Ron's fingers slip down his throat, bold and precise. There is no hesitation; there is no thought. Only action. His stomach heaves in protest at the first touch. A trill of anticipation makes his body tense, eager for what is to come. Then, soft, wet flesh gives way under a none-too-gentle thrust, fingernails scratching. His stomach yields after an all-too-brief struggle and there is one big, gagging heave. Water spatters, droplets lightly showering his face. Then the sharp tang of undigested food is in the air, strong in his nostrils. He hesitates for an ephemeral moment then continues, for it must all come up.

Again and yet again he heaves. He perseveres until there is only the burning taste of bile on his tongue. Then it is over. His right hand is trembling, poised in the air before his face; the two fingers still outstretched. There is vomit dripping, sliding down his hand. Ron's eyes stare vacuously for a moment, unseeing. Then he is calmly wiping his fingers clean with a hastily torn piece of toilet paper.

The smell of vomit is overpowering yet comforting. His meal is spread before him, he looks for the kippers that started off breakfast and, as he sees them, the rigid set of his shoulders relaxes. It was over. He pushes the lever and is gone with a flush, carried away in the under-depths of the castle. A mumbled spell and a wave of a wand removes all infinitesimal splatters of his regurgitated food. All was as it was before.

The back of his throat aches, it is a pain that never quite goes away. It reminds him of his imperfection. He sniffles; the sound is very loud in the quiet room. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Then he smiles. It is all too familiar; this scene has played out many times before. It never changes. He is not sure if he wants to be thin. It has never been a driving need for him, a boy who has been tall and lanky his entire life. He merely needs something that is his to control, that is tangible and in his power.

Ron stills for a moment, listening for evidence of the presence of another. There is nothing but the faint drip of what must be a leaky pipe. He can hear the indistinct sound of laughter from outside. Ron waits for another brief instant and, satisfied, puts his wand away. He looks down and sees his bag, frayed around the edges, lying between the stalls. With one abrupt motion he has it draped on his shoulder. He listens again and then he nudges the door with his hand, it opens with a slight creak.

There was no one. Confident, he moves forward to wash his hands of all traces of his deed. The water is cold on his hands, it vaguely smells flat. He scrubs his fingers, trying to somehow scrape away the smell of vomit that always clings to them. It is as if the smell imbeds itself in his skin. Once he is done he dries his hands on a paper towel taken from the nearby dispenser. Throwing the paper towel away, he makes for the door.

He halts abruptly when he hears the scrape of footsteps and the bang of the door of one of the stalls opening. He knows who it is before he hears Harry's soft, calm voice. "You need to stop doing this. Now."

Ron turns and looks into his best friend's eyes, they are full of pity. He tries to smile but his mouth doesn't want to cooperate. Stopping is not an option and it is not Harry's choice to make. His friend is well meaning but deluded if he thinks a simple sentence will erase the need to feel his fingers going down his throat or the feeling of satisfaction that came afterwards.

"You can't stop me." The statement is said simply and without anger. It is the truth. Ron nods at his friend and disappears out the door.

-

That night he vomits blood and he smiles. It is enough.

-

Author's Note: I was frustrated with the portrayal of eating disorders in a lot of stories, not limited to the Harry Potter fandom. It is interesting to think that a certain friend or a certain love interest will 'save' you in a few weeks but it just is as likely as me getting major critical acclaim for this little vignette. The road to 'recovery' is hard and, sadly, it often doesn't look like an option to a person with an eating disorder. That's life. Enjoy. :)

Note: I'm not trying to say that I write the perfect story or that I am even doing it well.