He stared at his reflection in the full length mirror, watching the light play off the planes of his naked body. He couldn't help but frown at what he saw.
It wasn't that he thought himself unattractive – he could vaguely see the appeal there, even knowing he was far from being perfect. It was just...
Before, he'd mistaken it for disgust; hating what he saw because he didn't look like the people in the magazines. Now, he wasn't so sure. He didn't hate his body; if he saw someone else looking like he did, he'd probably think they were in pretty good shape, but that was just the problem. It didn't feel like his body.
No, it wasn't disgust. It was the wrongness he felt when he looked at himself, like he was looking at a stranger rather than his own reflection. Did everyone feel like that? Was this normal?
It didn't feel like it was him staring back from the mirror – or maybe it was, and that was the problem.
He'd tried to explain it to his dad once, but he hadn't got very far. It was a lot harder to talk about than he thought it would be.
"Dad?" he leant against the wall, arms folded and eyes everywhere but his father.
"Yeah?" his dad looked up at him, curiosity quickly turning to mild concern. "You alright, Louis?"
"Oh, er... yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, Dad." He didn't know what was stopping him, but he couldn't get the words out.
"You sure? You can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?"
"Yeah, I know Dad. I'm fine. Really. It's nothing. I'll just... I'll go ask Mum." He turned away from his dad's hurt expression, hating himself for causing it.
"It's fine," he whispered to himself, as if repeating it would make it true.
The conversation with his mum hadn't gone much better. He wasn't sure she'd understood; he hadn't explained it very well. But how could he? How do you even go about explaining something you didn't understand?
"Mum," he began quietly, looking down at his hands.
"Hmm?" she answered noncommittally; she wasn't really listening, keeping half her attention on the vegetables she was cutting up for dinner. Maybe it would be easier that way.
"Mum, how do you know what you're supposed to look like?" he said it all in one breath, trying to get it over with quickly; like ripping off a plaster.
"How do you mean?" he had her full attention now. It was making him more nervous than he already was; he could feel the sweat pooling in the backs of his knees, making his jeans stick to him uncomfortably.
"Like, how do you know..." he screwed up his face in frustration, tracing patterns on the table with his index finger, trying to make sense of his thoughts and voice them in a way she could understand.
"I look like me. That is how I am supposed to look," she replied, trying to make sense of what little he was managing to give her.
"Yeah, but how do you know that's you?" They were both clearly confused now. "How do you know you're not supposed to look different?" he tried to elaborate.
"You're a very attractive boy," she answered immediately, trying to alleviate self-esteem issues he wasn't entirely sure he had. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"Er... thanks, Mum, but that's not really-" he tried again.
"Do you want to lose weight? Is that it? We could go on a diet." He loved her all the more for how supportive she was being, but there was nothing he could have done to prevent the absolutely scandalised look at that suggestion. "... do you want to gain weight?" she asked hesitantly. "You do have very skinny arms."
"What's wrong with my arms?" he asked defensively, wrapping his hands around his biceps as if to shield them from view.
"Nothing! You just don't have much muscle mass, that's all. Nothing to worry about really." Well he hadn't been worried. "You could always try sports."
"Mum, that's not really-"
"You could play Quidditch with your dad. I'm sure he'd love that."
"Yeah," he sighed.
"So you'll ask him?"
"Yeah, Mum, I'll ask." Sure, his mum was happy, but he couldn't help but feel disappointed. That hadn't gone in the direction he'd hoped at all. But she'd definitely tried, and it was probably more his fault than hers anyway.
Even the conversation with his dad had gone better than his attempt to talk to Victoire.
"Hey, Vic-"
"Get out."
"Okay."
He hurried from her bedroom, closing her door on his way out. He could hear his mother yell "don't talk to your brother like that," from another part of the house.
He was maybe starting to understand it by the time he got around to talking to Dominique.
Dominique had been surprisingly helpful, though. Maybe it had been because he was beginning to understand it himself, or maybe it was just that his sister could read him so well...
"What happened to your face?" she asked him as he exited the bathroom.
"What?" he knew exactly what she meant; he'd just been staring at the bruise forming around his eye from a golf ball to the face courtesy of Uncle Charlie.
"Has Mum seen that yet?" The expression on her face was nothing short of gleeful.
"No! And you can't tell her," he scowled at his sister.
"Aw, c'mon! It's not like she won't notice it," she whined.
"Dad said he'd fix it later."
"Why not now?"
"... he was laughing too hard," he mumbled, somewhat reluctantly. "Shut up!" He glared at her widening grin.
"C'mon, you can hide out in my room," she dragged him down the corridor as she spoke. He didn't bother pointing out that he could just as easily wait in his own room; he hadn't seen her much since he'd started Hogwarts. He missed her.
"So what happened, anyway?" she asked when they were both seated on her bed.
"Uncle Charlie yelled catch."
"So you thought you'd catch it with your face?" she asked incredulously.
"No! I just didn't want to let go of my broom. We were in the air," he added defensively.
"Do you not understand how Quidditch works?"
"I know how to play Quidditch," he scoffed. "You get the ball in the hoops while you're trying to catch the other one before someone else and then there's another one that you've got to watch out for because flying around on a narrow piece of wood isn't dangerous enough for some people," he explained in one breath, voice getting higher with each word.
"O-kay," she stretched out the first syllable, eyes widening at his small rant.
"It's a stupid game," he muttered, sinking lower on the bed and glaring at her when she looked like she was about to protest.
"Honestly, you are such a girl sometimes," the exasperation was clear in her voice.
"... why is that an insult?" he asked quietly.
"Well... It's not, I guess," she turned to face him fully, a slight frown forming as she thought about it. Her scrutiny made him nervous, like he'd said something he shouldn't have. Maybe he had.
"Y'know," she said thoughtfully, pulling his hair back from his face and turning him to face the mirror. It wasn't really long enough to make the ponytail she was going for; shorter strands at the front escaping from her hold and framing his face. "If you tie your hair back you'd look like a girl."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he pulled away from her slightly, not sure if she was just teasing him.
"And if you grew it out you'd look a lot like Vic," she murmured. "You could try it."
"Why would I want to?" he scooted over to the far side of the bed, wanting to put as much distance between them as he could. She was probably messing with him, he thought bitterly. But then why did she look so serious?
"If you did, you could," she shrugged, standing up. "You'd still suck at Quidditch, though."
And maybe she hadn't meant anything by it – maybe Louis was just reading too much into it – but it did help.
It didn't fix everything – it certainly didn't change the too-hard planes of the body reflected in the mirror – but it was like she understood what wasn't being said; maybe not fully, and maybe it had been an accident, but she'd seemed to know what to say. And it had helped.
So, maybe nothing had really changed, and maybe no one really knew, but maybe everything would be okay in the end.