The next morning, I awake feeling more exhausted than I have ever felt in my entire life. My eyes, swollen and crusty from crying myself to sleep, fight their hardest against my feeble attempts to wrench them open, and squint away from what little sunlight has seeped into our dormitory. I force myself into a sitting position, and almost cry out in pain as I have forgotten about my broken hand. I set it in front of my face and to find it swollen, bruised, and purple. I groan at the prospect of taking it to have it fixed.
My hand, however, is not the only thing that hurts. Everything hurts. My head, my face, my shoulders, my back. Most of all, what hurts are the cuts (or more accurately slashes), where my skin met the cold, unforgiving edge of a broken mirror. These cuts – unlike the smooth, comforting sting of those caused by my razorblades – are jagged, and rough, and leave my skin with the uncomfortable sensation of being both sliced open and bruised. As I pull my knees to my chest and contemplate how on earth I am going to get on with today, I begin to feel a sense of guilt. Hadn't Harry told me to write him? Hadn't he been trying to avoid me doing exactly what I did? I reason with myself, ineffectively, that he couldn't have possibly had this kind of thing in mind because he doesn't even know that I cut myself at all, and – come on – he doesn't really want to deal with a hysterical me late into the night. Right? Right.
Looking at it that way, I think, pulling open my curtains and rummaging for some clothes, it would have been downright selfish to have written him. As I begin pulling on my clothes from within the sanctity of my curtains, I consider the absolute atrocity that will be today. If it weren't for the fact that I know Harry would come looking for me if I didn't show up for breakfast, I wouldn't bother at all with getting out of bed. I had been hoping last night that I would wake up today with my breakdown fully behind me, feeling refreshed and ready to move on. Instead, just the plain idea of talking to my housemates is causing an almost unbearable urge to shrink back into my corner and sob.
It takes me an extra two minutes to even button up my shirt, because I'm shaking so badly that I can't grasp the fasteners.
I don't say a single word to my housemates as I follow them down for breakfast. If they can tell I've been crying, they don't let it on, and its more with an air of fear that they decide to leave me be. Inwardly, a voice reminds me harshly: They don't care enough to notice.
I enter the great hall slowly and am forced to fight off an almost overpowering desire to run. Slowly and deliberately, and doing all I can to appear okay, I sit beside Pansy and begin to fill my water goblet.
"Good morning, Draco!" She chirps, with a voice that I can only describe as piercing. I mumble something in response, trying to fight off the violent trembles which don't seem to have anything to do with the temperature. "Are you okay?" She asks me. For some reason, this question angers me.
"What the fuck does it matter to you, Parkison?" I snap, spearing a piece of sausage on a fork (maybe eating will stop my shaking, even if I am just going to throw it up later). Pansy looks at me with an expression that reminds me of a wounded animal.
"Are you… are you mad at me, Draco?" She whines at me. "What did I do?" I glare at her.
"For starters, you're insisting on talking to me. Why don't you do me a favor and leave me the hell alone?" I bite into the sausage and instantly regret it.
"Just let him be, Pansy." Blaise drawls from the other side. "He's been in a state all morning. I think," he adds with a chortle, "he's a little tense because he hasn't gotten any in so long." With an evil smirk, Pansy reaches beneath the table and begins to trail her fingers up and down my thigh. I tense.
"Don't fucking touch me." I lay out though gritted teeth. She quickly withdraws her hand and turns away from me in what I'm sure she thinks is a dignified humph.
I glance across the hall in search of Harry. Either he ate breakfast early this morning, or he hasn't been down yet. I scold myself for the sinking feeling of disappointment I get because of this, and force another mouthful of food into my body. It doesn't seem to stop the shaking.
After a long, agonizing breakfast, I follow my housemates (at a distance) back into the dungeons for Potions.
By the time I get to Transfiguration, I've managed to go the entire morning without saying a word to anybody. As I walk into the classroom, my instant impression that I won't be able to pull it off again. McGonagall, sitting at her desk in the front of the room, seems sterner than I have ever seen her. She notices me right away.
