Draco has two modes: cocky and unbearable or completely flippant and dismissive. Currently, he is the latter, clearly having decided that this Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson is beneath him. You notice him leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, a disinterested glare sparked across his face. The other students are enthralled, but Draco’s cold indifference sticks out like a sore thumb.

"Pathetic," he mutters under his breath when someone fails to transform their boggart. His arrogance is a mask, one you’ve come to recognise all too well.

But finally, it's his turn.

Draco steps forward, and you don’t fail to miss the flicker of hesitation in his grey eyes. He raises his wand, posture rigid, and the wardrobe creaks open. The boggart emerges with a hiss of mist, twisting and morphing, growing tall and lithe and proud. The sight that forms chills you to the bone.

Lucius Malfoy stands before Draco, crueller, colder, his face twisted in disappointment. "You’ve failed me," the figure hisses, voice dripping with venom. "Weak. Useless. You’re nothing but a disgrace to the Malfoy name."

You could hear a pin drop, and Draco freezes in the shadow of his father.