Chapter Text
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder.
He just doesn’t have time to eat. Now that he’s a fifth year, the professors have started piling on more and more assignments. He can barely keep up as it is (no one can, except for Granger), but the professors don’t care.
The first time Draco skips a meal to finish an essay, no one notices. So he does it again (and again and again and again).
It’s not like Draco has stopped eating. He snacks throughout the day. He slips down to the kitchen every now and then, so long as he has finished his homework.
Pansy and Blaise cast him a few concerned glances, and Crabbe and Goyle seem uncomfortable with the whole situation, but Draco is fine.
He has a Potions essay due on Tuesday, a History essay and a DADA analysis due on Wednesday, and a Divination report due on Thursday. It’s Monday.
Draco can do this. He may have to skip a few more meals to get it all done, but it’s not the end of the world. Food is a luxury, and luxuries have to be earned.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder. He has time management skills.
.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder.
He just doesn’t want to eat because the thought of eating makes him want to throw up, and the act of eating makes him feel tight and disgusting and sick all at once.
It’s his sixth year. He should be partying with the other Slytherins, plotting out his future, going on dates. Instead, he’s trying to figure out how to kill Dumbledore.
His father keeps owling him (update update update--appalling grades--failure failure--wrong). Draco feels his stomach tighten with every new letter.
He’s trying. The problem is, Draco really doesn’t want to kill anyone--
“You,” Pansy remarks with a snort one night in the commons room, “are an anxiety attack waiting to happen.”
They all laugh, Draco included, but Draco can’t remember the last time he found anyone’s jokes funny.
He doesn’t have an eating disorder. His throat is just too tight to choke anything down.
.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder.
He just doesn’t deserve to eat.
The Death Eaters have taken over the school, and Voldemort is in his house, and Dumbledore is dead, and Voldemort is in Draco’s house, and he can’t fall asleep at night because he can hear the other students’ screams, and Voldemort is in his house.
Draco is fine. Draco is at school. Draco is safe.
(Except he’s not--he screwed up; he couldn’t kill Dumbledore when the man was right under his wand. Father keeps sending him letters that switch back and forth, from vague threats to mournful descriptions of what new travesty has occurred in the Manor to explicit descriptions of threats Voldemort keeps breathing into Father’s ear about all the ways Draco will be punished.)
Draco is running on panic and confusion and hatred. Any food he tries to eat just comes right back up, no matter how hard he tries to keep it down. Draco lives on juice and water and the occasional cracker or slice of cheese (sometimes a piece of chocolate if he has earned it, which is rare).
He doesn’t have an eating disorder. He has a penance to pay, and he has barely scratched the surface.
.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder.
Once the War ended and he got out of his temporary stint at Azkaban, he started researching what eating disorders even were. Draco doesn’t binge. He doesn’t purge. He doesn’t think that he’s fat. (Pansy and Blaise are right. He’s too skinny, with bones so sharp they might as well be cutting through his skin). Draco doesn’t have the issues that any of the people described in these books do.
To Draco, food tastes like dust. He tries to swallow, but he can barely place a bite on his tongue, let alone chew.
So many things are hard for Draco. He has trouble falling asleep. He can barely drag himself out of bed on the rare occasions when he does sleep.
“Maybe because, I don’t know, you never eat,” Pansy hisses over dinner.
“I eat,” Draco protests. He isn’t lying. He had a handful of chocolate frogs yesterday after class, and he kept all of them down. He’s getting better.
(The chocolate tasted like air on Draco’s tongue, and swallowing it was like consuming a sticky, tasteless sludge.)
“Then do it,” Blaise says, his eyes narrowed as he jabs his fork in the direction of Draco’s untouched plate.
Draco looks down at the plate heaped with beef and vegetables and bread, courtesy of Pansy and Blaise’s combined efforts. The smell is giving Draco a headache, and he cannot even bring himself to lift his fork.
“I’m not hungry,” Draco says.