"Mr. Malfoy." She barks. "May I have a word?" Groaning, inwardly, I approach the desk.
"Yes Professor?" I ask her timidly, keeping my eyes on the floor.
"You've been neglecting your homework. Need I remind you that a passing grade in this class is required for your graduation?" No, you don't. Because chances are, I won't live that long anyway.
"No, Professor." I answer her, without looking up. "Sorry Professor."
"I expect you to look at me when you are speaking to me, Mr. Malfoy." She snaps, harshly. I pick my eyes up off the floor and stare her in the face. Part of me hopes she'll realize how upset I am just so she'll cut me a little slack. No such luck, though. Her face is as stern and unforgiving as ever. "Now, I need to see some improvement from you soon, or I will be forced to write to your father." My stomach drops to my feet.
"Yes, ma'am. I understand." I mutter. To my surprise, she smiles, slightly.
"Well, alright then. If you can manage an O on the next exam, it will save you from failing." She tells me, a little bit softer. "I'll expect to see some good note-taking today." I look at her guiltily.
"Well, you see professor, I… I broke my hand, see," I hold it out to her. She takes it for inspection and – irrationally – I feel myself panic. What if I she rolls up my sleeve?
"And how did you do this, Mr. Malfoy?" She asks, seeming genuinely surprised. A thousand excuses rush though my head, each of them stupider than the last. "Young man?" She presses when I don't respond.
"I-I punched the wall," I mumble, thinking it must sound at least a little bit better than pushing my fist through a mirror. "I was angry with Blaise." The stern look returns.
"Well, Mr. Malfoy, I hope you've learned your lesson." I nod, silently. Yeah, don't look in the mirror. "Go see Madam Pomfrey at once and have her heal this for you. Don't dawdle. Whatever notes you miss from the beginning of class you will need to borrow from your housemates." I nod, beginning to panic.
"Yes, ma'am." I answer her. Without looking at any of my classmates, I quickly leave the classroom and start the trek across the castle to the hospital wing. I start to reason with myself that Madam Pomfrey has absolutely no reason to ask me to remove my robes, and so there's no way she'll find my cuts. It's not too much a stretch for my character to punch a wall. She probably won't even doubt it.
I'm so busy focusing on my excuses, and contingency plans for if I am discovered, that I run headlong into something very solid in the hallway. Due to my weakened, broken, and exhausted state, the force of the collision is enough to knock me completely to the ground.
I yelp in pain as I try to catch my fall with my broken hand, and look up from my position to see Harry standing concernedly over me.
"Draco!" He exclaims franticly as he offers me a hand up. I take it with my uninjured one and let him pull me to my feet. He lifts me effortlessly, and I feel myself admiring his strength. Blushing, I let go of his hand.
"Thanks," I mumble, staring at the ground.
"Draco are you alright? What are you doing?" He looks at me suspiciously and I try to summon an indignant anger without being able to manage it. I hold out my broken hand and allow Harry to inspect it.
"I'm going to the nurse." I tell him. "Have to get it fixed." He looks at me worriedly.
"Draco, what happened?" I pull my hand away and wrap my arms across my chest. There's a lump in my throat.
"Don't have time to talk about it," I say miserably. "McGonagall expects me back in class." Harry frowns.
"Well, alright. I'll see you in Charms, okay?" I nod.
"Okay."
"Are you going to be alright?" No. I shrug.
"I don't know." I say. "I have to be." Harry frowns again, and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder.
"It will be okay, Draco. I promise." I push my hair out of my eyes.
"Please don't promise that," I tell him. "I really need to go. I'll see you later." I push past him before I do something stupid like hug him or cry, and try to ignore the feeling on his eyes against the back of my head. I know I'll have to tell him everything, but for now, last night remains between me, and the broken, jagged, gashes in my skin.
When I enter the Hospital Wing, I'm happy to find it empty. The less people to know about this the better.
