Famished: Empty

It got worse.

They told me to get a job. I cost them too much money, they said. I 
should earn my keep, they said.

It had taken every strength I had not to blurt out how much money I really 
had. I was so very, very tired. 

Besides, galleons aren't worth shit to the government. It wasn't like the 
Dursleys would go and exchange the gold for dollars. They were afraid of 
magic. They were afraid of me.

But I was afraid of them, too. Afraid of the belts that I knew hung 
in Uncle Vernon's closet. Belts that couldn't be worn because they were 
stained with dried blood. So I got my job. I earned my keep. And I bought 
food with the spare change.

I had heard that when children turned into teenagers, they started to eat 
more. Especially boys. But I was starting to doubt what I heard now. 
People stared when I bought two or three Big Mac meals at McDonalds. 
I would take them away, where people couldn't see and stare, and I ate 
them all, every last bit of burger, every last fry. It felt like they never 
even reached my stomach. I was always hungry, always thirsty, always empty.

Then, I had known that something was wrong. 

I was changing. But not how I was supposed to. 

Headaches were a constant companion now. I couldn't stand to hear people 
talk. They moved so clumsily, in my eyes. And they ate like pigs, disgusting 
pigs, chomping and gorging.

I'm one to talk about gorging. 

But I knew what I saw, and what I felt. And even now, in the late (early, 
maybe?) hours of night, I lay wide awake. Thinking. Breathing. Even now 
I'm hungry. Especially now I'm hungry.

I get up, quietly. Very quietly. Creeping along the stairs with an amount 
of practiced ease mixed with nervous fatigue. Entering the kitchen, just like 
before. I just want a sandwich. So I make one. 

I'm an expert at being unnoticed. I take the two pieces of bread that 
are farthest from the end, because Dudley likes the outside slices. I 
use fillings very sparingly, and only when they're plentiful. A slice 
of ham. A dollop of mustard. A single piece of cheese, but only the kind 
you slice by hand. Dudley counts the single, pre-wrapped ones. Olives 
sometimes. Mayonnaise always. And only use the sharp bread knife, no butter 
knives. It dirties too many dishes. Raises questions that I'd prefer not answer. 

I made my sandwich, and I moved to cut it. Then I froze.

Even in the dim light of a single lamp, I could make out the reflection 
of the kitchen clearly on the shiny blade. The doorframe behind me. 
The sandwich it hovered over. There was only one problem. 

I wasn't there. 

I almost dropped the blade, but caught myself, and set it down carefully. 
Then moved up the stairs on automatic caution mode. I went into the 
bathroom, and looked in the mirror. 

I wasn't there, either. 

I tried splashing my face with water. Pinching myself. It didn't work. 
I was as invisible in the mirror as I was if I were wearing my cloak.

But I could see my own hands, and my feet, and everything in between 
(thankfully). I didn't know for sure what it was, or why this was happening 
to me. But the pieces were coming together, and I didn't like the 
picture they formed. 

I went back to my room, not remembering the sandwich in the kitchen and 
what they'd do if they found it. I sat on my bed, and stared out the window 
at the starry sky.

I'm still hungry, still thirsty. And I know I won't sleep tonight, 
just like I didn't sleep the night before. 

I'm running on empty.

And I'm scared.