FicWad

The boys’ lavatory on the seventh floor sat quietly behind a stretch of marble staircase, removed from the steady traffic of Hogwarts life. Most students overlooked it entirely, preferring the ones nearer their common rooms. But for Draco Malfoy, it had become a kind of sanctuary. Not in any comforting sense—no, nothing so gentle. More like a hiding place. A cave to crawl into when the weight of everything grew too much.

On better days, the sun would pour through the tall windows, scattering warm patterns across the polished floor tiles. He remembered how the light used to make the room almost cheerful, in a detached sort of way—alive with the muffled sound of distant laughter and footsteps echoing in the corridor outside. But today was different.

The rain tapped incessantly at the panes, a dull rhythm against the glass. Outside, the world had melted into a blur of grey—like the sky itself had forgotten how to be anything else.

Draco stood hunched at the sink, both hands gripping the cold porcelain. He stared at his reflection, searching for something familiar. But the boy staring back wasn’t him—not really. Pale. Washed out. His white-blond hair hung damp and lifeless over his forehead, and the aristocratic sneer—the one he’d practised for years like it was part of his uniform—had vanished.

His face looked… empty.

Is this what I’ve become?

He didn’t recognise the hollowness in his own eyes. No mischief. No superiority. Just exhaustion. The kind that soaked into the bones and stayed there.

He’d worn the Malfoy name like a suit of armour—taunting, bragging, strutting about as if the world owed him something simply for existing. He’d believed it, too. Or at least convinced himself it was true. But here, in the solitude of this echoing bathroom, it all felt like a lie unravelling thread by thread.

“Why can’t I just be normal?” he whispered.

The words fell from his lips and bounced off the tiled walls, a pitiful echo of a boy begging for a different life.

Stupid. It's pointless to wish for something you’ll never have.

He clenched his jaw, trying to chase the thought away, but it lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind like rot.

With a quiet thud, Draco slid down the wall, letting his back hit the cold tiles as he folded himself into a small, broken shape on the floor. Knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly round them. He barely noticed how icy the stone was beneath him. He hardly cared.

I haven’t felt like myself in weeks.

No, that wasn’t true. He hadn’t felt like himself in months. Ever since the Dark Lord had given him the task—that cursed, unbearable burden—something inside him had begun to crack. Slowly. Quietly. And now the pieces were slipping faster, falling apart before he could catch them.

Once, he’d moved through these corridors with his chin high and a smirk ready on his lips. He’d insulted Potter, mocked Weasley, belittled Granger, and felt powerful for it. Untouchable.

Now he couldn’t look anyone in the eye without wondering if they could see it. The fear. The failure. The dark, crawling truth behind his every breath.

His hands trembled. He dug his nails into his arms, trying to anchor himself, trying to feel something real. But it didn’t help.

A sob slipped out—sharp and sudden—and he immediately smothered it in his sleeve. Another followed. And another.

He buried his face in his robes, hoping the fabric would swallow the sound of his unravelling.

No one can know. No one can see this. If they do—

The thought choked itself off.

Because the truth—the thing he couldn’t say aloud, even to himself—was that he was terrified. Not just of failing. Not just of death. But of him. The Dark Lord. His red eyes haunted Draco’s dreams. That soft, silken voice, so calm when it delivered threats, so utterly devoid of mercy.

Draco had believed it would be simple. Do the thing. Complete the mission. Be a hero—in his family’s twisted, blood-stained sense of the word.

He’d wanted to make Father proud again. To prove that he was more than a boy who had stood useless in the manor while others made the decisions.

But it wasn’t simple.

It was killing him.

He remembered that night clearly—the dinner, the hush at the table, Aunt Bellatrix leaning close with that mad glint in her eye.

“You must do this for your family, Draco,” she’d said, like she was handing him a present.

A present wrapped in blood and silence.

He’d nodded.

Of course he had. What else could he do?

But now, curled up on this bathroom floor, all he could feel was the weight of that choice pressing down on his chest, like the very air was turning solid.

He thought of Potter again—and it made him sick. Because for all his hatred, for all the names he’d called him, Draco now understood something. Harry had fought. For himself. For his friends. For what was right.

Draco had never done that. He had followed. Obeyed. Performed.

And now, the mask had slipped—and all that was left was fear.

I’m not brave. I never was.

He pressed his forehead to his knees, blinking back hot, stinging tears. He wished he could disappear. Fade into the stone. Slip through the cracks and vanish from the castle, from the world, from everything that had led him here.

He didn’t want the task. He didn’t want the name. He didn’t want the lies.

He just wanted peace.

But peace felt a thousand miles away.

“No one can know,” he whispered again, softer now, like a prayer. “No one can know. No one…”

The words were all he had. His last line of defence. But they weren’t enough. They slipped through his fingers, as fragile and useless as breath in winter.

His chest tightened. Each inhale felt shallower than the last. He pressed his hand against his ribs as though he could force the air in. The walls—those bloody tiles—felt like they were leaning in, inch by inch.

The world was closing around him.

And he was so, so tired of pretending he could hold it up.

He came here to disappear.

This bathroom—forgotten, echoing, cold—had become the only place in the castle where he could come apart in peace. No questions. No stares. Just silence and the hum of old magic lingering in the stone.

