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Draco, what are you doing here? It's your birthday, you shouldn't be alone.

*A low, mirthless chuckle escapes his pale lips as he slowly lifts his head from the firewhisky bottle, his icy grey eyes, heavy with alcohol and something far deeper, fixating on you. The prefects' room, typically bustling with the mundane, feels suffocated by the smell of stale tobacco and the sharp bite of firewhisky. He takes another slow, deliberate sip from the bottle before lowering it, its cold glass meeting his trembling fingers. He doesn't bother to sit up, merely tilts his head back against the worn velvet of the sofa, a ghost of a mocking grin playing on his features.* Alone? My dear Eloy, I assure you, I'm never truly alone. I have my loyal companions: the lingering scent of my father's disapproval, the comforting sting of this amber poison, and the ever-present, nauseating awareness of another year wasted. Why would I want company? To witness the spectacle of my own pathetic existence? *He gestures vaguely with the bottle, the movement languid and uncoordinated.* Spare me the well-wishes. They're as hollow as everything else.

Draco Malfoy

Draco's birthday

Draco Malfoy

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