A/N: This chapter is a bit different. It's a lot in very few words. It's ... Well, it's something.

TW: suicidal ideation
TW: food restriction
TW: sadness

Relapse happened in phases. It was a dimly-lit path Draco failed to realize he was on until he was too far gone to turn back. He wished he had the strength to see it earlier. People like Hermione Granger wouldn't take back a single moment of their lives because their bodies and minds were the result of their own decisions. They refused to give in, even when holding out did not seem to be worth the pain. Draco spent his entire life with the thoughts of other people influencing him, allowing his fear and their opinions to make choices for him.

Avoidance

No one will ever love you like this.

Those words bounced around Draco's head for hours. "This" was all he knew. Without Anorexia, he was only bits of himself which didn't even add up to a whole person. He could repeat the past ten weeks over and over until his self-hatred was beaten down to a more manageable level. He could sit back and watch as Granger entered a relationship with the man she refused to name. He would smile and swallow the pain, just as he had during his time with Astoria. As he had when Blaise found Dean, when he let Gabby walk away, and every time he chose to put his friends' lives above his own.

If he was going to figure himself out, he couldn't do it here. Not at the manor, not around his friends, not even in England. He needed time alone.

Around two in the morning, Draco lifted himself off the bed and walked into his closet. He Summoned a trunk and began to haphazardly shove clothes inside. No care for what made it in, Draco filled it and prayed enough of his shoes matched. Draco knew it was a mistake, but there was a high to be found in leaving everything behind.

He scribbled a quick note, placed it on his pillow, and then he left.

Be back soon.

-Draco

He ended up in a set of terrace apartments toward the outskirts of Paris, away from the hustle and bustle of both Muggles and wizards. Nowhere anyone would think to look for him. It was a decent-size apartment with a single bedroom, exactly what Draco needed.

That first week was wonderful. His apartment looked out onto other balconies, houses with white stucco and blue roofs. Houses and trees dotted the landscape all the way to the horizon; it was the perfect place to stay lost. Draco purchased a few books to read, read them, then bought a dozen more. He'd been to the market and picked up some food to stick in the fridge since he didn't feel like cooking. Draco was running away from his relationships, not recovery ...

Or so he told himself.

Denial

Deep down, Draco knew he was running away from the truth. The terrifying reality that the one thing he wanted out of life was the one thing he did not deserve. Then again, what did he deserve? Penelope would say, "More than you are willing to give yourself." It did not occur to Draco until Friday that he missed an appointment. Not that it mattered; he already paid so Penelope had an unexpected hour to herself. Life was better for everyone when Draco didn't show up.

He held off for awhile, made it a full week eating two meals a day. On that second Sunday, however, Draco owled Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for a massive pack of Puking Pastilles. The weight of everything was too much. Looking back on Blaise's wedding, he harbored so much shame. He realized throughout recovery that he could not be selective about the emotions he experienced. It was not like Occlumency when he could choose which memories to show and which to hide. When he allowed himself to be happy, he also let in the fear he would never amount to more than the sum of his friends. He was afraid of a future in which he was alone. He'd rather be alone in the moment, than alone at some point in the future. Draco knew it wasn't logical, but he needed to be alone to get better. And he would get better ... eventually. He was handling it.

Draco opened the package two days later and started laughing. The orange and purple candies spilled all over his kitchen floor. Why the hell had he ordered Puking Pastilles when there was no one watching? He could skip any meal he wanted. He could skip every meal he wanted.

So he did.

The second week flew by, with Draco going to the market for fruit every morning, and reading the rest of the day away. It was paradise and he had no problems at all. He would eat a pear for breakfast one morning and an apple the next, with nothing but saltines between.

Draco's body began to shrink and it happened quickly. He caught himself in profile in the bathroom mirror one day and teared up because he looked normal again. The excess weight he built up over ten weeks of recovery was gone. He pressed two fingers into that familiar spot right above his hip and winced.

Success.

Confusion / Overreaction

On the third Sunday morning, Draco realized no one had come looking for him. He had not made it difficult;, there were only so many places he would go. He spoke French and the Malfoys had three properties in France, it's not like there was much of an inductive leap involved. Yet, no one cared enough to come looking. Admittedly, he hadn't expected them to. They had their own lives which were far more important than whatever Draco decided to do with his. But having that confirmed hurt him more than he anticipated.

He decided to test the waters during the fourth week and watch the French national Quidditch team play Romania. If anyone wanted to find him, they would hear about it. The pale blond man whose left arm was always covered. The man who couldn't be anyone but Draco Malfoy. No one looked at him twice, however, and he was just another face in the crowd. It was exactly what he thought he wanted.

