disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Draco couldn't stop looking in the mirror. This pale face and this fey form of his. Twenty minuets ago his world had come crashing down. Not like a glass broken on the floor, but how a tidal wave consumes a city. His parents had called him into the study and told him the great family secret. He was part veela, on his father's side. Malfoys had been marrying into the veela bloodlines for generations. It added wealth and power. Power in magic and power in beauty.
Draco took off his day clothes, folding each article perfectly and laying them on his sitting chair. Back once more in front of the mirror, staring at himself. They call him a ferret for his pointy features, but they wouldn't dare deny that he was handsome, that his pale skin didn't call to be worshiped.
He had seen those veela women at the quid itch tournament in his fourth year. Those ugly beast that called to even him. Making grown men fall to their feet in praise. He had seen them angered and vicious. He now could see his father in their faces.
His father. The man he looked up to . The one who day in and day out told him how the world should be. How blood was everything. Power second to blood. How Malfoys were to use any and all power to get what the deserved to have. The man who sat there and told him that muggles, those of lesser ancestry, and magical beasts were filthy and a thing to look down upon. That those of pure ancestry were the gods of the world. How the sycophants, like Pansy, who surrounded him were to be placated because they were the ones that he would take even more power from.
Draco went and dressed in his best finery. A gentleman wizard dressed to the nines. Well in his case a ten. Dressings so black that his pale features shone. Diamonds for buttons that twinkled in the candlelight. Charming a sitting chair behind him he sat, gaze never leaving his face.
He was dirty, and he would never again be clean. Never again could be clean. He was lesser than Potter, whose mother was a muggle born witch. At least she wasn't a creature, some foul beast. Longbottom that little toadie was better than his mixed blood.
Feathers from the owls he used to send out his letters, to the ministry, to Pansy, to Potter even, surrounded him. He had put his affairs into order. He couldn't not. Draco smirked into the mirror and all he could see of this disgusting form, was a magical creature that needed to be put out to pasture. It was fitting that he end it here, surrounded by everything he was told that he was, everything that was a lie. He would be loyal to upbringing to the end. Picking up his wand he pointed at the mirror and uttered that death green phrase.
