Author's Note: I do not, and never will, own Harry Potter.
Written for the Psychological!AU Competition. Very AU. Prompt: selective eating disorder (otherwise known as avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder)
Privet Drive was organized. Meticulous. Everything had its place. Perhaps it was no wonder a small, scrawny orphaned boy with glasses scrounged from the charity bin and clothes scavenged from the rag-bag couldn't fit in properly. Aunt Petunia fed him on table scraps, but she frequently took them away. He was too bloody picky, that was the trouble, she raged at him time and again, flicking his ear with sharp, stinging fingers and flinging him back into his cupboard. Picky children didn't deserve to eat. Was it his fault that he could only stand certain textures, certain flavors, even certain colours?
The Dursleys certainly seemed to think so.
It was better at Hogwarts. It was messy and rowdy and everything changed all the time, but that was what made him feel safer. The chaos proved that wherever he was, at least it wasn't Privet Drive.
Nobody pointed out how picky he was there. Professor McGonagall didn't keep an eye on her students' food intake and the prefects had more than enough to do already. Hermione sometimes looked at him a bit shrewdly when he piled four rolls onto his plate because they were soft and fluffy inside and just right for soaking up raspberry preserves, but she just seemed to be relieved that he was eating at all for the most part.
Biscuits were all right. Puddings weren't. The texture was wrong, and made his teeth shiver against his tongue. Meat was good, but only if it didn't have any fat on it. Lollies were brilliant, he would live on lollies if he could. Preserves were nice, but only on some form of bread. Most vegetables were right out, as were most fruits. He hated the colour blue in food, too, which didn't help. But it was all right. Mostly.
"You're so picky," Lavender remarked one day, not understanding the clatter he made when he pushed away from the table, nausea painting his throat. He wanted to tell her he couldn't help it, wanted to say it didn't matter anyway, but all he could think of was Aunt Petunia and his ears ached with a fierce, sharp pain.
"There's nothing wrong with you," a voice said dreamily, and Harry jerked to a stop, book-bag thumping against his knees. A girl with straggly blonde hair stood in front of him. Her feet were bare and he vaguely recognized her as a Ravenclaw.
"What?" he asked, feeling a bit stupid as the nausea receded.
"It's okay to be picky," she said. "Sorry. I heard Brown."
"Oh," he muttered, cheeks burning. "Well. Thank you." She smiled, digging a green lolly out of her robe pocket and handing it to him.
"You're welcome," she said. "I'm Luna, by the way. Luna Lovegood."
"I'm Harry," he replied automatically, and her smile went a bit too wide.
"I know," Luna said. "Want to walk with me?"
"Sure," he said, sticking the lollipop in his mouth. It tasted like apples.