Title: Isolation

Summary: It feels like the only people interested in his plight were dead ones…

Darkness.

"You've failed me, Draco…"

"N-no, my Lord, I – I… I couldn't get to him!"

"As I said, you've failed me."

"There is still time, my Lord, please, let me try again, please."

"How disappointed your parents must be… and Bellatrix… no doubt they are almost as disappointed as I am."

"No my Lord, please, I had to do my Transfiguration homework! I can still do it, my Lord. Please, give me one last chance!"

"You consider your Transfiguration homework to be more important than the task I have set you?"

"N-no, no, of course not, my Lord… I… just please. One last chance. Please."

"You are lucky I am such a merciful Lord."

And then pain through to the very skin of his soul, burning; blinding; screaming.

Cold sweat blurred Draco's vision as he jerked awake. He could almost feel the remnants of the Cruciatus Curse tingling in his chest.

"Just – just a dream," he panted, although he couldn't stop himself from clutching his wand tightly in his slick hand. Shaken, he glanced at his sleeping roommates; checking that they hadn't witnessed his childish reaction to a dream – albeit a terrifying one. He needn't have glanced at Crabbe and Goyle, snoring in a strangely soothing harmony.

Just go back to sleep, he told himself. He lay down stiffly, staring up at the dank ceiling and attempted to relax.

An hour later Draco leapt out of bed, irate and exhausted and distressed. He swore lowly and threw his cloak on. So much for the Sleeping Potion he'd filched off Slughorn. Draco had taken to roaming the castle, and in his isolation, he felt as though it had almost become an ally – if not a friend. Its hidden passages concealed obscure doors to solitary rooms of solace, peace, and most of all, seclusion.

However, the castle was annoyed at being disturbed by the angry youth that evening. Draco couldn't find a single door, although he knew they must be there; he'd counted the steps.

"Come on!" he whispered angrily. The wall before him tauntingly remained still. "Damn it! When the Dark Lord takes this dump over, there will be no hiding from me!" He slipped away, angry, but not stupid enough to stomp loudly, and found his way to a dingy bathroom that was barely noticeable in the dark. A tap dripped gently somewhere; the depressing rhythm echoed in the cavernous room.

"Merlin, I hate this place."

"So do I."

Draco sprang around, glancing first at the feet of the cubicles, and then in the mirrors to locate the intruder.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" he demanded. Exhaustion and paranoia couldn't mar his very proud, very Malfoyesque tone.

"Get out of my bathroom!"

Your bathroom? Draco thought slyly. "Homenum revelio!" Nothing. "Homenum revelio! Homenum revelio!" Frowning, Draco called out:

"So… your bathroom is it? I was under the impression Dumbledore ran this place." He tilted his head as she – for no male voice could be that squeaky and whiny – responded.

"Pfft. Dumbledore? I've been here longer than Dumbledore." Draco moved quietly towards the cubicle her voice was emanating from whilst digesting her response.

"Longer than Dumbledore? Nobody's – you're a ghost, aren't you?" he asked, surprised. The cubicle hiccupped.

"Aren't you?" Draco pressed in a harder tone. He pushed the door open forcefully. He was met by the shadow of a squat, bespectacled girl in the toilet. The girl seemed outraged by the violation of her privacy.

"Get out! Get out! Get out!" she screeched louder as he tentatively stepped forward.

"I've nowhere else to go," he mumbled, and felt his cheeks redden at his vulnerability. Merlin, he was so pathetic! Even the castle hated him…The girl opened her mouth, presumably to screech something, but stopped when she saw the hot tears quietly edging their way down Draco's cheeks.

"What's wrong?" she asked tenderly. Draco bit his lip as more tears flowed down his cheeks from embarrassment. He slid to the ground and hunched over, his shoulders pitifully frail from weeks of malnutrition.

"I can't – I can't do it. I'm not… I'm not a murderer. I just can't do it," he sobbed. "I'm pathetic," he mumbled as an afterthought. The ghostly girl sidled up next to him, and he felt a chill pass through his arm. The girl had tried to place her hand on his shoulder.

