Curls.
That was the first thing that crossed Draco's mind when he entered the library and saw her.
Curls.
Not the way she bit her lip in focused attention. Not the way her legs tucked up beneath her in the library's comfiest chair. Not the haphazard stack of books spread around her seat. Not the way her sweater fell ever-so-slightly down her shoulder as she leaned over her book.
No.
Curls.
Hermione's curls were honey-colored with almost-hints of darkness that made the sweet-golden color grab your attention. She'd tried to tie half of them up on top of her head, but a few stubborn curls had refused to comply, cascading in small whisps over her shoulders and around her face. Some were tight ringlets, perfectly spiraled, bouncing, and full of energy. Others were loose waves, soft and gentle, unfolding this way and that.
And Draco thought how strange, how beautiful, it was that such a simple piece of Hermione's physical appearance could show her inner self so perfectly.
She was unpredictable, but she was beautiful. She was wild, in search of peace. Unforgettable. Untameable. Balanced in the most contradicting way. She was bright and bold, soft and gentle. She was life itself, wonderfully chaotic, a perfectly put-together mess. She was anything but quiet and soft most of the time, and she had no idea how wonderful she was.
He wanted nothing more than to reach out and run his fingers through those curls to feel, for a moment, however fleeting, a sense of purpose. Of security. Of Peace. Just to feel… something. Just to feel…
His breath hitched in his throat.
Curls.
He couldn't entertain that thought for long. Of course not.
He was frozen in place. She was scribbling away with her quill oblivious to his presence. The back of her hand moved to push a rogue curl behind her ear before returning to her parchment.
Curls.
He closed his eyes as if in pain and took a steadying breath.
The second thing that crossed his mind?
Run.
Go. Now. Hurry.
Panic. Isolation. Tingling fingers.
Time to THINK.
That's what he thought spending his holiday break at the castle would be like. Time to think. Time to sort the catastrophe of his life out. She wasn't supposed to be here! He never would have thought for a moment that she might be staying, too.
He never would have thought he'd need to murder the headmaster, either, so he was wrong about a lot of things.
His feet started carrying him from the library, step after step, slowly, attempting to be quiet. He was thankful for the storm that raged outside, the wind masking the sound of his rigid steps.
His mind was buzzing, spinning, tormented. He felt a sharp twinge of pain behind his right eye and knew a searing headache was moving into his cranium for the next few hours.
There were two concepts of thought battling for rent in his brain. The task and his plan, versus Hermione and her self-willed hair. Both stressors were all-consuming, dominating, and suffocating. Unconsciously, Draco clenched and flexed his hands, straining the muscles, his anxiety trying to escape his body.
He was out of time. He was out of breath. He needed to be anywhere else but not near her.
His feet picked up speed as he reached the doors, desperate to be relieved of the suddenly thick smell of books.
Did she know he was staying? Why was she staying? Did she stay because he was staying?
No, of course not, he shouldn't be so stupid.
The wooden library doors closed loudly, an echo, behind him. Fucking hell, Draco was sure she had heard it. His pace quickened down the corridor, step after step.
He could feel that taunting vial hitting his leg with each step. He fought the urge to rip it from his pocket and throw it at the nearest wall with every ounce of strength he had left.
He wanted to watch it shatter. He wanted to watch it break like he was breaking.
He undid the button at his collar in search of more air.
Did she see him as the doors shut? Would she care? Would she follow him if she had?
He searched for somewhere he could hide. He wasn't afraid of seeing her, no. He just wasn't ready. How could he be? He was out of time for his task. He couldn't breathe. He had no idea what to say and he'd just stand there, in agony, wanting to kiss her, to say something, but knowing he couldn't. Knowing that he didn't deserve her. Knowing that he was not nearly good enough and never would be.
He was hopeless, so utterly lost and hopeless.
His feet carried him faster and faster down this corridor and around that corner. He hated the fact that he knew this bloody castle like he knew to swish and flick, yet he couldn't figure out what he wanted when his life literally depended on it.
