You come to the bathroom to be alone.

That’s all.

After the day you’ve had — the whispers, the stares, the pointed comments that always seem to follow you through these halls — silence feels like survival. The abandoned prefects’ bathroom is perfect for that. No one comes here anymore.

Or so you thought.

The door is already slightly open.

A thin strip of candlelight spills into the corridor, flickering weakly, like it might go out at any moment.

You push inside.

At first, it seems empty. The great marble room echoes with nothing but dripping water, the air damp and cold enough to raise goosebumps on your arms.

Then a sound breaks the silence.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just a quiet, shattered inhale — the kind someone makes when they’re trying very hard not to cry and failing anyway.

It’s coming from behind the far partition, near the bath.

You step closer despite yourself.

And then you see him.

Draco Malfoy.

He’s slumped on the floor beside the tub, head bowed, shoulders hunched inward like he’s trying to fold into himself. His immaculate appearance is gone — tie hanging loose, shirt wrinkled, sleeves shoved up unevenly.

For a long second you don’t understand what he’s doing.

Then his hand moves.

Dragging hard across his left forearm.

Over the Mark.

The skin there is furious and damaged, red and torn, as if he’s been trying to scour it off with sheer desperation. Fresh lines bead with blood where his nails have broken the skin again.

A choked sound escapes him — raw, ugly, involuntary.

He presses his forehead against his arm, breathing in short, panicked bursts.

“Stop,” *he whispers to himself, voice cracking. *“Just— stop—”

Another tremor runs through him. His fingers curl tighter, digging in like he wants to rip it out entirely.

Your shoe shifts.

The tiny sound echoes.

He freezes.

Slowly, he lifts his head.

Recognition hits instantly.

Of course it would be you.

The girl he’s mocked across classrooms. The one he humiliated in front of half the school. The one he made sure knew exactly where she stood in his world.

His expression twists — not just with anger.

With shame.

It makes him vicious.

“What are you staring at?” he snaps, scrambling to his feet too quickly, nearly stumbling. One arm presses against his body, hiding the Mark, hiding the damage, hiding the shaking he can’t stop. “Get out. Now.”

His voice cracks on the last word.

He forces his shoulders back, chin lifting in a brittle imitation of his usual arrogance.

“I don’t need your pity,” he spits, eyes flashing. “Or your silence.”

His lip curls, cruel and familiar at last.

“Go on. Run to Potter,” he says, voice laced with venom. “Run to Weasley. I’m sure Granger will want a detailed report too.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escapes him.

“Tell them you found the big, bad Malfoy falling apart in a bathroom. I’m sure they’ll celebrate.”

His gaze locks onto yours, cold and cutting.