Chapter 2: Batshit Crazy
The remains of Sirius’s poulet au vinaigre—a triumphant, tangy masterpiece—sat congealing slightly on their plates. The kitchen was steeped in the comfortable lethargy of a good meal, the air rich with the smells of reduced vinegar, garlic, and the faint, floral note of the lavender candle burning on the sill. Remus swirled the last of his red wine, watching the legs slide down the glass. He’d been quiet for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that meant he was working up to a Parental Question.
“So,” he began, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “How’s school been, beyond the existential critiques of your wardrobe concepts?”
Draco was using a piece of bread to mop up the last of the sauce on his plate with single-minded dedication. “Mm? Fine. Madame Bouchard still has the emotional intelligence of a staple gun, but the tailoring workshop is decent.”
Sirius, who was leaning back in his chair balancing on two legs, snorted. “Staple gun. I’m using that.” He let the chair fall forward with a thump. “But come on, mon loup. School is never just ‘fine.’ There is always drama. The human petri dish of adolescence. Feed us. Is it that boy with the unfortunate haircut? The one that looks like a startled pine marten?”
“He prefers to be called ‘alternative,’ Papá.”
“I prefer my vision not to be assaulted by his bangs, but we don’t all get what we want.”
Remus shot Sirius a look that was more fond than chastising. “Ignore him. Any actual news?”
Draco chewed his bread slowly, a smirk playing on his lips. He swallowed, took a sip of water, and leaned his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. The candlelight caught the silver in his grey eyes. “Well. Since you asked so nicely, and because Papá clearly needs gossip like a plant needs water… there is a bit of a situation. With Sarah.”
Sirius’s eyes lit up. “The one who laughs like a seagull with asthma?”
“That’s the one.”
“Excellent. Continue.”
Remus sighed, but he was leaning in slightly, too. “What’s Sarah done now?”
“So,” Draco began, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, storyteller’s rhythm. “You remember Chris? Rugby player. Shockingly good taste in music. Dumb as a post about anything that didn’t involve a ball or a bassline, but… you know.” He gestured vaguely, a gesture that encompassed a world of unspoken, physically gratifying understanding.
Sirius nodded sagely. “The one with the shoulders. And the… situational awareness.”
“Precisely. Well, Sarah has been in love with him since, I dunno, the dawn of time. Puppy-dog eyes, baking him cookies he never eats, the whole pathetic symphony. And Chris has been very politely, then less politely, telling her he’s not interested for over a year.”
“But she persists,” Remus surmised.
“Oh, she persists. But here’s the new movement in our symphony.” Draco’s smirk widened. “She found out—no idea how, the walls have ears and eyes apparently—that Chris and I have been… hooking up. Casually. For a few months now.”
A beat of silence. Sirius’s eyebrows shot up. Remus took another sip of wine, his expression neutral, waiting.
“And her response to this information,” Draco continued, “was not to gracefully bow out. It was not to, God forbid, move on. It was to embark on a full-scale, tactical transformation. Into me.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Quoi?”
“I am not joking. It started subtle. She stopped curling her hair. Started straightening it bone-straight, every day. Then came the extensions to get it to waist length. Then, I swear to God, she got coloured contact lenses. Grey ones.”
Remus blinked. “She’s trying to change her eye colour?”
“To match mine,” Draco confirmed, preening just a little. “It’s the most unhinged form of flattery I’ve ever received. She looks like a discount, off-brand version of me that’s been left in the sun too long. And everyone at college sees it. It’s the talk of the canteen. Chris is mortified. He told her, again, to just stop. He said, and I quote, ‘Sarah, you’re being weird and it’s not a good look.’ Which, for Chris, is practically Shakespearean soliloquy.”
Sirius was clutching his stomach, tears of mirth in his eyes. “Non, arrête! She did not!”
“She did. But the pièce de résistance. The crescendo.” Draco paused for maximum effect. “Last weekend, she decided the final frontier was the hair colour. So she bought some industrial-strength bleach kit—the kind with a warning label featuring a graphic of a screaming skull—and tried to turn her mousy brown into platinum blonde. In her bathroom. By herself.”
Remus winced, a full-body sympathetic cringe. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. It went about as well as you’d expect. She now has what can only be described as… orange straw. With patches of scalp showing through where it just… melted off. Brittle, broken, tragic.”
The kitchen erupted. Sirius howled, slapping the table. “Elle est complètement folle! A scalp! She gave herself a chemical burn for a boy who likes your toned stomach! The audacity! The dedication! It’s almost admirable in its insanity!”
Remus was trying and failing to suppress a grin. “Draco, that’s… genuinely awful. Is she okay?”
“Physically? Probably. Emotionally? She’s currently the living embodiment of the ‘This is Fine’ dog sitting in the burning room. She came to college yesterday wearing a beanie. In May. Chris just looked at her, sighed this huge, world-weary sigh, and walked the other way.”
