The boys' lavatory on the seventh floor lay behind a broad sweep of the marble staircase, hidden from the main flow of students. Most people walked past without noticing it. Draco Malfoy had discovered that suited him well enough. It was one of the few places in the castle where he could be alone for a few minutes. No Crabbe. No Goyle. No teachers watching him. No one asking questions he could not answer.
Rain struck the tall windows in a steady rhythm. The sky beyond the glass was a dull sheet of grey that swallowed the grounds from view. The castle felt quieter than usual, though now and then footsteps echoed from the corridor outside before fading again.
Draco stood over one of the sinks, both hands gripping the edge of the porcelain. His fingers had gone pale with the force of it. He lifted his head and stared into the mirror.
The boy looking back hardly seemed familiar.
His face was white, the sort of white that made every shadow stand out. His fair hair hung untidily across his forehead, and his eyes looked darker than they should have. He could not remember the last time he had slept through the night. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same thing waiting for him when he woke.
He barely recognised himself.
The expression he had worn for years had vanished. The lifted chin, the sneer that came so easily whenever Potter or Weasley crossed his path, the confidence that everyone expected from a Malfoy. None of it remained. It had become harder to remember what it had felt like to wear it. Lately he only put it on because people expected him to.
He looked ill.
Not the sort of ill Madam Pomfrey could cure with a potion and a night's rest. Something had settled inside him that would not leave. The shadows beneath his eyes had deepened, and there was a tightness about his mouth that never seemed to ease.
His lips parted, but no sound came.
What was there to say?
He had spent his whole life believing that his name meant something. Malfoys did not fail. Malfoys were respected. Feared. They stood with the Dark Lord because they were strong enough to deserve their place. His father had taught him that from the time he could understand words, and he had never thought to question it.
Now Father sat in Azkaban.
The Manor no longer felt untouchable. Their family no longer stood above everyone else. The Dark Lord had made certain Draco understood exactly what his place was.
His stomach tightened.
This was not an honour. It had never been one. It was punishment. Father had failed at the Ministry, and now the debt belonged to Draco.
He looked back at the pale face in the mirror.
How had he ever thought he was ready for any of this?
"Why can't I just be normal?" he muttered.
His voice echoed around the empty lavatory. It sounded thin.
He shut his eyes at once.
What a stupid thing to say.
Normal.
As though there had ever been any chance of that.
He gave a short, bitter laugh that died almost as soon as it escaped him. He had been born a Malfoy. From the day he could walk, he had been taught what that meant. There had never been another path waiting for him. Wishing for one now was pointless.
His jaw tightened.
He tried to force the thought aside, but it lingered. At last he let himself slide down the wall until he was sitting on the cold stone floor. His robes caught against a cracked tile, but he did not bother to move. He rested his forearms on his knees and lowered his head.
The cold seeped through the fabric of his robes.
He scarcely noticed.
For weeks now, there had been room for little besides fear.
Ever since the Dark Lord had given him his task, every morning had begun with the same thought.
What if today is the day I fail?
The castle had once felt familiar. He had walked these corridors as though he owned them, looking down on anyone who crossed his path. Potter. Weasley. Granger. He had always known exactly what to say to make them lose their tempers. He had enjoyed it. They had all expected Draco Malfoy to be arrogant, and he had never seen any reason to disappoint them.
Now he found himself looking away whenever anyone met his eyes.
Could they tell?
He caught himself wondering that more often than he cared to admit.
Did they see how tired he looked? Did they notice his hands shaking? Did they think he was ill?
Or did they know?
His stomach twisted.
No.
They couldn't.
If anyone guessed what he had been ordered to do, it would be over. The Dark Lord would know. Somehow he always knew.
His hands had begun trembling again.
Draco gripped his sleeves, his fingers digging into the cloth until they hurt. He welcomed the sting. It gave him something else to think about, if only for a moment.
Then a sound escaped him.
A sharp breath that caught in his throat.
He clamped a hand over his mouth at once, pressing his face against his sleeve.
No.
Not here.
Another sob forced its way out despite him.
Then another.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stop.
Pull yourself together.
If Crabbe or Goyle came looking for him. If a prefect walked in. If anyone saw him like this.
His breathing caught again.
No one could know.
No one could ever see him like this.
He was not frightened of looking foolish.
He was not even frightened of dying.
He was frightened of the Dark Lord.
That was the truth he could never bring himself to say aloud.
The Dark Lord's face rose before him.
Those red eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
His voice seemed to fill the silence of the empty lavatory. Soft. Calm. Never raised. It never needed to be. Every word had carried the same certainty.
Failure would not be forgiven.
Draco swallowed hard.
He had thought he understood what was being asked of him.
Finish the task.
Restore the family's honour.
Prove that Lucius Malfoy's son was worthy of the name.
He had wanted that more than anything.
Ever since Father had been sent to Azkaban, everything had changed. People still looked at him, but not in the same way. Some watched with curiosity. Others with pity. Even the Slytherins seemed less certain than before.
He could put all of that right.
That was what he had believed.
Complete the task, and the Malfoys would stand where they belonged again.
It had sounded so simple.
Instead, every attempt seemed to make things worse.
Nothing worked.
Every failure made the next attempt harder.
Every day he expected the Dark Lord to hear of it.
Every day he wondered whether that would be the day someone else paid the price.
His mother's frightened face came back to him without warning.
Then another memory followed.
The long dining table.
The quiet voices.
The sound of cutlery against silver plates.
Bellatrix leaning towards him, her eyes shining.
"You must do this for your family, Draco," she had said, as though there could be only one answer.
He had nodded.
What else could he have done?
Refuse?
The thought was absurd.
No one refused the Dark Lord.
Now he sat on the cold stone floor with his knees drawn up, his breathing uneven.
The castle around him felt impossibly distant.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, but the memories would not leave.
His thoughts drifted to Potter.
He almost laughed at himself.
Potter.
For years he had called him arrogant. Reckless. A show off who somehow managed to escape every scrape he got himself into.
He still disliked him.
That had not changed.
But something else had.
Potter had spent years facing the Dark Lord.
Draco had always thought he understood what that meant.
He had been wrong.
He understood now.
It was one thing to boast about the Dark Lord from the safety of the Slytherin table.
It was another to lie awake each night wondering whether he would kill you.
Or worse.
Whether he would decide to kill someone else because you had failed.
But Potter kept fighting.
Not because anyone had ordered him to.
Because he chose to.
The thought left a bitter taste in Draco's mouth.
Potter had spent years defying the Dark Lord. He had never understood why. It had always seemed foolish. As though Potter believed the rules did not apply to him.
Now he wondered whether that had been the point.
Potter had chosen.
Draco never had.
He had done what was expected of him. He had repeated what Father believed. Agreed with Mother. Listened to Bellatrix. Accepted every certainty that had been placed before him without stopping to ask whether there was any other way.
