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.