“You haven’t had food all day,” Pansy says.
“I--” Draco’s going to throw up. He’s going to start heaving bile in front of the whole school. “I’m not.”
Blaise starts to say, “Mate--”
“I don’t want to!” Draco yells, and a silence falls upon the room.
Draco is standing, clutching his fork like he’s about to spear it through Blaise’s heart, and everyone is staring at him. Judging. Whispering.
Draco feels like nothing and everything is happening at once. He wants to die. He wishes Dumbledore just put him out of his misery the moment Draco pulled out his wand.
Draco spends the night dry-heaving over a toilet.
He doesn’t have an eating disorder. It doesn’t count as purging if there’s nothing in his stomach.
.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder.
He knows better than to starve himself. (However, he also knows that he doesn’t deserve to eat, that he is still repaying a debt he has accrued over his many years of mistakes.) Thus, Draco sets up a reward system for himself.
He’s running a charity with Luna for Squibs. Draco knows this barely scratches the surface of the many sins he needs to atone, but it’s a start. With every new donor he finds, he allows himself to add another future meal to his list.
Except it’s been about a year now, and the donations are beginning to trickle away. Everyone wanted to help Squibs get an education and a decent home with a fresh memory of the horrors of the war, but now that they’ve grown fat and complacent in their peace, no one cares.
Draco starts to run out of meals.
In the long run, this is not a big deal. There are Squibs out who are starving for real, who don’t have an education past age eleven, who are living on the streets in squalor.
“If this keeps up,” Luna reflects over a glass of water, “we’ll have to close everything down.”
Draco feels panic shoot up his throat. This can’t be happening. They currently have twenty-three children in their program, and closing everything down would entail turning them loose on the streets. Also, this is probably the one good thing Draco has done in his life, and--
Draco shuts that thought off quickly because it’s not about him.
“Maybe it’s us,” Luna muses thoughtfully. “No one really likes us, you know.” She brightens, leaning forward slightly. “You know who they do like?”
“No,” Draco says.
He knows--he’s just mentally begging Luna not to verbalize the name.
“Harry Potter,” Luna says dreamily.
“No,” Draco says forcefully.
“He’s ever so rich, Draco,” says Luna, her pale eyes wide with faux innocence.
“You ask him, then,” Draco snaps.
“But Draco, it has so much more impact coming from you. This is Harry. Imagine the headlines.”
Draco hates it when she’s right.
.
“Let me get this straight,” Potter says with a skeptical cock of his eyebrow. “You want me to believe that you’re running a charity for Squibs and that you want me to donate to keep your students off the streets?”
“Yes,” Draco says with far more confidence than what he feels.
“Fuck off,” Potter snarls.
Draco has to force himself not to break out into a run.
.
Draco sits at home and stares at his list. He has run out of names.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder. He has a just punishment/reward system, and he is receiving his dues. He has kids counting on him, and he let them all down.
.
Draco does not have an eating disorder. He just has a healthy understanding of his own accomplishments.
A few days later, a check arrives from Potter, along with a politely worded apology that Granger no doubt dictated. Luna artfully manages to “leak” this newest tidbit to the press, and soon name after name begins to pour in.
Draco stares at his list from the privacy of his home. The problem is, none of these names are because of Draco. They’re thanks to Potter and Potter alone.
Draco starts to go through the names, methodically crossing off each one, until only Potter’s name remains.
.
Draco wakes up to Pansy shaking his shoulders roughly.
“Consider this an intervention,” she hisses.
Blaise stands behind her, his arms crossed, a murky fury swirling in his eyes. Draco feels like his lungs have been crushed.
Blaise is holding the list.
“What is this?” Blaise demands, stepping closer.
“It’s not--” It’s exactly what it looks like. “It’s nothing,” Draco manages to say.
“When’s the last time you ate?” Pansy asks.
“Yesterday,” Draco says. “I’m fine.”
“For Salazar’s sake, no!” Pansy yells.