Now there was no one left to tell him what to do.
Only a task that grew harder every time he looked at it.
His chest tightened.
I can't do it.
The words came into his mind before he could stop them.
At once another voice answered.
Then the Dark Lord will know.
Draco buried his face against his knees.
His shoulders began to shake despite himself.
He was tired.
Tired of waking each morning with the same dread settling over him before he had even climbed out of bed.
Tired of pretending everything was under control whenever Crabbe and Goyle looked at him.
Tired of telling himself that the next attempt would succeed when he no longer believed it.
He did not want the task.
He did not want to spend every hour wondering who would suffer if he failed.
He wanted it to end.
He drew a shaky breath.
"There can't be anyone who knows," he whispered.
The words were scarcely louder than his breathing.
"No one."
He had repeated them to himself for weeks.
If anyone discovered what he was trying to do, everything would be over. Dumbledore would stop him. People who support him would know. The Dark Lord would find out.
The thought made his stomach twist.
His breathing grew shorter.
He pressed a hand against his chest as though he could force himself to calm down, but it made no difference. The air refused to come properly. The silence of the lavatory seemed to close around him until it was all he could hear.
This was why he came here.
Not to think.
To hide.
Just for a little while, where no one would see what had become of Draco Malfoy.
He could come apart without anyone watching. Hardly anyone used it. Most students forgot it existed. That suited him.
Here he did not have to sneer at anyone. He did not have to throw insults before somebody else could throw them first. He did not have to stand straight and pretend the Malfoy name still meant certainty.
No one could see him fail here.
The silence asked nothing of him. The cracked walls and chipped sinks had stood for years before he was born and would remain long after he was gone. They did not care whose side he was on, or whether he was succeeding or failing.
But he did not realise he was not alone.
Not at first.
A pale shape lingered near the window, almost lost against the grey light that filtered through the rain-streaked glass. His thoughts had become so tangled that he barely noticed it.
Moaning Myrtle had been watching him for some time.
She remained silent, floating a little above the floor, her hands folded together. She never interrupted him when he came here. She only watched. There was no laughter in her face, no curiosity. She had seen him like this before, sitting on the cold floor with his arms wrapped round his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Perhaps she understood.
She knew what it was to be ignored until someone found amusement in your misery. Students mocked her whenever they passed through, laughed at her crying and treated her as though she were part of the castle rather than a person who had once lived.
Draco did not laugh.
Most days he scarcely seemed to notice she was there.
His misery was different from hers, but she recognised it all the same. It sat in him like something he could not put down. Every visit he looked thinner. Paler. More tired.
He looked frightened.
If anyone else had noticed, they would have called him weak. Crabbe and Goyle would not know what to say. Pansy would ask questions he could not answer. His father…
His father could never see him like this.
Myrtle drifted a little closer, uncertain whether he wanted company or not. At last she spoke, her voice scarcely louder than the rain tapping against the window.
"Are you feeling all right?"
The words reached him through the noise in his head.
Draco flinched.
He jerked upright, his heart slamming against his ribs. His breath caught in his throat.
For one wild second, he thought he had imagined her.
The pale outline hovering above the floor. The round glasses. The large, watery eyes that seemed far too alive for someone who had died years ago.
Have I finally lost it?
His vision was still blurred. Tears clung to his lashes, making the light shift and soften until Myrtle herself seemed to fade at the edges.
"I'm sorry," Myrtle said at once, drifting back a little. She lifted her hands as though trying to make herself less of a disturbance. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
There was no laughter in her voice.
No mockery.
Only concern.
That unsettled him far more than if she had laughed.
He stared at her, unable to answer. He was not sure whether to feel embarrassed, irritated or simply worn out. His mind reached for the only defence it had left.
Shut her out.
It was easier that way.
It always had been.
The fewer people who saw, the fewer questions they asked. Questions led to answers. Answers led to weakness.
He had spent years making sure no one saw weakness.
His father had taught him that long before Hogwarts.
"I don't need this," he muttered, though the words sounded hollow even to him.
Myrtle did not move.
She only looked at him.
There was no satisfaction in her face. No curiosity. No disgust.
She looked as though she recognised something she had seen before.
The thought made his stomach tighten.
Don't.
He did not want anyone understanding him.
Understanding meant seeing too much.
It meant noticing the sleepless nights, the shaking hands, the fear he could no longer hide from himself. It meant admitting that he was no longer the boy who had boarded the Hogwarts Express believing the world would always bend around the Malfoy name.
He could not bear that.
Draco sprang to his feet.
He turned at once, striding towards the door before she could speak again.
He only had to leave.
That was all.
Get out.
Pull yourself together.
By the time anyone saw him again, his face would be blank, his voice steady. No one would know.
His fingers closed around the cold brass handle.
Go.
He tightened his grip.
Move.
But his hand refused to turn it.
He stood without moving, his knuckles pale against the metal.
No one had looked at him like that before.
Not with contempt.
Not with fear.
Not because they expected something from him.
She had simply looked at him as though she saw the frightened sixteen-year-old standing beneath everything else.
And somehow that was the hardest thing to endure.
"Please don't go."
Myrtle's voice was quiet behind him.
It shook, not from fear but from something that had been with her for a long time.
"You look like someone who needs… someone who understands."
Draco did not answer.
His hand remained locked around the handle.
He did not even trust himself to breathe.
Because she was right.
That was the worst part.
The Dark Lord inspired terror. His father's disappointment inspired dread. Hogwarts had become a place where every corridor seemed to hold another reminder of what he had failed to do.
But this…
This was different.
Someone had looked at him and seen straight through everything he had spent years building.
"I'm Myrtle Warren," she said after a moment. Her voice had grown quieter, as though speaking her own name mattered. "That was my name."
Draco closed his eyes.
He knew who she was.
Everyone did.
The ghost in the girls' lavatory. The one people laughed about. The one who burst into tears if someone looked at her the wrong way.
Yet she had drifted all the way up here.
Not to make a scene.
To speak to him.
Why?
He should have left the moment he'd seen her.
He still could.
Nothing was stopping him.
Yet he remained where he was, his hand fixed to the handle.
She had not demanded answers.
She had not asked why he looked exhausted or why his eyes were red.
She had simply stayed.
The thought settled over him with a weight he could not ignore.
I'm lonely.
The words came without permission.
He hated them.
Merlin… I don't want to be on my own any more.
"I know who you are," he said at last.
His voice was flat.
"You're the ghost who haunts the girls' lavatory. I'm not in the mood for a chat, especially not with the dead."
The words landed exactly as he intended.
Sharp.
Dismissive.
The sort of thing the old Draco would have said without a second thought.
For a moment, he almost wished they had not left his mouth.
They sounded hollow.
Myrtle blinked.
Her expression shifted from surprise to offence. She folded her arms across her chest and drew herself up, looking as indignant as only Myrtle could.
