Secrets

Harry sat up in bed, panting, drenched in his own sweat. He felt as if he were trapped. His bed felt too small, his cupboard unsafe. It was too dark, he realized, for him to feel as if everything were going to be ok. He had to hide, otherwise uncle might find him, might do to him what had been done before.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that he wasn’t at the Dursely’s hosue. No, his bed was far too large for that. Looking around as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realized that he was as far away from home as he could possibly be while remaining in the same country. He took a deep breath. Though he realized where he was, nervousness still wracked his body. The dreams had been all too real. It felt as if he were being violated now, being beaten now. When he closed his eyes, he saw Vernon’s angry face. When he opened them again, the dark played tricks on him, making him think that Vernon’s hands were just around the bend, waiting to grab him and punish him for something that he’d forgotten to telepathically realize to do.

He had to get out. Without a second thought, he grabbed his makeshift bag and his invisibility cloak and darted out of the dorm. In his hurried attempt to get away from all of his thoughts, he nearly fell down the stairs. Steadying himself, he walked out into the Gryffindor common room and took in the familiar sight. Even though it was nearly three in the morning, a fire smoldered in the fireplace. Overstuffed furniture graced the room, inviting him to plop down and cease this mad dash. He looked around, and realized that no one was in here, and that all of the paintings looked to be asleep. The paintings gossiped nearly as bad as some of the Slytherin girls. Once, he and Hermione had engaged in a late night conversation by the fire, and the very next morning, the entire school had known about it. Convinced that all of the paintings were asleep, he sat down in front of the fireplace and emptied the contents of his bag.

God, he needed a fix. With an eerie efficiency, he began the preparations. A candle was unceremoniously lit. Soon, a spoon hovered over it. Harry watched it in anticipation, waiting for it to boil a bit. He wondered when all of this had happened, when he had become Harry Potter, the boy who did drugs, Harry Potter, the boy who could prepare crack in his sleep. It wasn’t something he liked, he knew. It had become necessary. He needed it to get through each and every day. It helped him forget the abuse, the troubles, the fact that Sirius…

Suddenly, the concoction began to boil, and Harry was snapped out of his train of thought. He blew on it to cool it, and then filled his needle, being careful not to get any air into the tip. “Boy, that’d be ironic,” he thought, “the boy who kept on living in spite of it all accidentally killed himself trying to shoot up heroin.” Suddenly, he felt a release as he injected into himself. All of his problems seemed to float away. He was not hungry, he did not miss Sirius, and he couldn’t remember any of the things that had happened to him. Truly, this was Harry’s favorite state. It was a perfect state of calm, of comfort.

He barely remembered to clean up his supplies before he passed out on the sofa.
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“Harry, Harry, wake up. You’ll be late for Potions,” Hermione spoke. She shook Harry gently, trying to get him to open his eyes.

“I don’t wanna get up,” he finally answered.

“Well, I hardly think that’s an option,” she retorted. “Now get up, go upstairs and change, and then we’ll go to breakfast.” She waited impatiently for a moment before adding, “Harry, I didn’t say that you could take your sweet time about it. I said now.”

Grudgingly, Harry moved. Just as he was about to get up and walk upstairs, he heard Ron speak.

“Hey, mate, what’s this rubbish,” he asked, holding up the makeshift bag.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Harry replied, grabbing it from Ron. “Just some stuff from home that I was looking at last night.” With that, he ran up the stairs, changed with remarkable speed, grabbed his school bag, and ran back down the stairs to see Ron and Hermione waiting for him.

“All right then, mate,” said Ron, looking at him and smiling.

“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning back. Then, as if nothing was wrong in the least, the three headed off to breakfast, laughing and talking and comparing schedules. “It’s going to be a long year,” thought Harry.
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“Potter,” a voice yelled, “what in blazes do you think you’re doing?”

Harry snapped to attention and looked at the cauldron that he and Ron shared. Nothing looked amiss to him. The potion was clearly pink, and smelled of elderberry, just as Snape had said it should. Convinced he could find nothing wrong, he answered.

“Mixing a calming draught,” he replied.

“Why did you add essence of raspberry seeds to it,” sneered Snape.

“Because it needed it,” Harry replied.

“Why? What did you do wrong,” said Snape.

