"Where, oh where is my trust fund?

Why can't I get ahead?"

-- Titanic Sinclair, Trust Fund.

.XoX.

Harry plans, like any sane child with the knowledge he has, to avoid Marvolo. He plans to avoid the Chrysalis club. There are certain things, certain groups of people, that Harry just knows are none of his business.

Some people are venomous. Most who are do not try to be, but, for some people... For some people, it is a life goal.

The Chrysalis Club advertises itself as a fitness and heath group and the Chrysalis Club is a lie. It is thinspo posts and body shaming and eating disordered individuals, all wrapped up with a little bow, tossed around in circles that do not know better. These people are not getting 'fit.' There is nothing healthy here.

It is, of course, not the first of its kind. Even the Butterflies did not coin pro-ana groups.

The truth is that eating disorders are lonely. Harry knows this more than anybody and he has been tempted, time and time again, to give in to the loneliness in the way that many people like him to.

But he doesn't. In Harry's first year, he finds himself fixated on other people's plates. Those who eat normally. Those who eat a lot. Those who eat like him . And especially the ones who don't -- the ones who are better at disordered eating.

(Though Harry's sure these things are not a race, if they were, he'd be losing.)

These people form circles. They gravitate toward those who can relate to them; those who can, against all the odds, understand them. They gravitate toward these people like they would one day gravitate toward Harry's book; every bit of eating disordered content is clung to.

And Harry avoids them. For a number of reasons. He is at first afraid that he is incapable of friendship. That, like with Luna, he will tear down an already vulnerable person. He will make sick people get sicker, and although he would do a lot of things later, never would he act with that intention.

Figured out later is that these friendships, filled with people who are too much like Harry, are... not just friendships. That the similarities between them and him do not stop at their intake.

Talking about their eating disorders starts as a way to relieve stress, to feel less lonely when experiencing something that is, at its core, isolating. It goes from talking to sharing tips to encouragement -- and in most of these circles, this change is not noticed nor intentional.

Concern is a way to feed -- no pun intended -- into this obsession. Concern is attention; it is telling you that, no matter how miserable you are, and because of how miserable you are, you are doing something right.

Normalization. When you have two people who share an experience, they believe it is more common, even just but a bit. And things that are common are expected; what is expected is good.

Harry knows these circles are not and would not be friendly towards him. He is not a woman, not skinny, not purely 'ana' or 'mia' or some sort of mix. He has EDNOS, but the wrong kind. He would be shamed and ignored because of his eating disorder in groups that are meant for people with eating disorders -- he is not the picture-perfect image conjured up when people think of 'sick,' and though Harry tries not to be ashamed of it, it is something that can always be helped.

Binge Eating Disorders --and, in a way, binge eating in general -- are not praised. Their suffering is similar, is on par, but they are not treated with teh same level of sympathy or respect as the Queen Nervosas, even by people who should understand more than anyone else.

Harry doesn't get it, this culture that wants desperately to swallow him whole. He doesn't get it and never has, so he has done his best to avoid them. These people are hurting; these people want to hurt others; and even when they do not, they do; and none of it is any of Harry's business.

And it hurts. The loneliness, of course -- the fact that people like him are not always kind and that the people who aren't would not and simply can't understand -- but his inaction, too. Like how Harry turns his head to the continuous genocide of Muggles because he knows, perhaps selfishly, what a war would cost him, Harry turns his head here, too. He cannot change these people by joining them. He is no one's therapist and only one person's friend.

So Harry knows. He knows well the dangers of the Butterflies, the dangers of the Chrysalis Club, and the dangers of people like them and he does his best to avoid them.

The problem is, they do not do the same.

Harry walks into the Great Hall one evening. Noted most concerningly is Headmaster Mouton, sitting at the staff table. She's watching him, sipping on her drink absently. (A glass of wine for breakfast, How classy.) A butterfly pin has been added to her robes.

She is not the only one. Students throughout the Hall are wearing them, too -- the youngest being eleven. Harry's heart aches. But he does nothing, says nothing, and sits down to eat.

But it is not that easy. Some ghosts do not haunt passively; some are downright poltergeists.

Harry sits at an empty chair, surrounded by empty chairs, content (to some degree) to spend his meal alone. Sitting down next to him are two girls Harry has never seen before, but who he knows how to classify regardless.