"Well, excuse me," she said with a sniff. "Next time I'll wear a name badge and a halo."
Draco let out a dry, hollow breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
"I didn't mean for you to take it personally."
"I always take things personally," she said with a faint sniff. "It's what I do."
He looked round at her, a slight frown settling on his face.
"Did you really not mean to intrude?"
She blinked, then drifted upside down as though the question needed thinking about from a different angle.
"Well… what counts as intruding? I live in the plumbing."
He stared at her.
"I'm only saying," she went on, turning herself upright again and smoothing the folds of her ghostly skirt, "you're the one hiding in my lavatory, looking like a lovesick toad."
She earned a glare for that. It was sharp enough to make her pause, but there was little force behind it.
Lovesick.
As though this had anything to do with a girl.
If only it were something as simple as that.
He looked away, rubbing a hand across his face.
What was he still doing here? Why was he standing in a girls' bathroom talking to Moaning Myrtle of all people?
She was a ghost. She had been dead for years. She haunted pipes, cried over old slights, and frightened first years for amusement.
Yet she had looked at him.
She had not laughed at him. She had not walked away. She could not, of course, but that was hardly the point.
The thought irritated him.
He should have left already.
Instead he stayed where he was, and somehow the silence between them no longer felt quite so unbearable.
He had not expected her tone to change. Ghosts rarely changed. They drifted through the castle, trapped in old habits and older memories. But Myrtle's voice had lost some of its usual sharpness. She was no longer talking at him simply because he happened to be there.
She was talking to him.
"You know," she said, her voice softer than he had ever heard it, "I understand. Being ignored. Being… unwanted."
Draco turned away at once, his jaw tightening.
"You?" he said. "What would you know about it?"
"I died in a lavatory," she replied, floating a little higher. "Believe me, people don't queue up to spend eternity with Moaning Myrtle."
His mouth gave the smallest twitch.
He hated that she'd almost made him smile.
Myrtle drifted a little closer, watching him with large, watery eyes.
"I hear things," she said. "People forget I'm here. They whisper when they think no one's listening." She paused. "I hear you, Draco. You're not as invisible as you think."
His stomach lurched.
How much had she heard?
Had she listened to every word? Every time he'd come here? Every failed attempt? Every curse that had gone wrong?
"You think you understand?" he said. His voice came out quieter than he intended. "You don't. You can't."
"I do!" Myrtle cried.
Her voice rang through the lavatory, echoing from the cracked tiles. At once she burst into tears, great pearly drops spilling down her transparent face.
"Don't tell me I don't understand!" she wailed. "I was miserable before I died, and I'm miserable now!"
She shot towards the ceiling, then swooped back down again, weeping so hard that water splashed from the cisterns and rippled across the floor.
"Do you know what it's like?" she cried. "Years and years with nobody wanting you about? Nobody visiting except to laugh at you? Peeves won't even leave me alone!"
Draco watched her in silence.
She looked ridiculous.
She always looked ridiculous.
Yet he could not bring himself to laugh.
Something in the way she cried, without pretending she wasn't hurt, made him feel strangely uncomfortable.
He despised weakness.
So why did it seem easier to stand here with a sobbing ghost than with anyone else in the castle?
"Couldn't you feel sorry for yourself a bit more loudly?" he said. "I don't think anyone outside's heard you."
"Why shouldn't I?" Myrtle wailed, throwing herself backwards as though his words had shoved her. "It's all I've got!"
She floated there for a moment, blinking through fresh tears. Her sobs dwindled into a loud sniff before she peered at him over the rims of her glasses.
"… Aren't you doing the same?"
Draco let out a slow breath.
Was he?
Sitting on the floor of a disused lavatory, hiding from everyone, talking to a ghost. It was hard to pretend there was much dignity left in that.
He looked away.
No.
He wasn't going to admit that. Not to Myrtle. Not to anyone.
His father had never tolerated weakness. His mother worried enough without hearing it spoken aloud. And if he admitted how close he was to breaking, then it would become real.
Myrtle took out her transparent handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
"I remember what it's like," she said, much more quietly. "Dying doesn't make you stop hurting. People think it does, but it doesn't. You just… keep hurting."
She drifted down until she was level with him again. There was none of the usual shrillness in her voice. She sounded almost thoughtful.
"And you look as though you're carrying something much worse."
Draco's fingers tightened around his wand.
He could not answer.
What was there to say?
That the Dark Lord expected the impossible?
That every morning he woke wondering whether today would be the day he failed?
That every letter from home filled him with dread before he even broke the seal?
His throat felt too tight for words.
Outside, rain ran down the tall windows in steady streams. The sound filled the silence between them.
He had always thought ghosts were little more than a nuisance. They drifted through corridors, moaning about things that no longer mattered, clinging to lives that had already ended.
He had never imagined he would willingly sit with one.
Yet Myrtle had not laughed at him.
She had not asked questions he could not answer. She had not expected him to explain himself.
For reasons he could not understand, she had looked straight past the Malfoy name, past the sneers and the boasting that had once come so easily.
She had seen that something was wrong.
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
She hovered above the row of sinks, her head tipped to one side as she studied him. Damp strands of hair clung to her face and her enormous glasses had slipped down her ghostly nose.
"You know," she said after a long silence, sounding almost cheerful again, "I always thought you were the brooding sort."
Draco looked at her without much interest.
"You did?"
"Oh, yes." She nodded. "Always marching about with that cross expression, as though everyone annoyed you."
"They usually do."
"I can see that." She peered at him a little longer. "You do look rather tragic."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Tragic?"
"Very pale. Hollow round the eyes." She spoke as though she were listing ingredients for a potion. "You look as though you haven't slept in weeks."
"I haven't."
She blinked.
"Oh."
For a moment she looked almost disappointed that he had not argued.
Then she gave a small spin in the air.
"If I were still alive," she announced, "I might even think you looked rather handsome."
Draco stared at her.
"I beg your pardon?"
She shrugged.
"I said might. Don't let it go to your head."
A strange sound escaped him before he could stop it. Not quite a laugh. More a short breath through his nose.
It caught him off guard.
He could not remember the last time anything had seemed remotely amusing.
His mouth settled into its usual line.
"That may be the most unsettling thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Myrtle said. "I've had years to practise talking to miserable boys. You'd be surprised how many come in here when they think no one's watching."
Draco grimaced.
"I could have lived quite happily without knowing that."
"They cry, mostly," Myrtle went on. "Or hide. Or both."
"Brilliant."
She drifted backwards, her feet passing straight through one of the cubicle doors.
"You aren't the first person to hide in this bathroom."
"I gathered that."
"But you're different."
He frowned.
"How?"
"You don't come in because somebody's been horrid to you." She looked at him over the top of her glasses. "You come in because you're frightened."
His expression hardened at once.
