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?”