Ghost in the Shell

These insolent fancies are but Icarus feathers,

whose wanton waxe melted against the sun.

Thomas Nashe

The Brothers Grimm never knew they were getting their stories from the Squib sisters of witches, bitter old women who thought magic was nothing but blood and sex and death.

Draco knows they were right. Because his body, his blood, will make the greatest magic of all. He's been promised. Promised to, promised away, and it was Rapunzel's parents' own fault for bargaining with a witch. His hair will grow long and golden, and he will let up his master every time.

Nothing is pristine in Hogwarts, dirty blood and dirty floors making his duty more difficult, a worthy challenge for the vessel (for the pestle and the grinding and the binding). The Manor was different; when Draco cares to remember. He remembers house-elves scurrying before him, wiping down surfaces and clearing the way. The younger Slytherins whisper about it being a dark place without windows, guillotines in the dungeons and madwomen in the attic. Draco often closes his eyes to feel warm windowpanes and light, pale and thick and cutting through his hair.

Of course, he was never allowed outside without protection. Brambles and thorns cut so easily, you see, and soft light burns and peels away at precious skin.

Little Draco was eight when he knew it was the perfect age. Eight, a round and perfect number, circles on circles in circles without end. Divisible by four, by two, Mummy and Daddy and Draco and him, Draco and him. Dividing down to the most basic element.

Hallway to his room: eight steps. Two rugs, with slick wood in between. Eight means left foot, right, right foot, left. Then reverse, right foot, left, left foot, right. Leftrightrightleft, rightleftleftright. Balance. Order. The house-elves were sorry when they allowed his portions of food to touch, blurring the lines between peas and potatoes. Two different things, each with their own space. Clockwise circles around his plate, meat first, evenness, twos in bites. Equal amounts of steak in each cheek, even number of chews.

Draco wasn't very good at it then, but sixteen is a multiple of eight (double, times two) and he's almost perfect now. He doesn't even have to compensate unless he forgets, and every bite is the same, layers divided evenly. His father said Draco had an excellent palate, trained by his precise mixtures of food. Draco said it was because he loved the flavors crossing on his tongue, potato meat beans cheese, his favorite pie even if it is named for Muggles. He wasn't lying.

Grammar is one of Draco's favorite things, in French or German or even English, though English is less perfect because the rules are looser, the forms straining to break free. Noun verb direct object, noun direct object verb, every word has a gender and every article changes in the same way every time.

Patterns, puzzles, dance steps, potions.

Draco is very good at many things.

Eight times a day is sufficient for many things, like washing hands. After touching desks and tables and benches and doors, Draco can't even look at his sticky smelly fingers, covered in skin-flakes and sweat and food and god knows what else. He can never put on enough lotion afterward; it always wipes off on towels and robes.

Bodies are so fragile, so permeable, and his white limbs more than most. Ears to be swabbed, elbows and knees to exfoliate, pedicures and manicures. Draco feels most virtuous right after he's cleaned. No one says anything about how long he spends in front of the mirror, thinking he's vain. Like anything of Draco's was (ever) really for him. It would be quite tiring if.

Draco cleans his ears, once in the morning and once at night, and scrapes at his teeth with a polished fingernail when no one is watching; the spells between meals just aren't sufficient. He avoids coffee, and whitens after tea. His eyebrows are perfectly plucked. Draco is grateful that his body hair is sparse and golden. It glows in candlelight and grows downy under his arms.

Everything is preparation, and Draco never wants to miss a step. His favorite part is early in the morning, alone in the cool empty air by the second washstand. Carefully, white towel near his wand, he picks and prods and squeezes every marred pore until he glows red. What comes out is interesting.

Different shades and consistencies categorized carefully and eaten, absorbing his body back into his body. Every bit of him is precious. What is of the body must return to the body. Sometimes he bleeds a little, but the wand fixes that. The towel is for after he dunks himself in icy water, hair everywhere prickling and breath shuddering behind his sternum. Other blemishes are more difficult, but Draco's had days upon days to find ways of better serving his purpose.

Everything is not meant to be eaten; children learn that about dirt and slugs and poison. But cuticles and scabs and ear-gum and calluses are him. They are unneeded edges, unwanted scraps, flung in the fire of his stomach and forged new. His body's other expulsions disgust Draco, urination and defecation proof of his imperfection. Ugly things coming out that are wasteful and useless, beyond his control.

Food is more difficult, because mouths offer many pleasures, but this is the one Draco has. So he watches what he eats, makes sure he can feel his bottom ribs and hipbones once a week, drives his broom through the wind for an hour every day to tighten up his ass and thighs and arms. He's been told these are favorite parts.

There's something to be said for having perfect form.

His mother never takes Draco with her, but she brings back ivory brushes with boar bristles from Paris, pumice stones from Indonesia, sparkling moonbutter creams from Belgium. Eighty strokes every night with the brush before bed, smooth firm pulls that make him moan. Shameful for it to feel so good. The only things that touch Draco breathe and move under his hands, brushes and towels and parchment and robes. Silk on skin makes his eyes drift closed, twisting slightly over Egyptian sheets and under Chinese silk, brushing back and forth, up and down, twos and fours. The counting lulls him into sleep.

Draco dreams of being crumpled, broken, splintered, blue. Fingers everywhere on him. Then of being posed in a glass box, velvet throne and tinkling piano turning him around in circles, thin slitted eyes peering in on every side.

His father tells Draco that there is good touching and bad. Mother and Father touches are safe. But Draco must never, never let greasydirtyrough fingers unbutton his pants, unknot his tie, untuck his shirt, unfreeze his hands. As he grows taller Draco feels heat from bodies brushing by, wants to rub his nose into sweaty skin. For a moment. Then he asks Goyle to touch his arm and first smells burning flesh. He tells Goyle the fingerprints will grow back.

Ward. His body warded and waiting for use, awarded, rewarded.

Draco tries not to touch himself anymore, stops running absent hands through his hair and scratching itchy ankles. Hands are for service. His parents don't hug him (ever) anymore, magic crackling when they breathe too closely. Draco imagines it polluting his skin with a film of dirt and rotten flesh, spreading like oil through their chapped lips and down onto his always-cold face.

The only want inside his skin is to be perfect for his lord, but his training always fails. Always poised, always poised, but never frozen enough. Draco forgets in anger and throws himself at Harry Potter again and again, broom nudging between his thighs or dungeon walls licking at his fists. Wants him crushed, bent, snapped, black.

Without hands, all Draco has are words, cutting through air and heart and bone. He draws breath into the air instead of blood because he can't touch, can't feel skin split open. Potter like poison, staining so deeply no potion could scrub him out. And Draco is so white. Pale and ready for marking.

He hates Harry because everyone knows he's been chosen, is the pure bright boy full of their love, and Draco has to wait in the shadows, snipping loose threads from his robes. Still waiting. Working. Scrubbing inside as well as out now, closing lips and lowering eyes, Draco sharpens want pure as every hair, every pore. Time divides down from eight to four to two.

Just once. Once Draco rebels, stares at himself in the wavy bathroom mirror and stops wondering. He rubs lightly at the skin on his wrist, back and forth just over the pulse, then rubs harder and scrapes and grinds down until skin flecks off and there's a fresh pink line welling with pinpricks of blood, burning hot and tingling down to his fingernails.

If this is what touch feels like, Draco wants it. Can't wait.