Chapter 24
“And I told her: it's not every day. But there are days. Days when I know.
When I wake up and at noon and at six pm: I'm not gonna sleep and pain is deep and wide and the chasm of it is inside me.
And she gave me ten nights of sleeping and tonight is that is one of those. It is the first. The light behind my husband illuminates him so that he looks like a saint in the Catholic church. Words feel good in my mouth.
My pain is gone and I am to sleep.”
-- Reddit post. u/endergrrl, “The doctor know the sleep is important and gives us the sleep.”
.XoX.
EDNOS is the most deadly eating disorder. It is also the most common -- if only for the fact that it is a ‘Hufflepuff takes the rest situation’; if one does not fit entirely within the criteria of anorexia or bulimia or BED, they’re shoved into the one category left. Over eighty percent of all eating disordered individuals have EDNOS.
Harry finds that, despite this, most people do not call it that. It’s always ‘anorexia with a binge-purge subtype’ or something of the like -- not an incorrect description, by any means, but also ignoring the fact that there’s a label for their experience, right there, and they’re ignoring it.
It is either due to the restrictiveness -- somewhat needless -- of the criteria to fix anorexia or bulimia… or it is due to shame. There’s nothing flashy about OSFED, nothing impressive. It is not as well known, even if it is more common and though Harry is about as self-aware about his condition as he can get, even he can see the appeal.
It is an accomplishment. To fit one of the big categories, it’s a brag in it of itself.
But this new era of Harry’s life is not about being sick or getting sicker; it’s about getting better.
Getting better. Right. Harry tries not to think the idea laughable.
He has been, for the most part, always been able to set out whatever it is he puts his mind to. With no big interest in schoolwork, he still meets all self-set writing deadlines, and it’s only upon this year that this pure dedication has even tried to fail him.
But recovery, he knows, is not like writing poetry. All the letters of the word are jagged and slice through his already uncertain, already shaking palms without a second thought. Recovery, recovery -- a mountain so daunting, it cannot compare to the ease writing now presents itself with.
He mulls the decision over in his head and goes back on it several times before the sun sets. What is he thinking? Getting better is for people who deserve it. Badperson, badperson, badperson, it’s his fucking mantra and he doesn’t think eating right is ever going to change the fact that he is one fucked up little shit who’s nature is nothing less than inconsiderate and horrible.
He should starve himself. He should isolate himself -- should, should, should. His mind fights itself and Tom notices his demeanor, because, really, it is hard to miss, and tries to comfort him. But Harry pushes away all attempts at soothing, intent on proving that adamant voice in his head correct.
Despite this inner turmoil, it is like a switch in his head has been slipped. When he wakes up in the morning, his mind is screaming RECOVERY and there is nothing except listening to it that silences it effectively. This is decision made, he thinks, without a return policy.
Strangely enough, the things that once motivated him in his sickness now serve to do the opposite. He started starving himself because of his arranged marriage -- and started binging because he started starving, and so the cycle continued, and so it now stops -- and now, he has decided to stop for the very same reason.
And… death, yes. He wanted to die. He’d do everything but pull the trigger outright to accomplish that.
And here he is now. Fighting -- and it is a fight, certainly feels like it -- for the right to live. He knows what is on the other side -- a sea of discolored sand with no end and regrets as far as the eye can see -- and will do anything to slow the inevitable and rapid descent toward that destiny.
Going from here -- from the resolve to get better, from that pivotal decision -- is… confusing. And painful.
He thinks that EDNOS, out of all eating disorders out there, is the hardest to recover from. Especially his BED-anorexia combo. With an eating disorder so defined by all or nothing, it is hard not to slip in the same black and white thinking when considering recovery.
There are small victories, with bulimia. There’s half-victories, there’s ‘hey, at least you didn’t do X, you’re still doing alright’ -- for if you just binge, at least you didn’t purge, right? And, with anorexia-bulimia subtype, if you restricted, at least you didn’t also binge and purge, right? It’s still a win, at heart. You’re still doing alright.
