Chapter 3: Proud Paper stuffing
The smell of roasting chicken and rosemary filled the house, a warm, earthy anchor against the damp chill of the evening outside. In the living room, Remus was grading papers, red pen scratching occasional notes in the margin, while Sirius lay sprawled on the rug before the fireplace, attempting to assemble a complicated-looking Italian coffee maker he’d bought on a whim. Springs and tiny screws were scattered on a towel beside him.
“I don’t understand the purpose of this many components,” Sirius grumbled, holding a small brass filter up to the firelight. “Coffee is ground beans and hot water. This is a Rube Goldberg machine for caffeine. It’s pretentious.”
“You bought it because it was shiny,” Remus said without looking up from an essay on the Corn Laws.
“It is shiny. That’s not the point. The point is it should… work. Not defy me.” He tried to force a piece into place. It sprung free with a ping and vanished under the sofa. “Putain de merde!”
Remus hid a smile behind his papers.
The peace was shattered by the front door flying open and slamming against the wall with a crash that made them both jump. Hurried, heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway—the sound of someone running in boots—and then Draco skidded into the living room doorway, breathless. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, his long platinum hair windswept and tangled over his shoulders. He was grinning, a wild, manic gleam in his grey eyes.
He stopped right in front of them, chest heaving, and pointed a finger at each of them in turn.
“Stop. Whatever you’re doing. You have got to hear this.”
Sirius dropped the coffee maker part. “Is it Sarah? Has she shaved her head and gotten a tattoo of your face?”
“Better.” Draco sucked in a huge gulp of air, shedding his coat and letting it fall in a heap on the floor. He bounced on the balls of his feet. “So much better. You remember Chloe? Chloe Prentiss?”
Remus set his papers down, giving Draco his full attention. “Vaguely. The one with the very… loud opinions?”
“The activist,” Draco said, his voice dripping with ironic emphasis. “The champion of ‘natural beauty.’ The one who runs that insufferable online forum ‘Aurore’—‘Embrace Your Dawn’ or some such bollocks. Always posting long threads about the toxic beauty industry, shaming any girl who even mentions lip filler, preaching about authentic self-love while she poses in tastefully filtered morning light.”
Sirius rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “The hypocrite. Got it. What’s she done? Been caught photoshopping her thighs?”
“Oh, Papá,” Draco said, his grin widening into something truly savage. “It’s so much more beautiful than that. So much more… physical.” He paused, a master storyteller relishing the punchline. “Olivia Chen walked in on her in the third-floor bathroom today. The one near the fashion studios that always smells of acrylic paint and despair.”
He took another step into the room, the firelight catching the excitement on his face. “Olivia was rushing to wash some dye off her hands. She pushed the door open without thinking—it’s usually empty—and there was Chloe. Standing in front of the mirror. With her uniform blouse unbuttoned. And she was… stuffing her bra.”
A beat of silence.
“With what?” Sirius asked, his voice low and thrilled.
“Toilet paper,” Draco announced, savouring each syllable. “Generic, scratchy, college-issue toilet paper. She was meticulously layering sheets into each cup of her lace balconette bra. She had a whole system. Olivia said it looked like she was packing fine china for shipping.”
Remus’s eyebrows shot up. Sirius let out a choked sound, which erupted into full, howling laughter. He rolled onto his back, clutching his stomach.
“Non!” he wheezed. “The toilette paper? The papier hygiénique? The martyr of natural beauty is padding her décolletage with that?”
“The very same!” Draco crowed, collapsing into the armchair and pulling his knees up to his chest. “Olivia said they just stared at each other for a full five seconds—Chloe with a wad of toilet paper in each hand, frozen like a taxidermied deer—before Olivia muttered ‘sorry’ and backed out. But the damage was done. The gospel is broken. The prophet is a fraud.”
Sirius sat up, tears streaming down his face. “But her… her ‘naturally perfect’ breasts! The ones she’s always boasting about! The ones she uses as a cudgel to shame the ‘flat’ girls! C’est du théâtre! All of it!”
“A complete construction,” Draco nodded, gleeful. “Olivia told Maisie, who told Felix, who told literally everyone within an hour. It’s all over college. The ‘Aurore’ forum is in meltdown. People are posting old pics of her with captions like ‘#SponsoredByAndrex’ and ‘Natural Beauty, Unnatural Fillings.’”
Remus had his hand over his mouth, but his shoulders were shaking. He took a steadying breath. “That’s… incredibly cruel,” he said, though his eyes were crinkled with amusement. “But the hypocrisy is… astronomical. She built a whole platform on judging others for what she’s secretly doing herself. Worse, even. At least cosmetic procedures are permanent. She’s using paper. What if it rains?”
“Or she sweats!” Sirius cried. “She’d leave a trail of pulp! It’s a biohazard!”
