He did visit Professor Sprout, more out of courtesy for his new chore rather than planting seeds in a pot. The small grains shuffled inside the bag in his back pocket, reminding him of his promise between pulling out weeds and carrying other gardening equipment from one part of the garden to the other.

The boys engaged him in idle conversation, sometimes in cut off sentences, due to the general ruckus of Greenhouse One. They managed some among themselves. Harry did not, answering with faint replies and awkward laughter. With every second thickening the embarrassing tension in the air, Harry was less hesitant when Professor Sprout called him, asking him to wait in Greenhouse Three for her while she helped a student.

The door of Greenhouse Three opened with a rusty groan. Compared with the chilly autumn wind, inside was warm and humid.

It also smelled familiar.

The apothecary came to mind, as did the laboratory, and with it a tug on a string of his heart. It was a pang in his chest he hadn't read enough books to name, or smelt enough of the wafting greenery to comprehend.

In one corner of the room, something bright caught his eye.

Harry took the cracked-stone path with moss life budding in between, to the tree bearing small, round fruit.

"There aren't no trees like this, back in London," Harry mumbled to himself, inspecting the bright fruit from afar. Cold, morning light touched the curve of the fruit, casting drops of shadow from where light curled above dark green leaves.

The Greenhouse kept it's silence. Harry looked up at the tree, then the closed door and then the fruit closest to him. He wouldn't be able to reach it, even if Professor Sprout took a day to come to the Greenhouse.

She wouldn't make it in time to stop Harry picking a fruit from the ground, though.

Two of them had rot spreading from where the light did not touch, but Harry sorted through them to find a relatively fresh one.

The skin gave down when he pressed with his thumb, and some juice escaped from the torn spot. Harry threw the fruit down with mild disgust, scrunching his nose and trying to wave his hand free of the juice. He didn't want to rub it on his clothes, but the liquid kept sliding down his fingers, sticking on his skin.

"No wonder London has no trees like this," Harry said in disgust, sighing and glaring at the tree. Harry didn't need a biology course from Professor Sprout to tell him the tree wouldn't glare back. Turning around, Harry gave his hand one last shake, bringing it up to smell whether it was still on his skin.

Very suddenly, the odor traveled up his nose, resulting in a hot flash.

It was the same hot flash as the one on the train, after Demeter hurt his arm. The same one he felt when Malfoy hid him in the cupboard, when Snape locked him in that dark, dark room and when he heard the crash of breaking jars.

The hot flash spread into pain in his back and arm, so strong Harry touched the back of his head to make sure nothing had dropped on it. Fear climbed up from the pit of his stomach to his chest, a talon around his heart, before finally crashing down on his head. Humid air climbed into his throat, and in the corner of his mind, Harry felt the threat of something approaching.

The door was left wide open behind him as he scrambled to get out, this time the cold biting at exposed parts of his skin.

A jumble of whispers and jabs hissed into his head with each rapid step, and Harry refused to hear them, the autumn wind driving its fangs into his skin, causing a small tear to escape from the corner of his eye, trailing down his cheek. The mud gave away twice, and Harry stumbled twice before finally falling down near the lake, his shoes digging into the soil as he pulled his arm into the water, sleeve and all.

The wind had nothing on the lake's waters - small bites punching into his skin. Harry kept his hand submerged, though, until he could be sure the smell was off him. For good measure, he rolled his other sleeve off, pushing it under the water to run his jagged nails down his arm to calm down.

The school bell rang in the distance, for breakfast, and today, it was easier to ignore the hunger in his stomach. He already ate little, and could remember days he wouldn't eat at all. Under him, the scent of wet soil wafted into his nose, as it smudged his clothes and glasses. He could feel the frames stretching against his nose, putting pressure on the metal.

For the next ten minutes, he lay perfectly still, save for occasionally moving his numb arms under the water, and glancing above his school blazer for a look at his now red arm. He grimaced at the thin, raw lines prickling with dots of blood. His nails weren't better, jagged from where Harry bit down and rusted red on the edges.