The nearest bathroom seemed so incredibly far away so he hastened his pace, running now down the hall. He began to recognize a tingling sensation in his fingers, working its way up his arms. Blood was rushing noisily through his ears almost loud enough to drown out the sound of his anxious thoughts.
This isn't fair, he thought. It never is. It never was.
The bathroom was empty as he expected, hoped, needed.
Without a thought, he immediately began pulling off the navy blue sweater that he wore. Both his mum's favourite, and Hermione's. He was stupid for even thinking he could wear it. It was suffocating, the thought of sitting on their bench so long ago, kissing her, running through the rain with her. It took too many different spells to get the sweater to fit the right way again after that and he shouldn't have even bothered.
He should have known, even then, that nothing good and real could ever happen to him. He should have known not to have hope. He was a Malfoy, after all. A rich, vicious, entitled Malfoy with generations of liars and cheats before him. A Malfoy owned by his father, like his father, and his father's father. A Malfoy with a never-ending list of impossible expectations to uphold.
Expectations masked as "family duty," compliance masked as loyalty, "shut the fuck up dad" masked as "yes, Father." Absolute shit, all of it, and Draco knew it! Hell, he'd known it since second year.
But deep down, he knew that he would always be a Capital M Malfoy. Deep down, he knew he was exactly the same as every single Malfoy that came before him. Had to be. He was hardwired the same, sorted the same.
Slytherin. Ambition, self-preservation, determination, a tact for cunning manipulation.
It was all the bloody same.
Through his tears, (fuck, when did I start crying?) Draco caught his reflection in the hazy bathroom mirror and the sight almost made him sick.
Hell, even the way he looked… it was all the bloody same. White-blond hair, pale skin, and a pointy nose oh-so-perfect for turning up at anything and everything.
He saw the red rims around his eyes and the tear streaks down his face and wondered angrily if his father had ever cried.
"Pitiful," he would say.
"Don't let your grandfather see you like that, Draco."
"Stop your whining, Draco."
"Malfoy's don't feel things, Draco."
Another defiant tear fell down his cheek with each agonizing thought. The mirror taunted him with each honest moment it showed, each tear, each gasp for breath.
He was taught young how to be stone-cold, self-reliant, to hold himself high and poised with a ready smile and subtle charm. So he learned early on to cry behind closed doors, in dim lights, without sound, to howl in pain silently, without anyone knowing, and to never ask for help.
Because when no one sees you suffering, do you really suffer? Much like, if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? He's always been able to just pretend that whatever pained him had never happened. He's always been able to slip the mask back on, to go back out and face the world, jaw set and head held high, and pretend that he was okay. Pretended it was making him stronger. But sometimes suffering is just suffering. It doesn't make you stronger. It doesn't build character. It only hurts.
After another look at his blotchy red face, he tried to breathe, swat the water leaking from his eyes. It wasn't working. He couldn't pull himself together. Couldn't. He glared at himself in the mirror.
Draco feared that his Malloy mask had shattered beyond repair.
"It's time you became the man of the family, Draco."
"It's your Malfoy duty, Draco."
"We're all honored that you've been chosen, Draco."
"I don't care if it's hard, Draco."
From the spot where his fist collided with it, the mirror before him withered into cracks, spreading, slowly, then faster, until it began to crumble. Shards of glass fell to the floor around Draco's feet, littering the cold, stone floor. It should have made a sound, he knew, but his father's voice was too loud in his ears.
"You're behaving like a child, Draco."
"This is what Family does, Draco."
"For Merlin's sake, just do it, Draco."
"The Dark Lord is waiting, Draco."
A noise, he could barely hear, broke through the torturous thoughts. It sounded like a woman, her voice sudden and nasally. With tears streaming down his face, and though he couldn't see through the wetness, Draco clung to his wand with fabricated strength.
The ceaseless tears and forced, ragged breathing made the figure before him fade in and out of focus. Blood pounded in his head loudly and he turned back to the sink, fixing the tap on ice cold and wetting his face.