Draco snorted. “The thing is, she’s not even flat. She’s completely average. It’s all about the illusion of bounty. The performance. She needed to look like the ideal she was selling.”
The laughter slowly subsided into lingering giggles and shakes of the head. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The smell of chicken was becoming irresistibly golden.
Sirius wiped his eyes, sighing with deep satisfaction. “You know, this is better than television. The sheer, unadulterated farce of it. We have Sarah melting her hair off to be you, and Chloe building paper monuments to her own lies. What is it with these girls and their desperate, shaky facades?”
“It’s the culture,” Remus said, his voice returning to its usual thoughtful timbre. He picked up his red pen, tapping it gently on the stack of papers. “They’re told to be perfect, but also ‘natural.’ To be unique, but within very specific, marketable parameters. It’s a maze with no exit. So they cheat. They all cheat in different ways. Some with bleach, some with tissue paper.”
Draco uncurled, stretching his long legs out toward the fire. “It’s just so… pathetic. And hilarious. But mostly pathetic. All that energy spent building a lie to knock other people down with.”
“And for what?” Sirius said, getting to his feet and heading towards the kitchen. “A boy? Social standing? Likes on a screen?” He called back over his shoulder, “It’s a hunger with no real food. You end up eating paper.” They heard the oven door open, and a richer wave of herby, savoury scent flooded the room.
Remus looked at Draco, who was now staring into the flames, his earlier manic energy replaced by a quieter contemplation. “Does it make you angry?” Remus asked. “All the judging she did?”
Draco thought for a moment. “A bit. Mostly it just confirms what I already think. The people who shout the loudest about purity are usually hiding the biggest mess. It’s like Papá’s kitchen—the showy, perfect plate often comes from a chaotic, messy station. The difference is, he admits the chaos. He doesn’t preach about the sanctity of tidy countertops while secretly hiding mouldy lettuce in the bin.”
From the kitchen, Sirius shouted, “I heard that! And I do hide mouldy lettuce! It’s called composting, you philistine!”
Remus laughed. He reached over and ruffled Draco’s hair. “You’ve got a good perspective. A cynical one, but good. Just don’t let it make you cruel. The Chloe in the bathroom… that’s a scared girl caught in a trap of her own making. The laughter is inevitable, but the pity should be too.”
Draco leaned into the touch. “I know. Don’t worry, Daddy. My contempt is reserved for the ideology, not the idiot. Mostly.”
Sirius reappeared, carrying a tray with three glasses of water. “Dinner in ten. The chicken is magnifique, if I do say so myself. A triumph over the machinery of despair.” He handed out the glasses, his expression softening as he looked at Draco. “This Chloe. She will recover. She will either double down, or have a profound, embarrassing public awakening. Either way, it’s not your circus.”
“Unless she tries to join the fashion track to get closer to you,” Remus added drily.
Draco groaned. “Don’t even joke. I’ve got enough with Sarah’s haunted, patchy stare from across the courtyard. I don’t need a paper-stuffing activist critiquing my muslin choices.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping water, listening to the fire and the final sizzle of the chicken in the oven. The earlier burst of hysterical gossip had settled into the fabric of their evening, just another story, another piece of the strange world Draco navigated and brought home to them.
“You know,” Draco said, his voice quiet. “It just makes me think of my final project even more. ‘Armor.’ Everyone’s wearing some kind. Sarah’s was borrowed. Chloe’s is literally paper-thin and disposable.” He looked at his hands, then at his fathers. “I want to make something that admits it’s armor. That celebrates the construction. Not a disguise, but a declaration.”
Remus’s smile was warm, full of pride. “That’s the difference between an artist and a propagandist, love. One reveals the seams. The other pretends they don’t exist.”
Sirius raised his glass. “Aux coutures visibles! To visible seams!”
They clinked glasses just as the kitchen timer buzzed, a sharp, insistent sound that demanded action. Sirius sprang up. “Showtime! To the table, heathens. Prepare to have your senses dismantled by poultry.”
As they moved to the dining room, the conversation turned to practicalities—the perfect crispness of the skin, the wine Remus had opened, whether the gravy was too thick. The grand themes of hypocrisy and performance were folded into the domestic ritual, seasoned with hunger and affection.
Later, with plates clean and stomachs full, Draco scrolled on his phone, a soft chuckle escaping him. He turned the screen to show them. It was a screenshot of the ‘Aurore’ forum. The latest post, from a user named ‘TrueSelf’, read: ‘Remember, sisters, real beauty is an inside job. Never let external validation define your worth.’
The post had over a hundred comments. The top reply, with hundreds of likes, was a single, powerful emoji.
🧻
Draco set his phone down, shaking his head, a final, quiet laugh in the warm, safe room. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows, trying and failing to get in.