Shattered Reflections

The first week of October brought with it a chill that seeped through the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts, but for Ines Black, the cold was the least of her troubles. The fifth year was proving to be a crucible, a relentless grind of O.W.L. preparation, Umbridge’s sadistic decrees, and the ever-present weight of expectations that came with bearing the Black name. As the Gryffindor Quidditch team’s goalkeeper, she should have found solace on the pitch, but even the rush of diving for a Quaffle felt dulled lately, smothered under an oppressive blanket of exhaustion and self-loathing.

Monday morning’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class set the tone for the week. Dolores Umbridge, simpering in her pink cardigan, had assigned another chapter of theoretical reading, her saccharine voice grating on every nerve. Ines sat near the back, quill scratching against parchment as she pretended to take notes, but her mind was a storm. The O.W.L.s were months away, yet the pressure was already crushing. Her mother’s last letter lay crumpled in her trunk: *‘A Black must excel, Ines. We cannot afford weakness.’* Weakness. It was a word that echoed in her mind like a curse. To cope, she had found a secret, shameful release. The sharp sting of a blade against her thigh, hidden beneath her robes, brought a momentary clarity that nothing else could. It was a secret she guarded fiercely, a scarlet letter etched into her skin.

By Wednesday, the strain was visible. Dark circles shadowed her grey eyes, and her usually sleek black hair hung lank. During lunch, Hermione noticed her pushing food around her plate. “Ines, you’ve barely eaten,” she said, her tone gentle but probing. Ines forced a smile. “Just not hungry. Stress, I suppose.” Ron, mouth full of shepherd’s pie, shrugged. “Better eat before the match this weekend. Slytherin’s got a new Chaser who’s a brute.” Harry said nothing, but his green eyes lingered on her with a worry he couldn’t quite articulate. He had sensed something was wrong for weeks, a fragility behind her confident facade. As their gazes met, Ines quickly looked away, a faint blush creeping up her neck. The crush she harbored for Harry was another complication, a secret hope that she was too afraid to voice.

Thursday evening brought the Slug Club dinner. Professor Slughorn had returned to Hogwarts that year, lured by the promise of ‘collecting’ the next generation of talent, and his parties were as lavish as ever. Ines had been invited partly for her Quidditch prowess, partly for the Black lineage that Slughorn so admired. She dressed with care, a deep green gown that accentuated her tall frame, but as she descended the stairs to the dungeons, a serpentine voice slithered into her ear.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Gryffindor hippogriff,” drawled Pansy Parkinson, flanked by her Slytherin cronies. Pansy’s eyes traveled over Ines with malicious glee. “I don’t know why you bother dressing up. No amount of fabric can hide all that, can it? Especially with the way you’ve been stuffing yourself at the Quidditch feasts.” She patted her own flat stomach. “Honestly, it’s a wonder Harry even looks at you. But I suppose he feels sorry for the pudgy little Black.”

Ines’s blood turned to ice. The words hit like a Bludger to the chest, reawakening every insecurity she had fought to suppress. She wanted to retort, to hex Pansy into next week, but her voice had abandoned her. She simply turned and walked away, the whispers and giggles following her like a shroud. The dinner passed in a blur of meaningless chatter. She excused herself early, retreating to the dormitory where she stared at her reflection with a visceral disgust. Pansy’s words replayed on a loop. *Pudgy. Fat.* Ines peeled off the gown and stood in her underthings, poking at her stomach, her thighs. The blade called to her, promising release, but instead, a new resolve formed. If she was fat, then she would simply stop being fat. She would stop eating. Entirely.

Friday morning, she skipped breakfast, claiming a stomach ache. Lunch came and went; she hid in the library. By dinner, hunger gnawed at her insides, but she ignored it, drinking only water. The hollow ache felt like control, a perverse victory. At Quidditch practice that afternoon, her performance was sluggish. Bludgers zipped past her with alarming ease, and she missed three easy saves. Angelina Johnson, the captain, pulled her aside. “Ines, are you alright? You’re off your game.” Ines nodded tightly. “Just tired. I’ll be fine for the match.” But she wasn’t fine. On the walk back to the castle, her vision swam, and she had to grip a railing to keep from collapsing.

Harry caught up with her near the entrance hall. “Ines, wait up.” She turned, and he was struck by how pale she looked. “You’ve been acting strange all week. Is something going on? You know you can talk to me, right?” His hand reached out, almost touching her arm, but she flinched away, a motion so quick it was like a flinch from pain. Harry’s heart clenched. He had seen that gesture before, in the mirror, when his own hand had brushed the scars hidden under his sleeve. The curses Umbridge carved into his skin were a constant reminder of his own helplessness. But this was different. This was a pain that Ines was inflicting on herself. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.

