A/N: Hiya! Aw, thanks for those reviews! Here's the next chappie (up so
soon, oh I'm so proud of myself)! Oh, and, by the way, // means thoughts.
Reviews and constructive criticism will be appreciated, and flames will
either be used to warm the Slytherin Common Room (it's way too cold down
there) or shatted on. And, in case you didn't know, shatted is the plural
of shit. *grins*
~~~~~~~~ There Is No Such Thing As Perfection ~~~~~~~~
Chapter 2 - 'Truth' Hurts
The next couple of weeks for Draco were a blur of punches, kicks, curses, blood, his father's disappointment, and pain. Oh yes, pain, pain and more pain. But after three weeks of training every single day, Draco had got used to it.
It was actually a surprise that he had managed to finish his homework six weeks before school started again.
One fine evening when the Malfoys were having dinner in tense silence, Lucius interrupted it by suddenly saying, "Draco, you need to lose weight."
Draco almost dropped his fork, and looked up at his father, eyes wide.
"You're a bit, well, --very-- fat, Draco," Lucius said lazily. He saw the hurt in his son's eyes. "The truth hurts, boy, live with it," the man said simply.
Draco was still staring at his father, his eyes incredibly wide.
//Fat? What does he mean . . . 'fat'? Am I fat? Am I?//
To a muggle, or a wizard, even, if they had heard what Lucius Malfoy said, they would have called him mad. To a normal person, Draco wouldn't seem fat, ever. Not even a little bit. In fact, the boy was rather small and thin for his age. He had muscles, of course (who wouldn't, after sparring for three weeks straight?), but he was also more skinny than lean.
But now, he was believing every single thing his father said.
It was his father: and his father was always right, wasn't he? He knew what was best for Draco, didn't he? And if he said that Draco was fat, that meant that . . . Draco was . . . fat.
"How can you say that, Lucius? My baby is --not-- fat!" Narcissa proclaimed, seeing how hurt Lucius's comments were making Draco feel.
"Oh, stop defending him, Narcissa. Lying to our only son will only make him --weaker--. Fat means imperfection: and Malfoys are never less than perfect," Lucius said lazily, aware that each comment he made about Draco being 'fat' stung the boy more and more.
"I'm not hungry anymore," Draco said quietly, and got up and left the table, leaving Narcissa staring after him with worriedly, and Lucius grinning that feral grin he always seemed to have when Draco was hurt.
Draco ran up the stairs, not caring that he'd be punished because he left the dinner table in such a rude manner, turned left, then right, then right again, and ran into his room and flopped down on the bed.
He was --fat--!
How could he not have realised it?
Draco quickly threw his robes and his muggle shirt and jeans off, leaving him in his boxers, and stood in front of his full-length mirror, staring at his body.
He turned sideways and looked at his stomach.
How could he not have noticed this before? He --was-- fat! His father was right!
//Shit . . . I don't blame him for telling me! If he hadn't, I probably would have got even fatter, and disappointed him more! He's disappointed, I --know-- he is. I hate it when he's disappointed.//
Draco took a closer look at himself in the mirror.
//Fat . . . fat . . . there's fat everywhere! My arms are fat, my legs are fat, my stomach is fat . . .//
Draco's eyes dropped to the ground; he was unable to look at himself any longer.
He turned his back to the mirror, and started scanning the names of the books on his bookshelves, trying to find something about dieting or . . .
Draco's eyes widened suddenly as he thought of something. But could he . . . was he brave enough to . . . he'd never done it before, but . . .
//Father wants me to lose weight. So I will. I will. I'll get thinner, I'll stop eating so much, especially at Hogwarts, because then he won't be able to remind me about how fat I am, and I might just forget and have a bit too much food . . .//
Without a second thought, Draco ran into the bathroom that was connected to his room, and stopped in front of the toilet.
Slowly, he put the toilet seat up.
Was he really able to do this? Just to make his father proud?
One look in the mirror above the sink told him all he needed to know.
So he leant over the toilet, carefully put two fingers down his throat, and started pushing . . .
Suddenly, he started gagging, and quickly pulled his fingers out of his mouth, and coughed a bit.
//Pull yourself together, you pussy. All you have to do is make yourself sick. How hard can it be?//
Draco breathed in, a determined look on his face, and quickly just shoved two fingers down his throat. He started gagging again, but he still kept his fingers in place, pushing them deeper down his throat.
He felt bile rise up in his throat, but still pushed his fingers down further.
He suddenly felt even more bile in his throat, so he quickly removed his fingers from his mouth, and, to his somewhat twisted delight, started throwing up into the toilet.
When he was done he looked into the mirror.
His face was a terrible grey colour, his throat was sore, his eyes were watery, and he generally felt incredibly ill, but . . . he couldn't help thinking that if he did this everyday, then he'd eventually become thin - as thin as his father wanted him to be.
With that thought in mind, Draco gave his reflection a small smile, and started to clean up.
* * * * * *
The next week, everyday after he'd finished his training, Draco would skip dinner, make it look as if the house elves had brought him some food to eat up in his room, and go to his bathroom and make himself sick.
Day after day he got thinner and thinner, while Lucius kept insisting that Draco was still as fat as always, which made him all the more determined to carry on his regime so that he could prove to his father that he could get thin in time to see the Dark Lord.
Not that Draco wanted to meet him, but he didn't really have a choice, did he?
The next day he and his father were to be going to Diagon Alley to get all his school stuff early this year. Then he'd only have a week before meeting Voldemort. How on earth was he going to get out of that one?
