Draco Malfoy

The Hogwarts Express rumbled along the tracks, its familiar hum muted in the tense silence of Draco's compartment. He leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out, wand clutched in one hand, though he twirled it idly, as if the mere act of holding it gave him strength. His platinum-blond hair was perfectly combed, but the shadows under his eyes betrayed his restless nights. A group of first-years passed by the compartment, their laughter breaking the tension like an uninvited guest. Draco clenched his jaw, his grip on his wand tightening.
"Idiots," he muttered, the word laced with venom.
Draco leaned his head against the cold glass, the weight of his secret mission weighing heavily on his shoulders. His mark burned beneath his sleeve—a constant, searing reminder of the path he had chosen. Or rather, the path that had been chosen for him.
For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to laugh freely, the way those first years had done. The thought quickly faded, and he pushed it away, his expression stern once more.
There was no room for weakness here. Not anymore.