"I'm not frightened."
The words came too quickly.
Myrtle did not argue.
She floated back towards him until she was level with his face.
"No," she said quietly. "Perhaps not."
She watched him for another moment.
"But you're carrying something."
Draco looked away.
If she knew what it was, if she had the slightest idea what the Dark Lord expected of him, she would stop talking at once.
Instead she remained where she was, watching him with that same unsettling patience.
"It isn't something you can put down," she said softly. "Is it?"
He swallowed.
No.
It wasn't.
His eyes dropped to the cracked tiles.
Whatever had passed between them a moment before slipped away.
The silence settled over the bathroom once more.
He did not want to speak.
What good would it do?
There was nothing she could change. Nothing anyone could change.
The Dark Lord had given him a task.
Failure was not an option.
His father had failed once already. Draco knew better than anyone what happened to those who disappointed him. He had seen it with his own eyes.
His mother's face rose in his mind.
He pushed the thought aside at once.
His throat felt tight.
"I can't talk about it."
The words were little more than a whisper.
They were also the closest he had come to telling the truth in weeks.
"That's all right," Myrtle said.
There was no disappointment in her voice.
"You don't have to."
Draco looked up.
She was watching him, but not in the way everyone else did. There was no curiosity in her face, no hunger for gossip.
"I'm dead," she went on. "Not… well…"
She hesitated.
"… not only nosy."
He gave her a doubtful look.
"Oh, all right," she admitted with a small sigh. "I am nosy."
"I'd noticed."
"But I can keep secrets," she said at once. "People say all sorts of things in here."
Draco snorted.
"That's reassuring."
"I've never told anyone."
She paused.
"Well… not on purpose."
He narrowed his eyes.
She looked faintly embarrassed.
"That only happened once."
He was not sure whether to believe her.
"Don't talk, then," Myrtle said, giving a small shrug as she drifted back towards the sinks. "You can just sit here if you like."
She folded her hands together.
"I don't mind."
Draco said nothing.
For once, neither did she.
Her robes billowed as she floated from side to side, and her lank hair hung about her face. Her thick glasses were crooked as usual.
She looked absurd. She sounded absurd.
Yet she had not left.
What was worse, he realised he did not want her to.
His voice was quiet when he spoke, as though he regretted the question before it had even left him.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
She looked down at him, blinking behind her glasses.
"Because you look like you need someone to be."
Draco let out a short, humourless laugh.
"You don't even know me."
"I don't have to," she said. "I know what it's like when nobody wants you around."
He looked away at once, fixing his eyes on the cracked tiles beneath his shoes.
Of course she would say that.
She spent her days hiding in a lavatory because nobody wanted to be near her. She cried. She complained. Everyone laughed at her.
He should have found the comparison insulting.
Instead, it left an uncomfortable feeling in his chest.
Why did she have to notice?
"Besides," Myrtle went on, floating lower until she was almost level with him, "you've been coming here for months. You never laugh at me. Most people do."
Draco gave a small shrug.
"I've had other things to think about."
"I noticed."
There was no accusation in her voice. If anything, she sounded as though she understood.
That was almost worse.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
"You say so many things."
"I know," Myrtle replied. "It's one of the few things I'm good at."
He snorted before he could stop himself.
She smiled, looking far too pleased.
Draco shook his head.
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
Silence settled between them again.
He stayed where he was, his back against the cold stone wall, his shoulders heavy with tiredness. Myrtle drifted across the room without speaking, humming softly to herself as she circled the taps.
The silence was different now.
It did not ease the fear waiting for him outside the bathroom. It did not lessen what he still had to do.
But for a little while, it asked nothing of him.
He found, to his annoyance, that he did not mind that at all.
She drifted closer.
The air grew colder.
Draco knew she was there without looking up. He could feel her lingering beside him, waiting.
He kept his eyes on the floor.
Looking at her would make this real.
His body felt heavy. Every muscle ached from sleepless nights and constant strain. He could not remember the last time he had felt rested. He could not remember the last time he had not been thinking about the task.
His breathing caught for a moment.
"Please," Myrtle said. Her voice had lost its usual sharpness. "Just tell me what's wrong."
He closed his eyes.
What was the point?
She could not help him. Nobody could.
Yet she had stayed.
"I feel…" The words stuck in his throat. He hated how weak his own voice sounded. "Weaker than I've ever felt."
Silence followed.
He swallowed.
"I've made a mess of everything."
The admission left him feeling exposed.
He pressed his lips together and blinked hard.
Pathetic.
He was sitting on the floor of a girls' bathroom, admitting failure to a ghost.
If Crabbe or Goyle could see him now, they would not know what to think. If his father could see him…
The thought made his stomach tighten.
Myrtle did not laugh.
She hovered beside him, watching with an expression he could not bring himself to meet.
"Things go wrong," she said quietly. "They always do. I know that."
He gave a bitter laugh.
"You don't know anything about this."
"No," she admitted. "Not this. But I know what it's like to be miserable. And I know what it's like when you think nobody cares."
He said nothing.
"You don't have to keep everything to yourself," she whispered.
His jaw tightened.
If only it were that simple.
If he spoke, people would die.
If he failed, people would die.
There was no choice at all.
He shook his head, more to stop himself thinking than to answer her. His fringe clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. He scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand before she could see the moisture gathering in his eyes.
He would not cry.
Not here.
Not in front of anyone.
Not even a ghost.
"You don't understand," he said, his voice rough. "I have to do this. It's for my family. They expect me to do what's been asked of me. That's all there is to it."
His hands closed into fists. He stared at them, willing them to stop shaking.
"I can't…" He stopped, swallowing hard. "Every time something goes wrong, it only gets worse."
He broke off.
How could he explain it?
Every failure meant another letter. Another visit. Another reminder of what would happen if he did not succeed.
He had wanted the task.
He had wanted the honour.
He had wanted to prove himself.
Now he wished he had never been given the chance.
He could not remember when that had happened.
He avoided looking at the cracked mirror above the sinks.
The pale face staring back never looked rested. There were shadows beneath his eyes that had not been there last year. Even his own reflection seemed to accuse him.
"If I don't finish this," he said, "everything falls apart."
She frowned behind her thick glasses.
"Can't you tell somebody?"
His head snapped up.
"No."
The answer came before he had time to think.
"No one can know."
Not Snape.
Not his mother.
No one.
He looked away again.
"If I fail…" His voice almost failed him. "I lose everything."
The words hung between them.
He had never imagined it would come to this.
The necklace had failed.
The poisoned mead had failed.
The cabinet had become his last chance.
Each mistake closed the circle a little more.
There was no way out now.
He had gone too far to turn back.
For a long moment neither of them spoke.
Myrtle watched him in silence.
Draco pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
He was tired.
Tired of lying.
Tired of pretending he knew what he was doing.
Tired of waking every morning knowing the task was still waiting for him.
