointedly.

Severus would not allow himself to look guilty. He frowned harder. “I was going easy on him, Minerva. Hogwarts rules say that thieves should be expelled. That, and the fact that he can’t keep out of trouble, should be enough for you to do so.”

“Harry Potter is not a thief,” Minerva shot back. “Really, Severus; you always have to assume the worst of him! Just because he was the last to be near those rabbits—”

“I’m not just talking about the damn rabbits!” Severus near-shouted, but they were interrupted by Albus entering the staff room.

“What is—” he began, but Minerva cut him off before Severus could.

“Albus, Severus wants to expel one of my students. Again. Three guesses which one.”

“Ah,” Albus said, taking a seat, his eyes still twinkling infuriatingly. “What has Harry done this time?”

“Would you like it alphabetically or chronologically?” Severus said, in a (for him) sweet tone.

“Just get on with it,” Minerva said with a huff.

“Fine. Potter is a thief. He has stolen rabbits from Minerva, books from Irma, attempted to steal from my private stores the first night of the year, and now I’ve just learned that he’s stolen from Poppy as well. The Hogwarts rules are clear. Thievery isn’t tolerated. He needs to be expelled.”

“Severus,” Albus said slowly, “I’m not saying that I don’t believe you …”

“Hmph.”

“… but can you actually prove it was Harry?”

“I caught him red-handed in my stores,” Severus argued. “He was wearing an Invisibility Cloak. Only a few minutes beforehand, I had heard somebody in the library, which had been apparently empty. That was the night the books vanished. With the other things, he was the last person seen in the vicinity both times. Coincidence? I think not.”

Albus and Minerva looked at each other. Severus could see he was losing this argument. Just because some prophecy had been made about Potter, he was bloody untouchable in this school. Short of finding Potter with all the stolen items and a signed confession, nothing was going to convince them.

Try to play the other tactic.

“And as if that wasn’t enough, I caught him yesterday attempting to enter the Forbidden Forest. Alone. He’s not only a thief, he has no regard for his own life.”

Ah, now they looked worried.

“Look, Severus,” Albus said with a sigh. “The evidence against Harry is circumstantial. I assume you have searched his dormitory.”

The man knew him better than he thought. Severus reluctantly said, “Yes.”

“And you didn’t find anything.”

“No,” he muttered.

“Well, I am not in the habit of expelling without hard evidence, so I suggest we wrap up that part of this conversation, shall we? Did he actually enter the Forest?”

“No. But he tried.”

“Then I’ll give him detention,” Minerva said firmly, and Severus scowled deeper. “If you see him, tell him to come and see me. And while you’re at it, you can ask him why he’s not in the Hospital Wing; Poppy’s been looking for him. Again.”

Severus was smart enough to know when he was beaten. Instead of protesting like a child, he made his usual dramatic exit, slamming the door behind him.

-

Sirius had a plan. Unfortunately, he daren’t leave Harry’s side—or at least not venture far enough away that he couldn’t hear if Harry needed help—so the plan depended entirely on Crookshanks visiting again. Crookshanks would be able to fetch Sirius writing utensils, take the message to Albus Dumbledore, and then lead him back here to Harry. It was a good plan as long as Sirius could keep Harry alive all that time.

He used Harry’s wand to bring him more food, and then settled down next him to keep him warm. In his sleep, Harry edged closer to him, burrowing deep into Sirius’ fur. Sirius lay his head down and allowed himself to doze with one ear open, though he didn’t dare sleep properly.

At one point, Harry jolted awake from a nightmare, calling his friends’ names and shaking uncontrollably. Sirius wished he had arms to be able to hug him, hold him, and a voice to tell him everything would be okay. Instead, he had to settle for licking him, putting a paw over his chest and Harry’s head in his neck.

“Snuffles,” Harry whispered, nuzzling closer like a puppy. “D-don’t … don’t l-leave me. Please. You’re all I’ve g-got.” His breath hitched and Sirius gently licked away the flowing tears.

Ron woke early on Monday. His sleep had admittedly been rather hit-and-miss all weekend—too much on his mind. Knowing that he wasn’t going to go back into dreamland, he got up and quietly pulled back the hangings of Harry’s bed.

Odd. His bed—unmade—looked exactly the same as it had done yesterday.

Hospital Wing, Ron thought. It was still very early, but he couldn’t just hang around. He had to talk to Harry.

Nobody was around. Ron reached the Hospital Wing and slipped inside quietly, but was confused—Harry wasn’t there. Some of his things were by one of the beds, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Ron searched all of Harry’s favourite haunts, even venturing outside, pre sunrise. In the end he was forced to conclude that Harry didn’t want to be found.