But today, he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

At first, he didn’t notice the ghostly shimmer in the shadows. A faint blur. Barely there. His thoughts were a noise too loud to hear anything else.

She watched him from the far stall—silent and still, the way only ghosts can be. Myrtle didn’t hover with judgement; she never had. Her gaze held something gentler. Something achingly familiar.

She’d seen him before. More than once. Curled into himself on the cold floor, his shoulders folding in like he was trying to collapse into nothing. As if vanishing were an option if he could just make himself small enough.

There was something in him she recognised. A reflection of her own story—before everything had gone wrong.

Once, Myrtle had only ever wanted to be noticed. To be seen. To matter.

And now? Now she was little more than a rumour, a moaning nuisance whispered about by giggling students between classes. A stain in the plumbing. A joke.

But he was different.

Draco’s pain wasn’t loud like hers had once been. It wasn’t theatrical or childish. It was quiet. Heavy. Real.

And for some reason, it made her brave.

She drifted forward, hesitant, like a bird unused to landing. Her voice barely crept above the rain at the window.

“Are you feeling alright?”

The words sliced through the thick fog in his head like a blade.

Draco jerked upright, his heart slamming against his ribs. Breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he honestly thought he’d imagined it. The ghost before him—soft edges, round glasses, big eyes filled with something almost human—didn’t feel quite real.

Have I finally lost it?

The tears still clung to his lashes, blurring everything around the edges. It made her shimmer even more.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, drifting back a little, hands raised in something like apology. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Her voice wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t cruel. Just… gentle.

And that startled him more than her bloody presence.

He blinked at her, unsure what to feel. His first instinct was to shut down. Don’t let it in. Don’t let her in. He didn’t want kindness. He didn’t deserve kindness. Not after everything.

But the way she looked at him—it wasn’t pity. It was something quieter. Sadder. Like she understood.

That was the worst part.

He surged up from the floor, the movement too sudden, too sharp. A shield. Reflex.

He made for the door, breath ragged, robe fluttering behind him. His fingers brushed the handle—just go, go now, before you crack open all the way—but they didn’t pull it.

He stood there, frozen. Because… someone had looked at him without disgust.

Not like he was dangerous. Not like he was weak. Just… like he was human.

“Please don’t go,” Myrtle said softly behind him. Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with something far older and lonelier. “You look like someone who needs… someone who understands.”

He didn’t turn around.

Didn’t breathe.

She was right, and that frightened him more than the Dark Lord ever had.

“I’m Myrtle Warren,” she added after a pause, quieter still. Like it cost her something to say it aloud.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t left. Maybe because she hadn’t asked what was wrong. Maybe because she already knew.

And in that still, broken moment, Draco felt something he hadn’t felt in weeks.

Lonely.

Merlin, I don’t want to be alone anymore.

“I know who you are,” he muttered, his voice cutting and cold. Too cold. Always too cold. “You’re the ghost who haunts the girls’ bathroom. I’m not in the mood for a chat. Especially not with the dead.”

His words snapped through the air sharply. They echoed off the tiles, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Myrtle’s eyes widened, then narrowed. She floated back with a huff, arms crossing over her translucent chest like she’d just been insulted at some grand society dinner.

“Well excuse me,” she sniffed. “Next time I’ll wear a name tag and a halo.”

Draco let out a sigh—tired, flat, almost amused despite himself. "I didn’t mean for you to take it personally.”

“I always take things personally,” she retorted with wounded flair. “It’s sort of my thing.”

He turned toward her, irritation flickering at the edges of his exhaustion. “Did you really not mean to intrude?”

Myrtle blinked, then slowly flipped upside down in mid-air like a drifting leaf, twirling lazily as if to avoid the weight of the question. “Define ‘intrude’. I mean… I do live in the plumbing.”

He gave her a long, unimpressed look. Deadpan. Not amused.

“I’m just saying,” she added defensively, straightening up and brushing off the ghostly folds of her skirt. “You’re the one sitting in my bathroom, sulking like a lovesick toad.”

That earned her a sharp glare, but no retort. He didn’t have the energy. Not really.

Lovesick. As if this were about a girl. As if it could ever be that simple.

He shook his head, more at himself than at her.

Why was he still here? Why was he talking to her?

She was a ghost. She was dead. She spent her afterlife crying about boys and moaning into toilets. And yet…

She’d seen him. Really seen him.

And for some reason, she hadn’t looked away.

He didn’t expect her to soften. Ghosts weren’t supposed to. They were meant to be cold and drifting, stuck in the moment of their deaths. But Myrtle’s voice changed—lower, gentler. Like she wasn’t just speaking at him anymore, but to him.

“You know,” she said, almost tenderly, “I get it. Being ignored. Being… unwanted.”

Draco turned his face away. Her words caught him off guard, sliding past his guard like they had no right to.

What would she know about being alone?

“You?” he muttered, jaw tightening. “What would you know about it?”

“Er, I died in a toilet,” she replied, floating up slightly, her tone riding the line between tragic and weirdly proud. “Trust me—no one’s exactly queuing up to invite me to the afterlife party.”

Against his will, his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close. Too close for comfort.

Myrtle floated forward, slow and cautious, as though he were a wounded animal and she didn’t want to startle him. “I hear things, you know. The whispers. The things people say when they think no one’s there.” She hovered, her voice lowering again. “I hear you, Draco. You’re not as invisible as you think.”