His mind was an excruciating place to be.
His father's demanding voice.
His own self-loathing.
Hermione's wild curls.
His inability to make a goddamned decision.
It was driving him mad, obviously. He was seeing things.
Those giant eyes and that ghostly figure didn't exist. Hallucinations. They must be. He was going mad.
"Crying is a good thing," he thought he might have heard that strange voice say.
He gripped the edge of the sinks as his shoulders shook despite his best efforts to keep them steady.
"You're not the only one who comes here," the voice might have promised.
He felt the room growing colder, but that was probably his imagination, too. It was growing increasingly hard to breathe, the air around him icy, and his lungs stiff.
"It's okay," a ghost had said. "It's okay to let it out." The pitch of her voice was shrill, and despite her clear attempt at using a soft, comforting tone, the sound made Draco wince.
His fingers felt like they were being stuck with millions of tiny pins and needles. He gripped the edge of the sink and his wand tighter, willing the effort to ground him, but instead, his fierce grip sent the sensation shooting up his arms to his already-tense shoulders. His vision became even less reliable.
He turned his gaze over his shoulder, breath short and mind spiraling.
And he saw her, he thought. Possibly.
She had long, wiry hair and thick glasses that made her eyes appear twice their natural size. And as the tears dripped down the point of his nose and onto the floor, he cringed, ashamed of himself yet again for such a display of weakness.
When she saw his bleary eyes meet hers, she floated closer to him. Draco's breathing grew more painful as his heart quickened and his shoulders shook.
She hovered there rather intrusively, he thought, staring at him. Still, she was patient as his emotions calmed the slightest bit, just staring with a blank and curious stare. Not judgemental. Not pitying. And that was both a relief and a frustration.
Malfoys don't cry. Yet, this ghost had floated there, watching him lose his mind, and it hadn't even phased her.
As if crying boys in the girl's lavatory were a common occurrence.
He dug his palms into his eye sockets, needing the pressure to stop the tears. His breathing evened out slightly.
When his body stopped shaking and the corners of his eyes were drying, Draco took a deep breath to steady himself. And it was then that he forced himself to admit that there was, indeed, a teenage ghost floating before him.
The Ghost consoled him softly, "You're not the only one who cries in the bathroom, Draco."
He bristled again, that tingly feeling returning to his fingers. He turned back to the sink basin and took hold of it, its cold porcelain taking root in his bones. He let his wand clatter lazily into the sink and
He didn't have the energy.
He wasn't in his right mind.
Too cowardly to make a decision.
Too cowardly to talk to Hermione.
Too cowardly to even talk to a bloody teenage ghost.
Slowly, the ghost drifted closer to him but smartly gave him just enough space to not feel suffocated. "You're not the only one who cries in the bathroom, Draco," she repeated. She let him breathe after that and even ignored the frustrated groan he let slip out as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes another time.
"I spent most of my life, and even most of my death, in here crying," she offered airily as if she were stating the weather and not recounting a terribly embarrassing personal fact. "Sometimes a good cry is exactly what we need. It helps."
She floated a circle around him again, stirring him from his thoughts. The room started to feel warmer.
"You're a ghost. You're- you're… who are you? H- how do you know who I am?" Draco stuttered breathlessly with frustration as he brushed away the last of his tears and attempted to summon a more defensive stance, sizing her up warily.
She smirked at him, and his eyebrow twitched. "My name is Myrtle, just Myrtle. You might have heard people talking about me as Moaning Myrtle around the castle. That's what some people call me. But I'm really just Myrtle."
"Of course, I've heard of you before, Myrtle, from some of the others," he offered, sounding annoyed. He took a breath. "How do you know who I am?" repeated Draco more firmly.
The ghost seemed to smirk at him. "I've heard about you before, Draco, from some of the others." Yes, definitely a smirk. He might have appreciated it if he wasn't in a state.
"Others?" he worried.
