Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Troubled Mind ❯ Main Story ( One-Shot )

Located at the top of the elegant marble staircase that ascended to the seventh floor of Hogwarts Castle, one could find the boys’ bathroom. Unlike its counterparts filled with the chatter of school life, this bathroom was often an island of quiet. Sunlight poured in through large glass windows, casting intricate patterns on the polished floor, its warmth creating a temporary escape from the chaos of classes and the daunting presence of fellow students.

On especially bright days, the room flourished in warmth, with laughter and joyous voices spilling over into its confines, yet on cloudy and rainy days, the atmosphere would shift. Shadows would creep into every corner, and the light would seem to wane, making the space feel cold and empty. Most students opted for the more popular restrooms near the common areas, leaving this sanctuary in reflective solitude. It was during these solitary moments that a particular student often found refuge—Draco Malfoy.

Draco’s pale complexion and striking white-blond hair stood in stark contrast to the rich hues of the bathroom. It was a Tuesday, and the rain drummed softly against the glass, shrouding the world outside in a hue of grey. The air felt heavy, laden with memories and thoughts he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—share with anyone outside these walls.

As he stared into the mirror, he hardly recognised the boy looking back. All the bravado and all the confidence he wore like a cloak to shield himself from the judgement and expectations of his lineage seemed to fade away. He had spent so long living up to the Malfoy name—so long being the perfect son, the embodiment of the family’s values. Yet, through the soft light filtering in and the quiet hum of his heartbeat, he felt the creeping tendrils of doubt pulling at him.

“Why can’t I just be normal?” he whispered. The voice echoed softly against the tiled walls, a question he’d asked too many times under the guise of arrogance. Draco rebelled against it, shaking his head as if he could physically cast away the thoughts. He closed his eyes as he took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm that raged within.

Curling up on the unforgiving floor, he clutched his knees to his chest, feeling the unforgiving cold seep through his robes, but it went unnoticed beneath the warmth of his anguish.

It had been weeks since he had last felt anything resembling peace. With each passing day, the burden of his cursed task weighed heavier upon his shoulders. He had once roamed the halls with a confidence that seemed almost natural. Now, in this forgotten stall, he felt like a mere ghost, a fleeting image of a boy who had everything—now reduced to a trembling spectre.

His fingers, white-knuckled and raw, dug into his arms. A single sob escaped, then another, turning into a desperate wail that echoed in silence. Draco pressed his face down further, seeking solace in the creases of his robes, wishing that somehow he could drown out the nightmare that had become his reality.

He couldn’t shake off the images that haunted him: the stern, unyielding face of the Dark Lord, the flick of his wand, the command that had sent him on this treacherous path. The task—what should have been a simple assignment for a Malfoy—had spiralled into chaos. Each day, he felt the pressure tighten around his chest, a vise grip on his heart that left him gasping for air.

His mind flashed back to the dinner table, where the pureblood ideals had been discussed with pride. “You must do this for your family, Draco,” Bellatrix Lestrange’s voice reverberated in his skull, heavy with expectation and devoid of warmth. How had he let himself be ensnared in such a web?

The twisted irony wasn’t lost on him; he had spent years mocking Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley, yet here he was, trapped in the same dark despair that consumed his so-called rivals. The very people he had once deemed inferior now stood as beacons of resilience, fighting for a cause that resonated with bravery—a concept he had never truly comprehended until now, standing alone in the shadows, trembling in fear.

“No one can know,” he whispered into his arms, a mantra that brought him a fleeting sense of control amid the chaos. But the truth clawed at him relentlessly. His desperation felt like suffocation—he could sense the darkness creeping in, and it threatened to engulf him whole.

Little did he know that in the very place he sought solace, another presence lingered.

In the cubicle, a ghostly figure held her breath, her translucent form blending seamlessly with the ethereal silence of the room. She peeked around the corner, her round glasses clouded by a mix of anticipation and trepidation. She had watched Draco from afar. Waves of sorrow emanated from him, and the shadows of despair that clung to him were all too familiar.

She had once been a source of comfort for her friends—a friendly smile, a gentle ear. But after a tragic accident that had taken her life too soon, she drifted through her ghostly existence, longing for connection yet glued to the haunting ache of loneliness. The years that passed solidified her quiet existence; she had earned a reputation as “Moaning Myrtle,” a spectral viewer of the lives unfolding before her.