Five minutes later, both arms terribly numb and motionless, Harry heard a shuffle behind him, and with speed he didn't know he had, snatched his arms from the water, jumping to his feet with a small cry and splashing water around him. In the scuffle, his foot slid on the layer of mud, leaving him off balance.

The water got closer, the sensation of falling replaced by his plummeting heart, forcing the logic out of him and-

The person barely caught him, their hand wrapped around the arm with the wet sleeve. In the span of a second, Harry met the wide, frightened eyes of Draco Malfoy, and the idea of falling into the lake paled in comparison to what would happen if Malfoy saw his arm.

"I think you can let go of me now," Harry said barely above a whisper. Malfoy, very stiffly and carefully, pulled him closer, making Harry stumble on the mud, this time face-down.

Malfoy caught him again.

Very briefly, Harry felt Malfoy's long limbs wrap around him to stop him from falling. Warm. So very warm against the cold that harshly enveloped him today. The warmth didn't stay though, and before Harry could close his tired eyes, Malfoy pulled him forward, shaking him while he screamed, "You are mad! Utterly mad!"

In the corner of his vision, above the soil stain on his glasses, a Ravenclaw, one older than them. Harry pulled his other sleeve down, glad the water had washed away the blood, wiping his nose on his sleeve, "I dropped something."

"You dropped something? What could you drop in the lake? Your sanity?"

"More like your dignity," Harry bit back roughly, shrugging off Malfoy's arm, "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Looking for the smart lad that left the door of Greenhouse Three open, worrying Professor Sprout half to death. Is skipping your responsibility a common feat for you, or is it exclusively to prove you're not a Ravenclaw?"

"Maybe it's because I don't want to hear your annoying voice!" Harry shouted, slinging his arm out of Malfoy's grip and starting to walk towards the Greenhouses, nodding nervously at the extremely pretty Ravenclaw girl with a freckled nose, a head taller than Harry himself.

"Where are you going?" Malfoy called after him, trying to grab Harry's arm. Harry wrenched it back, and this time, Malfoy was the one to stumble forward, knees hitting the stone steps that led up to the school.

"Why are you following me?" Harry said through his teeth. Malfoy stood up, wobbling, touching his knees and wincing, making Harry press his lips together in remorse. Feeling somewhat guilty for Malfoy's fall while his arm was still bandaged, Harry lifted his hand for him to hold on to while he brushed the dust from his knees.

He did, hesitantly, and Harry trembled for a moment under Malfoy's weight.

Malfoy straightened up, "Professor Sprout was looking for you."

Harry felt himself pale.

"Why didn't you finish your chore?"

"I did," said Harry, sighing. He rubbed the back of his neck, his wet sleeve brushing his nape. His other hand twitched behind him, entwined with his shirt. Why did Malfoy have to find him so soon? He still felt his nerves jolting under his skin, making him want to scratch his arm to calm down, or stuff it down into the lake. The cold had helped take his mind off things, even now keeping him grounded.

"Then come on," he said, again attempting to grab him by the arm, going pink in the face when Harry, once again, snatched his hand back, "She sent us to look for you. If Chang hadn't noticed you in the distance, we wouldn't have found you until classes started."

"Thank Chang for me, then," Harry hissed under his breath, bumping into Malfoy's shoulder to move past him, "I don't need someone to make sure I work."

"I bet you didn't even see that one Minister official eyeing you, in the distance. And not in a good way either! You need someone to make sure you don't die!" came Malfoys shout behind him, and Harry shrunk in on himself, breaking into a sprint to Greenhouse 3. Professor Sprout was waiting by the entrance, and Harry hid his arms behind his back, dropping his head.

"Mr Patel -"

"Professor, I really... I can't. I know for..." he rubbed his eye with his palm, glasses lifting on one side, "Two days now, I haven't been very responsible. But-" he put a hand into his pocket, taking out the trampled paper bag and holding it out for her, "I'm sorry. But I can't enter the- this Greenhouse. Can we do it elsewhere?"

Harry didn't know what convinced Professor Sprout, his stance or expression or the dirt on his clothes and face, or maybe the water dripping from his arm. Greenhouse two was alright, she assured him, but also made it quite clear that he lost Ravenclaw seven points as they entered through the door.

