Prologue: The Diagnosis

Month One

He was feeling weak again. Standing in front of his menacing Potions professor, Harry Potter felt like he was losing his physical strength. His magical core surged, willing him to continue with the duel, but he knew he had to stop. He cast a makeshift shield charm as Snape’s next attack came in and held up a shaky hand.

‘Please…I need to stop,’ he said, trying his best not to whine.

‘The Dark Lord won’t let you stop,’ Snape hissed, casting a spell that shattered his shield and knocked him off his feet. Harry landed heavily on his back, winded and dazed. He tried to cough and catch his breath, but didn’t have the energy. His vision blurred and turned dark until he heard Snape kneels beside him, his knees cracking with a sharp pop.

‘Potter, do get up.’

‘Can’t,’ he mumbled, then breathed an airy sigh. He was frightened. He felt completely out of sorts, lying on the dungeon floor, lacking the strength to move, slightly tingly and weak as an infant. Did Snape put him under some sort of spell again? He was vaguely aware of hands grasping his shoulders and hoisting him into a sitting position. Snape moved in front of him and stared into his face.

‘You’re pale,’ he stated. ‘Have you eaten today?’

Harry tried to remember.

‘Lunch?’

Snape grimaced.

‘So you haven’t eaten in over seven hours? Brilliant, Potter.’

Snape helped him to his feet and led him to a desk and sat him down. With a flick of his wand, a tray of sandwiches, two goblets and a tankard of pumpkin juice appeared.

‘Eat.’

Harry happily obliged and dug heartily, though shakily at first, into the sandwiches. Snape helped himself to one and ate slowly, watching Harry intently.

‘Why didn’t you eat dinner?’ Snape asked him after he had managed to cram a third sandwich into his mouth. Harry swallowed before speaking, shrugging noncommittally.

‘Things to do, I guess. Hermione was proofreading my Transfiguration essay, then we had a team meeting for Quidditch, then I came here.’

‘Perhaps more time should be made for your personal wellbeing than for inconsequential things like Quidditch.’

‘It isn’t inconsequential!’ Harry countered hotly. He was feeling more like himself now, with some juice and a few sandwiches in his stomach. Less like he was sinking inside himself. He hated that feeling, and it always seemed that the cure was food.

Snape rolled his eyes. At least the regular Harry Potter was back, not the Harry Potter with the distant look in his eyes, the heavy wand arm, and the swaying stance. This was the third time he had seen it, and Snape knew if he met that Harry Potter again, he would have to take action. That Harry Potter would never survive against the Dark Lord.

‘On that note, you may leave. We can finish the lesson after class tomorrow.’

‘Yes sir,’ Harry answered obediently.

It was a few days later in Transfiguration class when Harry felt the strange weakness again. He had eaten a rather light lunch and had been busy all day in his NEWT classes. He was supposed to be helping Ron and Hermione turn a tortoise into a pony, but he felt completely drained.

‘Harry, you have to say it with us,’ Hermione instructed. ‘We have to try it together before we can do it individually.’

‘Okay,’ he agreed, lifting his wand arm up, but dropping it almost instantly.

‘Harry,’ Hermione said slowly, ‘are you alright?’

‘Food,’ he said quietly. ‘I need...a snack.’

Hermione looked at Ron, confused, and the red-head looked just as perplexed. Harry, frowned, feeling a stab of irritation. His hands were shaking, his mind wouldn't focus and he felt weak and tingly.

'I need food,' he repeated. The tortoise was forgotten.

‘Professor!’ Ron called. ‘Something’s wrong with Harry!’

Harry rolled his eyes. 'I just...need a snack,' he breathed.

Professor McGonagall bustled over and put a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. The whole class had stopped to watch.

‘What seems to be the problem, Mr Potter?’

Harry gathered what little strength he had and sat up straight. Professor McGonagall frowned when she saw how pale he was. Harry raised a shaking hand to push his glasses further up his nose. Hermione watched him anxiously.

'I need to eat something,' he said slowly in a quiet voice.

‘Take him to the hospital wing, you two,’ Professor McGonagall told them.

Each gathering up an arm, Ron and Hermione eased Harry up out of his chair and into the hallway.