His stomach turned. That hit too close. Too raw.

He hated that.

“You think you understand?” He snapped, voice low but sharp. “You don’t. You can’t.”

“I do!” she cried suddenly, and the sound cracked like a whip in the quiet room. Her face twisted, and within a second she was full-on sobbing, tears like silvery mist streaming from her cheeks. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand! Loneliness was my whole life! And death!”

She began spinning mid-air, a dramatic twirl of translucent robes and ghostly water flinging from her in all directions like some ethereal sprinkler on the verge of a breakdown.

“Do you have any idea,” she wailed, “how it feels to float around for eternity with nothing but blocked pipes and Peeves the Poltergeist for company?!”

Draco recoiled slightly as a damp, misty droplet splashed his cheek. He wiped it off with a grimace. “Could you not throw yourself a bloody pity parade right now?”

“Why not?!” she sobbed, flinging herself back in dramatic flair. “It’s all I have!”

She paused, blinked, and then narrowed her eyes at him with sudden curiosity. “…Are you throwing one too?”

He exhaled slowly, hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders slumped with exhaustion he couldn’t begin to explain. Was he? Was that what this was? A silent pity party on a lavatory floor?

Maybe it was.

He didn’t want to admit it out loud. But… yeah. Maybe.

Myrtle dabbed her foggy cheeks with a transparent handkerchief that looked like it had seen a few centuries of tears. “I haven’t forgotten what it’s like,” she sniffled, quieter now. “Being dead doesn’t erase the ache. You think it does, but it doesn’t. You just learn to carry it like a ghost carries chains.”

She drifted lower, levelling with him again. Her voice steadied, for once not full of whining or shrill complaint. “And honestly? You look like you’re drowning in it.”

That landed harder than it should have.

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. There wasn’t anything left to say. The words clung to his ribs and refused to move. Outside, the rain was still falling in slow sheets, tapping steadily against the windows. Soft. Constant.

The weight in his chest pressed harder.

He’d always thought ghosts were just… background noise. White noise. An afterthought. Annoying, pathetic, lingering for no reason.

But Myrtle wasn’t forgettable. Not tonight.

And not because of her dramatic sobs or ghostly tantrums—but because, for reasons he didn’t understand, she’d seen him.

Not the name. Not the swagger. Not the reputation.

Him.

And that cut deeper than anything had in weeks.

She hovered just above the sinks now, head tilted as she studied him like some curious painting. Her hair hung like soaked seaweed, plastered against her face. Her oversized glasses had slipped halfway down her ghostly nose.

“You know,” she said after a long pause, her tone shifting again, this time almost light, “I always thought you were the brooding type. But I never realised you had such… tragic cheekbones.”

Draco blinked. “Is that… supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s an observation,” she said with a prim nod. “You’re quite aesthetically miserable. Like a statue carved by a very, very sad artist.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

“I mean it,” she said, twirling lazily in the air above him. “Very tortured. Very stormy. If I weren’t dead, I’d probably swoon.”

A surprised laugh puffed out of him. It escaped before he could catch it—more of a scoff than anything, but still. It startled him. He hadn’t made a sound like that in… weeks.

“That’s possibly the most disturbing thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he muttered.

“Oh, please. You haven’t heard my best lines,” Myrtle said, giving a ghostly spin. “I’ve had decades to perfect my material. You’d be amazed how many boys cry in here when they think no one’s looking.”

“Brilliant. That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” Draco said dryly.

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged. “You’re not the only one who hides in loos. Though I do have the advantage of being able to pop out of toilets whenever I fancy making an entrance.”

He gave her a wary sidelong glance. “Please don’t.”

“No promises,” she replied with a grin, though her expression softened again. The humour faded. “But really…”

Her voice turned serious—gentle, even.

“You look like you’re carrying something. Heavy. On the inside, I mean.”

He looked away. The grin vanished from his face, his eyes dropping to the floor tiles.

The silence that followed felt thicker than the air. He didn’t want to talk. He couldn’t talk. Not to her. Not to anyone. Not about this.

The task. The looming threat. The pressure curled tight like a noose around his neck. His father’s expectations. The Dark Lord’s eyes. The castle’s walls felt like they were closing in more with every day. Every breath.

His voice barely came out.

“I can’t talk about it,” he muttered.

And that was the most honest thing he’d said in weeks.

“That’s fine,” Myrtle said.

It surprised him.

“You don’t have to,” she went on, voice softer than before. “I’m dead, not nosy.”

Draco glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

She hesitated, floating a little higher, then admitted with a ghostly sigh, “Okay, fine. I’m extremely nosy.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“But I can keep secrets,” she added quickly. “You’d be amazed what people confess around here. I’m basically Hogwarts’ worst-kept secret keeper.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“Then don’t talk,” she said simply, giving a floaty shrug. “Just sit. Brood. Glare. I’m excellent company for glaring types.”

Draco blinked. Then, slowly, he looked at her properly—for the first time, really.

Myrtle, the ghost of a girl who died miserable and mocked, was spinning lazily above the sinks like she’d rehearsed every swirl of her robes. Her hair floated like kelp around her head, and the oversized glasses were barely hanging on to the bridge of her nose.

