Because of his frequent need for potions or ointments, he began to brush up on his brewing capabilities. Really brush up on them instead of just reading the books and taking notebooks full of notes on what he read. Now he had a need to learn at least the medical brews and so he devoted all his time out of the classroom to becoming skilled enough to make what he needed. And this is when he figured out Hermione couldn't have possibly brewed the Polyjuice in their second year. He'd let the practical side of the subject slide figuring it was a waste of his time trying to succeed in the class when the teacher was dead set against it. So he truly hadn't realized it before. But now he realized just reading about the subject and learning the different recipes in no way made you competent enough to just go brew any given potion you wished. Especially not a sixth year level potion when you were barely a second year. Which only confirmed Hermione was just as much a liar as Dumbledore was and therefore just as untrustworthy.
But as his skill improved, his visits to the infirmary tapered off. Not for a second did he see it as having a lack of trust in the skill or the trustworthiness of the Madam. She was as trustworthy as any other adult he'd met though she'd never refused him the services of her job. He just saw no reason to go to her for healing when for all he knew she was reporting each and every injury right back to his enemies so they would know exactly how well they were succeeding in hurting him. To him, people had clearly shown that no matter their age or station in life they weren't trustworthy where he was concerned. All anyone wanted, as far as he could tell, was his pain. The more pain the better. So it only made sense to him, to rely on others as little as possible. Just as he'd learned to doctor his own injuries in early childhood so as not to bother his relatives with the injuries life with them gave him, he learned to do so now. He'd made a vow during the summer to try to never rely on another ever again if he could help it. And this was something he knew he could do. He'd ben doing it for years already.
Harry spent a great deal of his free time in the library researching spells and potions while trying to ignore the hate that permeated the school whenever he was nearby. He grew quieter than he had ever been while at Hogwarts before and the only person he spoke to was the Librarian when there was no one else in the room to overhear or Madam Pomfrey when he was injured in a manner he couldn't heal by himself. Occasionally, he spoke to Argus the custodian or the house-elves when he just wasn't up to facing the Great Hall for a meal or just needed a shower. Because in his life experience, Librarians and custodians were safe people being people who were nearly invisible to the masses. Healers, not so much since they had a tendency to be nosy about the injuries they were called upon to treat. But Madam Pomfrey never asked any questions so Harry went to her when he needed to. When his current skill level wasn't enough for his injuries.
For the first time since he had arrived here, he dropped his mask of normalcy. He no longer cared what the other kids or even the teachers thought of him. None of them could see the real him anyway and none of them could see how hard the Headmaster was working to get him killed. Nor could any of them see his so-called friends were really just enemies in disguise.
He took to sitting by himself at the back of his classrooms and got used to once again being ignored by his teachers. Nor did he even attempt to take part in any of the classes he was attending. And the teachers did their part to help him fade away from the collective by never calling upon him or remarking on his performance in their practicals. For once, he didn't worry as to whether he had earned the high marks on his homework assignments or exams as he no longer received any high marks. Instead, he worried as to whether the work was really as shoddy as his constant 'T' and 'D' marks indicated it was. And the last thing that ever occupied his mind was the Tri-Wizard now turned Quad-Wizard Tournament.
Instead, he found himself telling Hedwig his plans to just allow what would happen to happen and not fight any more. If the world wanted him dead this badly, he'd comply. Surely his parents would be happy to see him when he left this world behind. Why should he wish to stay in a world that so clearly only wanted to see how much pain, torment and torture he could stand before he died anyway? He hadn't ever had anything that made living worthwhile and he was damn tired of trying to find something he could hold onto and believe in. He wanted to go home to his Mum because at least he knew she had loved him.
He wasn't depressed. He'd left depression behind a long time ago. Now he was angry. Angry at a world that refused to accept him as he was. Angry at people who treated him like a hero one minute and condemned him as a criminal the next. Only to follow that by treating him like a lab rat in the hours that followed. A world that had no respect for him at all. That treated his every move as something they had a right to critique for hidden motives and/or punish him for things they thought he shouldn't have done. Or things they thought he should've done but didn't. A world that gave him no privacy and did it's best to deny his humanity while loudly lambasting him for every mistake whether real or imagined.
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