‘Harry, what’s wrong?’ Hermione asked, her voice tight with worry.

‘Just tired,’ Harry said softly. ‘No energy.’

‘I’ve been tired before, mate,’ Ron said, ‘but I’ve never looked anything like you right now.’

Harry laughed slowly, and soon they arrived in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey descending on them like a hawk on its prey.

‘Mr Potter, we meet again!’ she said in good humour, seeing he wasn’t bleeding and nothing appeared broken.

‘He’s really listless,’ Hermione began.

‘I need…food,’ Harry explained.

‘That we can remedy quite easily.’ Madam Pomfrey waved her wand and a very familiar tray of sandwiches, though this one had a side of fruit, and tankard of juice floated before them. Ron grabbed the juice, Hermione the sandwiches, and Madam Pomfrey took over Harry, guiding him to a bed.

‘No energy?’ she asked him, and he nodded as he started eating some sandwiches. Ron and Hermione helped themselves, as well. ‘Feel tired?’ Harry nodded again.

‘Did you eat lunch?’

Harry grimaced, but refused to answer with his mouth full of sandwich.

‘Not really,’ Ron spoke for him. ‘We were busy in the library with a research project and didn’t get time to snag much from the kitchens.’

‘Well, there you have it. Don’t eat and you won’t have energy,’ she chastised Harry. He nodded half-heartedly. He had already heard it before.

Month Two

Harry’s episodes had gradually gone away, and he attributed his diligence in setting up a regular eating schedule to their demise, as well as carrying snacks of fruit or crackers and flasks of juice or bottles of Butterbeer in his bag. He was no longer plagued by whole body weakness, the shakes, or any sort of dizziness. He sometimes felt a little tired, but as the NEWTs got closer and the workload got larger, who didn’t?

Sitting at Gryffindor table for dinner one Friday night, Harry, Ron and Hermione were setting their schedule for the weekend. With the amount of homework they had, it was madness not to. They had discovered this in their first month of seventh year.

‘Now, we should start with our Potions essays, as the information is still fresh in our heads and it will be easier now than later,’ Hermione reasoned, pencilling their Potions essays into their Friday night. Harry rolled his eyes as he gulped down some iced pumpkin juice. Potions was definitely not his favourite, but after having to smarten up since Slughorn went back into retirement and Snape took up the Potions position again, he wasn’t entirely terrible at it.

‘But tomorrow, we have a Quidditch game,’ Ron reminded her, pointing the roast beef on his fork at the schedule. She pencilled it in after frowning at his fork.

‘Hermione, just leave the rest of the schedule for now,’ Harry said, lifting his goblet. ‘You need to eat.’

‘So do you,’ she said, looking at his barely touched food.

‘I’m more thirsty than hungry. Must be dehydrated from Quidditch practice,’ Harry reasoned, finally putting down the juice and tackling his meal.

‘You should’ve been able to avoid that, Potter,’ Snape snapped. Harry’s robe was ripped and his shoulder bleeding from the Sectumsempra spell he had cast. Harry had gotten mostly out of the way, but not enough. He was breathing heavily and felt so tired.

‘I’m sorry sir,’ he wheezed.

‘Sorry isn’t going to cut it!’ Snape shouted, healing his shoulder with a quick spell. ‘The Dark Lord will not accept that!’

Harry nodded and swallowed thickly. Merlin he was thirsty.

‘You must go as hard as you can for as long as you can or die trying, do you understand?’

‘Yes sir.’

Snape breathed deeply, standing straight, obviously trying to get over his frustration.

‘Mr Potter,’ he said calmly, ‘it seems to me that instead of getting better at duelling, as of late, you are getting worse. Any explanations?’

Harry expelled a long breath.

‘I don’t know, sir. I just get tired so quickly. And I’m always dehydrated.’

Snape frowned at him. Always dehydrated?

‘You appear to be suffering from many instances of ill health, Mr Potter.’

‘Not ill health,’ Harry offered. ‘Just…not optimal.’

‘Precisely what I just said. Ill health.’

Harry wrinkled his nose.

‘That makes me sound sick.’

Snape narrowed his eyes and raised his wand again.

