Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter (no duh) if I did I obviously wouldn't be writing under FAN fiction.
He eyed his reflection in distaste. The things he had to do for his Lord. He sneered at himself in the mirror, deciding that it would be a fitting expression for the role he was playing. He smirked, if he wasn't a Death Eater he should have been an actor. Upon seeing himself he winced. Unfortunately, he had to loose his trademark smirk. It was a pity. That smirk had gotten him through practically all situations, and it conveyed exactly what everyone should already know. He superior, he was the best, he was always unfazed. To look up confidence in the dictionary was to see his picture, as always, smirking.
What was it with all this black? He frowned in disdain. Some black accentuated his features nicely, but in this he looked like death walking. Of course, he was by profession death walking, but death walking looking good. Now…he just looked pale, and…peaky…very much like something he would much rather not resemble. Right now he looked like *shudder* what that Weasely and that dratted Potter enjoyed calling him so much. He had to admit that he did look a little bit…ferrety.
As if suddenly hearing some mental summons, he spun on his heels and stalked out of the door, leaving the repugnant image behind.
It was dark downstairs, and there was music blaring. Muggle music. Harsh, screechy, disjointed muggle music that seemed to consist mostly of people screaming. He winced; the discordant sounds grating on his ears. The lights weren't much better. Randomly flashing through the otherwise welcome darkness, their glaring neon brightness made his sensitive eyes sting.
Thankfully, no one approached him. He did not care to associate with these uncouth barbarians. They danced uncontrollably, shaking their bodies in erratic ways that made him wonder if they were having seizures. They didn't know how to dance, they didn't know good music, they didn't even know how to dress. He took in their torn and tattered clothing with contempt, eyeing their chunky metal jewelry and clunky boots in scorn. They had absolutely no sense of style, their hair making them look like they had lost a fight with a lawnmower, or some similar muggle device. He remembered he looked like them and scowled sourly, running his hand over his shaven head, wincing when he felt the single stripe of hair spike straight off his head. A mohawk they called it.
He nursed his beverage, pretending to drink, in truth not deigning to take a sip of the crude alcohol. His expression flickered from a condescending sneer to a sour grimace and back. His eyes roamed over the crowd, waiting for his prey. A smile spread slowly over his cold features. Those neon lights were good for something after all. Without them he would not have seen Mundungus Fletcher enter. All he had to do now was to get close enough to hear what Fletcher and his informant would say. It would have been impossible for a normal person, but not for him. Not for Draco Malfoy, Death Eater and spy extrordinaire, not with an almost endless repertoire of spells avaliable to him.
He rolled his eyes, glad that his mission was almost over. If this club hadn't been known as a common meeting place for members of the "shadier" side of the Order of the Phoenix he wouldn't have been caught dead here. He longingly pictured himself back at the Malfoy Manor lounging by the fire with a glass of quality wine in his hand. The things he did for his Lord.
A/N: A little trip inside Draco's head. Sorry if I offended anyone, I have nothing against punks or anyone similar, but this is totally from Draco's POV, and he strikes me as preppy. Snobbish, overconfident, and too obsessed with his appearance, Sorry, didn't mean to offend any preps out there, Draco's an extreme. Yup, that's the Draco we all know and love/hate. R and R please.