Ever since he could remember, the Mirror had called to him, enticing him from his bed and down the staircase, past the imposing, grotesque suit of armour guarding the large, heavy door that had once taken all of his strength to open.
Now, he was a young man, and the door wielded with disturbing ease.
He stepped into the large, dusty room, empty but for the Mirror at the far end and took a long, shaky breath. Slowly, he made his way to the threshold where the Mirror stood, and closed his eyes tightly to put off the moment he would look into it.
Once, when he was quite young, only four or five years old, his father had brought him to this room and had made him look into it.
He had said, 'Look, because this is who you are, who you really are,' and he had looked, and he had seen his father behind him, a look of disgust on his face, of loathing. When he had met his own gaze, he had seen a pathetic, weak, cowering little boy, with tears and snot running down his face in rivulets. He had watched as his father turned aside and left him, and he had seen that he would never be a great man like his father.
Night after night he had returned, almost as if he couldn't believe it was the truth, as if the next night would be different, would show a strong, young man, fierce and brave and cunning.
The images stayed the same, night after night, month after month, year after year. He would never be anything but a weakling and a coward, a disappointment to the Malfoy name.
Draco had stayed away all holidays, ignoring the siren call of the Mirror as he lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't need the Mirror anymore, he knew he was weak, he knew he was a disappointment.
It was ingrained in him now, after years of seeing the truth.
Why else would Harry Potter have refused to be his friend in first year? Why else would his expected place as top of the year be stolen year after year by a filthy little Mudblood? Why else could he never beat Harry Potter at Quidditch? Why else was he loathed by everyone that knew him, even his fellow Slytherins?
Why else would he have agreed to take the Dark Mark, just to please his father?
Draco looked down at his arm, still red and stinging from the curse the Dark Lord used to tattoo the Mark onto his left forearm. It was ugly against his pale, white skin, and he grimaced at it.
What truth would he see now?
Slowly, Draco looked up and met his own gaze and froze in horrified silence. He turned his head over his shoulder, looking at the room behind him. It was empty. He looked back, and the terrifying vision was still there.
Hogwarts stood in the background, burning and half collapsed. There were dead people littering the grounds. Draco recognised many of them as his classmates.
At his back stood his father, grinning proudly and patting him on the back. Draco imagined he could almost feel the ghostly apparition touching his shoulder and shuddered, a shiver going up his spine.
To his other side stood the Dark Lord, his cold, reptilian eyes focused intently at Draco's feet, an eerie smile gracing his lips. Draco followed his gaze and swallowed a yell of horror at the lifeless body of Harry Potter that lay in front of him, bloodied and bruised.
His eyes flicked back to his own reflection, and the other Draco smirked back at him, his eyes shining bright with pride and joy. He had finally gained his father's approval, he wasn't weak anymore, he had won.
Draco wrenched his eyes away, turning his back on the Mirror with a muffled sob, tears streaming down his face. He was a monster, as terrible as the Dark Lord himself, revelling in the torture and death of other human beings. How could he possibly live with himself now?
He almost ran to the door, pulling it open and slamming it shut behind him. A gasp almost flew from his lips as he spotted his father leaning against the hallway opposite the door.
Lucius took in his son's distressed face and raised a single eyebrow at him.
'What did you see?' He demanded arrogantly.
Draco took a shaky breath, and then straightened his spine, standing tall in front of his father.
'I saw how weak I am, that I would fail when it was most necessary to triumph, that my actions would cause him to lose the war,' he stated, his voice still a little shaky.
Lucius nodded, looking pleased at his answer. He beckoned his son to follow him back into the Mirror room. Draco's mind raced as his world view was shaken to its core. He didn't want Harry to die. He didn't want to be a Death Eater like his father, using his magic to maim, torture, rape, even kill.
He didn't want to be a monster.
They stepped in front of the Mirror, and Draco avoided looking at his reflection. Lucius merely gave his reflection a cruel smile, and then brought Draco's attention to the inscription at the top of the Mirror.
'Read it out loud,' he instructed in a bored tone.
Draco stuttered over the words, 'Riapsed stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.' He stared at the inscription in confusion as his father watched him from the corner of his eye.
Realisation struck. The inscription was backwards.
'I show not your face but your heart's despair.'
The Mirror had never been a true reflection. It had shown him what he most feared. All this time, he had thought he was weak and useless, but it had all been a lie.
'You have seen the consequences of failure. You will not fail. You will make me proud,' Lucius boasted.
No, father, I will not make you proud. Draco thought fiercely. If that is what it would take, you will never be proud of me again.
'Yes, father.'