As the first forkful of gravy soaked mashed potatoes entered his mouth, it was like a firework of flavours exploding on his tongue. It was so beautiful, so satisfying, that he felt his eyes fill with tears. As he swallowed, he pressed a hand to his stomach. For the first time in months, he felt the gnawing sensation in his stomach ease slightly and a thrill of pleasure ran down his spine.

I'll stop at halfway, he told himself sternly. He even separated off half the food on his plate so he would know when he had to stop eating. Yet after just a few more mouthfuls, his stomach was protesting and he was beginning to feel nauseous again. Maybe he would stop early. He tried to put down his knife and fork but his hands refused to cooperate with him. It was as if they had a life of their own; cutting, piercing, spearing the food and shovelling into his mouth. Faster, faster, faster. Before he knew it, his plate was empty.

Please stop, he thought. Please, no more. But he was completely out of control. His hands were now grabbing more chicken legs which he promptly began consuming with manic enthusiasm. By this point he was feeling downright terrified. Why couldn't he stop himself? What was happening to him? Why was he doing this to himself?

And the meal wasn't even over. As the desserts appeared before him, he discovered that he was helping himself to slice after slice of treacle tart, scoop after scoop of ice-cream, his spoon darting between his plate and his mouth with astonishing rapidity. At one point, he was pretty sure he chipped a tooth as he shoved his spoon ferociously into his mouth. Not that he cared. More, more, more. Faster, faster. These were the only words that were swirling around his confused brain.

As soon as the food disappeared, it was as if his senses suddenly returned to him. Dropping the spoon still clutched in his sticky fist, he tried to stand up. It was only then that he noticed the astounded expressions on the faces of his friends. Ron's mouth was hanging open and Ginny's eyes were as round as dinner plates. Chancing a glance at the staff table, he noticed that Dumbledore was staring directly at him, wearing a look of concern and possibly sadness. Seeing the man start to descend towards the Gryffindor table, Harry rushed away, one hand clutching his grossly distended belly. His vision was blurry and he could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

His initial goal had been to reach his dormitory but before he had put even two corridors between himself and the site of his undoing, he started retching. Lurching into a nearby bathroom, he threw himself into a stall, slammed the door shut and starting reliving his Hagrid-sized meal. When he was finished, his head was spinning and there was a most vile taste in his mouth. Gripping the toilet bowl for support, he tried to piece together the events of the last half an hour, but everything was a blurred mess of shapes, colours and smells.

As he splashed his face with water, he heard someone enter the bathroom. Please not Dumbledore, please not Dumbledore, he thought to himself. Fortunately, it was just Ron. Good old, gullible Ron. Or maybe not. He was wearing a worryingly Hermione-like look. "And so now you're bulimic. Great."

The word meant nothing to Harry. Bulimia? They had gone on and on about anorexia during his stint in the hospital wing but had never used this term. Ron answered his unasked question with a growl, "Eating huge amounts and puking it up is called bulimia, Harry!" Something shifted in the air between them. Something broke.

"I can't take it anymore Harry. I just can't. I'm done with being supportive. I'm done with watching you destroy yourself. I'm just done. So go ahead. Eat, don't eat, overeat. I really don't care anymore!" And with that, he ran from the room, leaving a weak, confused, hopeless Harry behind him.

Just as he thought things couldn't get any worse, an unmistakeable voice greeted him from the shadows, "I thought I might find you here, Mr Potter." Oh great, Snape had found him. Excuses whirled around his exhausted mind like leaves on an autumn day but before he could pick the least implausible one, Snape had held up a hand, "I am quite prepared to let this morning's incident pass without question in addition to this little…episode." Seeing Harry's incredulous expression, Snape's face folded into something that almost resembled a smile, "On the condition that you accompany me to my rooms once more, this time on a voluntary basis."

As he said these words, a mask seemed to come over Harry's face, "I can't do that, Sir." The last word came out almost like a hiss. Snape frowned, "You know, Mr Malfoy was very interested in the return of your appetite this evening and even more interested in your sudden exit from the Great Hall. Whilst I was able to prevent him from following you, he is bound to question me regarding the incident and when I am displeased, it is oh so difficult to remain discrete." Harry shot him a look of loathing reserved just for him. He was being blackmailed. "And if you are not displeased?" Harry knew what the answer would be.

"Well, if I am not displeased, I suppose young Mr Malfoy's curiosity will have to go unsatisfied." Harry felt himself begin to tremble, this had to be against all the school rules. But still, he had no choice. It wasn't as if he could go to Dumbledore. Dumbledore, who had once been his champion. Dumbledore, who had ultimately betrayed him. Feeling as if he was drowning in a sea of despair, Harry accepted Snape's offer, "I suppose I'll go with you then" he croaked. And with that, Snape led the way to the dungeons, leaving Harry stumbling in his wake.

A/N: Ok, so a lot of people I know think that anorexia and bulimia are disparate disorders. That's a myth. In my experience, they are almost intrinsically linked. Very few people can manage to withstand the hunger pains of anorexia without having the occasional binge. Anyhow, let me know what you think about this latest development/continuing the fic/anything else that comes to mind!