‘If you maintain this less than optimal health, Mr Potter, you won’t end up just sick, you'll end up dead.’

Harry woke with a start. Something was wrong. He hadn't had a nightmare. In fact, he was dreaming about visiting a toilet store with Hermione and Ron, who suggested he try out one of the floor models...

As he realized the source of the problem, he felt a fiery heat burn in his cheeks. His bed was wet, from him. He had wet the bed. He hadn't just dreamed he was relieving himself into a Flushmaster 3000, he had actually let it all go. In his bed. Mortification held him still in his bed. He could feel his pyjama bottoms sticking wetly to his legs, the mattress and bedding damp and cold beneath his hips. Swallowing as best he could – his mouth was dry again – he peeled back the covers and rolled uncomfortably out of bed.

A quick tempus charm told him it was just about three in the morning. The gentle breath and undulating snoring of his dorm mates told him he was safe to clean up and not be discovered. His face still burned, and his shame was heavy on his shoulders, but at least nobody else had to know. Harry cast drying spells on his bed, covers and pyjamas and flipped through an old text book to find some laundering spells. Getting into his bed again, now dry and clean, smelling overwhelmingly like fresh laundry, he was physically comfortable. His humiliation, however, that he, at seventeen years of age, had just wet the bed, was so great that he never fully got back to sleep that night.

Morning came early. Or at least it felt early. Harry could hear his dorm mates waking and getting ready for the day, but he couldn't seem to rouse himself. He was tired. Exhausted really. He hadn't gotten a good sleep in what felt like weeks, and he could pin point the beginning: the first night he wet the bed.

It happened every night now. No matter how much he restricted his water intake. No matter how late he stayed up, making sure he went to the bathroom before going to sleep. He had resorted to setting an alarm for every hour, but it still wasn't good enough. He had still wet the bed last night. Only a few days ago, Ron had made a joking comment about how fresh he always smelled. Harry had given a half-hearted laugh, but he felt sick with shame. He smelled fresh because of what he was covering up.

Visiting Madam Pomfrey never even crossed his mind. The main problem, even a first year could figure it out: his thirst. He drank so much water, obviously his body couldn't hold it all the whole night. He had been trying to restrict himself to two glasses a day, but he couldn't help himself. It was like he was under a compulsion charm. Anytime he was near a water source, he went for it and drank like he was in the desert.

But this morning, he was too tired to get up. He could hear the boys wondering if he was going to get up. Ron finally made his way over and ripped open his curtains. He was already dressed, his bag over his shoulder.

'Harry are you...'

He stared down at Harry, who didn't even have the energy to tell him to shove off and leave him alone.

'Not feeling well,' Ron nodded. 'Got it. I'll let the professors know, all right?'

Harry gave Ron a grateful smile and the redhead shut his curtains. Rolling over as the other boys left the dorm, Harry tried to ignore the pressure building in his bladder to catch some more shut-eye.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were sitting in the common room with other Gryffindor seventh years, studying. Harry had a water bottle with him, bought from Hogsmeade. Hermione had finally helped him look up a charm to place on it so it would constantly refill itself with cool water. It was now one of the few things he always had on his person besides his wand and glasses. He popped the top and took a long drink before returning to his Charms textbook. Seamus and Dean exchanged looks and then resumed studying. A few moments later, Harry took another drink. Again, Seamus and Dean glanced at each other. Finally, Harry had to get up.

‘I win!’ Seamus shouted. Everyone’s eyes, including Harry’s, who had stopped to look at them, were on Seamus and Dean. Dean was not looking at Seamus, as he was digging several sickles out of his pocket. ‘Dean and I made a bet of what timing your next outing would be at, Harry,’ he explained with a smirk. ‘I was right.’

Harry flushed lightly as the group laughed. So they were timing his pee breaks. Great. He felt embarrassed until he reached the boys toilets, and then he only felt relief. So they were timing his toilet breaks, were they? So perhaps it was time to break the cycle somewhere.

‘No more water,’ he told himself as he made his way back to Gryffindor tower.

