𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲-𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞

_____

St. Mungo's

_____

DRACO felt like he owned a hollow chest.

He hadn't ever felt this kind of sin within the cloak of his skin. He possessed every emotion, scored it like an attire, yet it was as though the organ inside of him had been torn to shreds.

He couldn't understand it — if his heart were the only thing broken, then why was his entire body paining him?

His cheeks were gaunt and his eyes had been drooping, hauntingly, the once silver hues now a dark, charcoal grey. He hadn't eaten since he last saw Hermione.

Draco had been refusing to partake in his meals whenever they were sent, claiming he hadn't owned the appetite within. 

He was lying.

He starved.

But he wouldn't give into it; the last time he did, his stomach couldn't keep it down.

Healer Silverspoon had begun to suspect his abrupt switch in demeanor. He imagined Madam Evermoore complained about the crowded plates of wasted food that she had spent time cooking.

He also scorned any healer that reminded him of his walk he was supposed to journey on every day, sending them away in an instant.

Draco couldn't force himself out of his bed, his limbs too bruised and fragile to carry the weight of him, despite the immaculate loss of flesh his body had shed.

He merely slept at night, his thinner frame caving into himself. He often hugged his knees close to his chest, the warmth of them bringing scraps of comfort, but he would snatch whatever he could.

He held his eyes closed, squeezed them, tightly, as they flooded in tears. His breaths clutched onto his lungs as the first sob wracked from his chest, and the rest came crumbling down afterward. He pressed his face into his pillow as he cried, afraid of being heard, counting to ten over and over until he hadn't anything left. The next night was always the same. 

It never got any better — it only got worse.

By the time the morning came around, his stained cheeks had glued to his soaking pillow. 

And the routine only repeated.

Draco had been lying on his mattress, tangled in the white linen sheets when he felt a steaming hot surging in his stomach begin to creep up his throat.

He doubled-over as he shuffled onto his weak feet, treading over the tiles as he hurried into the bathroom, sinking to his knees, quickly, as his stomach emptied into the toilet bowl.

This happened twice, and he was left panting afterward, a rotten taste in his mouth. Beads of sweat rolled over his ashen skin, yet he shivered with cold.

He sank back, his knees buckling beneath him as he sat on the floor. His eyes flashed, briefly, a gasp catching in his throat before he lurched forward again, his stomach now only a void.

Another gasp caught, and before he knew it, his eyes had pooled in tears, streaming down over his gaunt cheeks, quickly.

He felt as though his chest had been impaled, the steel slicing through his bones and organs, the invasion ruining his sight and body.

He couldn't ignore the flaring of pain inside of him, his hands he balanced on threatening to collapse as the atmosphere filled with his sobs.

"Draco."