sweetener; drarry

12; draco's chapter

TRACK 12
idontwannabeyouanymore
Billie Eilish

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"Have you eaten yet?" Pansy's voice irritatingly drifted through one of Draco's ears and straight out the other. It was a Sunday morning (three days prior to the dreaded Boggart lesson that would soon change everything) and Draco had arrived in Hogwarts at two-in-the-morning after a not so pleasant visit with his father, and all the poor boy wanted was a few more fleeting moments in bed.
"What's it to you." Draco drawled, it was not a question. He hoped that Pansy, slow as she may be, would catch the hint and leave him alone — she wasn't even supposed to be in the Boy's Dormitories, anyway — but, of course, she did not.
"I don't want you to faint like you did in Fourth Year." She said shortly, almost as if she was bored. Anger rippled underneath Draco's skin and reverberated through his brain as a snarl curled his lips and scrunched his nose.
"Oh, so when I faint I must be anorexic, but when Potter does so, he's a hero?" Malfoy snapped, whipping his covers away and slinking out of bed. All hope of getting back to sleep had hastily been ripped from his grasp, like a rug being pulled from under his feet.
"Will you please shut up about Potter—" Pansy began, cutting herself short and glowing an absurd pink as her eyes rapped over Draco's body and then towards the door.

He wore nothing but a pair of navy boxers, a baggy white shirt with a loose collar and his protruding, bruised collarbones clearly exposed. Boney hips with scrapes and purple blotches jutted out from underneath his boxers, leaving a space between the fabric and his flat stomach. His features were gaunt, his skin a sickening shade paler than usual — if that was even possible. He knew he looked like shit, but judging from Pansy's reaction to his simple gesture of slipping out of bed, he must've appeared worse than originally thought. Almost as though he had stepped onto a rickety old ship, his insides squirmed and a terrible wave of nausea crashed into his heart. His chest suddenly became tight, tight, tight and he felt just as he had when he'd fainted in Fourth Year.

He wasn't sure how his hands had managed to clasp onto the headboard of his bed, he wasn't even aware of lifting them, but he had caught himself before he fell and now his stick-like-legs trembled beneath him and his blue lips parted ways to allow a gasp to leave them. Perfectly pink with a hue of the deepest blue were those lips.

Pansy must've shrieked, because within seconds Blaise Zabini and Vincent Crabbe had clambered their way into the room. Zabini wore his signature scowl whereas Crabbe appeared several shades pinker and out of breath.
"What happ-" Blaise began, taking a step towards Draco with an outstretched hand — ready to steady the latter.
"Don't you lot have somewhere to be?" The white-blond hissed, tensing and relaxing his jaw over and over again as he glared at all three unwelcome guests and turned up his nose at Zabini's offer.
"Somebody screamed!" Crabbe furrowed his eyebrows and exclaimed, having just caught his breath.
"Yes, well, that was Pansy because she's fucking crazy." Draco hissed.
"You nearly fainted! What else was I to do?" The only girl wailed.
"Helped me? That would've sufficed."
"Don't have a go at Pansy for being...well, Pansy. You know what she's like." Blaise snarled, sporting an expensive looking silver ring and a matching dog-tag necklace.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Parkinson huffed.
"You know perfectly well what I mean." Soon enough Pansy, Blaise and Crabbe were bickering amongst one another, so much so that they failed to recognise the awful expression that had bullied its way onto Draco's face: the one that he wore far too often recently. His eyes stared lividly at each of the Slytherins, a hue of green hovering across his cheeks as he clutched his stomach.

Everybody knew what was going to happen before Draco had even begun.

Malfoy retched and heaved, spewing up bloody stomach acid across the floor. Pansy shrieked again (what an annoying bitch!) and Crabbe seized his wand. It didn't take Blaise more than a mere second to understand that the reason there was blood intermingling with Draco's vomit was because Lucius had struck him over and over again the night before.
"I'm gonna kill that retched bastard," Zabini muttered with hatred burning on his face, "just you wait, he's as dead as a doornail."
"All he did was throw up! He does this so often, you should be used to it by now." Pansy growled, pushing Blaise's shoulder slightly, though with hardly enough force to hurt him.
"I wasn't talking about Draco, I meant—" Zabini cut himself short after one long, hard glare at Draco who was positively fuming. His expression translated perfectly to the latter, saying 'if you dare utter another word I'll snap your wand and shove it so far up your arse you'll taste it.'

When their dreaded staring contest had finally ceased, Blaise nodded at Crabbe who shrugged accordingly before both headed back out of the door, clad in their Slytherin robes. Pansy gave one last look at Draco who refused to meet her gaze before ushering a quick "I'll definitely see you at lunch, yeah?" Before following the others. Draco was alone yet again. The silence was deafening, though somewhat comforting. He used to hate being alone, despised it with every inch of his being. He felt isolated and his chest tightened with the all-familiar feel of those icy hands wrapping around his torso. Though, when his father starting hitting him, he found serenity in the solitude. He made friends with the arms that would hug him far too tightly for comfort. Believe me, he still hated those hands, but they were far better than the inappropriate grip of his father's.

With an unnerved sigh and a quick flick of his wand, Draco had cleared up the sick and decided to scavenge for some clothes. He picked out his robes (of course), pants that had once fit but were far too baggy now, a white button-up with a similar story and a woolly grey jumper. It was freezing inside the castle (yes, even in the summer, though it appeared Draco was the only one who was cold...) and the boy was not taking any chances. Malfoy avoided the mirrors, squeezing the minimal amount of fat on his body and snarling at himself as he pulled on his baggy clothes. He knew he wasn't fat, anyone could see that, he just wasn't skinny enough. He would be skinny enough when his mother said so, when she stripped him down to his underclothes and inspected him with cutthroat precision (you have wide hips for a boy, your shoulders could be daintier, your legs are far too big, your hair is too long) and not be repulsed as she so often was (the bags under your eyes make you look terrible, don't you ever sleep? Your ankles are so thick, your cheeks are so chubby). Slowly, day by day, he would be perfect. Maybe then she would smile at him and embrace him just as a mother should (if you took pride in your appearance and actually tried to lose weight, maybe Lucius would leave you alone. That's all it took for me, can't you do something so simple? Are you really so stupid?)

He shook his head to clear them of the dark clouds that had settled there before striding out of his dorm and heading straight for the only place where he wasn't swarmed with memories of his last beating or fears of his next one. Where he didn't hear the words fat, fat, fat screaming in his ears — causing him to drop his wand and mess up the charm. The only place in the entire world (besides his little janitors' closet) where his chest would loosen and he could read, undistracted and not hated by everybody he knew.

Once he'd reached the library, dread dug into his shoulders and knocked him off balance as an eternal heartache bellowed in his chest and his ears rung with helplessness. Harry James Potter and his gang of perfect cronies had already occupied Malfoy's favourite spot. They had everything he wanted, everything he could never obtain.

With a hatred so profound it caused him physical pain, Draco span on his heels and thundered straight to the janitors' closet.