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DRACO isn't one for crying. It was drilled into him from a young age that crying was bad, a sign of weakness, and something a Malfoy should refrain from doing. Weakness was another thing he was taught was bad, another thing that shouldn't be associated with him. But now, as he suffocates in the stifling darkness, he thinks he's feeling a lot of both right now. He hasn't felt this fear of the darkness in a long time-not since he was a small child-but right now it feels like it's choking him. He can almost feel cold fingers wrapping around his neck, constructing his airway. It's probably better he can't breathe, because the alternative is gasping for air and that would risk his sleeping housemates catching him.
He blames the letter from his mother, followed by a talk with Snape. The Dark Lord wants to see some progress. He thinks Draco is stagnating, avoiding the job, like the failed attempt with the necklace doesn't count. He needs to see something―Draco needs to do something.
It's been on his mind all day. He has been avoiding action, procrastinating by reading book after book in the hopes that it might look like he's doing the job. Even the necklace, he'd known the chances of that succeeding were slim. The truth is, the job terrifies him; he can't deny that, not to himself. His task reminds him of how weak he really is, and he's certain he's been set up to fail.
As a particularly bad bout of nerves rolls over his body, the boy gets up. His legs feel like jelly but he forces himself to sneak out as quietly as he can. Scowl already resting on his face, he's ready to snap at anyone he might encounter as he creeps through the halls. He can't stay in the dorms, not in the state he's in, where anyone could see; so, he goes to the most abandoned place he can think of, where he doubts he'll encounter any people. Or, second most abandoned place.
Sure enough, a quick check after he enters the second floor girl's bathroom tells him no one else is there. He still feels watched, but brushes it off as paranoia. He's filled with paranoia, constantly certain the Dark Lord is watching him.
The second he's locked himself in one of the cubicles, he lets out the breath he's been holding. It comes out shuddering, filled with tension, and warning of the tears close behind. He pushes those tears down, blinking as fast as he can in the hopes of stopping any liquid that might start collecting in his eyes. Resting his head in his hands, running them through his already slicked back hair and down his face, he sighs again. The most he can do-can allow himself to do-is sigh and even that feels like a resignation, a sign of weakness.
"Why are you crying?" The voice, curious with a hint of teasing, startles the blond boy and he visibly jumps. This causes a small giggle and, almost immediately, a scowl takes over his expression.
