Harry gulped for air as he sped walk through the hallways, his hands sweaty and shoved in his pockets.
It always started like this. Every time he ate, he promised himself it would be fine. He wasn’t hungry, not really. He didn’t need the food.
But sometimes, he didn’t care. It was fleeting, it was temporary. He thought that he only lives once, who cares if he puts on a few pounds?
And then he sees them. All the skinny people and everything he wants. And he brings himself back to reality.
It had been a normal portion at dinner—just enough to quiet his stomach's protests—but now, the weight of it was unbearable.
His head swam with guilt. He’d eaten too much. Too much.
He bit his lip, nervously glancing at the stall. Harry never likes throwing up. The thought makes his hands wet and his stomach churn with anxiety.
But… it would be so easy. If he would just learn some semblance of control, then…
He huffed, spinning on his heel and opening the stall door, kneeling before the toilet like he was worshipping it and every instance to come after.
The floor was wet but he ignored it. His knees were damp but he payed no mind. The stall door was left hanging open and he did nothing about it.
His consciousness protested and he felt disgusting but he knew he’d feel better.
His stomach twisted violently, and before he could stop himself, he was retching, emptying everything he’d eaten until nothing remained, until he was once again hollow and his insides were ripped out from him.
His body shook, each heave sending a wave of exhaustion through him. His shoulders felt could and he lurched, the way his tongue picked up making his hair prickle up and each gag was humiliating.
He didn’t recall much noise happening. He was so aware yet not, and he blinked blearily at the mush in the water.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, blinking through tears. He didn’t hear the soft creak of the door opening.
“You’re doing it again.”
The voice was thin, hollow, but unmistakable. floated just above him, her translucent form hovering with a kind of sad curiosity.
Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he scrambled to his feet, wiping his face hurriedly.
“I’m not— I wasn’t doing anything!” He stuttered, flushing pink and sticking his hands under his armpits.
“You always say that,” Myrtle replied, her voice a lilting, almost sing-song cadence. “But I see you here, night after night, doing the same thing.”
He went to say something - he didn’t do this every night - but she continued.
“You never actually do it…” she murmured sadly, glancing at the toilet, “but tonight you did.”
“I’m just— It’s nothing. Really.” He chuckled and it sounded like bone dry clay. Myrtle narrowed her eyes. His hands shook as he turned away, grabbing a handful of paper towels to dry his face. “Just, um, not feeling great. That’s all.”
“People always lie to me,” Myrtle said, floating closer. “You’re just like them. No one tells me the truth.”
The words stung him, and it nearly replaced the acidic feeling on his tongue. He frowned and shook his head.
“I’m not lying,” Harry said hotly, though his voice was now weaker. “It’s just… sometimes I eat too fast, and… I get sick.”
“That’s not what I see,” Myrtle replied simply, crossing her arms. “But it doesn’t matter. No one ever listens to me.”
Harry didn’t know what to say.
---
A routine was born. Harry would debate on many nights on the action and he always relented. He always trembled and he always felt tears slip down his cheeks as he did it. His fingers always stunk and he never washed them to remind him of the punishments he would have to endure if he ate.
It was always the same. Myrtle would be there, watching him with a kind of distant concern, but she never stopped him.
She didn’t really know how, Harry thought. After all, she wasn’t living. She didn’t understand how he felt the weight of one thousand ghouls beg to escape his mouth like air, how he was able to flush them with a sick satisfaction every evening.
And when Hermione and Ron decided to work on the Polyjuice potion in there, his knees felt weak.
The three worked tirelessly, Ron obviously bored with the potion.
But Harry could feel Myrtle’s gaze on him every time he entered.
She never ever said anything - no one did - but she was watching. Waiting. Preparing.
And then came the fateful night, where Myrtle floated down near them, furrowing her eyebrows.
“It’s not as fun in here as when Harry comes by alone,” Myrtle said suddenly, her voice echoing off the tiles. “He’s much quieter then.”
Harry’s hand froze and he shot a panicked glare at her. His insides must have turned to stone.
“Sometimes, he comes in here and… well, it’s not very nice to watch,” she continued, her voice carrying the same airy tone to it. “He gets sick a lot. Poor thing.”
“What?” Hermione glanced up, confused. “Harry?”
Harry opened his mouth, blinking at her. His heart was skipping many beats.
“I don’t— I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Harry stammered, and he pathetically forced a smile. “You know Myrtle—she says all sorts of things.”
“Don’t lie,” Myrtle pouted, looking curious. “You come in here, night after night, after every meal —“
“Myrtle!” Harry shouted, his voice sharp and desperate. His hands were shaking, and he couldn’t stop it.
Ron and Hermione were staring at him with shock and question. “Harry—“
“You’re always in such a hurry,” Myrtle sighed, seeming unaware of the rising tension. “You shouldn’t eat so much if it makes you feel sick.”
Harry grit his teeth together. “S-sod off,” he rushed out, before scrambling to his feet and storming out of the bathroom.
He started to run. He wanted to run from every thought he formed and every time he was perceived.
He tried to run from the food and all of the numbers that invaded his head. He ran until he was a uselessly ball of nothing on the floor at the edge of the corridor, choking on his spit and tears.
---
He tried to avoid the bathroom. For days he limited how much he ate, but there was always a snapping point, because their eyes were on him more than ever now. He didn’t really have a choice but to eat in front of them.
And like a miserable wind up doll, his feet knew the path, and they led him pitifully back to that bathroom. His fingers were bound with string and they were always pressed on the back of his tongue.
And there she was, waiting for him, just as before.
“You’re back,” Myrtle said bluntly. “You always come back.”
Harry did not respond. He wiped his hand and stood up, staring coldly at the regurgitated food that sat in the toilet water.
“Maybe.” He said finally, flushing the toilet and walking out of the bathroom.
But did he truly ever leave?
S.