But none of that mattered.
The Dark Lord did not care how tired he was.
He expected Draco Malfoy to succeed.
Failure was not something he could afford.
He stared at the floor.
The cracked tiles blurred. He blinked hard, but they refused to settle.
"I wanted to finish it without hurting anyone."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
He shut his mouth at once, as though he could drag them back.
He had not meant to admit that. It sounded weak. Father would have called it weakness. Bellatrix would have laughed in his face. They would never understand why every failed attempt had left him sick with dread long before it had left anyone injured.
But it was true.
He had wanted it over. He had wanted Dumbledore dead because the Dark Lord had ordered it. He had wanted the task finished before anyone else got caught in it. Before Katie Bell. Before Rosmerta. Before anyone.
Instead, everything had gone wrong.
Myrtle said nothing.
The silence was strange. Draco found he did not hate it.
He remained where he was, shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the floor. The weight pressing on him seemed impossible to shift. Pride had carried him this far. Pride was no use now.
Myrtle drifted a little closer. The air turned colder. It was enough to remind him she was dead.
He was not.
Not yet.
"Let me help," she said.
Her voice was so quiet that, for a moment, he scarcely recognised it as hers. The sharpness had gone, leaving only concern.
Draco looked up.
Her face was pale behind her misted glasses, her eyes fixed on him with an expression he had never expected to see.
Pity.
He looked away at once.
She could not help him. No one could.
"I can't," he whispered.
His voice caught.
"He'll kill me."
The words settled between them.
There was no point pretending otherwise.
The Dark Lord had not given him a choice.
If he failed, he would die.
Myrtle went still.
Her robes, which usually drifted and swirled around her, hung almost motionless.
"Who?" she asked.
There was no giggle. No complaint. Only quiet curiosity.
Draco did not answer.
He could not.
His chest felt tight. Every breath caught in his throat. If he spoke, he knew what would happen. The words would come out, and once they did, there would be no taking them back.
His hands began to shake.
He hated that.
He curled his fingers into his robes, willing them to stop, but it made no difference. His throat burned. His eyes stung again.
Not now.
He scrubbed both hands across his face, pressing hard against his eyes.
Pull yourself together.
He was Draco Malfoy.
He was not supposed to fall apart in front of a ghost.
Least of all Moaning Myrtle.
He heard her drift closer. The cold followed with her, settling against his skin.
"I wish I could hug you," she said. She stretched out a hand, but it slipped straight through his arm. She looked down at it with a small frown.
"Stupid ghost arms," she muttered. "They're no use at all."
A strange sound escaped him before he could stop it.
It might have been a laugh.
It might have been something else.
He covered his mouth at once, ashamed that anything she had said had reached him.
Myrtle gave him a hesitant smile.
"You'll be all right," she said. "You will. Maybe you'll even live long enough to get laugh lines."
For a second, the corner of his mouth twitched.
The feeling disappeared almost as soon as it came.
He drew a shaky breath.
"I shouldn't have joined him."
The words came out low.
"It was a mistake. A stupid mistake."
Silence followed.
He wished he could tell himself he had never wanted any of it.
That would have been easier.
He had wanted to prove himself. He had wanted his father to be proud again. He had wanted his family safe.
Instead, he had been given a task no one could carry.
His voice dropped until it was almost impossible to hear.
"But what was I supposed to do?"
He already knew there was no answer.
Refuse the Dark Lord?
Walk away?
As though anyone ever walked away from him.
The choice had been made long before anyone had thought to ask what Draco wanted.
His jaw clenched until it ached.
"I shouldn't have done it," he muttered. "None of it."
The words barely reached the air before everything he had been holding back gave way.
Tears spilled down his face.
He shut his eyes at once, furious with himself. He scrubbed at them with the heel of his hand, but they kept coming.
Pathetic.
If anyone saw him like this…
His father would have looked away in disgust.
Bellatrix would have laughed.
The Dark Lord…
He could not bear to think what the Dark Lord would do.
Myrtle said nothing.
She watched him with an expression he had never seen on her before. She did not look pleased that he was crying. She only looked sad.
"Everybody gets things wrong," she said after a long silence. "Some worse than others."
She looked down at her hands.
"I did."
Her voice grew quieter.
"I thought if I died, everyone would be sorry."
She gave a small shrug.
"They weren't. Not for very long."
Draco did not answer.
He could not think of anything to say.
His eyes dropped to his left forearm.
Even beneath his sleeve, he could almost feel the Dark Mark burning against his skin.
He wished he had never held out his arm.
"I should've known better," he said.
His voice was rough.
"I let them make me believe it was what I wanted."
The words tasted bitter.
"They laugh at me. They expect me to fail."
He swallowed.
"And I still keep trying."
He waited for Myrtle to laugh as well.
She laughed at almost everything.
Instead, she frowned.
"Well, stop it."
Draco looked up.
"What?"
"Stop acting as though you deserve every rotten thing that's happened to you."
He stared at her.
"You've changed."
"I have not."
"You sound like somebody's mother."
Myrtle gave an offended sniff.
"I most certainly do not."
"No?"
He felt the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth.
"What's next? Going to tell me to eat a proper breakfast and keep my chin up?"
She folded her transparent arms.
"I was going to tell you to stop being such an idiot."
For the first time in what felt like weeks, Draco almost smiled.
Myrtle folded her arms and drifted a little higher, glaring down at him as though he had said something deeply offensive.
"I'm trying to help you, you arrogant twit."
A short laugh escaped him. It held no amusement. He pushed a hand through his hair and let his head rest against the cold stone wall.
"Brilliant," he said. "Judged by a dead girl in a lavatory. Exactly what I needed."
He had meant to wound her. Instead, she drew herself up, her pale face hardening.
"I died, Draco," she snapped. "In a lavatory. Killed by a monster no one believed in. Forgive me if I know a thing or two about pain."
His smile disappeared.
The words struck harder than he wanted to admit.
He looked away.
Of course she knew. Everyone remembered how Myrtle Warren had died. A ghost was hardly likely to forget it herself.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Water dripped into one of the sinks. The sound echoed through the empty bathroom, slow enough to become irritating.
Myrtle gave a loud sniff.
Then another.
Draco glanced at her.
"Why do you always do that?"
She blinked.
"Do what?"
"Cry."
Her eyes widened.
"Excuse me?"
"You haunt a lavatory and spend half your time sobbing."
She gasped.
"Oh, and you're the picture of self-control, are you?"
Heat crept into his face.
"That's different."
"Because you're alive?" she shot back. "Don't make me laugh. You spend nearly as much time moping as I do."
His jaw tightened.
She was watching him far too closely.
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
"No," Myrtle said, sounding pleased with herself. "But you keep coming to my lavatory. If you wanted to brood in peace, you could have picked somewhere else."
"As though this was my first choice."
