A/N: Hiya. Sorry for the huge long wait. It's summer, I'm lazy and I was at the lake. Anyway, here's the next little twistaroo.
The song is "Wipe That Smile Off Your Face" by Our Lady Peace. I see it as life giving Draco a reality check in the form of a kick to the pants. Bwahahaha.
Warning: There are a lot of f-bombs in this chapter.
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Draco is not in a good mood as he makes his way from the Quidditch pitch to the showers in the Slytherin change rooms. The sun had long ago dipped beneath the horizon and the cold night air that's settled over Hogwarts' grounds does nothing for his rapidly plunging temperment. And the reason for it? The team is not looking good this year. He should have been made captain, not that blockhead Timothy Greene. The entire practice had been a crock. Greene is nothing but a fucking idiot, Draco thinks furiously as his boots crunch loudly over the dew covered grass, he wouldn't know flying tactics if they came up and bit him in the ass.
What's worse, he had watched disgustedly last week from the edge of the pitch as the-boy-who-lived-to-annoy-him caught the snitch in under ten minutes.
And they have a game against Gryffindor coming up this Saturday.
And it's Monday. Meaning they only have four bloody days to improve the team one hundred percent.
Entering the low brick building, Draco sighs and moves his way directly towards the showers. Grimacing at the pain in his sore muscles, he props his booted feet – on at a time - against a low wooden bench and proceeds to unlace the straps. That done, he slowly peels his sticky, sweat covered uniform off his chest and then removes the green and silver bottoms. He walks towards one of the eight shower heads that stick out of the tiled walls in the large square room, and cranks on the tap. He braces himself against the wall with both hands, head down, and as the cool spray of water beats down on his head and shoulders, he withholds the urge to groan loudly in pleasure. That is just not something you do in a boy's change room.
Draco is lost in his thoughts and the relaxing feeling of the water when there is a sound from behind him. He glances over his shoulder and watches Blaise Zabini, also naked as the day he was born, take position several feet away under another of the shower heads
For five minutes, there is nothing but silence between them, and the constant lull of the showers running. When Blaise finally speaks, there is a fine mist of steam and condensation on the tiles.
"So, you and Granger?"
Caught slightly off guard, Draco looks over at him. "What?"
"You and Granger," he repeats and even through the steam, Draco can tell he's smiling like the cat that caught the canary.
"There's nothing between me and Granger," Draco deadpans.
Blaise laughs out loud and Draco has the strong urge to ring his neck. "Come on, Malfoy," he says, "I've walked in on you two twice now."
Draco has half a mind to deny the accusation but that is definately a bad choice. Zabini is one of the few people he considers genuinely intelligent and the dark haired Slytherin would certainly catch on faster then Draco could to talk his way out of it. He opts for the next best excuse and tries to shrug nonchalantly.
"I'm just fucking her," Draco lies, hating himself that much more as the words leave his mouth, "we share a common room. It's convenient."
The water beating down on his sore shoulders suddenly feels much less pleasant, and he really wishes Zabini would just shut the fuck up.
But of course, he doesn't.
"Are you sure about that," he says, and there's a condescending humor in his voice, "you guys looked mighty cozy."
Slytherin politics is an intricate dance, one where you don't dare change the steps. A dangerous game, and one wrong move can send someone tattling to daddy. In retrospect, it had been too easy. He was Lucius Mafloy's son; there had never been any question of where his loyalties lied. There had never been any other alternative. Now, that isn't something Draco is so sure about.
Having a conversation like this, in the open, with another Slytherin, is not a good idea. It is time, Draco thinks, to put an end to it.
"Shut the fuck up," he sneers, "Granger's nothing but a dirty mudblood." His lip curls in disgusts and he knows it is the perfect imitation of his father.
Blaise looks at him strangely from across the room and if Draco didn't know Slytherin's, he would say he looks almost disappointed.
"Yeah. Just a mudblood," the dark haired boy echoes hollowly.
With a frown, Draco turns away, back towards his own shower and in this moment nothing makes him feel so sick and lonely as his secrets.
~*~*~*~*~
By the time Draco returns to the Head dorms, it is after midnight and Granger's door is closed. He briefly entertains the idea of knocking on her door and seeing what would ensue, but firmly stamps the urge down. She definitely seems like the type that would not be pleased with being woken up on a weekday, no matter how attractive the disturber may be.
With this amusing thought, he makes his way across the living space to his own room, quietly whispering his password - Salazar - to the closed wooden door. It opens and he steps within, squinting against the darkness before noticing a large shape outside his window, outlined by the moon. Draco pulls out his wand and casts a quick 'lumos'. On closer inspection, it's nothing more then an eagle owl sitting on the perch outside.
