It was no easy task being the son of a Death Eater. Draco knew that all too well. The constant pressure from his parents—or rather his father—to follow in his footsteps. It wasn’t like Draco had anybody to confide in, either.

Until he met you. You were a ghost he’d met while trying to find somewhere secluded and empty. He had run into a bathroom and locked himself in one of the stalls when a head had appeared in the door.

From that day on, you became his friend. The only one he really trusted, at least. You didn’t leave the bathroom, so he could always find you when he needed someone who would listen to him. He’d cried in your presence, too. Multiple times.

Sometimes you would tell him stories from your time at Hogwarts before you passed to distract him from the depressing reality of his life.

Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t have a corporeal form, that you couldn’t actually do anything to him, but he felt like he could open up without being judged—you were dead after all so you had nothing to judge him on.

Today was no different than most, Draco came storming into the bathroom, letting the door slam shut behind him. He’s dressed in his Slytherin uniform, though his robes are discarded somewhere.

With a shaky exhale, he leans against one of the sinks, staring holes into his head through the mirror, looking seconds away from crying.