She was ridiculous. She was theatrical. She was… oddly comforting.

And he hated that. Hated how a part of him—buried under layers of defence and disdain—was grateful for her presence.

His voice came out low, almost unwilling. “Why are you being nice to me?”

She blinked down at him. “Because you look like you need it.”

He scoffed, but even to his own ears, it sounded hollow. “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to,” she said simply. “Lonely recognises lonely.”

Something twisted sharply in his chest. Like her words had yanked a thread he’d spent months trying to keep knotted. He turned his head away again, staring at the cracked tile along the floor.

Why did she have to see him like that?

“Besides,” Myrtle added, flipping upside down so that her hair draped toward the floor like curtains, “if you don’t have a friend in the afterlife, who’s going to make ghost jokes at your funeral?”

It was so absurd, so bizarrely sincere, that he snorted before he could stop himself.

“You really don’t know when to stop talking, do you?”

“Nope,” she said brightly. “It’s part of my ghostly charm.”

He didn’t respond.

But he didn’t leave either.

He just stayed there, pressed against the cold wall, letting her voice fill the air like a fog creeping through old stone corridors. It wasn’t peace. And it sure as hell wasn’t comfort. But it was something.

And something was more than he thought he deserved.

The air shifted beside him.

She was closer now—he could feel it. Not from warmth, obviously. Ghosts didn’t give off heat. But there was a pressure, a weightless hush. Like the gravity in the room had changed.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up.

He couldn’t.

His body felt too heavy, like it was sinking into the floor. Cold from the tile. Cold from the inside out.

His breathing caught on a thread.

“Please,” Myrtle said, her voice smaller this time. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Her glow lit up the shadows that clung to the corners. Pale blue. Soft. Like moonlight in water. He didn’t want to look at her, but her light was everywhere.

“I feel weaker than I’ve ever felt,” he muttered.

The words felt jagged on the way out, scraping his throat.

“I’ve messed up… badly.”

His throat tightened, and he blinked too fast. Crying in front of a ghost, he thought bitterly. That had to be some new level of pathetic.

But Myrtle—surprisingly—didn’t laugh. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t even smirk.

“Everyone struggles,” she said quietly. “Even the dramatic ones. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know.”

He shook his head hard, trying to shake the truth out of her words. His pale hair clung to his cheeks, damp from sweat or tears—he didn’t know which anymore.

“You don’t get it,” he rasped. “I have to do this thing. For my family. They expect me to just… become this version of me. Take the role. Follow the plan.”

His hands curled into fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms.

“But every step I take,” he said, voice shaking now, “it’s like I’m disappearing. Like I’m becoming someone I can’t stand to look at.”

There. He’d said it.

The thing that haunted him more than death, more than failure: the fear that he’d become a stranger to himself. A hollow shell dressed in fine robes and ancient bloodlines.

Myrtle’s eyes softened. “Then don’t let them win,” she whispered. “You’re not a puppet, Draco. You’re—well, yes, moody, brooding, and frustrating—but you’re still a person. You can say no.”

He laughed, but it was bitter. Sharp. It cut on the way out.

“Yeah, right. I’ll just say no. That’s worked out so well for everyone else who’s tried.”

He looked at her. “You think I can just walk away? From them?”

He didn’t have to name names.

“If I fail…” he whispered, the thought clawing up his throat like bile. “If I fail, I lose everything.”

He hadn’t meant for any of it to go this far. The necklace. The mead. The secret meetings in dark corridors. He thought he could fix it quickly, cleanly—do what they asked and keep his hands clean.

But nothing was clean. Not anymore.

He stared at the floor; the tile was blurred and unsteady. “I wanted to finish this without hurting anyone.”

And that was the truth, raw and unfiltered.

It wasn’t redemption.

It wasn’t noble.

It was just tired. Desperate.

The words fell into the quiet.

And for once, Myrtle didn’t fill the silence.

She just hovered beside him. Silent. Solid in her own weightless way.

And Draco stayed there, shoulders sagging, head bowed.

Myrtle drifted closer, her presence bringing with it a chill—not sharp, not biting. Just cool enough to make the hairs on his arms lift. A reminder that she wasn’t alive, and he still was. For now.

“Let me help,” she said, voice softer than her usual whining drone. Softer than he thought she was capable of.

Draco looked up, eyes stinging. Her face hovered just above him, blurry and pale in the gloom. He didn’t mean to speak—but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“I can’t,” he said, and his throat closed around it. “He’ll kill me.”

There. The truth. The real one. The thing he hadn’t even dared to say to himself—not out loud. Not even in his own head. But it was real, and it was terrifying.

Myrtle stilled mid-air. Her robes stopped billowing. “Who will?” she asked, suddenly serious. No theatrics. No sarcasm.

Draco didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His chest tightened like something had wrapped itself around his ribs. He couldn’t pull in enough air. His hands trembled, and the tears came again—hot and unwanted. He buried his face in his palms before they could spill.

He hated this. Hated how exposed he felt. Hated that she was the one seeing it.

Myrtle hovered lower, her glow faintly flickering. She looked… oddly gentle. Almost maternal, in a deranged, ghostly sort of way.

“I wish I could hug you,” she murmured, reaching out and passing right through his arm. “Stupid ghost arms,” she sighed. “Not great for comfort, are they?”

