I sit in the compartment, listless, staring out the window. I've come to the conclusion that emotions are useless, Dumbledore says I'm wrong, but he's not infallible, and Snape says that I need to control my emotions if I'm to have any chance of success against Voldemort. I have even buried my hate for the man, if only so I can fulfill my job as weapon.

A loud knock on the door breaks my thoughts, but I quickly recover and blank out my mind. I think of nothing. I didn't believe it was possible to think of nothing, during my Occlumency sessions with Snape over the summer my mind would always think about not thinking. With a little negative reinforcement from Snapes mental attacks and humiliating verbal abuse I learned to shut down all but basic instinct. The door slides open. Sighing, I turn to face the person that has interrupted me. Malfoy is with his perpetual goons Crabble and Goyle.

"Alright Potter? Where's your pet doggy?" he sneers.

The Occlumency shield disintegrates as various emotions pound against it trying to get out. Love for Sirius is quickly overwritten by pain from his loss, then regret at my actions, then anger at myself, and finally, overpoweringly, anger at Malfoy for breaking my shield. All pretense of remaining emotionless evaporates in just one second, and I give into it.

We make eye contact, and he takes a step back when he sees my face, full I'm sure of utter contempt and rage. His brainless goons block his way as he takes step back, confused expressions on their faces. I launch off the bench, Malfoy turns to push his goons away so he can get more room, but I'm there first. I grab the back of his robes, and yank him through the air into the compartment, slamming him against the window. His goons make a grab for me; I slam the heel of my palm into Crabble's nose, or was it Goyle? No matter, he staggers back, blood soaking his dress shirt and robes. The other pauses briefly, surprised by my physical attack, I don't wait for him. I kick him right bellow his knee, and he bellows in pain, falling to the floor of the car. I follow up with a kick to the face, close the door, and turn to face Malfoy. He's stunned, having had his head slammed into the glass. He sits on the floor between the two benches and looks up at me. I yank him to his feet and press him against the wall. I'm pounding my fists into him all over. Time seems to slow down and my vision seems many times sharper. Blood splatters me as I pound him, his face almost unrecognizable now; my hands are wet with blood. My knuckles and fingers are bruised; my left hand is actually broken. Malfoy slowly slumps to the deck; I sit down on the bench.

I sit in the compartment, listless, staring out the window.

I try and push the rage from my mind, but it isn't going anywhere, and my failure only makes me angrier. I think about the consequences for my actions. By the looks of it, the goons will be in the hospital wing for a day, Malfoy however, by the looks of him, might be there for a week, or even have to visit St. Mungos. His eyes are swollen shut; his face is one giant raised bruise. His nose is broken. Blood stains his blond hair. I think I broke one of his ribs too. He's unconscious. What are they going to do about it? Detention? Sure, who cares? They can't do anything else to their precious weapon. Hell they can't even give me much of a punishment for it might detract from my studies. As bitter as I am about the prophecy, I have to admit, I enjoy the great deal of power it grants me over my keepers. They're totally screwed without me, and while I haven't abused my power yet, they know I could, and I know they know it. I want them to know it. I sit in the compartment, listless, staring out the window. I kick Malfoy once in the side for good measure and resume my staring.