"You're not pathetic… Nobody wants to be a murderer… It's alright…" She soothed, seemingly at odds with her position as a confidant of this strange, pale boy. It was a strange image, that of the once-proud, sobbing Death Eater, and the ghost of a girl whose only wish had been to have friends… both inexorably united by their master and murderer respectively.

After his moment of weakness in the bathroom, Draco told himself he would never lower himself to such a level again. Never would he display such frailty again. He was invincible. He was a Malfoy. He was a Death Eater. He was a murderer.

Inevitably, he returned, and soon, she moved to the Prefects' Bathroom on the seventh floor, where they could not be discovered. She consoled him through his failures; through his disastrous almost-murder of Weasley (two Gryffindors in a row? People were bound to suspect) and through his various day-to-day struggles. Although Draco considered her a mere weepy Mudblood, she was the only, only one who cared.

Pansy thought he was cheating, and he let her. Crabbe and Goyle thought he no longer wanted their help in fixing the Vanishing Cabinet properly. Zabini couldn't resist suggesting that Draco was hiding because of the overwhelming embarrassment regarding his father's imprisonment. And Draco just went on, on, on.

And then, Potter, fucking Potter, interfered. It was over in a matter of drawn-out seconds, blood, water, oxygen. Draco awoke in the Hospital Wing, surrounded by sickly-smelling flowers – were those hideous pink things pansies? – and boxes of sweets from fellow Slytherins and home. His mother sent an emotional letter and his father dropped a line assuring him of Potter's looming death. Draco disposed of them before someone could stick their greasy nose into it and ripped open a box of Chocolate Mint Cauldrons. Food. How long had it been since he had eaten? The chocolate was velvety in his mouth, warm and pleasant. Soon he had scoffed three boxes of it, and ten minutes later, he vomited it all up again. It was at this moment that Blaise and company decided to make an appearance.

"Evanesco," he said lazily, and eyed Draco slightly disparagingly. Draco glared at him. He knew why they were there… it would be considered treason not to pay him a visit. They were scared. Good. No more of this mutinous taunting in the Common Room.

"Zabini…Nott…Baby Nott… " he nodded. "Good afternoon, Daphne, Astoria," He intoned politely, his expression cold.

"Pansy tells me that Potter received detention every Saturday morning for the rest of the term," Blaise said disinterestedly.

"He'll be getting a lot worse than that," Draco said unemotionally, and something about his dead, flat tone assured Blaise that these were not empty words. Blaise raised his chin.

"Well, that's if Weasley doesn't leap in to save his true love." Draco smirked, eyeing Blaise's visible relief at Draco's acknowledgment of his jibe.

"We'll get 'im, Draco," said the elder Nott.

"Yeah, we'll show 'im," added the younger.

"Well, quite." Draco wondered why they were suddenly displaying loyalty – why now?

"I hope you get well soon, Draco. Mother sends her regards and says we must have you over for dinner sometime," smiled Daphne. Draco did not know her particularly well. She was just another family friend who had attended countless dinners and afternoon teas.

"Thank you." He glanced at the younger Greengrass, who, surprisingly, was not offering up any words of sympathy, rather, eyeing the bandages across his chest. He quirked an eyebrow, but didn't question it. They were nothing more than meaningless words of allegiance anyway.

"Mr Malfoy, this is quite ridiculous. You've barely been awake – what are these people doing here? Out at once!" Came Madam Pomfrey's voice from behind a screen. Draco rolled his eyes. Zabini smirked.

"Well, get out soon," cried the elder Nott as they all rushed out of the Hospital Wing.

"Bye, Draco," called Daphne as she took Blaise's hand.

Alone again.

Where the fuck were Crabbe and Goyle?

Author's Note: Please excuse some of the more vulgar phrases… what can I say… he's a testosterone-driven, angry teenager. I'm sorry if I skipped over the Myrtle-Draco stuff so quickly, but honestly, I figure you can only take so much of him sobbing and her comforting him. I wanted to show how he's cracking up; he can't handle the isolation, even though it's self-inflicted.