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Chapter Text

Harry Potter hops up the steps of the stairs. Sweat dribbles down his temples, and the distant sounds of chatter from the dining hall echo down the corridor.

No one goes down these steps. At least, not at this time. Or really any time. Which is why it’s perfect for this very activity. 

He reaches the top, and without giving himself a second to breathe, he begins to hop back down. He grips the fine wooden railing to stabilize his swimming vision and shaking legs. He feels cold, so so cold. But he must continue.

Harry doesn’t know when this exactly started, but it did. Perhaps when he went one week with no meals, no crumbs of food, locked in a stuffy cupboard, because he talked back to his uncle. Maybe because of how he resented his uncle so much, and wanted to deny any connections he had with him, that caused him to be like this.

Maybe because he was truly terrified of ever resembling him in any way, so he did this. He ate little, and worked off any calories accidentally consumed. He wasn’t obsessive. He just needed that same sense of familiarity. He needed to stabilize all these changes with something he’s always known - being starved. Being hungry. So hungry, all the time. Yearning for food, begging for it, and never receiving it.

He can’t remember at what age he started growing disgusted by the sight of food. Perhaps when he would sneak out to the kitchen at 6, and stuff his face, and carefully watch as Vernon lifted his heavy body from the chair with great effort.

The action alone made him lose his appetite. He wanted to be like his unknown parents, not like the people who rejected him food, home, love. He’s never felt a hug, only hits. He’s never tasted a proper meal, only the burnt bits of food. He’s never slept in a bed, only the pile of towels in the cupboard under the stairs.

The cupboard under the stairs. They knew. All of them. In her favorite green ink, the letter was addressed to him. They knew. But they didn’t care. Or maybe they didn’t know how to care, like Aunt Petunia.

He doesn’t like calling them ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle’. It proves they’re connected. They’re not. They can’t be. Harry isn’t a monster, he’s a hero. Somehow. 

He couldn’t be like uncle Vernon. He can’t. He can’t. He wouldn’t. He won’t. You won’t, he promises himself. He reminds himself. You won’t become him, as long as you stay healthy. As long as you stay small. 

He remembers how he clutched his chest as choked gasps for air came out of his worn lungs after seeing himself bloat after eating. He felt like Uncle Vernon. He was becoming Vernon. And he just couldn’t. He was scared to eat, because maybe the eating made Vernon hit him. Maybe the eating made Vernon mad and jealous, and that made him starve little Harry.

He hated food. He wants to love it, but he hates it. He’s not necessarily disordered in the way most think. He’s just scared. It’s more PTSD, really. He doesn’t want to look like the man who laid his hands on him, and he doesn’t want to look like the boy who treated Harry like a worthless girlfriend. Always beating him up around friends, but acting weird when they were alone. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be that.

He hops on the stairs, his lungs feeling as if they were being clutched by a firm grip, a knot growing in his chest. His vision blends together and twirls, but he refuses to stop. 

He’s so hungry. A root of him doesn’t want to be. A root of him - the child part, perhaps - begs him to listen to his crying body, and eat. He’s so tired of knowing nothing but hunger, knowing nothing but trying to frame his small body to look as far as possible from his caretakers. 

He fell down the stairs, his glasses falling off as he rolled over his ankle, which was growing bony.

He lay sprawled on the cold marble floor, his stomach flipping. He wanted to eat. But he isn’t Vernon, who eats. Who eats a lot, he can’t be like him. He won’t be like him, because he isn’t him. He is far from it. He is smaller, he is nicer, he is faster, he is better. Not better than everyone. He’s arguably worse than everyone. But Vernon is the only person he is able to surpass.

He stands up, stumbling as he leans over the stairs and grabs his glasses. His neck is sticky and sweaty.

He hears the crowd of Gryffindors coming. He decides to quit for the night and return to the common rooms for a nice shower. A shower without Dudley. 

“Harry! Where have you been?!” Hermione’s familiar voice rang. Hermione is nice. Like a sister. She keeps her distance. She doesn’t know. But maybe she senses. That’s why she is better than Harry. She notices tones. Harry can’t, and he doesn’t know why. She knows how to comfort when someone is sad. Harry doesn’t, and he doesn’t know why. 