"Other students," She clarified. "Sometimes they're people you've made cry. Sometimes… Well, sometimes you can say some very mean things, Draco." She cast her eyes down at him, an admonishing look on her face.
It made him uncomfortable.
He picked up his wand and waved it around in the air, scoffing at the comment. "Well, I'm a very mean person, Moaning Myrtle." He mocked, turning his back to her and using his wand to clean up the awful tear stains on his undershirt.
"I don't think that's necessarily true," she whispered, another smirk.
Draco arrogantly scoffed again. "Don't be ridiculous," he mumbled.
"That's not all I've heard about you, though." An icy chill flooded his body as the ghost passed through him, Myrtle demanding to be looked at. "Many of the girls talk about you in bathrooms," she giggled.
He rolled his eyes at the absurdity and she giggled in amusement, flashing a too-lopsided smile in his direction. "They were right, you know… You are very… easy on the eyes."
He glared at her, hard, in the way he had learned from years of watching Snape, but was disappointingly matched with the ghost wiggling her bushy eyebrows at him.
"I wonder what else they were right about," she giggled. He thought her eyes might have darted to where his belt sat around his waist, but he ignored it.
Mostly.
A sneer stole his features. "Fuck off, will you?"
"Oh my, Draco, such foul language. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
He forced his anger into the cold sink basin once again, knuckles white. "Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. This. Bathroom." He bit out each word with all of the revulsion he could summon, but lacked his usual bite.
He was drained and exhausted. Maybe he was dead.
Instead, she floated closer. "I don't mind foul language," she whispered, "It's like crying, Draco. Let the emotions out I always say."
He turned on his heel, storming toward the door eager to get away from this annoying, whiny–
"She could still be out there!" Myrtle called, a singsong, teasing lilt to her voice.
Draco froze, hand on the bathroom door handle. His neck felt stiff. Tight, like he might be choking.
"What?" he clipped.
"She could still be out there. That girl... With the curly hair? You want to twirl it around your finger," she teased. "You were mumbling, didn't you know? She's probably still out there, Draco. You can't leave yet."
His blood ran cold with rage. "Eavesdropping, were you? I'm bloody in here having a- a- meltdown or something, and you decide to listen in?"
"It's perfectly normal to cry, Draco, loads of people come here to–"
"Don't fucking patronize me! You're a ghost!"
A small burst of white sparks shot off the end of his wand and the lights flickered. Accidentally.
She whirled around him and he backed away with disgust, the cold, hard edges of the sink digging into his back once again.
"In all of my time at Hogwarts, I just wanted to know that someone was there to help, but no one ever was. Maybe I can help you, Draco. Maybe I can–"
"That's the fucking difference between you and me, Moaning Myrtle," he sneered her name. "I don't bloody need help!" Draco slammed his shaking hands on the edges of the cold, porcelain sink in frustration, cutting his left hand on a fallen shard of the mirror he hadn't seen.
Even more frustrated, he shouted, voice cracking, eyes down, "You're a fucking ghost! A dead, sad girl who died and still cries all the time. I'm nothing like you!" Cursing himself, he flicked his wand to stitch up his bleeding hand, but it left an unfortunate jagged mark that would likely scar.
Again, he was painfully reminded of Hermione and how much better she was at healing spells.
The ghost gasped. Her voice went so shrill it rattled the loose bearings on the bathroom stalls. "Sure, poke fun at the fact that I'm dead as if I can help it!" she shrieked and he shrugged.
She must have been angry now because her voice had gotten (somehow) more shrill than before. "You're right, you're nothing like me!" she shouted. "At least I admit to myself that I'm miserable!"
"Stop it! You don't know me! You're– You're a fucking ghost! You don't know me! You don't–" His voice cracked again, like the mirror had, as if the words she'd thrown had physically hit him and broken the surface. Tears were falling down his face again, silent. Hot.
The air was thick and still. The only movement in the room was Draco's softly shaking shoulders, tense from the nerves.
