the girl who lost it all [d.m]

thirty two: ostium

And not once did Draco visit her.

And Elara never asked for him.

Because when she shut those gates, when she closed them on the events and feelings that would be her downfall if she acknowledged them—she locked him out too. She locked him out and vowed to keep him there.

Her pain was too raw to deal with. It was best she lock it up and leave it to fester. Acknowledging it would break her.

And she was so tired of being broken.

After the third week, Elara took a shower on her own—she shook her head when Hermione began to step into the bathroom with her. It had been convenient to have Hermione help her bathe, especially with her healing wounds—but she just wanted to be alone now.

So Hermione gave her a kiss on the cheek, a sad smile and shut the door quietly behind her, vowing to wait in the bedroom until she was done.

Elara sat beneath scalding hot water, letting it turn her skin pink despite her wounds for a good twenty minutes.

And when she stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her, she took a long moment to stare at herself in the mirror. At the bruises on her cheekbone, under her eye, on the side of her neck. The sealed gashes, faint scars lingering, the purple splotches fanning out from under the towel, blooming at her collarbones.

At her long hair. Wild and untamed. Her hair that had been her mother's pride and joy, she remembered. Rose Jacobs had always loved Elara's long locks.

And somehow, she knew Draco Malfoy had too.

When he'd kissed her, she'd seen flashes of memories of their past kisses—but nothing more, although the feeling that there was still something she didn't know lingered.

She didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to think about Draco and and his kiss, the imploring look on his face before his mouth met hers. Didn't want to think about him and his silver eyes. Didn't want to even touch the memory of his hand sliding into her hair, warm and firm.

The same hair that had been tangled and matted with blood the day Iris died. The same hair she saw in front of her now, spilling over her chest, clean and free of knots.

She didn't deserve to be free and clean. Not when Iris wasn't. Not when Iris was buried in in the forest behind the safehouse where they'd lain her to rest after Draco had retrieved her body.

Elara hadn't attended the service—had only curled up under her blanket, shivering and cold all over, her head throbbing.

Free and clean while Iris was dead and buried.

Elara cracked open the bathroom door and spoke for the first time in three weeks.

Hermione obliged her, albeit slightly puzzled, but Elara only took what she had asked for from her friend's hand and shut the bathroom door once again.

Then, facing the new tattered, bruised version of herself in the mirror, Elara brought the scissors up and snipped off the first strand of hair. All the way up to her shoulder. Then slightly higher up.

She watched the long strand of severed hair float to the floor. Her mother's favourite thing about her. Draco's favourite thing about her.

She took a breath and did it again.

|

Another week passed, marking exactly a month after Iris died.

February was still accompanied by icy mornings and cold winds, as well as overcast clouds, dark and heavy.