Curiousity Killed the Cat

Three months.

For three months I have refused to get out of bed, only eating when Kreacher, who became suddenly deeply concerned for my well being, forced me to. I just laid there, looking at the ceiling. I couldn’t do anything; even walking seemed impossible. I wasn’t mad but I was. I wasn’t upset but I was. I wasn’t worried but God knows I was.

I wasn’t scared but I was.

It killed me that I couldn’t focus on him, and it took me long enough to figure out why. He didn’t want to be found, not by me but by the Dark Lord. If I was stalking Harry, he could get into my mind and find out where he was. I didn’t want him to be killed so I trapped myself in my mind, my own bloody hell.

Rather than counting the seconds away, like I had been doing for the past three months, I found myself in the bathroom, vomiting my guts out.

After emptying my already empty stomach, I still felt sick. I flushed the toilet, shuddering as I watched it go down, and going back into the room.

Only to sit down on my bed and then run back into the bathroom, repeating the act.

What the hell was wrong with me? Was I sick or something? I guess it’s possible but I don’t have a fever or a sore throat or anything else. I was just throwing up.

After making sure I was done throwing up, I figured it would be a wonderful time to finally get up off my ass. I walked into the kitchen, remembering a book about sickness I found a while ago. After nearly breaking my neck going down the stairs, I found the book (covered in dust) and sat down in one of the cold, empty chairs around the table.

Rashes. No. Diseases. No. Illnesses. Bingo.

I scanned though the page, ignoring everything that did not include vomiting and nearly fainted when I saw the one that could describe everything that was going on with me.

Of course, like most bad news, I ignored it and decided to just shrug it off as some sort of illness.

Bad move on my part.