Much like Draco, she now stood at the edge of silence, unable to reach out. But something about his quiet sorrow stirred her. Unbeknownst to him, she often wished to offer him comfort, to let him know he wasn’t alone in the darkness.

Summoning her courage, she glided towards him, her heart fluttering in the way it used to when she’d faced daunting social situations. “Are you feeling alright?” she enquired softly, her voice like a breeze, gentle yet abrupt in its intrusion.

Draco nearly jumped, the sound transporting him instantly from his gloomy thoughts. As his eyes met hers, wide and startled, he blinked in disbelief. Was he really seeing a ghost hovering before him? He thought he must be losing his mind. Perhaps the tears had clouded his vision.

“I’m sorry,” she softly murmured, her translucent form rippling like the surface of a disturbed pond. “It was not my intention to frighten you.” Her eyes, usually glazed with haunting memories, now glimmered with an unexpected tenderness, and for the first time, Draco found himself wanting to look at her.

Draco quickly rose from his seat and rushed towards the exit, propelled by a sudden impulse. However, just as he reached for the door handle, he hesitated, his fingers loitering above the door handle as the words sunk in. The bravado he wore like a shield seemed lighter in her presence.

“Please don’t go,” Myrtle continued, her voice lilting and melancholic. “I just thought you could use someone to talk to, someone who understands. I’m Myrtle Warren,” she added with a nod of her transparent head. Unlike other ghosts who drifted aimlessly, her spirit felt anchored in this moment, as if she were here for a purpose.

“I’m aware of who you are,” Draco responded, his voice colder than he intended, his resolve hardening like ice. “You’re the ghost that lingers in the girls’ bathroom. I have no desire to engage in conversation with anyone, particularly not a ghost.” His disdainful tone echoed off the damp walls, masking an unexpected flicker of curiosity.

“You’re right,” Myrtle responded promptly, pushing aside the pang of hurt caused by the reprimand. “I didn’t intend to invade your personal space,” she assured him.

Draco spun around abruptly, his irritation palpable. “Are you absolutely certain about that?” he snapped, the weariness of his burdens breaking through the mask of irritation. In his gut, he felt a longing for someone to truly see him, and there she was—a ghost whom no one bothered to truly notice. It only added to the ache in his heart.

“I can empathise with the emotions you’re experiencing,” she replied in a soothing tone. “I know I’m not what people want. But I’ve been listening to the whispers in this castle for years, and I’ve seen how lonely it can be.” A wistful sigh escaped her translucent lips. “You’re not the only one who feels alone, you know.”

Draco could hardly swallow the lump in his throat as Myrtle’s words woven through the air like a delicate thread. “What would you know about loneliness?” he said, a fraction of vulnerability creeping into his voice. He balled his hands tight into fists. “No, you really don’t understand! No one does!”

“But I do!” Myrtle fervently claimed, her silver tears welling in her eyes. Her heart swelled at the intensity of his distress. “I know exactly how you feel! Don’t tell me I don’t understand when loneliness was the last thing I felt before I died!”

Draco stood in stunned silence after hearing her words, his expression reflecting a mix of emotions. The sound of rain hitting the window seemed to mirror the inner turmoil brewing between them. Despite having dabbled in communicating with the dead before, he hesitated about accepting her unusual offer this time. This unease stemmed from the sincerity of her gesture, which he found both intriguing and unsettling.

Draco had always felt a certain way about ghosts. At Hogwarts, the floaty apparitions blending into the castle’s shadows were more like background noise than anything truly interesting. After all, who had time to dwell on the dead when life was filled with rivalries and expectations? The thought struck him as utterly absurd. Confiding in a melodramatic ghost known for her incessant wails? It was enough to make him chortle, yet beneath that derision lay a pinch of curiosity. What could a ghost offer him?

It wasn’t that Myrtle was particularly remarkable. In fact, she was often dismissed as a pathetic wretch who cried over the smallest inconveniences. Draco had lost count of the times he’d walked past the second-floor bathroom, her heart-wrenching sobs spilling out like a cracked teapot pouring water. He had even rolled his eyes more times than he could remember at Peeves’ pranks, which invariably sent Myrtle into fits of weeping. “Just a ghost,” he would tell himself, willing the sound of her cries to fade away while planning out his next snide remark.