During breakfast, Hermione kept giving Ron worried glances. He had barely touched his bacon and eggs. At least Hermione was unlikely to start piling food on him—Ron had to repress a shudder at the thought. He didn’t know what vampires could and couldn’t eat … had they really been hurting Harry all that time?

He couldn’t stand it any longer and pushed away his plate. Hermione raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment.

Ron hadn’t told her. He had admitted that he had been wrong to blame Crookshanks for Scabbers’ death, and apologised (though reluctantly—Ron was sure the cat would have eventually got him if Harry hadn’t beaten him to it), but hadn’t repeated Harry’s confession to her, no matter how curiously she enquired what had changed his mind.

Harry didn’t turn up for Charms. Ron waited for him to turn up late, but by the time the lesson was well underway, he knew deep down that Harry wasn’t coming. Hermione was under the impression that he was in the Hospital Wing again, but Ron knew better. He raised his hand and asked to be excused.

“Please sir, I need to see the Headmaster.”

-

“You’re really sure he’s missing?” Hermione queried as the two made their way down the corridor.

“I’m telling you, I looked everywhere.”

“Oh, I hope Black didn’t …” Hermione trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.

Ron shuddered at the thought, and paused outside the gargoyle Harry had described last year. “Er … sherbet lemon?”

Nothing happened.

“Well, of course it wouldn’t still be the password, Ron.”

“Shut up, I’m thinking!” Ron had barely got the words out of his mouth before the gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside.

“That was the password? ‘Shut up I’m thinking’?”

The gargoyle gave Ron a withering look. If it could talk, he was sure it would have said “Of course not, you moron; Dumbledore’s just expecting you.”

“Er, thanks,” he muttered, going slightly red, and he and Hermione hurried up the moving spiral staircase.

“Enter,” came Dumbledore’s voice when Hermione raised her hand to knock. Ron pushed the door open. “Ah, Mr Weasley—and Miss Granger.” His tone dipped, sounding concerned. “Professor Flitwick sent word ahead to say you wished to speak to me. Is there something wrong?”

Ron overcame his curiosity and chose to ignore the intriguing office, coming to stand in front of Dumbledore’s desk. “Er, Professor …” He took a deep breath, for a moment his sense of fear triumphing over his sense of guilt. He paused, wondering how to phrase it.

“Am I to take it your visit has something to do with Mr Potter?” Dumbledore asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Er—yes,” Hermione said. “How did—”

“It was hardly much of a leap,” Dumbledore said simply. “Now, what is wrong?”

“He’s missing, sir,” Ron said. “I’ve looked everywhere for him; I can’t find him.”

“I see.” Any twinkle there was in Dumbledore’s eye left it. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Ron squirmed slightly. “Um … Saturday morning,” he half-whispered. “We … er … we had a fight.”

Dumbledore didn’t say anything, just kept his light blue eyes fixed on Ron, who suddenly couldn’t meet them anymore. He dropped his gaze.

“Er, Hermione—could you, um, give us a minute?”

Hermione looked surprised and hurt, but left the office. Ron felt bad, but he was determined not to give Harry’s secret away to anyone he didn’t have to. Once she was gone, he took a deep breath.

“Professor, I—it’s m-my fault he’s gone.”

“What makes you say that?” Dumbledore asked, his expression still simply concerned, with no hint of judgement.

“I-I-I t-told him to go. He—” Ron’s breath hitched and he couldn’t continue. Dumbledore moved, gently sitting him down in the chair before the desk.

“Take a moment,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Breathe deeply.”

Ron followed his advice, and his nerves settled slightly. “Harry’s a vampire.”

He wouldn’t have thought it was possible to catch Albus Dumbledore off-guard, but it looked like Ron had performed the impossible. Dumbledore stared at him, the concern replaced with shock—and after a moment, fear.

“How long?” Dumbledore finally asked, his voice shaking slightly.

“I only found out Saturday morning. He told me he got Turned in the summer.” Dumbledore’s eyes widened further. “My—my rat died and—and Harry confessed it had been him. And I—I was angry,” Ron said in a small voice. “I y-yelled at him—I said—I said—I said I d-didn’t want to s-see him again.” Ron swallowed hard. “D-do you think he m-might have—taken me literally?”

“Harry running away is definitely a possibility we have to consider,” Dumbledore said heavily. “This is not good. This is not good at all. Does anyone else know what Harry is?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s taken him this long to tell me, and I think that was only to stop me blaming Hermione’s cat.”

“I see.” Dumbledore had begun pacing, looking pensive. “Where have you already searched for Harry?”

Ron listed all the places he had looked.

