MY SKIN

Draco had not seen Granger at dinner. He found this to be a thoroughly pleasing sight. Not only would he be completely rid of her presence in the Great Hall, but every sliver of his person was praying that by the time he returned from practice with Theo, she would be in bed. Her scent would haunt him no longer, Granger would be in complete shambles, and he would finally get one night of peace.

Although, he had to admit that Granger's turmoil was a little concerning, but only to the effect of him actually having to endure her depressed sobs radiating from her bedroom. Her door was irritatingly thin. Draco was thankful to be going over plans with Theo for their planned practice, since the hiss of sobs through Granger's door waiting for him in the Heads dorm was something he desperately wanted to avoid. As much as he could relish her suffering from a distance, it was different when his precious sleep was being disturbed by it.

Malfoy grinned to himself when he had taken notice of the Weasley girl, who had been scribbling on parchment furiously, with a red tinge in her cheeks, for the past half-hour. She had barely touched the food on her plate and she did not seem to care. A part of him wanted desperately to believe that her older brother would be getting a howler; a potent, redheaded rage that was sure to embarrass him in front of all his Auror friends in training. Draco could already see the scrunched up look of displeasure on his face when the enchanted parchment screamed and foamed; raved and swore. A part of him desperately hoped that Weasel-Bee's embarrassment could be witnessed by the Minister himself.

It was a long shot, but the mental image was very pleasing.

"You alright with meeting at the Common Room?" Theo asked, pulling Draco from his fantasies. At first, Malfoy gave him a strange look of confusion, not fully understanding. Theo made a rather extravagant flail of his hands from the wrist joints, holding his palms out to Draco, silently pleading dramatically for some attention to be paid to the conversation. "For practice?"

"Merlin, no! It's way too far. We'll meet on the pitch," Draco replied in a haughty tone almost instantly.

"I meant to ask about that, actually," Theo began as he leaned in, as though he was about to receive some seriously juicy gossip. "Where is the Heads dorm, anyway? You always come late to breakfast and leave fifteen minutes before supper ends. Is it really that far?"

"It's inconveniently placed in one of the tallest towers of the bloody school, and it's hardly worth the travel. The place is as shoddy as a homeless shelter. One breeze and I fear for my personal safety," Draco spat out, suddenly becoming rather cross in having to discuss his living arrangements. Theo ignored Draco's apparent annoyance, as usual.

"Draco, you told me that the Tower of Pisa was a safety hazard," Nott retorted with a scoff.

Blaise snorted. "That's because Draco can't see beauty. He thinks Veelas look homely."

Draco sneered at them both, almost simultaneously. "Please. As if Blaise is any different."

Theo chuckled openly, but Blaise interjected with a pointed index finger. "That's not true. I find many things beautiful."

"Just not as beautiful as yourself, though," Theo retorted.

Draco snickered openly at Zabini's expense, rather relieved that the topic of discussion had been changed over from his own world views.

They were right, though. There was absolutely nothing that Draco found beautiful, not even flowers, like his mother or his dreadful aunt.

He did not romanticize, because there was nothing to romanticize on this earth. The world was ugly, horrendous, disgusting, and anything that could possibly be deemed beautiful was little more than an illusion of promise that people concocted in order to make every bleak day appear hopeful. Warrior poets were little more than sadists purging their psychotic world views, validating themselves with florid prose. Anything muggle-made - he could only assume through limited experience - was undesirable, at best. If a woman looked beautiful in a ballgown, it was likely that it was the best she would ever look, and the morrow would birth a harsh reality.

Nothing in this world was beautiful, spiritual, nor elysian.

This was the underworld, and the heavenly would only arrive in death.

If that.

Life was little more than a concoction of terrible experiences, padded around the edges by surreal eyes of the storm - the desirable; the proverbial calm. These brief reprieves were the moments people thought were good; the things that made life worth living. Draco deemed himself one of the few who were not stupid enough to describe the world around him as anything more than it was: wet, grimy, and covered in rocks, shit, dirt, and even dirtier people. Everything was filth, and he was a bloke just trying to keep his patch of nothing as clean as possible.