Ron is funny. Ron is friendly, and stands up for his friends. Sure, Harry does that too, but Ron does it better. Because everyone is better than Harry Potter. He is insignificant, which goes against what most think. He is unlovable, he is a freak, he is abnormal. That’s all his guardians told him, so it must be true. He is a compulsive liar; Petunia had said so to the teachers. The bruises on his back and arms weren’t from Vernon, they were from falling down the stairs, of course. Why won’t you admit it, Harry? We already know, so just admit it, Harry. No point in hiding it now. 

The deep red burns on his small hands weren’t from Petunia slamming his hand down on the lit stove for several moments for dropping a plate, no, it was just sunburn. No doubt about it. Enough with the lying, Harry. It isn’t proper. This isn’t very Potter like Mr. Harry.  

“I’m sorry,” he quickly blurted out, his face bashful. He studied the neat stone floor. It had trails of old dust on it.

“Don’t be,” she sighed. That was another thing that was good about Hermione, that Harry couldn’t compare to. She didn’t hit you for doing something that was considered an inconvenience, like eating, or needing the loo. She was a good person, unlike Harry. He wasn’t a good person, but he wasn’t a bad person, like Uncle Vernon. He was just there, in the way, busy being an inconvenience to others.

“But where were you?” Ron gently pressed, rubbing the back of his neck. Harry looked up, and cleared his throat.

“I was walking,” he lied. Well, not really. He was walking around a little while ago, before he started his activity. He didn’t like lying. But he had to. Sometimes. Does that make him like Vernon? It may. Perhaps he needs to limit how much he eats again because of that. Maybe his recent intake of food was reflecting on his personality.

“Oh.” Ron breathed out, clearing his throat. “Well, nevermind, let’s get to the common rooms. I’m tired,” he yawned, attaching himself to the long crowd of Gryffindors, who were headed to the common rooms.

“Okay.” Harry nodded, following as well. Hermione studied him with an analyzing look. He got uncomfortable.

“Er,” he bleated, looking at her. She blinked at him, before apologizing.

“I’m sorry, I was thinking.” She frowned, following Harry as well. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

That was another thing Hermione was good at - correcting herself, explaining herself, honesty… She was great at it. He envied her, like the big sister he never had. She was a year older, so it really did feel like it. 

“Let’s go on then.” She stated, following the group as they made their way down the corridors.

As they walked up to the painting and announced the password, Harry felt himself growing anxious. He wasn’t sure why. He always felt like something he did could get him in trouble.

He only spoke lightly about these feelings after hazily recovering from a nightmare that Hermione and Ron were present for.

“A symptom of trauma,” she’d say. And Harry believed her.

Harry and Ron said goodbye to Hermione as they walked to the boys area. Harry grabbed his pajamas and scurried off to the bathroom for his shower.

As he undressed, he looked at his body. You couldn’t see his ribs piercing through. Yet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted that. Or needed it. You could see them, but they weren’t very defined. Neither were his cheekbones. But his collarbones and eyes were sunken, and his shoulders were squared.

He sighed as he stepped into the warm shower, trying not to think about Dudley.

*

He lay awake that night, staring at the red, silky cloth which hung around the bed. He swallowed hastily as his stomach rumbled. 

It was at times like these where he wished he didn’t have to go through all this trouble just to avoid growing to be like the people who tainted his childhood. He started hopping the stairs in year 1. He learned more about calories in year 2, which didn’t concern him much, because as long as he worked off the food in his tummy, he would be fine. He learned that he isn't as good as everyone else in year 2 as well. He learnt he was unlovable in year 3, or, this year. He rolled over as his stomach turned uncomfortably. 

He felt lonely, somehow. He had Ron and Hermione, and the people of this world treated him as an amazing human (which he failed to believe), but he still felt uncomfortably alone. He needed to figure out how to deal with his loneliness. Maybe talking to it would help. Asking why it felt that way, why it feels the need to annoy Harry’s body with its selfish presence.

