Warnings and Notes

Eating Disorders

Suicide

Toxic Relationship/Abuse

Post Voldemort

Sirius is alive

Chapter 1

Sunday, the 9th

"It seems like Harry was hungrier than ever," Fred said with a teasing smile. "George, we need to keep an eye on him; he might make us uncles any minute."

Harry's stomach was hurting, but he tried to hold back. George tousled Potter's hair while laughing. That only made him feel worse.

"Let Harry eat in peace," Molly interrupted, her brow furrowed, and her fists on her hips. "The poor thing works so hard; he must be starving."

"Well, no denying that," George approached his mother and raised both hands in agreement. "He's eaten more than all of us combined. At least I hope he'll let us name the baby."

George looked her directly in the eyes, and Molly couldn't help but smile a little. But, being the good mother she was, she thought, she pushed the twins towards the yard, telling them to stop bothering.

Behind her, Hermione and Fleur had laughed at the comment. Ron, who had walked past on his way outside, could only let out a snort.

Harry said nothing, just looked at his plate, sighed silently, and stabbed his fork into the last piece of cake he had left. He brought it to his mouth and swallowed it almost without chewing.

To be honest, it was Mrs. Weasley who had filled his plate, and he knew she wouldn't be satisfied until he finished the last bite. To avoid her making a scene about his eating habits in front of everyone gathered there, he had to give in and eat.

But after eating a Bath Bun as an appetizer (as Mrs. Weasley had cheerfully suggested), two servings of lasagna accompanied by Fleur's special salad, and a large slice of pumpkin pie – "your favorite," as Mrs. Weasley pointed out, seconded by Hermione – he felt like he was about to burst.

He thought he should have declined. Why didn't he? Was it just because when he set foot in the Burrow, Molly had almost cried while hugging him? Was it because everyone kept asking, "Are you okay?" Anything else? Perhaps because it was Molly and Arthur who personally served him while others could help themselves, and maybe, what weighed on him the most was that there were too many people for him to refuse to eat without sparking a discussion about his health.

He was the last one to finish.

He didn't even take his plate to the kitchen.

"Don't worry, dear, I can take care of this," Molly said, waving her hand. And once again, he wouldn't refuse.

He vaguely excused himself to go to the bathroom and, upon closing the second-floor door, cast a tiny silencing charm and approached the toilet. He inserted two fingers into his throat and vomited.

He rested one hand on the tank lid and the other on the wall when he felt like he was about to fall. Sometimes he wondered if one day he would stop finding that act unpleasant. After all, didn't he do it very often? It was supposed that repetitive actions turned into habits, and habits ceased to be challenging.

Remembering everything he had consumed made him even more nauseous, and the thought that he still had dinner ahead of him in that house further exacerbated the already dire situation. He had stopped eating. And when he did, it was in very small portions. But Mrs. Weasley – and it had to be admitted that Arthur supported her – wanted to make Harry eat more than even twenty men together could because she saw him as "too thin."

He didn't stop retching until he felt completely empty. When he managed to stop vomiting, he straightened slowly, staggered to the sink, splashed his face with plenty of water, and looked at himself in the mirror.

He was indeed thin... and haggard... and pale... and had dark circles under his eyes.

But that was nothing a Glamour spell couldn't fix. Unfortunately, Glamours ceased to work in situations when his strength waned, and vomiting weakened people.

Moreover, the spell had to be very subtle. He couldn't go through each day maintaining a too strong Glamour; not only would it be too exhausting and easy to detect, but if it were to falter in front of someone, the difference would be too noticeable. That's why he only made subtle changes. His dark circles were still visible, but not as deep as they truly were. He concealed his paleness enough not to appear sick, so if someone asked, he could simply say he didn't get enough sun.

The spell took care of his face; as for the rest, his clothing.

He reapplied the Glamour quickly. He had used it so much that it had become a part of him, something he couldn't live without. And in a way, it was true.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recover from the discomfort, regulating his breathing.

"The bathroom is painted blue," he began, implementing the method he had developed some time ago. "Light blue," he continued, "with red accents and golden details. I like it. I feel comfortable in it..."

After a while, he decided to go downstairs.

He had paused in the hallway before reaching the stairs to look at the picture.

"The picture" was of Ron when he was 9 years old. Apparently, he had played a prank on the twins, and they had retaliated by dressing him up as a completely pink bunny before taking a photo. Molly had caught them, but when she saw the photo, she found her little son's pouting expression so charming in that funny outfit that she ended up framing it to hang in the middle of the hallway along with other less amusing pictures.

Ron must have complained, and he still complained every time he saw it, but his mother always told him that it was these sweet memories that people should cherish.

Upon reaching the staircase, he noticed that the inside of the house felt quiet. It seemed like everyone had already gone to the backyard to play whatever it was they were playing. He hoped it wasn't Quidditch; they'd probably want him to play, and he wasn't in the mood.

"Hey, Harry, I started to think you'd gone to sleep," the voice came from Sirius, looking rather cheerful at the bottom of the stairs.

Harry forced a smile but felt bad again.

"Are you waiting for me?"

Sirius ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"They want to know which team you'll be on."

Quidditch

"I won't be able to play."

His godfather squinted his eyes. He hurried to explain.

"I had a mission yesterday. There was a moment when I hit a wall, nothing serious," he raised both hands and finished descending the stairs, "but if I want to be ready for when they call me again, I don't think I should risk my back playing against the twins."

It wasn't a complete lie. He had indeed gone on a mission the day before, and he did bump into a wall, but he hadn't been hurt more than a slight bruise that barely hurt at all.

His godfather looked at him for a moment, searching for something that he apparently didn't find. He felt uneasy under the scrutiny; there were too many things he was hiding not to feel this way.

"Was he very strong?"

Harry shook his head.

"There were two of them. That's why they caught me off guard. But it only took three spells to immobilize them."

Sirius looked pleased and went out to tell everyone that Harry wouldn't be playing. Harry felt a sense of relief as he could stay alone for a moment and relax his face before going out.

He was right; everyone was already outside.