It is not like that with Harry, with Harry’s eating disorder. Or, at least, the line between partial failure and total failure is more blurred. If he binges -- well, that’s part of his disorder, that’s a huge ass aspect. He doesn’t purge, despite his best attempts, and so the ‘relapse’ part of it… starts and ends there. If he restricts and if he binges and that’s it, that’s the two sides of the coin he has. There are no minor wins here.
He either eats like a normal person, or he is being sick.
And maybe he’s being too hard on himself, and maybe he’s being unreasonable, but Hogwarts has no mind healers. All he has to recover is himself and he has never been the best company, never been the kindest to himself or those around him.
Himself… and his friends.
He will be released from the infirmary, officially, in a week. His condition is… manageable, but not fixed, and Pomfrey wants to see if she can make some last minute improvements. Harry is doubtful. He does not say this. He will let her have enough hope for the both of them.
He is to attend classes again -- at his leisure -- and eat his meals in the Great Hall. Every night he is to return to the sanctuary of the Hospital Wing, receive her dutiful attention, take his potions, and rest.
Harry tries to kill his resentment because Madame Pomfrey does not deserve it. The messenger should survive despite its message, and Pomfrey’s message is subtle but clear; he has died, but life goes on. Life must.
Even so, when Pomfrey tells him of his release, even far off, he closes his eyes and imagines the scrunched up face of Sirius Black and Lily and James and he knows, suddenly and achingly, that growing up feels an awful lot like letting go. He would like to stay in his bubble of the infirmary, in the cycle that the pain of it brings him, but he can’t. He knows he cannot. The world is not a clinical environment and if he is so set on not dying, the only other option is to live with it.
It hurts, being made to leave. Harry is resentful about it. But when Madame Pomfrey wakes him, on the first day of him eating in the Great Hall and the first day of recovery (of a new life as he knows it), he doesn’t show it. He hands her a smile and a Thank you and begins getting ready for the day.
(Recovery is not just about getting better. It is about being better.)
He talks to Tom while he packs what he’ll need for class. He chooses his words carefully. “I’m mad,” is what he settles on, back turned to Tom.
“I know,” says Tom. Understanding, calm, kind. Any man willing to offer himself up for trial is ready to accept whatever punishment comes his way.
“You hid something very important to me.”
“I know.”
“And you did so for a very long time.”
“I know, Harry.”
Harry swings the strap of his bag over his shoulder and grips it tightly. He faces Tom when he says, firmly, “But I forgive you.” Because I love you. Because I need you. Because I cannot survive alone anymore.
Tom’s smile is gentle and light. “Thank you,” he says.
It is so earnest that Harry almost doesn’t want to break it up with his next line -- almost. Harry steps closer to him.
“But, Tom, be aware; I won’t be so lenient a second time.” He grips his bag so hard his knuckles are white and his head pulses, painfully. “Do you understand? Do anything like this again and we’re over. And I will do everything in my power to take you down. Do you understand?”
At times like these, Tom thinks it is easy to forget that being taken down is a part of his big plan. Harry thinks he has power here. And Tom is okay with letting him. He loves Harry.
“I understand, Harry.”
“If you have anything else to tell me… confession time ends as soon as we leave the Hospital Wing.”
Harry stares at him expectantly. He’s always been intuitive like that, muses Tom. A part of him must know Tom is hiding something -- and he wants Tom to fess up, but he doesn’t want to forgive him for it. He wants to be given a reason not to. A reason to prove to himself that with alienation, he was right all along. Friends are good for nothing and he is better off alone, every time.
Tom is a martyr. But not now, and not yet.
So though Tom knows that if Harry finds out anything Tom’s yet to tell him, it will coming crashing down on him -- and that even if he cannot control if that happens, he can control when, and is just choosing not to -- he also knows that Harry is too important to him to make that happen.
Tom opens his mouth and lies: “I’ve nothing to confess, Father Harry.”
Harry cracks a smile and only the wrinkles around his eyes give away the lingering impression of suspicion. He takes his morning potions with a disgusted expression but no complaint and exits the infirmary with Tom at his side.
