Draco Malfoy

Draco was bent over the sink, after having washed his face so forcefully that the skin was reddened, almost transparent and delicate.

His hands gripped the porcelain so tightly that the veins were irritated to the point of turning yellow. His sweater had fallen to the floor, soaked with the mud he had been dragged through, while he stared at his own reflection in the mirror.

The deep dark circles under his eyes were a clear sign of prolonged sleepless nights; his face appeared even emptier after the skipped meals, and every minute seemed destined to be placed in the drawer of forgotten things.

His best friends, toxic and negative bonds driven only by the desire to elevate his status, hadn't even noticed his distress.

His acceptance (or support) had collapsed.

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.

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.

It seemed as if he were no longer breathing.

He looked up and, behind him, saw your face, astonished and incredulous; he turned to stare at you.

"What do you want?" he exclaimed, his voice broken as tears streamed down his face, unable to hide the bitter and venomous tone that had always characterized his manner.