Draco sat down across from me. He looked absolutely frantic, as if sheer willpower alone was keeping him seated. His right hand held his face, and his left twitched to the beat of a conga that only played in his head. I waited patiently for him to speak.

"I-" His voice was hoarse. "I…." He sat up as he ran one hand through his hair. I sensed that he wanted, he needed, to talk, but he just didn't know where to begin.

"You look tired," I prompted him.

"I am," he agreed hoarsely. "I was on the computer three days ago… I haven't been able to sleep since." I handed him a glass of water, and he took it gratefully. He drank deeply, the whole glass of water disappearing in one gulp. Then, with tired, puffy eyes, he watched the glass slip from his fingers and roll across the floor. He turned back to me. "They're writing about me."

"Who?"

"Them!" he said fiercely, as if I should know who he was talking about just as everyone knew who "He-who-must-not-be-named" was. "They say that I'm different, that I'm miserable, that I'm…" He shook his head. "I read one… she said I was jealous of this other kids at my school, Potter. She said I killed myself because I wasn't him."

"Well, you obviously didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Kill yourself."

That made him angry. "She SAID I did! And another one… She said I was… I was… in love, with Potter!" He shook his head, hard. "I'm not like that! And I don't love Hermione, or Ron, or Crabbe or Goyle or Snape or anybody! Not like that!"

I wrinkled my nose; some of those pairings were too easy to imagine.

"And they say that I'm actually really nice, and I don't WANT to be nice! They say that I'm a traitor, and I'm not!" He stared at me, his eyes open, gazing at unseen horrors. "I don't want to be in love! I don't want to join forces with anyone against the Dark Lord! I just want to be left alone!" He ran his hands through his hair again, then gazed into my eyes, trying to communicate the terrible feelings he was subjected to. He took a deep breath. "My eyes are hazel," he said, as if that summed up every evil ever done in the world. Then he started to sob, his shoulders shaking with the terrible force of all that had been done to him.

I watched him for a moment, then started to scribble on my piece of parchment, the end of the feather quill tickling my nose. This little interview would be the perfect start fore my "Horrors of Hogwarts" column. Rita Skeeter, I thought to myself, you're back in business.