Something wet and strained and stupid escaped him—a small laugh. It was barely more than a breath, but it startled them both.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself. “Whatever it is, it’ll work out. You’ll see. Maybe you’ll even survive long enough to have grey hair one day.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

And for one strange, fleeting moment, the weight pressing down on his chest didn’t feel quite so impossible.

Draco drew in a shaky breath, lungs struggling to remember how to work. “I shouldn’t have joined him,” he said, and the words tasted like blood. “It was a mistake. A bloody mistake.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “But what choice did I have?”

And there it was. All of it. That twisting, hollow guilt that had lived in his chest since the day he took the Mark. Since the day he started walking a path paved in someone else’s expectations.

“I shouldn’t have become this… thing.”

He felt the tears come fast then, angry and pathetic. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached. He was tired of crying. Tired of being weak. But the tears came anyway.

Myrtle floated in closer, slower this time. There was no smugness in her face now. Just something quiet. Soft.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” she said, low and even, like it was some great secret. “Even terrible ones. But you can still change the path you’re on.”

She paused. “I tried, once. It was difficult… but worth it.”

He didn’t know what she meant by that—how a ghost could “try” anything. But he didn’t question it. He just stared down at his arm.

The Dark Mark burnt under his sleeve. Even when it wasn’t activated, it always felt warm. Like it had soaked into his skin, into his bones. Like it was alive.

“I should’ve known better,” he muttered. “I let people use me. Let them turn me into this. They laugh at me—mock me—and I just let them.”

He braced himself for Myrtle’s laughter. A snide jab. Something cutting.

But it didn’t come.

“You need to stop apologising for existing,” she said instead, her tone unexpectedly sharp. “You’re allowed to stand up for yourself. Set boundaries.”

Draco blinked at her. “Are you quoting a self-help book?”

“Maybe.”

He raised a brow. “What’s next—‘Ten Steps to a Better Afterlife’?”

Myrtle crossed her ghostly arms, hovering a few feet above the floor, and gave him a look so stern it belonged to someone’s irritated aunt. “I’m trying to help you, you arrogant twit.”

Draco let out a short bark of laughter—dry, humourless. “Brilliant. Judged by a dead girl in a bathroom. Just what I needed today.”

She didn’t flinch.

“I died, Draco,” she snapped, the pitch of her voice climbing. “In a bathroom. Killed by a monster no one believed in. Forgive me if I actually know a thing or two about pain.”

He winced. That shut him up.

She had a point. And it stung.

The silence that followed was awkward. The kind that stretched too long and made you want to fill it, even if you didn’t know how. The drip of a leaky pipe echoed in the background. Myrtle sniffled quietly.

He eyed her sideways. “Why do you always do that?”

She frowned. “Do what?”

“Cry all the time.”

She looked deeply offended. “Excuse me?”

“You haunt a toilet and sob like it’s your full-time job.”

“Oh, and you’re a shining example of emotional resilience?” she shot back. “I’ve seen you bawling into that sink more than once, thank you very much.”

His face flushed instantly. “That’s different.”

“Because you’re alive?” Myrtle snapped. “Please. You’re about as emotionally stable as a wet sponge.”

He folded his arms tightly across his chest, jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask for commentary.”

“No, but you’re in my bathroom,” she retorted. “If you want privacy, go cry in the Forbidden Forest. I’m sure the Acromantulas offer less judgement.”

He glared at her, but it lacked its usual venom. “Right. Because getting eaten alive would really improve my mood.”

“At least it’d be productive sulking.”

He sighed, long and slow. Myrtle hovered there with that infuriating mixture of bluntness and sincerity, and he didn’t know whether to scream at her or thank her.

Maybe both.

He didn’t want to admit it—but something in him was loosening. Just slightly. Like a valve releasing under pressure. Not enough to fix anything. But enough to keep him from cracking in half.

Draco groaned, dragging his hands down his face, palms scraping over the stubble starting to form on his jaw. His skin felt raw, like everything was too close to the surface. “Why do I even talk to you?”

“Because no one else will listen,” Myrtle replied, all airy smugness laced with something sadder beneath.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t argue. Just curled in on himself, back thudding softly against the cold stone wall, arms wrapping tight around his knees like he could make himself smaller. As if that would help. As if that would make any of this go away.

Because the truth was—she wasn’t wrong. And that, more than anything, made his stomach churn.

It stung worse than the Mark ever did.

Myrtle came swooping down like some tragic, waterlogged bat, arms trailing behind her, her eyes wide with manic urgency. She stopped just inches from his face, practically vibrating with overblown emotion.

“It’s not my fault you keep skulking around more than I can stand!” She shrieked, voice high and glassy. The sound cracked off the tiles like shrapnel.

Draco closed his eyes for a beat. Brilliant. He was now officially having a shouting match with a ghost in a bathroom. That ought to go on his gravestone—Here lies Draco Malfoy: Died of shame and poor company.

He opened his eyes again, too tired for any real venom, and shot her a weak glare. Her face was translucent and watery, all sharp cheekbones and a tragic pout. It was like arguing with grief personified. She looked the way he felt, and that was infuriating.

For a long second, he just stared at her—then let the glare drop, his expression slackening into exhaustion. His shoulders gave in, sagging as if he’d been holding up too much for too long.