It didn't matter anyway. All that mattered now was getting thin.
So, for the second time that day, Draco leaned over the toilet in his bathroom, and started making himself sick.
~ TBC ~
~~~~~~~~ There Is No Such Thing As Perfection ~~~~~~~~
Chapter 2 - 'Truth' Hurts
The next couple of weeks for Draco were a blur of punches, kicks, curses, blood, his father's disappointment, and pain. Oh yes, pain, pain and more pain. But after three weeks of training every single day, Draco had got used to it.
It was actually a surprise that he had managed to finish his homework six weeks before school started again.
One fine evening when the Malfoys were having dinner in tense silence, Lucius interrupted it by suddenly saying, "Draco, you need to lose weight."
Draco almost dropped his fork, and looked up at his father, eyes wide.
"You're a bit, well, --very-- fat, Draco," Lucius said lazily. He saw the hurt in his son's eyes. "The truth hurts, boy, live with it," the man said simply.
Draco was still staring at his father, his eyes incredibly wide.
//Fat? What does he mean . . . 'fat'? Am I fat? Am I?//
To a muggle, or a wizard, even, if they had heard what Lucius Malfoy said, they would have called him mad. To a normal person, Draco wouldn't seem fat, ever. Not even a little bit. In fact, the boy was rather small and thin for his age. He had muscles, of course (who wouldn't, after sparring for three weeks straight?), but he was also more skinny than lean.
But now, he was believing every single thing his father said.
It was his father: and his father was always right, wasn't he? He knew what was best for Draco, didn't he? And if he said that Draco was fat, that meant that . . . Draco was . . . fat.
"How can you say that, Lucius? My baby is --not-- fat!" Narcissa proclaimed, seeing how hurt Lucius's comments were making Draco feel.
"Oh, stop defending him, Narcissa. Lying to our only son will only make him --weaker--. Fat means imperfection: and Malfoys are never less than perfect," Lucius said lazily, aware that each comment he made about Draco being 'fat' stung the boy more and more.
"I'm not hungry anymore," Draco said quietly, and got up and left the table, leaving Narcissa staring after him with worriedly, and Lucius grinning that feral grin he always seemed to have when Draco was hurt.
Draco ran up the stairs, not caring that he'd be punished because he left the dinner table in such a rude manner, turned left, then right, then right again, and ran into his room and flopped down on the bed.
He was --fat--!
How could he not have realised it?
Draco quickly threw his robes and his muggle shirt and jeans off, leaving him in his boxers, and stood in front of his full-length mirror, staring at his body.
He turned sideways and looked at his stomach.
How could he not have noticed this before? He --was-- fat! His father was right!
//Shit . . . I don't blame him for telling me! If he hadn't, I probably would have got even fatter, and disappointed him more! He's disappointed, I --know-- he is. I hate it when he's disappointed.//
Draco took a closer look at himself in the mirror.
//Fat . . . fat . . . there's fat everywhere! My arms are fat, my legs are fat, my stomach is fat . . .//
Draco's eyes dropped to the ground; he was unable to look at himself any longer.
He turned his back to the mirror, and started scanning the names of the books on his bookshelves, trying to find something about dieting or . . .
Draco's eyes widened suddenly as he thought of something. But could he . . . was he brave enough to . . . he'd never done it before, but . . .
//Father wants me to lose weight. So I will. I will. I'll get thinner, I'll stop eating so much, especially at Hogwarts, because then he won't be able to remind me about how fat I am, and I might just forget and have a bit too much food . . .//
Without a second thought, Draco ran into the bathroom that was connected to his room, and stopped in front of the toilet.
Slowly, he put the toilet seat up.
Was he really able to do this? Just to make his father proud?
One look in the mirror above the sink told him all he needed to know.
So he leant over the toilet, carefully put two fingers down his throat, and started pushing . . .
Suddenly, he started gagging, and quickly pulled his fingers out of his mouth, and coughed a bit.
//Pull yourself together, you pussy. All you have to do is make yourself sick. How hard can it be?//
Draco breathed in, a determined look on his face, and quickly just shoved two fingers down his throat. He started gagging again, but he still kept his fingers in place, pushing them deeper down his throat.
He felt bile rise up in his throat, but still pushed his fingers down further.
He suddenly felt even more bile in his throat, so he quickly removed his fingers from his mouth, and, to his somewhat twisted delight, started throwing up into the toilet.
When he was done he looked into the mirror.
His face was a terrible grey colour, his throat was sore, his eyes were watery, and he generally felt incredibly ill, but . . . he couldn't help thinking that if he did this everyday, then he'd eventually become thin - as thin as his father wanted him to be.
With that thought in mind, Draco gave his reflection a small smile, and started to clean up.
* * * * * *
The next week, everyday after he'd finished his training, Draco would skip dinner, make it look as if the house elves had brought him some food to eat up in his room, and go to his bathroom and make himself sick.
Day after day he got thinner and thinner, while Lucius kept insisting that Draco was still as fat as always, which made him all the more determined to carry on his regime so that he could prove to his father that he could get thin in time to see the Dark Lord.
Not that Draco wanted to meet him, but he didn't really have a choice, did he?
The next day he and his father were to be going to Diagon Alley to get all his school stuff early this year. Then he'd only have a week before meeting Voldemort. How on earth was he going to get out of that one?
It didn't matter anyway. All that mattered now was getting thin.
So, for the second time that day, Draco leaned over the toilet in his bathroom, and started making himself sick.
~ TBC ~
