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Ugly	By : From56to62 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 15642 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or make any money writting this.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
A/N: I'm hoping this turned out well
enough... I put a lot of thought and effort into this one. Originally
wrote it in past tense, then while I was running through some ideas a
couple nights ago I started thinking what effect present tense would
have on it. So voila. Please review, this is the first ever present
tense fic I've written and I'd like to know how I did. Oh, and this
was originally written as a one shot, but it kinda ran away with
itself.

Summary: Caught in the act of
unintentional suicide by Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy must come to
terms that he isn't alone anymore. Can Hermione snog
some sense into him? Or better yet, a handjob to happiness? DM/HG

Warnings: Dark themes, self-injury,
sexual content, general effed-upness.

I don't look in the mirror

I don't like what I see staring back at me

Everything is clearer

I'll never see what you see

And I rot in my skin

As a piece of me dies everyday

I know I'm nothing

Because I'm ugly

- Ugly, Smashing Pumpkins

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He's shaking again, but primarily from
the cold. The stone and tile bathrooms of Hogwarts, though beautiful,
are notorious for being frigid this late in the year.

With a deftness that overrides his
shaking fingers, Draco Malfoy quickly unbuttons his cloak and school
uniform, letting them fall silently to a pile at his feet. Numbly, he
steps into the dry tub, cringing as his toes hit the cold porcelain
and reaches forward to turn on only one of the two taps. He doesn't
remember the first time he did this. Only the months, and days, and
nights - almost every night - when he has done this exact same thing
before.

It has become something of a routine.
After a day of disgustingly ruthless Slytherin politics, hostile
glares from the Gryfindors, bitting insults thrown at the Golden
Trio, mind numbing classes followed by after-class meetings where the
teachers warn him he must bring up his marks, cold letters of warning
and reprimand from his father, monotonous Head Boy duties, and more
and more wishes of an early death, he returns to the Head dorm before
Granger and divulges in this bittersweet habit. It comforts him,
wrapping him in a secure shell of steam, of porcelain, of heat.

He sits in the bottom of the tub,
pulling his knees up to his chin and doesn't move as the spray of
scalding water and steam slowly turns his pale skin into a bright
angry red.

He doesn't even understand it. Why did
Dumbledore choose him to be Head Boy? What the hell does
Dumbledore even see in him?
He stops all movement, staring at the creamy white porcelain inches
in front of him. For that is it. That is the whole bloody, underlying
enigma in the matter. As much as he wishes that it is he who
hates them, he has to admit to himself the sickening truth; It
is they who hate him. It is he who hates
himself.

"Stoppit," he mutters,
burying his palms in his eyes. He hits his head, once, roughly,
against the tub in a strange effort to quell the thoughts trying to
crawl their way into his mind. But his thoughts cannot be controlled
and against his will he is forced to entertain the things he wishes
most to forget.

There is no love in his fathers eyes.
He can't ever remember it there, even as a child. As much as he'd
obeyed him, done everything he possibly could to make his father love
him - even to hear once that he was proud of him - was all in vain.
Those cold cerulean eyes have never held anything but contempt for
the boy.

He hits his head against the tub for a
second time and feels the hot press of pain from somewhere farther
away, like it is not quite part of him. Yet in the same strange way
the pain seems to momentarily flush the thoughts and images from his
mind. It is a release much too precious to be ignored and like so
many times before he starts up a slow rhythm of physical pain to keep
the other, more deadly pain from taking over.

thump ...thump... thump

When he was little, he'd made up a
game. In it his father wasn't really his father, but instead an evil,
inescapable foe who Draco was called upon to fight. He was little
then, but he was also brave and he protected his mother from this
dark man. And in his game his mother would thank him, and tell him
she loved him. It was one day, as he ran around the manor, hiding in
the darkened corners, and slipping out to run some more that he
spotted Lucius - the villain - and he was caught. His father asked
him what he was doing, and in his childlike innocence he explained
his game. His father was angry and grabbed him by the arm and told
him that he wasn't Harry fucking Potter - fucking, he still
remembered the sound of that word, yet it wasn't the first time he'd
heard it - and if he ever caught Draco playing that game again, he
would kill him.

