'This can't be all I am good for,' thought the Slytherin, starring down at the broom beside him. Slowly, he scan his eyes down the smooth black Nimbus 2001, the end of the even bristles came to an angular point, in order to increase speed. He smirked at his own dismal demeanor, remembering that he had never even actually earned his way on to the Quidditch team… his father donated the brooms in order to allow his son to join Slytherin Quidditch. It was quite pathetic really, that all of his past success had been on account of his father's own personal whims. He remembered the conversation they had had back before 2nd year.

"Boy?" Lucius Malfoy sat his black leather arm chair in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. He held a copy of the Daily Prophet before his face, and his voice seemed only slightly interested.

Draco rigidly strode over to his father. "Yes father?"

"In my days at Hogwarts, I played on the Slytherin Quidditch team,"

"I know father," Draco knew exactly where Lucius was going. He was not certain that he would be able to live up to whatever task he had for him.

"I have been thinking… if Potter can do it, so can you. I'm signing you up next year," said Lucius casually, still continuing to read his newspaper as he spoke.

"B-but Father, Quidditch is not something that someone can merely sign up for… there are tryouts, and then—"

"Then try out… I want you to be remembered at that school. You practically blend in with the wallpaper,"

Lucius was always bullying his son with his scarring words. However, over the years, Draco had become very immune to any insult father could lob at him. He had learned to take it, and he had learned to do everything he could to please father, and perhaps receive even the slightest amount of praise from him from time to time. "Praise" according to the Malfoys could be considered even the lightest of things such as "I've seen others do loads better, but I suppose it will do," or "It's a good thing you passed all of your classes, because I do not wish to pay for another year at Hogwarts with that man in charge." These phrases were considered "Praise" because it was given so stingily in their environment.

"And son," Lucius finally glanced up from his newspaper.

"Yes, father?"

"We Malfoys are not mere 'someones'. I promise that you will be on that team,"

Now, one might assume that Mr. Malfoy has just complimented his son… perhaps he is not such a harsh man after all, but further examination proves that Lucius was actually complimenting himself on his well known, and feared name. Draco just so happens to also be a Malfoy, and therefore, it appears that he too has been given praise from Father, when in fact, Lucius had barley noticed his son's presence.

"Thank you, Father,"

"Good, now why don't you go in the courtyard with your broom, and practice for a bit. I'd like my son to look good out on the field,"

When Draco hesitated, Mr. Malfoy once again looked up from his paper, and glared at the lad. "I can't have you just standing there staring at me, go outside, boy, I'm busy."

Evidently, the cover story of the Daily Prophet was more important to Lucius than his own son was.

Now, Draco was soaking out this age old despair on the pitch. The lad was on his first day as a seventh year, and had felt the need to sneak away from that evening's homecoming feast. He did not need anyone else to see him in such deep thought, especially not so early on in the year. No one could know of any possible Malfoy regrets. It was entirely out of their character.

Ever since the tender age of about eight years old, Draco had almost became robotic when speaking to his father. This was the Malfoy way. It was "Yes father," this, and "Thank you father," that. Sometimes it appeared that Draco took a good part of his anger out on others, such as the Potter gang; but he hardly thought his quarrels towards them were undeserving. A man is aloud to have a sworn enemy now and then, right?

A light drizzle began to fall. Draco ignored it, and mounted his broom. Lazily, he flew throughout the field, too wound up and weary to actually practice with a snitch. More to the point, he felt a headache coming on; he did not want to think anymore at the moment.

Besides, he had more than enough reasons to despise each and every one of those bloody stupid bloques. The Weasel was not only dirt poor, but each of their blood relations had been sworn enemies ever since as long as Draco could remember. It was kind of like Romeo and Juliet… except for the part where they were both men and they detested each other. So there was no problem there. Besides, Weasel's father worked with muggle gadgets and had a sort of unhealthy Muggle fixation… the whole idea itself made Draco want to wretch.

Speaking of Muggles… the Mudblood. Little Miss Know-it-all thinks she deserves to take up even an inch of space in Hogwarts. Her bloody muggle parents, and her bloody straight A's made Draco simply cringe every time he thought about it. Draco had always wondered, Mudblood must have felt a bloody lot more inferior when compared to purebloods, and even the half bloods. When Granger came to Hogwarts… that must have been why she studied so hard. But even so, when it comes down to the accuracy of spells, you cannot match books and brains with the real magical bloods such as himself.

And Potter. If anyone even got him started on the wonderful magnificent stupendous marvelous bloody "boy who lived", he would not be able to stop… you know, when he met the little bastard in the robe shop, he tried to make nice with him. Sure, father had shown him the blueprints of a diabolical plan arranging Potty's death before they had even met, and sure, Draco was to be involved in the plan in order to gain Potter's trust; by inviting him over, and hand him to Lucius, but how on earth could the twit have known that? He merely swept Draco's offering of friendship into the waste bin, because he had better friends… a bloody impoverished red head, and a bucktoothed muggleborn. Oh, right, because normal people choose 3rd rate losers for their friends over someone holding one of the most powerful names on the face of the wizarding planet.