With a click, he opens the latch on the large pained window and watches the owl fly gracefully into the room. Automatically, Draco's eyes fall on the small tan envelope tied to the birds scaly leg, and he quickly plucks it from the tethers. Letter in hand, he sits down lightly on the edge of his bed. Something heavy rolls to one corner of the envelope. Anxiously, he tears the seal open with his index finger and removes a small slip of paper. A note.
He quickly reads the elegant scrawl.
Sunday. Midnight
That's all it says, two words, but Draco knows exactly what they mean. This coming Sunday, sometime past twelve a.m. he will be getting the Dark Mark. There is no question about it.
He tips the envelope further and something round and silver tumbles into his open palm. It is a beautiful ring, heavy set silver with a large ornate 'M' carved in the middle, surrounded by small emeralds. It looks hundreds of years old, because it is. It is the Malfoy family crest. Passed down from father to son on his twenty first birthday, it is a metaphorical symbol of becoming the man of the household.
Lucius could have just as well sent a howler of himself laughing maniacally – it would have essentially conveyed the same meaning.
Because this ring, this hateful Malfoy heirloom is nothing but a taunt. A sick, twisted way of saying "Grow up and fall into line. You belong to me."
And with this realization comes a horrible icy burning from deep within Draco's chest, twisting and tightening until he finds it hard to breath. A black fire, moving outward from his heart, cold flames spreading to lick at his limps. Devouring what was left of his freedom. His life.
Draco stands slowly and places the ring, heavy in his palm – too heavy – on the bedside table. Restlessly, he starts to pace his room. Once, twice, breathing shakily, wanting nothing more then to start yelling and screaming – fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck– or just lie back down, silently, and never wake up.
His thoughts are running through his mind on rapid fire, scrolling so fast they seem to blur into nothing but a rush of white noise and his eyes glaze over, staring into space. Draco shakes his head, snapping himself out of it and runs his hand raggedly over his face, chocking on a sob. With the action, his mind latches onto a random, stray thought – his cheeks are rough with a days worth of fine growth. Yes, he thinks rather insanely, he needs to shave. Yes, he'll just go shave. That's a great idea. He moves quickly to the bathroom, bumping his shoulder on the door jam in his haste to leave his room.
Reaching the bathroom, he opens the medicine cabinet and picks out the olden style shaving set– it too, with the beautiful ivory handled razor, was a gift from his mother. He swirls the bristles against the soap, building it into a rich creamy lather. Tipping his head up to the mirror, he watches himself apply the white foam to his cheeks and neck, making a thick layer. His reflection in the mirror is startling; his eyes look haunted, trapped, like a wild animal.
Picking up the razor from the porcelain edge of the sink, he snaps it open in one hand and eyes the silver blade. Bringing it to his face, he runs the straight edge slowly and firmly down his cheek at the perfect angle, clearing a line through the thick white foam. Then another line, stopping to rinse the build up of cream into the sink, until he turns his wrist and skims the sharp edge carefully over his jawline, under his chin half a dozen times, and lightly over his his upper lip. Dropping his hand, he inspects his work briefly in the mirror, turning his face this way and that, and then moves to bring the razor back to his cheek only to find it, curiously, already in use.
Stunned, he looks down to watch his pale hand - clutched around the ivory handle - press the razor into his skin and pull it across his forearm for what must have already been the fourth time; there are already several stinging red lines etched into his skin. Draco stares down at his wrist, transfixed, and the blade stills against his arm, as if waiting for his choice. When had he made the choice in the first place? A small drop of blood beads up under the pressure of the sharp edge, growing bigger until it escapes, rolling over the curve of his wrist. His gray eyes follow the movement as it falls through the air and then hits the floor with a small, silent splash.
The bright red splatter against the stark white tile is oddly, yet alluringly, satisfying.
His gray eyes flick back to his wrist, and his eyes follow the motion as he pulls the ivory handle from the bottom of his wrist, excruciatingly, exquisitely slowly - cringing lightly as he is finally aware of the pain – to the bend of his elbow.
This time the crimson drops fall like rain.
And then he's cutting and cutting away until there's nothing left but the burning behind his eyes, in his heart, and along his arms.
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End of Chapter Eight
A/N: Okaaay, I'm sorry, the end really wasn't supposed to be that angst-y and psycho. I was gonna end it with him finding the ring but then BAMWAHAM my sick sense of melodrama jumped up. I am so freaking horrible to Draco. Already in this moment I have a couple half finished stories where I make him an alcoholic or just plain tortured and insane from being a Death Eater. I just can't leave this poor boy alone!! Anyway, as this chapter is kinda foreshadowing, everything in the next chapter goes KABLOOEY in their faces. W00t.
And Draco and Blaise in the shower was weird. I mean, what do guys talk about when they're naked?
Well, sorry for the delay! Do you still love me? Cause if you do, you should REVIEW! (ha, that rhymed)