He was desperate - he needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to get away from everything life had thrown at him.
Draco Malfoy was walking down a deserted corridor. He walked quickly, afraid of stopping too long, afraid that his emotions would catch up with him again. Malfoys were never emotional.
Malfoys wore a mask that covered their emotions, disguised their true feelings; their expressions remained expressionless. They remained dignified and distant; and they most definitely didn't cry.
He needed escape; a way out of the life he was living. He couldn't go on much longer; he couldn't live with the constant guilt, the constant fear, and the ongoing battle of consciences inside him. It was tearing him apart.
If only he could end it all.
But he had to do this. He had to carry out this seemingly impossible task. The task that kept him up, worrying, night after night. If not, the Dark Lord would kill his parents, his whole family. His parents did care for him, even if they didn't show it that often; and he couldn't let them be wiped off the earth; all because of him. They were the only people who had ever loved him; the only people who would probably ever love him.
He had no one else; his friends were more like his cronies – people only talked to him because of his surname or wealth.
He thought of his parents now. His father, his idol, locked away in a filthy cell in Azkaban. His mother – how scared she had been when he had told her of his task; she had cried when he had shown her his Dark Mark emblazoned on his skin. He had been excited then; here was a chance to prove himself; to show the world what he was capable of. Reality hadn't sunk in until later.
The Dark Lord would kill him as well if he failed, but Draco didn't really care about that. Death didn't seem that bad, in fact, it seemed like the only method of escape left open to him.
How had he gotten here? How had he come down so much in the world? One moment he was bullying First Years, laughing with fellow Slytherins, strutting around the school, annoying Potter; the next he was crying by himself in the dormitory, refusing to eat - growing thinner and thinner, planning out a task he didn't want to complete.
Draco felt the tears welling up.
No one must see him cry. Malfoys never cry.
Panicking, he broke into a run, and hurled himself through the nearest door, not caring what was behind it. He couldn't let anyone see him in such a state. He slammed the door behind him, and took a look around.
He was in a girl's bathroom.
A girl's bathroom that had, apparently, not been used for some time. The floor was grimy, mirrors were cracked, cobwebs hung from the corners of the room.
Draco stopped, stood still and listened carefully. There was not a single noise, only the distant dripping of some pipe. He was alone, exactly how he wanted it.
If only Saint Potter and his stay-with-you-until-I-die friends could see the great Draco Malfoy now, reduced to crying alone in a girl's bathroom.
He made his way slowly to the sink, and bowing his head, grasped the sides of it tightly with his hands. His deathly pale hands, so completely inhuman, so flawless, gripped the grimy basin tightly, so tightly his knuckles went white. Draco looked up at his reflection in the cracked, filthy mirror. Is that how dreadful he looked? He looked really ill, half dead. This, he supposed, was a combination of malnutrition, stress, fear, and guilt. His usually immaculate white blonde hair was messed up; strands were falling over his cold grey eyes, which had not a single spark of light left in them. They were dead, lifeless. His complexion was even paler than usual, if that was possible; it was almost grey, with dark bags circling his eyes.
Tears had started to fall, faster and faster, and he brushed away the tears impatiently with his sleeve. Draco took some deep, shuddering breaths, ran his fingers through his hair, and cast his mind to his troubles, hoping that there may be a way out he had previously overlooked.
He knew one thing for sure. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Dumbledore. No matter how much he despised the man, the Muggle-loving fool, he could never murder him in cold blood. But if he didn't kill him, his parents would die as well, his family would all be murdered by the Dark lord without a second thought. He couldn't let that happen, he couldn't have their lives on his conscience.
Death seemed like the only escape.
He reached into the pocket of his robes, and pulled out a small silver knife, which glinted in the candlelight. Draco ran his finger down the blade softly; it was sharp, very sharp. Perfect.
Draco pulled the sleeve of his robe up to his elbow. There it was, the Dark Mark; it contrasted so much with the whiteness of Draco's arm; it was almost painful to look at. Draco had gotten used to the sight of seeing the dreadful mark seared onto his skin, but the memories associated with it were too painful to ever go away. The burning pain on his arm, the jeers of Death Eaters, the cruel smile of the Dark Lord himself.
For the first time, he realised how cold it was in this room, breaths of icy air brushed against his face, causing hairs to stand on end.
Draco held the knife against his white skin, and braced himself for the pain that would surely follow. Could he actually do this? He could almost imagine the blood, deep crimson in contrast to the pale silvery skin, seeping from the wound, staining the sink, dripping onto the floor. The throbbing pain mixed with the curious feeling of relief.
The silver knife hovered there for an eternity, practically no distance between the blade and the skin. His arm was shaking, and he was sobbing; tears streaming down his pale face.
Then, suddenly, Draco hurled the knife across the room, expression furious, with all his might. It hit the wall, and fell onto the cold stone floor, with a clatter. He couldn't do it. He was weak. He couldn't bear the idea of living, but he couldn't bear the idea of dying either.
There was no method of escape. He would have to go through with the plan, bring the Death Eaters into the school – and then kill Dumbledore. He could almost imagine himself whispering the words of that terrible Unforgivable Curse, Avada Kedavra, the curse hitting Dumbledore in the chest, a flash of green light – Dumbledore falling to the floor in a crumpled heap, eyes unseeing.
His conscience burned just at the thought.
But what else could he do?
He could see no other alternative; he was trapped – there was no way out.