26 October, 9:15 p.m.

The Slytherin Common Room

*This title was borrowed from a short story by Kurt Vonnegut, from his book Welcome To The Monkey House. You should read it. It's good.

Pansy was talking. Merlin, she was always bloody talking. Sometimes this didn't bother him-he'd simply tune her out, satisfying her need for attention with the occasional "yeah" or "right." Other times, her voice grated on his nerves, rubbed them raw, stretched them to the breaking point. Now happened to be one of those times.

Partially, he knew, it was the tense feeling that pervaded the room. The atmosphere in the common room drove him mad. All around, students were grouped into threes and fours, having nearly identical conversations. One person was talking-giving long, boastful monologues concerning their noble birth, their famous ancestors. Those clustered around him would nod, polite admiration written over their faces. But inside, they constantly reminded themselves that this person's stories meant nothing. Their nods did nothing but fulfill this person's pathetic demand for attention, until they could steal that attention for themselves. It was an act, every bit of it. Those monologues, those polite nods, those carefully controlled expressions, all of it. The Slytherin Common Room was a carefully structured image of perfection, polished by its inhabitants. There was a strict, painstakingly constructed code of conduct, and God help anyone who failed to abide by it.

In ths past, Draco hadn't been bothered by this. In fact, he'd thrived on it. It seemed to him a game of sorts, or a play. He had many different identities, and he'd loved sifting through them, a thousand times a day, to find the appropriate facade. He was an actor, a performer, perpetually onstage, lights shining constantly in his eyes. Each new situation mandated finding the right Draco. Each situation begged the question-Who am I this time? And dammit, he'd loved it all.

Now, however, he was growing weary of the constant charade. What had previously felt like a game now felt like a tired old routine, and as for his hundreds-thousands?-of Dracos, he hated them all. They were all him, but none of them were him. He could see through other peoples' facades at once; his internal Bullshit Detector went off every time they opened their stupid mouths. He no longer appreciated the careful craft of each new tall tale. They bored him to tears. He wanted more. What he wanted now was real, and if this bloody common room was the earth, then reality was beyond the farthest extremities of the universe.

"He's not listening to me, is he?" came Pansy's voice from his left, bringing him sharply out of his thoughts.

"Oh, shut up, Pansy," drawled Blaise from across the table. "No one wants to listen to you, anyway." Inwardly, Draco groaned. He could muster false enthusiasm for Pansy's rants, but Blaise's long speeches regarding the ancestry of his mother's latest suitors gave him a strong desire to stab himself. Sighing, he glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Yes, he could go to bed now without looking suspicious. He stood.

"I'm going to bed," he announced. "Night, everyone."

"Night, Draco," said Theo and Pansy together. He nodded slightly and exited the room, treading the familiar path to the dormitories. Mercifully, the circular room was empty.

Wondering vaguely where Vince and Greg had got to, he undressed and prepared for bed. He lay down, pulling the hangings shut, relishing in the peace and quiet of the empty room. It was a surprisingly short time before he fell asleep