Inferno | Draco Malfoy

099 | II | In the Glass, Between Us

Using my arm to clear the condensation from the bathroom mirror, the foggy surface slowly starts to reveal the contours of my face. I remove the towel from my hair, letting the damp strands fall loosely down my back, all the while I gaze at my reflection.

And for the first time in my life, I am unhappy with my appearance. The person staring back at me feels like a stranger, someone I barely recognise.

I dig my fingernails into my skin, the sting small but steady, just enough to remind me that I'm still here. My reflection, though, tells another story. The colour has drained from my complexion, as if someone has wrung me out, leaving me hollow. What once held a subtle warmth now appears sallow, greyed out, lifeless.

It's the price of too many days spent inside, of windows that let in only half-hearted light, of air that tastes of dust instead of sun. My skin looks like it's forgotten what it feels like to be touched by daylight, as though it belongs to someone who has been left too long in the shadows.

My fingers then skim across my lips. They don't appear cracked, but they certainly feel that way — dry, rough, and ruined. I remember when they were soft without trying, when I didn't have to think about them at all. Now I press them together, testing, wishing they'd smooth themselves out, hating that they won't.

My eyes are worse. That green that used to captivate people, make them say something, is now flat, tired, as if someone had washed the colour away with soiled water. The skin underneath is darkened, exhibiting a purple-blue hue from fatigue that no quantity of rest appears to alleviate. I pull my eyelid back, hunting for that spark that used to be there. It isn't. It has been missing for quite some time.

Then there is my forehead. Creases and small blemishes that did not once exist now live there, etched like permanent tenants of my skin, impossible to dislodge. They resemble the tally marks of a prisoner, each one a record of the endless nights of unrest I've survived but never really lived through.

Some lines are carved from longing for my family; others are branded by grief, by the memory of Terry's passing, which tore at me so violently I feared my very face might split beneath the strain of containing it. Still others speak of silence: of the words I have pressed back into my throat, unuttered, because I knew no one wished to hear them.

The mirror doesn't just show my face. It casts back the sum of everything I do not voice aloud. I hate the relentless noise of it, how inescapable it seems, pressing against me from every angle. And yet, despite it all, I hate that I continue to hope whenever I look into the glass, that somehow, against all reason, it might give me back the girl I lost.

Most of all, I just wish for a moment of peace, a fleeting escape from the tide of my own thoughts.

I exhale deeply, the air escaping my lungs like a heavy sigh of resignation, as I conceal my face in my palms, while the familiar warmth of tears begins to form in my eyes. I know that I have failed to attend to my appearance and that I have been neglecting it, as my hair falls down in front of me like a curtain, hiding me from the outside world.

As I look up at the mirror again, I start to observe my hair, recognising its beauty — the way it catches the light and the way it frames my face so perfectly — but at the same time, I feel as if it is a commitment weighing me down, a reminder of the chaos swirling in my mind.

The weight of my emotions suddenly becomes too much to handle, and in a fit of frustration, I rummage through cabinets and drawers, my fingers trembling as they search for something — anything — that might provide me with a sense of control, like earlier when I had Selwyn apologising to me.

Finally, I find a pair of scissors, their metallic sheen glinting in the light as a surge of adrenaline courses through me.

Without hesitation, I grasp the scissors tightly, feeling the cool handle against my palm. And within a matter of seconds, the sharp blades deftly glide through the strands of my hair with a soft snip that echoes in the bathroom. As the first lock falls away, tears begin to stream down my cheeks, a bittersweet release of pent-up emotions that I can no longer contain.