"Ah!" The matron exclaims when she sees me. "Mr. Malfoy. What can I do for you?"
"I broke my hand, ma'am," I tell her quietly. "Professor McGonagall sent me to have it healed." She offers me the same stern look of reproach.
"And you did you manage this, Mr. Malfoy?" I mutter the same excuse in her direction, and after a minute's lecture on how I need to control my temper, she heals my hand with a wave of her wand. I stare in envy at her charm work, and muse about how I can't even perform a simple vomiting spell.
"Thank you." I tell her softly. She nods, and I turn to go.
"Mr. Malfoy, hold on a moment." She calls after me. I stop. "You seem to have lost quite a bit of weight since I last saw you." She tells me. Not enough. "Have you been eating well?" She asks me. I nod, feeling my stomach flutter. I've never been confronted about this before.
"Yes, ma'am. I've just been running. Eating less junk food. My father wants me to be in shape by the time I graduate." She watches for a moment as though trying to decide whether to believe me.
"Well, alright…" She says, accepting my answer. "Just remember that your father is not the be all, end all of the world. There's nothing wrong with losing weight, as long as you do it safely." I nod.
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you ma'am." I turn around and head back toward class.
I don't see Harry in the Great Hall during lunch time either, which is unfortunate for me, because I feel like seeing him would help a little to ease my anxiety. Childishly, I even feel a little betrayed that he would offer so sincerely to help me and then not even be around during mealtimes. The logical part of my brain knows that this is stupid, but the emotional part –which right now is the greater majority – feels let down and hurt.
As I sit crammed between Pansy and Blaise, I try to keep my eyes closed. The only sensation that I am completely aware of is the dull, persistent throbbing that I can feel radiating from my mirror gashes, and the tight, sweaty compression of my fat rolls against the waistband of my pants.
"I don't know. Weasley's an idiot. At least Potter's got a brain. Right, Draco?" I open my eyes and look at Blaise. His image is blurred.
"What?" I ask, stupidly, forgetting to put on my Malfoy voice.
"I said, at least Potter's smart. I think I win on who has the worst Charms partner." I blink.
"Oh!" I add after an inappropriate amount of silence. "Yeah, you're probably right." I do my best to put on my drawl. "At least I can bully Potter into doing most of the work for me." I try to sit back in my chair, arrogantly. I can't tell how well I'm doing, but none of my housemates seem to notice that anything is off.
"You haven't touched your food, Draco." Pansy points out. "Are you sick or something?" No, but I should be.
"Yeah," I tell her, trying to sound convincing. "I think I ate something bad at breakfast. My stomach is all messed up."
"It's those damn house elves." Theo chimes in. "I told you Dumbledore was treating them too well. They'll get lazy unless you force 'em."
"Yeah," I nod, answering vaguely. I check my watch. It's nearly time for class. "I'll catch up with you guys later. I think I'll go to the hospital wing and see if Madam Pomfrey can give me something to settle my stomach."
I don't wait for a reply before I gather my stuff and head toward the 2nd floor bathroom.
I'm not shaking so badly any more, which means that sausage that I ate today has served its purpose and needn't be setting in my stomach, generating more fat. Add the few bites of lunch I took today and I can already feel my body reacting to the calories. I feel my body tense in disgust with myself.
You deserve none of it. I tell myself as I lock myself in the furthest stall. Not until you can stop fucking everything up.
"Even Harry doesn't want you." I whisper to myself, out loud. Checking for other signs of life, I determine the coast is clear and bend down in front of the toilet bowl.
I shove my finger down my throat and anything that might have been sitting inside of me comes rushing back up. You deserve this, I think. Not feeling empty enough, I do it again, this time with a little more force and with two of my fingers. I feel the scabs break lose. This will be a bleeder.
As I'm staring into a pool of my own sick, gasping and sputtering, I hear the bathroom door creak open. I hold my breath.