Harry gets one foot outside the door when he stops in his tracks.
Luna Lovegood stands with her back to the wall.
She is… waiting for him.
Harry lets the breath leave his lungs. He steps forward, past the door, and into the unknown.
He swallows and searches for the right words to say -- but he knows there are none. The last time they saw each other, Harry died and Luna ran out of the forest covered in his blood, screaming. It would be understandable, in his book, if she never wanted to see him again. If she was too haunted by the past to think about the present.
But Luna Lovegood has always been about the present, always been invested in the future. Harry can never seem to escape his head and Luna lives entirely outside hers.
She is here. Waiting for him. Harry takes one last deep breath and speaks, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Luna tilts her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder. “Poppy didn’t tell you?”
“Should she have?”
Luna hums, gesturing her hand in front of her for Harry to walk with her and Harry, with only a second’s hesitation, joins her side. “She told me you were being semi-released today. So, yes. I’d have thought she had.”
“Oh,” says Harry. He is angry at Pomfrey for telling someone without his permission, nor his forgiveness… and, at the same time, happy that she would be considerate enough to. (Don’t all mothers look out for their children?)
“You look rough,” she notes bluntly.
Harry chuckles, running a hand through his hair. He feels the off center rattling of his bones and is self aware of the small scars that mar his head, covered only by his untamed head of hair. “I feel rough,” he says. And, because he is not the only one who has suffered, because he wants to be a better friend than he is, he asks, “Are you? Feeling rough, I mean.”
“I’m alright,” she says, and Harry doesn’t know whether or not to believe her. “I’ve been working a lot.”
“Have you been?”
“Mhm,” she nods. “I have your embroidery finished.”
“Oh,” says Harry again. Evidence that she’s been thinking about him… but not evidence of anything else. “Are you going to mail it to me?”
“I was thinking of giving it to you. In person.”
And that, yes. That reminds him of what’s been puzzling him ever since he saw Luna waiting for him.
“I thought we were… on penpal territory,” says Harry, lightly. Confused but not unhappy. “And yet here you are, face to face. I wonder how that happened.”
Tom walks behind them, hands stuffed in his pockets. His posture is relaxed, ever content to observe. He is finally meeting the famous Luna Lovegood.
Harry wonders if she is living up to what he’d described. Harry wonders if they are staring at the same girl at all.
Luna shrugs, casually. “You saved my life,” she states. “I think that makes up for it.”
Harry chuckles, nervously -- on edge the way he always is when anyone even hints to the fact that he’s a walking dead man. And it is not like he can deny this fact to Luna.
Because Luna carried him body, limp in her arms, out of the Tournament arena. She was there. What is lying, if not a waste of effort? “I’m sorry, I just--”
“It’s okay,” she says, calmly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
Harry says, pained in the necessity to force the words out of him, “But we should.” He ignores the way Tom perks up in interest, eager to know what Harry won’t tell him because he’s eager regarding everything about Harry now.
“Why?” asks Luna.
Harry sputters. “Because I -- because you almost--”
“But I didn’t,” says Luna. “And you’re here. You’re okay.”
Harry ducks his head. “I don’t know if that’s true, Luna,” he says, quiet.
“Will talking about it make you feel better?”
It might. It won’t. It will. Harry is forever unsure of himself and his heart. “Would it help you?”
“Only if it would help you.”
Harry can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Luna stares at him, a small smile on her face.
“I don’t want to talk about dying,” Harry admits, after composing himself.
“That’s quite alright.”
“And I don’t want to talk about how I feel.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But,” says Harry, sighing, “I’d like to talk about how it happened. If that’s okay with you.”
“You mean who tried to kill me,” Luna states.
“Yeah,” says Harry, shuffling awkwardly. “Foul play, as always.”
“It’s the work of whoever put my name in the Cup.”
“You think? I still don’t get why someone would do that to you, though.”
Tom speaks up, walking up to them, breaking his silence. “I have an idea about that, actually.”
Luna eyes him warily. “Right,” she says. “Your ghost, Harry, I’d noticed him.”
