Drarry - It Was All Just A Game (REWRITE - CLEAN VERSION)

CHAPTER 59 - BROKEN

TW: PTSD; anorexia; suicidal ideation

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You're failing.

Those were the words that circled in Harry's brain over and over and over again during breakfast the next morning, and later throughout the day.

He stared at his plate, fear wrapping its sticky body around Harry, blanketing over his limbs and pooling in his chest.

It's because you took the calming draught this morning. That's food, too. That's why it's not working.

Harry blinked. What the fuck was he thinking? He wiped his face, but couldn't stop staring at his stupid piece of toast. You're eating too much, that's why you're failing.

But he was starving. So fucking starving and dizzy. This stomach screamed and pinched.

He grabbed his fork.

No, you can't! You're just going to make him worse!

Why was just sitting here such a battle? What has life turned into?

"Harry, are you okay?"

"Huh?" He looked up at her. "What?"

"Are you okay? You look..."

"Yeah, I'm fine."

She looked at him in a way that made him know that she knew, and Harry would do anything to keep the voice in his head a secret. So he ate a piece of toast. You can't eat lunch. You have to make up for it. Go play Quidditch. Go up the stair two times.

Harry clenched his jaw and did his best to ignore it. He stabbed his eggs with his fork, and then a twisted, sick fear flowed through his veins.

He put the fork down.

"Mate," Ron said.

I know I'm trying, Harry thought. He actually thought it. It wasn't automatic like the other voice telling him not to eat. I wish someone knew how hard this was.

He looked over to the Slytherin table. Draco sat on the end, far from everyone else. His head was down as he took a small bite of a scone. Harry's heart scorched with loneliness as his hope began to fade.

Harry forced himself to eat breakfast, with the promise he'd exercise later. He did so after spending the entire day in the library—what you thought he'd go to class after that nightmare of an incident in therapy? Besides, Pumblechook was an arse week after week, making jabs about Death Eaters that probably hurt Harry more than it did Draco.

In the evening, Harry decided to walk the length of the castle, and started as everyone else had dinner. He was sweaty and dizzy by the time the moon hovered among the stars.

Harry turned a corner and ran into something solid, stumbling backwards.

"Great, you too, now." A voice hissed—Draco.

Draco rushed past him, but Harry regained his footing and chased after him. He didn't have time to feel his own excitement and nervousness as he rushed. "Why are you covering your eye?"

Draco kept walking, one hand up against his face, the other clenching his side. He had a limp, which allowed Harry, though weak, to catch up with him.

Harry grabbed hold of his arm, and as Draco jerked it, Harry could see red and purple skin hiding behind the peaks. "What happened to you?"

"None of your business, leave me alone." He pulled it away, but Harry ran in front of him and ripped his hand down from his face, revealing a bruise circling his inflamed eye all through his cheeks.