to be or not to be| sixth year | draco malfoy

another quidditch game

"bad enough."
-

The Room of Requirement was cloaked in an unnatural silence as Draco Malfoy stood before the vanishing cabinet. His hands shook as he ran them along the worn edges, but no matter what he did, the thing refused to work. The repairs—everything he had done—had been for nothing. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, each beat a reminder of the expectations on his shoulders, the tight grip of his family's legacy, and the suffocating pressure that threatened to crush him.

Failure.

The word echoed in his mind, louder than the pounding of his heart, and for a moment, Draco couldn't breathe. His world was narrowing, his vision blurring, and the weight of everything—the weight of his father's cruel voice, of Voldemort's looming presence—pressed down on him like a vice. His hands fell to his sides, trembling, unable to grasp any sort of relief, unable to escape the crushing reality.

He was nothing. Just a boy being shaped into a weapon, a boy whose worth was measured by his ability to please those who had chained him to this fate.

Failure.

Draco's eyes darted around the room, his chest tightening as his breath grew shallow. He felt something cold and sharp rise in him—a frustration so deep it clawed at his insides, like an animal trapped in a cage. He couldn't take it. The suffocating pressure, the dark mark searing into his skin, the thought that he might be too weak, too broken, too... helpless.

He fell to his knees in front of the cabinet, tears welling up in his eyes. The rage inside him began to boil over. The mark on his arm burned as if it were alive, as if it were mocking him. Draco's mind twisted with fury, guilt, and a hopelessness he couldn't escape. His father's voice, Voldemort's commands, and every malicious thing that had ever been done to him surged in a storm inside his chest.

You'll never escape it. You'll never be anything but what you are. A Malfoy.

In a wild, desperate attempt to end the torment, Draco's trembling fingers shot out to his forearm, grasping at the Dark Mark. His nails dug into the pale skin, pulling at the edges as if he could rip it away. The pain didn't matter. The skin tore under his fingers, the mark burning hotter with each desperate scrape.

He yanked harder, his breath ragged, his hands slick with sweat, and the blood began to flow. He didn't stop. He couldn't. The blood was real. The pain was real. The mark... it had to be real.

But the pain, the bleeding, it didn't help. Nothing helped. He didn't care about the physical wounds anymore. He didn't care that his arm was slick with blood, or that the burning in his skin had turned into a searing fire. He wanted the mark gone. He wanted everything to be gone. He wanted to scream, but no sound came.

His mind spun, and in that darkness, one name kept spiraling through his thoughts, like a desperate plea that he had no control over.

Violet.

Her name echoed through his mind with an intensity that scared him. He didn't want to think about her—not now, not when he was breaking, not when his family had poisoned every part of him, not when he was supposed to kill her.

But the memory of her, of how she had looked at him with that quiet understanding during their 5th year, kept pulling him back. The way her eyes had softened when he confessed his shame, the way she had treated him—not like the Malfoy heir, not like the monster he feared he was, but as someone who deserved kindness.

She was the only one who ever looked at him like he was human.

Why her? The thought tore through him, as bitter and raw as the blood on his hands.