This was precisely why Malfoy found a sickening sense of bliss in seeing something like the Golden Trio ripping itself apart. What could be construed as the most reliable, familial dynamic had its issues. Nothing was perfect, and it was foolish to hope it would be, just like it was foolish for Granger to believe that Weasel-Bee had a single romantic, unselfish, or sentimental bone in his body. He was a boy who grew up among several other poorly-dressed siblings, and who never had anything for himself except hand-me-downs. No person, place, or thing, had ever truly been his to cherish. Naturally, he wouldn't know how to handle something that genuinely belonged to him with any form of care or grace.

Ronald Weasley would treat her the very same way he treated every other thing in his possession: used, durable, and inevitably forgotten.

Granger should have been able to recognize a hopeless case when she saw one.

There was no manual for passion.

"Hardly the point. Unlike Draco here, who has impeccable, yet impossible standards, I have a very keen eye for beauty. I've said it before-"

"Oh bloody hell, don't start on the sublime again, Blaise," Theo said as he covered his hands with his face. "I've told you a thousand times over, there is no girl who fits this description. You read one long, almost indecipherable essay from one muggle and suddenly, the sublime is the key. I'm officially restricting you to magical authors only-"

"It is ultimately unwise to presume that I have not done my research, Nott. Magical authors have supported Edmund Burke's theory-"

"And refuted it," Theo countered.

Blaise grimaced. "That's irrelevant."

"What the bloody hell are you two on about?" Draco asked finally, now staring between the two, his face twisted in both confusion and revulsion. Partially from the mention of a muggle author, and partially because his preoccupied mind had only jumped in mid-conversation. He took another bite of his food, chewed, and swallowed. "It's a muggle theory. How can you give that any validation?"

"Blaise seems to be under the impression, after hours of extensive research," Theo contracted a rather poignant glare from Blaise just then, "that this... theory of the sublime also applies to women and intimate relationships."

"Correction. It applies to the perfect woman and the perfect intimate relationship. In Burke's work, he insists that the sublime is something that both fascinates and terrifies. Something incredibly beautiful, but so overwhelming that it becomes simultaneously threatening and awe-inspiring. He combines fear and pleasure convincingly. 'Lo and behold, the perfect woman."

The three went painfully quiet when Blaise finished his explanation.

"Well... that..." Draco paused, trying to find the words, "the biggest load of rubbish I've ever heard."

Theo snorted. Blaise waved his hand and gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

"This might be why we're so poor with the ladies." Nott said finally, holding up his hands in surrender to the inevitable facts. "Just saying."

"Speak for yourself." Zabini replied. His gaze gradually drifted over to Malfoy, assessing the way his face paled at the attention called to him by Blaise and Theo. "Or maybe yourself and Draco."

Draco scowled again. His cheeks turned a very faint shade of pink.

"It does seem like a poor dry spell you've got goin' on there, mate." Theo admitted, his tone a little more sober. Blaise tried very hard to quiet the chuckling behind his hand. Theo merely took this as blatant encouragement. "Keep up this chastity rally of yours and Blaise and I might pitch in for a belt."

"Sod off." Malfoy retorted, scoffing at them. Blaise smirked at Theo's comment, silently forgiving him for shooting down his sublime theory. "It's only the first month of school, anyway." He shifted in his spot, a little uncomfortable with the route the conversation was taking. "You'd think having my own dorm would make it all simpler, but the truth is: getting my rocks off was a lot easier in the dungeons."

"Well, that's just depressing." Nott said, shaking his head in disappointment.

Supper inevitably came to a close. Fifteen minutes prior to the end, Draco had excused himself so that he could begin his long trek up to the seventh floor tower to change into more suitable Quidditch gear. Every step along the way caused an inch worth of dread to fill him gradually, beginning at the tips of his toes. When he had finally reached Morrigan's portrait, he was a little breathless and far more aware of the fact that there was likely a tear-soaked Granger on the other side of this barricade.

