Why Do You Love Me?

A/N: This chapter is where the bulimia starts (Problem Number One, of course). I will mark the beginning and the end if you do not wish to read it, but there will be a lot of mention about it from here on out, so I’ve decided to give you ample warning.

I’ve been getting a lot of reviews asking if this is really a Harry/Draco fic, and I must assure you that yes, it is. It will just be a long time in coming, that’s all. The cutting (Problem Number Two) should begin soon, as well, and I will warn you about it beforehand in case you don’t want to read it.

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Harry nervously scrunched the quilt of his bed with his fingers. Draco was to spend the night in his room tonight, something that he hadn’t done yet, although Ron, Hermione and Ginny had alternately spent the night in Harry’s room. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect with Draco. As a matter of fact, Harry wasn’t quite sure about anything to do with Draco. Draco was a mystery to him.

Draco had changed drastically since school the year before. Harry wondered if -- he was bodily jerked from his musings as Draco stomped into the room haughtily, carrying a pillow and looking elegant in silky, shimmering green pajamas. His eyes were stormy as he slammed his pillow onto the bed adjacent to Harry’s and shoved the pillow that was already housed there to the floor with an angry huff. Harry watched the proceedings curiously.

“Stupid….Weasley!” There were some words in between, but it seemed as though Draco was talking to himself and Harry couldn’t hear them.

“What was that?”

Draco shot Harry a death glare and slammed his fist into his own pillow, fluffing it violently. “Nothing,” he muttered, his eyes on fire.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Draco blew air out of his nose angrily and threw his pillow onto the bed. Huffily, he slumped onto the bed and sighed. “Nothing,” he ground out, once again picking up the pillow and fluffing it, dangerously close to making the soft downy feathers come out of the seams.

“What do you mean nothing? You look murderous. Something must have happened.”

“It was just something Weasley said, don’t worry about it.”

Harry stared quizzically at Draco but nodded. “Okay,” he agreed, picking up his own pillow and fluffing it, mostly just to keep his hands occupied and hoping that he didn’t look nearly as nervous as he felt.

Draco slammed his fist one last time into his pillow, leaving a large hand-shaped indent in the middle. He pulled the sheets back and swung his legs into his bed, yanking the sheets up to his chin. With that, Draco shot Harry a strained smile, then muttered a soft spell and with a flick of his wand, the lights went out. The room was quickly flooded with moonlight, illuminating Harry in an eerie glow. Harry’s green eyes looked nearly like acid as they shone questioningly at Draco.

A chill chased its way down Draco’s spine and he shuddered unwillingly, but quickly pushed it away. Harry’s eyes continued to glow, reminding Draco of a certain death spell that he didn’t wish to remember.

With a sigh, Draco rolled onto his side, facing Harry and ground out between grit teeth, “What?”

Harry’s glowing eyes blinked and his brow furrowed, but he didn’t answer.

“What?” Draco persisted.

Harry sighed. “It’s nothing,” he murmured. Turning, he lay down with his head on his pillow and yanked the sheets up over his head.

…
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…

Long fingers steepled together to touch thin, dry lips. The lips cracked into a most devilish smile as an orb of light showed a picture of a sleeping dark haired boy. He looked so innocent. Voldemort knew better. This boy’s innocence had been ripped away even as a child when he had been forced to live with relatives whom hated him. He no longer was as pure as the whole of the Wizarding community wished to believe, and with that simple fact, Voldemort was going to tear away any hope that the Wizarding world would be saved.

How could such a broken boy save anyone, when he couldn’t even save himself anymore? Voldemort began to chuckle maliciously, parting his hands and holding them close to the small ball.

Magic flew from his fingertips, causing the small orb to turn quickly, blurring the picture of the boy within. And the boy began to dream…

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…

Draco stared at the ceiling the next morning, twisting the grainy sheets between his fingers. He was awake but too tired to get up, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. The night hadn’t been as eventful as he had expected for it to be, but it was probably his fault, because he hadn’t initiated any type of conversation.

The snoring on his side diminished slowly, but Harry didn’t awaken. Instead, he tossed to his side with a loud snort and a harsh mumble of something that Draco couldn’t hear, nor could understand.

Draco sighed and turned over. The dreary image outside of the window was not making his mood any better, and the sheets scratched along his skin nerve-wrenchingly. Part of him wanted Harry to wake up, but the other part of him knew that it would be an awkward affair when he did.