He dreamt of talking to his loneliness that night.

*

Harry woke for breakfast, which he ate small portions of. He had Quidditch practice, meaning he could try to work off all the food inside of him. 

He dressed himself and walked down the stairs lazily, heading towards the Great Hall. 

He sat next to his dear friends, his face looking ghostly. Ron smiled at him, motioning for him to look at a letter they had found on the floor.

“It’s a love letter!” Ron explained, doubling over and laughing hysterically.

“It’s not funny! Don’t be a knucklehead, Ronald.” Hermione glared, before smiling a bit herself. She showed Harry the letter as well.

“Who’s it addressed to?” He asked carefully, looking at Ron.

“No clue,” he shrugged, leaning over the table with a goofy smile to peer at the letter.

Ron began to collect breakfast items from the table, loading his plate. Hermione did the same, with not as much food. (“You’re going to sick up if you eat all that,” she had warned Ron.) Ron had a habit of grabbing more food than he planned to eat, simply because it looked pretty, or smelt nice.

Harry only scooped some grapes onto his plate, along with a slice of toast, accompanied by ice water.

“That’s all you’re going to eat?” Ron asked with his mouth full.

“Ew, Ron! That’s disgusting!” Hermione grimaced, before glancing at Harry’s plate. 

Harry flushed in embarrassment.

“Er, yes,” he said softly, cleaning his throat. “You can have my toast, though.” He said quickly, picking it up and handing it to Ron. Hermione stopped him, grabbing his wrist and bringing it back down to his plate.

“Are you crazy?!” She exclaimed, her voice wavering. 

“That’s barely anything to eat.” She furrowed her eyebrows, frowning. Harry glanced back at his plate, before shaking his head.

“I think this is a normal amount.” He said quietly, embarrassment lacing his voice like a thick accent.

“Harry, just look at everyone else’s plates.” Ron had said, and Harry did so. They had an amount like Hermione - apparently normal. 

Harry glanced back, shrugging.

He had nothing to say.

So they returned to their plates, with a new person sitting at a table; awkward silence.

Hermione and Ron wished Harry luck as he walked out onto the field for Quidditch practice.

His face plummeted to the ground as soon as he kicked off of his broom.

Chapter Text

Harry grunted as his vision swam. His eyes fluttered open, and all he could see was the dewey green grass below him.

“Harry!” Ron’s voice filled his ears. His body ached, and he didn’t know where he was.

“Are you okay?” Ron nearly shouted, crouching near his limp body and surveying it. Harry peered at him, but the sun was too bright. He winced.

“What…” he started. His head was throbbing, his legs felt shaky and weak, like his entire body felt hollow, like if he moved it would all fall apart. His hand trembled as he positioned it above the ground to lift himself, and as it did, his whole arm suffered from tremors.

He heard running footsteps. Assuming it was Hermione, he continued to lift himself rather than opening his tightly closed eyes.

“Oh Merlin…” Hermione muttered, resting her hands on her knees and panting.

“What.. happened?” He finally got out, his voice wavering. Hermione looked at Ron.

“You fell from your broom. Your body just completely went limp.” She said softly, helping Harry sit back.

“Hurts,” he whispered, holding his pounding head in his hands.

Wood walked over, his lips pressed in a thin line. Harry was confused. Maybe he just didn’t get enough sleep.

“Are you okay?” Wood slowly asked, holding his broom in his hands with a disapproving look.

Harry opened his eyes slowly, flinching from the light of the sky, but he slowly nodded. His head felt like it was full of water with bludgers swimming inside; each movement made his muscles tense up and his stomach turn.

“Harry, you just fell 12ft flat on your face.” Ron crossed his arms, trying to raise his eyebrow, but the only look that gleamed from his face was pity and concern. Harry hated both of those things.

“I know,” he said with a strangled laugh, slowly getting himself up. He felt so nauseated, but there was nothing to throw up. Hermione’s hands fell to his waist and she helped pull him up.

“I’m fine, just a little disoriented.” He said slowly to Ron, wincing as he turned his head in his direction.