"Butterbeer," he murmured with less enthusiasm than intended. Morrigan observed him with indifference before she succumbed wordlessly to his impatience, allowing her elegant portrait to swing inward with a graceful wave of her hand and a respectful bow of her head. He climbed the few remaining steps into the common room of the Heads' tower with ease, momentarily wondering why such a lovely portrait was secluded in one of the tallest towers of the castle. Perhaps it was due to the proverbial specialness of this dorm, yet still found himself kissing his teeth at the prospect.

At least this trek could supplement his cardio for practice. Draco could just dive right into tactics instead of doing roundabouts or suicide dives with the others. He made a mental note to try taking his time gathering his things, so Blaise and Theo could get their warm-ups out of the way prior to his arrival.

He had prepared himself for quiet sobs to be emanating from Granger's room, but when he centered himself in the common area, only silence was there to greet him. Draco stiffened in response to the void he was faced with, unsure if this meant something good or bad. Either way, he felt hairs standing on the back of his neck. Trigger-warning. Something had shifted in the air here - something he was painfully unaware of. Early onset paranoia began flooding him, but he kept himself composed.

For a moment, his gaze traversed the area and noted the light state of shambles it had been left in. Mostly, the pieces of parchment littering the coffee table that sat before the dead fireplace.

Almost instantly, Draco had pieced the scene together, stooping down at the waist very slightly to pick up a shredded piece of the parchment. He observed the half-torn sentence and instantly recalled the dead-aired letter from Weasley. Granger had ripped the letter to bits, it seemed, which satisfied Malfoy more than he cared to admit. Perhaps it was because of the idea that the Weasel would finally be getting an earful from the Mudblood. As the ripped piece of parchment slipped listlessly from his fingers and to the floor, he was still deciding on which party to root for, or to root for nothing except their mutual self-destruction. There was a storm brewing on the Golden Trio's front; one that would make or break them.

Bloody hell, he hoped it broke them.

Among the shredded pieces of paper littering the coffee table was a small book. Humble and few in page count. Paperback. Draco reached down, idly brushing away the useless, torn scraps of parchment covering the title.

Dylan Thomas' Collected Poems.

The spine was cracked; split open on a particular page. Draco lifted it and only glanced briefly at one of the works, skimming one of the poems briefly before scoffing and tossing the book carelessly back onto the table. A few ribbons of the broken parchment fluttered from the impact, swirling through the air around his feet. He didn't bother to watch them.

No wonder the Mudblood lost her bloody marbles.

Turning away carelessly from the tattered remains of Weasel's all-but-subtle rejection of Granger's pining, he began his venture up the small set of stairs leading to his bedroom, murmuring the password before stepping inside. He changed briskly, deciding to pack a spare change of clothing for when practice was finished.

He wasted less time than planned in his room before he ventured back out and promptly descended the steps back into the common area.

Draco had been aiming for the exit when something red had caught his eye on the floor. Just beyond the common area, where the bathroom door stood. He tilted his head as he approached the small mess. Blood on the pale door frame. Just a smudge, likely from her small hand. Malfoy approached, but dared not touch it. Red or not, he felt it was still contaminated, and adopted a disgusted expression in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

One brief glance into the washroom and Draco instantly noted the source of the injury Granger had likely sustained.

Within the confines of the room, the mirror just above the sink had been shattered. Draco assumed it was from a brave sucker punch that Granger had catapulted into her own reflection, intent on banishing the remnants of whatever guilt she felt for the mask she wore.

Something within the guarded depths of his mind beckoned him within the confines of the bathroom, drawing him towards the shattered mirror. The scene glitched, flashing between the suffocating confines of this lavatory and the dusty, spacious, first-floor bathroom belonging to Moaning Myrtle.

Draco walked slowly into the catastrophe, almost in a daze as the memories began to resurface. The scene before him shifting between past and present. He blinked a few times. Hard.

Broken mirror.

Broken sinks.

Blood on the tiles.

Rust on the pipes.

