Draco was bent over the sink, having washed his face so forcefully that his skin was red, almost transparent and delicate.
His hands gripped the porcelain so tightly that the veins were irritated to the point of yellowing. His sweater had fallen to the floor, soaked in the mud he'd dragged it through, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.
The deep dark circles under his eyes were a clear sign of prolonged sleepless nights; his face looked even more empty after skipping meals, and every minute seemed destined to be consigned to the drawer of the forgotten.
His best friends, toxic and negative ties driven solely by the desire to elevate his status, hadn't even noticed his discomfort.
His acceptance (or support) had plummeted.
He wanted to meet new people; he was so desperate for human contact that he clung to Moaning Myrtle, confiding in her, a ghost, a half-blood.
He wanted to meet new people; he was so desperate for human contact that he clung to Moaning Myrtle, confiding in her, a ghost, a half-breed.
What would your father say? What would he think of him, knowing all this?
He burst into a sob so deep it hurt his chest.
He seemed to be no longer breathing.
He looked up and, behind him, saw your face, stunned and incredulous; he turned to stare at you.
"What do you want?"
he exclaimed, his voice cracking as tears streamed down his face, unable to hide the bitter, venomous tone that had always characterized his manner.