I'm an idiot. I'm a bloody idiot.
Draco was sitting on the side of the porcelain tub, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands wrapped around his head. He had the nearby shower on, steaming water erupting from the head. Beneath him the tub was on its hottest setting as well, the plug out so it was constantly being emptied as it was being filled. To top it off, the sink was doing the same. With all the water on, he knew Hermione couldn't hear his screaming.
What was wrong with him?
His father's voice was ringing in his ears and his mother's face was imprinted in his brain. If they knew about Granger…
No Draco. Stop now. Don't even think about them. His mother's face flashed back through his head. If they had the slightest doubt he wouldn't marry a pure-blood…
He had gone out of his way to make sure his parents in Azkaban wouldn't hear of the new law that the Ministry had passed. They didn't even know that he had gone back to Hogwarts to finish his final year.
An angry growl pulled itself from Draco's mouth, ripping into a loud grown. New anger bubbled up inside him. He jerked his head from his hands and began to search the room for anything to let his anger out on. He grabbed the foggy mirror from above the sink and ripped it off the wall. He threw it on the ground but it didn't shatter. He screamed and began to kick the mirror, knowing it wouldn't break do to some spell cast upon it long ago. Out of breath, he sat back down on the edge of the tub.
He turned his head to look out the window that rested along the back wall. He knew it was enchanted but he made his way toward it anyway. He could see the sun peeking out from behind one of the mountains on the horizon. He let out a breath and turned toward the door.
He could picture Hermione behind that door, possibly sitting in front of the fire, her hair tousled over her shoulders, her eyes reflecting the flames of the fire. Those beautiful, rich, milky, brown eyes…
Shut up Draco! He turned back toward the window and placed his forehead on the windowsill. Still, her face was imprinted in his brain and he couldn't get it out. Maybe if I just go talk to her he thought. He sat back down on the edge of the bathtub, this time his heels resting along the other side, the water lapping up at his calves.
Why couldn't he think clearly? Suddenly, as if inspired, he jumped from the edge of the tub and ripped his shirt off along with the rest of his clothes. Taking a careful note of the steamy water, he began to slip inside the tub inch by inch, the heat soaking into his veins. Once fully in, he rested the nape of his neck along a ridge in the porcelain that ran along the edge of the tub, his hair staying just out of reach of the rushing water. Finally, he made the full plunge into the boiling heat, the hairs on his neck immediately sticking up from the sudden warmth.
Once under the water, all he could picture was Hermione. Hermione in the Great Hall. Hermione in the Quidditch stands. Hermione in Hogsmead with that stupid blood traitor Weasley. He felt a natural warmth burn on his cheeks at the thought of the two of them together. The way she looked at the ginger was so unlike the way she glared at him and he could feel the jealously eating him up on the inside.
Remorse. That's what the jealously had become. The way she looked at Weasley wasn't special; she looked at everyone that way. Except him.
He thought back to all the ways he had made her life torturous. How many times had he called her Mudblood, not even flinching as the venomous word would spring from his lips? He could still picture her face their second year, the look of horror in her eyes, the distrust. All this from such a silly, stupid word. His memory flicked to their third year. He remembered watching her fist speed toward his nose. He reached up to touch the bump that protruded slightly on the bridge of his nose. He wasn't going to tell anyone that she had broken his nose, he was a Malfoy! He was still facing the taunts from fourth year when Mad-Eye had turned him into a ferret. He wouldn't let the Malfoy name be soiled further with embarrassment.
Draco's head broke the surface, his mouth sucking in air as he gasped to regain the blood flow to his head. He took another look around the relatively large bathroom and noticed his wand at the foot of the door. He took note of the way Hermione had slipped it through the crack, perfectly perpendicular to the bottom of the door. Lifting himself out of the water, he sloshed across the floor toward the door, soaking everything in his path. He bent down and retrieved his wand, taking in the careful detail he had had engraved his first year on the handle. Glancing around a second time, he noticed the now soaking pile of clothes lying in a pile next to the tub. "Siccus," he muttered as he saw the steam rise from the leaking mess. Turning toward the mirror that was still lying on the ground, he took in his reflection from above. He began to scan his face.
His hair was stuck to his forehead, stringy and crooked. He needed a haircut badly. He took in just how strikingly pale his hair appeared in the lighting. His forehead was covered by his hair but he knew the secrets underneath. The scars along his hairline. The smaller scars that scattered themselves across his brow. He could remember every beating, every rip of his hair and scalp as his father followed the Dark Lord's instructions. He could remember the look of sorrow in his father's eyes as he continued to beat him under the Dark Lord's watchful eye. His eyes were now locked on their matching counterparts in his reflection. He hated his eyes with a burning passion. Not the color or coolness that settled along his iris. No. He hated the tics. He could normally control the urges but he hated it. He could feel the pressure building up, his eyes beginning to quiver. Suddenly, they would snap shut quickly. To make it worse, his nose would scrunch up tightly simultaneously with his eyes. As he grew older, his mother was able to help him control the urges and by the time his Hogwarts letter arrived, he had them almost completely in control. It was only during stressful hours or uncomfortable occasions now that the urges would attack. Lately, though, locked in this room with Granger, his ticks had grown to attack him more frequently. Disgusted with himself, he turned away from the mirror and the self-examination and toward the enchanted window.
Judging by the sun outside, he could predict it was six o'clock. Draco has made it through the night.
Well. That was quite eventful. What shall occur next? Hmm? Review and suggest anything you'd like to happen. I'm sorry if it takes me awhile to get the next one out- they take me forever to write.