By Linneria
The early light had crept through the windows of the Slytherin dormitory. Draco Malfoy opened his eyes, and blinked. The room was filled with the incessant snores of Crabbe and Goyle. He had been dreaming of home. That huge, grey stone mansion that was home. He dreamt of his mother and servants showering him with attention, no matter how superficial or forced, it was still attention. He lavished in it, enjoyed every moment of it. But he didn't get it here at Hogwarts. Sure, there was Crabbe and Goyle, escorting him everywhere, doing anything he ordered them to do, but the two were clumsy and stupid. They irked him.
He climbed out of bed and started to dress. When he had finished, he gazed languidly at the mirror. Granite grey eyes. Platinum blond hair. Immaculate pointed face. "Perfect!" gushed the mirror. Draco allowed himself a brief smile and made his way to the great hall for breakfast. He didn't feel like waiting for Crabbe and Goyle.
Down at the great hall, he seated himself at the Slytherin table. Instantaneously, Pansy Parkinson rushed over. "Draco, Draco," she shrilled, "do you want some toast?" He ignored her and helped himself to a bowl of cereal. He loathed the food at Hogwarts. Spooning the contents of the bowl into his mouth, he watched Harry Potter out of the corner of his eye. Potter received the attention and admiration of most of the school. Draco hated it. He greatly anticipated the return of the Dark Lord, and the annihilation of Harry Potter. Draco mused at the thought of himself being the centre of attention after the return of the Dark Lord. Perfect.
The rustle of the owls winging themselves into the great hall brought him back from his fantasies. He was expectant, but kept his face a passive mask. However, the last owl fluttered out of the hall with no mail for him. No present. No letter. He scowled.
He spent the morning's lessons in deep thought. Suddenly, something that he had never thought of before came to question. What was the purpose of being sent to this school? To suffer? To be humiliated time and again by Potter? He shook his head. No, that wasn't right. Why did his father send him to this dump run by that old Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore? There must be a reason. It wasn't as simple as it appeared on the surface. He would get answers to these questions.
During the morning break, he rushed up to the dormitory and opened his trunk. Brushing strands of hair out of his face, he heaved out a huge leather bound book he had siphoned from his father's library. It was a handsome volume with the words " The Arts " stamped on the cover. As he opened it, a soft smile played on his lips. He would get the answers he craved for.