A/N: A little thought train on Malfoy, post Chamber of Secrets.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were bloodless and the flesh white with tension. He didn't make a sound as he looked around, rage and spite welling up inside him.

The hangings were less than pristine; the thick green damask fell in great dusty folds to the ground at the windows. A broom lay propped against the heavy oak desk, its twigs haphazardly beginning to poke out of the neat tail. A hard, upholstered armchair stood to one side, covered in robes. A dark one, with the family crest embroidered on the chest lay on top.

He kicked angrily at the book by his foot, open at the page where 'Potter, Harry's description could be read. A drawing done skilfully of the imagined face was similar to the boy himself; a tricky charm made him grin boyishly at the reader. A large rip in the book had happened across this very picture.

He looked up at the mirror across from him, flaxen hair falling around his face, flushed with rage, a sneer twisting his lips, and blinked, surprised. He looked just like his father..

'How is the famous Harry Potter?'

He scowled again, his reflection's brows knotting tightly together, and turned away from the mirror.