Draco flinches back, and her eyes soften ever so slightly.
“You don’t have to earn food, Draco,” Pansy says gently.
And all the terror rises up Draco’s spine because she doesn’t understand. Draco has to have his system in place; he needs to be able to keep himself in check. Draco doesn’t deserve to live, let alone consume and enjoy meals. Everything has to be earned--otherwise, it has no meaning at all.
“We’re taking you out to eat,” Blaise says firmly.
They won’t let him say no.
.
Draco wants to gag. He knows that he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows that he’s ruining his balance after months of finally managing to cultivate it, but Pansy and Blaise are staring him down.
Draco forces himself to eat every bite of food.
Pansy makes him promise to keep eating, and Blaise hands Draco a card with his therapist’s address on it.
The entire time, Draco does his best to hide the panic trapped in his chest, the guilt rising in his throat.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder. He would have to be starving for that to be true.
.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder.
At this point, his name to meal ratio has lost meaning. Ever since Potter decided to attach himself to Any Worthy Cause that catches his eyes, Draco and Luna’s charity has faced little difficulties. Eventually, Draco just has to scrap the list entirely because Potter is doing all the work for him.
Draco starts another charity, this time with Granger, that focuses on finding Muggleborns before their eleventh birthday to start easing them and their parents into the Wizarding World right away. Most likely due to Granger’s influence, Potter attaches his bank account and his money to this charity, too, and the donations start flooding in.
Draco gets rid of the list idea entirely. It’s practically a moot point by now, anyway.
Draco starts to compose two columns each night, one detailing every bad thing he did during the day and the other detailing all the good. So long as the good things outweighs the bad, Draco gives himself permission to eat the next day.
The worst feeling is when Draco tallies up his deeds and finds that the bad things outnumber the good, and it’s not even because of the hunger pangs he knows he will feel. It’s the sheer shame coursing through his veins, the reminder that he should be doing better.
But he’s getting better. This is helping him do so.
He doesn’t have an eating disorder. He has a coping mechanism.
.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder.
He’s been doing well, as evidenced by the fact that he’s managed to eat more often (four to five days a week isn’t bad). He’s managing it. He’s doing fine.
Except Draco isn’t fine. He feels like he’s drowning, like nothing is enough, no matter how hard he tries.
Draco writes a book about his time as a Death Eater. Then he writes another about the history of Dark Magic and another about the life of Tom Riddle and another about the plights of Squibs.
The stores run out of copies, and random people on the street feel the urge to come up and embrace him and tell him about all their shady pasts.
Draco knows he should be doing more. He knows it will never be enough. He just wishes that his mind would stop reminding him.
(A Muggleborn is one fourth as likely as a Pureblood to experience depression or suicidal ideation. A Squib is three times as likely to attempt suicide. Remnants of Death Eaters still exist and harass, threaten, beat, and sometimes kill anyone who doesn’t match their idea of a pure wizard.)
Draco doesn’t have enough time in the day to even start half of the things he needs to do.
He doesn’t try to forego meals. It just . . . happens at times.
He knows he’s screwing up. His two column method is working, and he can’t let himself fall back down that hole of not having an effective system just because of forgetfulness. But it’s like there’s an external force, screaming in Draco’s ear, forcing him not to eat.
.
“I liked your new book.”
Draco looks up to find Potter standing next to Draco’s table. Draco stares at Potter blankly. The issue that Draco has found is that he can never tell when someone is being serious or just employing heavy sarcasm. Potter looks sincere, but he is talking to Draco.
Draco finds the idea of sincerely combined with complimenting Draco an oxymoron when it comes from Potter.
“Are you working an a new one?” Potter asks, gesturing to the many papers spread across Draco’s table.
“No,” Draco says stiffly, still unsure over whether Potter is cracking a joke that only he understands. “It’s a program for Muggleborn children in families with a disliking for magic to find a new home, should it become necessary.”
Something softens in Potter’s eyes.
“I don’t think I’ve heard of this one,” he says.
