Draco was standing in the middle of the white marble floor in the bathroom of his mansion. He surveyed the shattered glass in the sink and on the floor. A spattering of blood blended with the glass casting red shadows on the ceiling and walls. There was a trickle of blood making its way down the underside of his forearm where it dripped from his elbow onto the side of the sink; gradually enough for him to wonder if time had slowed down. Draco couldn't feel that trickle, just like he couldn't feel the gashes in his fist after hitting the mirror. Images flashed through his mind of him yelling at his father when he told him that he, Draco, did matter to someone. After he had said that, Lucius smirked. Smirked. His own father thought him insignificant and worthless. Draco had only yelled to prove to his father how much he didn't rely on his judgment to validate himself. The truth was he didn't know anyone who thought him worth anything. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, they all were only his friends for power, he didn't care for them, and they didn't care for him, that's how it worked. But he felt like he had to prove something to his father after years of emotional and physical abuse. If there was one person in the whole world who could make Draco feel like nothing, it was his own father. Today, though, something just snapped in him and he yelled, much to his own surprise. He screamed and threatened his dad, telling him he was wrong about everything and how his treatment was becoming unbearable. Then he came into this bathroom. This cell where he had just vented all of his frustration on the bathroom mirror, but it didn't matter. He couldn't do anything else about it. Leaning his back against the door, Draco slid down and wrapped his arms around his knees, leaning his forehead against them and letting everything out. He started to cry, rocking himself as a sort of comfort against his miserable life, all the while wondering why, why this had to happen to him.