Harry was awake at six am the next morning. Not because of any alarm, but rather because he had not managed to fall asleep at all the night before. He’d lain, concealed by the drapes of his four poster bed, weeping silently, a hand clasped over his mouth to suppress the noise even with the presence of a silencing charm. At ten past six, he gave up, swinging himself out of his bed. If he had a slow shower, he’d be ready in time for the start of breakfast. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he washed up, not quite prepared to see the young face that would stare back at him, and the new angry red scar stretching across his throat, but he did take the time to submerge his face in a sink of ice cold water. He wasn’t sure it did anything for his swollen eyes, but he did find it strangely calming. 