He stalked down the corridor, which was dark but for the medieval torches lining the walls. Things were not going well…it was a disaster. People were becoming impatient, but he just couldn't do it. The time never seemed right, there was never an opportune moment. They would just have to wait. He pushed open the door to the bathroom and slowly stepped inside, glancing over his shoulder. Had anyone seen him enter? Walking to the sink, he noticed the floor was wet and thought he heard a noise—it might have been sniffling. He turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. He stared at himself in the mirror as the water dripped off of his face and slid down his neck. He was pale, paler than usual, and his eyes were bloodshot. Suddenly a great anger rose up in him and he slammed his fists against the mirror, cracking it. "Damn it!" he cried, frustrated at his bloody hands.

"Hello?" a voice floated out from one of the stalls. There was a sniffle and he turned around. Moaning Myrtle was before him, the ghost that normally haunted a certain girls' bathroom. "Who are you?" He didn't answer and she watched silently as blood dripped from his hands. "You're getting the floor all dirty."

He scowled and put them under water, muttering angrily.

"So, who are you?" Myrtle asked again, coming up behind him.

He felt a chill go up his spine and he tore around. "Stop that! Don't come anywhere near me!" he shouted.

She floated around him and he followed her with his eyes. "Are you frightened of me?" Myrtle stared down at his books. He dropped them on the floor upon entering the bathroom. One of them lay open, revealing his name. "Draco Malfoy…" she murmured. "Ah, yes, that Slytherin boy!" she said gleefully. "Hello."

"Is there something you want?" Draco asked coldly, his grey eyes never leaving her.

"You might want to tell me why you smashed that mirror," she suggested.

"No," he answered shortly.

She floated towards the door. "Well, I suppose I could go and let the other ghosts know that you've vandalized the bathroom. I'm sure they'd be happy to tell the Headmaster."

"Reparo," he said, flicking his wand at the broken mirror.

"Tut tut," she said, shaking her head. "Seven years bad luck."

"I'll keep that in mind." He turned and washed his hands, trying to get the blood off. "It's none of your business what I'm doing," he said nastily as she continued to float around him.

"All right," she said.

He glanced at her. "That's it? You're giving up—just like that?"

"I guess you have your reasons." She went away, into one of the stalls. He heard a splash, and she called out, "There's some toilet paper in here—you could bandage yourself up."

He smirked. "Thanks."

"Oh, and Draco?" Her head was above water again. "Will you be back?"

He nodded and said darkly, "I wouldn't doubt it." He opened his robes and ripped apart his shirt. This would be fine until he could think up an excuse for Madam Pomfrey. He wrapped the fabric around his hands, heaving a sigh. They would say he was weak. They would say he was unfit, but he had to do it. His family needed him. His father was in Azkaban, his mother…his mother was at the mercy of her master. If he didn't do it, what would happen to them? He believed they would be killed and he would be as well. He couldn't let that happen. They were becoming impatient, but he just needed more time. He was not weak.