Blank-faced, Draco absently reached out towards the sink. His pale, long fingers gently grasped the edges of a piece of the mirror, lifting it idly to observe closely. His head tilted in melancholy nostalgia, though he never frowned. He merely grew a shade paler than usual the moment he saw one of his steel grey eyes reflecting in the shard.

"Don't... don't... tell me what's wrong... I can help you."

Floating spectre. Large glasses, fogging with condensation from her building tears. She looked down on him with a strangely comforting mixture of sympathy and understanding. He had felt more leveled in that place than anywhere else, at the time.

"No-one can help me."

Malfoy inhaled deeply, almost meticulously relaxing the shard of the mirror right back on the edge of the sink, precisely where he had found it.

Order in chaos.

He laid memories to rest with a soft clink, but they never truly left him. Something about this fractured mirror - this fragmented scenario - was so painfully familiar to him. It beckoned a slight crack in his defenses, which caused him to look down at his empty hand, feeling as though he should still have that broken shard in his palm. He should have forced himself to endure his own reflection a little longer, but found no courage to do so.

He knew why she had broken this mirror.

Draco abandoned the bathroom with a clenched jaw, bag in hand with his change of clothes for post-Quidditch comfort. He did not register his actions, only caved into himself like a collapsing black hole, succumbing to a mindless deed as he shuffled about the common room briskly and efficiently.

Mindless and detestably considerate. It made him white-knuckle the grip on his bag as he prepared himself for something atrociously inevitable.

She would pay for this gentleness eventually.

Just not today.

Hermione wrapped the gauze around her knuckles, aware of Malfoy's presence in the common area, but unwilling to face him. She could barely hear him shuffling around over the sounds of her absentminded sniffles. Her eyes were red and her hand was bleeding. She refused to take a trip to the hospital wing. She had half a mind to refuse breathing at all. She tucked the gauze into place and looked down at the blood stains on her jeans, which she had depressingly tried to avoid on her way into her bedroom. Hermione hiccuped slightly, feeling the urge to cry coming on again.

Two crisp knocks sounded on her door and Granger froze, peering at the oak barricade with bloodshot, blank eyes. Blinking a few times, the knock never sounded again as she tried to wait out the notice of someone at the door. When nothing but silence greeted her, Hermione gradually lifted herself from the bed and crossed over the threshold of her room, lightly curling her good hand over the doorknob. She turned it slow, cringing from the squeak it let out. Eventually, the entrance to her bedroom was jerked open.

She saw nothing on the other side and heard only the tell-tale closing of Morrigan's portrait in the distance.

Her reddened eyes flashed warily down the hallway and she had been about to close her door when something orange caught her attention on the floor in front of her.

Hermione's gaze dropped to the space just before her feet, where a clementine rested, along with a small slip of parchment with scribbled, yet elegant handwriting on it. Fragile in her motions, she reached down to pick up the items, rolling the clementine in her small, injured hand, enduring the ache from her gashed knuckles as she brought the parchment up to read.

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

She did not smile, but her blank expression appeared to soften just a fraction.

Hermione gently shut the door, taking the slip of parchment and the clementine possessively into her sanctuary as she sniffled and began wiping away her endless tears.

Draco had taken a moment to prepare himself before he had stepped onto the pitch, remembering only when he had seen towers crumbling amongst one another. Wood blazing under flames. House colors turning to nothing but ashes and embers. He double-checked his gear and his hand tightened around the expensive broomstick he was holding, trying not to come off as too nervous. It had been quite some time since he had mustered the courage to get back on a broom again. The last time being during the war, in the Room of Requirement. He shuddered to recall the night he was seated directly behind Saint Potter, grasping tightly to the lad while flames of the Fiendfyre licked his heels.

When he finally stepped out onto the pitch, he was inwardly pleased to find that everything looked exactly the same as it had before. Fresher posts, but who cared? It was everything he needed it to be in order to forget.

Just for now. Just for a moment.

