Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, they all belong to the amazing JK Rowling - I promise to give them back when I'm done ;)
AN: this fanfic contains self-harm and eating disorder content - if you feel like you will be triggered by reading about those things, then please please please don't read. You are loved and valued - please take care of yourself. I am going to leave a list of helplines and useful websites at the end of the chapter, so please skip ahead and have a look if you need to :)
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"Dinner's ready!" Mrs Weasley shouted up the stairs. Hermione looked up from the book she was reading, before neatly folding the corner of the page and placing it on the arm of the chair she had been sitting on. She walked over to the bedroom door, stopping in the doorway before turning to face Ron and Harry. They were sitting cross legged on the bed, engaged in a heated match of wizard chess, neither one of them making any move to get up for dinner.
"Are you two coming?" Hermione asked, her arms crossed as she smirked at them in amusement.
"We're nearly done," Harry replied, not taking his eyes off of the chess board, which was covered in tiny fragments of his chess pieces - visual evidence of Ron's lead in the game.
"It'll be over a whole lot faster if you keep making dumb ass moves like that," Ron chuckled, grinning as he moved his Knight. The chess piece unsheathed its little sword, before swinging it at Harry's pawn, rendering it little more than a pile of rubble.
"Prick." Harry muttered. Ron just laughed.
"Come on, wizard's chess can wait - mum said she was going to make her famous chicken and leek pie tonight. It's to die for." Ron said, practically salivating as he stood up, stretching his back, and joined Hermione by the door. Harry chuckled to himself. Of course, Ron would choose food over chess any day. "You coming?" He asked, when Harry did not follow.
"Go ahead, I'll meet you down there," Harry smiled - a smile that faded as soon as his friends had left the room, Hermione shooting him a worried glance that he tried his best to ignore. The truth was, he had spent the last hour and a half panicking about dinner - Mrs Weasley was an amazing cook, and Ron was right - her chicken and leek pie was to die for. Harry was terrified that he went down there, he would be tempted to have some - and helpless to resist. Sighing shakily, he reached under the pillow, and felt around until he was met with the familiar sensation of cold metal against his fingers.
Harry don't know why he decided to start cutting - all he knew was that it helped him forget. When the Dursley's were tormenting and abusing him, when the burden of being 'the chosen one' began to weigh upon him, or when all the memories became too difficult to push down… the pain made it go away, just for a moment. It always came back eventually, but it was a temporary release, and the only thing he knew that helped.
Almost robotically, he rolled up the sleeve of his baggy, oversized shirt to reveal numerous scars all the way up his arm, from his wrist to his elbow. They ranged from thin, fully healed milky-white lines to deep, red gashes, clearly still fresh. He wrinkled my nose slightly as he looked at the marred skin with distain - how had his life come to this? Harry could only imagine the reactions if people found out that the Golden Boy had resorted to slashing his wrists all the time, just to cope with the burden. Without any further hesitation, he took the blade and pressed it to an unmarked piece of skin near his elbow. He dragged it along sideways, hissing in pain as the cold metal glided effortlessly across the fragile skin, stinging sharply. Beads of blood rose up to the surface and slowly trickled down his arm. He quickly grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, applying pressure to the cut before the blood could drip onto the white bedsheets - that would be a difficult one to explain. Something about the crimson liquid seeping through the tissue made him feel… present. Calm. As he stared blankly at his wrist, Harry felt all the worry and anxiety he had been feeling in the lead up to dinner melt away; he knew it would be back, but this fixed it temporarily, and right now it was the only thing he knew that worked. He made a few more cuts up near his shoulder, where they could be more easily hidden, before quickly cleaning up any traces of blood on his hands and putting his precious razor back underneath the pillow. He rolled down his sleeve, wincing slightly as the fabric caught on the fresh wounds, and headed downstairs.