“I haven’t started it yet,” Draco says.
“What do you need?” Potter asks.
Draco feels his blink rate shoot up.
“As in, money?” Draco asks. “Or publicity?”
“Yes.”
Potter looks so earnest. Draco opens his mouth, but no words come out. He has to try several before his mouth is capable of making actual sounds.
“In that case,” Draco says, “take a seat.”
.
Potter starts to send Draco owls several days a week. At first, they’re strictly informational, such as donations and strategies for raising money, but they eventually begin to devolve into something more personal.
Apparently, Potter has an aversion to mushrooms, feels a growing urge to smash his best friends over the head (they keep setting him up on blind dates), and can’t manage to win a game of Quidditch against his ex-girlfriend. Draco wants to reciprocate in kind because it’s only polite, but his life is just . . . boring. He doubts Potter wants to hear about Draco falling asleep on his desk or spilling tea all over a reporter’s lap and getting kicked out of his own interview.
In retrospect, that seems like exactly the kind of story Potter would like to hear.
Dear Potter,
My day has been tolerable, which is a far cry better than yesterday. A fresh-faced reporter attempted to treat me like a human being today, an effort that I cruelly crushed as I drenched her in the finest herbal tea.
In reality, the tea was subpar at best. However, not even such a tea deserves a fate like this. I doubt the stain will ever come out, so the tea will be tossed out to the dumpster to lie in the sun. Eventually, all color will fade from the fabric, and the tea splotch will be this dreadful greyish-brown color on top of slightly redder brown splotches.
(I should probably clarify that I didn’t try to dump tea on her lap. It was an accident, I assure you.)
You can use this example in your next interview. Make all of the stuffy Purebloods weep as you compare the pitiful, abused children to sad, abandoned tea stains.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
Draco sends the letter before his common sense turns back on.
“Well, Potter, this was nice,” Draco says, staring morosely at his owl flapping off on her merry way. “I hope you enjoy the excuse never to speak to me ever again.”
.
Dear Malfoy,
While your story has much emotional impact, I feel like people would connect to it on a more personal level if you were the one telling it. I plan on crying in my next interview about my time in a cupboard. Any tips? I’ve tried crying on command before, but Hermione and Ron say that I just look like I’m constipated.
I confess that I’m rather surprised some of your tears were fake. You just seemed so genuinely moved by what you were saying, and the tears were so natural. Suppose you could teach me? I don’t want to look like I’m thinking about going to the loo instead of the topic at hand.
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
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Somehow, this exchange turns into Draco agreeing to meet Potter for dinner. Except . . . today is Thursday. Yesterday was Wednesday. On Wednesday, Draco’s column of bad things far exceeded that of his good things, so he can’t eat today.
But Draco already agreed to meet Potter. To back out now would just be rude, and Potter would probably never ask to meet Draco again, and then Potter would rescind all monetary and public support.
Draco rubs his face. He’s fine. He can do this. He just won’t eat.
.
“The key,” Draco says once they’ve been seated, “is to get yourself in the moment. Breathe in your emotions. Feed on them.”
The waiter comes by, and Draco feels himself begin to disconnect as Potter and the waiter chat about the weather, Quidditch, and literally everything except food.
“You gonna order?” Potter asks.
A low note of anxiety begins to hum through Draco’s body. What seemed so reasonable back at the Manor makes no sense now. Potter wouldn’t believe Draco if he says he’s not hungry (Draco wouldn’t believe himself).
“I’ll have what he’s having,” Draco says.
“Sure thing!” the waiter chirps before grabbing the menus and bouncing off to the kitchen.
Someone took their happy pill today.
Potter is smirking at Draco slightly now, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“What?” Draco asks, unexpectedly defensive.
“Nothing,” says Potter. “You just . . . surprise me.” His voice lowers, and he fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. “In the best of ways, of course.”
Draco stares at Potter with confusion.
“I thought you hated me,” Draco says.