“Um…we didn’t do anything wrong, professor,” said Ron, looking ready to deck the surly potions master.

“Quiet, Weasley. Maybe you didn’t do anything wrong, but Potter here did,” hissed Snape, glowering at Harry. When Harry didn’t respond, Snape glared at him and said, “Fifty points from Gryffindor.” With that, he turned abruptly and walked to the other side of the classroom. Predictably, every Gryffindor in the room was glaring murderously at Snape, while every Slytherin looked like they were about to burst out laughing.

Harry looked carefully at the instructions that Snape had written on the board, trying to figure out why he had added essence of raspberry seeds. The compound wasn’t anywhere on the board. Suddenly, he remembered, and he spoke.

“Professor, we added it because we accidentally added too much dragon’s liver, and the raspberry seeds neutralized the reaction, allowing the potion to return to its proper color and strength,” he spoke, still stirring his cauldron. Snape whipped his head around and glared at the boy.

“Twenty points for not following directions, and fifteen points for speaking out of turn. Honestly, Potter, you obviously believe that the rules of decorum apply to everyone but yourself. How nice that must be, to be such a celebrity that you can merely ignore societal rules,” Snape scolded. When Harry looked down at his feet, eyes clouded with shame, Snape became confused. He waited for a few seconds, certain that the boy would pull some sort of retort from his arsenal. When it didn’t come, Snape simply walked back to his desk and sat there for the rest of the lesson.

Since the beginning of the lesson, Snape had noticed some marked changes in the boy who lived. Namely, he noticed that the boy was much quieter. Now, Snape wasn’t one to complain, because he found the boy’s silence to be a godsend. It was, however, peculiar and out of character. Also, the boy was more withdrawn. He barely noticed when the other Gryffindors made jokes, hardly acknowledged Ron’s impersonation of McGonagall. Most noticeably, though, was Potter’s appearance. The boy had always been scrawny, but this year, he was nearly skeletal. Part of Snape was concerned. The rest of him, however, merely pushed the worry aside, thinking that this dramatic change in weight was probably just another ploy to garner attention from his teachers and peers. Satisfied with this explanation of the emaciated Potter, Professor Snape turned his thoughts to grading a stack of sub-par Hufflepuff essays.

At the end of the lesson, Harry and Ron carefully emptied the contents of their cauldron into two flasks, labeled them, and placed them on the potion master’s desk. When Snape said nothing, the pair exited the room quickly, not noticing Snape’s eyes on Harry.
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Harry groaned as he flopped down on the couch, eyeing the pile of homework he had to do that night. Hermione had already diligently began working on some task, although it didn’t look much like homework to Harry. Ron was staring at the fireplace, seemingly enthralled by the dancing flames. Harry knew, though, that he was merely trying to avoid starting on their assignments. Harry sighed, and cracked open a book. He began taking down notes for his essay on animagi. He had just gotten to a paragraph detailing how, exactly, someone’s animagus was determined, when Hermione interrupted him.

“Harry, Ron, I’ve made something for each of you,” she said, as she handed them each a booklet. Harry’s had a picture of a golden snitch on it, while Ron’s had a picture of the Chudley Cannons. Harry stared at it, uncertain as to what it was.

“Come now,” she nagged, “aren’t you going to open them?” She looked at each of the boys expectantly. Harry opened his, wary of what might lie inside. On the first page was a detailed schedule of that week, with due dates of assignments flashing in bright red. He looked at Hermione, wanting an explanation.

“Well, you two always say that you can’t remember when assignments are due, so I’ve placed a charm on these calendars. As soon as a professor says an assignment and its due date, it appears in your planner.” She grinned, proud of herself for having thought of such an ingenious idea. When neither of the boys replied, she continued, “and see, I’ve scheduled time in for quidditch, for fun, and,” she said, looking at Harry, “for Occlumency.”

Harry wasn’t paying attention, however. He’d began thumbing through the book and had discovered that school assignments weren’t the only things appearing in this notebook. Rather, it appeared that everything of import that he wanted to do in a day appeared, whether it be doing a homework assignment or making up a “treatment” for himself. He wasn’t sure that this book was such a good thing after all. Nevertheless, as he pocketed it, he thanked Hermione. He found it strange that the booklet was in the same pocket as his special bag.