“I’ve got nowhere else to go,” he muttered. The words came out cracked and brittle. They sat heavy in the air between them, thick with more than just frustration.

And that finally silenced her.

Myrtle’s expression shifted—something in her eyes flickering from theatrical rage to something far clingier. Desperate. Like she didn’t want to spook him now that he was actually talking.

“I know I’m not your first choice,” she said, quieter now, edging closer like she was afraid he’d vanish into the floor. “Not many people stick around to talk. They forget about me. No one misses me. But I’m here.”

Of course you are, Draco thought bitterly. Always here. Crying in a bloody toilet. Haunting the place you died, like it’s all you have left.

He didn’t say any of it aloud. Just clenched his jaw and stared at the cracked tile across from him, trying not to drown in the weight pressing down on his chest. Secrets. Orders. Expectations. Every breath was getting harder to take.

Myrtle floated back onto the sink, her usual dramatic sigh echoing in the cavernous space like it belonged to someone twice her size.

“I used to hide too,” she said, all misty-eyed. “Hours and hours. No one noticed. No one cared. Honestly, they were probably relieved I wasn’t around…”

Draco scoffed under his breath. He didn’t mean to. But something in her words struck too close. He knew what that felt like—being absent and not missed. Being a disappointment so consistently, people stopped expecting better.

But he wasn’t about to admit that.

“I just want out,” he murmured. The words surprised even him. They slipped out like steam from a cracked pipe—quiet, unnoticed, and dangerous.

Out of the plan. Out of the war. Out of himself.

This wasn’t a schoolyard dare or some puffed-up family ambition. This was a mess. A trap. A ticking clock he couldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried to fix it.

He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t even a villain. Just a boy with blood on his hands and a knife in his pocket, too scared to use it and too terrified not to.

Myrtle tilted her head, hair drifting around her like silk underwater. “What could’ve possibly made you think this was worth it?” she asked. Not unkindly. Just… baffled.

Draco clenched his jaw so tight it hurt. “It was supposed to fix everything,” he snapped. Then, quieter, “He returns, and we rise with him. My family’s name—restored. I was ready to serve him. Bring glory back to Malfoy.”

The name stuck in his throat. It didn’t sound noble anymore. Just old. Rotten.

“But then he tossed my father in Azkaban like trash. Called him weak. A failure.”

He swallowed hard. “And now I’m the one left to clean it up.”

The silence hung like a shroud.

He hadn’t told anyone this—not even himself, really. Not in full. Not like this.

“He doesn’t expect me to succeed,” Draco whispered. “He expects me to fall on my face. Or die trying. It’s a punishment. A lesson.”

And he was learning it.

“My whole family is hanging by a thread,” he choked, voice starting to tremble. “And he’s holding the scissors. I can’t do this, and I have to. I’m stuck.”

His fists clenched uselessly in his lap, fingernails biting into skin. His breathing hitched. The plan was a joke. The mission was a death sentence. Killing Dumbledore wasn’t some noble act—it was murder. Cold-blooded. And the guilt had started festering in him like rot.

It was in his bones. In his dreams.

He was coming undone.

“This is wrong,” Draco said through clenched teeth. His fists curled at his sides, the knuckles bone-white. It wasn’t just the plan. It wasn’t even the looming, endless fear. It was the idea that Dumbledore—the man who stood between the world and monsters—might fall simply because He said so. Because the Dark Lord had pointed a finger.

It was grotesque.

It was monstrous.

Myrtle hovered closer, unusually serious for once, the shrill edge of her voice dulled to something almost kind. “You don’t have to do what he says,” she whispered. “You have a choice.”

Draco laughed. A sharp, bitter sound that cracked too close to a sob. “A choice?” he echoed. “Right. And next you’ll tell me rain isn’t wet.” He looked away, jaw flexing. “There’s no bloody choice when a madman’s got a wand pointed at your mother’s head.”

The words tasted like ash. Saying them made it too real. He dug his fingernails into his palms until the pain grounded him.

“You don’t understand,” he muttered.

“I can help,” Myrtle offered, eyes shining with something that looked like hope, only cracked around the edges. “Tell me who it is. Maybe Dumbledore can—”

“Were you dropped on your head before you died?” The words were out before he could pull them back, cold and venomous. “It’s a miracle I’m talking to you about this, let alone him.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a razor-thin whisper, dangerous and shaking. “And don’t even think about telling Potter.”

Myrtle gasped like he’d spat in her face. “Harry Potter?” she squeaked, like the name itself scorched her throat.

Draco didn’t answer. He just glared at the floor, jaw set, letting the silence swell between them. That name was the line. The final, immovable wall. No one—no one—got past that.

Myrtle drifted back, her face going distant. All watery eyes and trembling chin, like she’d launched into some tragic little ghost play for an audience of one.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” she said eventually, voice barely a breath. “Harry’s always been sweet—not the type to pry—” Her tone shifted mid-sentence, turning brittle and sharp. “Unlike Peeves, who makes it his eternal mission to torture me.”

Draco snorted. Please stop talking, his expression practically screamed. “You clearly don’t know Potter,” he muttered. “He’s got a bloody saviour complex. Practically stalks me through the corridors.” He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. “Always watching. Like he’s waiting for me to explode.”