Either way, once Potty denied his hand in friendship, Draco knew that he could not go on pretending that he wanted to indeed, 'make nice'. He had to keep at least a shred of his young dignity in tact, and so that was when he decided to become enemies with Potter. Oh, he remembered Father's rage. The owl he sent back, once Draco had stated that the plan was a failure, and he would have to find another way to kill Potter, was an unbelievably livid one. Father was far too clever to send a howler. The entire school would find out about the plan that way. But if howlers came with headphones, Draco was certain he would have received one of those lovely red envelopes.

For months, father persisted. In one of his letters he wrote "I do not care what you do to make up with the boy, but do it, so long as the Malfoy pride is kept in tact," This had been one of the only times that Draco had dared talk back to his father, perhaps because he was hundreds of miles away, and Draco was in the middle of nowhere. Besides, he had mouthed back in pen form. Most families would not consider Draco's reply as an insolent remark; most families would call it telling the truth. However the Malfoy's were not like most families. Draco had written; "Father, there is no possible force on this earth that will enable me to become friends with Potty Potter, and keep Malfoy pride at the same time." Lucius did not return an owl for almost a month after that. He believed that one of the keys to good parenting was to use certain disciplinary tactics on the child that others may find iniquitous. When Draco misbehaved, Lucius and Narcissa were often found ignoring their son for a number of weeks, and sometimes even months. During these times, sitting at the dinner table was often an eternity of torment.

"Mother, please pass the salt," Draco would say. Narcissa, refusing to even make eye contact with her son, would push the salt his way.

"Thank you, Mother," No response. "Father?" Lucius would rebuff the acknowledgement of his son's existence. "Father, I was wondering if perhaps you would be able to take a look at my Transfiguration summer homework assignment. I was not quite clear on part of one of the chapters—" Lucius would cough, covering the rest of whatever else Draco might have had to say.

Narcissa had not always been like this. Lucius had made her this way. Draco remembered her smile. It was warm, and sincere. He could not remember the last time he had witnessed that smile. She was a robot as well; Lucius had transformed both his son and his wife into forlorn, uncouth robots. It was as though he had taken each of their souls, and hid them in a pretty little box somewhere, and only not even he remembered where he hid the box.

Speaking of which, Draco remembered his recently appointed duties.

"You mean… I will be having to help kill people? Help—"

"Draco, my boy; do not think of this as killing… you are merely helping keep the societal balance between muggles and wizards. Perhaps you would like to call it… a sort of natural selection, if you will…"

"But father—"

"Draco," Lucius' voice was that of disillusioned syrupiness. "The idea of muggleborns is unfair when one looks at it in the right way… think about it… those Mudbloods are taking up the same space as you do in the classroom! They have the same opportunities that you as a respectable pureblood have, and they will be taking your generation of purebloods' jobs, as well, once you graduate Hogwarts. Think about how unfair that is to you, my boy,"

"I do understand that father…" Draco began, "and I agree with you fully… however, I do not see why we must kill them… why can we not put them to good use… perhaps we can… I do not know… make slaves of them, or something?"

The look on Lucius' face changed from poorly masked rage, to overflowing pride. "Draco! You truly do take after your father, with those ideas in your head!" he looked as though he were about to cry with happiness.

Draco smiled as well. He had just received an extraordinarily unusual accolade from his father! The only thing on this planet that Lucius thought more of than the Dark Lord, was Lucius himself… so receiving a comparison between himself and Draco was the largest sort of compliment he could have given.

Lucius continued to smile. "You shall make a fine Deatheater!" Another compliment! Two in a row! Perhaps if the only way to receive praise from his father was to gang up on an already abhorrent kind, and deal with them accordingly, then that was what Draco would have to do.

Draco knew that these feelings were bittersweet. He reviled Mudbloods as much as the next sane bloque did, but he had never killed, or been any part of killing any human, ever before. He knew that after awhile, his mind would become immune to the sight of death, and he knew this was for the better, but frankly, he was frightened.

Though it would take even more than the world's ceasing its rotary for Draco to ever admit such a thing to anyone, the thought of being the cause of another's death made him shudder inside. It would make father happy though. Perhaps if he stuck it out for the first week or so, he would slowly get used to the sight of fatality, used to the smell of blood on his hands, and used to the thought of killing becoming an instinct. Perhaps it would not be so bad. And to put the cherry on top of the Sunday, not only would they rid the world of that frizzy Mudblood, but her best friend Potty was on the Deatheaters' extermination list, as well. A guilty sense of pride welled within him when he thought of being a part of that.

