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No words were uttered as the Malfoy boy rushed out of the great hall. His friends — no, he didn't have any friends. His classmates watched after him, Pansy Parkinson abruptly pulled back to her seat by Blaise Zabini. Draco roughly loosened his tie, breaths exiting his mouth in a shortened hack. The male slammed his whole body onto the restroom entry door, causing it to bang open and slam into the wall supporting it. He slammed his fist on a toilet door, letting a scream rip from his throat. He rarely showed any emotion rather than arrogance whilst amongst his peers.
The source of his distress, was, of course, his newly formed affiliation with the Dark Lord. His assignment only applied more pressure to the teenager's stressful life. He was practically an adult, and had seen his fair share of murder in his life. He'd seen much more than a sixth year student at hogwarts should have witnessed. This brings one the question — was he prepared to become a murderer himself?
Etched onto his face were traces of fury, annoyance, and sadness. But the most prominent emotion was fear. Fear for his life, and though he wouldn't dare admit it, fear for his school. He could hear the Death Eaters whispering at the elongated table at which their meetings were held; They wondered if Lucius had put him up to this to save his own skin, if without a second glance he would hand his own offspring off to the Dark Lord. They wondered if the mother had any say in the decision. Narcissa was a caring mother who ruled with a firm hand, but she loved her son more than anything. Surely she wouldn't have agreed with the task put before the younger Malfoy.
Most frequently, they wondered if draco could do it. sixteen, they would breathe to their seat mates. And, try as he might, he wasn't able to deny it. He wore a mask of strength and resilience, although under it, he was barely latched onto the world he knew — everything was slowly slipping away, becoming desolate and empty. Only Draco, the singular being; not much different from his Hogwarts life.
A sob broke from his mouth in a choking fashion. The blonde slammed both hands on a sink, glaring up at his messy reflection. Ghostly pale skin, grey eyes, and platinum hair graced his pupils. A tear rolled down his cheek; he roughly wiped it away. He wouldn't cry, he couldn't cry. He was Draco Lucius Malfoy, the crown prince of Slytherin. If anyone walked in, his reputation would be ruined.
It was as if whomever controlled fate were listening. Draco was jerked from his thoughts when the door opened. Draco turned around - only three feet away from Harry Potter. Malfoy bet that Potter never had to murder someone. Potter never had to fear for his and his family's life if he didn't complete a task. Perfect Potter with a perfect life. These feelings overtook him, and he whipped out his hawthorn wand.
Without a second thought, Draco fired a spell from his magical instrument that possessed a reddish hue. It missed Potter by an inch, and the other leapt out of the way. From behind a stall door, a green spell was cast from Potter's wand. Draco stepped out of the way and chased after Harry.
Attempting to be as silent as possible, Draco snuck around the bend. He imagined Potter pressed against a wall, waiting to stupefy him. Cautiously, the blonde's eyes swept across the bathroom. He relaxed for a second. It was then when we would look back and realise his mistake.
“Sectumsempra!” Potter yelled.
It was as if several knives were cutting into Draco at once; slicing his skin, attacking his arms, his face, his legs, his torso. He collapsed onto the wet floor as Potter looked on with a shocked expression. Blood flowed from several places at once, and without shame, Draco cried. He sobbed, sobbed harder than he ever had before. Blood mixed with tears on the cold floor surface. If Draco died, if Harry Potter murdered him, his last wish was to keep his family safe. Regardless of whether Draco killed Albus Dumbledore or whatever other task the Dark Lord had for him. His last wish was to keep Narcissa and Lucius - his mother and father - safe.
The last thing he saw was Professor Snape looming over him, wand drawing across the younger male's limp body. His vision was consumed by darkness.