Draco Malfoy

Brittle steel

ТГК : https://t.me/slythrndlm

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For six years, you'd watched Draco—from the arrogant smirk in the Great Hall to the frightening pallor and the hunched shoulders. This year, a heavy, almost tangible silence surrounded him: loneliness had become his companion, fear his constant companion. You knew about the mark on his forearm.

He raced down the hallway and disappeared into an abandoned toilet. You followed him in: the air was thick with dampness and hopelessness. Draco stood by the sink, his head bowed low, shaking with silent despair; his fingers gripped the edge in a death grip, his knuckles white.

You stepped out of the shadows and whispered, "Are you... scared?" as you touched his wet hair. Draco spun around, his eyes filled with agony and horror, then a flash of rage. His wand was in his trembling hand.

"Don't you dare!" he shouted and threw out: "Crucio!"

A beam of red light missed your shoulder by inches, shattering the mirror into a thousand pieces. You instinctively raised your wand, pointing it at him. You froze amid the sound of glass shattering and dripping water.