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

CHAPTER 60 - UNSTABLE

TW: PTSD; anorexia; suicidal ideation

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"Mate, you haven't gotten up in three days."

Harry looked up at him. He lay in his bed, his head buried in his pillow, arms wrapped around Scar and Dragon. "I have the flu."

Ron put a hand to his forehead. "You don't have a fever."

Harry said nothing. He heard words in his head on repeat. The last day I see Harry Potter is going to be the best day of my life.

"You can tell me what's going on."

"Don't worry about it. He was my boyfriend. He's my problem."

Ron pat his shoulder. "Harry, talk to us. You can't do this on your own."

Still, Harry said nothing.

"A shower would probably make you feel better."

Why did something as simple as a shower feel like an impossible thing? How much he had fallen: he'd beaten a powerful dictator who murdered his parents, saving hundreds of thousands of lives and a government takeover, and yet six months later he couldn't even leave his bed and bathe.

It wasn't Draco alone; it was everything and everybody, the compounded interest of pain.

"Maybe I should get Dr. Valerie."

Even though it took more effort than fighting Voldemort for the past seven years combined, Harry sat up. "No, it's fine, I'll shower."

"Why are you afraid of her," Ron furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm not." I'm not going to a fucking hospital.

"Have your sessions with her been going well?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Then maybe she can help—"

"I'm good, Ron. Really." He stood and went to the bathroom, shutting the door and taking off his shirt.

However, the door opened behind him. "By the way—Harry."

Ron looked up and down his body.

"What?" Harry looked into the mirror. His skin hugged his ribs, the nobs of his spine poked out sharply. His arms were small and his collarbones stuck out.

It wasn't how his body was built. Hell, it didn't even look like him.

Ron didn't even know how to say it the right way, the kind way. "I-I haven't seen you with your clothes off in a while."

Harry said nothing, but his stomach twisted, like he was in trouble, like he was going to be locked in a cupboard for weeks with no light.

Get him out. Get him out. He's going to get onto us. He's going to make you eat.

And frankly, he didn't give a fuck about eating. He didn't care about the dizziness. He didn't care how empty and gnawing and painful it was. He didn't care how weak he felt.

This was the only thing he could do to feel control.

This thing was always there for him, in the shadows, behind him to hold him when he made a mistake.

Like a vulture.

Then he remembered Draco used to love this body. He used to worship it. He loved it. And Harry was treating it so coldly.

He finally looked at himself in the mirror, wincing as he said, "He's going to be so mad at me for doing this."

"Mate, this isn't about him. This is about you. You said you were getting better." Ron reached forward and hugged him. "I know you love him. With every piece of you. But you can't wait until he remembers you to start getting better. If you continue on like this, you won't be around when he does get his memory back. We're going to the Hospital Wing."