Chapter Text
As the Nimbus 2001 caked itself in its yearly dust, Draco was desperate for a way to sweep his mind. Clean and pristine is what he needed.
He found himself noticeably fidgeting often, though no one really said anything. Draco simply lived in Pansy and Blaise's peripheral vision, and they had grown used to seeing his arms up constantly adjusting his tie.
He felt as though his limbs moved on their own, whether it was to Potions class, to bed, or outside Madam Pomfrey's door, wishing he could heal what he'd done.
Draco's new life was long sleeves. He invested himself in tight long sleeves, desperate to conceal. He remembered everything about seeing and feeling the Dark Mark form on his once pale, veiny arm. No one really talks about the feeling of when it first appears on one's skin. Not a tattoo sensation, no, not like a needle. It was like a real etch. A deep carving feeling. And Draco realized that after that, maybe he could find something tangible. Something grounding, real, and desirable. Perhaps after that, he could be numb to all pain. Physical pain, that is.
Draco could not rely on clichés or comfort, and not even the words of his mother could help him, let alone get to him at all.
Snape's "Avada Kedavra" constantly echoed through his mind. He felt that jolt—falling asleep and suddenly plummeting—as if his body had followed Dumbledore down. But even more jolting was Snape's paradoxically calm utters of the Unforgivable.
He dreamt of the snake making its way out of his arm and travelling through his skin. Even in sleep he couldn't stop tracing it. The tension in his veins was so strong that at moments, they warped the shape of the mark. He would grind his teeth and clench his fists, even though his dreams had become almost plain and routine-like. No battles, no shouts of Sectumsempra. Just his day to day routine of staring at his new mark and feeling lost.
Nothing about this was prideful. This duty, this cursed assignment given to him left him cracking under pressure.
The thought of putting a blade to his skin was something he suppressed for a while, for the sake of Quidditch. He couldn't fly around and catch things with a raw arm. For a while he forgot about it, until the etching sensation brought him a new spectacle. Maybe, he thought, maybe he could have a way out.
Now, the strongest emotions he had felt were not the pride of being resourceful, or the satisfaction of being a leader. Instead, he felt the overwhelming weight of self-hatred. Self-hatred was not a trait of his, or a recurring thought. It kept entering his life like a power because it was something he could use.
Perhaps if he had beaten himself down, he would learn to stay quiet. Avoiding eye contact and concealing his emotions was a power that he channeled. Somehow, the intensity of his self-hatred fueled him. It started to define him, showing itself in his un-gelled hair and buttons he forgot to fasten.
He felt as though his heart pumped blood only to run cold, which served as something that would drive him to do what the Dark Lord commanded of him.
"I need this gone. I need to make it stop," Draco muttered through the dark.
And it was on that cloudy night that he felt he deserved to ruin himself—and this time, it would be of his own accord. His palm faced the ceiling as he traced the blade over his skin. The aftermath wasn't something he brushed over. This was no impulse. It was a ritual ready to go.
"Tergeo. The spell is Tergeo."
He could leave his bed nice and clean with this neat spell. After his affirmations, he felt ready.
He closed his eyes and swiped the blade right over the skull of his mark. He inhaled sharply. Again, he looked up at the ceiling and dragged the blade across his skin. This time, his eyelids felt heavy, and they closed on their own. Tergeo was merely a mutter.