“Oh, I did. You used to be a prat--”
“So did you,” Draco interrupts.
Oh, Merlin. Oh, Salazar. Draco is an idiot. Draco deserves to die. Why does he talk to people? Why does he even try to imitate a normal, well-functioning member of society?
Potter starts to laugh, even though Draco didn’t say anything funny.
“You’re right,” Potter says. “I really was.”
“But you weren’t a part of a racist cult, so you have that going for you,” Draco says.
“You’ve done a lot of good now,” Potter says. “I think you’ve managed to atone for it.”
“Some things,” Draco whispers, “can’t be atoned for.”
An awkward silence falls. Potter looks like he’s struggling to find words to say in response, but the waiter saves him by bringing out their food.
Potter ordered a hamburger. Draco ordered a hamburger. No wonder Potter looked surprised.
“Bon apetit,” Potter says jokingly.
Draco stares down at the hamburger, his stomach twisting painfully. He can’t do this.
He could make it up tomorrow and just not eat. But this would count as one of the bad things, wouldn’t it? So then would he have to skip for two days? The numbers are beginning to blur together in his mind, and he can’t quite piece what the logical course is together.
“You gonna eat that?” Harry asks. His burger is already half-gone.
Draco quickly picks his burger up and starts to eat. It’s like ash trickling down his throat and mud sticking to his teeth.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder. He has it under control--he can choose when and when not to eat any time.
Everything about this is completely normal.
.
Dear Malfoy,
I enjoyed having dinner with you yesterday. I hope to meet with you again sometime. Should you ever require more support for any of your organizations, just let me know.
Sincerely,
Harry Potter
P.S. Thanks for the tips on fake crying. Let’s just say that the reporter was moved to tears of her own. You can probably add another name to the list.
.
“He’s in love with you,” Ginny announces with smug assurance.
Draco yanks the letter out of her hand.
“That is not what that letter says,” Draco says crossly.
Ginny pouts. “I dated him for months! I think I can tell how Harry professes his love. Besides, why did you give it to me if you didn’t want my input?”
“I was handing it to Luna.”
“You waved it right in front of my face!”
“You are literally sitting in her lap.”
Luna plays with Ginny’s hair, humming an odd tune, a small smile playing on her lips.
“It’s a very nice lap,” Ginny says.
“Thank you,” Luna says sweetly. “Say, Draco, Ginny might be right. Harry has always had difficulty expressing his true feelings--I fear the wrackspurts tend to plague him much more than most of us.”
“You’re reading too much into this,” Draco snaps.
“Oh, I didn’t read it,” Luna says airily. “I smelled it. Like clementine and cloves, which is the smell of love.”
“That’s Ginny’s perfume.”
“No, this was paper clementine and cloves. It’s quite different.”
Draco rolls his eyes and crumples up the letter, tossing it into the fireplace and ignoring Ginny’s indignant squawks.
“Draco Malfoy!” Ginny cries, anguish scrawled across her features. “We could have sold that on Wizard eBay!”
“Wizard eBay is a myth!”
Luna turns limpid eyes upon Draco, and he feels his face soften, It’s practically impossible to glare at Luna, especially if one still remembers her starving away in their basement.
“Stay for dinner, Draco?” Luna asks. “We’ll make cookies afterward.”
Draco backs away, his heart thudding. The columns flash before his eyes, and it feels like his tie is about to strangle him where he stands.
“That’s very kind,” Draco says unsteadily, “but I have a lot of work to do.”
“Next time, then,” Luna says.
Draco nods stiffly, then makes his way to the door. Just before he closes the door behind him, he hears Ginny say, “Something has to be done, Luna.”
.
Draco doesn’t have an eating disorder.
He has checks and balances. He has a way to motivate himself, which may be slightly unconventional, but he’s different from others. He needs the pressure--he needs the reminder that on some days, there were things that he did not deserve.