“Go rest,” Wood instructed. “You can join practice tomorrow.” 

Harry frowned and slowly nodded, resting his right hand on his left shoulder and rolling it.

“Okay,” he said sadly, looking back at the doors of the castle.

“C’mon,” Ron and Hermione said in unison, both of their hands resting carefully behind him. He trudged forward, his vision morphing together.

“Harry,” Hermione started, clearing her throat.

“Would you like to get something to eat? It might make you feel better.”

Harry’s eyes quickly turned wide despite the pain of the light attacking what seemed to be all his nerves. He quickly shook his head, his mouth falling open.

“N-No, I’m alright.” He said in a tone near a whisper, avoiding eye contact. His heartbeat sped up, and he cleared his throat.

Wood was about to press, before snapping his jaw closed.

“Very well. Take him to Madame Pomfrey if he doesn’t seem well,” He sighed, before turning and walking away.

Hermione gently pushed Harry and he continued to limp towards the doors.

“Harry, are you hurt anywhere?” She asked softly. Harry shook his head with a great deal of pain.

“I’m alright, don’t worry.” He said quietly, crossing his arms. “I don’t have to rest. We can just go to the great hall, or something.” He breathed, glancing around.

“Harry, you need to rest. Are you insane?” Ron nearly shouted. Harry frowned and sighed. 

“Okay, okay…” he said quietly, knowing there was no arguing against the idea.

Hermione and Ron seemed content in that fact.

Harry felt hungry. So hungry. And weak. And he just wanted to eat. He’s so tired of not eating. He just wants to know what it’s like to have a full belly.

But he simply cannot. That’s what the Dursely’s did. And he’s better. So he will not. No matter what obstacles disrupt him. He will overcome them, and he will lie for the sake of not eating. He will lie for the sake of staying thin. Because he is not like the Dursley’s. And he won’t be anytime soon.

As Ron took him to bed, Harry let him leave. He just needed to be alone. He curled on himself, still in his Quidditch uniform, and let his stomach cramps overtake his small body.

He remembers being a first year. He rarely ate, and after battling Voldemort, he had collapsed. He was so hungry, but he just made excuses.

During the awarding of the House Cup, everyone was too distracted to press him to eat, so he didn’t bother putting food on his plate.

Eventually, he notices himself dwelling on the past. He decides to try to get rest, as instructed. Maybe the pains of hunger would subside. Or, rather, he could just put them off.

He closed his eyes, the warmth of the room not touching his body as if he was a biohazard. He felt cold and sweaty, but dry at the same time.

He remembered sleeping on his pile of towels in the cupboard. Spiders crawling around. Petunia burning his hand. Petunia hitting his head with the pan for stealing food. Holding his soldier to his chest. Wondering if he’ll ever be saved. Wondering if he’ll wake up and by some miracle, be dead.

He was not, though. And he had to suffer every summer, if not every day. Haunted by memories to be re-lived the following break. Haunted by beliefs.

He held his stomach tight as it gave a loud cry. His eyes welled with tears, because he was just so hungry. And he didn’t want to be. But he had to. And he was willing to commit to it.

He eventually slipped into a not-so peaceful sleep, with Ron waking up his shaking body (from another nightmare, of course.) for dinner. Harry tried to protest, but he knew it would do nothing. So, he gave in. He slipped his robe on and followed him down to the Great Hall.

“Harry! Are you feeling better?” She quickly asked, pushing his full plate towards him. She had packed it with all different foods for him. He suppressed a cringe, looking at her as he swung his legs over the bench.

“Yes,” he lied. He doesn’t like lying. But he had to. Does that make him like the Dursley’s? Maybe he needs to cut back on food once more. Or maybe cut it out of his life.

He picks up his fork dimly and pokes at his food. 

“That’s good.” Ron nodded excitedly.

“Harry, why’d you fall, anyway?” Ron asked with a full mouth of food. Harry looked up, grateful for the excuse to avoid eating.

“Oh, I don’t remember. I was just dizzy and my head hurt.” He shrugged. It wasn’t a complete lie. He was hungry, weak, had a throbbing headache, nauseous.. But he wouldn’t let them know about that. 

