Threadbare.
Harry had always been small.
It was a fact of life, like the sky being blue or the lake being cold. He had long since accepted it, just as he had accepted the way his ribs showed a little too clearly, or how his wrists looked too delicate, like they might snap under pressure.
But now—
Now, it was worse.
His robes hung looser than before, the sleeves swallowing his wrists. His belt, already at its last notch, barely kept his trousers from slipping. His face had taken on a sharper edge, his cheekbones too pronounced.
He barely noticed.
But the staff did.
---
“Mr. Potter.”
Harry blinked. Looked up.
Snape’s eyes flicked over him, assessing. It wasn’t his usual piercing glare, the one that sought weakness to exploit. This was different. Clinical. Searching.
“You will stay after class.”
Harry simply nodded.
Snape waited for an argument. He didn’t get one.
His frown deepened.
He was tired of the attention.
Madam Pomfrey had tried to get him to stay in the Hospital Wing, but he had waved her off, claiming he was fine. The other professors were watching too—Flitwick, McGonagall, even Lupin.
The scrutiny was exhausting.
So he escaped.
---
The kitchens were warm.
Harry didn’t knock; he simply pressed his palm to the painting and stepped inside. Immediately, the scent of fresh bread and roasting meat filled his lungs, thick and comforting.
The house-elves bustled around, carrying trays, stirring pots, whispering to one another in their squeaky voices. The moment they saw him, they froze.
Then—
“Harry Potter, sir!”
A blur of movement, then Dobby was there, bouncing on his feet, ears flapping wildly.
“Dobby,” Harry greeted, voice quiet.
The elf beamed. “Harry Potter is coming to visit! Oh, what an honor, sir! Dobby will—”
A sharp inhale. Dobby stopped. Stared.
And then his ears drooped.
“Harry Potter is not eating enough.”
Harry sighed. “I’m fine.”
“*No!*”
The outburst startled the other elves, who flinched at Dobby’s volume.
“Harry Potter is not fine!” Dobby wrung his hands, eyes wide and frantic. “He is getting thinner! He is not sleeping! Oh, Dobby sees it, sir! Dobby knows—”
“Dobby.” Harry’s voice was soft. A warning.
But the elf didn’t stop.
Dobby’s lip wobbled. “Harry Potter is… fading.”
Harry said nothing.
Dobby stepped closer. “Please, sir. Eat.”
A bowl was pressed into his hands. Thick, steaming stew. Bread, still warm from the oven. It smelled rich, hearty. His stomach twisted at the scent—unpleasant, hollow.
But Dobby was looking at him like the world would end if he refused.
So he sat. And ate.
It was slow. Mechanical. But he ate.
And for the first time in a long while, someone looked at him like he was *worth* something.