Chapter Text
Harry James Potter liked control, that was clear.
Nothing was ever in order for him. Or maybe not to his pleasing.
Everything was erratic, never under his thumb, always everywhere, and he was constantly overwhelmed with desire to have something dear to control.
He found that temporary solace at the Dursleys. Cleaning was an outlet, because he could control what needs to be polished, what needs to be cut, what needs to be steamed, what needs to be scrubbed.
It was so easy.
But he was provided with yet another blockade. Vernon got in his way, Dudley got in his way, bruised plastered like a contrast against his dull skin, and his hands shook every time he tried to clean.
He was happy when he was able to get away from hours in the cupboard. He was finally in a place where he had more control. Surely, there was something there for him, wasn’t there?
He was wrong.
House elves did everything. Food was provided to them, no questions asked. Teachers monitored you. While being controlled by others, you have no control in yourself.
The one thing he was able to control, was portions. How many calories are in that bread, does it change when toasted, how can I stay small to avoid being seen, is this too much on me, I don’t want to become like them.
It took over his mind. But that’s fine, that is okay, because he was in dire need of a sense of self.
Some that he was losing, but could regain by berating himself for every speck of food that touches his tongue, sliding down his throat and sitting in his belly.
It’s fine, he’s fine, everything is dandy. He found his control. There was no need to worry.
…Until he started to lose that, too.
It started with: “Harry, you have barely eaten, what’s going on with you?”
For questions like that, answer: “Just nervous, don’t worry, I eat in between classes.”
Ignore their stares, ignore when they try to talk. Reply: “Anyway, have you tried this sausage with mustard? Simply wonderful, here, try it.”
And everything is in order. He is a master of control when it comes to his own portions, a manipulator to when it comes down to deciding if todays an eating day. Half of them are not.
For days where you are forced to eat, spend the rest of the day tapping your finger on your knee, which is bouncing up and down on the stone floor, hoping to burn some sort of calories.
Let it consume your mind, because this is what control is. You are all knowing, hyper aware of everything, because in order to have something in your grasp you need to memorize it’s movements and focus on it at all times.
Not eating was fine. He has had experience. He was not dying, he knows his limits. He needed to prep before the summer so he can hide and duck away from them, so he can run faster and clean faster, so he can brush all the nooks and crevices of the counters with his tiny thin wrists.
So he looks like a stark contrast to the men he is forced to live with, looks impossibly thin, looks nothing like them. Everyone will see his achievements of control with his body that he will nearly show off.
Or, so he thought. Apparently, he never had enough control. He needed more, and ironically, he did that by getting less. Cutting drastic portions of food, running laps in the early light of the morning, running unnecessary errands.
It was so, so, so good.
But you’re able to lose control quickly, faster than you originally gained it.
Gained something else, weight.
Ron brought sweets from Honeydukes, and it began with just one caramel, to two, to oh, I wonder what jelly bean flavor this is, and this one, to I can’t stop eating.
His mouth and hands were a sticky mess but it felt so good to be filled to the brim and warm, just for the moment. It oddly felt like some sort of control, even though it wasn’t, because his hands shook as he tried to stop himself, but he just couldn’t.
And the more he ate, the more bile rose, and he eventually threw up all over himself.
It stung his throat and the room was quiet. The only two there were Ron and Hermione.
It was embarrassing. He was stinky, disgusting, a sick boy with sick thoughts and a terrible sense of control. Oh, what has he become?
He had cleaned himself up, cried in the bathroom as he ran the water. He pretended to not hear Hermione’s concerned voice as she cast a spell to rid of the regergerated candy on the floor.
He brushed his teeth but they ached as the bristles rubbed against them, with a wince he threw the tooth brush and held his cheek.
But it was odd. That pain… it did something. Like a punishment from his own hands. Something he could…
Something he could control.
And, with shaky hands, he picked the tooth brush back up, and caressed his teeth with it.
He gasped in pain and his face was twisted in discomfort, but he never pulled his hand away.
That deep rooted pain was a perfect punishment, controlled by nothing other than his own hands. You shouldn’t have eaten that much, Harry, you are so fat, you will become just like them.
He eventually scrubbed the icky taste out of his mouth, his raw gums bleeding a little. He spit into the sink, toothpaste mixing with pink, running the water to wash everything down the drain.
So, eating was plan A for control. Harm, was plan B; when he lost control with eating.
Harry Potter was a sick boy with sick thoughts. But, it’s not his fault. He was raised in a diseased environment.