Music I listened to while writing : Erik Satie - Gnossienne 1 - Alessio Nanni

He was still coughing. The cough was harsh, and a taste of blood already filled his lips. He sat up slightly in bed, feverishly and clumsily searching for one of the vials on his bedside table. Recognizing the rounded shape of one, he brought it to his lips and swallowed the contents. The bitter taste almost made him vomit. He got out of bed and quietly made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the taps and rinsed his mouth, letting the water run as he stared at himself in the mirror.

His fingers tightened on the acrylic at the sight of his reflection.

He was so thin that his skin clung to the bone, especially around his wrists and the top of his chest. For the first time, he found himself ugly.

And what about those blue marks on the pale skin of his neck? Those hideous traces of swollen fingers.

He had never cared about his appearance before, taking it for granted that he was handsome without truly feeling it. It was a fact, a message conveyed by others. The mirror had never inspired anything in him all these years; it was his face, and that was all. It didn't matter if people turned to look at him or if he sparked a sordid jealousy like his mother, or an irrational pride like his father. You wear a face, and that's that.

But now that his shine seemed to be fading, Scorpius felt afraid.

He had never thought himself so vain, but what did he have besides his beauty? That power that brought him so many problems and from which he derived so many advantages.

Pushing his hair back, keeping his fingers around the contours of his head, he examined his complexion, pale as if the colors had fled his features. For a moment, he wondered what his father would think of his appearance. He would be frightened, that was certain, and worried too. He needed to gain as much weight as possible before seeing him again. Less than a week until his first match, and his father would surely attend—a good reason to double up on meals.

He turned to the side, looking at his flat form. As he smoothed down his baggy shirt, he thought he looked like a small twig or a stick, and disgusted, he released the flannel fabric that fell to his knees.

He thought of Kate Davies. She had soft and full curves. Yes, softness emanated from her. If he didn't hate the way she looked at Albus and the veiled disdain in her eyes so much, Scorpius himself might have wanted to be held in her arms. She had the delicacy that men seek in women; she inspired their need for caresses and the desire to rest their heads on her rounded chest.

But him? He was like a doll, the kind of old doll with a porcelain face but wooden arms, rigid, with disjointed movements. Nothing sensual, just a fragile and unreal essence. The result of repeated inbreeding, but subtle and ingenious, giving a unique glow to the features without degenerating the body. A result that was ultimately frightening, almost inhuman.

For a moment, he wondered why he was thinking of Kate while looking at himself, as if he were comparing their two bodies—a disconcerting thing since he was a boy.

Scorpius had never thought of such things, even when he was in another man's arms. He saw himself as a sexless person, without understanding the implications of the term, attracting all types of people regardless of their gender, so that his own gender didn't interest him. No one seemed to see him as a man, after all.

But things had changed. Kate and he had one thing in common, and that was Albus. Albus, who looked at her with such softness, almost feverishly, lingering on her lips, leaving no distance between them. Scorpius shook his head as if to erase the memories, and frustrated, he struck the sink with his clenched fist.

He heard the toilet flush, and wanting to flee, he left. He returned to his bed in the darkness. Footsteps climbed the stairs, passed their door, then nothing more. Scorpius exhaled.

It was stupid—why had he run? A bad reflex. He felt like a ghost since he arrived at Hogwarts, not seeking to be seen or noticed, and that hadn't changed how the other students looked at him. So why bother being what they wanted or avoiding missteps? It hadn't prevented him from getting beaten up by one or becoming another's puppet. If he had to suffer, let it be worthy of him, and not of the shadow he seemed to be becoming within these walls.

They can go to hell! Maybe I'll join them.

He turned over. Albus was sleeping soundly in the bed next to his, the blanket pushed down to his feet. He must have had a double bed at home because his legs always hung over the edge of the bed, pushing the limits of the mattress. Except when they slept together, in secret. It had happened before. But this time, Malfoy had refused to stay close to Albus as he had asked. The boy's breathing had become unbearable; it reminded him of James's gasps, and the breath on his neck revolted him. They had almost the same smell, the same skin texture to the touch, the same hands.

Glancing around to make sure the other students were asleep, he grabbed the small candle on his nightstand. He gently blew on the wick, and a flame appeared—a little magic trick without a wand that Dorian had taught him. He opened the drawer to take out a piece of parchment and a quill, then scribbled as legibly as he could with so little light.

"It's over, I'm done. SM."

That short sentence seemed terrifying to him.

He carefully folded the note, shaping it into a tiny sparrow, making sure the wings were balanced, long, and uniform. Satisfied with his handiwork, he placed it on the mattress between his spread legs and took out his wand.

The boy glanced quickly around to ensure his dormmates were asleep, tapped the little bird three times, and whispered:

"Secretis Epistola ad James Potter."

The parchment sparrow came to life, shaking and stretching its little wings. If it could have, Scorpius thought, it would have wanted to sing, but it just hopped joyfully on the sheets. Malfoy extended his finger, and the paper bird perched on it. "Be discreet, don't let yourself be seen." And he released it into the air. It flew silently, high up.

He watched the small shadow disappear up the spiral staircase.

Fear gripped him, but just as when Goyle had attacked him, he felt a certain peace. He seemed to breathe better, as if a bad spell had been lifted.

He slipped back into his bed, pulling the blanket up to his waist. He stared at the ceiling, his palms raised toward the sky he never saw in the dungeons. He tried to calm the dull wave that crushed his chest, a discomfort tinged with sadness that crawled under his skin. It wasn't fear. His father had the same unpleasant sensation, and he described it so well, that inner suffocation.

"You know that unbearable feeling that you're bigger than your own body? Those are your wings trying to break free, and when they can't, the feathers crush your heart."

He loved that image, which so aptly explained this feeling, even if it was a lie. And clinging to that falsehood, he fell asleep.

End of Chapter 14