Hero Like Me

by Echo Vanity

Drarry Eating disorder fic "He's lost everything. But unlike them he never really had anything to begin with... And maybe when he's skinny enough his ghosts won't be trapped in his bones..."

2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**

I got Harry's height off an interview where Daniel Radcliffe said he was 5'5''. I apologise if that is incorrect. In terms of his weight, I referred to a website which said that for a small framed 5'5'' male, the ideal weight was 134-140 pounds. Again, apologies if this is incorrect. As a female, I know about height/weight for girls but I'm not familiar with male measurements. Also, I'm used to weight being measured in kilograms, so this system is confusing. If I got it wrong, let me know and I'll adjust it. :) Just a massive favour...if you read, could you please review? It's really disheartening seeing that blah blah amount of people visited this fic but only one awesome person reviewed. Sorry, I'm being a whiny writer, but it only takes a second and we all love reviews :)

*Trigger warning for mia and ana sufferers*

*Slash warning, adult themes yada yada*

J.K Rowling owns anything that may seem familiar. I'm just being mean to the characters. (Title from "Faster" Manic Street Preachers. Just cause)

Chapter Two: The Virgin, The Tattered And The Torn

Harry Potter is

5'5"

And weighs 125 pounds.

And he knows maybe this isn't quite

Right

And maybe he should eat today

But he's always been skinny for his age and height and

People are still staring- when will they fucking stop staring?

and no one's noticed his weight so maybe it doesn't matter anyway.

He thinks he'd like to 115. A nice number. Not too dangerous. It's a number that tastes

Thin

It tastes like smoke and sweat and blood and tears

And

1

1

5

Will kill the monsters kill the stares and then he'll stop.

10 more pounds and then he'll stop.

And Harry goes back to Hogwarts, because Hermione says he should- "To further your chances of a good career, for the sake of your learning, because if you waste this opportunity you are an idiot!"

because Ron says he should- "We did miss out on our last year, mate and it's meant to be the best even with the exams. And no one in my family has finished since Percy, and it won't be the same without you mate. And besides, Ginny will be in our year now. Guess that'd make you happy..."

(Harry and Ginny, who Ron, and the world, still think are together; who do not speak, though they often sit together, in

Total

Absolute

Perfect

Silence.

She knows he knows about her feelings for Tom Riddle.

He knows she knows he hasn't eaten a thing in 75 hours and counting.

He knows she won't say a word to anyone, even though it may very well kill him. Part of her wants that.

She knows he knows part of her hates him now.

He knows she knows a part of him hates her too.

The parts that loved Riddle. That never expected victory

Not for them.

And victory is such a hollow word.

They sit in silence. Momentarily allowed to hate the world and

Hate each other.

It brings a kind of peace.)

And so Harry dresses in the black and red and gold and realises for the first time

They're not really his colours.

They make his face look all tired and washed out, his mother's eyes in his father's face all dull and lifeless.

122 and counting down. Back in a dorm and still so alone.

So it's

1000 crunches

900 leg lifts

800 squats

700 star jumps

500 push ups

10 cups of coffee and

10 laps round the lake

5 Pepper Up Potions

And there's 24 hours in a day to do it all.

It's so easy. Once you stop sleeping, stop eating

There are just so many hours to fill.

14 calories in each cup of coffee.

120 calories in the 3 spoons of yoghurt he has for breakfast.

42 calories in the peeled apple he slices into 16ths for lunch.

2 calories in the pile of lettuce he carefully hides his mashed potato roast beef and gravy under for dinner.

He's never trusted exercise to burn it all, but he trusts the Weight spells he uses before and after every meal and every work out and the numbers are trickling

Down

Down

Down

And that's all that matters.

The snake's still murmuring in his head but it approves.

Good

Obedient

Little

Murderer

You will never be good enough

But at least you are trying.

100 more crunches and I will let you sleep.

500 more and I will stop the nightmares.

500 more and 3 laps running round the lake barefoot and I'll let you dream of him-

Let you wake up sticky and sated-

He never quite makes it to that, passing out at 499 and waking to the cold light of dawn.

But he can dream while awake.