“Right. This needs to be handled delicately.” Dumbledore paused. “Let’s hope he’s still within the school boundaries; we can’t afford to get the Ministry of Magic involved with this. Ronald, please return to Gryffindor Tower with Miss Granger in case Harry returns there. I will organise a search party to comb the castle and grounds.”

“I want to help look for him, Professor,” Ron blurted. “Please. This whole thing is my fault; I need to help.”

Dumbledore hesitated. “Have you checked his belongings? Seen if there is anything missing?”

“Er … no.”

“Well then, start with that while I amass the troupes. Then you may return here and we can devise a strategy together.”

Ron felt a lump in his throat. “Th-thank you, Professor. Er … are you going to tell the other teachers …”

“That Harry is a vampire? Only the ones that I know for absolute certain will not allow the information to degrade their view of him as a person.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Ron said in relief.

Dumbledore motioned for him to leave, and as Ron exited, he saw the Headmaster grab the Floo and toss a handful into the fire.

-

“What’s all this about, Albus?” Severus folded his arms, scowling as usual. He knew it had to be important for his boss to cancel all their lessons, but Albus’ idea of important wasn’t always the same as Severus’.

Unfortunately, Albus looked grave, and Severus relaxed his scowl slightly. “We have a problem. One of our students is missing.”

“Are you sure they’re not just skipping class?” Minerva asked.

“Albus, there’s no need to interrupt all our schedules to escort one truant child to class, surely,” Severus said.

“Actually, in this case, I do not believe it is simply a case of not wanting to go to class,” Albus said firmly. “And the missing student in question is Harry Potter.”

Severus groaned. Sometimes he could swear the brat existed only to drive him insane.

“And considering Sirius Black is on the loose—”

“If you’re so concerned about him, why have you only asked Minerva, Lupin and myself to be here?”

“Because,” Albus said, “you three, Hagrid and Poppy—whom I have already informed, just in case—are the only ones I can fully trust with the following information.”

“What information?” Minerva asked.

“Harry’s a vampire.”

It was a moment before Severus, Minerva and Albus all turned to look at the teacher who had spoken.

“Vampire?” Minerva was the first to gasp.

“Remus, how long have you known?” Albus said with a frown.

“Only since Friday. And I didn’t … know, not for certain. But Harry was quizzing me on—on vampires and souls and … well, I could tell his interest wasn’t academic. He was so worked up over it I didn’t like to ask him outright then—I was going to give him time to take in what I’d said and talk to him about it this week.” Lupin looked Albus in the eye. “How long have you known?”

“Half an hour. Ron Weasley told me when he alerted me to Harry’s disappearance.”

Severus, still struggling to comprehend the facts, said, “And how long did he keep that to himself?”

“Since Saturday morning, when he and Harry had a fight about it,” Albus said calmly. “That’s the last time anyone saw him.”

“You think the argument made him run away?” Minerva whispered.

“That’s what it looks like. But if he left Hogwarts, he’ll be that much harder to find—”

There was a knock on Albus’ office door. “Come in, Ronald,” Albus called.

The Weasley usually attached to Potter by the hip entered, looking around at the other teachers amassed there.

“Well, is anything missing?” Albus said gently.

“Just his schoolbag,” Weasley said, eyeing Severus nervously. “Nothing else that I can see.”

Severus gave Weasley a glare in response. This was all his fault, the little idiot. Potter was the drama queen, yes, but after two and a half years of being his best friend the Weasley boy should have known this and not driven Potter to Merlin knew where, with a killer out for his blood. This whole mess was precisely why Severus had cast the leash—

His blood suddenly ran cold. It must have shown on his face, for everyone looked at him.

“Severus?” Lupin asked. “Are you all right?”

“How long has Potter been a vampire?” Severus croaked in a voice most unlike himself.

Weasley rounded on Albus, looking furious. “You told Snape?”

“Professor Sn—” Minerva tried to correct her pupil, but Severus, for once not caring about the insolence, rode over her.

“How long?”

“Since the summer,” Weasley mumbled, glaring at him. “What do you care?”

It was a fair question, and almost threw Severus for a moment. If it had been asked five minutes ago, he would have dismissed it completely—he cared about defeating Voldemort for good, but otherwise felt nothing for the boy destined to do that. He certainly didn’t feel any guilt over his lack of attachment.

“Maybe you can enlighten me as to the intention of your little escapade, Potter.”

“Have you any idea how much dragon blood costs, Potter?”

“Sir, please! Please don’t do it—give me more detention, take more House points, take all my belongings away—anything! Just please don’t do this!”

“Mr Potter helped me move the rabbits into the room; he was the last to see them …”

“Irma sent me to ask you for the Apprang books.”