"It's about time," Theo bellowed across the pitch, standing impatiently next to Blaise. Draco purposely slowed his steps, broom in hand, just so he could watch the two boys slap their hands at their sides and marvel at his turtle pace. Inwardly, he cackled. Outwardly, he donned that traditional Malfoy smirk, mentally preparing himself to get rid of whatever tenderness he may have felt briefly, back in the Heads' dorm bathroom.

He would run himself into the ground during this practice. He would crawl back to the Heads' dormitory, collapse onto his bed, eventually wake up, and slip back into his old skin by the time he woke up.

"Go your own pace, mate. Not like daylight's going anywhere," Blaise commented loud enough for the blonde bloke to hear. The sarcasm all but dribbled off his tongue. His arms folded across his chest; broom handle tucked into the crook of his elbow, pinned against his side. Clearly unimpressed, but finding the mode of slowness just entertaining enough to accept it.

"I gave it a swift talking-to. It knows its place," Theo accentuated Blaise's impatience. Both of them snickered.

When Draco finally reached them, they rolled their eyes, eager to get themselves up in the air. There was a small pause in speech before Draco's eyebrows raised up in expectation.

"Well," Malfoy began, regarding both of the young men with his notorious arrogance. He gestured to Blaise haphazardly. "You're the captain. Start captaining."

"I'm hoping you're not this slow on the pitch, Draco," Blaise said, feigning disappointment.

Theo smirked, "he's actually hoping you are. He's so fragile about his abilities."

"Whatever," Draco scoffed out, straddling the broom handle. "You ready to kick off or what?"

"Oh, now you're ready," Theo said.

"I've been waiting on you two this whole time, and..." Malfoy checked the position of the sun, "there's not much daylight left."

Blaise snorted, finding the innocence he faked rather entertaining.

"Don't play coy, Draco. You're horrible at it."

Draco pointed at Blaise, sticking his chin out defiantly. "You take that back," he spat.

Nott decided just then to kick off from the grass without warning. There was a resounding, "haha, too slow!" that echoed from his point high above the pitch as he began swerving around the goal posts, whooping and hollering obscenities that only made Blaise and Draco chuckle as they watched him swerve and dive like a maniac. Theo almost ran into all three goal posts as he tried to skillfully swoop through them.

It wasn't until he had made a comment about their mothers that Draco and Blaise decided to take off on their brooms as well, intent on throttling the sorry sod mid-air. For a moment, it was as if all three of them had forgotten that the whole of the wizarding world was suffering the aftermath of some terrible war. It was all left behind; forgotten. The pitch was dimming and complacent, reminiscent of both good and bad times. Restored to its former glory in a way that made them children again, in spite of their forced adulthood.

They became precisely what they ought to be. Reckless teens with death wishes and very, very fast brooms.

A/N:

This is going to be the lengthiest author's note I've posted thus far. Apologies.

I also apologize if this particular chapter was not entirely up to par. I was struggling to get past a particular hiccup in my writing. I should be back on track in no time.

I really must give a special shout-out to Flightless Hope, who has taken the time to read through and review every single chapter posted of this story so far, and who has also provided me with a very intense inspiration, which I have been searching for in regards to writing these next few chapters. In return, I want to recommend Flightless Hope's stories, which have quickly become personal favorites of mine: We'll Be Legendary and Touchstone, among others. Hope's a wonderful writer and ought to be appreciated for her works.

Thank you, Hope, for your unfailing support and contribution to my muse.

Since we're on the topic, I also wanted to thank the rest of you reviewers, who have offered me wonderful insight, advice, and encouragement. Though I might not have time to respond to each of you individually, please know that I do read what you write to me, and I always appreciate every word. You are all my fuel and my inspiration to continue this story.

Please note that I hardly discourage constructive criticism. Majority of what I've written so far is rough-draft work. When I finish the story entirely, I will likely be going through and making a few changes. In this process, I will be taking whatever constructive criticism the reviewers give me into consideration. Within reason, of course. So feel free to post whatever notions, ideas, or even inconsistencies I may have overlooked. I tend to miss things quite a bit.

Thank you all for your support and your kindness.

- coddiwomple.