The rest of the night was painful, at best. Harry’s thirst was intense and unrelenting, and he visited the toilet another two times in the next hour despite not drinking anything. His mouth was so dry it was difficult to pry it apart to talk, so he kept quiet even when they opened up a discussion based on the use of fireweed in a burn remedy.

As the study session closed and their peers started wandering off to bed, Harry finally reached for his water bottle. He popped the top and drank. And drank. And drank. His thirst just wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he drank. He stopped when his stomach felt full and sloshy. It was just as unpleasant as being desperately thirsty. He felt queasy, even though he was uncertain as to whether people could get sick off of water.

‘Are you alright? You’re drinking a lot of water, Harry,’ Hermione said to him quietly before he turned to follow Ron up to the boys’ dorms.

‘Just thirsty,’ he reassured her with a smile.

‘Potter, look at me.’

Harry reluctantly looked into those black eyes that seemed to bore right into his soul.

‘Have you been eating?’

Startled by the question, it took Harry a moment to answer. He had expected in the very least Snape to announce that their duel had begun, or throw some snide remark.

‘I…I guess.’

‘You guess? Your cheeks are sunken in.’

The professor’s tone was harsh and sharp. Though their relationship was greatly improved, despite Dumbledore’s death the previous year, Snape still found it difficult not to rag on the young man. Force of habit.

‘I’m more thirsty than hungry these days,’ Harry said quietly.

Snape frowned. He was trying, he really was. But the boy was losing his fight, his will to live. Anyone could see it. There were dark circles under his eyes, he was losing weight – one could see it in his face. He was afraid to know what the rest of his skinny body would look like. His energy levels had steadily been going down for the past few months and Snape found it heart-breaking to watch the salvation of the wizarding world – a strapping young wizard – wasting away for reasons nobody seemed to know, or that he seemed unwilling to tell.

‘Have you seen Madam Pomfrey?’

‘What’s she going to do?’ Harry scoffed bitterly. ‘Tell me to drink more water?’ He shook his head.

Snape directed Harry to a desk in the classroom they normally did their duelling in and sat in a desk next to him in a rare gesture of camaraderie.

‘You know something’s wrong. I can see it, you can feel it,’ Snape said quietly.

‘I’m just thirsty,’ Harry insisted, pulling out his charmed water bottle and popping the top to take a drink. It had become a staple of their duels in the past few weeks and Snape found it extremely irritating. He smacked it away from Harry and stood up.

‘You need to see Madam Pomfrey,’ he said through clenched teeth, forcing himself to stay under control. Harry already looked ready to break down, his hands shaking, his eyes following the water bottle as it rolled away.

‘Nothing’s wrong.’

He got up and retrieved his water bottle, standing tall to look Snape in the eyes.

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he repeated, ‘sir.’

‘It’s not our birthday!’ the Weasley twins shouted giving each other high fives. Everyone around the table laughed. It was the weekend after their birthday, but it was the nearest date Mrs Weasley could safely get everyone together. They had booked a table at The Three Broomsticks and Butterbeers were served all-round. Mr Weasley had even convinced Madam Rosmerta to whip up one of her famous triple chocolate cakes, for an extra tip, of course.

The cake now stood in the centre of the table, covered in thick frosting, and three layers high. It was more than enough to go around, despite the large gathering. The twins cut the cake and passed around the pieces, laughing and joking the whole time.

Harry sat wedged between Hermione and Ron, ‘just in case’, Hermione had said, with a worried look at her friend. Even Harry had to admit he looked a little worse for wear. He hardly slept, always worried he would soil his bed. Anytime he did sleep through the night, he always woke up wet, so he learned quickly to sleep light and stay ready to go to the toilets. The circles under his eyes were growing darker, and his face was gaunter. If it hadn’t been for the distraction of Fred and George’s birthday, and Ron and Hermione agreeing to shield him from view most of the time, Harry was sure Mrs Weasley would have had a conniption fit if she had gotten a proper look at him. His body was wasting away, too. He had seen it in the full-length mirrors in the showers. He looked skeletal, like a different person, but his robes hid all that.

