Prelude

Disclaimer: I am not, in any way, affiliated with J. K. Rowling.


Rubbed raw, brittle, acid-worn teeth gritted painfully as the assumed Golden Boy of the wizarding world doubled over, one hand clenching abused stomach muscles, the other scrambling for purchase upon the cool stone walls of Hogwarts. Harry Potter leaned over the porcelain toilet in an abandoned washroom, his mind reeling. The school year had only been in session for two weeks and it was not the first time he had visited this particular washroom. This act, Harry smirked, was a rather private avocation. The act, also, wasn't exactly "new"; the Golden Boy was not a novice. Harry smiled bitterly, before reaching out, trembling fingers gently caressed the ceramic toilet covering.

Oh, how he longed to do this, to vomit away all those awful thoughts. To be clean and pure - ignorant of the raging war only for a moment. He was not, just, the hero of the wizarding world. He was 15-year-old Harry, tortured by awful, insidious thoughts. Head hung low, hovering above the porcelain, Harry's eyes fluttered. A blurred face came to mind...Sir - no!

Two fingers reached deep into a prepared mouth, down his throat. Harry gagged, once, loudly and wiggled his fingers hard, scraping against the inside of his throat. Nothing. A few embarrassing heaves, but nothing desired. So he repeated his actions, burying his knuckles within the confines of his mouth. Another heave, and ...release. Hot, gooey, undigested food was forced painfully up his throat; he spewed chunks into the stained toilet bowl. His previously cleansed hand covered with the foul tasting vomit. Harry rubbed the offending liquid off his hand, bent over, and repeated the freeing act - over and over again. Harry's swollen glands rubbed painfully against chipped finger nails as more regurgitated food pieces were brought to the surface. With varying embarrassing plops, the vomit splashed against the soiled toilet water. Another thrust of insistent fingers against the inner cavities of his throat produced a few agonizing dry heaves. There, he was finished.

He leaned back, sitting fully upon the cool floor, cross-legged. A trembling hand reached up to grab a well placed napkin. Harry grimly wiped off his barf-covered hand and mouth. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived - a bulimic? The situation was laughable, but he paid little attention to the humorous aspect. His vision tunneled dangerously as he stood upon shaky legs. He dropped the disgusting wad of napkins in the toilet, flushed, and exited the stall. His thoughts numbed, only focused upon the angry scrapes on his knuckles and the sharp pang in his throat. Harry stared into the mirror, his vision cleared and he smiled softly. Perhaps, he would go up to the library to get an early start on his recent Potions essay. Purging always had a positive effect upon his motivation levels.

Cheerfully, Harry made his exodus, slinking away to the library, fully determined to make a significant start on the essay. He, however, was unaware of the motionless silhouette lurking in the shadows...