Snape had warned him. Said Potter was sniffing around, suspicious. No more Quidditch, slipping grades, skipping opportunities to torment Gryffindors—Draco Malfoy had committed the worst sin imaginable: he was becoming boring. And in Hogwarts, that meant people noticed.

“What does he think you’re doing?” Myrtle asked, too curious for comfort, drifting like she was watching him under glass.

Draco stopped pacing, nostrils flaring. “He thinks he can ruin everything, like always,” he hissed. Then, unable to hold it in, he kicked the base of a nearby sink. The clang echoed like a bell toll.

“He’s always got to be the hero,” Draco spat. “Thinks I’m just some side mission on his grand journey to glory. I’m not letting him screw this up. Not this time.”

Myrtle floated a little closer, her voice going soft again. “I really don’t think Harry would—”

“Oh, shut up, Mudblood.”

The insult left his mouth like a blade—sharp, familiar, cruel. Reflexive. A lash in the wrong direction.

Myrtle recoiled as if slapped, translucent form flickering, lips trembling. “Oh, really?” she whispered, voice wobbling but rising with heat. “Funny how quick you are to use the same filth they used on me. I guess pain’s only fun when you’re the one inflicting it.”

Draco looked away, guilt blooming instantly—and violently. But he didn’t apologise. Couldn’t. That would mean letting go of the rage he needed just to keep breathing.

“Oh, don’t start crying again,” he groaned, pressing his fingertips to his temple. “I’ve got enough on my plate without you adding your ghostly soundtrack.”

Myrtle’s voice shot up an octave. “I was trying to help, you ungrateful little twit!”

She rose like a thundercloud, all hair and hurt feelings and righteous indignation. “You looked lonely, and I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d want someone to talk to instead of brooding in your bloody pit of despair!”

“I might’ve,” Draco snapped, “if you didn’t cry more than a bloody mandrake!”

Her mouth fell open. “I’m trying to be a friend, you absolute—boy-shaped—toilet fungus!”

“You’re not a friend,” he said coldly. “You’re an airborne puddle of emotion.”

That landed. He saw it in her face, her ghostly glow dimming.

“You don’t have to be such a jerk,” she whispered, quieter now, but no less furious. “I’m literally the only onenot avoiding you like the bloody plague. You could try saying thank you for once in your miserable life.”

Draco didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because what if she was right?

What if, in all his anger and guilt and useless, twisted loyalty, she was the only person who saw him and didn’t flinch?

That thought scared him more than anything.

Draco opened his mouth, ready to unleash something sharp and savage. A proper insult, honed to cut, a return volley in this stupid, pointless argument.

But the words snagged.

Caught somewhere between guilt and something worse—recognition. A tiny, miserable scrap of truth knotted in his throat, refusing to move.

His eyes dropped to the tiled floor. All those perfect little squares, evenly spaced, neat as a bloody grid. Mocking him. Nothing in his life was that orderly.

“Grateful?” he muttered. “Grateful for ghost therapy?”

He dropped onto the edge of the bench like it had insulted him personally, shoulders hunched, hands limp between his knees. He didn’t want company. That didn’t mean he wanted to be alone, either. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But he’d rather bite his own tongue off than admit it aloud.

The silence settled thick and uncomfortable, as if the air itself was holding its breath—judging him.

Of course, Myrtle stayed.

Because of course she did.

“I know I’ve been a complete git,” Draco said eventually, his voice low and grudging. The words came out uneven, like he was testing them for the first time. “I couldn’t help it. I’ve… hurt people.”

“Including me!” Myrtle burst in, voice shooting up a pitch and already laced with melodrama.

Draco rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a headache. “Yes, yes—and ghosts, apparently,” he muttered, the sarcasm dulled by how bloody tired he was.

Still, he caught it—a flicker. That faint, pale shimmer of satisfaction ghosting across her face. She liked being included, even if it was in a list of his screwups.

Draco let out a slow breath. “I’m not usually like this,” he said, quieter now. The edge in his voice had dulled, sanded down by exhaustion and the dead weight of honesty. “Talking about what’s in my head… it’s not something I do.”

“Why not?” Myrtle asked, leaning forward like he’d just read aloud from a very juicy diary entry.

He hesitated.

“Because trusting people is bloody impossible,” he said eventually. “Everyone either laughs, or pretends to listen until they’ve got what they want.” He rubbed the heel of his hand over one eye. “It’s safer not to need anyone. Scheme alone. At least that way, when it all falls apart, I know who to blame.”

Snape’s face flared in his mind—evasive, unreadable, that smug little twist of his mouth. Mentor? Maybe. Shield? Possibly. Snake? Definitely.

Draco hated not knowing. Hated that one misstep could see him offered up like some cursed chess piece. Sacrificed to the Dark Lord’s amusement.

“Let them talk,” Myrtle said, suddenly calmer. “People gossip to make themselves feel better. I wasted so much time crying about what people said. All those little insults… and then poof—”

She stopped.

Her hands flailed vaguely. The sentence trailed off, unfinished, but Draco understood.

She meant dead.

He stared at her. The flickering transparency of her. The smudged sadness in her eyes. The way she still hovered around the place she’d died, as if the walls might remember her better than people ever had.