With a deep, contemplative breath, Draco slowly sank back into his seat. The weight of the situation settled heavily on his mind as he grappled with conflicting emotions. The room seemed to fall into an even deeper silence, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the windowpane. In that moment, Draco felt a profound sense of introspection washing over him, prompting him to reassess his stance on the offer laid out before him. Despite his initial reservations, he couldn’t shake off the curiosity and intrigue that tugged at his thoughts, urging him to delve deeper into this unexpected opportunity.

Myrtle approached Draco with caution, moving slowly to avoid spooking him. She was afraid that any sudden movement might cause him to run away. As she got closer, she noticed the boy now crumpled against the cold, damp tile floor as his anguish resonated like a haunting melody.

“Please, just tell me,” she pressed gently, a hint of desperation in her spectral voice. She leaned closer, her ethereal presence creating a soft glow that illuminated the shadows enveloping him. The patter of rain against the high windows was the only sound, a rhythmic accompaniment to his quiet sobs.

Draco glanced up, his typically haughty demeanour stripped away, revealing a boy on the brink of despair. “I feel weaker than I ever have, Myrtle,” he finally admitted, choking back another wave of tears. “I’ve messed up… in ways I can’t even begin to explain.” It was unusual for him to seek comfort, even from a ghost. The weight of his reputation pressed down like the heavy rain outside, leaving him feeling more isolated than he had ever known.

“Everyone has struggles,” Myrtle said, her voice soothing yet firm, emanating a warmth that seemed oddly out of place for a ghost. “Even those who seem strong, like you. You don’t have to bear it alone.”

He shook his head vehemently, strands of pale hair falling over his eyes. “You don’t understand! I’m... I’m just supposed to do this thing for my family. They expect me to follow orders, to be someone I’m not. Every step I take feels like stepping further into a trap—and it’s just hurting everyone.”

Myrtle’s heart, though lacking in physical form, seemed to ache for him. “Then fight against it, Draco. You don’t have to be who they expect. You can choose to take a different path.”

With a sudden, fervent movement, Draco wiped a tear from his cheek, anger bubbling beneath his sorrow. “How can I choose? There’s no way out! They’ll never let me be free. If I fail this… if I fail them, I’ll lose everything,” he snapped, though the fire in his words was tempered by his heartbreak.

He had hoped to complete his assignment and thwart Dumbledore without causing harm to anyone else. However, he was aware that his actions with the cursed necklace and poison-laced mead had been hasty and risky.

“Let me help,” she urged softly, her voice a whisper that echoed through the bathroom. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Draco wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, his mind swirling. “I can’t,” he managed to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’ll—he’ll kill me.” The fear of the retribution he faced was a weight on his chest, crushing him beneath its enormity.

Myrtle drifted closer, her translucent form shimmering in the dim light. “Who is?” she whispered, her tone now urgent and concerned.

As her eyes searched his for answers, Draco felt a rush of emotions—helplessness, regret, and terror washed over him. The tears he had kept at bay now flowed freely, pooling in the dark, damp corners of the bathroom. Oblivious to the impact of his sorrow on the ghostly figure, he succumbed to his vulnerability.

Myrtle, feeling a deep sense of sadness, let out a heavy sigh and attempted to offer comfort by placing a hand on Draco’s arm, even though the ghostly touch passed through him without any consolation.

Draco felt a sudden chill, sending shivers down his spine, but he quickly brushed it off.

“You’re going to be fine,” Myrtle said, trying to infuse her voice with a calm conviction she didn’t fully feel. “No one’s going to kill you… Whatever you’re attempting will work out… you’ll see…”

Yet comfort eluded them both, and Draco felt as if he were sinking; each gasp for air met with the chilling reality of his predicament. He looked into Myrtle’s eyes, which mirrored his own dread, and found no solace. “You have no idea what he’s capable of,” he exclaimed, his voice breaking, each word an agonising reminder of what lay ahead. “I’ve witnessed him take lives in an instant.”

“Who is it?” Myrtle asked, her frustration creeping in. “You can tell me.”

Draco’s eyes, bloodshot and filled with raw emotion, locked onto hers—a mix of fear and desperation. “He’ll kill me if he finds out. He’ll torture me. He’ll—” His words stumbled over each other, panic freezing him with an all-consuming dread, a fear that threatened to swallow him whole.

