Icicle Fingers (Drarry)

Chapter 2

TW: Abuse, feeling of anxiety I suppose?

Draco

In the morning, Draco put himself back together.

His spine hurt from a night spent on the floor, but the full-body ache from the curse had left him.

He showered, got dressed, and applied copious amounts of hair wax. In reality, he hated the stuff. How it made his hands feel all sticky, and made his hair appear greasy. It felt like such a waste to make newly washed hair appear filthy once more.

Either way, it was what his father wished, so he had no say in the matter. He didn't want to get scolded for looking "unkempt" again.

He felt like a statue. A black suit with zero creases or other signs of being exposed to movement, hollow eyes, and hair collected into a single, unmoving mass. He looked lifeless.

His train of thought was derailed by his father's shout for him to come downstairs. He flattened his sticky hair one last time, before deciding his appearance was acceptable.

With the look of a sleep-deprived wax figure, he went down for breakfast.

His parents were already there, also looking like statues. He sat down at the dining table, uttering an awkward "good morning" before eating in silence. It was always like this, but he still felt a strange loneliness biting at him. Maybe it was due to the overly long table. At least as large as those in the great hall, but missing the personality.

The tables at Hogwarts had plenty of scratches and burns, evidence of their thorough use. Of human life sitting by them. This table was shiny and elegant, but had never felt used in any way. It looked the same as it always had, no proof that Draco, or anyone else for that matter, had ever sat by it. The table probably felt as lonely as he did. He missed the Hogwarts meals more and more. The great hall was rowdy and full of people, yet didn't feel nearly as suffocating as the Malfoys' dining room.

Only a few more days, he told himself.

Only a few more days in this home of his, that still felt like a stranger to him. He just had to get away from this darned table, and he could go to his room. Then he could finally stop feeling the passage of time, by drowning himself in books and music. Sounds and words had always been better company than his family.

Their house-elves had done an excellent job with the food, as usual. He felt a twinge of guilt, as he basically shoveled it down his throat, only focused on going back to his room. He wasn't even hungry, but ate everything on his plate. He could feel the food in his throat, as if it was trying to crawl out of his stomach. He forced it down with some water.

Draco put his fork and knife down on his empty plate soundlessly. Diagonally, between four and ten o'clock, as he had been taught since childhood. He wished it had made a noise, something to echo within his empty brain. However, his father hated unnecessary noise, so it would've been extremely stupid.

"Thank you for the meal, mother, father."
The words left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth when he spoke. It was the house-elves he should be thanking, not them. He would pay them a visit in secret later.

He stood up, bowed and started walking towards the door he had entered through, happily thinking about which book he would read.

As usual, this happiness was short-lived, but even more so than he was used to.

"Where are you going Draco? We will be leaving soon."
His father always seemed to ruin everything. He turned around to face him, confused as to what he was talking about.

"What do you mean father? Is there an event today that I have forgotten about?"
He had avoided going to any silly balls or parties that summer, and hoped to keep it that way.