A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews! It made me really happy, especially as I got none at all for chapter 2 :(

I have been so busy lately that I didn't think I'd be able to update for a while - I've only had time to think about Lucius, not Draconis as well! However you all managed to persuade me to write another one, tho I had to do it late at night :)

By the way, I was unaware that I could only accept signed reviews. Could somebody please tell me how to accept unsigned as well?
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However there is one major problem with my quidditch team: we have so far lost every single match to Gryffindor. Even with the threat of loosing their much-coveted place on the squad, and the even greater menace of my formidable wrath hanging over them, they still continually fail to beat our rivals.

It was the day of our match against Gryffindor in the second year and my Father came to watch. I waited until the pre-match talk before informing the players that the one who had bought them their shiny new Nimbus 2001s was going to be watching. Immediately the colour drained out of their faces and I could swear the goalkeeper was going to wet himself. I glared icily at them. Weaklings.

I joined my Father in the stands after having left the changing rooms. The atmosphere was electric. The stadium was alive with excitement and the pent up aggression fuelled by the bitter feud between the two houses. The noise created by the stamping of feet and the obscene chants coming from both sides was deafening. Slytherin v Gryffindor matches were traditionally bloody and violent, and so many fouls were committed that the referee could do nothing more than stand and watch helplessly. This time with Lucius Malfoy watching, the match promised to be even more vicious.

I had waited all year for this day, and I had planned long and hard, imposing gruelling training sessions in a variety of weathers upon the players. Slytherin were favourites to triumph over Gryffindor, and my Father was by my side to witness my victory. It was to be such a proud moment.

I glimpsed the snitch seconds before Harriet Potter's fingers closed over it. My Father's hand, which had been laid on my shoulder then tightened suddenly, causing me to wince in pain. His fingers were digging into my flesh, warning me not to further demean the family by betraying my abject disappointment. I held back the tears of frustration in the manner that I had been taught. Deafening cheers rang out from the Gryffindor stands as Harriet Potter held the snitch aloft in a salute to victory. That noise still haunts me to this day. Bitter tears of shame burned behind my eyes as my Father pushed me roughly forward and steered me out of the stadium in silence.
My Father would confront the whole team together straight after a match when they had disappointed him. He could curse the entire lot in one go if he so wished. I, on the other hand, prefer to tackle them one by one, expressing my rage in a more subtle way, making use of the element of surprise. However, I did allow myself this time to pass through the changing rooms before returning to my room to lick my wounds. I paused and simply looked at the players - many in a state of undress, their under- developed bodies exposed and vulnerable before my cold, unforgiving gaze.

I was not prepared to listen to excuses, especially ones involving Harriet Potter. Each and every player fell prey to my vengeance, but it was of course the seeker who suffered the most. After a week of agonised anticipation, he awoke one morning to find his owl lying motionless at the bottom of her cage, the mark of the Avada Kedavra curse upon her.
Those sorry excuses for quidditch players are the most useless rabble of idiots ever to sit on a broomstick. They are a disgrace to the name of quidditch. I despair of them, I really do. I drive them harder and harder as the seasons go on. I don't care if their studies suffer, I don't care if it makes them physically ill, we must end this humiliation at the hands of our enemies and re-assert Slytherin's dominance over the school. I keep my players in line with veiled threats and whispered hints of pleasures beyond their wildest dreams in reward for overcoming this one obstacle. I am still waiting, and so is my Father.
I am aware that I have failed to live up to expectations. It is a knowledge that pains me terribly. Each failure I carry with me as a burden ever increasing in weight. It is not only certain quidditch victories that have eluded me, but the House Cup has also slipped out of my grasp on too many occasions. The bitterest loss was that of my first year. The Great hall was bedecked in Slytherin colours, with silver serpents glinting mockingly at the losers from their green banners. I was feeling fantastic. There I was, ensconced at the centre of the table, flanked by my cronies, discussing our victory at leisure and graciously accepting congratulations from various people. I was totally in my element. Also in the back of my mind was the delicious anticipation of returning home to my Father's warm and proud welcome. I had already sent an owl this morning with the results.

I was languidly flicking peas at Neville Longbottom when Dumbledore rose and gave his fateful speech. I was in shock. Unable to speak, unable to eat, unable to focus on anything. I felt dizzy and my blood was pounding in my ears. My throat was painfully dry and the cloying stench of the food exacerbated the overwhelming nausea. I was dimly aware of Vicky Crabbe reaching across and squeezing my hand in a rare moment of sympathy. I could only stare fixedly at a spot in the middle of the table, willing the tears not to fall, willing myself not to vomit, willing this interminable occasion to be over. The owl bearing the false results would already have arrived. I would have to confess my failure to my Father face to face. It was all so unfair.

"You have let me down, Draconis."

He banged his fist suddenly on the table, sending a house elf skittering out of the room. He was not happy, not happy at all. I flinched, and fought down another wave of sickness. His eyes were stern and cold. I could read disappointment and disgust. I wanted to throw myself into his lap and sob over and over again how sorry I was, and that it was so difficult for Slytherin in these times. But he has no time for tears and excuses. I merely said: "I will do better next time, Father".
It was Gryffindor again. It is always Gryffindor. They have been responsible for practically every defeat, every humiliation, and every obstacle I come up against. It is that house of course that is at the root of all my problems and any tensions that arise between my Father and myself. They drive wedges between us, they undermine my position, chipping at the very foundations of my family's honour. And why is it that this particular generation of Gryffindor is a threat to us? Why is it that for the first time they have resisted our dominance and are themselves holding such a large chunk of power and influence? I'll tell you why. The one person that has upset the balance of power in the wizarding world. The Girl Who Lived. Harriet Potter.