Notes: Oddly enough, there is no pairing. --Merely Harry and Draco in a bathroom.
I exit the stall and he is there looking back at me through the bathroom mirror. When his eyelashes flutter down to signal that he is not paying me notice, mine do the same. I keep an eye--both, actually--on my trainers as they take turns moving forward to the sinks. My hands slide round the curve of white porcelain bespeckled in fingerprints. To rest my fingers near a dirty print the size of a first year’s thumb is an odd thing. Can it be just now that I am noticing how much I’ve grown? (Malfoy doesn’t seem to know that he’s grown too, for his goons continue to flank him as though he is as porcelain and defenseless as these sinks.) Tongue flecking out in disgust, I jerk my hand away from a puddle, a brown little thing, probably filled with germs, and twist the faucet, very aware of Malfoy’s presence.
Can he hear me breathe, now? I hear him. They are normal breaths. –Air goes in, air goes out, and then his nose whistles, stuffed up. I have a fleeting memory of troll bogies in the girls’ toilets.
If he can hear me breathe, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Then, whatever chances he had—do I say this like it would be a privilege to hear me breath?—are drowned out by the swishing of water finally coming out of the old system. The pipes empty themselves noisily. Pish, they say. Pish, Pish.
I wash my hands.
What is he waiting for? I wonder, my eyes flitting over to him. He rests his hand on the sink, but does not wet it, nor does he make a move toward his soap. (It sits alone, off-white, looking for the entire world that it had been attacked by Dean’s hands, gray-smudged and -streaked with charcoal. I wonder whether Malfoy draws.) If I lean forward, I might be able to feign that I am checking for water stains on my facet in order to see what he is doing with his other hand. There is a jolt inside of me. What if he is fingering his wand, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?
“You’re going to pay,” Malfoy said to him last year. “I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done to my father.”
I glance up into the mirror again, before I make my attempt, to catch Malfoy looking back at me, his eyes vacant, but with a distinct frown tugging his thin lips. I am grasping a towel, my eyes still glued to his, when I notice his eyes flick to my scar. They are no longer flat; they are burning in outward fury, molten silver, tinged with pink over the white edges, and for a moment I think he is going to cry. Or hit me before I can see him cry.
He turns away. His hand is on the door latch by the time I notice that he still has not washed his hands, and that, though the thought sweeps through my mind insignificantly, I hadn’t ever heard him using the toilet or even the urinals. –Hadn’t heard that pitter, pitter sound.
Malfoy has never said anything to me that was not meant to anger, hurt, or humiliate. And now I am silly enough to question him when he utters the word “vengeance” nearly inaudibly.
My words are smacked away by the sound of a stall door being flung against the wall and two sets of stomping feet behind me. I notice how very white the back of Malfoy’s head is before a couple human fists meet the back of my own head.
I know nothing more.
That concluded to nothing. Unsatisfying.
I doubt he died. Though, how would I know? It ended, after all.
(M)Any Americanisms in there? I worry about that most while writing.