“I won’t tell... I promise you, I won’t,” Myrtle assured him, sincerity tinged with a hint of desperation. She had not meant to pry, but the sight of the boy that had once exuded arrogance now reduced to this fragile state tugged at the remnants of her own lost humanity.

Draco inhaled deeply, his body rattling with emotion. “I shouldn’t have joined him,” he said, the bitterness in his voice cloaked by regret. “It’s a mistake! But—but I don’t have a choice... I shouldn’t have become a—a—” His voice trailed off, lost in the undertow of his sorrow as he succumbed to a wave of tears.

Myrtle floated closer, her heart aching for him. “We all make mistakes,” she said softly, gently reminding him of her own past. “Even if you made a bad choice, don’t let it destroy you. You can always change the course of your actions. I did at one point in my life... it was hard, but it was worth trying.”

Draco’s eyes darted to the Dark Mark etched hauntingly onto his forearm, a scarlet reminder of his allegiance. “I could have made some different choices,” he muttered bitterly, shame pooling like molten lead in his stomach. “I’ve let people take advantage of me, and I accepted way less than I deserved. They taunt me... bully me...” Memories of jeering laughter and cruel remarks flooded him, each moment a sharp prick against the vulnerability he sought to shield.

“You have to learn to say no without feeling guilty,” Myrtle pressed, her voice almost electrifying with encouragement. “Setting boundaries is healthy. You need to learn to respect and take care of yourself.”

Draco blinked, his surprise evident, eyebrows raised incredulously at her insights. He chuckled bitterly, the sound reverberating in the stillness of the bathroom. “Indeed, you seem to have taken great care of yourself, considering you’re already dead,” he replied, the sarcasm slipping off his tongue like a jagged edge.

Myrtle’s eyes glimmered—tears of irritation mixed with the remnants of sorrow. She shot him a fierce look, an urge to defend her existence swelling within her spectral form. “I wish people wouldn’t assume I’m incapable of understanding their struggles!” Her voice cracked, revealing the depth of her frustration. “Yes, I endured terrible things when I was alive, and I only mention that to help you avoid similar fates!”

Draco shuffled uncomfortably on the cold, tattered floor. The oppressive silence was punctuated only by the sound of Myrtle’s quiet sobs that hung in the air like a fading echo of something lost.

“Why do you do that every time?” Draco asked abruptly, his face creased with a frown as he gazed at Myrtle’s tear-soaked visage. The flickering torchlight cast a fleeting glow on her translucent form, lending her style an otherworldly sadness.

“Do what?” she replied, her voice muffled by the damps of despair that lingered around her.

“Cry all the bloody time!” Draco pressed on, his restless fingers combing through his white blonde hair.

Myrtle rolled her eyes, an action that seemed almost imperceptible yet carried weight. “Well, I could ask you the same question!” she shot back, a hint of defiance glimmering in her watery gaze. “I’ve seen you here, hidden away, shedding tears just like me!”

Draco’s body stiffened at her accusation. He wasn’t the type to reveal himself, to expose the vulnerability that he guarded fiercely. “It’s none of your concern,” he muttered, gritting his teeth and folding his arms across his chest, as if to shield himself from her words.

Unperturbed, Myrtle scoffed, “Is that so? You should find a different place to cry where no one can witness your vulnerability.” There was an undeniable sting in her voice, like a sharp blade.

“Yeah, I should have!” Draco exclaimed angrily. “I should have known that you own the whole lavatory, so it’s easy for you to pry into other people’s business!” His words were sharper than he had intended, but he felt the need to defend himself, to create a barrier between them that could shield him from her peculiar but perceptive insights.

Myrtle swiftly floated down from her perch on the sink and positioned herself directly in front of Draco. Her eyes glimmered with an intensity that was both haunting and mesmerising. “It’s not my fault you decided to come here more often than I’d like!” she let out with a piercing howl that ricocheted off the walls, reinforcing her point.

Draco found himself in the midst of a ridiculous argument with a ghost. Staring at her translucent figure—the sallow skin and sad eyes—it was difficult for him to grasp the strangeness of the situation. After a moment of tense silence, he let out a frustrated sigh. The brief explosion of anger drained out of him, and he gradually lowered his eyes to the ground, avoiding her unwavering gaze.

