Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Potter-verse.
Author's Note: This is something in the way of an experiment. The idea jumped on me at work and I wrote most of it long-hand on my lunch break.
VISIBLE
I'm ugly. I know it, always have. Everyone would know it if they looked hard enough. But they won't. They're scared.
I act ugly on purpose, to keep them away and it works. The ogre in the fairy tale isn't nice, or kind, or human, and neither am I. It keeps people at arms length, not close enough to see.
My lovers don't see him. I come to them in the dark and kiss, and suck, and fuck, but they never touch me. I tie their hands together, or to the bed posts, and they beg to caress my skin. Sometimes they cry. They call me amazing, beautiful.
When it's over and I'm alone, sometimes I cry too.
He sees me, how ugly I am. Or, at least, I think he does. During dinner in the Great Hall his glare pins me to the table like a butterfly and my world turns emerald green. I am examined, measured. He knows I'm ugly. Someday he'll tell everyone.
(scenebreak, shift from first person perspective to second.)
Playing Quidditch again, Slytherin versus Griffindor again, and it seems like they play the same game a hundred times over. It never changes. Chasers and Beaters swarm from goal to goal like bees, Keepers swinging madly to block the target, and somewhere in the chaos and the mess is a little golden ball. Eventually the grass beneath the players will be littered with blood and boom straw, and maybe more. Maybe one of these children will fall out of the sky, like an angel, like a rag doll.
Quidditch is ugly. Maybe that's why he likes it so much.
There it is! A flash of light against the grass. Potter hasn't seen it, dodging the Bludger, he faces the wrong way, so Draco takes off. He can't hear the crowd, or the other players. He doesn't feel Potter getting closer. Straining just out of his reach, he'll never stretch that far,the Snitchknows how ugly he is and won't let him catch it. But he will. Almost.
And he doesn't feel Potter get closer, and he doesn't hear the fabric tear as he's jerked off his broom by the hem of his cloak.
And he doesn't feel the ground when he falls, or see the professors and the students gather around him, stare at him.
And he doesn't hear the whispers, or soft weeping.
He doesn't feel Severus pull a cloak over him, lift him, carry him to the infirmary.
They know now. Potter made sure. Now everyone can see how ugly he is.
(TBC)
Note: Well, that's the first chapter. I have two more written, and waiting to be posted. Just tell me what you think.
Only the first taste's free.