Harry was completely exhausted by the time he reached the unusually quiet Infirmary and it showed.  The white-clad woman within had known him long enough to immediately expect the worse upon his arrival, especially if he was feeling poorly enough to go to her willingly.  Far too many times he had to be dragged kicking and screaming (or sullen and silent as the case may be) or brought in unconscious (which had happened far too many times in both of their opinions).  Seeing a pale and shaking Harry Potter enter her Infirmary alone was not a positive sign, for all that it meant he had come to her willingly after years of resistance.  It only made her worry more as she wondered how bad it must be for him to have trusted her.

She was disappointed when she realised he still didn’t – not really.  He appeared to be on auto-pilot and stayed silent as she directed him to ‘his’ bed, the one he always used when he was in need of her help, the one he had chosen in first year because of the high arched window beside it.  She drew her wand and performed a standard diagnostic charm, opening Harry’s file and touching wandpoint to parchment before waving it in intricate patterns around his body where he sat on the edge of the bed. 

As she performed the routine charm her eyes took in the dulled glaze in his own, the glossy sheen that made his green eyes eerily luminous, the clammy skin and tremors racking his entire frame.  She suspected he had a bad case of the flu or something similar.  That was why the worried crease between her brows deepened to a frown of confusion when her charm proved inconclusive.  Nothing appeared on the parchment she held in her other hand when she touched the tip of her wand to it.  Apparently there were too many things in his body warring with each other for a standard diagnostic charm to get a clear reading, and that made no sense whatsoever unless their Potions Professor had finally cracked a decided to use students as test subjects after all. 

She had gotten the same reading the first time Minerva had brought Harry to her after a vision from Voldemort.  The curse scar and its effects were foreign to his body; he wasn’t born with it, therefore it confused any reading she had tried to record about it and its symptoms.  Being a school-trained medi-witch, Poppy Pomfrey knew a wide range of healing spells and potions and the effects of many illnesses and infections likely to be found in a school but she wasn’t as knowledgeable in any one field as the specialists of St Mungo’s.  It was a rare occurrence when a student would need to be taken to the wizarding hospital but it had happened in the past.  Poppy however was reluctant to do this for Harry, knowing the danger as well as any of the staff; perhaps more so as she had seen him hurt so often before.  She wasn’t about to do anything that might risk seeing him that way again.

She remained undecided, her eyes watching Harry intently as she tried to reason what would be best for her patient, when Harry seemed to come back to himself a little and his eyes finally left the floor to meet hers. 

“Madame Pomfrey?  I really only need a Pepper-Up Potion or some sleep or something and I’ll be alright, this isn’t necessary.”  He seemed not to notice that she had already charmed him once and was currently deliberating.  She didn’t like the way his pupils were dilated and the fact that it was obvious after watching intently for a moment that he was rocking back and forth ever so slightly, as though unaware of the movement and unable to stop.  She was incredibly concerned but reasoned that for the moment there wasn’t an awful lot she could do, and the curse scar had interfered with her readings before.  It may still be something fairly small and it was clearly something she wouldn’t glean from him.  Not consciously at least. 

“Okay dear, I’ll be back in a moment,” she said soothingly.

Harry seemed not to notice the pause.  He simply nodded and continued to stare into space as she went to her potions cabinet where she kept a small stock of salves and healing potions.  She had known the boy for five years now and still he wouldn’t tell her anything, would never admit to needing help or healing unless he was forced to.  She sighed.  There was only so much she could do until he decided to confide in her.  In anyone.  She had noticed the signs, those small giveaways she had seen in far too many students in her career at Hogwarts.  She had gone to Dumbledore every year that Harry returned, underfed, body stressed to the point of collapse.  With no proof she had nothing but suspicions to pester Dumbledore with but she could see it, in Harry’s eyes whenever he returned and inevitably came down with something at the beginning of term in September; his immune system too weak not to be susceptible to the hundreds of other students bringing all kinds of illnesses with them from their time away from school.  And every time he came – or was dragged by his friends – grudgingly.  Every time he scarpered as soon as he could.  

Taking the right vial back to Harry’s bed with her, she handed it to him keeping her hand on the potion until Harry had grabbed it in both of his unsteady hands and raised it to his lips.  Steam shot out of his ears and the tell-tale flush of his the potion helping his body boil whatever infection he might have appeared on his cheeks as he drank but it immediately gave way to a startling shade of white before he gasped, clutching his stomach.

Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so sick; sure that it had been many years ago.  Long enough ago that he had been shut in a cupboard until he was well again.  He felt like something was sinking its teeth into his gut from the inside and he could feel himself paling, the bile rising, before he was doubled over and retching between his knees over the side of the bed.  Madame Pomfrey was quick with a basin which he held in shaking hands as he continued to empty his stomach, ignoring the wetness he could feel at the corners of his eyes.  He felt thoroughly miserable by the time he sat back, careful to sit straight on the edge of the bed despite his exhaustion, his back already paining him from his body’s convulsions.  He was grateful the medi-witch’s sharp eyes had missed that at least.

Madame Pomfrey was solicitous as always and Harry quickly found himself eased back against a mound of pillows so gently he felt only a twinge from his back.  A warm flannel brushed his face, soothing the oversensitive skin and cleaning his clammy skin.  The woman seemed to be in her element now that she had a student she could cater to but he noticed the way her usually well-hidden concern seemed to be mounting in a way he knew he wouldn’t like.  This was confirmed when, wanting to get away from those piercing, assessing eyes, he asked if he could go back to class now and she assured him in her don’t-argue-with-me tone that he was going nowhere.

For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening she monitored him closely while she covered her hovering by cleaning, rearranging the potions cabinet and remaking the perfectly made beds nearest Harry’s.  She needn’t have bothered, after the first five minutes he was too out of it to notice. 

