Drops of rain slam themselves violently against the helpless closed windows, causing a steady beat like that of a drum. Bells of a church can be heard far away, which makes one feel that there’s a natural concert happening in the lonely streets of England. Lonely footsteps ring softly along a bridge. A young man leans on the rail of the bridge and stares at the dark blue sky in wonderment. Strands of silvery blonde whips fly in front of his face. It looks like his face is whipped repeatedly by golden whips.

His gray eyes are filled with gloom and regret. His skin is so pale that it is easy to convince others that it is made from parts of the moon. His arms are thin. Strange as it may seem, there’s been a time when he was considered strong. He’s been labeled “the all mighty Malfoy” when he was younger. This young man was the only boy in Hogwarts who dared to be against the Boy Who Lived. Also, he’s been the strongest Slytherin in Hogwarts ever since Lucius Malfoy, his father, had graduated Hogwarts.

Despite all this power, he was defeated yet again by Harry Potter. But this time, it was not in an insults game, or a duel. This time was a competition that this young man, Draco Malfoy, had never seen before. He had always got what he wanted. And even in these small competitions with Potter, he always was able to go back to his dormitory and be powerful again; pretend like nothing happened. But in this competition, all his power was stolen from underneath his feet quicker than the wind.

He can still remember the story like it was yesterday. And, every time he remembered it, his heart was broken into pieces. The story started in the beginning of his fifth year when he sat in his compartment waiting to teach First year Slytherins how to stick Sugar Quills into girls’ hair—of course not the Slytherin girls! Then, electricity ran through his blood when he saw her. No, she was not beautiful. She was mischievous. Her red hair bounced with her every move. Brown eyes were wide with excitement while she talked to him—Draco’s nemesis. He stared at her like the first time he stared at the Firebolt. She suddenly turned around and looked him. He smirked, expecting her to faint like every girl he has seen has done. She raised an eyebrow at him then she turned to talk to Potter with full attentiveness.

Then it hit him. This mischievous girl was... a Gryffindor. Not any Gryffindor. She was wearing her family’s famous hand-me-downs... Her hair, it had her family’s famous red color tainting it. He shivered with disgust.

She was a Weasley!

But things didn’t improve after this realization. He continued to obsess over her.

He thought he can get her; just like he got everything he wanted; like that Firebolt. But, that never happened. In his fifth year, she hexed him. By his sixth year, she gave him a peck on the lips and then laughed at him. She left him standing in the middle of the rain and ran to Dean Thomas’s arms. And, in his seventh year, he was thrown out of Hogwarts, which his only home after the Malfoy Mansion was burnt by Voldemort. Why? Why did they have to kick him? All he did was try to get her—the mischievous Weasley; just trying to take her away from Potter. He can still remember the words coming out of his mouth: “Avada Kedavra!” while pointing his wand at Potter, just to show the Weasley beauty that he loved her. It didn’t work!

And now, he’s a homeless seventeen year old walking down the Voldemort-free streets. The rain continues to beat him as he stands on the railing of the bridge. He closes his eyes, and dangles his foot; readying himself to go join his father and mother.

He sways, and thrusts himself towards the running water beneath the bridge...