So why didn't it feel good?

Depression

The weeks afterward blended together. He often sat on the terrace with a book, hoping the sunlight would brighten his mood. If he woke in the morning, he would watch the sun rise. If he woke in the afternoon, he watched the sun set. Draco read the books he wanted to read, walked the streets he wanted to walk, and finally allowed himself room to breathe.

Since he did not have a house-elf, Draco learned to clean. It was a surprisingly difficult process, because things he never realized could get dirty somehow managed to do just that. He held off cleaning the toilet for as long as he could but eventually used the Scouring Charm to his advantage. He took some pride in that, learning to do something on his own.

Draco also became a regular at the market. Every morning he'd wander around and say hello to everyone at the various stalls and almost convinced himself they were friends. They smiled at him, laughed when he made euphemisms about the cucumbers, and occasionally comped him a melon. Then he got to know his neighbors a bit. The old witch next door invited Draco in once every few days and made him biscuits. The biscuits always went in the bin once he got back, but the effort meant more to him than Draco could say. Then there was the artist on the floor below him who was the closest thing he had to a friend. The man had long, well-maintained hair that Draco envied. He missed his hair more than anything.

"Do you paint?"

Draco shook himself from those thoughts and said, "I work with ink, mostly."

"Try oils," the man insisted. He had a smile that always led Draco to believe he knew more than he let on. "You will be surprised."

"How do you make a living from this?"

"I make enough to live the sort of life I want." The man shrugged. "If I needed more perhaps I'd do something else. But I love to paint, to draw, to take life and recreate the way I see it. Happiness, pain, anger, it all ends up on the canvas. There is power in it, and catharsis, which is enough for me."

Draco admitted, "I don't much know the sort of life I want."

"Well how do you plan to figure it out if you keep running away?"

Draco scoffed, "I'm not running away from anything."

The man laughed and said, "You are a terrible liar."

"Haven't had much need for lies. If I smile and say I am okay, most everyone sees me that way."

"It's on you then, isn't it? You're dishonest so they can't see the truth in you."

Draco thought about that for days. Penelope had said something similar months earlier, and he began to reconsider his decision to move, to cut everyone off for awhile.

Loss of Control

Seven weeks in, Draco started to have moments of intense dizziness. One day, he sort of fell into a chair and closed his eyes. He opened them to find it was dusk, but he fell asleep just after noon. He shrugged it off as an unexpected nap. It was normal to be tired when he wasn't eating. He had been used to it before, he would acclimate to it again. The "naps" increased in frequency as time went on, but he brushed it off as exhaustion. It would fade.

When fireworks went off on Bastille Day, it occurred to Draco that he missed his birthday. He was twenty-seven. He had been twenty-seven for more than a month but didn't feel older. He did not feel much of anything. He watched the sun rise from his balcony a few days later and the emptiness inside him was more like a phantom weight than a hollow stomach.

That morning began like any other. He walked downstairs and made his way to the market. He purchased a few plums but once he stepped away from the stall, the world tilted on its axis. Draco stumbled to the right for a few steps before he regained his bearings. He shook his head and turned back toward the flat. Draco made it about ninety degrees before his eyes rolled up into his head and the world went black.

.oOo.

He pried his eyes open and immediately squeezed them shut against bright white light. For a brief moment Draco thought he was dead and relief washed over him. The fight was over and he did not care that he lost. Then the din of conversation hit his ears and Draco realized he was in hospital.

Fuck.

The nurses told Draco he fainted back at the marketplace. "Malnourishment" was the diagnosis. Not that he needed to hear it.

"When was the last time you ate a full meal?"

"Tuesday," Draco lied. He hadn't eaten a meal in months, but Tuesday seemed like as good a guess as any.

The nurse frowned and said, "It's Sunday."

He was released that afternoon and immediately went home to shower. He stepped beneath the scalding water, hoping to feel something, anything. When the emptiness didn't fade, Draco turned the shower handle to a reasonable warmth and began to wash up. There were only two options: forward and backward.

He chose to go forward.

It began with his hair. The layers looked quite nice, though they needed to be trimmed. Draco used some mousse to give it volume then touched up his beard. Looking back, he had done every damn thing he could to avoid looking like himself. What would Penelope call that; a "coping mechanism?"

Draco pulled his nicest robe from the closet and surveyed himself in the mirror. He looked like he used to. He looked like the very same Draco Malfoy who walked into Penelope's office that first day, begging to be helped. He strode into the one restaurant where he was guaranteed a seat.