He was five at the time, but he
understood and never played it again. And when he was old enough to
realize it himself, he could also see how similar his imagined game
was to Potter's life and was properly disgusted.

thump thump thump

Potter. Now isn't he really the source
of all Draco's problems? He is the one who turned down his offer of
friendship. Humiliated him in front of all his peers, chose a bloody
Weasley and a mudblood over a Malfoy. It sickens him,
seeing the three of them everyday all joyful and happy and caring and
so god-awfully pristine. Always the perfect Golden Trio. But
what sickens him more is the way they effect him. Making him feel
envious, and bitter and so bloody overshadowed. And that is another
thing he can't comprehend; he knows in his mind that he is a
pureblood - a Malfoy - better then them, better then everyone. But
then where does this feeling come from - this horrible dirty taint,
all over, as if he is the mudblood. And why was he chosen to
feel this way? But isn't it fitting? Isn't he the evil, selfish,
uncaring son of a death eater? The horrible, ungodly, disgusting,
foul creature--

ThumpThumpTHUMP

Draco's mind explodes in a brilliant
flash of black and white stars and he gasps, groping wildly for the
edge of the tub. All the blood has rushed to his head and he can hear
his heart beating noisily in his ears as he shakes his head and sits
upright in the tub, all in an effort to stop the dizzy spinning in
his head.

He reaches for the faucet, turning off
the spray of scalding water, and stands clumsily in the tub; the edge
of his vision dimming threateningly at the speed in which he stands.
It takes him less than a second to conclude that it is definitely
time to get out.

By the time he's dried himself, and
slipped on a pair of black pants - naturally - the pain in his head
has receded into a dull throb. With a sigh, he moves his way
languidly towards the sink and mirror on the left side of the room,
opposite the bath.

As Draco reaches it, he braces his
right arm on the edge of the porcelain basin - being left handed -
and uses the other arm to reach up and raise the damp silver-blond
bangs from his face. The reflection in the mirror is an unhappy scowl
as he inspects the damage; a large bump on his forehead is slowly
spreading into a painful looking bruise. He glares at it for a minute
more and then lowers his bangs back down, placing his right arm
parallel to the left on the other side of the sink.

He leans forward a bit, his face coming
within inches of the mirror and his eyes narrow minutely, his
knuckles turning white as he clutches at the edge of the sink. He
doesn't think anyone can understand how much he disgusts himself in
this moment. Moreover, he can't remember feeling any differently, or
when and how his thoughts have turned so bloody oppressing.

As he stares at his reflection in the
mirror he tries to imagine what everyone else sees when they look at
him; a tall aristocratic boy, beautifully handsome in a cold, yet
undeniably intriguing way. Obviously rich, someone who has everything
he ever wanted. Yet looking at himself in the mirror now, he can see
the truth. He looks like nothing but a small, pathetic child,
searching for something he was never destined to have; a feeling - an
emotion - that he can't quite understand.

"I hate you," he whispers at
the pale boy in the mirror, "I hate you! I hate you!"

With a sudden sharp crack, the glass
shatters, sending deadly shards flying every which way. Oddly enough,
it is his emotions alone that have been enough to break the mirror.
It is a small sample of wandless magic, something he hasn't done
since he was six years old and having a temper tantrum.

"Bloody mirror," he murmurs
as he reaches up to touch his eyebrow where he has a sneaking
suspicion he's been hit. Sure enough, his fingers come away covered
in a warm crimson fluid. He rubs his bloody fingers together
absentmindedly and steps back from the sink.

With a hiss of pain and a curse, the
tender flesh of his foot is pierced by yet another piece of glass.
After a momentary pause of self-pity for his wounded appendage, he
carefully scans the floor first before he hobbles - favoring his
uninjured foot - to the tiled wall. He sinks down along the wall
warily, emotionally and physically drained from his outburst.