“I’m fine, Harry,” she whispered, not meeting his eyes. “Just the O.W.L.s, you know.” She fled before he could press further.

Saturday dawned grey and bitter. The Quidditch match against Slytherin was in the afternoon, and the entire school was buzzing. Ines had consumed nothing but water for over twenty-four hours. As she pulled on her scarlet robes and strapped on her pads, her hands trembled. The world felt tilted, sounds echoing oddly. She took her position in front of the goal hoops, the roar of the crowd a distant hum. The match began, and she moved on instinct, but her body was failing. Twenty minutes in, a Slytherin Chaser hurtled towards her and feinted left; she lunged, but her vision blackened at the edges. The Quaffle sailed through the hoop, and she didn’t even see it. The next moments were a disjointed nightmare: the pitch tilting, the ground rushing up, and then nothing.

She woke in the hospital wing, the antiseptic smell stinging her nostrils. Madam Pomfrey’s lined face hovered over her, tutting. “Severe malnutrition, Miss Black. You haven’t been eating. This is very serious.” Her voice was stern but not unkind. “I’ve sent for Professor McGonagall. You’ll be staying here until your vitals stabilize.” Ines closed her eyes, tears leaking from the corners. The shame was a living thing, coiling in her empty stomach.

Harry arrived within the hour, having abandoned the victory celebration (Gryffindor had won, but the victory felt hollow). He slipped past the curtain, his expression a mask of controlled anguish. “Ines.” He sat on the edge of the bed, and this time, when he took her hand, she didn’t pull away. “Why didn’t you tell me? Tell anyone?”

She shook her head, a ragged sob escaping. “I couldn’t. You don’t understand—I’m not strong like you. I can’t handle it all.” Her voice cracked. “The pressure, the expectations, Umbridge, the O.W.L.s… and then Pansy said—she said I was fat. And I just… I believed her. I just wanted to control something.”

Harry’s grip tightened. “You are not weak. Merlin, Ines, you’re one of the strongest people I know. Do you think I don’t have demons? I have nightmares every night. I’ve got scars from that toad’s detentions that won’t ever fade. But pushing away the people who care about you—starving yourself—that’s not the answer.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But it’s like there’s this voice in my head that won’t stop. And the other thing… the cutting…” She broke off, horrified, but Harry didn’t recoil. He simply pulled back his own sleeve, revealing the faint white lines and the fresh, angry red of ‘I must not tell lies’. “I know pain, Ines. I know what it is to want to feel something else, anything else. But this—” he gestured to her bandaged arm, where Madam Pomfrey had cleaned her self-inflicted cuts, “—this isn’t the way. Please, let me help. Let Hermione and Ron help. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Ines looked at him, really looked, and saw the raw vulnerability in his emerald eyes. The boy who had faced Voldemort multiple times was trembling, afraid for her. It broke something inside her, a dam of isolation she had built so carefully. She fell apart, great heaving sobs that seemed to come from her very core. Harry held her, his arms wrapping around her thin frame, and he didn’t let go. “I’m here,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long time, they stayed like that, two broken souls clinging to each other. When the sobs subsided, Ines pulled back just enough to look at him. “I’ve fancied you for ages, you know,” she said, a watery smile flickering. “Bet you think I’m a right mess now.”

Harry chuckled, a sound of pure relief. “You’re a mess, but so am I. And I’ve fancied you too, for what it’s worth. Ever since you saved that penalty against Ravenclaw last year.” He brushed a tear from her cheek. “We’re going to get through this. Together.”

The next morning, Hermione and Ron visited, and Ines found herself confessing everything. Hermione, practical as ever, had already compiled a list of dietary plans and mind-healers who specialized in eating disorders. Ron, though clearly out of his depth, offered a steady stream of encouragement and promised to hex Pansy into the next century. It wasn’t a cure, and Ines knew the road ahead would be long, but for the first time in months, she felt a flicker of hope.

As the week wound down, Madam Pomfrey discharged her with strict instructions and a monitoring schedule. Ines walked out of the hospital wing with Harry’s hand firmly clasped in hers. The castle still loomed with its shadows, but the light that seeped through the windows seemed a little brighter. She had shattered, but she was being pieced back together, not by her own will, but by the love of those who refused to let her go. And in the quiet moments, when the old darkness whispered, she would remember Harry’s words: *You are not weak.*