The promise of chocolate cake had perked up his spirits today. He had taken to skipping at least a class a day so he could just lounge in the Gryffindor common room, exhausted, his water bottle open in his mouth, pouring unending fresh water down his throat. He had also let Ron run the Quidditch practices, taking to just sitting on his broom and watching. He avoided Professor Snape, as he had appeared to be taking an interest in the state of Harry’s health, as well as so he couldn’t book another duelling practise. Harry didn’t have the energy to even travel the stairs to get to the dungeons most days, let alone duel once he got there.

A sizeable slice of cake finally came his way, and a small dessert fork graced the plate. Ron and Hermione had gotten their pieces, too, and together, they all dug in. The butter cream frosting was heavenly and the cake was moist, fluffy and altogether, it was an enormously delicious cake. Harry guzzled three Butterbeer while he ate his cake and eventually relented and began to sip at his water bottle, too. By the time he was half way through his piece, he began feeling ill.

He continued to eat, for it tasted amazing, and everyone else was having such a good time laughing and talking and relaxing for once in the midst of a war. But the frosting was thick and heavy and stuck to his tongue. It seemed to pull water out of his already thirsty body and Harry kepet feeling more and more thirsty as he ate, but he didn’t want to end it by announcing he was sick and needed to get back to the castle. So he continued eating, little piece by little piece, followed by generous swallows of water. His stomach clenched and gurgled, voicing its dismay. Harry tried to ignore it; he even pushed the rest of his cake away, content to drink water. But the three Butterbeers and large helping of cake were not sitting still. He was going to be sick, and he was going to be sick very soon.

‘I need to go,’ Harry whispered quickly to Ron, and with all the energy he could summon, jumped out of his seat and bolted to the toilets, located in the corner opposite.

Ron laughed when some of the gathered people stared after him, waving over the three empty Butterbeer bottles.

‘He drank too much!’ Ron laughed, before following his friend. When he entered the toilets, he was hit with the powerful stench of vomit and horrible wretching sounds from one of the stalls.

‘Harry! Merlin, are you alright?’

‘No,’ Harry moaned. Ron found him in the last stall, hugging a toilet. He could see the half-digested cake floating in the toilet bowl and his own stomach gave a twinge.

‘Mate, we should get you back up to the castle.’

Harry hugged the toilet tighter. His eyes were watering. He turned and vomited again.

‘No! I can’t…’

Ron was at a loss. Harry was obviously very sick, but for some reason, refused to be treated.

Breathing heavily into the toilet, chin propped up on the seat, Harry coughed and dry-heaved. Ron knelt next to him, putting a gentle hand on his back.

‘Harry, it’s time to go.’

Harry coughed and gagged, nodding reluctantly. Ron got him some paper towel and Harry wiped his mouth grimly. He still felt sick, was horrendously thirsty and really, more than anything, just wanted to sleep.

Severus Snape whirled into the hospital wing. The chaos going on in the school was completely unacceptable for a Saturday night. Students should be studying or sleeping, not shouting and milling about, especially in the hospital wing. He could see Madam Pomfrey talking to Ron Weasley and the stout form of his mother.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked, as he approached. He had spotted Granger, but could see no sign of Potter anywhere.

Mrs Weasley was distraught.

‘Poppy couldn’t do anything, Severus! He kept drinking water and vomiting!’

‘He was puking into a toilet after we had cake…’

‘I sent him to a Muggle hospital via emergency Portkey, Severus, he appears to have some sort of Muggle infirmity.’

This was all said at the same time and it took Snape a moment to comprehend the jumble of stories.

‘Potter. You sent him away?’

Madam Pomfrey nodded.

‘The Headmistress knows?’

‘She’s being notified. She’s currently out at a meeting with the Minister.’

‘What about the Order?’

‘I know,’ Mrs Weasley offered.

‘Yes, but you’re not watching over him right now, are you?’ Snape hissed and she puffed up indignantly, but could offer no response.

‘You did send him with a guard, didn’t you?’

None of them had an answer for him.

‘You fools! If the Dark Lord hears of this, he has the perfect opportunity to attack! Not only is he by himself surrounded by Muggles, but Potter himself is incapacitated! Well done, Bravo!’ Snape clapped facetiously several times before storming out of the hospital wing, absolutely confounded by the lack of foresight of those closest to Harry Potter.