A/N: Super short oneshot. story about how i thought to write it is actually longer i think. Abridged version: the boy at school who has a sick resemblense to tom felton didn't get a haircut, but i thought he did.
I run my fingers across the bristle of my scalp. I've been shorn like a sheep. The gentle prickle tickles my palms and leaves me feeling slightly nauseous. I've always had hair, fringe, bangs, something. I turn around and look in the mirror. The gentle curve of my skull captures my attention for a moment. Around edges of the mirror other death eaters stand, looking on. I can't help but imagine the same skull that's only just been revealed being dashed against something hard, something stone. I can almost feel the trickle of blood and almost hear the crunch of my skull. I shiver from fear, "S'cold without hair," I say trying to appear nonchalant, trying too hard.
My mother smiles at me in the mirror; it's more like a grimace. I lift my wand and vanish the silvery blond hairs that litter the floor. I scratch my head and then stalk off to a corner without a word. The party disbands. They return to the regularly scheduled entertainment. The spectacle of my haircut proved to be disappointing. They probably hoped I'd cry or resist. They don't know; I'm past resisting. There is no resistance. Submission is the inevitable. I'm just like the rest of them. I've been branded, and now I've been shorn. Soon I'll be sent out to pasture to do his bidding. A haircut is the least of my worries. I'll be sent on my first impossible task.
I'm a sheep lining up for the shears. I'm a sheep lining up for the slaughter.
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