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[*****]
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You feel old and not quite at home in your skin, wondering about how it would feel to go about your life with no more fear than anyone else, just the soft awareness of disaster balanced by the fact that nobody expects anything of you.
This is what adulthood is: knowing the most about what's at stake and holding it together anyway, sharing your joy but keeping your fear to yourself.
The only other person who looks as tense as you are is Malfoy, and isn't it strange that you should both know so much, and yet know so little about why the other is afraid. In odd moments you wonder if there would be any point in confronting him with something other than anger, if there is any possible way the two of you could connect. In other moments you think about letting your adulthood fall to the floor like an unclasped cloak and just fighting it out, throwing away your wand and driving your elbow into his stomach and raising bruises on his skin, knocking that far-away misery off his face and forcing him back into the brutal present moment, here, with you.
But in the real world Malfoy looks at you with narrowed eyes, a thin ghost wrapped in dark fabric and his own preoccupation, and then passes you in the corridor without changing expression.