When it came time for dinner to be served in the Great Hall Harry started levering himself up to leave but Madame Pomfrey appeared at his elbow before he could get far and gently pushed him back down.  “I don’t think so young man, you’ll have dinner right here.”

“I’m fine now Ma’am, I can eat in the Great Hall.”

“No you can’t,” she started resolutely.  “I will not have you-”

What she would or wouldn’t have him doing was never given voice however, because a very muddy Hufflepuff Quidditch team chose that moment to spill through the infirmary doors with a rather ruffled Madame Hooch and three stretchers following in their wake.  Over the sudden din Harry heard Hooch calling to Pomfrey and gesticulating wildly, only barely missing several students’ heads.

“These two collided mid-air and that one caught a bludger in the back of the head because of the distraction.”  Harry couldn’t help his smile when he heard Madame Pomfrey’s mutter of “bloody ‘sport’” and used the distraction to lever himself up once more and escape the infirmary before anyone noticed, though with no intention of going to the Great Hall.  He just needed a bit more rest – rest he could get in his dorm – and he’d be fine.

Hermione was having a horrible day.  She had somehow received an E on the Ancient Runes essay she had been handed back in class earlier that day and Potions had been a very long hour of brewing and trying to plan with Ron how to get away from Harry for their ‘tea’ with the headmaster without him noticing.  Not that she thought he would have noticed anyway.  She had found it increasingly hard to concentrate when it was obvious that Harry was sick, his eyes dull and his skin pale and shiny with perspiration.  Half the glances she had exchanged with Ron had been in concern for their friend who had been rubbing at his temples constantly, though she was fairly sure he’d been unaware of his actions. 

Neither of them wanted Harry to know they had been invited to a meeting with Dumbledore when they both knew Harry hadn’t – or at least they strongly suspected he hadn’t and they didn’t want to mention it just in case.  They both knew how adrift Harry was feeling lately and neither had missed the way Dumbledore was suddenly ignoring him.  So it turned out to be a blessing for them that Snape had held Harry back at the end of class.  It enabled them to get away before he left, but neither of them had been able to shake the guilt they had felt over the abandonment and Ron had spent the time it took walking to the headmaster’s office worriedly ranting to Hermione about their Divination lesson and Harry’s similar behaviour throughout it.

As Hermione walked to the Great Hall for dinner that night she couldn’t help rubbing her own temples in frustration as she thought about how ultimately pointless the meeting with the Headmaster had been.  The man may have been one of the greatest wizards of their time – and quite likely the time before it as well – but it was obvious that as equally worried as the man was about their friend, he knew as little or less than they did about Harry’s current moods and how to help.  He insisted when Hermione asked that the distance he was currently keeping from Harry was necessary and not to mention it, but Hermione couldn’t help wondering if there was some other way around whatever the issue was.  Any other way.  She had it on very good authority that the loss of support on his part was slowly driving Harry mad. 

Though he had seemed as concerned as they were, Dumbledore did seem to have that hopeful twinkle in his eyes firmly in place and assured them that no matter how hopeless it might seem, hope always remained, though he expressed it with a clichéd muggle sentiment that soared straight over Ron’s head like a rogue bludger until Hermione explained it.  She sighed as she spotted her friend’s fiery hair a little apart from the other Gryffindors at the table, writing furiously on a piece of parchment.  As she approached she saw that he was penning a letter.

Snuffles, I wouldn’t be writing but I think you need to talk to Harry.  Especially after the other night.  Me and Hermione think something might be wrong but he won’t talk to us and Dumbledore will only say something about it being dark before morning but-

“Dawn.”

Ron jumped when Hermione stopped reading over his shoulder to correct him.  Turning to face her he looked at her quizzically.

“The saying,” she explained, “is that it’s darkest before dawn.”

“Fat lot of good it does,” Ron grumbled before returning to his letter.  Hermione couldn’t help but agree as she slumped onto the bench beside him before looking around the hall. 

“No sign of him yet?”

“’Course not, he probably won’t come at all.”  Ron wrote as he spoke and Hermione could see from the harsh movements of his hand that his words were likely becoming just as harsh.  She could see the parchment beginning to tear under his fierce strokes and tried to think of something to calm him before he found himself having to rewrite his missive.

“Ron, you can’t blame him for the way Harry’s acting lately.”  Ron gave her a look and she amended, “not completely.”

“Sure I can.”

A few moments later Ron stopped writing and looked over his letter with a satisfied air that Hermione didn’t think boded well so she plucked it from his hands and read the rest herself.

Me and Hermione think something might be wrong but he won’t talk to us and Dumbledore will only say something about it being dark before morning dawn but that doesn’t help us or him.  If you talked to him you might be able to get more out of him or at least make him feel a bit more like he can trust someone because after the other night...  He’s been quieter since Sunday and it’s not good for him.  He isn’t eating or sleeping well and Snape’s being worse than usual and there’s nothing we can do and Sunday just made everything worse.  He’s supposed to be able to turn to you but he can’t and at the moment I don’t think he’d want to anyway.  I thought you said he could rely on you.

-Ron

Hermione thought it read a little harshly and knew that Sirius would think the same but she couldn’t find it in herself to be all the concerned for Sirius after Sunday night.  Nevertheless she relented enough to pick up Ron’s quill and pen a short note at the end.

If you don’t talk to him soon you may lose him for good.  He’s less self-assured than you think.  At least give it some thought.

-Hermione

“You’re too nice you know.”

Hermione looked up and saw Ron watching her and shrugged before handing the note back.  He tucked it in a pocket of his robe before picking up a fork to start on dinner which had appeared at some point, unnoticed by both.  “I’ll owl it tonight.”