Wow, hello everyone. I am so so sorry I have taken so long to update. I have actually been in eating disorder treatment for the past few months so my time to work on this has been extremely limited. This is a short chapter, but I hope you like the therapist. I thought he could do with someone a little pushy, but understanding. The rest is just small moments of build up, I apologize. I really hope I can spend more time on this in the future. Thank you guys so much for the reviews and sticking with it.
Tuesday. 5:05. Harry stared at the brunette woman across from him. She had introduced herself as Asta Nicholson, but asked that Harry just called her Asta. She had darker skin, the color of Honeyduke's finest milk chocolate, and vibrant brown eyes with flecks of gold that were curious and open, patiently awaiting a response to a question Harry had forgotten already.
"Er, sorry, what did you ask?" He rubbed his palms on his jeans and looked down.
"I was just wondering how school was going this year for you. I can imagine there have been many changes."
Asta had already asked him how old he was, what year he was in, and a bunch of other boring background shit. He had been told by McGonagall to head to this classroom after her class for his first meeting with her. Harry had expected more time to prepare, or plead his case, or escape if necessary.
"It's, er, fine; different."
She nodded, smiling a bit. "Harry, can I ask what you've eaten today?"
Harry froze, jaw gridlocked tightly. Fucking Snape.
"Just, um, blackberries and coffee. I'll have dinner with Snape later, though, so don't make it a big deal." His fists tightened and he swore he felt her eyes on his bent head.
"That's fine, I was just wondering what happens when you eat more. We don't have to talk about it right now as long as you are eating and Professor Snape is ensuring your continued meals."
What happens when I eat more? What kind of bloody stupid question is that? My stomach fucking rebels and I end up vomiting.
"Yeah, Snape will make sure," Harry scowled, thinking of how strict the man had been about dinners this past week.
"You two seem to have a tight relationship," Asta said, her voice soft but deep. Harry glanced up at her, guarded. She raised her eyebrows in a lightly playful manner.
"So?"
"So, its nice that you have such a strong person to support you here," Asta said simply. "Do you have that at home?"
"This is my home," Harry mumbled, turning away from her and crossing his arms. They were in an unused classroom, warded heavily and cleaned up for this purpose. There was a gentle fire glowing and a painfully blank chalkboard.
"Okay, so you don't consider the place you grew up to be a home?"
"No," Harry stated harshly, standing from his chair and heading to the chalkboard and grabbing a piece of abandoned chalk.
He began drawing, angrily scratching the chalk across the wide expanse of board, letting the noise of it soothe his flushed skin.
Fifteen minutes later he stepped back, tossing the miniscule amount of chalk left back onto the tray. Before him was Number Four Privet Drive in three panels; the first was the house sketched out properly under the hot sun, flowers in perfect arrangement with a lanky boy bending over the beds, clothes hanging off him.
The next showed a scene from the front hall. From that spot, someone could see three people eating at the table, and another figure standing over an overflowing sink, stomach sunken in. There was also the stairway, lined with photos of a happy, three person family. And of course, the cupboard, where Harry's chalk lines had grown erratic and thin.
Finally was Dudley's second bedroom, simply done with only a few items in the room, bars on the window, and locks on the door.
It definitely was not Harry's greatest work; in fact, some parts were barely recognizable under the furious scrawling of chalk, but Harry turned to his Mind Healer and nodded towards it.
"That's where I grew up. Analyze the shit out of it if you want, but it is certainly not a home. Hogwarts is barely a home, now. I know you were brought here because they all think I'm losing my fucking mind, but they're about fifteen years too late. They never should have left me there in the first place."
Asta's eyes reflected that she knew. She had probably known as soon as she talked to him. Maybe even since she talked to Snape. They were empathetic, but not pitying. Instead they seemed to challenge him, making Harry stay still despite his urge to run after his dramatic speech.
"So what do you want to do about it?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, bewildered.
"Well, I'm definitely not saying this will be easy, but you can let this be you, or you can control how it impacts you to some degree. It will take work and you're going to have to trust me. You're going to have to change some parts of your life and you're going to have to put more faith in yourself than you have ever before, even when you were fighting Dark wizards," Asta's voice was firm, powerful, and believable.
Harry was still nervous. He couldn't wrap his mind around this.
"It's okay to fear this process, Harry. But how about, before we meet again in three days, you start eating lunch. You deserve lunch. Eat lunch to piss off the Dursley's. Eat lunch because you need to. Just eat lunch as well as your fruit and your dinners with your Professor. That's your first homework assignment."
Harry's jaw dropped.
"I expect to hear all about it in three days, Harry. I believe you can do it. I know you can, because you deserve it."
And with that, she stood gracefully, flung her notebook in her briefcase that she slung over her shoulder, and tossed floo powder in the fire with a smile and nod at Harry.
He feebly waved back before she was gone.
"What the fuck?"
Sssssssssss
Wednesday. 12:14.