“I have nowhere else to go,” he muttered, his words heavy with the weight of despair. As they broke the silence, he watched a shift in Myrtle’s expression—anger fled, replaced by concern. She reached out toward him as if she could physically ease his worries.

“I may not be who you’d choose to talk to.” Myrtle said, her voice softening, “Not many do... they don’t even miss me... but I’m here.” The words hung between them, echoing in the empty restroom.

Draco remained silent, his heart pounding against the wall of expectations that had been built around him. Myrtle took his unspoken invitation to keep talking, settling on the edge of the sink. “I had my moments too, you know,” she continued gloomily, staring vacantly as if lost in memories of her own sorrow. “I would hide for hours... and no one cared what I felt or where I went... people would rather I didn’t show up anymore…”

Myrtle’s sorrow resonated with Draco, but he pushed it away, grappling instead with his own spiralling thoughts. “I wish I could avoid this and just leave,” he confessed, his brow furrowing.

The challenge was turning out to be way tougher than he initially thought it would be. The consequences of not being able to eliminate Dumbledore were weighing heavily on him. Initially, his motivation stemmed from a desire for retribution and a chance to redeem his family’s honour in the eyes of the Dark Lord, but now the stress was becoming unbearable. His inner sense of right and wrong was creating turmoil within him. Despite his reservations, he felt trapped and compelled to continue on this treacherous path.

“What on earth could have possibly led you to entertain such a thought?” she probed, forcing him to confront the alien spark of doubt growing within him.

Draco shrugged, feigning indifference but feeling the tremor of anxiety in his chest. “It was supposed to be different,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “If he returns, our family’s glory days return too. I was ready to serve him, to bring honour back to my name…” His words trailed off, bitterness creeping into his tone. “But then he sent my father to Azkaban. He discredited him and thought he was a failure. Now it’s me—left to carry this burden.”

Panic skittered into Draco’s voice, shaking his resolve with each syllable. “I have no options! Their safety depends on me! I know he expects me to fail this task, but I can’t do it! I just want to leave all of this behind.” His hands trembled as he spoke. He had successfully persuaded himself that the world would greatly benefit from the absence of the Hogwarts Headmaster. His mind was fully occupied by his determination to fulfil the Dark Lord’s mission, but this conviction was slowly diminishing.

“This is wrong,” he murmured, the realisation curling his fingers tightly into fists. The idea of taking a life and extinguishing a spark simply because someone decreed it gnawed at him. Dumbledore was revered as a protector of those lost and broken. The thought of him gone stretched before Draco like a chasm, dark and unforgiving.

Myrtle looked at Draco with a worried expression, showing her genuine concern in her eyes. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” she comforted him. “The choice is completely yours.” With her glasses reflecting her deep gaze, she insisted, “Tell me who he is… I can help you.”

Draco’s complexion drained of colour at her words, revealing the vulnerability that marked him as different from the boy who had once strutted through the corridors like he owned them. Fear and desperation thundered through his chest as he tried to explain. “You’re not grasping the gravity of the situation. He made a menacing threat—if I refused to comply, he vowed to end my life... and he cruelly threatened harm to my entire family.”

Myrtle leaned closer, her voice soothing yet firm. “We can find ways to protect your family and you. You could always speak to the Headmaster… tell him what’s happening and he can—”

“Haven’t you been listening?” Draco interjected, frustration simmering just below the surface. “It’s hard enough for me to talk to you about this, let alone the Headmaster. Besides, he can’t know… And,” he added in a hushed tone that forced Myrtle to lean in closer, “not even Potter.”

Myrtle blinked, taken aback. “Harry Potter?” She almost choked on the name, disbelief lacing her voice.

Draco’s face twisted into a scowl, and silence draped itself over them. He chose to remain silent, reverting to his defensive armour.

Myrtle’s eyes drifted off into the distance. “I don’t think you need to worry about him,” she replied. “I’ve always thought Harry was so sweet, not the type to pry into other people’s business—” A sharp note slipped into her tone as she remembered the troublemaker spirit of Peeves. “Unlike Peeves, who takes pleasure in making me miserable on a regular basis.”

