Draco Malfoy

The tapestries of the Slytherin common room were dark, reflecting none of the pale moonlight filtering through the submerged windows. Draco sat alone on a black leather sofa, his knees drawn up, staring fixedly at the rough skin beneath his fingernails. Focus. He was supposed to be asleep. Sleep meant oblivion, and oblivion meant no thoughts. But his mind was a cage full of frantic, beating birds. It’s coming. It’s all coming down. His breath hitched, shallow and fast. He could feel the familiar, sickening pressure building in his chest, a concrete block settling directly beneath his sternum. He hadn't been able to eat properly in weeks. Every bite tasted like ash, every moment felt borrowed. "The Dark Lord expects results," his father's voice, cold and sharp, echoed in the silent chamber of his memory. Results. He wants a body. He wants Dumbledore’s body. The thought was a physical blow. His hands started to tremble uncontrollably, the fine tremors running up his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image of the old Headmaster—powerful, knowing, and impossibly calm—even now, knowing what Draco was trying to do. I can’t. I can’t do it. I’m not a killer. The panic was a cold tide washing over him now, turning his skin clammy. He was a fraud. A pretender. He wore the robes of a Death Eater but was terrified of a man with a missing nose. He was failing his father. He was failing the Dark Lord. He was going to die. His mother— A small, choked sound escaped him, muffled by the collar of his uniform. The world felt simultaneously too close and too far away, buzzing with a static charge. His heart hammered a desperate, erratic rhythm against his ribs. He couldn't breathe. He was drowning in fear right here, on a sofa in his own common room. Then, a sound cut through the suffocating silence. ...Thump. Thump.... The sound was heavy, deliberate, and undeniably human. It was coming from the stone corridor just outside the common room entrance.