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*Warning, HbP spoilers!*
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Draco feels the mosaic of cracked tiles and mildew beneath his hard heels and the press of frigid porcelain beneath the palms of his hands and through his fingers. They stretch, long and white, writhing like seaweed across the sink as he clenches and unclenches his hands. There is a line of cracked mirrors in front of him, mocking him with his own strange reflection, but he does not look within them for he knows what he will see and he will not abide the furious misery within his own eyes.
His face is flushed and wet with tears, and he cannot bear the shame of his weakness but he cannot keep it pent up within him any longer. Moaning Myrtle’s soothing, piteous murmurs are both a bane and a blessing to his ears, for even if she’s dead and dumb and nothing, she still cares and that’s something.
There is much he has to cry for.
He now carries the weighty shame and the dubious pride of the Malfoy name upon his thin shoulders. He is charged with a mission of the highest importance, a mission that his cowardly insides writhe away from.
But he must, or else his family will suffer, and despite his twisted soul and a past that glimmers coldly with the arrogance and aristocracy of the wealthy and cruel, there is love within him still.
He cannot bring his mother harm. She is the only one to believe in him.
“No one can help me,” he gasps, moaning.
For a traitorous moment his mind pitches forth an image of a girl standing in the quidditch stands, her pale and slender fingers curling gently around the smooth wood of the guard rail, where he can see the peachy freckles scattered over the pale skin. Her face is in profile, small snub nose, red lashes, and full lips free of gloss and charms. The sleekly coiling mass of her flaming red hair is spreading around her with the oncoming gusts, and for a moment he can smell the gentle, flowery scent of her skin before he is past her, shoving his way from the stands.
She never even glanced his way, and he hates her because of it, and he loves her because of it, and he hates that he loves her because of it.
Myrtle continues to whimper trite comfort in his ears, and his knees are shaking.
“I can’t do it. I can’t…It won’t work… and unless I do it soon he says he’ll kill me.”
Perhaps I’m better off, he thinks sadly, bitterly.
He raises his head, and at first the only thing to catch his eye is his own, tear streaked face. He looks like a little boy again, all blotchy skin and stinging lips. His eyelids feel scratchy, and his gray eyes are surrounded by bloodshot white. His eyes are as silver as the snake head on his fathers cane, and he feels everything at this moment, a stifling squall of emotions that curl and eddy around him and leave him naked and alone.
He could have given in at that moment, sinking to his knees and allowing himself the dubious protection of the great wizard he’s been sent to kill. Draco could have buckled under the pressure and the weight of his desires and freed himself from all the misery he would face in the future.
But he catches sight of a pair of startled green eyes in the mirror, and feels only betrayal.
Of all the people who could have slipped into this abandoned bathroom to find him weeping, Harry Potter is the least welcome. But why is Potter not laughing at him? Why has he not begun the vicious taunting and threats of exposure? Why is he merely standing there, caught within the same second as he, doing nothing but staring with a sort of dazed pity in his eyes?
They are everything the other hates, but for a moment they are not the hero of the wizarding world and the follower of greatest evil, they are merely children playing at a war they wish to have no part of. They have more in common then they ever intended, from their dark pasts to their bleak futures, and the love of a girl neither will ever truly have.
For a second their eyes had met and they were bare to one another, but old habits are hard to break and there is a desperation flying through Draco so fast his breath is catching in his throat and making him dizzy.
Draco spins, drawing his wand as fury and shame course through him, and soon there is nothing left of his softer feelings. He is sour inside, withered and bitter where the light can’t touch and the shame runs rampant. Even when Potter strikes him with a spell he’s never heard, and pain blazes from his chest and he slips and writhes in a pool of his own hot blood, he is more Malfoy than man.
He is so filled with shame and venom and fear that he is only twisted more by the hate that strings him onward like a leaf in a terrible gale.
His heart runs shallow, but his poison is endless.
---
End
AN: I couldn't help but write something about Draco's soon to be infamous bathroom scene.