With an angry sigh, Draco kicked the sheets away and sat up on his bed. Silently, he looked at the hovering clock, which made it blaringly obvious that it was only a quarter ‘till seven in the morning. Draco closed his eyes tiredly, and rubbed his throbbing forehead, feeling much older than his seventeen years at that point.

Harry once more snorted and kicked at something invisible at the foot of his bed, before rolling over, so close to the edge of his bed that he early fell out. Draco smiled indulgently with half-hidden tenderness, then lay back down to glare out the window until Harry woke up.

The sound of someone shuffling about in the picture adjacent to his bed forced Draco out of his musings, and he looked over just in time to see a very tired looking Mrs. Black trying to sneak her way out of the portrait.

Draco stopped her with a nearly silent growl, and Mrs. Black looked sheepishly at him, her cheeks turning a slight red and her silvery black hair falling out of its bun. She looked tired, with barely visible lines marring her face, and light purple underlining her eyes.

With a sigh, Draco nodded at her. “What are you looking at?”

Mrs. Black smiled at him wanly and scurried out of the portrait.

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…

Harry woke later that day, none too happy about the arrangements that he had all but forgotten about during the night. He glared at Draco upon first seeing him, and Draco could tell that today just was not going to be a very good day.

Sir Bartholomew was the second to get the glare, upon entering the portrait to announce that breakfast was ready. Of course, the boisterous Sir Bartholomew could hardly be bothered to care what the young man (who was nearly four centuries younger than he, by the way, thank you very much!) thought.

When Harry was seated at the table, he glared at everyone and everything that came into his view, especially Ron.

He was silent and didn’t say anything unless spoken to. If he needed anything, he didn’t voice it, and suffered without. When breakfast was over with, everyone left the table a nervous wreck.

Harry went back up to his room shortly after, locking everyone out. Alternating people quietly observed him from the portrait.

When lunchtime rolled around, Harry could hardly be bothered to drag his arse out of bed. Someone that Harry hadn’t seen before showed up in the portrait to try to persuade him.

She looked to be a milkmaid, and young, at that, dressed in a simple mud-colored dress and cream-colored apron. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips red, and her long blonde hair pulled back into double braids on either side of her head. She was holding a brown and white striped plaster jug (which was rather old looking) filled with some type of liquid of another, and it sloshed around with each of her movements (which were rather exaggerated, because she was rather well endowed and quite knew it, although Harry hardly bothered to look at all).

“Hello, Harry,” she greeted warmly. Her voice was slightly high pitched. “I’ve come to announce that lunch is ready. Will you be joining us?”

Harry glared at her heatedly. “No,” he grumped, rather put out at her for being interrupted from his musings.

“Oh, but why ever not?” the girl asked with a slight pout to her lips. Harry noticed that she had a bit of a Swedish accent.

Harry grunted but didn’t answer for a long time. The girl looked at him questioningly, and was about to repeat the question when Harry cut her off harshly.

“Not hungry,” his voice was rough. The girl blinked at him for a few moments, before sighing and nodding.

“I will inform Molly,” she said, her face falling. She swayed her hips enticingly as she left the portrait, making her dress swing and swish, showing off her delightfully toned and well-painted legs.

Harry didn’t notice.

When dinnertime came about, the same girl appeared in the portrait.

“Mister Potter?” she asked, biting her lower lip nervously.

Harry stared at her, having cooled off considerably from that morning. “Yeah?”

“Well, um…you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. I thought that you might…” the girl trailed off, and Harry stared at her.

“Yes?”

“Would you consider coming down for dinner?” she asked, her face lining with worry.

Harry blinked. “Um…yeah, okay.” he agreed, but he doubted that he’d be able to stomach anything at all.

Everyone at the table was uptight and nervous, although Harry couldn’t quite place why. It might have been because he had been a right bastard that morning, but he was sure there was something else to it, as well.

With a sigh, he dug into the food, stuffing himself to the brink. Molly and Hermione watched him curiously, and Harry smiled alternately between them to assure him that he was okay, but they both seemed worried, and didn’t seem to be getting much sleep.

His stomach was hurting by the middle of dinner, and by the end, he was sure he was going to explode. He took a few more bites of the food before him, then dropped his fork and patted his stomach, grimacing slightly.

No one seemed to notice, but Hermione gave him a sharp look, which Harry returned angrily before standing and excusing himself.

He went directly up the stairs, and hovered between the bathroom and his bedroom for a while. He really wasn’t feeling too good at that point. He was finding himself regretting going downstairs at all. He hadn’t been hungry!

His mind made up, he went into the bathroom.