"You're right," conceded the ghost. Her voice was back to her somber calm. "I don't know you. But I am perceptive. I hear and see things that happen in this castle. Things no one else would know. I was a person once. I experienced things. Awful things, mostly, but not everything. I know things and I see things and I hear things and I understand people." Myrtle offered kindly, defensively, eyes steady.
He met her eyes daringly at first, then softened, breathing deeply.
One.
Two.
Three.
He waved his wand and the shards of glass rose from their scattered places on the floor to right themselves.
Her voice continued to drift on around him.
"I wish when I was alive here, I took the time to stop thinking that I was always alone, on my own, to face the brutalities of Boarding School. We're all here facing our own tragedies, living in our own troubled hell. I wish I realized that more people here really do care about others. There's a whole table of Hufflepuffs, yet no one seems to think to turn to their loyalty or kindness when they need it."
The ghost's voice was light and airy now, not shrill. Draco let her drone on, the sound slowly calming him.
"They're not the only ones, either," she was saying, "Professors, too. I realized, about seven years after I died, that none of them would have chosen to be professors if they didn't want to help kids. I've heard some of the stories over the years about how they've quietly cared for students in ways that I didn't expect.
"Of course, Headmasters are equally if not more compassionate. They're all ancient. They've been around long enough to see so many things. I doubt anything phases Dumbledore anymore. I hardly think Dumbledore even remembers most of the students' worries he's put at ease. He's got too much to worry about himself, don't you think? I've wondered if students' woes aren't more like entertainment for him now, really.
"Dumbledore pointed me to this very bathroom once when I was crying, second year, and gave me a handkerchief that was magicked to say kind things every time I blew my nose. At the time I expected he was making fun of me too, like all the others. But really, he was trying to help cheer me up in his own way."
Myrtle trailed off her ramble with nervous worrying of her arms, as if she'd surprised herself to discover she'd been on a tangent.
Draco wasn't crying anymore. He could still feel blood pounding rhythmically in his ears, but at least he could breathe. He replayed the ghost's words in his mind and took another breath, then another.
He focused on that. Breathing, because he needed it, like he wanted to. He let the air fill his lungs until it hurt, counting his release.
One.
Two.
Three.
And Myrtle, her words were being heard somewhere in the back of his mind, like the orchestra music at a party. It's there and you hear it, but are you really listening? Until the tune gets stuck in your head as you try to fall asleep.
"I know I don't know you, Draco. And maybe you don't want to listen to a swotty, emotional, dead girl's advice. It's fine if you don't want my help, but I hope you let yourself find someone whose help you are willing to take.
She continued, "Help will always be given at Hogwarts. Don't end up miserable like me. After all, it's Christmas Eve. Is hyperventilating in the bathroom, alone, talking to a ghost, really how you want to spend it?"
She smirked, slicing through the thick air, the simple expression releasing waves of tension. Draco still stood there, unmoving. His head felt heavy as he thought through her words.
He had heard. Listened.
He wouldn't need a pensive to relive this memory.
He met her eyes, his own strained and tired. With a small bow of her head and closed-lip smile, Myrtle floated high into the air before crashing into the stall nearest him, gleefully splashing Draco with toilet water as she disappeared.
A/N: Thank you all so very much for reading and for sticking with me as I share this story. The angst is thick, thicker than I thought it would be before I started, but I'm happy with the direction it's taken. Angsty stories can be difficult, I think, because it requires a certain amount of trust and asks the reader to have faith in the author's timeline and plot. I want everyone reading this to know that I don't take that lightly and, if you've continued to read this far, to say that I'm so very thankful you've given this story I've written a chance. There are so many wonderful Dramione stories out there, and that people continue to read mine is an honor. Thank you!
Big thank you to Your-Girl-Is-Lovely who has helped me with ideas, plot, grammar, flow, everything. I am indebted to my generous beta readers! If you are interested in alpha or beta reading for me on this story or a one shot, please let me know in a comment or on Tumblr at OxfordElise.
Disclaimer: All publically recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of J.K. Rowling.
Many thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this story, OxfordElise