Draco laid sprawled out across the frilly pink bedspread, staring intently at the ceiling fan. Above all else, his time at Privet Drive seemed to be marked with a distinct carelessness that he had never been guilty of before. He had successfully navigated more than two full years of Quidditch games, living with roommates, summer lazing, and months at the manor without a single person discovering his self-injurious behavior. Dozens of periods in which he would vomit on purpose, and here they were two months in, and Harry had discovered everything.
He only had himself to blame, mused Draco, and now he was saddled with the guilty knowledge that - each time he participated in either of his depraved rituals - Harry would be injured in turn. He groaned, his sound of displeasure resonating off the walls of the small room. The problem was this: In the past, Draco's periods of purging had always been short lived, due mostly to his disbelief that it would actually work. Once he had been subjected to horrors of the summer, and his body had taken to dispelling almost anything that forced into it, he soon saw that his previous failure had been due to lack of frequency. Now that he was used vomiting regularly, he saw no harm in continuing the practice. He had confirmation that it worked. He bitterly resented that he had been careless enough for Harry to have caught him at it.
He glared down at his bleeding index finger as though it had betrayed him on purpose. If he intended to continue, then he would have to be much stealthier in his practice. He listened for the sounds of Harry shouting downstairs, but it - surprisingly - did not come. He wondered what he could possibly be saying to Dudley that would stem his cruel treatment.
Did he intend to continue? After all this, was he really going to risk his relationship with Harry just to continue to shove his finger down his throat? Somewhere in the very, very back of Draco's mind, a quiet voice chimed "yes", and he felt his insides crawl. He shook his head as though trying to shoo away a fly. He tried to convince himself that the little voice had not spoken; that it had decided on "no" instead.
His eyes flitted toward the door. Harry was sure to return any moment. He guiltily acknowledged that he would rather be alone with his thoughts. Even if Harry wasn't able to read his mind, it felt somehow wrong to entertain such ideas whilst they occupied the same space. As if he could sense what he was thinking.
And of course this little discovery meant that the cutting, too, would have to be drastically reduced, or Harry would possibly follow through on his threat. He would also have to find yet another instrument, and he doubted that Harry intended on making this easy for him.
He sighed. He had always longed to have someone who cared enough about him to notice, and now that he had gotten it, he was finding it inconvenient. He had never really had to sneak around before, and it was slightly irritating that Harry seemed to find his habits far more serious than Draco felt was warranted.
It was his own fault, he mused. He should never have been so indiscreet.
Silently, Draco's mind reeled with quick flashing images; memories of more than 3 years worth of self-harm and vomiting and clever avoidance of discovery. He thought back to what he was reasonably sure was the first time he had ever cut.
Professor Lupin had just finished his explanation to the class that they would today be practicing to banish a boggart. Draco stood, as usual, in the back of the throng, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Around them, students began to whisper excitedly. Began to the theorize as to what their greatest fears might be, and the different ways that they could make those objects funny. He became vaguely aware of hollow numbness, as it began to spread throughout his legs.
Here? He would have to do it here? In front of the entire class? That might be all well and good for Weasley, or Longbottom, or even Crabbe or Goyle, but him? A sick, heavy weight settled inside Draco's stomach. A strong nausea overcame him, and he suppressed a gag. Draco took a few deep breaths, prayed to whatever gods were listening that he wouldn't vomit, and sighed in relief when the feeling began to slowly fade into an ambient, non-threatening presence.
He was fairly certain of what that creature would become when he was forced to face it down. Something that - if exposed to the entire class - would ruin the reputation that he had so carefully crafted from the moment he stepped foot into the school: Lucius Malfoy. And for another matter, no matter how hard he tried, Draco couldn't possibly think of a way that he might make the sight of his father amusing.
At the front of the class, the boggart - in an imitation of Professor Snape - suddenly donned an old woman's clothes. The class roared with laughter, and Draco tried to imagine his father dressed in a similar way. The image did not amuse him. Rather, he shuddered and squirmed, uncomfortable with even thinking of it. Feeling as though his father would somehow know that he had entertained such a disrespectful idea.