“When did you say these books went missing?”

“What would I want with a load of rabbits anyway?”

“This is ridiculous; why would anyone steal …? No, I must have put it down somewhere else …”

“Tell me, Potter, what made you so desperate to go into the Forbidden Forest for that you performed powerful accidental magic?”

He hadn’t cared. He hadn’t cared to put together the signs and realise what a deep mess the boy was in. He hadn’t cared to notice when Potter was practically at death’s door. He hadn’t cared to find out why the boy had been so … desperate, that night he had cast the leash. Why he had begged Severus not to.

Begging was not in Potter’s nature. But Severus hadn’t seen it for the warning sign it was.

Everyone was watching him, and Severus had a feeling that his face was not as impassive as he usually liked to keep it. He struggled to put his mask back up and, only when he felt capable of speaking in his normal tone, spoke.

“What time was this argument?” he directed sharply to Weasley.

“Er … about nine o’clock. Just after Harry got up. Why?”

“I believe I may have been the last one to see him.” Severus swallowed. “We should start our search in the Forbidden Forest.”

“Harry wouldn’t go in there,” Weasley protested, though he didn’t sound certain. “We’ve had enough bad experiences in there to last a lifetime.”

“I caught him trying to enter the Forest on Saturday morning,” Severus insisted. “I escorted him back up to Gryffindor Tower, but if that’s when he disappeared, I’m betting he went back once my back was turned.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start,” Albus said, looking grimmer than ever. “Let’s go.”

-

Hermione had not been happy about remaining behind while Ron went with the teachers, but reluctantly agreed that, firstly, someone needed to wait in case Harry turned up, and secondly, as the person who drove Harry away, Ron should do what he could to help find him.

The rescue group divided once they came to the Forest, to cover more ground. Out of concern for Ron’s safety, it was agreed he would go with Dumbledore. The other three teachers moved out separately.

“Professor,” Ron said quietly once the others were out of earshot, “um … not that I want to second-guess you or anything, but …”

“You want to know if I am sure telling Professor Snape about Harry was a good idea.”

“Yes,” Ron said, grateful that Dumbledore had been the one to voice it. “He hates Harry, Professor. If anyone would take advantage of—”

“I realise Professor Snape does not have a, er, promising track record as far as Harry is concerned,” Dumbledore said. “But I do not believe for a moment that he would stoop so low as to use this against him.”

“But if he does?”

“Then I will ensure he sincerely regrets it, and you will be free to tell me ‘I told you so’,” Dumbledore said, lightly but with a serious undertone. Ron could see Dumbledore really didn’t believe that Snape would do such a thing—Ron personally wasn’t convinced—but he also got the impression that Dumbledore would not allow Snape to get away with it if he did. This thought helped slightly.

-

Severus couldn’t believe he had been so stupid.

A vampire. Harry Potter, a vampire … Merlin, that explained everything. He really wished it didn’t.

Severus trudged through the ankle-deep mush of slush and dead leaves, wand in front of him, shivering despite his cloak and scarf. With every step, he cursed himself bitterly. If Black got to the boy now, it would be all his fault.

Why oh why hadn’t he seen the signs for what they were? The missing rabbits combined with the books and the dragon’s blood should have screamed at him. Poppy hadn’t actually said what had gone missing from the Hospital Wing, but Severus was prepared to bet anything he owned that it had been packs of blood.

Albus was right. Severus really was blind when it came to Harry Potter. He was willing to believe anything except what was right in front of his nose.

As he searched, Severus kept thinking, with an increasing sense of guilt, about the less obvious signs. The ones that he still should have noticed. The ones that, somewhere in the back of his mind, he had noticed, but thought nothing about. The boy’s visibly decreasing health. Lack of energy. Withdrawing socially. Apparent lack of appetite. Quitting the Quidditch team, which had caused a party in the Slytherin common room when the news got around the school.

Honestly, it was a wonder the boy was still alive. Severus shuddered. If Potter hadn’t managed to break the leash, it could have caused him to starve to death. Whatever way he spun it, Severus was responsible.

He had to find him. And not just to ease his own guilty conscience.

Severus came to a crossroads, and paused. Two paths crossed, giving him three potential directions. He didn’t debate for long, though. They were all leaving a trail of coloured light behind them, to show where they had been, and Albus’ purple one had come from one of the paths and gone down another. That left one path that had not yet been covered. Severus turned right, still trailing a green glow behind him.

It occurred to him that Potter might have left the path, but he hoped not. Surely the boy wasn’t that stupid. He had, as Weasley said, been in this Forest before and knew at least some of the dangers. And if he had left the path, he would be impossible to find.