----
Draco feels the mosaic of cracked tiles and mildew beneath his hard heels and the press of frigid porcelain beneath the palms of his hands and through his fingers. They stretch, long and white, writhing like seaweed across the sink as he clenches and unclenches his hands. There is a line of cracked mirrors in front of him, mocking him with his own strange reflection, but he does not look within them for he knows what he will see and he will not abide the furious misery within his own eyes.
His face is flushed and wet with tears, and he cannot bear the shame of his weakness but he cannot keep it pent up within him any longer. Moaning Myrtle’s soothing, piteous murmurs are both a bane and a blessing to his ears, for even if she’s dead and dumb and nothing, she still cares and that’s something.
There is much he has to cry for.
He now carries the weighty shame and the dubious pride of the Malfoy name upon his thin shoulders. He is charged with a mission of the highest importance, a mission that his cowardly insides writhe away from.
But he must, or else his family will suffer, and despite his twisted soul and a past that glimmers coldly with the arrogance and aristocracy of the wealthy and cruel, there is love within him still.
He cannot bring his mother harm. She is the only one to believe in him.
“No one can help me,” he gasps, moaning.
For a traitorous moment his mind pitches forth an image of a girl standing in the quidditch stands, her pale and slender fingers curling gently around the smooth wood of the guard rail, where he can see the peachy freckles scattered over the pale skin. Her face is in profile, small snub nose, red lashes, and full lips free of gloss and charms. The sleekly coiling mass of her flaming red hair is spreading around her with the oncoming gusts, and for a moment he can smell the gentle, flowery scent of her skin before he is past her, shoving his way from the stands.
She never even glanced his way, and he hates her because of it, and he loves her because of it, and he hates that he loves her because of it.
Myrtle continues to whimper trite comfort in his ears, and his knees are shaking.
“I can’t do it. I can’t…It won’t work… and unless I do it soon he says he’ll kill me.”
Perhaps I’m better off, he thinks sadly, bitterly.
He raises his head, and at first the only thing to catch his eye is his own, tear streaked face. He looks like a little boy again, all blotchy skin and stinging lips. His eyelids feel scratchy, and his gray eyes are surrounded by bloodshot white. His eyes are as silver as the snake head on his fathers cane, and he feels everything at this moment, a stifling squall of emotions that curl and eddy around him and leave him naked and alone.
He could have given in at that moment, sinking to his knees and allowing himself the dubious protection of the great wizard he’s been sent to kill. Draco could have buckled under the pressure and the weight of his desires and freed himself from all the misery he would face in the future.
But he catches sight of a pair of startled green eyes in the mirror, and feels only betrayal.
Of all the people who could have slipped into this abandoned bathroom to find him weeping, Harry Potter is the least welcome. But why is Potter not laughing at him? Why has he not begun the vicious taunting and threats of exposure? Why is he merely standing there, caught within the same second as he, doing nothing but staring with a sort of dazed pity in his eyes?
They are everything the other hates, but for a moment they are not the hero of the wizarding world and the follower of greatest evil, they are merely children playing at a war they wish to have no part of. They have more in common then they ever intended, from their dark pasts to their bleak futures, and the love of a girl neither will ever truly have.
For a second their eyes had met and they were bare to one another, but old habits are hard to break and there is a desperation flying through Draco so fast his breath is catching in his throat and making him dizzy.
Draco spins, drawing his wand as fury and shame course through him, and soon there is nothing left of his softer feelings. He is sour inside, withered and bitter where the light can’t touch and the shame runs rampant. Even when Potter strikes him with a spell he’s never heard, and pain blazes from his chest and he slips and writhes in a pool of his own hot blood, he is more Malfoy than man.
He is so filled with shame and venom and fear that he is only twisted more by the hate that strings him onward like a leaf in a terrible gale.
His heart runs shallow, but his poison is endless.
---
End
AN: I couldn't help but write something about Draco's soon to be infamous bathroom scene.
The End.
Glass_Mermaid is the author of 6 other stories.
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