All Harry could do was mutely agree, barely listening, only hearing the part of needing to water the lilies every other day. The bell rang, and Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly, reassuring he would be fine and would definitely see his aunt after classes. Somehow, after the humid air had settled around him, the walk to the castle seemed longer. Having not eaten breakfast, he sluggishly climbed the stairs, stifling a yawn every few steps.

Barely any students were in the halls, the ones that were unfortunate enough to be late for class glancing towards him before rushing past, occupied with their own troubles. Outside the English classroom, Harry took a deep breath, tidied himself as much as possible and knocked on the door. Immediately, Professor Lupin's lecture died down. Harry heard him clear his throat before calling for him to enter, eyes falling when it was Harry who entered the classroom.

"You're rather late today, Ali."

"I know, sir," Harry said quietly, squeezing his arm behind his back and hanging his head, "It won't happen again."

Professor Lupin nodded, gesturing for him to sit down, "See me after class, please."

Harry took the seat at the back of the class, wanting to press his head down on the table and sleep, or find some other means of calming down. Would anyone notice if he rolled his sleeves just a bit? He could excuse it by saying it was itchy, or his arm touched a nasty plant in the Greenhouse. Eyeing the class and Professor Lupin, Harry propped up his book, skimming the poem they were discussing while under the table he started to scratch.

And, to his relief, the pain grounded him enough to pay attention, even answering a question correctly when Professor Lupin called on him.

After class, Harry packed his books away and watched the rest of the class leave, stiffly buttoning and unbuttoning his bag. When it was only Professor Lupin and him who remained, Harry didn't stand until he was asked to, nervously fiddling with his thumb.

"You look rather ill, Harry," Professor Lupin said, leaning against his table and crossing his arms, "Would you like me to write to Madam Pomfrey, so you can rest?"

Harry grimaced. The last thing he needed was to get stuck in the hospital wing all day with nothing to distract him, "No, sir. I'm not ill."

"Has something happened that kept you late?" Professor Lupin asked with a small smile, lifting a hand to brush his shoulder. But Harry pulled back, hiding his arm behind his back.

Their eyes met, Professor Lupin's hand closing and slowly falling down.

"Harry-"

"No, sir," said Harry, swallowing thickly and scratching his cheek, "Just... I didn't hear the bell."

"If there are... You can tell me anything, Harry. You know that, I hope."

Harry squared his shoulders, and breathed, "Sure."

"My office is always open."

"I know."

"And if there are things you're too afraid to ask, I'm sure-"

"I said I know!" Harry shouted, hands clasped beside him, "I don't need anyone's pity! I-"

Immediately, Harry felt himself flush, the reality of what he just screamed at his own Professor settling rather uncomfortably into his head. He shrunk in on himself further, once more rubbing his eyes, "I'm... I understand if you take points, or give detention, sir. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"Ah, no," Professor Lupin said lightly, clearing his throat. Harry knew he was trying to regain some composure, but behind his shaky smile, he could see some reluctance as he spoke, "I should not have pushed you further. If you'd like, you may leave."

"No... no points taken? Or detention?"

"I think you've shown enough remorse," Professor Lupin said. Harry agreed silently. He turned around to leave, and Professor Lupin stood up to accompany him to the door. A few steps ahead, however, Harry stopped and turned around.

"Have I done something to you Professor?"

Professor Lupin blinked, "Would you be kind enough to explain?"

"You act like… I don't know how to put it, but I feel like you know something about me that I don't," Harry said, sighing in relief. The thought had been bothering him since the first day in class, from being called by his first name to feeling as though he was receiving special attention. In response, Professor Lupin's lips parted, before being pressed into a firm line. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, sighing, "I'm afraid that is a conversation that requires more time.

"No reading on Sunday?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Perhaps not the whole hour," Professor Lupin said, opening the door, "I would still like to make sure there isn't anything bothering you, however."

"I think I'll take it up with my aunt, sir," Harry said, turning around and meeting his eyes, "There isn't anything, though. You don't have to worry."