Feeling slightly better, Draco landed his broom smoothly on the Quidditch pitch. He realized that he now felt content enough to go in for dinner. There was only two more months until the two week winter holiday; when Draco would return home, and train to eventually become a feared Deatheater.

To be feared was not a bad thing…not a bad thing at all. 'After all, father had been let off on all charges against him, mainly because he was so powerful, and feared. Draco strongly believed that any act of evil he could ever be prosecuted for, he would be let off, just as easily as his father had. His name alone did half of the work, Lucius might do a quarter of the work, and Draco's own Magic Charm would take care of the rest. Even if he happened to be a robot, he was a respectable robot, and that was all he needed right now.

By the time he had reached the great hall, suppertime was already half finished. He sat down beside Goyle, and Blaise. Blaise's father struck up some sort of business deal with Draco's father over the summer, giving Draco and Blaise time to get to know eachother better. Blaise was quite like Draco himself; he had a powerful father figure sharing similar views, a meek, unhappy mother, and were both filthy rich… so the boys bonded over a few weeks when the Zabini's stayed at Malfoy Manor. They raced on their brooms, blew things up, terrorized the passersby, and whatnot. Mr. Zabini happened to work in the same special firm as Mr. Malfoy… here meaning… they both were high men within the dealings of the Dark Lord.

Besides all that, Crabbe and Goyle were thicker than ogres, both physically, and mentally, so Blaise was really the only person Draco could really have an intelligent conversation with.

"Where've you been? Goyle ate your share," said Blaise, as Draco sat down.

"Stupid twit," said Draco, elbowing the beastly thug beside him. "How many times do I have to tell you to keep your own bloody hands on your own bloody plate!"

Goyle looked down, ashamed, and confused. "Sorry, Malfoy,"

"Shut up," said Draco, smirking at Blaise. He had become increasingly nasty to his cronies, now that he had someone of at least normal acumen to laugh along with. Though it would take a very small effort, on Draco's part, to scoop more food onto his plate from the serving trays, he chose not to; in order to lengthen Goyle's shame. He tended to pick on his lackeys until Potter and friends came along. Then it was a free for all showdown. Though most of the other Slytherins merely laughed at Draco's snide remarks, and rolled their eye's at the Gryffindors', it was good to have even some sort of minimal support.

"So Malfoy," said Blaise, once poking fun at Goyle lost its short lived edge, for the moment, "You seen Parkinson since school started?"

"No, why?" Draco did not have the slightest idea why Blaise would even bring up that unsightly disproportioned ogre, especially after he caught her in the closet last year, making out with that scrawny little Ravenclaw fourth year.

"Over the summer, she traded in her mosquito bites, for a generous pair of cantaloupe. Dr. Palky's work… I would presume. I have heard the girls talk about her before. Supposedly, she does wonders with her spells for the unfortunate looking witch or wizard,"

Draco's solemn face morphed into a sly grin. "Certainly," he peered down the table to find the beast and her new feminine guns. "But I do not see why this doctor did not bother to fix the rest of her… I would sue if I were Pansy; she still appears unfortunate looking to me."

"Indeed," said Blaise, "Perhaps Dr. Palky needs her eyes checked, if she thinks she has worked wonders," the two young lads chuckled for a moment, and Draco's thugs joining in, though neither had been paying any attention to what Draco and Blaise had been talking about, for food was still present.

Draco Malfoy believed that being a respectable robot was enough. He thought that although he had troubles, they would eventually resolve themselves; and he thought that his family views were often strict, and difficult to deal with, but they were right. He thought he was as happy as he could ever be. However… Draco Malfoy was not happy… anyone with a brain in their skull could see that. And he had not settled to believe the views of his family. But not even Draco knew that. He would have to face many hardships this year, and he would have to make many gut wrenching decisions. Draco had no idea what sort of year he was about to face, but he was about to get a sneak peek; the very moment he walked into Defense Against the Dark Arts, that Monday morning, on the first day classes resumed.

There it is, the first chapter! I apologize if for any reason anyone might have been offended by anything mentioned, however, I assure you that I myself, do not agree with Malfoy's prejudice views… just to clear that up. Also, I would like to remind everyone that this will, in fact, be a D/Hr, however, the thing that I absolutely despise most about fanfictions is when people allow the characters to fall… out of character! I have been writing for 11 years (since I was six), and it is my biggest pet peeve to see a character such as Draco to be all sappy dappy in the first chapter… or ever, for that matter. So I truly hope that so far, I have done my part in keeping Draco Malfoy as characteristically accurate as I possibly can make him! That is why Hermione has not even physically shown up yet in the chapter… but do not fret! She shall appear in the next chapter! And believe you me, Draco and Hermione will hate each other for quite awhile! Their reasoning later for not hating each other shall be revealed later! So, have patience. There shall not be sap!

Becca