He got into the bathroom. The feeling in his stomach, as if someone had drilled a hole through it, was getting worse. His heart was beating fast apparently for no reason at all and he was shivering from the sweat on his back and forehead. He had to wash his face and calm down. He had never been like this in his life, not even exams had had this effect, despite his efforts to be the best at least of his own House to please his parents and himself. He got to the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Shadows under his eyes spoke a little too much for his liking of ill-slept nights, filled with nightmares when he was able to fall asleep at all. He was thinner too, food didn’t seem to go down well, it lay undigested and heavy for hours which had caused him to throw up a couple of times and had added to the stomach ache. So he ate less and less. His mother had made a fuss over it at Christmas and he had been rash to her in return. In fact, he had been rash to her over the summer too, and now he wasn’t with her everyday the guilt lay heavy on him sometimes. He would never say something about it aloud to anyone, including her, but he loved his mother.

The pain in his stomach strengthened when he thought of this. The enormity of his situation took hold of him and he had to close his eyes and put his hands in his head. If he failed, his parents would be killed. And he would be made to watch and die right after. He had to kill Dumbledore! Every time he thought of his mother’s sad smile and the little packages she used to send him every week with presents while in Hogwarts and the hateful goodnight kiss she insisted giving him during school holidays… he just felt the determination rise. But how? No matter how long he spent in the Room of Requirement, trying spell after spell on the Vanishing Cabinet, it still didn’t work. He had to continue researching in the library.

He avoided looking at Dumbledore, he thought while looking at himself again in the mirror. The hate for that muggle-loving old fool, whom he had never liked since his childhood when his father spoke so ill of him, seemed to well inside to an unbearable point when he weighed the value of his life against his parents’.

Oh, he did think sometimes of the glory that might await him if he managed to finish his mission! To do something no other Death Eater, or even the Dark Lord himself!, had been able to do. He would be in the good grace of his master. Power! Draco had always craved power. But something didn’t seem right. When he heard his father speak of the days of the Dark Lord’s glory, before he had been born, he had painted a picture in his mind. He had wanted to be a Death Eater, someone who had the freedom to do whatever he wanted and was too powerful for punishment, learn things he could never learn otherwise. He thought it glorious and honourable. Now he thought differently. Maybe his father had only become a Death Eater because he thought the other side would lose. And once there, he remained out of fear. Fear was the word. Constant, powerful, never-ending fear. Fear for one-self and one’s family. Lucius had probably felt it since the Dark Lord had returned, especially now he had a son. And now he was in Azkaban Draco was carrying that burden too. But his mission was much more difficult than any his father had ever received.

And he wasn’t getting anywhere with the Vanishing Cabinet. So he had tried something different. But the necklace hadn’t worked. He hadn’t expected it to, at first, but he was desperate for some kind of result, for something to happen instead of almost happening, like the Cabinet. However, as he thought, while doing detention with McGonagall, that it could be on the way, that the Imperiused Madam Rosmerta could that instant be handing the necklace to some Hogwarts girl, that it could be on its way to Dumbledore, hope had sprouted. He really believed, for a few hours, that it could be possible and he and his parents would shortly be safe from harm. Then, when he got out of her office, there was no panic, no screaming, no running around. “It’s too early” he’d thought and had gone to his House. The hours had gone by and reality had begun to sink in: how improbable it would be for the necklace to pass Filch, how easy it would be for someone else to open it before it got to Dumbledore. The sword remained hanging over their necks. The stomach ache was so strong that night he went without dinner to his four-poster bed, closed the curtains and lay whimpering with pain and sorrow for hours. The following day, the news came. One of the Gryffindor chasers had been handed the necklace by Rosmerta but had touched it well before arriving at the gates of Hogwarts. She had been taken to St. Mungo’s. He felt no regret: her life, like Dumbledore’s, was nothing to him compared to his parents’. He felt so disappointed and depressed he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go to the Room of Requirement that Sunday.

He bent to his backpack to check his timetable; he didn’t want to be late for his useless classes, which he only endured because he had to be in Hogwarts to fulfil his assignment. But he felt dizzy and had to sit on the floor with his head in his hands. His heart was beating uncontrollably again. He wouldn’t make it, he was going to fail. He knew it: he was as good as dead, and his parents. He wished he could write a letter to his mother and tell her he loved her but that would be so unnatural in him he couldn’t do it. And he would never do it and he would watch her be tortured by the Dark Lord and still he wouldn’t be able to say it and she would die and never know. A huge lump rose in his throat, he couldn’t swallow, but his mouth was dry anyway. And his father, the man he most admired his entire life, he would see him break, he would see him beg. Draco sobbed and immediately stopped from the strangeness. He was crying? He hadn’t cried since he was a small child, he had learned early to obtain what he wanted by manipulating adults and other children. He looked up and through misty eyes saw something in front of him. His hand was fast in his wand and he was on his feet. But you couldn’t hex a ghost. It was the girl the Basilisk had killed the first time the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. He lowered his wand.

‘What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Do you need help?’ Moaning Myrtle asked him.

He hastily cleaned his eyes and cheeks with the robe sleeves.

‘Are you going to tell anyone?’ he replied.

‘No! Of course not! I… I used to cry in the bathroom a lot too, back when I was alive… I know how to keep a secret!’

He wasn’t sure he should tell the girl anything. He was afraid, however, that if he didn’t she might spread word he had been crying in the bathroom as revenge. And a little voice in the back of his head said “Why not? You’ve got no one else to talk to about it!”

‘I’m… I’m afraid my parents may be killed… by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.’

A few more tears slid from his eyes as he said it and the sadness returned, now the adrenaline of her sudden appearance had worn out. He put his hands to his aching stomach while Myrtle seemed startled and worried.

‘Oh… Can’t you ask anyone for help?’

‘Who can help against You-Know-Who? I’m all alone.’

‘Don’t your friends do anything to comfort you?’

‘I have no friends. No real friends. It’s my sixth year and all I got was a couple of dumb cronies who can’t think for themselves and need me to boss them around. And they’ve begun to question me anyway so maybe I don’t even have that anymore.’

She remained silent, drifting a little over the floor, semi-transparent face in deep thought. He felt slightly embarrassed for sharing his feelings, especially with a lonely ghost. But that was it, wasn’t it? Miserable Myrtle had had no friends in life and death hadn’t improved the situation: Draco felt like she was the right person to talk to and was a little relieved now he had spoken to her. He leaned to pick his backpack when she said:

‘I can be your friend. You can talk to me whenever you’re feeling sad. I’ll listen.’

He froze in mid-movement. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so grateful. They were unlikely friends but the pain in his stomach had lessened a bit when Myrtle had said she’d listen. He knew he’d always be alone anyway because he had the plan to carry out and there was no way she could help him with that. But at least he would for once have someone to tell him it would be alright.

He smiled sadly. The lump was back in his throat but in a different way as he felt calmer. He put his backpack over his shoulder.

‘Yes. I’d like to have you as my friend, Myrtle. I’m Draco Malfoy.’

She smiled back.

‘I know. I’ll come here, once in a while.’

‘I’ll be here.’

And he left the bathroom.