Trichotillomania

"Hey, Draco."

The bloody mirror sniggers at me. They used to be so impressed by me, powerful, dark and regal. But they've seen me reduced to a quivering mess too many times now. They no longer have any respect for me.

Hey Draco, Drakie, Drakie, Draco.

My hands are shaking.

'Don't leave me here,' I whisper to the darkness. A plea, to someone, God, anyone. God, just make me stop it, before I ruin myself more. Merlin, do you hear me? Merlin the almighty, Merlin, oh God, I'm broken.

Malfoy's don't cry.

Would you understand father? We are both surrounded by glamours. Could you ever see past mine? See past the hair cream I make such a fuss to buy, the gel, the shampoos, the conditioners, the vitamins.

"Draco Malfoy, some say he's vein,

Peevsie says he's simply insane."

He buzzes past me. What can I do? What is there? The entire castle mocks me.

I wonder when it started? Just my eyebrows first. Pulling them out with my fingers, amazed at how easily they fell, and at the feeling. Like catching the snitch. Such wonderful exaltation.

I used to have a purpose, now I don't have a future.

I suppose it starts, as everything does, with him. Potter. Hair everywhere, always needing a bloody haircut. I was so angry with him when he rejected my friendship first year. I needed an outlet. I just found myself pulling at my eyelashes in frustration in history of magic.

No, it doesn't start then.

It started when I was a child. My father. Playing with my hair, I always felt that was a bit odd. Mother played with my hair, but father, father was different. There were just little things, nothing big. Just tiny things that made me uncomfortable. I didn't tell anyone, I couldn't. It's just so silly.

Just kisses that lingered too long and too wet. Touches when his hands strayed to my bum and held there long enough to make me uncomfortable, but not long enough to be anything worth getting het up about. And then one day, I just... flipped. I just thought, how dare he make me into his little Draco doll. And I washed and washed, trying to get his touches OFF ME! And then his scent lingered in my hair, no matter what scented shampoo I washed it with and I needed it gone. So I pulled and I pulled. Chunks wouldn't come out, so I individually pulled strands out Sitting in the bath with my hair swimming around me. I had a bald patch by the time I finished. It was the holidays, I couldn't use a glamour, so I wore a hat.

Soon my eyebrows were gone, but I'm so pale no one really could tell, same with my eyelashes.

My beautiful hair, my beautiful Malfoy hair.

Of course, I was careful. I could cover the patches on my head, I controlled it. To start with you could never tell.

Then He came back. The Dark Lord. And I knew what was coming, and, a coward that I am, I was afraid. So I pulled, and pulled and pulled. Knowing what was coming. Honour. Fealty. Pain. Death.

I am not brave.

It came out so easily, little pinches. White follicles on the tips of my hair. And then the spots. Little pussy spots around my hairline and eyebrows. More glamours. More potions.

He was in my room.

Stroking my hair.

Like so many times before in my childhood. But this time I didn't like it, I felt hot, I felt clammy I felt DIRTY! And that was when he noticed it, the glamour showed hair, but it wasn't there. Tension. His hand patting around. It took ages for him to leave. And then, and then... when he left.. my hair. I had to get it off.

I got clever then. I started using potions to grow back my hair overnight, potions and charms whenever I went home for the holidays. Then it got fun. I could pull out a large chunk of hair in one night and grow it back with a charm the next day. I was in my element. The more I pulled the more release, the more satisfaction and the more calmer I felt. Calm enough to work. Calm enough for the clamouring inside my head to go away long enough for me to write a decent essay.

Then... the mission.

Pulling, pulling, pulling.

Drackie, Drackie, Drackie Draco.

I'm crying again. Myrtle puts her hand on my shoulder. The mirror is croons at my reflection. My beautiful glamours. I mustn't cry. I'm going to save my father, my Mother, my family honour. I am a Malfoy.

I have no hair!

I remember when Pansy got alopecia. Her hair fell out. And I taught her the glamours at the same time stealing the lotion she was using to grow it back. It was stress, right. But she would talk to me about how she couldn't bear to see herself with no hair. And I would nod and agree and make the right noises, but at the same time here I am pulling out my hair. My precious Malfoy pride.

They say the more powerful the wizard the longer his hair. That's how it used to be anyway. Old folk lore, but some still follow it, why do you think Dumbledore's hair is long enough to fit into his belt? It's folklore, I tell myself. It's just silly nonsence.

If my father knew...

If anyone knew...

Suddenly I snap. I want to punch the mirror, scream at Myrtle, but instead...

"Finite incantatem!"

I stare at myself. It is not me.

No. No. No. No. NO! NO! NO!!!

Me without the glamours. One side of my hair hangs too long, beneath my shoulder, lank and fine, thinning and greasy from too many potions. The other side is a scarecrow mess of clumps and bald patches. Myrtle gasps and the mirror shrieks.

"Are you afraid of me?" I ask them. I feel afraid. I look like a monster. Not a malfoy, a monster.

I'M A MONSTER.

I spend ages in the mirror every day. Vanity. Insecurity. People can never know the real reason why.

Trichotillomania.

An itching in my fingers, desperate need for release.

Something magic can cure?

No, there is no cure.

So I sit in the darkness and pull, and pull, and pull. And I laugh to myself. And one day they will find me, they will take me, and they will see me for who I am inside. Spoilt, broken.

Sometimes I think I'm trying to pull off his touches, his little touches.

Maybe if he sees me this way he'll stop it.

Why am I so worked up about the touching? It's nothing, nothing! For Merlin's sake, I've had beatings from him, I'm screamed for mercy until I've passed out. I've felt his stick across my back and hands and haven't been able to lie down for weeks on end. So, why, WHY? Why am I so het up over this?

All I know is I have to keep on pulling out those hairs.

I turn to leave the bathroom. I turn and he is there. Staring. Incredulous.

Harry bleeding Potter.

"What the... what happened to you?"

"Scared Potter?"

I am.

Why do you get all the love in the world?

Golden Boy? Eh? And why does love make me so uncomfortable.

I try to obliviate him. He dodges. Damn. He runs out of sight and I'm left alone, staring at the hairs down my clothes. Glamours back on, I walk back to Slytherin.

Trichotillomania.

I would do anything to be beautiful again. Except. Stop. Pulling. I just need a release.

I take a picture of myself that night. Without the glamours. My pretty wreck. I send it to my father.

Still beautiful, father?