one
Draco groaned and rolled over onto his back, blinking rapidly to try to get used to the light flooding through his window. Given, it was filtered by the water on the other side, but the cold fall sunshine still found its way into his dorm room and past his eyelids. On a normal Saturday morning, he might've just spat some curses before casting a lazy room-darkening spell, but he knew he had to get up, if not for anything else then to do his shot. It wasn't often that Draco wished he was far enough along that he felt comfortable skipping his shot, but it happened from time to time - this was one of these times. Deep down, he knew he'd never truly be comfortable enough with his masculinity to skip a shot on purpose, however, a boy could hope.
Sluggishly, Draco rolled out of his bed, his feet curling as they came in contact with the cold floor. For probably the thousandth time he cursed how the Slytherin dorms had to be in the dungeons - the only good thing was the excessive room space, which, paired with his family's money and name, had scored him a single dorm room. He took a deep breath and reached into his bedside drawer, fishing out a fresh needle and a new bottle. His eyes traveled to the window, now used to the light, and he held his breath, studying the stillness of the deep blue water while he pushed down, a small hiss escaping between his teeth. No matter how many times he did his shot, it always pinched. A band-aid and some pants later, and Draco was padding around his room - topless - with a half-empty bottle of fire whiskey in hand. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand as he approached his silver-lined mirror. Draco's eyes locked on his form. His eyes ran over his body; his blonde, almost silver mop of bedhead, his similarly pale eyebrows that ran down to meet the bridge of his nose which was sharp and angular, like most of his body. Bones poked out under translucent skin, the only contrast being the blue of his veins. Draco was truly the definition of skin and bones, and yet.. His free hand came up to pinch his stomach, pulling the skin as far as it could go, and trailed up to his chest, his small but noticeable breasts firm and as pale as the rest of him bringing a scowl to his face. One of these days they'd be gone for good. All Draco had to do was resist the urge to chop them off himself.
Tearing his gaze from the mirror, Draco swung open his closet door and pulled out his usual Saturday attire - black sweats and a loose muscle tank top, both marked with the Slytherin symbol - and redressed, slipping his binder on underneath of his tank top. Slipping, perhaps, isn't the correct term to use. Truthfully, he spent a good five minutes wrestling to fasten the hooks on the side, taking small breaks to scream into his bedsheets in frustration and to let his arms rest. It was a process. A long, obnoxious, stupid process, but it gave him a sense of accomplishment.
Pansy had asked him once why he didn't use magick to help him, and though the question had left him stumped for all of a week, it'd helped him figure out himself why he didn't. The answer was obvious once he truly thought about it: he didn't want it to be magickal. Draco wanted to be a genuine, authentic, self-made boy, not one created by magick and false sights. Of course, it'd help if his mother would just allow him to get them - his breasts - removed, but she was completely dead-set on waiting until he was eighteen in case Draco changed his mind and 'decided' to be her precious little girl again. Draco gagged a little at the thought. It was almost the only thing that his mother didn't try to take his side on - normally, it was Lucius penalizing and Narcissa comforting (or, he supposed, the closest she could get to comforting when she was constantly wrapped up in her own self-pity), so when Draco had refused to wear the pretty frilly dresses his mother had sewn him as a child, he hadn't expected the situation ot flip. He supposed it had to do with his father having wanted a son to begin with, but Draco chose to just hope that it was because deep down, somewhere in that harsh, cold, unfeeling heart of his, Lucius might feel some form of love or affection for his son.
A knock pulled Draco out of his thoughts, and after calling for whoever it was to come in, his mood instantly lifted when he saw it was Pansy, also clothed in comfortable and moveable attire. Draco raised an eyebrow.
"What's this? Am I being visited, nay, accompanied by the only Pansy Parkinson on my Saturday morning workout?" Draco exaggerated his pseudo-suprise in sarcasm, ignoring how Pansy merely flipped him off with a repressed smile, "And to what do I owe the honor?"
"I have permission to go to Hogsmeade with plus two, but Blaise's dad cut him off for the month and he's yet to find a new benefactor willing to pay for some rich kid's meals," she answered plainly, if not with a little mischief behind her words, "We're going to Three Broomsticks to celebrate my birthday, and you're treating me."
Draco's other eyebrow raised as well, but he just nodded, scoffing quietly. The game of 'who pays for what' was played by even the richest of students, and Draco, whether it was out of spite for his parents or care for his friends, always somehow ended up paying. It wasn't a bother or anything, since he was a trust-fund kid, after all, but sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if his friends would spend as much time with him if he didn't pay for so much. Rolling his eyes, Draco stuck his tongue out at Pansy, who was now pulling her sleek hair up into a ponytail. "Deal. But we're doing MY workout regimen today, not yours."
Draco could see Pansy's mischevious smirk fade to a pout, "Fine, whatever."
---
"Drac - I gotta," Pansy struggled to catch her breath between words, "We gotta stop, I-" Trailing off, she stopped, bending over with her hands on her knees, and panted wildly. Draco wasn't much better off with his breath, each time he inhaled a small wheeze sounding in the back of his throat, but he didn't stop, instead he just kept jogging in place, forcing himself not to give up. "Why are-" Pansy coughed and squeezed her eyes shut, "Why do you run this much, damn." It was rhetorical, of course. They both knew why. "If you want to beat Potter, just fuckin', I don't know, buy another broom or invent one or something - cheat, lie, I don't care, just," with a sigh, she dropped to the turf, twisting her fingers in the grass, "Not this."
"Come on, Pansy, don't be a wuss," Draco breathed hard, trying his best not to let his voice tremble. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was scolding himself for wearing a binder to exercise, AGAIN, but he couldn't really bring himself to care. If there was one thing he'd never leave his dorm without, it was his binder. "It's just a little exercise. It's good for y- AH!" Letting out a yelp as Pansy swept his feet out from under him, Draco prepared for impact. Luckily for him, the turf had some sort of spell on it to make it so if anybody fell it would inflict the least amount of damage, but it was still startling.
Pansy clicked her tongue. "No, D, this isn't good for you. This is excessive." There was a pause, and though he hadn't moved from laying face first on the cold turf, Draco knew that Pansy was scrunching her nose and biting her lip - that's what she always did when she was worried. "You're not, like.. Getting bad again, are you?"
More silence.
"Dray-"
"I'm doing good, Pansy," Draco pushed himself up to maneuver into a sitting position so he could look Pansy in the eyes. "I'm doing better, I promise."
She didn't believe him. She had every right and reason not to believe him, and she didn't believe him, and Draco /knew/ that. He could see it in the way she searched his face, her eyes boring into his. "Because if you are, you know you can talk to me, right?" Her voice was softer now, and she'd caught her breath, unlike Draco, who was still struggling with his. "I don't want to lose you again, D. Can you promise me that I won't?"
Draco sighed, his jaw clenching. Why was he so angry? Pansy was only looking out for him, he had no reason to be as upset as he was, especially since she was so undeniably right. He was spiraling again. For the past week he hadn't eaten more than 1,400 calories (actually, it'd been exactly 1,217 calories, he was counting), and most of it had come from liquids. Draco couldn't admit that though, not with Pansy staring at him with her dark, monolidded eyes. "I promise you won't lose me. Things are getting better, I'm getting better. I'm healthier now."
She still wasn't convinced. Neither of them were.
Pansy broke the tension with one of her signature mischevious grins, reaching out to slap Draco on the knee. "Great. Does this mean we can stop and go to Hogsmeade now?"
Rolling his eyes, Draco stood, "Sure, whatever. I'm changing, though. There's no way in hell I'm going out in public looking like such a drowned sewer rat."