Harry stared at the sandwich he had in front of him. He had strolled into the Great Hall and grabbed it from the end of the Ravenclaw table before making a quick departure. Draco had raised an eyebrow at him but Harry had simply shook his head.
For a while now he has existed solely on what Snape spelled into his bag each day; often snack foods or light sandwiches since the man probably thought he was still sneaking food from the Kitchens. His body had been struggling with the soups and rolls and gentle foods that had been provided for the past two nights.
Now he was going to eat a corned beef sandwich, stuffed to the brim with meat and on a thick, toasted bread.
Fuck this. Fuck Asta. Fuck Snape. I don't need this sandwich.
Words from his session yesterday came flooding back. It didn't make sense that he deserved to eat lunch; he knew he didn't deserve anything, but the idea of doing something that gives him power over the Dursley's, even fake power that they will never know about, made him take a bite.
It was slow going, but he finished half the hearty sandwich and immediately lit a cigarette after. He gazed out from his perch on the balcony, looking at the craggy mountains, rolling hills, and deep clouds.
Harry was embarrassed to say he felt a little bit proud.
Ssssssssssss
3:43. Severus felt antsy, despite his stern and calm demeanor as he carried out his teaching duties during the day. The students rarely noticed anything off about him, both due to his Occlumency practice and their own self-involvement.
Remus, however, had noticed the tapping fingers and had raised a solitary eyebrow at lunch while they chatted aimlessly about new developments in Goblin-Wizard politics.
Severus felt useless after turning over to ask for help from the Mind Healer. Logical as he was, he felt like he could have done more, been more, for the child. Instead, he was pushed to the side and gave up the reins. It was far from comfortable.
Asta, however, had sensed his discomfort and mailed him books that arrived today. Books with titles such as "Your Child and Their Eating Disorder," and "Adolescents Moving Through Trauma," and one even arrogantly titled, "Bonding With Your Teen Son."
These were books for fathers. Severus knew he was not, and despite the fact that these books held helpful information for the complicated place he and Harry were in and gave him a deeper understanding of how to help, it still remained fact that he was just a teacher, helping.
He would never be more than that. And anyway, when did he get so attached? When did these protective feelings evolve into deep care for the child? Harry would never accept him like that. The boy had memories of his great, heroic, charming, popular father. A true father that was nothing like Severus. Jealousy rose in his chest, bubbling angrily at the image of the man.
Yet James Potter is not here, his brain reminded him. He shook it off, continuing to teach ignorant third years the affects human cells on dry ingredients.
His chest continued to ache. His fingers continued to tap.
Ssssssssssss
5:09. "Mate, give me a cigarette," Draco called out from his desk where he was hunched over, working on a map of the sky so large it sprawled over the edges of the desk.
"You're doing homework," Harry teased, but strolled over from his bed nonetheless and offered Draco a cig from his crumpled pack.
The teasing tone felt like a lie when Harry felt this confused and wrong and defeated. He had eaten the sandwich, but afterwards had opened his skin in delicate cuts on his thigh in the bathroom. It had given him so much relief, but guilt had sunk in not much later, and he couldn't help but feel like he would never win.
So now he was lounging on his bed, halfheartedly reading his Transfiguration homework so when McGonagall calls on him tomorrow, he won't completely embarrass himself as he had been doing recently. He felt scattered though, as if no part of him could settle.
For a while he pushed aside his book and watched Draco delicately map out some galaxy on the map, making numerous notes in his small, tight handwriting. Soon though, he checked the time and stuffed his belongings in his bag, said goodbye to the distracted Draco, and headed down the stairs to Snape's rooms.
Through the tapestry he went and into the warm sitting room, a fire already going and a cup of tea set out in front of the sofa.
"Good evening, Mr. Potter," came the deep baritone of the Potions professor from the entrance of the kitchen.
"Evening, Professor," Harry said, plopping down and propping his feet up.
"Feet off." Harry rolled his eyes but did as asked, and a moment later Snape was in his chair and there was stew and a roll in front of him.
Harry took a few tentative bites, his mind drifting to the new cuts on his thigh, but he glanced at the serious man and took another bite.
"Have you done your homework?" Snape asked, eye flicking to Harry's face, waiting to discern the truth from the words.
"Yep. I did the paper for you, though it's shite, and I did the reading for McGonagall, but we'll see if I understood any of it," Harry shrugged. His grades had crumbled, but he was unconcerned. It wasn't like he had much of a career path in mind.
Snape's lips thinned, making Harry tilt his chin up in mock confidence, waiting for the argument to come. The man was very serious about schoolwork and education.
"Would you like some help, perhaps? I can not give you answers, of course, but I can explain things to you."
The stupid bubble that was becoming more and more frequent started back up in Harry's chest.
"Er, yeah, that would be nice. Some of the principles for reversing poisons went way over my head," he admitted, taking another bite.
"Keep eating, but explain where you think you got lost," Snape said, his tone becoming more authoritarian, but not nearly as sharp as it was in class.
The bubble grew, and Harry began asking questions.