"Dammit," he swears again,
for no particular reason this time, as he less then lightly bangs the
back of his head against the wall in exasperation. He doesn't even
want to imagine what he looks like in this moment; siting sprawled
against the wall amongst a shattered mirror, broken glass, and bloody footprints.

His eyes scan the washroom
absentmindedly, out of something suspiciously close to boredom and
several spots of red catch his eye. He glances down at his bare chest
and for the first time notices that there are several small but deep
cuts spread across it; it seems that his eyebrow was not the only
thing that acquired damage when the mirror exploded. He pokes at one,
smearing the crimson spot into more of a streak.

From seemingly nowhere, the thought
comes into his mind of what would happen if he were to cut himself.
On purpose.

He scoffs out loud, shaking his head at
his own stupid thoughts, but the idea won't leave his mind, and the
more he mulls it over, the better it sounds. Deciding to humor
himself, if only for a second, he picks up a rather large shard of
the broken mirror and twists it between his fingers, watching the
light glint off the sharp edges. Now, where would be the perfect
place to make the first cut? Either from an odd burst of inspiration
or his own cynical thoughts, Draco easily comes to the answer without
more then a seconds pause.

Turning his arm, he smiles down at the
impossibly pale skin of his wrist where, if his father has his way,
there will be the skull and snake tattoo. He doesn't know when this
will happen - months, weeks, maybe even days - his father never tells
him anything.

It seems befitting that this is where
he should scar first, Draco musses and with a burst of recklessness
he viciously drags the glass across his wrist. The immediate shock of
pain is surprising and he gasps lightly, the glass slipping from his
fingers. Though he is no idiot, he expected for some reason that
there would be no pain involved in self mutilation. He'd heard or
perhaps read about it before; people who cut themselves and felt no
pain, and in the same way, he expected the same results.

Yet as he holds up his hand in front of
his face and watches the blood run down his palm and drip from
between his fingers, he no longer feels disappointed. The crimson
liquid is oddly mesmerizing and the pain is distracting; he cannot
get enough of it.

He picks up another shard of glass from
the floor - after all, there are many to choose from - and after a
brief hesitation, drags it up his arm once more.

This time, instead of being in shock of
the pain, he revels in it. He imagines that he can almost feel every
nerve come alive, and the swift rush of blood through his veins to
the small, stinging wound.

Before long he is slicing away at any
exposed skin he can see. At first they are light and shallow, only
experimenting with his body's reactions, but soon there is a wild,
uncontrolled look in his pale gray eyes and the cuts are deep and
painful. Breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through his veins -
though he doesn't understand why - he stops to inspect his handy
work. His chest and arms are a patchwork of deep red lines and he
smiles gleefully, moving to make another cut.

Suddenly, from somewhere outside of his
self induced stupor, he notices a voice on the other side of the door
- from the Head common room. His arm freezes in mid-air.

"Malfoy!" comes the immensely
agitated - and agitating - voice of Hermione Granger. It's obvious by
her tone that she's been calling his name for sometime."It's
your turn to patrol the hallways! You have two minutes and you bloody
well hurry up!"

He hears the sound of footsteps, a door
opening and his name being called from a seemingly father distance.
Then more footsteps and he can hear her well enough again to make out
words. "Get your arse out here! You're going to be late and I
will not be blamed for this!"

She stops yelling long enough to mutter
something that sounds suspiciously like "Bloody Slytherin.
Can't be trusted to do a thing himself. Freakin baby" but
the fact that he can make out what she is muttering is the first
thing that alerts him to the realization that she is much too close
to the bathroom door.

He instantly tries to think back to if
he had remembered to lock the door or not, but he gets his answer
when there is a click, the door opens, and Hermione follows.

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

End of first chapter.

Okay, this was supposed to be a one
shot but it got waaaaaaaaay too long. I actually have most of the
other bits written. So I'm going to finish the rest and then make
weekly or bi-weekly updates once I've separated all the chapters.
This was story was inspired by a rather effed up friend of mine that lies in the tub under scalding water when he's drunk, and there's pretty much no getting him out. Anyway, review review review! Please?
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Ugly