"No, I expect you'd rather be in some gloomy dungeon."
He rolled his eyes.
"Very funny."
"It was."
She floated closer, still studying him.
"You know what your problem is?"
"I've got several. Which one are you talking about?"
"The one where you think you have to keep everything to yourself."
His expression hardened.
"You don't know anything."
"I know enough."
"No, you don't."
He heard the sharpness in his own voice and wished he had held it back. Losing his temper with Myrtle was pointless. She would only keep talking.
Yet some part of him was relieved she had.
Anything was better than being left alone with his own thoughts.
He let out a long, weary sigh and dragged both hands down his face.
Everything felt too close to the surface. It took less and less to make him snap.
Myrtle hovered before him with her arms folded, still glaring. There was something in her expression that irritated him more than her usual sulking. She looked almost concerned.
He groaned.
"Why do I even talk to you?"
"Because no one else listens," she said.
Her voice was quieter now. She still sounded pleased with herself, but there was something else beneath it.
He said nothing.
Crabbe and Goyle understood nothing beyond standing guard. Blaise kept his distance. Pansy asked questions he had no intention of answering. His mother was frightened. His father was locked away.
And Snape…
His jaw tightened.
Snape was waiting.
Watching.
Dumbledore was waiting too.
Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to fail.
He drew his knees closer to his chest and slid lower against the cold tiles. His arms folded around his legs almost without thinking. If Myrtle found the posture pathetic, she could keep it to herself.
But she was right.
He hated admitting it, even to himself.
No one else listened.
"It's not my fault you keep skulking in here," she added. "Do you think I enjoy watching you mope about every other day?"
Draco shut his eyes for a moment and breathed through his nose.
Wonderful.
He had reached the point where he was quarrelling with a ghost in a girls' lavatory.
If anyone from Slytherin House walked in now, he would never hear the end of it. Potter would probably tell the whole school by breakfast.
He opened one eye and fixed Myrtle with a tired glare.
"You know," he muttered, "you're becoming impossible."
She hovered there, translucent and pitiful and stubborn as ever. Her narrow face was all sharp cheekbones, watery eyes and wounded expression. She looked, to his annoyance, far too much like he felt.
That was the worst of it.
Talking to Myrtle had become unbearable because she never looked away. She saw too much. Most people either feared him, ignored him or expected something of him. Myrtle simply watched.
For a long moment, Draco stared at her.
Then the glare faded from his face. His jaw loosened. The anger drained out of him, leaving only the weight he had been carrying for months. His shoulders sagged before he could stop them.
"I've got nowhere else to go," he muttered.
The words escaped before he could swallow them back.
He hated how weak they sounded.
Silence settled between them.
For once, Myrtle did not rush to fill it.
Her expression shifted. The usual offence and self-pity gave way to something quieter. She drifted a little closer, moving with unusual care, as though she feared he might leave if she came too near.
"I know I'm not your first choice," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Most people don't stay long. They forget I'm here. Or they want to."
She paused before adding, "But I'm still here."
Of course you are, Draco thought.
Always here. Always crying in a lavatory. Always waiting for someone to notice you.
The thought lacked its usual bite. He could not even summon the energy to sneer at her. She was trapped here just as surely as he was trapped at Hogwarts.
The comparison left a sour feeling in his stomach.
He said nothing.
He did not trust his voice.
More than that, he did not trust what might come out if he let himself speak.
Instead, he fixed his eyes on the cracked tile opposite him. A thin line split it down the middle, worn smooth with age. It gave him something to look at other than her.
The Mark beneath his sleeve burned in his thoughts, even if it lay still against his skin. Orders. Secrets. Promises he could not break. They crowded his mind until there was room for little else.
Myrtle settled herself on the edge of the sink, letting out a sigh that drifted through the silent bathroom.
"I used to hide, too," she said, gazing somewhere beyond him. "I'd sit in that cubicle for hours. Nobody noticed. I think they were glad, really. Less of me about."
A short breath escaped Draco's nose.
Not quite a laugh.
She wasn't wrong.
There were plenty of people who would have preferred not to see him either. These days they looked at him with expectation, suspicion or fear. None of it made any difference. None of them knew what they were asking of him.
He kept that to himself.
"I just want out," he said.
The words slipped free before he could stop them.
He shut his mouth at once.
Out.
Out of the task. Out of the castle. Out of every choice that had brought him here.
As though there were any way out now.
The Dark Lord did not forgive failure. His father had learned that. Draco had known it from the moment the task had been given to him. This had never been an honour. It had been a punishment dressed up as one.
His fingers curled against the edge of the sink.
He was supposed to finish what had been ordered.
He was supposed to prove the Malfoy name still meant something.
Instead he was standing in a girls' lavatory, admitting things to a ghost.
Myrtle tilted her head, her hair floating around her face.
"But you couldn't, could you?" she asked.
There was no malice in her voice.
Only confusion.
Draco's jaw tightened until it hurt.
"It was supposed to fix everything," he said. His voice had lost its flatness, sharpened by something he could no longer keep down. "When he came back, we were supposed to rise again. My family. Our name. Everything we'd lost. I thought if I served him properly, if I did what was expected, it'd all be put right."
His mouth felt dry.
How stupid that sounded now.
"But then he sent my father to Azkaban as though he'd never mattered." The words came faster now. "Called him weak. A failure."
Draco looked down at the floor.
"And now I'm expected to make up for it."
His fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.
"Me."
The word left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Myrtle said nothing.
She simply watched him. There were no complaints, no tears, no offended sniffing. It was almost worse.
"He doesn't expect me to do it," Draco said after a long silence. His voice had dropped again. "That's the point. If I fail, it doesn't matter. If I die…" He stopped.
The rest did not need saying.
"This wasn't a reward," he went on, barely above a whisper. "It was punishment. For my father. For all of us."
He hated hearing the strain in his own voice.
The Dark Lord had never intended to forgive the Malfoys. Father had known it. Mother had known it. Draco had only been fool enough to believe he could change it.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
"If I don't do it…" he said.
He could not finish.
He did not need to.
He lowered his hands.
"I can't do this," he said.
The words were almost soundless.
"But I have to."
There was no escaping the task. No refusing it. No asking for help.
His hands closed into fists until his nails bit into his palms.
He kept his head bowed, willing himself not to lose control.
The plan, his plan, was a farce. It had never been a solution. It was a trap.
Killing Dumbledore was not glory. It was murder.
The thought would not leave him. Every time he looked at the Vanishing Cabinet, every time he tried to think of another way, it came back. Dumbledore had to die because the Dark Lord had decided it. Draco was expected to make it happen.
The idea made his stomach turn.
He was coming apart, little by little.
No one knew. Not his mother. Not Snape. No one except Myrtle. A boy hiding in a girls' bathroom and a ghost no one listened to.
"This is wrong," Draco said through clenched teeth.