Draco shook his head slowly, a dismal frown etched upon his features. “You’re wrong about Potter. He’s been acting strange around me lately. I’ve caught him watching me—I’m certain he already suspects something.” A shudder ran through him as he recalled Severus Snape’s warning about how someone was starting to be wary of his unusual behaviours: showing less enthusiasm for Quidditch, neglecting his studies and prefect responsibilities, refusing to partake in the joyful teasing of Potter and his companions. Nonetheless, Draco remained indifferent to Potter’s observations. He prioritised his mission above all else.

She watched as Draco paced back and forth, his perfect hair glinting like polished silver in the dim light. Myrtle could sense something was brewing beneath his icy exterior.

“What does he suspect you of?” she asked, her brow furrowing with concern. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was seeing a side of Draco that he rarely allowed anyone to glimpse.

Draco’s eyes narrowed, hardening like marble stones polished by centuries of scorn. “Potter needs to mind his own business and stop meddling in my plans,” he seethed through clenched teeth. He slammed his foot against the floor, creating a dull thud that echoed through the empty bathroom.

“He thinks he can just swoop in and ruin everything!” Draco continued, his voice a low growl. The shadows of past failures crept up on him, taunting him with memories of thwarted schemes and public humiliation. “I’ll just have to be more careful and make sure he doesn’t interfere next time.”

Myrtle tensed beside him, her own body rigid in response to his unrestrained anger. She couldn’t help but defend Harry, knowing that he meant well. “I don’t think Harry would get involved—”

“Keep quiet, Mudblood!” Draco snarled, the word dripping with venom. His fury was a raging fire, consuming any understanding that might have existed between them. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re clueless!”

Myrtle felt her heart constrict painfully at his words. Tears welled up beneath her eyelids, but she refused to let them fall. “Oh, really!” she retorted, raising her chin defiantly. “Yet it’s alright for you to hurl hurtful insults, the same ones people used to fling at me so often in the past—”

“Don’t start crying now!” Draco snapped, defending against her emotional assault. “I’ve got enough problems without you adding to them.” His voice was sharp, a knife slicing through the fragile air between them.

Stung, Myrtle floated upwards, her translucent form shimmering with indignation. “I was just trying to keep you company so you wouldn’t be lonely!” she protested, her voice rising, filled with hurt and anger. The boy stood there, a brooding figure cloaked in his own darkness, and for a moment, the air crackled with the electric tension between them.

“I might have accepted if you’d stop crying around me. You’re talking nonsense!” Draco snapped again, biting back words that could only deepen the chasm between them.

“You don’t have to be so rude to me,” Myrtle rebuked, a fire igniting in her chest. “I’m the only one putting up with your ridiculous behaviour right now instead of leaving you alone. You should be grateful.”

His mouth opened, but for a moment, words failed him. The weight of Myrtle’s indignation bore down on him, and he felt the tightness in his chest ease, if only slightly. The truth was, he didn’t want to be alone, but he couldn’t let down his guard. Not now.

He dropped his gaze, staring at the tiles beneath his shoes. Each square seemed to mock him with its perfect uniformity. “Grateful?” he repeated, almost to himself. “For what? Having to deal with a ghost crying all the time?”

Draco sat on the edge of a cold stone bench. Although he hadn’t invited her presence, he couldn’t shake the truth of her words. Silence wrapped around them—thick and oppressive—as he took a deep breath, lowering his head in reluctant acknowledgment. He could feel her gaze, a mixture of curiosity and concern resting on him.

“I know I’ve been acting like a jerk,” he began, his voice a hushed murmur. “But I couldn’t control it. I’ve hurt people’s feelings—”

“And mine!” Myrtle interjected, her voice sharp, cutting through his moment of reflection as though she was trying to reassure herself of her importance in this conversation.

Draco rolled his eyes, the familiar irritation bubbling back to the surface. “And ghosts,” he conceded, earning an indignant huff from Myrtle. Yet, despite her irritation, he sensed a fleeting satisfaction flutter across her translucent face—she had been acknowledged.

“This isn’t my normal self,” he continued, the earnestness creeping back into his tone. “Confiding my inner thoughts to another...”

“Why not?” she asked, her enthusiasm brightening the dark space around them.

He paused. “It’s difficult to trust others these days,” he admitted at last. “People constantly belittle me, so I’ve chosen isolation to scheme alone. Some feign interest in my plans just to steal the glory for themselves.” His mind flickered to Severus Snape—the man who was both a mentor and a rival. Snape, ever cunning, never revealed his true intentions. Would he betray Draco at a crucial moment? The thought made his skin crawl.

