So, recently, I found myself getting back into the Harry Potter fandom. (I think attending an HP-themed bachelorette party, rewatching all of the movies back to back over three days [and then watching them again with a friend who hadn't seen any past the third one], and re-reading the entire series helped with that a lot.) I've been having a pretty tough summer in terms of a lot of things (heightened anxiety and depression, lots of stress, working two jobs, etc.), so revisiting these books and movies has been extremely comforting for me.

This time around, I found myself latching onto a character I didn't particularly focus on before: Draco Malfoy. Maybe it's because I've become more jaded, or at least more mature, but I can definitely see his complexities, and appreciate his character more.

This won't be too long; it's more of an introspective piece with Draco and Moaning Myrtle as the focus. It takes place before and during the 'Sectumsempra' scene in HBP. (This will follow book-canon.)

There might be some HP/DM hints in this if you squint.

…I love how I've been in this fandom for so long, yet this is the first HP fic I've ever written.

This is dedicated to all the Draco fans. I know most of us love the character because of his flaws and complexities, and not just because he's 'hot'. (Sorry, J.K. Rowling, I heavily disagree with you, there.)

*Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.*

Decomposition

It wasn't fun anymore. Granted, Draco had been young when he thought that it would be, but that didn't change the fact that becoming like his father was his goal. How else was he going to get his approval, after all? Even now, with Lucius torn from his life, locked away in Azkaban, he still wanted to please him. But recently, his original goal became tainted. He had become afraid. Not of his father, but for him. Azkaban was the least of Lucius Malfoy's worries; in fact, though Draco despised that he ended up there, he knew his father was safer with the Dementors than if he was free. It was obvious that his family—especially Lucius—had fallen out of favor with the Dark Lord, so it was his job to make it up to him. It was clear the mission would be nearly impossible to complete successfully, but it was his only chance to bring back some respect for the Malfoy name, and, more importantly, to keep his parents alive.

Taking a deep breath, Draco tried to compose himself. But it didn't feel like the oxygen was reaching his lungs. His hands began to shake, and his breathing sped up. Though his thoughts were getting foggy, he was glad that he had chosen the sixth floor bathroom to calm himself; few people frequented it. The thought soon left his mind when he was distracted by a dull ache in his chest that got worse with each passing second. It was though a weight was pressing down on his heart and lungs, crushing them. When it got too much, he found himself sinking to the ground, struggling to breathe. His limbs felt like lead, and time seemed to pass slowly. For a brief moment, he wondered whether Voldemort had somehow managed to gain the ability to torture people from afar; he was angry at the Malfoys, after all. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, embarrassed by his stupidity.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the suffocation subsided, he stood up, rubbing his hands through his hair to return it to its proper style. When he looked in the mirror, his face seemed paler than it usually was, but he didn't care about that. No, he was more focused on the reflection of a girl standing behind him.

While the girls' bathroom on the second floor was Myrtle Warren's—also known as 'Moaning Myrtle'—domain, she frequently got bored (she was a ghost, after all; spending an eternity in one toilet cubicle got really old really fast), so she often visited the other bathrooms Hogwarts had to offer. Today, on a whim, she decided to drop by the sixth floor boy's bathroom, since it was usually unoccupied. The silence helped with her still-constant stress.

However, when she phased through the walls, she realized very quickly that she was not alone. A boy stood, looking in the mirror, and from his reflection, Myrtle could see that his face was very pale—almost grey—and that he looked like he had just been crying.

"Are you okay?" she queried, floating closer. As the distance between them decreased, she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, as well as the disheveled state of his hair. "Is someone bullying you?" Myrtle sort of hoped that was the case; then they would have something in common. And Myrtle rarely had anything in common with anyone, and especially not cute boys.

"You could say that," the boy muttered. As soon as the words left his lips, his eyes widened just enough to let Myrtle know that his answer wasn't meant to be said aloud.

At first, Myrtle was going to comment, but she thought better of it. (She had finally realized that she made a fool of herself around a certain Gryffindor boy too many times to count, and figured subtlety would be a better approach.)

"I see," was all she responded with.

The second time she ran into the boy, he was curled up on the floor of the bathroom, his hands digging into his hair. When she asked him what was wrong, all he muttered was something about whoever was bullying him would kill him and his parents if he didn't do what the bully wanted.

This perplexed Myrtle. Sure, Olive Hornby had been absolutely dreadful to her during her short time at Hogwarts, but she had never threatened to kill her, or her muggle parents.

Maybe this boy is muggle-born, too. Maybe that's why people want to hurt him.

As the weeks went on, Myrtle frequented the sixth-floor boys' bathroom more and more. Sometimes, she saw the mysterious boy and tried to comfort him, which surprisingly seemed to work a lot of the time. His hands stopped shaking, and his eyes held a gleam in them, something they seemed to be missing for awhile. He finally cried freely around her, too, a fact that Myrtle treated like an honor, especially since he had been so adamant about not shedding a tear when she was with him until now. She had no idea who he was, but she never asked for his name; she was content just being with him.

But one day, Myrtle heard voices in the bathroom. Voices that didn't belong to her new friend, though they were just as familiar. And before she knew it, she found herself in a conversation with Ron Weasley (ick, she really despised that boy) and Harry Potter.

"Maybe if you two left," she snapped, "he'd come back again… We had lots in common… I'm sure he felt it…"

"When you say you had lots in common," Ron said, his voice taking on the usual condescending tone it reached whenever he was talking to Myrtle, "d'you mean he lives in an S-bend, too?"