Severus had walked for what felt like hours, frozen to the bone, and crossed a river and a path walked earlier by Lupin, when he saw it. A flash of light among the dense trees, like a spell. He stilled, looking upwards, but no sparks—green for finding Potter, or red for trouble—were fired.

He didn’t dare call out. To make a lot of noise in the Forbidden Forest was like swimming up to a shark when you were covered in blood—just asking for trouble. He gripped his wand tightly and left the path, heading in the direction of the light.

Whoever had made the light was gone when Severus reached the place he thought it had come from. There were footsteps in the slush—too indistinct to tell him who had made them, but since they were fresh, Severus followed. They crossed a tiny track and ended in a patch of large oaks, one of which was surrounded by a mixture of footprints—both human (as far as he could tell) and some sort of animal.

It didn’t take Severus long to find out what kind of animal.

He was rounding the tree to see if they continued the other side, when a low growling made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he slowly turned around.

-

Ron was exhausted, but couldn’t allow himself to stop. Every time thoughts of how cold he was, or how sore his feet were, crossed his mind, he remembered the hurt look that had crossed Harry’s face when Ron had yelled at him. It was enough to keep him going.

They hadn’t spoken much during the search, since Dumbledore had warned that it would not be wise. Once or twice they had come across one of the other teachers’ magical trails—or Hagrid’s, who due to not being allowed to do magic, was unravelling a ball of string—but had come across nothing living, save for a few ominous rustlings that had stopped when Dumbledore had cast a spell. It was quite a shock when a ball of ginger fur streaked up, and placed itself in front of Dumbledore, who had to stop suddenly for fear of tripping on it.

“Crookshanks?” Ron said in astonishment.

The cat ignored him and proffered a scrap of parchment at Dumbledore. Wearing a puzzled expression, Dumbledore took the parchment and read what was written on it. His eyes widened.

“What is it?” Ron asked.

Dumbledore hesitated.

“Is it about Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me see it!” Ron was aware that he was ordering his Headmaster, but he didn’t care. Dumbledore deliberated for a moment before handing the note over.

It looked like whoever had written it had tried to disguise their writing. Ron didn’t dwell on that for long.

Dumbledore,

Harry Potter needs help. Long story short, he is a vampire, starving, and suicidal. He is currently sleeping in the Forest. The cat will lead you to him. Please help him.

A friend

A huge black dog was growling at Severus, its hackles raised. Despite its mangy appearance, Severus was sure it would be more than capable of causing serious harm should it attack. He resisted the desperate urge to step backwards, trying to keep his wand hand from shaking. Pathetic as he knew it was, his encounter with the transformed Lupin back in his schooldays had left him with something of a phobia of anything remotely canine.

“Nice dog?” he tried feebly.

It snarled at him.

All right, not a nice dog. Severus stumbled backwards. The dog didn’t advance, but didn’t show any signs of letting him go either.

Get a grip, Severus told himself severely. It was only a dog. He was a wizard for crying out loud. And the longer he stood here, waiting for the beast to lunge instead of just Stunning it, the longer Potter was out there on his own for.

Severus took a deep breath, and aimed his wand. “Stu—”

The dog lunged before he could finish the spell. Severus fell to the ground with an undignified scream, flashbacks of the werewolf bearing down on him blinding him to what was actually happening. After a moment, he realised the dog hadn’t attacked him—it had simply torn his wand from his hand and was now clutching it in its teeth.

Severus sat up shakily, relieved that no-one had witnessed that moment, and his eyes narrowed as they fell on the dog. No-one stole his wand and got away with it. “Give that back,” he commanded sharply, his fear ebbing away in his anger.

Fully-grown men quavered under lesser threats, but the dog simply glared at him, its expression almost human. Severus scowled further and got to his feet. “Spit it out, you mangy mutt. I don’t have time for this! I’ve got a Potter to save!”

The dog’s mouth fell open, and Severus’ wand fell out. He stepped forward and snatched it up. “That’s more like it. Hinder me again and you’ll end up as potions ingredients.” He was wiping the dog’s saliva off his wand when a thought occurred to him, and he paused.

The dog was watching him intently, head cocked, almost as if it was thinking hard. Severus wondered if the dog would be able to help track Potter—but he didn’t have anything of Potter’s for it to get the scent of. Unless he Summoned something from Gryffindor Tower?

He was deliberating when he remembered something else, and looked down. Yes, some of those footprints were definitely human. And the spell flash …

“Has Potter been here?” he blurted out stupidly. “I mean—a young vampire; teenage boy?” Why he was addressing the dog, he didn’t know. “Someone’s been here. Was it him? I have to find him, his life’s in danger!” Maybe Severus had finally cracked, but some strange instinct was telling him the dog could help, though he had no idea how.