“Don’t let it bother you when people criticise or gossip about you,” Myrtle advised gently, her tone softening. “Those people are just trying to find flaws in your life to distract from their own faults. I learnt that the hard way—it was awful!” she exclaimed, putting a dramatic hand to her forehead. “I wasted so much energy getting upset over little things I couldn’t control. Before I knew it, I was—I was—”

She faltered, struggling to find the right words. The implication hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unsaid truths. Draco held his breath, realising that the word she probably struggled with was ‘dead.’ How odd it was, he thought, to be conversing with someone who had once been alive but was now a mere spectre caught between this world and the next.

This reflection ignited a flurry of thoughts within him about death—a concept distant yet ever-present in the tumultuous world he inhabited. What was it like to die? Did it bring pain, or was it a quiet release? The possibility of failure loomed over him, like a spectre more real than Myrtle herself. Would he meet his end under the Dark Lord’s wrath, enduring unimaginable suffering, or would he suffer a quick demise, falling before a foe like a wilting flower?

A chill crept down his spine at the thought, and he glanced sideways at Myrtle. “What’s it like?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the dripping sound. “To be... dead?”

Myrtle’s expression shifted, a mixture of melancholy and understanding. “It’s quiet,” she replied thoughtfully, drifting closer. “But it’s also very lonely. I see so many people, but they ignore me. I’m just—gone. But in that silence, I’ve had time to think about my life and my choices.”

“Do you regret anything?” he asked, curiosity mingled with fear flashing in his eyes.

“Every day,” she answered, her honesty disarming. “But I’ve learnt that regret keeps you tethered to the past. It stifles you. You have to let go, Draco. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Life is too short—whether alive or dead—to dwell on what others think of you.”

Her words resonated within him, echoing long after she spoke. Could he find the strength to live unburdened by the expectations and derision of others? He could hardly imagine what that would look like.

“All I’m saying is... I don’t want to fail. Even though some may already see me as a failure,” he spoke quietly, his breath hitching slightly on the word ‘failure,’ as if it were a curse he couldn’t shake off.

“Failures are part of growth,” she said firmly, her voice steady in the echoing silence of the bathroom. “Believe in yourself, and you will succeed. You are not a failure.”

For a fleeting moment, Draco’s expression softened. A melancholic grin formed on his face, a mix of uncertainty and hope crossing his features. He appreciated her words, though he wasn’t sure if they would truly sink in. In his world, failure was not just an inconvenience; it was a reflection of worth, of legacy, and of pride.

Yet Myrtle’s insistence stirred something within him. The kindness in her tone was unexpected and somehow comforting. She, a mere ghost, had suffered her own share of disappointments, yet she stood before him, urging him to embrace his own scars. As her pale face glowed softly in the dim light, he felt a flicker of connection—a sense of understanding that he had rarely found in his own clique of Slytherins.

But as the weight of his impending departure hung in the air, the reality of time pulled Draco back to his obligations. He realised that he had lingered long enough in this hidden alcove, and he needed to return to the Slytherin common room, where expectations loomed large and whispers of his worth echoed incessantly.

With a swift motion, he pushed away from the stone bench, determination etching itself into his features. In doing so, he inadvertently startled Myrtle, who had floated peacefully in her own thoughts. “Oh!” she exclaimed, blinking in surprise. “You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah,” Draco nodded. “I have to. I’m still a student after all.”

Myrtle’s expression shifted, a flicker of sadness quivering beneath her ethereal gaze. “Will I see you again?” Her voice wavered, a soft melancholy that tugged at Draco’s heart.

“Maybe,” he said, a curt response slipping out. He turned, muscles taught and rigid, as if the very act of stepping away might sever the invisible thread that kept them connected. But something tugged him back. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about our conversation.”

“Your secret is safe with me. I promise,” Myrtle replied, raising her hand in a gesture of confidence that starkly contrasted with her ghostly form, as if vowing by the very essence of her existence.

“Thanks,” Draco murmured, then disappeared behind the door.

A single ray of watery light pierced the bathroom window, illuminating the spot where the blond-haired boy had stood moments before.

THE END