The Explanations

The Bathroom Explanation

When he gets up this morning, pale sallow skin awaking to the worn covers of his sheets, he feels the dry starchiness at the roof of his mouth, his curly red hair in abject disarray.

Quickly he makes his way to the bathroom to extinguish these signs of normalcy which are far from awe-inspiring. His pale lashes lower to hide from view his skinny frame, and the spots lining the top of his forehead, the marks of insect bites around the back of his shoulder blades, which protrude painfully, just like the painfully delicate hip bones barely concealed by his faded light blue and white pyjama bottoms. He tries not to see that his bottom front teeth are slightly crooked as he brushes his teeth, although no one else would be witness to this sight, because his bottom lip covers it. Normally. Hopefully.

He strips himself, feeling the slender long bones and planes beneath the tips of his fingers, smudged with ink from yesterday night's reports. There is an almost-breath of satisfaction as he admires the smooth, if freckled, surfaces devoid of baby fat, then quick censure as he, embarassed, discovers as he does twice or thrice every day that this body is too effeminate, and too weak. Quickly he slips his naked self into the bath-tub, letting the scalding -- or freezing, depending on his rotten luck -- water burn him. It would, either way.

The small cramped white bath-tub is his momentary sanctuary in its unflinching claustrophobic properties. In some backfile in his compartmentalized mind he might have once wished that he is so honest about his many countless short-comings.

He tries very hard to make up for these. But somehow he feels as if there is always a stunt to his development -- he is above average, but not genius; he is Head Boy, but without real power or real support; he is humoured by others (when it is deemed convenient) but never really liked; he is a Pureblood, but a Weasley.

He flushes at this thought, but isn't very sure whether he is embarrassed by himself in this seeming psychological betrayal of his birthright, or whether he is truly embarrassed by his birthright.

He scrubs himself hard and quickly, and steps out to dry himself with equal purging vehemence. Something akin to guilt and shame washes over him as he catches a last glance of his naked body in the mirror whilst he dresses himself, whether for his embarrassment at being a Weasley, with his tell-tale red hair and freckles, or for his embarrassment of a body, he doesn't really want to pause to think.

He tries to console himself, as he adjusts his tie, standing clothed in front of the same mirror, allowing himself the leeway to think that perhaps he isn't really so much of a failure after all -- he does, after all, have commendable results, a positive relationship with his teachers, an agreeable if unremarkable girlfriend, a recognized if superficial understanding amongst his peers, an adoring mother and a mostly approving father...

And he tells himself that someday he will make it, a brutal promise, as he runs a thin comb through his signature red hair.

Although, he never really wants to pause to think -- make it for what? Money, power, and everything he never had, he hastily assures himself.

As he steps out of the bathroom, anyway, he really must go about with achieving whatever there is to achieve, after all.