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Ugly	By : From56to62 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 15643 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or make any money writting this.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: Hiya. 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.

------------------------------------

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 - one 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 than 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 than 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.

-------------------------------------------------------

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)
- 7
- 8
- 9
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