“Really,” Tom drawls.
“I also noticed he looks eerily similar to one of the other Champions.”
Harry puts his hand up, silencing Tom, cutting off the routine lie Harry’s sure he’d tell. “It’s a long story,” Harry says, rubbing his temples. “I’ll tell it to you later. What you need to know now is that… I trust him. And he’s a friend.”
“Like I am?” Luna says softly.
“Yes,” says Harry -- the words feeling heavy and new now that they've been spoken, now that they’ve touched air. “Like you are.”
“Mhm,” she considers, pleased with herself. “Slytherins and Dark Lord ghosts -- you’ve the most unusual company, harry.”
“It could be worse.”
Laugh laughs. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harry snorts. “I could return Marvolo’s affections.”
Luna blinks at him as Toms’ expression darkens. “I’d thought he was joking,” Luna starts.
Tom cuts her off. “I’m afraid,” he says, strained, “he is far from it. It’s.. ah, much more sinister, his true intentions. It also has to do with you. Luna.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. Here’s my theory, forgive me if you’ve heard it before; Harry’s parents were approached, when Harry was at a young age, by Lord Voldemort. He wants a marriage contract set up with his son, Marvolo, but he's already in a marriage contract with Luna." Tom neglects his theory that he was put in a marriage contract because of Voldemort's advances -- mostly because he doesn't think Harry wants to hear it, and somewhat because he doesn't think it matters.
“I was told, by a reliable source, that Harry has something that Voldemort wants. This can be, supposedly, only acquired -- or easiest acquired; it’s hard to say, exactly, with such vague information -- via marriage. So his plans, while Harry is young, are foiled.”
He is omitting the part where Tom being sent to murder Harry’s father was just before that, and how that’s undoubtedly involved, but, hey. Some things are best not discussed with strangers so close -- and Luna is just that. A stranger.
Tom will talk to Harry about it later, in private. He swears it.
Tom rolls his shoulders. “Years later, he’s given the chance to try again. The Tournament. He makes sure that the both of you are in it, as well as his son Marvolo -- an opportunity for him to get close to Harry, and an opportunity to finish off what he considers the only thing standing between him and Harry’s happily ever after. That would be you, Luna. He tries to kill Luna and gets Harry, accidentally, in the process.”
“That…” Luna starts, unsure how to respond or proceed.
“Makes perfect sense,” Harry continues. “I, uh,” he explains, sheepish at Tom’s expression, “saw Marvolo casting spells -- acting all weird, all shady -- before... You know. Things got weird.”
“What about Julian?”
“What about him?”
“Well,” says Luna, “Harry said that Julian also didn’t put his name in the Cup. How does he fit into your theory?”
“He doesn’t,” says Tom, simply.
“Tom,” Harry scolds gently.
“Maybe Julian’s lying,” suggests Tom.
“Or,” says Harry, pointedly, “maybe Voldemort isn’t the only one manipulating the Tournament.”
And now that he’s said it out loud, it all makes sense. The pieces push themselves together and Harry wonders how, for someone so perceptive, he could’ve missed it before.
Julian’s odd behaviors around the Chrysalis Cult, Julian’s eating disorder, Julian’s submissiveness wherever Mouton is concerned, the way Julian warned him that the Chrysalis Club would invite him the very same day he got the letter for it, Julian’s knowledge of the Chrysalis' dress code without preempt.
Julian’s admiration of him.
How could he have missed this? Because he wanted to? Because his idea of friendship is fragile and he thought that this would break it?
And doesn't Harry know that where Mouton is involved, someone else is, too? Someone much more powerful?
Harry breathes out the words: “Maybe Gellert Grindelwald is, too.”
.XoX.
“I am my parents’ eldest and only child
Often,
I’ve wondered if having a younger sibling
To share my burden
Would make it lighter,
Or heavier?
Is it not freeing to suffer alone?
I find no solace in company
When I am told 'I’ve suffered, too;
Just like you,'
My only response is
(and shouldn’t be),
Why would you ever tell me that?”
-- Harry Potter, “Queen of Cups.”