A/N: Hi there, (potential) readers. Please note that this story takes place AFTER HBP, and as such contains many a spoiler. This is my only outlet for mulling over HBP in my mind, and is as much (if not more) for me as for you. Sorry. You really ought to get used to the idea that you aren't always the center of things. (Unlike Harry.)

Erm… happy reading.

Breathe out, peace, don't think about not thinking about it, just don't think about it… despite Draco's best efforts, the carrot once again thrust itself to the forefront of his mind. Allowing his frustration a sharp exhale through his nostrils and a pursing of the lips, he refused to pause to further contemplate his hopeless failure. A different tactic, perhaps, would be more effective – or at least more interesting. Draco was getting heartily tired of this dreadful meditation.

There is a turnip. Contemplate the turnip. It is smooth. It is white, yellow, purple… CARROT CARROT CARROT!

Banging a fist on the table and with a snort of disgust, Draco decided a short break was clearly deserved. If only he had a teacher, someone to practice against, but he couldn't ask Snape, and who else was there? Draco had been immeasurably disappointed to learn, upon his initiation, that Potty hadn't needed remedial potions at all – on the contrary, Snape had been teaching him a skill Draco himself would've killed for.

Bad wording. Draco sighed. Bad wording.

He wished he could've been there. Not only to learn, but just because he disliked both Snape and Potter so much that their hate-filled relations would've filled him with satisfaction.

It was amazing, really, how stupid one person could be. The knowledge that Potter had even squandered this last gift from barmy old Dumbledore had been the unnecessary fuel that brought Draco's loathing for the boy up a notch, from "bonfire" to "everyone get out of the house, now, and someone call the fire brigade." Not to mention the gruesome twosome, ever-idiotic Weasley and the mudblood… well, he couldn't think of anything awful about her right this instant but certainly inspiration would strike soon…

But enough of this. Hating the Gryffindor airheads was pleasure, and this was time for work. Occlumency was the task at hand. He could not forget the Dark Lord's warning, nor could he stop himself from thinking these forbidden thoughts. Dad in prison; mum the captive of her husband's master; both of their lives in his control, easily ended as soon as Draco made his first misstep – these were not the thoughts that should motivate an ambitious young Death-eater like himself. He couldn't stop them, though, so trickery was the only action left to him. Without it he lived in fear that, during one of the Dark Lord's pokes into his mind, Draco might accidentally call him a rotten bastard and the jig would be up. (Even the discovery of Draco's particularly clever nickname "Moldywart" would probably get Narcissa a cruciatus.) He was on thin ice already, with his obvious reluctance towards the whole thing and what should have been unnecessary "assistance" by Snape. Not to mention his Master's not-inaccurate perception that, ever since that night of kindness and loyalty and begging and finally death, Draco had not once spoken to his erstwhile favorite professor, nor even looked him in the eye.

Then, of course, there were those traitorous thoughts of joining the Order. Those would cost him much more than a few moments of Narcissa's screams.