Picture a coat hanger collar bone and a sarcastic smirk,

A drawling voice and an elegant long fingered smooth white hand instead of his own patchily tanned callused one. Can picture soft, pink lips- not his own, all broken and bloody from biting down the urge to eat to scream. Harry would like to make that pretty smirking mouth moan as he uses his own mouth to administer the most gentle of torturous attentions-

And he's cum and though his heart is pumping a million miles an hour, though he would never admit even under Veritaserum whose face he pictured whose name he just whispered in the cold cold light of dawn-

He is sated.

He aches and yearns but it is his heart

Not his belly and he makes it another 29 hours without touching a morsel for the picture of a pretty pink mouth and an aristocrat's hands.

Harry is not sure when this started. This dawn-fantasy-hands-mouth-moan-beg-please-

Began.

All he knows is one day Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater who was to be followed due to his

Nefarious

Dastardly

Treacherous

Degenerate

Death Eaterly activities

And the next Harry is staring at him at meal times enraptured by the sight of that fairy floss coloured mouth as it sucks licks chews swallows

Lick lick lick suck bites

Mashed potato

Treacle tart

Roast beef

Honeyed ham

Whipped cream

Banana custard

Chocolate gateau-

Draco's mouth must taste like Heaven.

Harry Potter weighs 119 pounds and it's taking too long why is it taking so fucking long?

And the ghosts in his bones are laughing laughing mocking him safe in their buried cocoons.

It's warm in your marrow they seem to murmur

Warm despite the November chill and we do not want to leave.

You killed us once

And now your trying to do it again.

Harry

Harry

Harry

You will not kill us again.

So he makes it

20 laps around the lake and

12 coffees and

6 Pepper Ups and

2000 crunches plus his other exercises.

And he's drinking gallons of water trying to flush out the fatty clinging poisons from his body but it's not working nothing is working he's sitting on 118.5 and he hasn't eaten in a week and he can't walk and he remembers someone saying apple cider vinegar helps your metabolism

So he chugs down a goblet of it and adds a tablespoon of chilli to the mix because apparently it's meant to help and then he throws up and it

Burns

118.3.

And he's so fucking hungry.

And he can feel his muscles

Eating themselves

And he's shaking like a newborn foal.

And it seems insane to him to think, remember that he once

Flew on a broomstick

Chased Draco and Snape as they fled into the night

That he once killed the most evil and powerful wizard who ever lived.

He can barely stand.

And something's gotta give.

And then somehow he's shoving food down his throat so fast he doesn't taste it, can't distinguish what he's eating. Anything. Everything.

Chocolate frogs and

Pumpkin pasties and

Ice cream and

Treacle tart and

Rice pudding and

Roast beef and

Doorstop sized slices of bread slathered in butter and jam and

Gallons of pumpkin juice and

A mountain of mashed potato with sour cream

And on and on and on.

It's only when he's smelling fish and realises he is sitting on the kitchen floor at 3a.m eating kippers like they're all he's ever wanted that Harry realises what the fuck it is that he's doing.

How many calories has he just consumed? 3000? 4000? 10,000? 100,000,000?

It doesn't even matter because it's

All

Too

Much

And he's never felt so full or sick or disgusted or terrified in his entire fucking life and oh Gods those calories are poisoning his bloodstream and if he lets them live they will feed his ghosts and he will weigh 300 pounds and he will never ever ever be free.

He bends over the icy white porcelain and wonders what it is with him and bathrooms.

Moaning Myrtle hovers above him, watching with a perverse fascination. She tells him he's doing it wrong when he sticks his fingers as far down his throat as possible and his gag reflex doesn't even twitch. He glares at her and tries again but nothing happens and Myrtle's giggling staring up at him now from the toilet bowl.

It's funny, fucking funny he thinks and even his inner voice sounds panicked, that he can puke up vinegar- something he wants to keep in- and he can't puke up that which he fucking needs to

Get

The

Fuck

OUT!

And then it hits him and he thrusts his wand down his throat

Mutters a conjuring spell

And shoves vinegar down his oesophagus.

And then he's puking, puking, puking for England and Myrtle squeals as his vomit plops down onto her pearly face and he's never been so relieved as he feels his stomach muscles clenching his throat constricting as his eyes water and his mouth burns- he hasn't fed the ghosts.

117.7 pounds.

And it's enough, for today.

Because

1

1

5

Is suddenly very close

And he said he was going to stop-

How does he stop?

He doesn't want to stop.

110 maybe.

Yes, that's safe.

Then the ghosts will be dead, for good, forever.

And he can hold onto this for 7.7 pounds longer.