:::Hungry for Escape:::
A few days went by. The incident with Greta Berg had succeeded in driving Hermione even further away, until it seemed she was nothing more than a shadow that sometimes passed through. She never entered or exited through the lion portrait anymore, instead choosing to take the Gryffindor passage door. She never dwelled long in shared spaces like the balcony or the bathroom, and when Draco did happen to run into her, she would hurry away without a sound.
He knew she wanted to stay out of his way. After what she'd walked in on, he knew she probably thought it was what he wanted, too.
It was what he wanted... wasn't it? Yes, he forced himself to say. Yes, he tried to make himself believe. But his subconscious always knew better.
The blood on the bathroom floor still weighed heavy on his mind. He tried not to think about it, tried not to think about her. But every time he entered the bathroom, his eyes would fall to that place on the white tiles, the red image of blood appearing before him, as if stained in his mind as much as on the floor.
What do you want, she had asked him. It kept replaying in his mind. Nothing, he had told her, but he knew it wasn't true. What he did want, however, was still abstract, intangible even to him.
He wanted answers—of that much he was sure. But what would happen once he found them? Would they free him of his fixation? Or would they only fixate him further?
He had a feeling it might be the latter. He had a feeling that answers might never be enough.
At lunch, Harry watched his friend with worried eyes. She was staring at her food again, the way she had been at every meal the past couple of weeks, like it was some foreign thing she'd never seen or heard of, like she wasn't sure what to do with it beyond watching it sit on her plate. That glazed look was in her eyes, as if she was lost in the winding labyrinth that was her mind—as if she wasn't trying to find her way back out.
"Mione, you haven't eaten a bite," Harry said quietly, touching her arm.
She awoke at the feel of a troubled hand against her sweater. "Sorry?" she asked.
"I said you haven't eaten a bite," he repeated, annunciating. "And you didn't have any breakfast this morning." Or any dinner last night, and barely a forkful of lunch before that!
"I'm not hungry, I guess," she explained without looking at him.
Harry and Ron looked at each other. They had spent the last few years watching their friend deteriorate before their eyes, never once understanding why… not knowing how to confront the issue, or even if they should.
But things had gone too far now. Hermione's poor eating had progressed to not eating at all. She was so thin now, and so fragile, like she would shatter if you hugged her, like the wind would blow her over with the lightest of gusts. Her hands shook, as if she struggled to hold them up, and she walked slowly, as if each step was uncertain.
Ron put his glass down. "You haven't been hungry for a week, Mione," he said to her. "Not even on the days they serve cherry pie! You're going to get sick if you don't eat something…"
"I'm fine," she assured them, her tarnished gold eyes looking from emerald to sapphire. "I'm just… not hungry." She stood before they could argue. "I have to return that overdue book." Sighing, she leaned down, pecking the top of Harry's head, and then Ron's. "I'll see you in Charms," she said. And then looking away guiltily, she grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder before slowly walking away.