"Draco?" I hear a voice echo out, gently. "Draco, it's just me." The voice is moving closer. I feel a horrible wave a guilt. "Are you done?" The voice asks, now standing directly outside of my stall. "Can you come out?"
Maybe it's my way of proving that Harry can't control me, or maybe it's just because I don't deserve his sympathy, but on pure compulsion, I shove my fingers down my throat again. As I retch, I can nearly hear him cringe.
"Draco please…" And his voice is slightly less steady now. I'm silent for a moment, gasping for air. Then, after some deliberating, I flush the toilet, and pull myself – shakily – to my feet. I unlock the stall door, and open it slowly. Harry is leaning against the outside wall, holding a glass. "I brought you some water." He tells me, offering the goblet to me.
As small as it is, this simple gesture of kindness is enough to hit me like a brick. My guilt level multiplies, and as I take the cup, a lump begins in my throat.
"Thank you." I croak out, and my voice is raspy from my retching. I take a sip. I stare at the floor, afraid to make eye contact. "How did you know I'd be here?" Though my voice is barely audible, I know that he can hear me.
"Well… I realized how upset you were when we saw each other in the hallway." He answers, softly. I puts a hand on my shoulder – right on top of a mirror gash – and I cringe, visibly. Harry looks at me, questioningly, but he doesn't actually ask. "I thought you'd be having a rough day… so… I took a guess that you'd be in here after lunch." I don't answer him, but take another sip of water. "Are you okay?"
Finally picking up my gaze to look at him, I can feel my eyes begin to pool with tears. An anxious, panicky feeling begins to settle in my stomach. I shake my head.
"Not even a little bit."
Gently, Harry brushes my hair from eyes, a stray tear from my cheek. He looks at me with such intensity that I don't know if I would be possible to look away, even if I tried.
"What happened, Draco?" He asks. I shy away from him, shaking my head again. I sniff, and brush the wetness from my eyes before I can start truly crying.
"Where were you?" I whisper, instead of answering. Harry looks at me, bewildered.
"Where was I when, Draco?" He asks, appearing desperately worried that whatever had happened to me was somehow his fault.
"During lunch." I press, my voice taking on a somewhat accusatory tone. "And breakfast. You weren't even there." Harry sighs, looking guilty.
"I'm sorry, Draco." He tells me. "I was running late this morning, and then I had detention with Snape… Were you looking for me?" I blush, feeling supremely embarrassed over sounding so needy.
"No I… I just…" I stammer, backtracking. "I don't know." I glance toward the bathroom door. I can hear hordes of kids trudging through the halls, which means lunch is over and it's time to head to class. "We need to go," I tell him, almost desperately. I turn around and try to walk away. Harry grabs my wrist. I wince again. He notices.
"Draco, your health is a lot more important than a Charms grade." I pull my arm away.
"Not if I'm dead!" I snap, feeling unnecessarily hostile. "And unless I get my marks up, I may as well be!" Harry stares at me, appearing alarmed, and while I do feel bad for snapping at him, I'm still angry with him for keeping me from class. He recovers quickly.
"Alright." He answers me, steadily, and I find myself wishing that he wouldn't be so level-headed. "We'll go to class. But if it's okay with you, I think we really need to talk." I absolutely agree, but I don't know how to tell him that without admitting that I need him, and so instead I say,
"Maybe. If I feel like it." I start to head for the door, and he follows me. We walk to class in silence and I spend the commute mentally abusing myself for being so determined to scare him off. Here is Harry, the only human being to have ever tried to help me, and I'm snapping at him like he's doing me some kind of disservice.
When Harry and I walk into charms together, we earn a couple of inquisitive looks. I try to ignore this, and remind myself that they'll all just assume it's because of the assignment. Weasley and Granger seem to be more interested than everyone else, however, and I begin to feel paranoid that Harry has been telling them things.
I take my seat in the back behind Harry and instantly begin to feel uncomfortable. My collar grows hot, my cuts and gashes begin to sting, and my throat is sore and scratchy.
As Flitwick enters the room, I close my eyes and pray for it to end.