The Spinning World

Draco Malfoy lets the bathroom fill with steam. He leans heavily against the reassuring plane of the door and enjoys the lines of the wood against his naked back. Strands of pale hair untuck themselves slowly from where he shoved them carelessly behind his ears. It is long now, longer than he likes to wear it, but Draco is not thinking of his hair. He is watching his toes. They clench against the tile; his left hand toys restlessly with the waistband of his pants. They are Muggle, and came with the safe house. The fabric is itchy and strange, machine-made rather than with magic. It is confusing and distracting, one more layer of himself, his life, that has been stripped away and thoughtlessly replaced with something foreign.

He takes a step forward, and another. He watches his toes flex against the cheap tile. They've ceased to look like bits of person to him, much less his own. His skin has reformed itself into a new shape of jagged puzzle pieces that slide uncomfortably over his muscles and bones. His arm is a dead thing, a white mass of scar tissue that might as well be carved of ivory for all the good it does him.

He is wet from the steam even before he steps into the shower. It clings to his skin and runs down his limbs in fat, hesitant beads. He strips his pants off almost as an afterthought, the water in the tub so hot that it feels icy on the soles of his feet.

The soap is cold on his body as well. He smoothes it over his belly in wide circles, as low smile spreading over his face. The slickness of the soap hides the jigsaw puzzle texture of his skin, and he is able to reclaim it as his own. The process is slow and painstaking, but Draco has always loved the little details and he enjoys it. It is similar to the way that Harry makes him feel, their cautious explorations of each other's skin and bodies. Draco holds each caress and kiss up for examination afterwards, comparing it with memories of fists and boots and curses. He remembers a little more each day: how the silver handle of a cane feels vastly different than an open palm. How a man's face can look the same when he is over you, on top of you, then when he watched his son play MaskMask with you in the dappled shade of his garden. How after a while, you lose sense of colour and sound and it is ludicrous to think that you ever played Quidditch or watched your mother put her makeup on or did anything but feel your body heave under the weight of things that you can't even remember the name of.

Draco names them, and holds them close. Remus told him not to be afraid of the past, that someday he would be stronger because of it. Draco doubts this, but he remembered it because it struck him as something that Pansy would have liked; Pansy had never been afraid of anything, least of all the past. Now that Remus is gone his words are gospel and Draco tries to remember all of them. Draco has searched for that piece of Remus that Professor Snape says is inside of him, but he hasn't found it yet. It is lost between silver canes and lightning bolt scars and trying to puzzle out things like refrigerators and gas stoves and how he will ever be able to return to Hogwarts.

But Draco is not thinking of Hogwarts, or lightning bolt scars, or even about his toes anymore. He shuts his eyes and lets the water wash over his face and shoulders. He wishes that Harry was here with him, and his cock shifts against his leg. He is horny in an absentminded sort of way, the way he assumes that all fifteen year old boys are, all the time. The way that Harry is.

It is strange to Draco that Harry does not seem to think about What Happened every time he touches Draco, nor does he seem to notice that Draco, in fact, does. It is exasperating and unquestionably a relief, and he has begun to think that Harry does not understand it, cannot understand it. He does not give Harry the credit that he deserves, and he is aware of this. He has always known that his view of Harry is skewed - skewed but right of course, and he never understood why everyone didn't find Harry as big of an ass as he himself did - and knows that it is the same for Harry's view of him.

Draco watches water swirl around his ankles and disappear down the drain. He is clean and washed and once again not himself. He puts on his Muggle pants and the jumper he stole from Remus' bedroom and the trousers that Harry loaned to him and looks in the mirror to see the face that Voldemort left him with. But the smile that looks back is stills lightly lopsided, and his eyes are the same grey that they've been since he was four years old and tomorrow he will be boarding the Hogwarts Express with Harry bloody Potter and he'll be damned if he won't hold his head up and face it like a man.

Draco Malfoy wipes the mirror clean with the sleeve of his jumper. His hair is long now, longer than he likes to wear it. It stays tucked behind his ears when he pushes it out of the way, and he pulls a lock over his face. It reaches his mouth, fine strands of tow that are dampened and darkened by the shower. It is lighter than his mother's hair, and nearly the exact shade of his father's. His father's hair was long, and when Draco was young he used to beg to wear his hair the same way, and tie it back with a fine ribbon, the way his father would during special occasions. He combs his hair over his face with his fingers and peers through the damp strands. They are slick and unpleasant against his skin, and he reaches towards the cabinet above the toilet without looking. He searched it the first day that they arrived in the safe house, battered and bewildered and dusty. He had pulled Harry into the bathroom after him and made him
explain every Muggle object in it and kissed him between words.

But even his father had used scissors, and Draco hadn't had to ask about those.

They make a wet, heavy sound as they slice, and he almost expects it to hurt. He leans closer to the mirror, examining his face for his father, his mother, anything but scars. Fat locks of hair fall to the sink gracelessly, and Draco cannot stop himself from grinning, choking on laughter that rises from his stomach and dissolves in the steam that still fills the bathroom. It is messy and painstaking, but Draco has always loved the small details. Hair trickles down his neck and into his jumper and he cannot feel its softness against his skin, but Draco laughs and presses a finger against the mirror and whispers, "I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."

Again. Make sure he knows that you mean it.

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead.

Again. Make sure he knows that you survived.

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."

Again. Make sure he knows that you will never forget.

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."

Again. Make sure he understands.

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."

Again. Make sure he knows that you will make him understand.

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."