Main Prompt: Song I may lose everything
He stared at his own reflection in the mirror.
Draco Malfoy was, by all accounts, a good-looking young man. His blond hair and pale blue eyes were practically unchanged from their appearance a year before, except that the hair was a little wilder than before, and his eyes held more secrets. His face, however, looked much worse. He was no longer clean-shaven, and there were scars around his eyes and mouth. What from, he couldn't remember. He was almost certain they were related to the Dark Lord. Voldemort.
He flinched, even at the mental mention of the name. His face, screwed up in anger, swam into view. The red eyes, with mere slits for pupils, stared at him silently. His eyes were drawn to the nose if you could call it that, as it convulsed horribly, and his white skin shone in the light of the single chandelier of the dining room in Malfoy Manor. His mind was transported, as if by portkey, back to the dining table. Back to Nagini crawling up the body of Professor Burbage, before striking her down. He watched in horror, all over again, as she bled to death, trying to avert his gaze from Voldemort. And then, he watched, as only seconds prior, Voldemort singled him out, and asked him if he recognised her.
Suddenly, he was filled with an immense desire to go back and have different, better, encounters with the old Muggle Studies professor. Would he really have scoffed at her obsession with Muggles if he had seen her death coming in advance?
He supposed he would never know.
He inhaled sharply, and more out-of-order memories came to the forefront of his mind. He remembered Potions lessons with Professor Snape, before he became the Headmaster of the school. He remembered calling Granger Mudblood, before she became an outlaw. He remembered, with the slightest of pangs, how he spent years jeering at Potter, before he became his only hope. He remembered supporting that toad, Umbridge. And he remembered his parents, before they became broken shells of what they once were.
The memories were far from comforting. It felt like he had always been a bully, right down to the moment that he was forced to stop. Shoot. He was monologuing in his mind, brooding perhaps. He glanced back up at the mirror. He had half expected it to crack, and fall to the ground, which, if you were fanciful, could have served as a metaphor for his mental state. But it was more so because he was used to the concept of everything falling apart. Especially these days. No Mudbloods in sight anymore. He had recently tried to get into the Room of Requirement, but it hadn't opened. Perhaps they were hiding in there. He wouldn't blame them. He had spent as much of the previous year in there as he could, and his social battery was still only able to stand fifteen minutes.
He was awoken from his sad internal conversation to find his arm prickling. It could only mean that Voldemort wanted his supporters to join his side. He looked at the Dark Mark. Even if he had wanted to, it was impossible to apparate or disapparate inside Hogwarts. He rolled down his sleeve again. Once, in their third year, Potter had fainted in Divination, because his scar hurt so much.
Perhaps he knew how that felt now.
He gulped, and felt his eyelid twitch. He hadn't noticed when he started breathing heavily, only that the glass was suddenly fogged up, his own eyes protruding above it. Nor had he noticed that he had leant in, so that he could now see every individual tear, clinging onto his eyelashes, or running down his face. He grasped the mirror, panting. Blast this mark. The pain roared upwards to the side of his neck, all the while burning harder, before dying away. He tried to calm his breathing.
Miraculously, it worked, and all the pain subsided. He leant against the door to a cubicle, and slid down it. He felt another panic attack wash over him. He knew that Voldemort was an accomplished legilimens, and he would only be able to learn how to hide his emotions by going to Snape, but he wouldn't, because-
"Oh, hello again." said a sad voice. He glanced up, in what he hoped looked like surprise, at the face of Moaning Myrtle, which had just popped over the top of the cubicle which he had been leaning on.
"Hey Myrtle." he said, covering his face in his palms. She flew down to him, spinning unnecessarily, and looking completely at home. He was surprised for a moment, before remembering that this was, of course, her bathroom. She didn't bother with preamble.
"What's wrong this time, Mr Malfoy sir?"
"Nothing." he lied, speaking perhaps a little too quickly to be entirely plausible.
She narrowed her eyes and smirked at him, before saying "I don't believe you," in a sing-song voice. Most knew Myrtle for wailing about and trying to act as sad as she possibly could, but, after spending a lot of time in here, she had grown accustomed to his presence, and both could sense when the other was perhaps stretching the truth.
"It's- Voldemort." Draco said, quietly. To his surprise, she did not flinch. Nor, indeed, did she seem at all troubled that he had just said the name of the most feared wizard in history.
"And how long have you been worrying about him for, then?" Myrtle asked, attempting to keep her face straight.
Draco muttered 'ages', and turned away from her.
"Tom is scaring people smaller than himself again." she said, shaking her head. "Of course," she added, noticing Draco glance at her in surprise. "I knew him quite well. Never had a conversation, of course, but he was so talkative that practically everyone knew his life story of course. Then he killed me." She smiled again.
"I think you might have found the right person to talk to."