The dog barked, and ran around the tree. Puzzled and curious, Severus followed. It scrabbled at the roots, pulling away a load of frozen greenery, revealing a hole just big enough for it or a small person to crawl through.

Severus lit his wand, and his heart stopped as the light fell across a face. Potter was lying in a cramped hollow beneath the roots, deathly still and pale. A number of dead animals were lying around him.

“Potter!”

There was no response. The dog whined. Severus crawled inside. Potter was in a terrible state. He was skeletal, white as a sheet, and barely breathing. A diagnostic spell confirmed that he was almost dead.

He pulled a bottle of blood from his robes and uncorked it, then lifted Potter’s head slightly to tip it down his throat. It took several long moments for Potter to respond, but when the blood in his mouth seemed to register, he latched onto the bottle and began guzzling like an infant with milk.

When the bottle was empty, Potter was still unconscious, but his breathing sounded a lot better. Severus figured the priority now had to be to get him to the Hospital Wing. With the dog’s help, he managed to drag/push Potter out of the hollow and crawl out himself.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered who had cast the spell, since Potter was clearly in no state to have done so. But he focused on the important task, which was getting Potter to safety, and paid the question no heed as he shot green sparks up into the air, then gathered Potter in his arms.

-

An hour ago, Sirius would never have believed he would leave Harry’s fate in the hands of Snivellus Snape.

Not that he completely trusted him with his godson. Oh, no. Sirius insisted on walking with them out of the Forest. Snape didn’t seem to think anything of this. But Sirius had been hoping—had planned—for Albus to be the one to find Harry, or at least someone else on Sirius’ list of trusted allies. Snape was most definitely not one of them.

Why Snape was searching the Forest, Sirius didn’t know. But Snape had made it clear that he knew Harry was a vampire already and, for some bizarre reason, appeared to actually want to save him. Sirius could think of no reason for someone on their own to act in front of a dog, so he had to take Snape’s words as genuine.

They followed the green trail, the green sparks hovering above their heads, moving as they moved. It wasn’t long until they were no longer alone.

“HARRY!”

Sirius—and by the look of things, Snape—jumped as a voice shouted from behind them, and a boy about Harry’s age burst out of some trees. After a moment, Sirius recognised him as the boy from the photo—the one who had had Peter on his shoulder. Ron, according to Harry. He was quickly followed by Albus Dumbledore, Crookshanks trotting along beside the Headmaster.

“Oh Merlin—h-he’s not—”

“He’s alive,” Snape said quickly, addressing both Ron and Albus. “But very weak. We need to get him to the Hospital Wing immediately.”

Sirius heard other footsteps hurrying closer, and decided it was time for him to leave. Now Albus was there, Sirius trusted Harry would be safe. He had to make his departure if he didn’t want to be caught. If Remus saw Sirius, it was game over.

-

Hermione had been pacing the common room for hours. She was wrapped up in anxieties about Harry. She was confused and hurt by Ron shutting her out. She didn’t have a clue what was going on, and she really didn’t like it. She wasn’t used to not knowing things.

There had been no sign of Harry. She routinely asked her Housemates if they had seen him, but nobody had.

Everyone had gone to bed by the time the portrait hole opened, and Ron tumbled haphazardly in.

Hermione’s heart hammered, hope turning to dread when she saw the look on his face. Ron was a sickly white, and looked like he was about to cry.

A million questions occurred to her, but Hermione couldn’t get any of them out. Ron stumbled over to her and pulled her into a tight hug.

“Ron?” she half-whispered after a moment of silence. “You’re scaring me.”

“We found him,” Ron said in a hoarse voice.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s alive. But—”

“But what?”

“H-he’s not doing too good.” They pulled apart. “He’s in the Hospital Wing now. Again.”

“No surprise there. Ron, what happened? Where was he?”

“Th-the Forest.” Ron sat down shakily. “Snape found him. If he’d got there much later … M-Madam Pomfrey said it w-would’ve been too late.”

“Too late?” Hermione whispered. “You mean …”

Ron buried his head in his hands. “This is all my fault. I’m the worst friend in the world.”

“Of course you’re not—”

“Don’t try and make me feel better,” Ron said hollowly. “You weren’t there, Hermione. You didn’t hear the things I said to him. If he’d—if he’d—I’d have good as k-killed him.”

Hermione sat down beside Ron and put her arms around him. Despite saying he didn’t want comforting, he didn’t fight her off, instead slumping onto her shoulder and allowing a few choked sobs to escape.

-

“You’re still here?”