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After the events of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Dumbledore had decided that Harry would spend the Summer Holidays at Grimmauld Place, instead of with the Dursleys at Privet Drive. This was mainly for Harry's safety, seeing as Voldemort was now, indisputably, back. However - although, for obvious reasons, Dumbledore did not share this reasoning with Harry - it was also so Harry could be kept an eye on. Everyone knew how rough the past few months had been for Harry; being entered into the tournament against his will, witnessing Cedric's death, knowing that he, however inadvertently, had helped to bring Voldemort back… it was to be expected that the boy would struggle. Dumbledore had thought that being around a large, happy family like the Weasleys (who were also trying at Grimmauld place due to the string of Order meetings taking place) would help Harry, as well as having Remus and Sirius there to look out for him. That's what Dumbledore thought, anyway.
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"Aren't you hungry? You've barely touched your food," Hermione commented as Harry pushed the food around the plate with his fork.
"Umm, right… yeah. Sorry, I'm just tired," He smiled warily at her. She looked at him, and Harry thought he saw a momentary flicker of worry in her eyes, which he tried his best to brush off.
"You should try and eat something. You didn't eat anything at breakfast either," she said, turning back to her plate. Harry sighed. Even though he tried to avoid eating as much as possible nowadays, he also didn't want anyone getting suspicious - if anyone figured out that he wasn't eating, then he would have to stop - and he couldn't do that.
Putting a small piece of pie on his fork, Harry took a deep breath and, tentatively, put the food in his mouth, chewing slowly. It tasted incredible - Mrs Weasley was an amazing cook, and tonight was no exception. He took another bite, and another, and another… and, before he knew it, he had finished his plate.
Despite the satisfied look on Hermione's face at the sight of his clean plate, Harry felt the panic rising up from the realisation of what he had just done. His head was suddenly filled with numbers, and his breathing shallowed. Trying his best to keep himself together, he put his knife and fork down carefully, fighting to keep his voice even as he spoke: "thanks for dinner, Mrs Weasley - is it okay if I head up now? I want to get an early night."
"Of course dear, but why don't you have some dessert first - I made brownies?" she said as she cleared his plate away.
"Umm, I- I think I'll just head up now," Harry said quickly and, before she could reply, he ran out of the room, sprinting up the stairs and into the nearest bathroom. Having locked the door behind him, his hands instantly flew to his head, grabbing handfuls of matted hair. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his thoughts were going at a hundred miles an hour. As he tried to do the maths of what that one slip-up at dinner was going to cause him, he felt his throat tighten and his breath started coming in short, sharp gasps. He tore off his shirt and stared at his reflection in the body-length mirror. It was almost as if he could see the food ruining his body - like suddenly his ribs were no longer protruding, his collar bones were hardly visible, and his bloated stomach stuck out more than ever.
Looking at his reflection with abhorrence, Harry felt absolutely disgusting. After a brief moment of consideration, he carefully lowered himself onto the floor in front of the toilet and, trembling slightly, hooked two fingers down his throat. He gagged, but nothing happened. So he tried again, this time pushing them further back. He must have done something right, because the contents of his stomach made a swift reappearance into the porcelain bowl. Even after he had coughed up the last of his dinner, Harry kept sticking his fingers down his burning throat, desperate to get rid of any traces of the food he had just eaten.
When he was finally sure that all the food was gone, Harry flushed the toilet and sat back against the wall, his face wet with tears from the force of his retching and his throat raw and burning. He sighed in relief, closing his eyes as he let his head rest back against the cool ceramic tiles. "It's okay now," He whispered to himself, "it's gone. Everything's fine, it's all gone now." He breathed out shakily, pulling himself up. As he stood, Harry felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, and stumbled back a few paces. Once he had regained his balance, he took some deep breaths and walked over to the other side of the room to get his shirt, making a mental note not to stand up too fast again.
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If anyone had any concerns about Harry's strange behaviour at dinner, they didn't voice them. Even Hermione seemed to back off a little, not shorting him worried glances or commenting on his behaviour at meals. After the pie incident, Harry had been much more careful around food. He had a system: push the food around clockwise, spear a piece with his fork, lift it to his mouth, start speaking so he has an excuse to lower his fork again, push the food around anti-clockwise, bite off a small piece of a vegetable - like carrot or broccoli - chew it fifty times, swallow, then push all the food to one side of his plate so it looked like he'd eaten most of it, and quickly offer to gather everyone's plates and hide his under someone else's clean one so no one has a chance to notice the food still there. Harry figured the tiny pieces of vegetable he was consuming during the meals wouldn't do too much damage - but he had to be seen putting something in his mouth, otherwise people would get suspicious. For the most parts, everyone was too engrossed in their own food and conversations to notice anything. However, it was hard for Harry to ignore it when Lupin frequently glances at Harry's plate, frowning as he looked back to his own plate.