Hermione excused herself seconds after Harry had left the room, and followed him up the stairs. There was a conversation in order for them, and Hermione had decided to initiate it, since it was most likely that Harry wouldn’t.

It was quite odd that Harry was just standing there, and as soon as Hermione spotted him, she instantly became curious as to what he was up to.

Harry lingered in the hall for a few more moments, but then pushed the door to the bathroom open and rushed in. Hermione smiled at her foolishness. Of course Harry would have to go to the bathroom, especially after all of the food that he had just consumed. With a smile and a short laugh, Hermione went into Harry’s room to wait for him. She would be damned if he was going to lock her out before she found out why he was being such a shit.

- - - - - - - - - Beginning - - - - - - - - -

Harry stared into the toilet bowl for a few moments. He wasn’t quite sure what he wished to accomplish by doing this, but his stomach was about to bust if he didn’t do something.

With a grunt, he lowered himself to his knees directly in front of the toilet. Anxiously, he looked back at the door to be sure that he had locked it.

With a sigh of relief at the fact that the door was locked, Harry braced himself with both hands on either side of the toilet bowl, and stared down into the water within.

It made him feel disgusted. What was he about to do? He had absolutely no self-control! But yet…

Harry leaned even closer to the toilet bowl, then began gagging. Saliva formed in his mouth, leaving a disgusting taste behind as he spit it into the toilet. He could feel the strain of the muscles in his throat as they worked to keep his food down even as he forced himself to gag once more.

A small amount of food came up, mixing with the saliva already pooled in his mouth, and he spit it into the bowl, his face scrunched up in disgust. This was not going to work.

With one final attempt at gagging the food out, in vain, of course, Harry sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

Coughing the food up just wasn’t going to work. He needed something to do the work for him. With a glance around the bathroom, his eyes quickly alighted on his toothbrush.

Scrambling quickly to his feet, he grabbed the toothbrush and held it by the handle, looking at it as though it was a valuable treasure. With one final glance around the room, he kneeled before the toilet once more. He checked to make sure the door was locked, and for good measure, pulled out his wand and set up a silencing charm around the room, to assure that no one heard.

With that, Harry steeled himself, braced himself against the toilet bowl with his left arm, and raised the toothbrush (handle end first) to his mouth.

It was quick, jabbing the toothbrush to the back of his throat and letting the forces of nature take over. Of course, Harry wasn’t nearly quick enough to get the toothbrush out of his mouth before the fountain of sick rushed up from his stomach, even though he had the best seeker reflexes out there. But it didn’t matter, not at that moment.

The toothbrush dropped, forgotten, to the floor, as the throw-up gushed out of Harry’s mouth, most of his food still in determinable chunks because they hadn’t been digested well enough yet.

Minutes later, Harry was left empty stomached and feeling much better. He was still braced over the toilet bowl, heaving and spitting up bile, but he felt accomplished in some way.

When he had nothing left to give and his abdominal muscles finally gave out on him with one final dry heave, Harry lifted himself to his feet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and washed his mouth out at the sink.

- - - - - - - - - End - - - - - - - - -

Braced against the sink, Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked tired, even he had to admit. He had dark purple bags under his eyes, his hair was in complete disarray (although that was no different from any other time. This time it was just…different, somehow…), and he was utterly pale. His eyes were red-rimmed, as though he had been crying, and his lips were dry and bitter tasting.

With one last look at his reflection, he pushed himself away from the support of the sink, and slowly made his way to the door. With one last check around the bathroom, Harry spotted the toothbrush on the floor, right next to his wand.

With a grunt, Harry bent over to pick the items up and ‘Scourgify’ both the floor and the toothbrush. Putting the toothbrush back where it belonged, he did one final check to be sure that everything was in place, flushed the toilet three times for good measure, and took down the silencing charm, before leaving the room with a satisfied smirk on his face.

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…

Voldemort smirked at the image of Harry leaving the bathroom on the orb that levitated from his fingers. He caressed the glass ball softly, almost caringly, and set it aside on its claw-shaped pedestal. With one last glance at the satisfied look on the Boy Who Lived’s face, a malevolent smirk formed, cracking the dry lips and allowing pointy teeth to sharply stab into the lips of their owner.

With a sharp flick of his wand, the image faded, leaving the ball clear and innocent looking.

And with another flick of his wand, this time directed towards his own head, he found his way into the young boy’s mind.

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A/N: No, the orb that Voldemort is using to spy on Harry is not a Crystal ball.