Professor Lupin couldn't hide his disbelief with a smile. Harry didn't comment on it, nodding and walking past him to his next class, sleep slowly boring down on his shoulders.

After school, Harry visited the library to study with Hermione, and without giving her the chance to say anything about the fight, kept her occupied with stories Professor Patel had told him and the things he learnt from the apothecary, particularly the (almost) lie about the ginger incident.

"Is that why you don't like ginger?" Hermione whispered above her book, "Because you inhaled a bit too much?"

"I mean," Harry rubbed the back of his neck, "My aunt couldn't have known I would hate it, when she gave the jar to me, right?"

Then there was comfortable silence, and the two parted in the Great Hall.

After dinner, before leaving the dormitories, Harry caught up with Cedric Diggory.

"How're your hands, Ali?" he asked, a hand on his shoulder, "Practise not giving you any trouble?"

"Not really," Harry said, moving his fingers on his lap, "Um, listen. I was wondering… well you look like you know how to… talk to people, and, uh… talk good... To people. ."

"I do?" Cedric said, beaming a little..

"Oh, yes. And, out of curiosity, I was wondering if you could give me some advice on —" Harry looked around to make sure Hermione, Ron and especially Malfoy weren't in sight. They weren't. Harry leaned closer either way, dropping his voice to a whisper, "— Some advice on bringing people together, after they fought."

He asked the same question to the Hufflepuffs. And to Luna, and the Ravenclaw (he still needed those notes, and the more he got to know them, the easier it would be to ask) after asking the friend Cedric recommended. Satisfied with the answers he'd got, and a plan formulating in his head for Wednesday morning, Harry smugly exited the Ravenclaw common room. The corridor's dim lighting and the pattering of rain against the window made him even more sleepy, with only the cold keeping him lucid.

He'd have to remember to wear his coat next time.

In Professor Patel's office, before she could say anything, Harry pulled the chair forward, plopped down on it and leaned his head on the table, "I'm so tired, Professor…"

"Ah, well, you're not accustomed to studying and conforming to a schedule. In due time —"

"No," Harry mumbled, tapping his finger against the table's side in rhythm to the rain, "I'm tired of feeling. I wish I wouldn't feel at all. I wish I could go numb."

Professor Patel's chair creaked. Harry didn't look up. He still felt her eyes on the back of his head, though, and could imagine the worried crease of her eyebrows and the frown on the corner of her lips, "That isn't what you told me last time we saw each other. I'm coming to the conclusion that this thought is something that has accumulated in your mind for a while, and a recent tipping point caused you to express it."

"I burned again today, Professor," Harry said in a coarse whisper, closing his eyes in a grimace, "I don't know what's happening to me. It's the same thing, over and over and over again and I'm so tired."

"The one on the train?"

Harry straightened, meeting her eye. Professor Patel only kept a single lantern in her office, and just a few candles, which Harry only saw when the sky was wrought darker due to the rain, the thick clouds hiding the stars and the moon. Like this rare occasion, where funny shadows danced on the table and on their skin, there was enough light for them to see, yet not enough for Harry to decipher what Professor Patel was thinking through her expression.

"The one that's everywhere."

"You've never mentioned that it happens quite as often. Only a few occasions, and never described such detail."

"I said I was burning," Harry snapped, the need for sleep slowly clouding his head, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep.

"You have," Professor Patel said, lifting a hand around her candle, lowering it when her skin came too close, "A candle burns. So does a house. A forest, and Rome has once, as well. From the way you're describing it, that's not a candle."

"Are you asking me if I'm Rome?"

"I'm asking you what set you on fire. May that be a candle," she dropped her hand, "Or firewood for winter."

Harry pulled his knees up, hiding his head between his arms, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Do you really not?" Professor Patel asked quietly. Harry peered between his arms. The light from the candle caught on Professor Patel's dark eyes.

And Harry could see something more than worry in them.

"Profesor, I…" Harry sniffed, hating himself for feeling tears burn the corner of his eyes, "I'm just. I'm sick of…"

The rain hammered harder against the glass. Harry sniffed again, furiously rubbing his eyes, hoping the shadows hid his face. Was it meant to be this hard? Talking? Uttering the words he'd kept in his heart, bound to burst under the weight that came with keeping them hidden?