One evening, however, once Harry had finished his usual song and dance and was getting up to clear his still-full plate away, Remus spoke gently; "Harry, you've barely touched your food - please could you try and eat a bit more before you go to bed?"
Harry froze in place, half-way up from his chair. He didn't move for a moment, but eventually nodded, before sitting back down, and setting his plate down on the table. Instead of eating, however, he just resumed his earlier routine, pushing the food around his plate and occasionally nibbling one of the carrots. His old professor kept his eyes on him, and although Harry did not look up to meet his gaze, he could feel the disapproving look Lupin was giving him. Sighing inwardly, Harry speared a piece of potato o his fork, and quickly shoved it in his mouth. Remus wasn't going to let him leave the table empty-stomached. He kept eating, painfully aware of the food hitting his stomach. With each bite, he felt more and more full, to the point of bursting. However, it wasn't until he at last felt Lupin's gaze shift away that he stopped. He had eaten his way through about three-quarters of his plate, and felt as though his stomach was about to explode. He placed a hand on his abdomen, cringing at how distended it was. He needed to get rid of it. Now.
Harry remained staring straight ahead as Mrs Weasley collected all the dishes, waiting until people started to disperse to the living room before he thanked her for the meal and walked slowly towards the staircase. Once he was out of sight, however, he broke into a sprint, legging it to the bathroom as fast as he could.
He didn't even bothering to lock the door behind him before he threw himself to the floor in front of the toilet, slamming the lid against the wall in his hast to get it open. Harry didn't have to try this time - the moment his head was over the rim, the contents of his stomach was spilling out into the porcelain bowl. Even after his body had stopped rejecting the food, he kept sticking his fingers down his throat, not stopping until all that was coming up was bile. Once his heaving had subsided, he flushed the toilet, closed the lid, and practically dragged himself upright, using the toilet as a crutch. His head was instantly swimming, and he quite quickly found himself back on the floor, his head having narrowly missed the edge of the sink. He waited until his vision had fully returned before attempting to stand up again, and even then, the bathroom spun horribly, leaving Harry gripping the counter, white-knuckled, in an attempt to remain upright.
It was only after he had finished purging that Harry noticed the unlocked door, and the more alarming fact that it was ever so slightly ajar - only a crack, but still - anyone could have heard him, or - god forbid - walked in. He internally slapped himself for making such a stupid mistake. He only realised the true extent of his blunder, however, when he walked out into the corridor and came face to face with Remus Lupin.
Harry swore he could cut the tension in the air with a knife. He found himself unable to move, or speak, and he stared wide eyed at his old professor. Had Lupin heard him? If he'd been standing there this whole time… It was Remus who broke the uneasy silence. "Are you okay? I thought I could hear vomiting," he asked, peering behind Harry into the bathroom.
"Uh- yeah, I um, I guess dinner didn't agree with me," Harry spoke with as much confidence he could muster, forcing a small smile onto his face. Lupin didn't look entirely convinced by this theory, but did not question him. Instead, he just sighed heavily, the concern not quite leaving his eyes.
"Harry, you would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you? Because if you ever need to confide in someone, I'm always here," Remus said gently.
"I'm fine, honestly - I've probably just got a big or something. I'll be fine by tomorrow." It felt awful to be lying to Remus, especially after what he had just said - but Harry couldn't risk anyone finding out. Couldn't risk anyone seeing how broken he was. So, instead, he mumbled a quick 'goodnight', and left Remus standing in the corridor as he made the short journey from the bathroom to the bedroom, where Ron was already conked out on one of the rickety beds, face down and snoring loudly. Harry, feeling much the same way, slumped down on the other bed, the mattress groaning beneath him. The moment his head hit the pillow, he was fast asleep.
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Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think, constructive criticism is always welcome :)
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