Severus scowled at Lupin, who had just materialised in the Hospital Wing doorway. “What’s it to do with you?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wondered why you were still hanging around. It is after midnight, and none of your students are here tonight.” A small smile was playing on Lupin’s lips, giving away the fact that he knew exactly why Severus was there—or rather who he was there for.

“I don’t believe my reasons are any of your concern,” Severus said stiffly. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“I simply couldn’t sleep and decided to check on Harry.”

“Hmph.”

“How is he?”

Severus quietly drew back the curtains around Potter’s bed. The boy still looked dreadfully pale and drawn, but he was deeply asleep and looked much more peaceful. His devoted Head of House was asleep in the chair next to the bed, her head resting on his bedside table. Severus hoped he never looked that undignified when he fell asleep in here watching a student.

“Where’s Albus?” Lupin whispered.

“Where do you think? Tracking down an alternative source of blood for him.” Severus carefully pulled the curtains closed again. “It’s been a long time since we last had a vampire in the school; we weren’t prepared.”

“Mm.” Lupin paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. After a moment he turned a critical gaze on Severus. “What did you do?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can understand you joining in with the search, even wanting to wait here until Poppy said he would be all right. But I fail to see why you, with all your intense dislike of Harry, insist on remaining here all night when his own Head of House is perfectly capable and willing to stay with him. Unless it’s the act of a guilty conscience.”

Severus scowled, even as he inwardly squirmed.

“If it helps, I feel bad that I didn’t see the signs earlier. I am the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher after all. If anyone should have—”

“If anyone should have seen the signs, it was me.” Severus couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He would much rather have confessed everything to Albus, but in the absence of the man, his conscience seemed to think Lupin was a good substitute—proof that this whole business had finally sent him off his rocker. “But I ignored them, and nearly killed him with that bloody leash. Happy now?”

“Leash?” Lupin said with a frown. “What leash?”

“I put Potter under a magical leash to keep him out of trouble,” Severus muttered.

“You did what?”

“Idiot!” Severus hissed at Lupin. “Wake the whole castle up, will you?”

Lupin reduced his outburst to a furious whisper. “You put Harry on a leash? When was this?”

“During the summer, I caught him in Knockturn Alley. I was only trying to keep him from getting himself killed. Then first night of term I caught him in my private stores, so I cast another one.”

“I can’t imagine that made it easy for him to find meals, Severus, can you?” Lupin snapped.

“Yes, I know, I managed to work that one out for myself! Hence the guilty conscience! But it’s not like I knew he—”

“What on earth possessed you to put a student under—”

“Look, keeping Potter out of trouble is a full-time job at the best of times. With your old pal Black on the loose—” Lupin’s face clouded, “—I knew it was only a matter of time before he got himself killed.”

“And the fact that you hate him had nothing to do with it.”

Severus bristled, but the indignation was short-lived. He knew Lupin was right, and he hated the werewolf for pointing that out.

“We’ve ascertained I was wrong to cast it. There’s really no need to have a post-mortem on the subject.”

“No,” Lupin agreed. “I’m sure Albus will be asking all those questions tomorrow.”

Severus squirmed again. He hadn’t been afraid of Albus for many years, but he hated letting the man down.

“But,” Lupin continued, and Severus’ heart sank, “what I don’t understand is …” He trailed off. “Ah. I see.”

“Informative as ever, Lupin.”

“Who was it?”

Severus frowned as the other man met his eyes. “Who was what?”

“The vampire in your family,” Lupin replied, stunning Severus into silence. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Subscribing to petty student rumours is beneath even you, werewolf,” Severus growled.

“I don’t subscribe to any rumours. I just logically deducted based on your behaviour,” Lupin said calmly. “And Albus’. He wouldn’t have shared the information with you unless he knew for absolute certain you wouldn’t react the same way most wizards would—the same with all of us. I empathise because I am a werewolf, Hagrid because he is half-giant. Minerva’s known Albus long enough and well enough to trust his judgement. Poppy’s proved over the years that her first priority is the well-being of the students no matter who or what they are. But with you—considering how much you despise Harry—it had to be a very strong reason. The most likely scenario was that you personally knew, or have known at some point, a vampire, well enough to understand that what the Ministry teach is pure propaganda. Since you don’t appear to have any friends outside the staff, that left a relative. So, who is it?”

There was a long silence. “None of your business,” Severus muttered.

“But I guess that’s the reason you’re beating yourself up over not having seen—”

“Lupin,” Severus growled, “shut up.”

To his surprise, the werewolf did so.

-

When Harry woke up, he choked. Something long and hard was inside his throat.

As he gasped and spluttered, the horrible thing was pulled out. Harry opened his eyes and instantly squeezed them shut again against the blinding white light; he massaged his neck and took note of his senses.

