Drarry (Draco/Harry)

Sixth year.
Draco wasn't crying because he was weak. He was crying because he hadn't slept for a year.

The summer after his fifth year shattered everything he believed in. His father in Azkaban. His mother, who only smiled when she thought no one was watching. And the mark—dark, ugly, burned into his forearm—that he hadn't asked for. Vladimir hadn't offered him a mission. He 'd bestowed it upon him, like a master throwing a dice, and the entire hall at Malfoy Manor applauded, while Draco sat with his back perfectly straight, feeling something trickle down inside him like candle wax.

Kill Dumbledore. At sixteen. With a better idea than "love me. "

He came to Myrtle's bathroom not because it was a safe place—but because Myrtle was the only person in Hogwarts who didn't care about the Malfoy name. She wouldn't say, "Be proud of your blood." She wouldn't say, "Don't let your father down." She simply floated among the rusted faucets and watched as he gripped the sink until his knuckles turned white, coughing blood into his palm from the strain, from lack of sleep, from living on potions for three weeks just to keep going.

He cried quietly in front of the mirror—Malfoys don't cry. He cried with his eyes open, because closing them was more terrifying: behind his eyelids, he immediately saw the Malfoy Manor bathroom, the sign, the red eyes, and a voice purring, "You don't want anything to happen to your mother, do you?"

He turned his head not because he heard footsteps, but because he sensed something—like an animal sensing trouble. And he saw Harry Potter. He was standing in the doorway.

That's the cruelest part: not that Potter saw him weak. But that in that split second, before Draco's face became a mask again, an unexpected, almost shameful relief flared in his chest at being seen, even in this state.