His fists curled at his sides until his knuckles turned white. It was not only the plan or the certainty that he would fail if he could not mend the Cabinet. It was Dumbledore himself. The greatest wizard alive, marked for death because the Dark Lord had chosen him. There was nothing honourable about it. Nothing clever. Just an order that had to be obeyed.
Or else.
His chest tightened.
Myrtle drifted a little closer. For once, there was none of her usual whining. She watched him with an expression that almost looked like pity.
"You do not have to do what anyone says," she said quietly. "You've still got a choice."
Draco let out a short, bitter laugh.
"A choice?" he repeated. "That's funny."
He turned away before she could see his face.
"There isn't a choice," he said. "Not when he's got his wand pointed at my mother's head."
The words hung between them.
He hated saying them aloud because they made everything real. It was not about him. It never had been. If he failed, the Dark Lord would not stop with him.
Mother would pay for it.
He dug his nails into his palms, forcing himself to hold still.
"I can help," Myrtle offered, her voice shaking. "You could tell me who it is. Maybe Dumbledore…"
Draco rounded on her.
"Have you completely lost what's left of your mind?" he snapped. "I'm barely telling you. Why would I tell him?"
His voice dropped, low enough that she had to lean closer to hear it.
"And don't you dare go running to Potter."
Myrtle gave a small gasp, as though he had struck her.
"Harry Potter?" she squeaked. "Why would I tell Harry?"
Draco did not answer. He stared at the cracked floor, his jaw clenched until it hurt.
Potter.
Of course it would come back to Potter. It always did.
If Potter got involved, he would never leave it alone. He would keep asking questions, keep following him, convinced there was something to uncover. The thought alone made Draco's stomach tighten.
Myrtle drifted back, her wide eyes fixed on him.
"I wouldn't worry about him," she said after a moment. "Harry's kind. He isn't the sort to pry." Her expression darkened. "Not like Peeves. He only ever comes here to make my life miserable."
Draco gave a tired snort.
"You don't know Potter," he muttered. "He can't leave anything alone."
He shoved a hand through his hair.
"Snape says he's suspicious. He's been hanging about, asking questions." Draco laughed without humour. "He's forgotten Quidditch, forgotten hexing people for five minutes. Now it's just me. Every corridor I turn into, he's there. Following me about, waiting for me to slip up."
His lip curled.
"He wants to prove there's something wrong with me. He's wanted that since first year."
"What does he think you're doing?" Myrtle asked, tilting her head as though she could puzzle him out if she stared long enough.
Draco stopped pacing.
"He thinks he can stop me," he said. His voice was flat. "Spoil everything. Just like he always does."
The words had barely left his mouth before he lashed out at the sink.
The crack echoed through the bathroom.
"He always has to be the hero," Draco said, anger rising again. "He can't mind his own business. He's got to stick his nose into everything." His hands curled into fists once more. "I'm not letting him ruin this."
As if I've got enough to deal with without Potter following me everywhere.
Myrtle drifted nearer.
"I don't think Harry would…"
"Oh, shut up, Mudblood."
Silence filled the bathroom.
Draco's own words seemed to catch him off guard.
Myrtle stared at him. Her form quivered, the edges of her growing faint.
"Oh," she whispered. "So that's what you think of me."
Her face crumpled.
"I thought you were different." Her voice rose. "You come here crying and talking to me, and now you call me that?"
Draco looked away.
He wished he could snatch the word back. It had come out before he'd thought. He had wanted her to stop talking, to stop saying Potter's name, to stop making him think.
Instead he had made everything worse.
His throat tightened.
He was not going to apologise. He could not bear another conversation about right and wrong. He heard enough of that in his own head.
Myrtle's voice cracked as it rose an octave.
"I was trying to help, you arrogant, ungrateful—"
She shot upwards, her hair billowing around her, her robes whipping as her temper flared.
"You looked lonely! And I thought perhaps you'd like someone to talk to instead of sulking like a great, miserable slug in your filthy pit of misery!"
"I might have," Draco snapped, "if you didn't cry more than a Mandrake."
Her mouth fell open. She looked both offended and hurt.
"I'm trying to be your friend, you awful, ungrateful boy!"
"You're not my friend," he said, each word clipped. "You're a pathetic ghost who doesn't know when to leave people alone."
That did it.
The glow around her seemed to dull. The anger drained from her face, leaving only hurt.
"You don't have to be such a prat," she whispered. "I'm the only one who doesn't pretend you aren't here. Maybe that's pathetic, but you could at least stop treating me as though I've done something dreadful."
Draco said nothing.
That was the trouble with it.
She was the only one who kept coming back. Everyone else either expected something from him or watched him, waiting for him to fail. Myrtle simply stayed. She saw him at his worst and still drifted back into the bathroom as though there were nowhere else she wanted to be.
Why? He had given her every reason to leave him alone.
He opened his mouth, ready with something sharp, something that would send her floating off in tears. It ought to have been easy. Once, the words would have come without thought. Father had never struggled to put people in their place, and neither had he.
But nothing came.
The insult caught in his throat.
He looked away before she could see the hesitation.
Because beneath all the sniffling and the tears, Myrtle had said something he could not dismiss.
She had stayed.
And, much as he hated admitting it, he had stopped telling himself she was nothing more than an irritation.
He lowered his eyes to the floor instead.
The pale tiles lay in neat rows, each square exactly where it belonged. If only everything else could be set in order so easily.
He sank onto the bench. His arms hung at his sides, his shoulders slumped. Every failed attempt, every promise he had made, every expectation resting on him seemed to press harder each day. He was tired of carrying them, but there was no putting them down.
He did not want company.
Yet the thought of Myrtle leaving did not bring the relief it should have done.
He frowned at the floor.
Pathetic.
The silence lingered.
Of course Myrtle stayed.
She always did.
"I know I've been a complete git," he said at last. The words came out stiffly, as though they did not belong to him. "I couldn't help it. I've… hurt people."
"Including me!" Myrtle interrupted at once, her voice rising with indignation.
Draco let out a slow breath.
"Yes," he said. "Including you."
She looked almost pleased to have been acknowledged.
Honestly.
He rubbed a hand across his face.
"I'm not usually like this," he muttered after a moment. "Talking about what's in my head." He grimaced. "I don't do it."
"Why not?" Myrtle asked, drifting closer. Her large eyes searched his face with an eagerness that made him want to look away.
Because people used it against you.
Because the moment they knew what mattered, they knew where to strike.
His father had taught him that long before Hogwarts ever had.
He hesitated.
"Because trusting people is bloody impossible," he said.
The words escaped before he could stop them.
He wished at once that he could take them back.
"Everyone either laughs," he added, "or they pretend to care until they've got what they want. Then they leave." He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "It's easier not to rely on anyone. Do everything yourself. Then, when it all goes wrong, you've only yourself to blame."