Draco's sense of panic heightened when he realized that whatever happened here today was certain to get back to his father. He didn't even want to think of what would happen when he returned home for the holidays. Ahead of him, the queue of students grew shorter, and he tried his best to shift himself so he would be the absolute last to go. With any luck, they would run out of time before that happened. He closed his eyes, and could practically hear the sound of the yelling in his head. His fingers shook.
His mind raced, flipping through scenario after scenario in a hopeless attempt to find some way to make the boggart funny. He couldn't. Hysteria built inside of him so that he hardly noticed the commotion at the front of the room. He came out of himself just long enough to see Professor Lupin dive in front of Potter, blocking his view of the boggart, which this time had materialized into a Dementor. His mind then promptly returned to his predicament.
Maybe the best option was to abandon his pride and confess to Professor Lupin, privately, that he couldn't participate in this exercise, and to ask him if there was some way that he could make up the assignment. "No," Draco thought bitterly. Lupin would only insist that he battle the boggart privately, away from all of his classmates. He couldn't allow Lupin to see his greatest fear. He wouldn't put it past him to go to Dumbledore and get him involved in his private affairs. Crabbe slammed, hard, into his shoulder.
"Malfoy!" He said loudly, and Draco turned to look at him, stupidly.
"What's going on?" Students were shoving past them in droves, filing slowly out the door. Potter stood breathlessly behind Professor Lupin.
"Welcome back," Scoffed Goyle. "Potter freaked out again, Lupin's letting us go. Come on." Draco looked around, feeling dazed. A weightlessness enveloped him. He had escaped? He was free.
"You two go on," Said Draco, with distance. "I'll catch up." They both shot him questioning looks, but Draco returned their stares with a cold and threatening expression, and they shrugged and walked away. Draco was the last in the room, save for Potter and Professor Lupin. He waited awkwardly until he felt that Crabbe and Goyle had gone far enough away, and then followed them through the door.
The first place that he stopped was the bathroom. He crossed the flagstone floor and, gripping either side of the pedestal sink, he stared himself down. The nausea, which had been subtly threatening to surface, reared back in full force and he darted in the nearest stall just in time to vomit into the toilet bowl.
He stood up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The stunned surprise he had been feeling was beginning to fade away, and in its place an unwieldy rage had begun to settle. He had never been more disgusted with himself. Not only was he unable to face down a simple boggart, his worst fear was own damn father. It was humiliating, shameful, that he should be standing in this bathroom, sick with fear over the idea of him.
Anger bubbled inside of him. His blood steamed, burning him as it pumped through his veins at record speed, his heart racing to keep up with the fury he was feeling toward himself. He slammed his fist, hard, into the wall of the bathroom stall. He swore.
He exited the stall and returned to his position in front of the mirror, taking in every detail of his disgraceful visage. Feeling suffocated, he tore his bag from his shoulder and dropped it to the floor. The flap flew open, and various objects went rolling across the bathroom floor. Swearing again, Draco bent to pick them up, throwing things inside haphazardly, breaking a bottle of ink, which soaked into everything inside. He threw the offending bottle across the room where it broke into even smaller pieces.
Draco sank to his knees beside the scattered contents of the bag, glaring at all of it, breathing heavily, and contemplating even further how much of a fuck up he had turned out to be. His eyes caught the glinting reflection off his potions knife, and he grabbed it, instinctively. He stared it down, his rage building dangerously. There was a flash of silver, and Draco had made an angry slash in the unmarred skin of his forearm. Blood surfaced immediately; the cut was deep.
Draco felt an instant rush of satisfaction. A smile playing lightly on his lips, he brought the blade down a second time and slashed again, more deliberately this time, slowing down to relish in the sensation of the blade slicing effortlessly through his skin. He watched the blood trace red lines across the surface of his arm. His breathing slowed. The anger began to melt away with the pulsing stinging on his wrist and arm. He continued to slash...