How long could he hide a storm?

And how long did he want to?

"Harry?"

Professor Patel's voice was too soft, too close. The rain muted any other sound of the castle, and under the light of a flickering candle there was no-one to see the single drops of that storm, coming down his chin like the water down the glass pane. He didn't manage to look up, the shame rushing to his ears and spreading over his cheeks.

"I don't — " his voice was thick, and yet silent - lost like a small pebble thrown out at sea. The light of the candle grew dimmer the longer he looked at it. The words lost value the more he kept them on the tip of his tongue.

He peeked above his arm, just once, to meet her eyes, and with a shaking voice finally said the words no child should have to burden, no life should have to use.

"I don't want to be hurt anymore."

A lot of things looked like it crossed Professor Patel's mind at that second. And it probably did. She took a deep breath, glanced at the candle light, and back to Harry again.

"Right now, at this moment in time, what words should I say to bring you the most comfort?"

"That —" Harry heaved, rubbing his cheek on his dirty sleeve, "— That I won't be hurt. That I don't have to be scared. That tomorrow, I will wake up and everything will be normal."

"There exists no immunity against hardship, Harry," Professor Patel said, barely above the sound of the rain, "Life is hardship. It's the forest I've talked to you about. You don't choose what comes your way, Harry. And sometimes," her frown lifted into a sad smile, and her gaze fell towards the rain, "Sometimes you can't stop it."

"Then I'm not going to ever find my way out."

"You don't find your way out. As long as you're breathing —" she touched a hand to her chest, and took a heavy breath, "— As long as I have this heart beating inside of me, I'm still on that road, finding new maps, using old ones. Meeting new people, leaving some behind."

"And what's your forest look like? Sunny and with roses?" Harry asked, harsher than intended, burying his face in his arms, "Mines probably snowy and twisting and turning, and every single time I see something that… bothers me, the storm only gets worse."

A moment of silence later, Professor Patel spoke, "If you had to spend your life as miserable as possible, what would the things you do be?"

"What does that have to do with this?"

"For one night, will you not trust me? There is not much light, no soul wandering this part of the school."

Harry held her gaze, then released a shaky breath. No footsteps, barely enough light. Trust, however, he couldn't comprehend. What made trust, and what made you give it to another person? Years of knowing each other, shared experiences and news towards the world. More importantly, though, how could one share themselves, little pieces of glass, easily broken by the wrong touch, with the wrong person?

It took too much, perhaps, being vulnerable.

Barely enough light, enough darkness to hide their secrets.

"Never work, lie around all day," Harry said, counting without paying mind, "Never change my clothes, never wash. Keep hurting myself. Refuse to speak to others —" Harry's breath hitched, voice cutting where the next sentence was to begin. In front of him, Professor Patel leaned on her chair, gesturing at him to continue. Harry didn't think he needed to.

He did either way, throat dry and shaky laughter accompanying his words, " — Not eat, not drink. Keep every part of myself locked away — right here, in my chest — and…"

"And?

Harry licked his dry lips, wiping his cheek, "Stop living."

"You'd stop being human," Professor Patel confirmed, and all Harry could do was nod, wincing when Professor Patel pressed salt to the wound.

"And you realised some of these things you are doing, they're in the list. Things you do, things you want to do."

"Things I wish I didn't," the flame shuddered with his breath, "I don't see what it has to do with the road, still."

"Then tell me, Harry," Professor Patel leaned closer, seemingly about to reveal a great secret, "Would you take unnecessary packages with you, on a long trip?"

"Of course not."

"And yet, humans keep insisting on picking up the wrong luggage," she lifted an ink bottle from the table, turning it around her fingers, "We humans, whether the road be in a storm or a curvy path, are so focused on the ugly nicknacks on the side of the road, insisting on carrying them with us, we neglect collecting the useful - the ones that will help us with the inevitable obstacles on our way.

"In a way," she placed the ink bottle back on the table, ruffling some of the papers, "We pick up the rock, instead of an umbrella."