All it takes is one look at their robes; purposefully baggy; the pin; their eyes, filled with young hope. Anorexics in their honeymoon phases. Surely, thinks Harry, they most know it passes. It always does.

"Are you going to eat that?" asks one of them.

"Yup," says Harry, bitterly.

"What about the carbs? They're the devil, you know."

"Literally not how nutrition works."

"And the saturated fat --"

Harry grabs his plate of muffins and stands sharply. The fact that he has an ED, reluctantly openly, is not invation to talk to him about it. It is not invitation to comment on it.

On a whim, for a reason he himself doesn't quite follow, he walks toward the Slytherin table. His eyes move, all on their own, to where Cedric Diggory and his somewhat merry band of friends sit.

Harry stands behind Cedric. He clears his throat, all of a sudden feeling quite too silly, feeling not like the kind of person you would ever want to sit next to.

He has no time to leave or doubt himself further because Cedric Diggory turns around in his seat, face lighting up. "Kid!" he shouts. "I thought you'd never want to see me again, who'da thunk it. Come on, Goyle, move on. Take a seat."

Harry grumbles, "I'm not a kid, " but takes his seat beside Cedric.

Malfoy's there. Tracey and Pansy. Blaise is off to the side...

And then there's Julian, sitting right across from Harry.

Harry turns his eyes away and attention toward his muffin, picking it apart with his fingernails. Julian and his situation -- the things Harry knows about him and the things Harry has just inferred and Julian's letter -- are none of his business, either.

"You gave me quite the scare, running off like that, not returning for a week," says Cedric.

"Sorry," says Harry, not sure if that's the correct response.

Cedric waves his hand. "Nah, it's fine," he reassures. "I heard about what happened. I'm glad you're okay."

Harry clears his throat. "Yeah," says Harry, "Uh. Thanks."

Cedric points his fork accusatorily at Malfoy. "Course, some people aren't as emphatic, are they, Malfoy?"

Malfoy narrows his eyes. "You said you wouldn't do this if I just gave up the money."

Cedric shrugs. "I lied." He turns to Harry. "Some people were placing bets."

"... On the championship?" He hopes it is on the championship.

"On whether or not you'd finally done yourself in."

Harry's mouth flattens into a thin line. He starts to stand. "That's wonderful, and all, but--"

Cedric puts his hand up. "Wait," he says. "Let me finish."

Harry doesn't sit back down, but he doesn't leave, either.

Cedric relaxes. "Malfoy made some assumptions. Said some things he didn't mean. And won some money."

"Uh... Pretty bitch move...?"

"And so," continues Cedric, "he's decided a way to make it up to you."

Harry's frown does not dissipate. "Make it up to me?"

Cedric looks at Malfoy expectantly. There's some deep seated House politics and dynamics at play here that Harry doesn't know enough about, but even he can see the battle for dominance happening.

It is Malfoy who relents. Cedric sits up straighter, a happy smile on his face, while Malfoy seems to slink in on himself. He puts a hand into his robe pocket and takes out the contents, holding it out to Harry.

Harry blinks. "That's..." he says, "a lot of money."

"It's all I won," grits out Malfoy.

"And then some," adds Cedric.

"Go on, Potter," says Mafloy to Harry's silence. "Take it. It was basically yours anyway."

Harry hesitaties. It feels weird. Like taking candy from a baby. A blind, deaf, and tied-up baby. With a gun to its head.

He realizes it is not just Malfoy's money; it is Cedric's gift.

Harry scoops the coins up into his palm and slips them into his robe pocket. "...Funky," Harry says. He avoids the eyes of Malfoy and Cedric and Julian. He is a child being tugged back and forth in a parents' divorce; in the middle of drama he's not supposed to be involved in. It feels weird.

Cedric ruffles his hair. "I'm sorry I made you feel uncomfortable," says Cedric.

Harry's face goes red. "Oh -- oh, no -- you didn't--"

"It's alright," says Cedric. "I just couldn't let him do whatever he wanted, you know, disgracing you like that."

And Harry gets it. He doesn't get Slytherin politics, doesn't get why Cedric would protect him, but he understands that he did and that it equal parts for Harry and against Malfoy.