"No!" Myrtle exclaimed, feeling the need to defend her mystery boy, especially from the likes of the smirking redhead. "I mean he's sensitive; people bully him too, and he feels lonely and doesn't have anyone to talk to, and he's not afraid to show his feelings and cry!"

"There's been a boy in here crying?" Harry asked, tilting his head in curiosity.

"Never you mind!" Myrtle snapped. She was done talking with the two. How could I have ever liked them?

More time passed, though it felt like it was simultaneously speeding up and slowing down for Myrtle. She thought nothing of it, assuming that was what death did to anything linear. As she floated through the wall to the sixth-floor bathroom, she was excited to see the mysterious blond there again. But something was wrong. His face was more ashen than it ever was before, and his eyes were watery.

"What's wrong? I can help you!"

"No one can help me." The boy's body shook, and he gripped the sink tighter. "I can't do it… I can't… It won't work… And unless I do it soon…he says he'll kill me…"

With gasping shudders, the boy cried, tears streaming down his face, his shoulders shaking from the effort.

Suddenly, both he and Myrtle realized that there was someone behind them. Instantly, the boy drew his wand, casting a nonverbal hex at none other than Harry Potter, who had his own wand at the ready.

The spell missed Potter by centimeters, and soon, the dark-haired boy threw his own hex at the blond.

"Stop it!" Myrtle shrieked. Does Harry know him? Is Harry the bully he was afraid of?

They continued attempting to hit each other with spells—breaking mirrors, stalls, and toilets, which caused water to regurgitate over the floor—until the blond whirled around, his eyes wild.

"Cruc—"

He couldn't even manage to say the rest of the spell before Harry shouted one of his own, slashing his wand wildly at his opponent.

"Sectumsempra!"

Almost too fast for Myrtle to see, a long slash appeared on her friend's face, spurting blood. One must have opened on his chest as well; blood soaked through his shirt. Almost as if he was in slow-motion, the boy collapsed backwards onto the floor, sending water everywhere.

Harry looked at Myrtle, his expression filled with horror. "No…I didn't… I…" He dropped to the floor on his knees, right next to the blond, who was gasping and shaking, most likely in severe pain.

Harry… Myrtle thought. What have you done? "Murder!" she shrieked aloud. "Murder in the bathroom!" She continued to shriek until a professor clad in black—Snape—burst into the room.

He pushed Harry aside and drew his wand, reciting an incantation that sounded almost melodic as he traced the wounds on the still-shivering boy.

Myrtle continued to sob, though as she stared at Snape, she wondered if it would be such a bad thing if her friend died. Maybe then, we could float around the school together, and truly be best friends forever. Or maybe even more… But she shook the thought from her mind, realizing it was selfish. By the time she looked back at the ground, she saw that Snape had healed her friend.

The raven-haired professor not-so-gently pulled the boy to his feet, though he supported him once he reached a standing position. "You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that… Come...Malfoy."

Malfoy. So that's his surname. It sounded vaguely familiar to Myrtle, but she let the thought go in favor of wailing more, just to make Harry Potter feel worse. He nearly killed her friend, after all.

As Snape slowly walked with Malfoy across the bathroom, he turned to Harry. "And you, Potter… You wait here for me."

Harry stood up, shaking, and looked down at the floor. As soon as Snape left the room, he curled his hands into fists, biting his lip.

"Draco," he whispered. "I didn't mean to…"

Draco. So Draco Malfoy is his name. With increasing vigor, Myrtle cried, though only some of it was for show.

In the hospital wing, Draco drifted in and out of consciousness. He heard people talking around him, but he was too groggy to listen. And even if he could hear coherently, he didn't care. Part of him was disappointed that he didn't die by Potter's hand, though he scoffed at himself for showing that much weakness. Still... Would've been better than… The thought of Voldemort's cold eyes staring at him before killing him made him want to vomit, but he had nothing in his stomach to expel, nor did he have the strength to even gag.

A part of him wondered what spell Potter used on him, but the other part had no interest. He knew it was dark magic, but that was about it. Fitting, since I almost cast the Cruciatus Curse on him. His stomach flopped, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Even though he wasn't exactly sure why, he was glad that his rival stopped him from completing the curse. Not that it probably would have done much. He knew from Bellatrix that users of the curse had to really mean it, and while he hated that Potter saw him in such a weakened state, all he wanted to do was get him out of the bathroom so he could be alone. Or, almost alone. At the thought of Myrtle, his hands relaxed. He never thought he'd be friends with a ghost, and much less the annoying spirit who haunted bathrooms, but there was something about her. Something that made her understand what he was going through, even thought that was impossible.

But as he became more awake and alert, he realized that he had no time for friendship—besides his camaraderie with Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and Blaise, of course. He was running out of time, and if he didn't kill Dumbledore soon, his own life—and that of his parents—would end. And he wasn't about to let that happen.

Hopefully, this wasn't too horrible. This was my first time writing Draco, and I was hoping I didn't butcher him.

I know Draco can be a total douche throughout the books, but from Myrtle's implications to Ron and Harry, as well as the scene in the bathroom, Half-Blood Prince really shows the readers that he has a vulnerable side, too.

Some of the dialogue (mainly Myrtle's conversation with Ron, and Snape's lines [minus the 'Malfoy' at the end; I added that, just so Myrtle would know his name]) was taken right from the book.

Writing Myrtle was interesting, but fun.

I always found it ironic that Draco became (somewhat) friends with Myrtle, who was a muggleborn. (Maybe he never realized?) Regardless, I really liked that aspect of his character, and I wish it was included in the film version.