“I’m fine now, though.” He said quietly, looking at his plate with the gold fork in his hand. He felt Hermione’s gaze on him, but he refused to look up, to meet her gaze. Because maybe she knew. He couldn’t risk it.

Draco, from across the Great Hall, sneers at Harry, who doesn’t seem to notice. Ron does, and he rolls his eyes.

“Malfoy, 12 o’clock.” Ron said with a grumble. Harry glanced up, meeting his gaze. He had no energy to match with a glare, a snarl, sticking his tongue out, so he just looked up at him.

Malfoy jumped after a moment of Harry staring at him. His eyes were half lidded and curious, along with tiredness. His under eyes caved in with dark circles, and his shoulders hunched as his hands rested on his knees under the table.

Malfoy looked away, his cheeks heating up. He glanced once more after he felt the gaze dissipate. 

One odd thing he noticed was the lack of food Harry was eating. His plate remained full and packed with food, while his two Gryffindork friends cleared their plates.

Malfoy smirked maliciously. Perfect, he thought. 

*

“Not eating, are you, Potter?” Malfoy hissed with a smirk, striding in front of Harry. He glanced up, and Malfoy had to suppress his jolt as he saw the ghostly look in Harry’s face. 

Harry furrows his brows. “What do you want, Malfoy?” He mutters slowly, gripping his fork tighter. He actually wasn’t sure why he held onto the fork even though he wasn’t eating. Perhaps to make it seem like he was going to.

“You look flabby,” Malfoy spat. No, you look like a skeleton. What the hell?

Harry’s face dropped and he looked at his plate. He refused to let himself cry, but tears stung his eyes. I really am turning into the Dursleys.

“Malfoy, what the bloody hell! Go away!” Hermione stood, slamming her hands on the table and leaning forward with a deadly glare. He put his hands up in defense and backed up.

“Only telling what he needs to hear,” Only saying the opposite.

She spat at him, and his mouth fell agape.

“You nasty Mudblood!” He yelled, storming off after stealing a napkin from a first year. Harry sat there quietly, staring absently at his full plate.

Hermione rested her hand on his shoulder.

“He’s only messing around.” She scoffed, sneering at him. Harry nodded. But he knew he wasn’t.

As Malfoy sat down with crossed arms, his friends following obediently, he crossed his arms and further glared at Potter.

Who was… crying? Did he see that right?

Lo-and-behold, tears fell absently down Harry’s face, which was turned over the table. Hermione didn’t notice, at least from his view. She had a sad look on her face as she leaned over the table and whispered to Ron.

Draco felt a pang in his chest. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t know what it was, but he did. He cleared his throat. Good, he thought to himself.

But even though it was supposed to feel good, something about it felt foreign. Something about how Har- Potter looked, made him regret what he said. A tired look made him feel sick, and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he’s just so used to seeing Potter the opposite way? For that, he wasn’t sure.

Harry wiped his face before excusing himself from the table. As he walked off, Hermione reached for him.

“He didn’t eat any of his dinner.” She frowned at Ron as Harry walked out.

“I’m worried.” Ron muttered. “He didn’t eat any breakfast. He rarely eats ever.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“When did you notice?” She asks quietly, and he looks up from his plate, suddenly feeling as if he needed to check on Harry.

“Second year. You?” Hermione sighed.

“First,” she murmured. “He always ate small bites, or talked to us the whole time.” She shook her head, rubbing her hands on her thighs.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but something is wrong.” She said clearly. Ron nodded.

“He’s always sweating after dinner. After he excuses himself.”

Hermione nodded. 

*

Harry walked towards the staircase he always retreats to. He hasn’t eaten so he doesn’t usually exercise, but he must anyway. He begins to run up the stairs, because maybe running will work better than hopping. His legs were sore, anyway. 

And so he did. He ran up and down the stairs until the fringe of his hair turned moist from sweat, till sweat dribbled down his cheek and down his back, and until he felt dizzy with every stop at the top of the staircase.

He looked down the staircase with weary eyes. He did not want to continue. But he had to. 

