Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: New version, but not much is different. I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.
"To make it a habit takes the edge out of both pleasure and pain." - Queen Kristina
It was a challenge to shave with a piece of glass, even if it was sharp. Especially if it was sharp actually. He cut himself for the second time this morning. This particular piece seemed to be sharp in all the wrong places. He put the injured finger in his mouth and tried not to look at it or think about the blood that might be trickling from the small wound. He sucked gently but no, he didn't feel the metallic taste of blood. Only a shallow cut this time. He took a deep breath and continued shaving only to cut another finger moments later. Bloody hell! Why did he even bother?
But he knew why he bothered; he needed his routines, needed to keep some of his old habits to stay sane. That was why he shaved with a piece of glass inside a public lavatory, and that's why he tried to keep himself clean even if that meant washing his hair with icy-cold water. How else could he have survived for more than two years in that place? He washed his face too and dried both face and hair off on one of his less filthy blankets. His hair was still damp when he had finished, but he couldn't do much about that. The blanket wasn't a very good towel and there were no paper-towels in here except for the ones littering the floor.
He had discovered some time ago that the lavatories intended for the other sex usually where much nicer than men's toilets. Somewhat cleaner and usually with a mirror or two intact. This one was filthier than most, but that was a good thing. The smell and the early hour made it less likely that someone should walk in on him while he was washing himself. If someone had found him here they'd probably think that he was some kind of pervert trying to peek at peeing women.
He looked at his reflection in the dirty mirror, a pale face with gawky features, and sighed. Not a pretty sight. His hair looked grey and lifeless, but at least it was a bit cleaner now. He could have killed for a bath or a hot shower, not that it would have helped his hair much, but he missed the luxurious feeling of hot water and shampoo, shower-gel and cleanness. He had used to monopolise the bathroom for hours when he was in that mood, not that it really mattered since they had had three bathrooms at home, and he wasn't supposed to think about that now. Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it. NOT THINKING ABOUT IT!
Concentrating on the outside rather than the inside he stared angrily at the mirror. His mirror-self returned the disgusted glare. Everything that had made him cute as a kid and a young teenager seemed to laugh him in the face now. His beautiful hair had grown darker with time, until it settled with a horrible plain mousy-brown colour that only turned half-decent in the few months when the sun acted as bleach. When his classmates had hit growth-spurt after growth-spurt he had remained annoyingly short. Well, his growth-spurts had kicked in too, but he could never reach the same height as his tallest classmates. He seemed to have been doomed to stay put as one of the shortest boys in his year. It couldn't have been more than a handful of boys his age that were shorter than he was. Being taller than the girls didn't really count. He wasn't that bothered about his height anymore, he had gained about an inch since leaving school, but his frame was still too thin. It didn't matter how much he worked out, he could never get that muscular look, and he hated his skinny legs. Thank god for long robes and baggy trousers!
In a moment of self-torment he removed the clothing on his upper body. Goose bumps immediately started to form on his arms as the chilly air hit pale skin, but he ignored the cold and studied his body instead. Too much sharp angles and edginess. "Bony," he said to himself, "there's no other word for it." The muscles on his stomach were clearly defined, but not because he had worked out a lot, he just happened to have almost no body fat. 'I hope the starved look is in fashion this year', he thought bitterly and made a face to his reflection. He might look fit to an untrained eye, but he knew that he wouldn't last many minutes in a Quidditch game. Quidditch. Fuck! Why did he have to think about Quidditch?
He quickly dressed again and tried to comb his horrible, rat-coloured, plain hair with his fingers. Bleach started to seem like a good idea actually. Right, he hadn't got any money. No wait a minute, he actually had some money now, but nothing he could afford to spend on hair-care products. He gritted his teeth together. Life wasn't treating him very well right now, and he hadn't even got someone he could complain to.
He refused to accept help from Muggles, or even talk to them if it wasn't necessary for survival. The hatred was etched so deeply inside him it had become as much a part of him as his arm or his leg. He couldn't bear to give it up even if everything he ever believed in seemed to have blown up in his face once and for all. If he let go of that hatred, he would admit that he had had wrong, and then he might as well throw himself in front of a train right now. Just keep up the old habits and everything will be all right. Don't think about the things of the past. It had all worked perfectly until now. Until five days ago actually, when he had met another wizard, a wizard who might have noticed him as one of his own kind. No, who was he trying to fool? That Knut must have slipped down in the cup by accident.
It had been a crazy week. Being able to eat regularly had got him less apathetic but as his brain started to work at normal speed again the unwelcome thoughts came back. "Someone memory charm me" he groaned to no one in particular. Why couldn't his past just go away like the dirt in the sink went away if he let the water run long enough? Maybe more water needed to flow under the bridges before the past was rinsed away completely. He put his hand in the pocket where he kept his money. The coins clattered against each other as he moved his hand trying to count them. One or two days worth of food if he couldn't get any more money today. It was strange to have a plan B, even if it wasn't much spare money. The Knut lay in his pocket among the rest of the money, one painfully familiar shape among outlandish Muggle coins. Would he ever get used to it? Did he even want to get used to it? No. He withdrew his hand from the pocket and finished his morning ritual by carefully wrapping up the piece of glass in brown paper and then quickly brushing his teeth with a stolen Mickey-Mouse toothbrush.
It was still very cold outside, but the frosty morning-air was better than the stench of urine and vomit from the toilet-booths. The streets were fairly empty at this time. Only postmen and other people with some job or another to do were out at this time. He started to walk aimlessly, it was too cold to stay still, and he needed to keep moving. His damp hair chilled his head and he shuddered involuntarily. He fished around a bit in his pockets and found the apple he bought yesterday. Breakfast. Everything was like it used to be. Everything in its right place. Moving to keep the cold from chilling him to the bones. Letting his feet walk all by themselves, allowing the movement put him in a self-induced trance. No unwelcome thoughts. Walk, walk, walk. His thoughts floated away from here, away from the dusty sidewalks, away from the people on their way to work, the ones ignoring him like he wasn't even human. The ones who didn't want to see him. He ignored them too; he was way above them, even as a fallen angel he was better than anyone of them could dream to be. Shutting out everything he concentrated on the task: to walk.
The rain started 11.35 AM.