The extreme mental pain of a Mr. Draco Malfoy or Pain on the Pot
By Ivana Danzdapolka
Draco Malfoy sat in the dark, dank corner of his dormitory bathroom. There was no one else around; they were all at the feast before the Quidditch game between Ravenclaw and Gryfindor. No one would be back for at least two hours. Draco was all alone. He had wanted it that way but now he wished that someone would find him. No, not those dull-witted idiots that he called his friends. Crabbe and Goyle would be no help to him now; they would only want to call Snape.
Draco pretended to like Snape because it was his duty, as a Slytherin, as a Malfoy, but he didn't really. Snape had never been very interesting. Mostly he was just a bumbling fool who thought that his students liked him. They only stayed in his good graces so he would continue to favor them. No, Snape would not help him now, or even know how to react. What Malfoy needed now, and all the other times, was a friend, a real friend. Not like Crabbe and Goyle, who only stuck with him because of his money and their fear of his father, or that Pansy Parkinson who liked him but only because he was popular.
Potter
, he thought, I wish I were Potter. He has those close friends. I wish I had friends. Harry Potter, the famous Harry Potter had tons of friends like Granger and the Weasel who were always with him. For his entire life at Hogwarts, Draco had been competing with Harry Potter. To most people, it seemed like an even match, Malfoy and Potter, enemies since they had been born. Families pitted against each other, light versus dark, good versus evil. But Draco, and only Draco, knew that there was no contest. Harry Potter, the orphan, had a better life than rich, popular Draco Malfoy.Harry Potter's father had never beaten him into unconsciousness. Harry Potter had never worn high-necked robes in summer to hide the purple and yellow bruises that covered his body. Harry Potter's mother had never forgotten he was alive, sliding painlessly into an empty world of vodka and gin. Harry Potter's life had not been controlled for him from the beginning, set in stone without wondering what the boy thought of it. Harry Potter had never been brainwashed into an unchanging face of steel.
Draco Malfoy's face stayed a smooth, pale marble as the waves of mental pain washed over him. I should be better than this; I am too weak he thought. I am living a life that is not worth living, I have no purpose, no one will care if I die, there will be no one to cry at my funeral. A single tear slid down his iron face, never flinching, keeping the mask intact. It is almost over he thought as he looked down at the crimson spreading around him and at the place where his life flowed away.
They found him, hours later, in the same corner he had sat down in, in the exact same position. He was surrounded by a silken pool of Gryfindor-red blood, his life, that had escaped through the straight, clean cuts on each of his pale wrists. His face was its normal, cold expression, his eyes still open, but lacking their dagger-like quality. The only evidence of his anguish before his death was the one dry tear track, weaving its way down his perfect face to mingle with the blood on the floor.
(All characters and places belong to JK Rowling)