He is okay with that.

Harry takes a bite of his muffin, sitting himself back down completely. He says, muffled, "We're chill." Cedric smiles.

Julian clears his throat. Harry keeps his eyes to himself, on his plate. Julian is none of Harry's business. Harry lack of attention does not stop him: "Did you get that latter I sent you?"

"...Yes," says Harry. "I did."

"Okay, then. I'm glad."

"Actually, I was wonder--" But before Harry can finish his thought, someone takes a seat beside Julian.

Harry's mouth shuts with a clink.

"What?" taunts Marvolo in a way he is sure is meant to be endearing. "Aren't happy to see me?"

He is not rogue so what is he is dangerous.

Avoid him.

Harry's trying. He really is.

"Cedric," Harry says quietly. He knows next to nothing about Cedric or his influence or his opposition, but he knows very well how to use it to his advantage. "Get him to leave."

Malfoy laughs a bit. "Marriage problems, really? The old ball and chain. I'd have thought you smarter."

"I'm not married to him."

"Oh, please, Harry, dear," soothes Marvolo. "Don't be so brash."

"I'm not brash," says Harry tightly. "And I'm not married to you."

"Why would you ever insinuate such a thin--"

"Tom," says Cedric. He sounds so cheerful. Harry wonders, perhaps enviously, how one person can sound so happy and not be faking it. "Tom Riddle. That's your name, right?"

Harry knows an insult when he sees one. Marvolo narrows his eyes, leaning forward. He has no intention of backing down. He does not have the long-lasting experience within Slytherin that Cedric does, but he is well on his way to staking his claim in one way or another. His blood gives him status in more ways than one.

"It's Marvolo, actually," corrects Marvolo. "If you really must refer to me at all, if you really must know."

Harry glances between the boys with no hidden amount of intrigue. Smack some verbal shit into him, thinks Harry. Get Voldemort to shut the fuck ypu; you'll be telling that story to your kids for years to come.

"If you don't want me to refer to you," notes Cedric, "Then it's really silly, isn't it. That you chose to sit with me."

And what a point that is! What a good fucking point! Harry grins.

"I chose to sit with Harry, my husband, dear," says Marvolo, affronted. "Not you. "

"And yet Harry... does not seem all the keen to sit with you, does he?" Cedric tilts his head. "In fact, I've heard some rumors. One of you is a well-trained liar, aren't you? Are they married or are they not? It's hard to say, Tom. Tell me what you think."

Marvolo's face scrunches up. "I think you have a thing or two to learn about respect."

"Toward who? You? " Cedric cackles. "Now there's a funny lie, Tom."

"It's," he hisses, " Marvolo. "

"Okay." Cedric adds, "Tom."

Marvolo stands up, jaw clenched. "I'll talk to you later, Harry. Do watch your company."

"He'll keep in touch!" Cedric chirps.

And Harry says nothing, does nothing, staring at Cedric in awe, understanding then that he might be the one and only person able to protect him from this Voldemort. He understands that Cedric is the least Snake Slytherin he's ever met and Marvolo is the most.

They are polar opposites. It is a wonderful thing, to be protected from the other.

He thinks of Tom. He wonders is that is what friends are for.

Then he wonders if that means he and Cedric are friends, and smiles, secretly and smally, all to himself.

.xox.

Harry sits on the ground at the Astronomy Tower. He's supposed to be working on a project for Divination, but it is hard to focus. He instead lies across the cold stone, journal open in front of him and quill clamped between his fingers. He's writing. Or at least trying to.

Appearing from the journal, in long, slender wisps, is Tom Riddle. He blinks down at Harry. "Aren't you a wizard?" he asks, slightly amused.

"Last I checked," says Harry, dryly.

"Then why don't you make a chair?"

"It's floor time," replies Harry, resting his head on his propped-up elbow. "I think best when I'm in my element."

"And your element is," Tom furries his eyebrows, "... on the floor?"

"So I've clarified."

Tom frowns, not understanding. But he sits down on the floor with him anyway, because that's what being friends with Harry Potter is all about; putting up with things with no real reason.

"I've been making some progress," Tom tells him. He's been wandering the castle during the night, reading books from the library as he does. "I've been reading up on," my, "Voldemort's legacy. Trying to put pieces in their place."

