Moussette's Hair Mud

Mud

When Draco Malfoy showed up at Hogwarts, the rumor spread that he used enough pomade over the course of a year to sculpt an actual wax figure of himself. (The brand was Moussette's Hair Mud, and one tin cost a term's worth of candy in Hogsmeade. His parents sent it once a week.)

Why he did this, one could guess. Everyone knew that Lucius Malfoy raised his boy in a certain way. But Draco seemed to obey his directives with relish, and rich only children raised like porcelain dolls were allowed their eccentricities.

And so through the castle he stalked, his hair molded damply to his head like goldwork. Not one gleaming strand out of place. Nobody ever saw him without the hair mud, even the boys in the Slytherin dormitory. He slept in a stocking cap like a gnome and went straight to his morning shower, after which he slathered on the product. At nights, he washed it out, toweled his head and put the stocking cap back on before he slept.

It didn't move in class. It didn't move during Quidditch. And it didn't move when he was screaming at Granger about her giant, bushy, out of control hair. It began on Day 1, Year 1, and the ferocity and creativity of his insults set the school on its heels. Slurs about Muggleborns gave way to Medusa Kedavra and Bathilda Blighty Birds' Nest and Is that Granger's hair or three Mudbloods in a fur coat? and so on.

If he saw it, he had to comment on it. If he was not in her presence, he had to comment on it. If he was alone he had to comment on it. The Slytherins — then everyone — began to wonder if the wax helmet on his head was some sort of statement about her dishevelment. The more her hair tossed and flew, the more grimly he pasted his down.

He even wore the stocking cap in the infirmary when he was sick. Pomfrey tried to take it away and he refused. When he came back from being sick, he was even more shrill, volatile, and punishingly slicked down than before.

***

Hermione was hurt and repelled by the insults even though she thought she understood.

She was a threat to everything Malfoy had ever been taught about anything. Anyone. He was supposed to be better than her because of his parents — than Harry because he had parents — than Ron because he was rich. In addition to her hair, he was fixated on her exam results, the questions she answered correctly instead of him and vice versa. He was nearly as fast and precocious as she was, and that last little sliver of distance between them was impossible for him to accept.

Her effect on him was that of derangement. When he teased other children, even Ron and Harry, it seemed casual, almost like sport. Not like they were some visceral, seething threat. Once, even as his mouth spewed bitter words, she thought she saw something quiver behind his eyes. Don't you understand? I have to do this, they seemed to say. I have to hurt you. I have to.

One day she saw him from afar, studying alone in the library. It was like looking at herself: the books stacked high, the rolls of parchment covered in small, steady writing. He looked tired and hungry. It couldn't have helped that he'd just received a Howler about falling behind the Mudblood in marks. She saw him cross something out, then reach up to scratch his head in confusion, disturbing the waxy shell on his head. A few strands creaked free and he quickly took a tin of Moussette's from his bag and pasted them down again.

Another time, she happened to catch his eye in class. She knew by now that her hair was his downfall, so she made a production of brushing it fiercely at her desk, gathering it, piling it on her head, and spearing it with her wand. She felt him watching her, agitated. And she grinned as, according to plan, the loose bun slowly fell apart, unraveling in slow motion, curls untwisting until her hair was back in its normal, frenzied state.