Harry shifted under the protection of his invisibility cloak, sitting on the hard wood floor outside the portrait hole of the Gryffindor common room, his common room. He would have gone in, oh, there was no doubt he would have gone in, if not for the harsh words he knew would greet him the second Ron laid eyes upon him--the "sneaking queer snake". He flinched at the remembrance of the words and dragged down another deep breath. He had said nothing out right about being ...homosexual... in fact, no such words had left his mouth in the short but terrifying conversation between himself and the stupid Ronald-git only an hour earlier.
So what if he thought Malfoy had gotten a bit more fit over the Christmas break? He felt no attraction to the slimy monstrosity of a boy.
Harry sighed again, sure that it wouldn’t be safe to go in, not even if he managed to sneak in behind Neville--who was now walking up the stairs down the hall—it was more than likely that everyone knew Harry's slip up by now.
Harry's betrayal.
Harry's--stupid friggin'—compliment to a Slytherin!
With the way the other students had been acting ever since he had spoken to the poor, upset, magic-ed serpent at the Duelling Club meeting, he wouldn't be surprised if they all thought he was going to go and shack up with his "beau" in the Slytherin dormitory. Ugh, his fellow Gryffindors, for all their courage, were a bunch of absolute dunderheads when rumours started.
"Hey, Harry?" Harry started under his cloak and looked at Neville who was looking around. "Um, you know, if it makes you feel any better, I don't care if you are...you know."
Yes, Neville I know what you mean.
"Thank-you, Neville."
Neville jumped in surprise, obviously not expecting Harry to be so close.
Harry bit back another sigh and continued, "The password's Bertie Botts’ Every-Flavoured Beans, by the way."
"Thanks, Harry, if you ever need someone to stand up for you I'll... find someone else." With a pathetic try at a joking, light laugh Neville walked through the opened portrait hole, waving a meek good-bye to the invisible boy.
"Thanks... Neville." Harry whispered into his knees, at least the scared boy tried.
"Look there he is."
"Did you see that!"
"Oh my--eep!" Harry shot a look at the Hufflepuff girl that silenced her faster than a Silencio spell. Maybe deciding he needed supper hadn't been such a good idea. After all, he could go much longer than the 3 days it had been without food. But if he didn’t, the professors would start asking....unwanted… questions.
Just as he was about to step into the Great Hall, he felt a hand softly grip his shoulder.
"Mr. Potter, Madame Pomfrey requires your presence in the Hospital Wing." Snape murmured—almost-- kindly near his ear. Harry sneered and bit back a retort. He guessed that he was to be offered food by the kind Medi-Witch who he had seen--possibly--more than any other Gryffindor in the history of the school. Admittedly, he was unconscious half the time, but...same innards, different skins. Right?
"Yes, Professor." Harry bit out Snape's title and spun away, knowing damned well that his robes had just... billowed. Ha! That was all to the good, he could say he was mocking the Potions Master.
"Oh and, detention, tomorrow evening, 7 o’clock sharp, Mr. Potter,"
Ah, yes. Back to the drawl and sneer. Much. More. Preferable.
Harry entered the Medi-Witch's office upon her beckoning. They had given up such formalities as beds half-way through first year, and gone straight to comfortable chairs in her office—if, of course, his body was in good enough condition. He seemed to do his best healing there, in private, with her soft voice.
"Hello, Harry. please…" She nodded to the soft cushioned chair in front of her, and Harry gladly took it. He glanced around, not much had changed since his last che—visit, four days ago, mere hours before Ron’s... explosion.
"You have new curtains." He observed, slowly, hesitantly.
"Yes, dear, I do. But, Harry, the bush can't take any more of that beating. You know why you are here."
He looked at her soft, kindly face. "Yes, but generally,...you ask."
She gave him one of her comforting smiles. "Harry, how have you been?"
Harry smiled back, a bit wryly. "I called Draco fit... I think." Only here was it safe to use his name; anyone's name was safe to say here. "Ron took it to heart and kind of blew up… well, no. He really exploded. I've been...I've been avoiding the Great Hall, since then. And my common room and the dorm. I've been sleeping in an abandoned class room...near the dungeons ever since. I call it my keep. And, I...," he hesitated, knowing the disappointment he would see in her eyes when he looked up—he hated it when he couldn't please her. "I’ve not been eating either."
"How long, Harry?"
"Um, since my last visit."
"Harry, eat." He looked up and saw a plate containing two sandwiches sitting before him. "Ham, your favourite. But we cannot have you eating too much too fast, for fear of upsetting your stomach, like your first day and night here."
Poppy knew (and Harry knew she knew) about how he was treated at the Dursleys, even though he’d never spoken about it outright. She didn't know it all though, and a part of him was glad she didn’t.
She said it was because of how he acted, most of the time. Harry didn't see where she got that though; he’d never noticed anything out of the usual about how he acted. Nothing. Ever. In his entire life. Had he every acted not normal.
Well,...except maybe that one time when he—NO! he was perfectly normal!
...for the Boy-Who-Lived.
"Thank-you for coming, Harry. I want to see you again on Sunday afternoon."
"Yes, Poppy."
Poppy tsk-ed and shook her head gently; "Harry, outside of the office it is Madame Pomfrey. Now, get along. I'm sure you'll find your hidden keep quite to your liking."
Harry looked at her curiously, but he knew she would say nothing more, and gave up searching her all-knowing eyes for their hidden answers and trotted off, the same spring in his step he was aware was there after every... visit.
He hummed on his way to his keep, knowing he would meet no one. He never really did after his visits with Poppy, unless he wanted to. It was odd. Maybe it was just one of the Medi-Witch’s workings.
Poppy had won his trust long ago, broken through the shell and mask he had so long tried to pretend weren’t there. But only her; even with Hermione and Ron—the git—he’d kept his lips sealed until he wasn’t the only one suggesting or opposing something—something Poppy had long ago stopped scolding him about.
He opened his door and stopped dead, catching his breath in surprise. The formerly empty and dusty room was now furnished with a bed with red and silver drapes, a side table, and a wardrobe. He also spotted a door in the right-hand wall that he was almost positive led to a bathroom.
How did that darned Medi-Witch do it?