DISCLAIMER: Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any related titles, logos, characters, etc. They belong to Mrs. Rowling. This goes for all my chapters.

Chapter 1-Irony

Draco Malfoy leaned back on the sofa in the Malfoy's library, watching a log being consumed by the fire. His white-blonde hair fell into tired eyes, puffy from lack of sleep. The fire crackled loudly, and he jumped, losing the cool composure that he held on to so well usually. Draco sighed and shoved his hair out of his face. He stood, stretching cramped legs and sore muscles. Considering he was halfway up off the sofa after jumping two feet, he may as well go for a walk. He walked stiffly over to the window and leaned on the windowsill, watching the night sky.

Problems blew through his head like a cyclone, whirling and terrible. He felt like the log consumed by the fire, a helpless piece of wood far too deep into something he couldn't handle. And it was destroying him.

Draco had never been weak. Far from it. His father had made him strong, shaped him into the cold and merciless person he was. He was a mountain of calm and coolness outside, showing few emotions and potential for a greater purpose. Inside, he was a log on a flame, burning and alone. Dying and weakening. Crumbling.

His father was in Azkaban. Locked away for being a Death Eater. It was quite ironic, really. Ironic that he had saved so many of his kind from that prison by his influence, yet there was no one to save him.

Draco's mother was in Saint Mungo's. In the mental ward. She had lost her sanity and aloofness in less than two minutes. Ironic how she had always laughed at the poor fools locked away in that very ward, and now she was one of them. The world was an ironic place.

Draco despised irony.

Alone, he stood watching the moon. It reminded him of what he must be; aloof, cool, composed, secluded, and mysterious. It reminded him of his father, or it had once. Now it reminded him of something else, something he could not put a finger on..

Ironically, the moon suited his mood that night. It was dark and forbidding, angry and impassive.

Draco turned away from the window. Irony. He despised it. Somehow the word suited him. He snuffed out the candles except for one and shoved his hair out of his eyes with his free hand. The candle was black, and had a silver moon painted on its wax surface. He began the climb up the stairs to his room. If he couldn't sleep, he should probably get some homework done. The teachers had been especially cruel with summer work this year.

The moon's steady gaze followed him as he ascended the stairs into his room and closed his door. It watched as he opened his school books and began writing. It watched as he finally extinguished the flame and flopped onto his bed, not bothering with covers. The moon watched him, bathing him in its protective light.