He sprinted back down, almost yelling in pain at the sudden stomach pains which seized him.

But he refused to give up, because he is not a quitter. He is not like the Durselys.

He never will be.

*

Malfoy excused himself from his table as he watched Potter leave. He had the urge to follow him. He chuckled slowly as he put his hood on and crouched near the boy, watching as he walked slowly down a dark corridor. 

Curiously, he followed further, the urge to punch the boy disappearing temporarily. If he had shade he could use on him, then he’d gladly do so.

He watched behind a wall as Harry approached a staircase. He didn’t bother to glance around, and he looked at the top, before sprinting up. Malfoy’s eyes widened.

“What a dweeb,” he whispered to himself, watching his next moves.

And weirdly, he sprinted back down.

Draco raised his eyebrow. What in the world..?

He sprinted back up, and back down. And he repeated this process until he was wheezing and shaking with each pause.

His stomach turned. He felt like he shouldn’t be here. This was weird. What in Merlin’s beard was he doing?

But something planted Malfoy to the ground. Something in his chest became tight and he swallowed a lump in his throat. Not the crying kind - not like he’d know - more of the nervous kind. Again, no reason he’d know what either of those lumps would feel like…

Eventually, Harry tripped up the stairs, and his body crumpled at the platform above. It shook with tremors, and he attempted to pull himself, but he just couldn’t.

I shouldn’t be here, He thought as he stepped forward, away from behind the wall. I don’t care for Potter, he thought as he climbed up the stairs, approaching Harry’s trembling body.

He stood in front of him, not moving. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he silently observed. He was unsure whether or not Potter knew he was there.

After many beats of silence, he spoke.

“What in Merlin’s beard are you doing?” He hissed, his eyebrows knitting together. Harry slowly glanced up, before cringing and looking away.

“Training,” he muttered untruthfully, pulling himself up with shaking arms.

Draco had the urge to help him, before pocketing it away deep in his brain.

“For?” He asked, his eyebrows now relaxing and turning into more of a questioning position. His arms that were crossed loosened a bit, but generally stayed the same.

“None of your business, you filthy arse.” He spat sourly, grabbing hold of the railing of the stairs and pulling himself up.

Draco glared at him.

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way,” he barked, putting his hands on his hips as he looked at Harry with death in his eyes.

Harry looked up at him, and for a moment, something stirred in Draco. Harry’s soft eyes glimmered, but they looked tired, pained. He was appalled that the Golden Boy would look so defeated about Merlin knows what.

“You collapsed on the steps. That’s training?” Malfoy asked. Harry nodded slowly, before quickly shaking his head, and wincing.

“Yes - Er, no..” he stuttered, worrying his lip.

“Well?” Draco asked impatiently, tapping his foot on the floor.

Harry’s stomach growled and his look of searching was quickly replaced with one of anger, hatred.

“None of your bloody business, I already told you.” He growled, sweat slowly sliding down his slick, pale skin.

Draco cleared his throat, scoffing at him.

“You look like you just fought an ogre,” Draco said nastily. Harry’s face softened, with a look of confusion, before he broke out in loud laughter, holding his stomach.

Malfoy’s eyes widened as he felt a heat crawl up his neck and spread to his cheeks.

“What’s so funny, Potter?!” He demanded, stomping at him. Harry took a couple of breaths to calm down, before looking at him.

“Nothing, nothing. It’s called exercise, Malfoy. You should try it,” he bit back, with a slight smirk on his face from giggling.

Frustrated, Malfoy pushed him back as he walked away, but not hard to where he had the chance of falling. Why would he care if he got hurt?

Malfoy stopped in his tracks as the realization dawned on him. He looked back at the small boy, who had sat down at the top of the stairs, a look of exhaustion infecting it. His heart sped up at the sight, before he shook his head and darted out of there.

As he crawled under the covers in the common room dormitories, the only thing he could think of was Harry’s laugh. It was so light and bubbly, and it filled his stomach with feelings he couldn’t explain.

There was one thing Malfoy was (semi) certain on.

He does NOT have a crush on Harry James Potter.