"I can't help pick it up, though," Harry argued, straightening his back, "I can't help pick it up."

"Then why won't you try letting it go?"

Harry's words caught in his mouth, and he took a few moments to compose himself before coming with an answer, "I can't. I don't know how."

Profesor Patel shrugged, "You didn't know how to read either."

"No, you don't understand," Harry shook his hands, standing up, "This is different! I don't know how. I can't do this."

"And what you don't understand is, I'm here. The school is here," she opened her arms, pointing towards the window, "The whole world is still here, still moving and each day is half a step you can take towards learning. You won't be abandoned. You will live, and you will learn to live. You will find your map."

"And when it expires?" he saidi voice rising, placing his hands on the desk, "When I can't use it anymore? Am I going to try and find a new map every single time? I don't want any of that."

"Harry, love," Professor Patel didn't stand up, but joined her hands on the table, voice steady and firm, "Why worry about the map you're supposed to find at the moment?"

Harry squeezed his fist together, grinding his teeth. He turned around, jolting the chair, watching it tumble and tip and then regain balance. With a cry, he took the chair by the handle, pushing it so that it collapsed on the floor with a thud that echoed through the room.

Professor Patel said nothing behind her weak flames.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I hate it when you push me into corners," Harry said under his breath, hands over his eyes, fingers digging into his hair, "I hate it."

"You don't like being pushed into a corner," Professor Patel said. Lighting snaked across the great void outside, casting menacing light into the room. Yet Professor Patel's smile was just as normal, soft as always, , "And I'll push you into one more."

The light was pulled back. Harry waited for the rumbling of thunder to continue, "I don't want you to."

"I will, either way. Because, don't forget Harry —" she touched the cork of the ink bottle, " — Gaze upon the walls of this ancient castle, and observe. You'll find them masterpieces. Perfection. The only thing I want you to keep in mind?

Even black paint is used to create art."

The session ended soon after, and Harry dragged himself back to the dormitories. Too tired to talk to anyone, he greeted anyone in his way with a dismissive wave, dodging the students lingering around to get to his room, and hopefully put on a coat. His trunk was pushed into the corner, unlike the rest of the trunks pushed against the foot of the beds. Because Harry didn't have a proper bed, he had two mattresses piled on top of each other because Hogwarts dormitories only held 5 four-posters each room.

No matter.

Harry dug into his trunk, making sure delicate objects were taken out first before starting to empty his trunk, concern increasing with each article he spread out onto the floor. He didn't have much, a small bag of clothes, his school books making up most of the trunk.

Yet no coat.

Harry went through the contents again, the air getting harder to breath with each passing second. He knew it was a small thing, the loss of a coat. He had no reason to forget to breathe over it, his hands shaking with each thing he packed into his trunk.

No coat. Stolen, taken, lost. No matter. Today, yesterday, the day the trunk went missing, it made no difference.

The coat was gone, and so were the remaining steady thoughts he still had.

The map could die and the world with it.

Harry stuffed the books from his school bag back into his trunk, keeping only his paints, brush and paper. Locking the trunk angrily, the clasp snapping against his skin, Harry left the dormitory, knocking the door into the wall.

Some stared at him, as he passed the hall. Everyone stared at him as he passed the common room, some whispering among themselves and the prefects calling out his name.

"It's almost curfew!" someone shouted after him, but Harry was already by the door, throwing it open and just before he left, slamming the door after him, shouted with a cracking voice, "You ought to sleep then!"

The castle, dark and empty, grew colder as he ran. Now empty and abandoned, it took no effort for Harry to grab one of the torches on the walls and find himself an empty room.

The castle was full of them, after all.

He slid the torch into the holder, then took a desk and slid it against the door, making sure the handle couldn't be turned. He had heard Filch would make his rounds in the castle, as did other teachers.

Sometimes, this moment included, he felt too wound up in his own frustration to care. So he laid out the paper with the ink stains, rolling it backwards beside the unboxed paints.

"They want me to paint?" Harry sniffed, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand, his whole body in a surge of panic, anger and dread, "I'll paint, then."

And he did.

No teachers came to the classroom that night.

And Harry was awake through it all to know.