"Yeah?"

"His physical appearance is telling," says Tom. "And his lack thereof."

"Pardon?"

"The less he shows himself publicly, the more I speculate it is for a reason."

"What do you mean?" asks Harry, closing the journal. He was making no progress anyway; his words too clunky, too much. And what Tom has to say is interesting -- and isn't that what friends do? Pay attention to each other when they're speaking?

Tom remembers Marvolo's hastily written, defensive reassurance that making horcruxes has not hurt Voldemort's wellbeing. It is a blatantly obvious lie. And Voldemort... he does not lie for no reason. By assuring Tom, he is trying to assure himself.

Everything is fine. Everything has gone according to plan. I am not wrong, or prone to failure, or capable of it.

I am fine. I have to be fine.

"He's weak," says Tom. Physically, at least, he must be. "He's made at least four horcruxes -- and from looks of it, he did not stop there."

"Well, there's one of them in killing distance already," Harry jokes. "So it shouldn't be that hard."

"Two," says Tom quietly.

"Hm?"

"Nothing," says Tom.

Harry snaps his fingers. "I just remembered something!" He zips open his bag and begins rifling through it.

"About the horcruxes?"

"No," says Harry. "Just something I've... I've always wanted to do." He pulls out a deck of tarot cards, holding them up triumphantly.

"...Tarot." He has always had a certain amount of measured respect and disbelief toward future telling. All magic is to be praised, acknowledged, and utilized -- but that is not to say that some people will not use that belief against him.

And Harry Potter is not blessed. He is no Seer or divinationator. He is a boy with a deck of pretty cards and in his hands, they are nothing more.

Voldemort would reject the unspoken offer. Voldemort might even be a little bit mean about it -- just enough to be socially acceptable and just enough to sting.

Tom Riddle does not do that. Tom Riddle readjusts himself on the ground -- the lowly, filthy ground -- and asks his friend what layout he'd like to try.

Ignorant of his inner turmoil, Harry is joyful. He has never allowed himself to think about friendship, to explore the concept in his mind in any other way than fictional characters. Even so, he has shuffled his deck of cards many times over and wished he was doing so for someone else.

"A simple past, present, and future one would be nice," says Harry. He holds the deck out to Tom. "Knock three times."

Tom obliges. "Do you do these often?"

"Not lately," Harry admits, shuffling. "But it's fun."

Fun. Voldemort does not do fun (but Tom Riddle does, and Tom Riddle is.)

Harry places down the three cards. Flipping the first one over, he states: "The past: Nine of Pentacles. Upright. Your past was filled with rewards. Luxury. Indicate of the fruits of your labor--"

Tom cannot help himself. "I was never rich," he says. "As a child, it'd be fit to say I was rather poor."

Harry rolls his eyes. "You can't take it so literally. It would mean wealth of other kinds; power, people, knowledge. Here, in the past, you have a lot of something. And you worked hard for it."

Tom stays silent. Images of dead rabbits and fear and control and games, played with life and paid with death flash through his mind.

Harry flips over the next card. He whistles. "The present: Ace of Pentacles. Reversed. You had it all, and you lost it all. Whatever you invested in... was not worth it. Did not pay off well, or at all. And now, you are living the consequences."

Regret. Tom Riddle has learned regret. Tom swallows. "Alright," he says. "Flip the last card."

Harry turns it over. "The future. Your future. Upright two of pentacles. You will, or should, adapt to change. Balance your abilities; you wants and your needs and, msot of all, your capability to fulfill all of them.

"In your decisions, you will find balance."

Doesn't that sound nice? Lovely?

It also sounds impossible. It sounds like Harry Potter is not a Seer, has no reason to be playing with such things.

It sounds, despite this, like Harry Potter is on to something.

"Tarot," Tom decides, "is not fun."

"Sure," says Harry, shuffling Tom's cards back into the deck. He ducks his head to hide a smile. "I'm sure, Tom."

.XoX.

"Put your grief in a jar

Put your grief on the shelf

It will grow a couple inches

Your tippy toes will fail

And when you one day reach it,

The jar won't open up

Empty it will lie and sit

And you know it was never there at all."

-- Harry Potter, "Four of Swords."