And it was working; it really was. Draco was doing better, better than he ever had, but he’s ruining it, and he can’t stop ruining it, and he’s just so tired--
Draco hasn’t eaten in five days. (This is nothing. At Hogwarts, Draco could go weeks without eating.)
The problem is, the longer this goes on, the less motivated he feels. He can barely force himself to get out of bed in the morning, let alone leave his house. The more he lazes around in bed, the less work he gets done.
Bad bad bad bad bad--
It’s morning. Maybe afternoon. Draco can’t bring himself to care. Through the haze of a blanket, all light looks the same.
Not for the first time, the thought crosses Draco’s mind that maybe there is something wrong with him--
A loud crash echoes through the house. Draco freezes under the covers before his fingers close around his wand.
Despite popular opinion, Draco really doesn’t want to die.
Draco peels the covers off his skin, then shakily makes his way across the room. He feels lightheaded and can barely keep his wand steady.
This is ridiculous. It has only been a few days. (Except Draco had gotten used to having more good things than bad things, had gotten used to being able to eat almost every day.)
“Malfoy!” Potter’s voice calls. “Are you home?”
Draco’s hand stops short of touching the doorknob. His mind is screaming at him, and nothing makes sense; he doesn’t understand--
Maybe Draco is hallucinating. That would certainly explain all the Howlers that have been coming his way because no one, not even the likes of Luna Lovegood, would use a Howler to send a sweetly worded encouragement to leave the house.
“Malfoy!”
“Shut up!” Draco yells, before erupting into a fit of coughs. Merlin, he hasn’t spoken in a while. “I’m trying--I can’t think with you slamming into things!”
Dead silence. Then:
“Sorry!”
“I SAID, SHUT UP!"
Silence falls once more, and Draco looks at his reflection in his full-length mirror. His eyes look far too wide for his face, and his hair is stringy and flat. He looks like a crazy person.
Draco points his wand at his hair and whispers a cleaning spell. Now he just looks like a clean homeless person. Draco dons a dressing gown and turns into a homeless person who broke into a rich man’s house.
He should get dressed. Or shower. Or something.
But there’s something about the process of showering and dressing that seems like too much for Draco right now.
So out Draco stumbles to find Harry Potter standing in the family room, clutching what looks like a cauldron.
Potter surveys Draco with wide, unblinking eyes, no doubt cataloguing everything wrong with Draco’s appearance.
“Nice robe,” Potter says. “The red looks good on you. I’m a little surprised it isn’t green, though, you know--you kinda look like a Gryffindor.”
Draco feels like he’s dissolving under Potter’s gaze and not in a good way.
“I’m gonna shut up now,” Potter says, snapping his gaze away. He awkwardly offers Draco the cauldron. “Crockpot. I made soup.”
Draco’s stomach rolls.
“Why?” he asks.
“Luna and Ginny said you were sick.”
Of course they did.
“You didn’t have to make me anything,” Draco says.
Potter shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed.
“I know,” he says. “I just figured that it would be the nice thing to do.”
.
This is Draco’s life now--sitting in his kitchen in his dressing gown as Potter watches him try to eat a bowl of soup. The key word is try. Draco has managed a few spoonfuls, but it takes everything in him not to spit them out as soon as they go past his lips.
“That bad, huh?” Potter asks.
“It tastes fine,” Draco says. “I’m just . . . not hungry.”
“That would make sense,” Potter says. “Sickness can do that to you.”
Draco never knows how to put it to words. It’s not that he’s full--it’s an inability to swallow, to even think about taking another bite.
“You, um,” Potter starts to say, then hesitates. “Do you need me to go to the store for you? Since you’re sick?”
“I’m fine,” Draco says.
“You say that word a lot.”
Draco’s head jerks up to look at Potter. Potter swallows nervously, his hands fidgeting with his robes.
“Fine,” says Potter, “doesn’t really mean anything.”
“Why would you say that?” Draco asks.
“Because I’m fine, too.”
Potter offers Draco a crooked grin, and Draco feels his heart constrict.