I check the bathroom to be sure it's empty before locking the door behind me with my wand. I had a big lunch today, and there's a Quidditch game tonight. I lock myself in the biggest stall, cursing myself. How could I have forgotten about the game? I lean over the toilet bowl and point my wand toward myself.
"Vomero." The effect is instantaneous. I gag and my stomach's barely digested food frees itself from body. I stay draped over the loo for a moment, gasping, and repeat the process again, for good measure. We're sharing a changing room with the Gryffindors tonight, because one of the tents was destroyed in last night's storm and is still being repaired. The last thing I need is to look fat.
Confident after a few minutes of heaving breathing, I stand up and unlock the stall door. I pull a toothbrush from my bag and use it quickly to rid my mouth of the taste of vomit. I rinse it in the sink, put it away, and check my reflection in the mirror. My hair is out of place. I smooth it down and take a deep breath. Everything seems to be in order.
I turn my back to the mirror and unlock the bathroom door, returning to the average flow of traffic between classes. I know that nobody suspects a thing. I scoff as I make my way down to the dungeons for my potions lesson. As a Malfoy my father has made one thing clear to me over the course of my life: Be perfect at all necessary costs. I wonder if people assume that it's Quidditch that keeps me thin, or if they put the blame on diet or metabolism. I walk through the doors to Snape's classroom and take a seat in the back, away from my roommates, and muse to myself.
I've tried dieting, don't get me wrong, and Quidditch training, no matter how strenuous, has never seemed to do the trick. Truth be told, bulimia – I think that's what the muggles call it, anyway – is so much easier to get away with than anything else. If I ever eat less than what's considered "normal," Pansy will fuss, and I get called gay for eating salad, so this is my best and only option. It's gross and my throat hurts, but I keep up my appearance of perfection without anyone suspecting that I use imperfect methods to do so.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, feeling exhaustion taking over me. Familiar to the feeling after purges, I breathe deep and focus on the sounds of the classroom. It will pass. It always does.
"Hey, look. Malfoy's by himself." I open my eyes and look around to see Weasley, or more accurately, two Weasley's, flanked by two Potters, and two Grangers. I rub my eyes I shake my head and my vision returns to normal. The three of them are standing by the doorway. "Malfoy!" Wealey snaps at me. "Been kicked out by your own cronies, have you?" Potter and Granger are saying nothing, but don't seem to disapprove of the Weasel's behaviour. I sigh.
"No Weasley, it just so happens that I've grown tired of their company. Just like I've already tired of yours." I drawl. It isn't a lie. "Though it would be a stretch to call your presence company at all."
"Whatever, Malfoy." He says with malice. They sit themselves in the back row, across the aisle from me. I roll my eyes and regret it as I become instantly dizzy. I want rest my head on the desk, but doing so could be taken as a sign a weakness. I settle on closing my eyes and propping my chin up on my hands.
The Weasel does irritate me, I think to myself, but not for the reason everyone believes I do. His blood status, or anyone's blood status, for that matter, means nothing to me. I advertise that ideal because I have to and that is all. No, Weasley irritates me because of his imperfection. He's the least perfect person I've met whist at Hogwarts, and yet Potter loves him anyway. Granger loves him. Bloody everyone loves him and that damn sister of his. That's not to say everyone else is perfect, but for crissakes his shortcomings are written on his too short sleeve for the world to see.
It isn't fair. I glower to myself as Snape walks into the room. If I were to so much as sneeze wrong, I could be shunned for weeks by my own damn family. It's not like I like to throw up every day, but my fat ass isn't enough for anybody unless I do. I open my eyes and glace at Potter. Especially not him. I feel my cheeks turn pink. Groaning audibly I let my head hit the desk for just a moment before catching my mistake.
Oh, right, haven't I told you? To add to it all, my fat ass is gay. For Harry fucking Potter. I sigh to myself and look over at Parkinson. Just for that thought, I'm going to have to put her to bed tonight. Because surprise surprise, being a pillow bitter is just about the least perfect thing I can do. I shake the thoughts from my head and turn my attention to Snape. It's going to be long night.
Time break Time Break Time Break
By the time I return to the dorms after classes, I'm feeling disgusted with myself. I'm not entirely sure why, but everything I've done today has been wrong. I drop my bag off beside my bed and pick up my Quittidich bag. I'm going to head to the pitch directly after dinner.
"What's the matter with you, Malfoy?" Someone asks me and I spin around to see Blaise behind me.
"What are you talking about, Zabini?" He pulls of his shirt and I wince at the sight of his perfectly flat stomach.
"You've not said one sodding word to anybody today." I shrug.
"Haven't felt like it, I mumble," reminding myself not to eat too much tonight. I turn and leave the room without grabbing my wand. When I get downstairs, half the Slytherin team are already stuffing themselves with food. I sit with them, making forced conversation. I nibble on some chicken.
"Come on, Malfoy, eat something!" I sigh and pile my plate with proteins. I'll wait til after the game tonight to correct this consumption. The last I need is to pass out on the pitch. My stomach growls at me as I fill it with food. It's far too used to being empty.
When the team has finally had their fill, I file with the rest of them out to the pitch. The dreaded moment has come. As we enter the changing tent, my eyes are graced by the sight of the seven Gryffindor players, mostly naked. The first thing I notice is Potter, his body sculpted perfectly, muscles gleaming beneath the light of the sunset. Something stirs in my pants and scream inwardly at myself. I move to the corner of the tent – as I always do - and change with my back to the other players. I can hear Weasley complaining loudly about my presence. I sigh, finish changing, and exit the room as quickly as possible. I want to get this over with.
As the teams file onto the field, I mount my broom, beginning to feel sick as a result of over eating. I close my eyes, trying to overcome it. The whistle blows. I take off. 5 minutes later, it's over, because somehow Potter spotted and caught the Snitch before I even noticed. I land with caution a few metres from my own team, knowing what wrath I am about to face. I let us loose. Before they can find me, I sneak back to the changing tent and put my normal clothes back on while it's still empty. I hesitate as I put on my shirt, looking down at my stomach. I'm pulled out of my thoughts as my teammates enter angrily into the locker room. Resisting the urge to cry, I leave the tent and head back toward the dungeons.
I pass a bathroom on the way there, and almost pass it by before remember the sight of my stomach a few moments a go. I pause, and enter. I rummage momentarily though my bag before I remember that I don't have my wand. Cursing, I go to the furthest stall and lock the door behind me. I shove my finger down my throat and for the second time today, the contents of my stomach spill into the toilet. I do this twice, and flush. The resolve I've had all day is beginning to crack, and for the first time in a while, I'm actually crying. Wiping at my cheeks, I open the door to find myself face to face with Potter.
Harry. Fucking. Potter.