Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe. I don't make money.
Father is locked up in Azkaban, my mother doesn't have much to say, and I have never told anyone that I suffer from depression. Sometimes I feel like it is less of a disease and more of a lifestyle.
Potter knows.
I'll never forget the thrill of raw panic that raced up my spine to constrict my heart as the bathroom door was opened and I looked in the mirror to see him step inside, pity in his eyes and his mouth etched into a thin line as he witnessed me at my worst. I just had to hex him, knowing full well that to attack the supposed "saviour" of the wizarding world would be a definite strike against me, especially at Hogwarts. Potter was worshiped then; he has gone a step beyond even that now that the Dark Lord is actually dead. Not that I'm complaining about Voldemort biting the dust...
I have never sought aid of any kind. The very thought of confiding in a fellow Slytherin is blood-curdling. Offhand, I can recite the names and the approximate monetary status of at least a dozen rivals who would love to see their Ice Prince cut down to size. Slytherin has always been the most brutal of the four Houses and that was part of the reason I used to take such pride in it.
Now that I think about it, though, I suppose none of that matters. I am already ruined, my family's fortune confiscated by the Ministry, no better off than the tattered man of the street.
We are homeless now, my mother and I, and Potter knows that, too. He sat in on my trial just minutes ago, blissfully unaware that I could recognize him anywhere by the way he carries himself alone, even under a shapeless cloak. Such is my prize for years of careful scheming and observation. The trial is over now and as I've already admitted I lost everything, but I still can't help but wonder what must have possessed Potter to show up. With any other person I would immediately conclude that they were there to bask in a victory over their sworn enemy, but as much as I am loathe to believe it, I know that Potter's motivations hardly ever fit the standard description. He's always been a better soul than I ever will be.
I think about taking my own life all the time, but I am too much of a coward to do it. Father would tell me that I was of a sorry sort, indeed-too desolate to live yet too afraid to die. So I stand alone, hovering just outside the main entrance to the Ministry of Magic, the chill seeping into my bones as I debate pathetically with myself over the most insipid of dilemmas, such as whether I truly wish to live out the night.
It would be a real shame to have lived through life as a Death Eater and then put an end to it all. It might be an even greater shame if I don't.
Mother stands beside me with a cold mask on her face, unaware of these thoughts I am having as she, too, wonders what to do next. She hasn't reached my conclusion yet: there is nothing.
Nothing is going to get better from here. There is no dream to hope for, only the bitter taste of barely surviving until we lose that game, too. Nothing can save us from this, and no one will try. The proud Malfoy family has made too many enemies.
With each breath, I come closer to breaking and my eyes are too clouded-over to shed a tear. Malfoys do not cry. Malfoys do not display emotion in public, unless an air of perpetual disdain counts as emotion. My father taught me so.
Malfoys are hollow, lifeless creatures, or at least I have been throughout my existence. I want to go somewhere, anywhere; to smile, but my lack of just about everything is a weight that chains me to the spot.
I struggle against it inwardly as a familiar frame concealed beneath a poorly-fitted, homespun cloak looms closer. My chains do not release me and I am almost relieved for it in a morbid sort of way. Perhaps the figure, ever-encroaching upon me as he has been my entire life as long as I've known him, finally intends to kill me.
I would beg him to if I could speak, but he halts in front of me and does not seem to be drawing his wand. What he does instead is much, much worse.
"Er, hi. I don't know if you know this, but my first name is actually Harry. I can't help but notice that you have been feeling pretty low as of recently."
As if a curse upon me has been broken, my body is free to move again. I consider snapping back a venomous insult, but I just can't muster the will any longer. Instead, I take the hand that is outstretched. It is warm and firm in its grip, holding on to my own wintery fingers as if I might transfigure into a bird and flutter away at any given moment.
"Draco," I reply, rasping as my voice is just beginning to work again. I refrain from commenting on anything else. My mother watched this odd exchange, her eyes serving as the only indicator that she is at all invested in the conversation.
Potter takes me by surprise yet again, but I don't hex him this time.
"Grimmauld Place isn't the sort of location one spends time alone in," he says, and I don't dare to hope. Potter locks his gaze with mine, his stare piercing.
"I would like to invite you both to mourn with me."
I am a Malfoy, and Malfoys do not squander an invitation from a worthy host..which would be just about anyone right now.
"Fair enough."
When he walks away, I turn and follow the Boy-Who-Lived to a possible sanctuary. For the first time in ages, I feel accepted.
Just a little drabble that popped into my head while in the bathtub. That, my dear Muggles, is where the magic TRULY happens.
"You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else." -Albert Einstein
Best of luck tonight in your endeavors.
-DauntlessAdrenaline