Though that was not quite true.
Snape's face rose in his mind, composed as ever, giving nothing away.
The man had sworn an Unbreakable Vow.
His mother trusted him.
Even so, Draco never knew what Snape was thinking. Every question felt like an attempt to prise something out of him. Every offer of help carried a price he could not see.
He hated not knowing.
Myrtle was silent.
For once, she did not rush to fill the quiet.
When she spoke, her voice had lost its usual shrillness.
"People talk because they don't want to be forgotten," she said. "I used to cry for hours because everyone whispered about me, called me names, laughed whenever they looked at me. And then…" She stopped.
Her hands drifted before her, as though she had forgotten what they were meant to do.
She did not finish.
She did not have to.
Dead.
That single word settled in his mind.
She had spent her life being laughed at, and her death had changed very little. People still came to this bathroom because of the story. Because of Moaning Myrtle. Not because they cared who she had been.
Draco looked at her.
Her outline shimmered against the cold stone walls. Her long hair floated around her face. She looked as though she belonged nowhere except this forgotten bathroom.
He looked away.
For one unpleasant moment, he understood why she kept coming back.
There were worse things than being pitied.
There was being forgotten.
A chill crept beneath his skin.
For the first time, he found himself wondering what it was really like.
Not just the moment itself. What came after.
If the Dark Lord decided he had failed. If the plan collapsed and Draco Malfoy became nothing more than another warning. Another name people whispered before lowering their voices. Would it be quick? Would they make an example of him? Would his mother have to watch?
The thought settled in his stomach before he could force it away.
Would he scream?
Would his mother cry?
And if he died here, in this castle, would he ever leave it? Or would he end up like Myrtle, lingering where everything had gone wrong, listening to footsteps that never stopped for him?
His throat tightened.
"What's it like?" he asked, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper. "Dying."
Myrtle fell silent.
The usual self-pity slipped from her face. She looked at him without speaking, her large eyes fixed on his as though she had forgotten how to blink.
When she answered, her voice was quiet.
"It's cold. Lonely, too. But not in the way people think." She glanced past him, towards nothing he could see. "The dying isn't the worst part. It's afterwards. Nobody hears you. Nobody notices you. People stop thinking about you. They carry on with their lives as though you were never there."
Draco looked away.
He wished he had never asked.
He had expected one of Myrtle's dramatic stories, something he could dismiss.
Instead she had given him the truth.
His mouth opened, then closed again.
The question had escaped before he could stop it. He should have kept quiet. He should have laughed, said something cruel, anything that sounded like himself.
Instead he heard his own voice ask,
"Do you regret it?"
Myrtle did not hesitate.
"Every day," she said. "But regret doesn't change anything. It just keeps you where you are." She drifted back a little, her eyes lowering. "You've still got a choice, Draco. Let it go before it swallows everything. Don't end up like me, hiding away because you're frightened of what everyone thinks. It's a dreadful way to spend your life."
She gave a hollow little laugh.
"Or your afterlife."
Draco said nothing.
Too many thoughts crowded his mind, and none of them seemed fit to speak aloud. Regret. Fear. The lonely feeling that had followed him for months, growing worse each time another task failed, each time another owl arrived from home, each time he imagined the Dark Lord's face.
He kept his eyes on the cracked floor.
A ghost was telling him how not to waste his life.
Could he stop now, even if he wanted to?
The answer came before he had finished asking himself.
No.
He had spent sixteen years learning what mattered. The family name. Pure blood. Reputation. Never showing weakness. Never disappointing his father. Never giving anyone a reason to look down on a Malfoy.
You did not simply decide one day that none of it mattered.
"I just…" His voice caught. He looked away at once, annoyed with himself. "I don't want to ruin everything."
He could not bring himself to say fail.
The word was too close to the truth.
"Even if everyone already thinks I've done exactly that."
The confession hung between them.
He wished he could snatch it back.
Myrtle drifted closer. There was no trace of teasing in her face now.
"Everybody fails," she said quietly. "Some people just hide it better than others. It doesn't mean it's all over."
Draco almost let out a short laugh.
Easy for her to say.
Her life had ended in this lavatory. She had nothing left to lose.
The thought came and went. He did not speak it aloud. For all the absurdity of it, sitting on the filthy floor of the girls' lavatory, talking to a ghost who spent half her existence weeping, Myrtle had listened. She had not interrupted him or looked at him as though he had failed. She had simply stayed.
He had not realised how much he had needed that.
A breath escaped him. It sounded almost like a laugh, though there was little humour in it.
"You're surprisingly good at this ghost business."
Myrtle brightened at once. Her mournful look vanished.
"You wouldn't be the first miserable person I've helped," she said, tossing her translucent hair over one shoulder. "Though you're certainly the best-looking."
Draco rolled his eyes.
"Of course I am."
The words came without thought. For a moment they almost sounded like the old Draco. The one who could sneer at anyone without wondering what waited for him afterwards.
It lasted only a second.
He looked around the cracked lavatory. It was ridiculous. If anyone had told him a year ago that he would end up telling Moaning Myrtle things he could not tell another living soul, he would have laughed in their face.
Yet she had listened.
No questions. No pity that made him feel weak. No whispers behind his back.
Just Myrtle.
Clingy, dramatic, impossible Myrtle.
At least she never pretended to be anything else.
For one foolish moment, he considered staying where he was.
The thought vanished almost as soon as it came.
Nothing had changed.
The task was still waiting. The Dark Lord was still waiting. His parents were still depending on him.
Draco drew a slow breath and pushed himself to his feet. Every muscle felt stiff after sitting on the cold floor. He brushed the dust from his robes, more from habit than because it mattered.
Enough.
He had hidden himself long enough.
He turned towards the door.
Back to the dungeons.
Back to the looks that lingered too long.
Back to pretending he knew exactly what he was doing.
Myrtle blinked.
"Oh!" she squeaked. "You're leaving already?"
Draco gave a brief nod.
"Yeah." He reached for the door. "I've still got lessons to get through."
Unfortunately.
The word stayed in his head. As though lessons were the worst thing waiting for him.
Myrtle's face fell. It lasted only a moment, but he saw it. Her outline quivered, and she looked as though she regretted asking.
"Will you come back?" she said. She tried to sound casual, but she had never been very good at hiding what she felt.
His hand closed around the handle.
He hesitated.
"Maybe."
It was the safest answer. Better than lying. Better than making a promise he had no idea whether he could keep.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"And don't tell anyone about this."
Myrtle drew herself up at once, placing one transparent hand against her chest.
"I won't," she said. "You've got my word. Moaning Myrtle never tells secrets."
Draco let out a quiet snort.
"Somehow that isn't as reassuring as you think."
She gave an offended little sniff, though she looked pleased all the same.
Draco shook his head.
"See you."
The words were out before he had thought about them.
He frowned at himself, then pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor.
THE END