“And what do you do in all this?” Remus asked, his teacher’s curiosity piqued.
Draco shrugged, finishing his water. “What can I do? It’s not my circus, not my slightly-deranged, balding clown. Chris and I had a good laugh about it. He came over after practice, told me the whole saga while I was working on the toile for that corset design. We decided the best, the only policy, is to ignore it. She’s screaming into a void. We’re just… not the void.”
Sirius wiped his eyes, calming down. “Good. Smart. Never engage with a one-woman Greek tragedy. It only encourages them.” He pointed a finger at Draco. “But you watch your back. A woman willing to wage chemical warfare on her own head is capable of anything. She might try to steal your sketchbook next. Or poison your espresso.”
“I think I can handle Sarah, Papá.”
“Famous last words,” Sirius sang, getting up to start clearing plates. “Remus, back me up. This is ‘Single White Female’ territory. But with worse hair.”
Remus stood to help, collecting the cutlery. “It’s a cautionary tale about obsession, certainly. And the dangers of home hairdressing.” He carried the plates to the sink, then turned, leaning against the counter. His expression shifted, the amusement fading into something more thoughtful, more Remus-like. “But it also says something about her, doesn’t it? That her idea of winning someone over is to erase herself and copy someone else. That’s… sad.”
The mood in the room gentled. Draco uncurled from his chair and brought his glass over. “It’s pathetic,” he said, but his voice had lost its sharp edge. “And stupid. Chris likes me because I’m… me. Sassy, opinionated, good with a sewing needle. If he wanted a quiet, simpering copy, he’d be with her. The whole thing just proves she doesn’t get it at all.”
Sirius stopped, his hands submerged in soapy water. He looked at Draco, then at Remus, his dark eyes soft. “Voilà,” he said quietly. “The truth. You cannot fabricate a soul. Not with extensions or coloured contacts or… mon Dieu, bleach.” He shuddered. “It is the worst kind of recipe. All imitation, no heart.”
He rinsed a plate and handed it to Remus to dry. The radio in the corner was playing an old, crackly Édith Piaf song. The familiar, melancholy tune wrapped around the three of them.
“So, you and this Chris,” Remus said, picking up a tea towel. “It’s just casual?”
Draco nodded, hopping up to sit on the cleared countertop, careful to avoid the clean dishes. “Very. We have fun. He’s not looking for a boyfriend, I’m not looking for a boyfriend. We’re just… two hot people with compatible schedules and incompatible taste in films. It works.”
“Good,” Sirius said, with finality. “As long as he’s respectful. And as long as his shoulders continue to justify his limited conversational topics.”
“Sirius,” Remus sighed.
“What? I appreciate architecture! The human form is architecture! Those are load-bearing shoulders! It’s an observation!”
Draco laughed, swinging his legs. “He’s respectful. He even asked about my project. Well, he said, ‘What’s all the fabric for?’ which, from him, is basically a thesis defence.”
Remus smiled. “And did you tell him?”
“I said it was armor. He looked confused, then said ‘cool’ and went back to talking about his gym routine. It was a beautiful, profound moment of mutual misunderstanding.”
The last of the dishes were put away. The kitchen was clean again, the warm chaos of dinner receding into order. Sirius made coffee—a strong, dark espresso for each of them—and they drifted back to the table. The conversation meandered: Remus’s students’ latest historical blunders, a new supplier Sirius was fighting with over truffle quality, the cost of silver-grey silk dupioni.
Later, as Draco was sketching in the living room, Remus came and sat heavily on the sofa beside him. He smelled like soap and old books.
“That corset design,” Remus said, not looking at the sketchpad. “The story you found for it. It’s strong.”
Draco’s pencil stilled. “Yeah. I think it is.”
“This Sarah business… it’s the opposite of that, isn’t it? She’s trying to wear a skin that doesn’t fit. That wasn’t made for her. And it’s… falling apart.”
Draco looked at his father, really looked. The kind lines around his eyes, the patient understanding in his face. “Yeah,” he said again, his voice softer. “It is.”
Remus nodded, as if that settled something. He reached over and ruffled Draco’s hair, thoroughly destroying its perfect straightness. “Don’t ever be afraid of your own pattern, kid. It’s a damn good one.”
Upstairs, they could hear Sirius singing along off-key to the radio in the shower, something about love and loss and Paris. The sounds of their home, layered and familiar.
Draco looked back at his drawing. He picked up a finer pencil and began to sketch, very lightly, the suggestion of a hairline around the face on the page. Not his own sleek platinum fall, but something wilder, frazzled, breaking apart. A single, jagged strand, disintegrating into nothing. A footnote. A caution.
He smiled, a private, sharp little thing. Then he shaded it in, dark and permanent, making it part of the story.