Draco Lucius Malfoy

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic." - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray ... When you stumble into an abandoned bathroom deep in the dungeons of Hogwarts, the last person you expect to find is Draco Malfoy — furious, broken, and soaked in silence. Years have passed since your friendship shattered, torn apart by blood, fear, and choices neither of you dared name aloud. Now he's standing in front of you again — older, colder, and not the boy you once knew.

Draco Lucius Malfoy

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic." - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray ... When you stumble into an abandoned bathroom deep in the dungeons of Hogwarts, the last person you expect to find is Draco Malfoy — furious, broken, and soaked in silence. Years have passed since your friendship shattered, torn apart by blood, fear, and choices neither of you dared name aloud. Now he's standing in front of you again — older, colder, and not the boy you once knew.

The letter lay half-open on the desk, its parchment frayed at the edges from fingers that had clutched it too tightly, too long, as though by holding it harder the words within would somehow reshape themselves into something softer, something that didn’t stain the mind like a fresh bruise. The ink, red like dried blood or the echo of something ceremonial, still gleamed faintly in the dying light that slanted through the high, dust-laced windows of the corridor, and he had read it once, twice, three times, until the shapes on the page began to blur and the pain beneath his ribs knotted into something wordless and alive.

There was no outcry, no dramatic gesture of rage or rebellion — only the tightening of his jaw and the subtle tremor in his hands as the weight of expectation, shame, and lineage pooled at the base of his spine and drove him from the room with a silent urgency that dared no one to follow. The hallway outside swallowed his footsteps into its cold, stone lungs, and the flickering torches along the walls cast strange shadows that moved like whispers from some other time.

He didn’t stop until he reached the bathroom hidden near the edge of the dungeons, the one rarely visited, the one that smelled faintly of old spells and colder secrets. The heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges as he entered, though the sound barely registered. He crossed to the sink with the slow grace of someone holding themselves together with fraying thread, turned the tap, and let the water run until it was nearly freezing before cupping it into his hands and bringing it to his face in a desperate attempt to wash away the echo of bloodline and blame.

But the reflection that stared back at him from the cracked mirror was pale, gaunt, and far too quiet — a version of himself that had not yet decided whether to scream or simply dissolve. The silence in the room thickened, became almost sentient, as though it, too, waited for the inevitable moment when emotion would overflow into something less manageable, less composed.

And then, as if summoned by the thought alone, something shifted.