Endless white stretched over his veins, pale and unblemished as winter snow. As a child, the snowflakes had fascinated him. Layers of white, rolling hills were his pleasures.
Mother's mascara always smeared around the creases of her eyes, irritating him to no end. She would hold him tightly, nails digging into his skin, quietly humming a sad tune long since forgotten by the world. Draco still had scars on his sides from those nights.
Draco loathed scars, marring and creasing layers of perfect skin. At night, he scratched his arms until they bled streaks of red. He almost thought he could purify himself through absolution. Washing himself free of his impurities, scrubbing his skin until he could finally obtain perfection and sublimity.
He drummed his fingers underneath his desk instead of writing, ink a stain on his conscience. Father had joined the Death Eaters. A twisted imagery of skulls and snakes marked his arm, forever a blemish on his purity, his flawlessness. No amount of remediation would make him whole again.
Harry's eyes were dark and fiery, skin unmarked and free of the cursed tattoo that haunted Draco's being. For a moment, when he looked into the boy's eyes, he could almost believe that forgiveness was possible.
In a heartstopping jolt, he crashed against the tree nearby, falling off of his broom, straight into the ground. Dirt streaked his arms, legs, and face, crowds of laughter surrounding his humiliation. He mourned the loss of perfection once more, of abject hopelessness and despair.
"At least he looks a bit tolerable now," the dark-haired boy laughed, as Draco's heart shattered.