A.N.: Another little "why Draco is so mean" fic. Not much else to say.

Disclaimer: Let's think. If I owned the Harry Potter characters, places, etc., would I be writing fanfiction?

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Each part of our life is a war for us, and we are merely soldiers. Few soldiers fight with the goal of winning. Most merely hope they can get out of the war alive. The only ones who try to win it are either foolishly brave in high positions, easy positions, in life and therefore know they are in little danger of being killed or even merely harmed.

And I belong to neither of these groups. For I know life's sly ways far too well to be foolish, and I know I am in no way in little danger.

Oh, there are the little things that are dangerous, these little things in all people's lives. There are little things in the high officials' lives, too. There are these small dangers specking my life: a detention from McGongall, worrying about Pansy dumping me (though I sometimes think that if it happened it would be a blessing). And all those tiny things all teens worry about.

But that's not all. Of course it's not. If it was I'd be trying to win the war, not just get out of it alive. Besides that I would be in little danger, I AM in Slytherin. We Slytherins have strong impulses to try to win, to get power.

But even the strongest impulses can be overpowered by the even more potent circumstance some wars through at us. And such are mine. For how can one not fight to just stay alive when their father beats them at every chance he gets? When his mother takes every chance she gets to tell anything punishable to his father and then gloat as she watches her son's punishment. And then there were the trips to DEATH -- no, not real death, though it often seemed as such, but rather the Death Eater Adolescent Training House. Draco cringed, remembering his most recent trip.

"So, Draco, we see each other again," Voldemort's cold, piercing voice invariably sent a slight shiver down my spine.

Yes," I replied, trembling inwardly but hiding it under a cold, calm facade. I had perfected this art of hiding emotions long ago. I can hardly remember a time when I was not in possession of this skill, for I have needed it. Emotions make you vulnerable and more likely to never get out alive.

"15, and still a runt," a strange, almost amused smile played on Voldemort's cruel, killing lips. "Runts are bad. Weak generally. I would kill you right here and now -- give me a little fun, you know -- but as you're your father's only heir, I'd better do it to some other person, perhaps a Mudblood or a Muggle. No Avada Kedavra for you, but perhaps a little Crucio to make sure you've got strength in that weak little body." The next moment I felt that excruciated pain, a pain I was cruelly familiar with and yet that frightened me anew each time, spread through my body.

It was hard, but I did not wince, did not cry, did not let my pain show. He wanted me to cry, to wince, to show some outward sign of pain so that he could laugh at me and hate me more and give me more pain. I had learned that a long time ago; to win over these enemies, you could not show pain, for pain, to Voldemort, meant weakness, and weakness meant glee for Voldemort and more punishment for me.

How could I try to win under this circumstances? It's so hard just to stay alive anyway. To try to win this war, this part of my life, would be, in essence, giving up; for it is clear that to try to win would mean no chance for me to survive.

I do what I must not to die.

I visit Voldemort with my father.

I learn the three unforgivables and practice them on poor spiders, even an occasional house-elf when my father makes me.

I pretend my father doesn't do what he does.

I act mean and cruel and like a perfect bastard -- around everyone, even my supposed "friends".

I tease the Potter boy and his sidekick.

I call the Granger girl mudblood.

I stab people in the back.

I hate everyone and everything around me, or pretend to.

But I only do this because it's what I know I must do to get out alive. That's why I do it. Not because I want to. Not because it's fun for me, because believe me it's not. Only because I want to get out of this hellish war alive.

So there it is. My reasons for what I do -- but it's more than that. My reasons for who I am -- but it's not even that, really, because this isn't who I am, only who I pretend to be. My explanation for my life. Yes, that's what it is. My explanation for my life. Mi apologia pro vita sua.