Soft bed. So not in the Forest anymore. Most likely not the afterlife either. White … the Hospital Wing?

Dread filled his gut, and he slowly opened his eyes, squinting before they grew used to the light. He was right—it was the Hospital Wing.

Before he could swear in exasperation, a voice spoke next to him, cutting off his train of thought. “Afternoon, Harry.”

He turned his head, and saw Professor Lupin sitting in a chair beside his bed, smiling calmly.

Harry wracked his brains to try and work out what had happened. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in the Forest with Snuffles trying to force dead animals on him. He’d been going to die quietly, far away from the people that now hated him. What had gone wrong? How had he ended up here again?

“What …?”

“It’s all right,” Lupin said in a soothing voice. “You’re safe here, Harry.”

Yeah, right, Harry thought sourly.

“How do you feel now? Stronger?”

Harry blinked. Now Lupin mentioned it … he did feel stronger. By no means able to run a marathon, but at least able to sit up. He did so, not taking his eyes off his teacher.

“What happened?”

“Ron raised the alarm when you didn’t show for classes this morning,” Lupin said. Harry’s eyes widened. “Some of the other teachers and I conducted a search of the Forbidden Forest, on Professor Snape’s suggestion. He was the one that found you.”

Interfering git …

Harry shook his head, trying to get his head round Lupin’s first statement. “Ron raised the alarm?”

“Yes. He told the Headmaster about your—er—spat, and that he thought you had run away. He was extremely worried about you, Harry.”

A lump arose in Harry’s throat; he hardly dared believe it. “He … was?”

“Oh, yes. And he insisted on helping with the search.” Harry sat in stunned silence, and Lupin gave a sad smile. “Friends can surprise you sometimes, Harry. Yours are certainly loyal to the last.”

“Even though they know I’m—” Even now, Harry couldn’t get the word out.

“Actually, I’m not sure Hermione knows yet. Ron was very careful to keep your secret as, well, secret as possible.”

“You mean—everyone doesn’t know?”

“Ron told Dumbledore, and he and I informed Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid and Professors McGonagall and Snape. Nobody else knows, I swear.”

“Y-you told Snape?”

“Harry, he saved your life,” Lupin replied earnestly. “If it hadn’t been for him, we wouldn’t have even known where to start looking. Now—I’m aware of the, er, leash he put on you …”

“You are?” Harry said, astonished. “Well then, you know he nearly killed me in the first place.”

“Yes, I know,” Lupin said heavily. “But everyone makes mistakes, and I also know he can be trusted to keep your secret.”

Harry wasn’t convinced. “What about the others? You said you believe I’m n-not Dark, but—”

“Harry, do you really think Dumbledore would have told the others if he thought there was even the slightest chance that the information would turn them against you?” Lupin asked, surprised. “For that matter, why did you try and shoulder this alone in the first place? Why didn’t you go straight to Dumbledore?”

“He told me not to.”

“Who?”

“The—the vampire who Turned me. H-he said that if I told anyone—anyone—the life I had w-would be gone.”

Lupin was silent for a moment. “Maybe he never had anyone open-minded enough, who knew him well enough, to be able to trust. But you do.”

“I didn’t know that.” Harry blinked furiously. “I-I didn’t want t-to l-lose my friends.”

“Believe me,” Lupin said quietly, “I understand completely.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Harry …” Lupin glanced around the ward. It was empty, but he dropped his voice anyway. “I’m going to trust you with my own secret. Promise me you will never repeat it to anyone.”

Harry nodded, his eyes widening. “You’re not—you’re not a vampire too?”

“No, no. I would have said before if I was, and let you know you were not alone. No, I am a werewolf.”

There was a long silence. “Oh.”

“Unlike you, I am dangerous. But only at the full moon, so you needn’t worry right now.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“My point is, it took me years to tell my friends what I was. But they surprised me by being the most supportive friends in the world. And now, teaching here, the rest of the staff—well, most of them, at any rate—have been very accepting. Obviously, you need to be careful, Harry, but you should never be completely alone.”

Harry didn’t know how to respond. He could hardly believe it. All that fear over someone learning his secret …

Lupin’s talk of trust made him pause. There were different types of trust, and he had never been very good at the kind required to ask for help, probably thanks to ten years of never having anyone to help him. Maybe other people in his position would have done the sensible thing and sought it out, but he’d been too afraid. Too ready to believe that there was no-one he could rely on.

His throat burned, though it was nothing to do with the tube that had been in there.

“C-can I see Ron?”

Lupin nodded, smiling. “Of course. I’ll go and fetch him for you.”