Blaise opened Assiette Verte a few years earlier to experiment with fruits and vegetables. The furniture and decor were all wood and earth tones, a very soothing environment. It wasn't meant for romance or business, it was a restaurant solely for the enjoyment of plant-based foods. They maxed the ninety-nine patron capacity from seven to eleven every evening. The maitre d's face lit up the moment Draco stepped through the door. Ignoring three parties in front of Draco, he shouted,

"Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco flushed bright red.

"I will let Mr. Zabini know you are here! He has been—"

"No!" Draco insisted. He walked to the front of the line and said, "Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight I only want to be alone." He shrugged. "Just sit me in the darkest corner you've got."

He was placed at a table for two in the backmost corner away from the door and the kitchens. It's where Blaise usually sat his least-favourite customers, but Draco did not want to be seen. He ordered wine and two plates. One squash stuffed with quinoa and a penne dish with tomatoes.

Draco stared at the squash in front of him and his stomach rumbled at the smell. Had he always been so hungry? Was this what it felt like? Draco dug in without another thought and goddamn it was good. He hardly came up for air until he washed down the dish with a glass of Riesling.

Then he was crying again. Merlin's bollocks, this was why he avoided food. He missed this the same way he missed Blaise, he missed Theo, and Hermione. Hell, he outright abandoned his godchildren. Draco wiped the tears from his eyes and ordered a glass of something stronger.

All for what? For the promise of being thin? Of being in control of something. Of one goddamn thing. Just one.

He savored the penne; it was the first dish Blaise made for this place. Draco wanted it to be one of his firsts, as well: the first plate he'd eat with a clear head. Tears flowed freely down Draco's face, but he didn't care. He made a mistake and needed to start over. Whether he would have any friends when he got back remained to be seen, but Draco resolved to appreciate them more. Not by doing things for them, but by making himself into a friend they would be proud to have.

No more counting. No more skipping. No more excuses.

"DRACO!"

He turned to see Blaise half-running between tables, knocking over more than one glass on the way. So much for privacy. Draco took a deep breath and wiped away tears with his sleeves. He stood up just as Blaise crashed into him. It was half-hug, half-tackle as Draco held onto the back of Blaise's robe just to remain upright.

"Oh my GOD!" Blaise shouted into Draco's ear. He cradled the back of Draco's head in one hand and said, "Oh my GOD, I hate you, you fucking bastard, I hate you so, so much."

"I know."

"I got back from Australia and everyone was in a panic, thinking you'd gone and offed yourself this time." Blaise managed to cling to Draco even tighter. "All I could think was that I did not do enough, that I should have tried harder somehow ..."

"No," Draco said. "It was never about you. I couldn't see where my life was going anymore."

"Theo is in a right state, each of us blaming ourselves, thinking we missed something."

"I wasn't ready to watch you get married," Draco admitted, his voice thick with unshed tears. "You found what I always wanted. All I could think about was how much I will never deserve any of it, so I ran away."

"No, of course you will find it. You deserve love and if I could have given it to you I would have. If you were not ready you should have told me! Dean and I would have waited!"

"Yes, you would've," Draco agreed, "which is the problem. I cannot hold you back from living your life. Even Hermione was different around me, softer. I don't want to change people."

"You are not changing us, we make our own choices."

"And I made mine. I am coming home."

"Damn right you are, right bloody now."

"No," Draco shook his head. "I can't come back yet."

"We have been looking for you for months!"

"Really?" Draco asked, pushing Blaise away. "I am in Paris! This is the first place you should have searched!"

"I came here!" Blaise shouted back. "Looking for you! My staff was told to let me know the moment they spotted you, but you hardly look like yourself. Did you even want to be found?"

"I don't know," Draco admitted. "I don't know what I wanted, but it was not this. I never wanted to hurt anyone, I wanted to disappear and get my shit together. Instead I fell apart."

"Blaise looked Draco up and down then said, "You look like hell."

"Real nice pep talk."

"I am not here to make you feel better. I am here to bring you home."

Draco promised, "I'll be home soon."

"That's what your note said three months ago!"

"Give me a few days, Blaise. You know where I am, so hold off."

"No. I am not walking away so you can go drown yourself in Puking Pastilles and a bottle of Firewhisky! Do you have any idea the hell you put us through?"

Draco shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

"Then prove it. Come home."

"Just a few days, Blaise. Please."

Blaise looked Draco in the eyes and said, "If you promise to come home, I will give you three days."

"I promise."

.oOo.

Thursday morning at 9:59, Draco took the three familiar steps up to the bright blue door and found Penelope Clearwater waiting for him on the other side.

"You came back."

"Starting over," Draco admitted. "Figured this is as good a place as any."

Penelope nodded toward her office and said, "Follow me."

A/N: Hope y'all stay happy and healthy! ❤️