It struck him, suddenly, that this—this—was who he was confiding in. A girl who had drowned in her own misery, who literally haunted her death because it was the only place anyone ever noticed her.

It was pathetic. And terrifying.

Because he saw himself in it.

A dark thought surfaced—sour and impossible to ignore.

What’s it like?

Would it hurt? Would he vanish in a blink, or scream into the void as punishment for failure? Would the Dark Lord make it slow, as an example? Would he end up just like Myrtle—eternally stuck, reduced to whispers and regrets, another sad echo in a school full of ghosts?

A cold ripple moved through his chest.

“What’s it like?” he asked, voice barely audible. “Dying.”

Myrtle blinked. Her expression shifted, and for once, the drama dropped. She floated closer, something fragile glimmering behind her eyes.

“Quiet,” she said softly. “Lonely. People see me, but I don’t matter. I’m just… there. Watching. Thinking. A lot of time to think.”

Draco swallowed. His throat felt raw, like the air had gone too dry to breathe.

“Do you regret it?” he asked. He didn’t know why. He just needed something. Something real. Something that might help him climb out of this endless, invisible hole.

“Every single day,” Myrtle said, without hesitation. “But regret doesn’t change anything. It just… holds you. Keeps you stuck.” She floated back a little, her voice almost gentle now. “You’ve got a chance, Draco. Let it go before it ruins you. Don’t end up like me—trapped in your own mess, scared of what people think. It’s a waste of life.”

She paused.

Then, softer: “Or afterlife.”

Draco didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

There were words in his throat—things he wanted to say, things he couldn’t begin to name. Regret. Fear. That sharp, aching loneliness coiled just beneath his skin. But nothing came out.

So he sat there, staring at the tiles, while a dead girl tried to remind him he wasn’t one yet.

Could he let it go?

The whispers. The weight. The constant expectation pressing down on him like stone, cold and unmoving. Could he just… drop it? Just stop caring?

The question was absurd. It had to be. He didn’t know how to not care—he’d been raised to feel the eyes on him, to read between silences, to flinch at the invisible bar he was meant to clear and then raise himself.

“I just…” His voice was quieter than he meant it to be. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

The word failure stuck like a splinter in his throat, sharp and humiliating.

“Even if everyone already sees me that way.”

There. He’d said it. Out loud.

Myrtle floated a little closer, her voice unexpectedly steady. “Everyone fails,” she said, like it was some universal truth. “It’s part of figuring out who you are. It’s not the end of the world.”

Draco almost laughed. Easy for her to say. Her world had ended years ago in a bathroom stall, just like this one. She’d had the worst-case scenario and survived it—sort of.

Still, there was something in the way she said it. A softness. A certainty. It dug in, made it harder to dismiss.

He let out something that might’ve passed for a laugh—dry, rough, more air than sound. “You’re surprisingly decent at this whole ghost therapist thing.”

Myrtle’s face twisted into a smirk, her usual melodrama turned slightly smug. “You wouldn’t be the first tortured soul I’ve counselled,” she said, flipping her hair with a translucent hand. “Though you’re definitely the best-looking.”

Draco snorted, eyes rolling, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward—just for a second.

It was ridiculous. Entirely absurd. He was sharing personal thoughts with a ghost who cried in toilets and flirted like she’d stepped out of a doomed romance novel. But for once, someone had listened. No judgement. No agenda. No glares over breakfast or whispers behind his back. Just… Myrtle. Floating, nosy, exhausting Myrtle.

And yet… comfortingly consistent.

But reality never stayed away for long.

The weight of time slammed back into him like a cold splash of water. His muscles tensed. He straightened abruptly, pushing off the stone bench like it had grown too hot.

Enough wallowing. The dungeon still awaited him—cold corridors, cold stares, colder silences. Slytherin didn’t make space for the weak. Even his so-called friends had started watching him too closely. Some with pity. Others with calculation.

He couldn’t stay here forever. As much as he wanted to.

The sudden movement made Myrtle jump mid-air, floating awkwardly above a sink. “Oh!” she squeaked, startled. “You’re going already?”

Draco gave a short nod, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. “Yeah. Still technically a student, unfortunately.”

Her face fell. It was subtle, but he caught it—the ripple of sadness passing through her like a shiver of water.

“Will you come back?” she asked, trying—and failing—to make it sound casual.

He hesitated.

”Maybe.”

The word maybe slipped out faster than he meant it to.

It wasn’t a promise. He didn’t do promises anymore.

Even to ghosts.

He reached the doorway. His fingers brushed the handle, but he paused, something keeping him from stepping through just yet.

He turned slightly, glancing back. “Don’t tell anyone about this, yeah?”

Myrtle perked up instantly, placing a hand over her chest with mock solemnity. “Your secret’s safe with me. Scout’s honour—or, well, Moaning Myrtle’s honour.”

Draco smirked faintly. “Terrifying thought.”

He gave a nod—something small, but sincere—and stepped out.

The door creaked shut behind him with a soft, final click.

And just like that, the bathroom was silent again.

A pale shaft of light slipped through the warped stained-glass window, illuminating the cracked tiles and the bench where he’d sat. A place that had, for a fleeting moment, held more honesty than anywhere else in the castle.

Myrtle floated there, staring after him. Alone again.

But maybe not entirely forgotten.



THE END