All you really need to know about this is that it takes place between GoF and OoTP. Oh, and there's some profanity. I don't like profanity, but it's appropriate here.

I hate wizarding social functions. I might possibly be in my own private hell right now. Why did Mother insist on me being here? At least the food is halfway decent. But the people…

What's that, Mrs. Goyle? You say I'm the image of my father at my age? Why thank you. I'm so absofuckinglutely thrilled that you think I look like the albino racist who's made my life a living hell. Look at me dance with joy. Just for that compliment, I'm going to put you on my list of people I'm going to kill. Your son's already on there. Don't worry, I'll kill you first. I'm doing it in order of intelligence, after all, and you're clearly less intelligent than him. As hard as that is to imagine.

Fucking party. What the hell do we have to celebrate, anyway? Woo, Voldemort's risen again. Or are we celebrating the fact that he's been defeated by someone my age for the fourth time in as many years? I forget. Stupid people. You have NOTHING to celebrate! You're following someone who can't even kill a child and a walking advert for the dangers of Alzheimer's!

And yet the party continues. Of course, that might be because I'm too much of a coward to say my thoughts out loud. I shudder to think what Father would do… Beat me bloody at the very least. Or worse, cast the Cruciatus curse on me. He stopped using the Imperius curse when I learned how to resist it. Not that that's really so hard. Potter can do it, after all.

I almost wish I could have been friends with Potter. It would be nice to have a friend to study with, or play chess with. All Crabbe and Goyle are good for is looking intimidating. Well… looking intimidating and repeating everything I do or say to their fathers, who pass the information on to my father. Dammit, I want friends, not flunkies. I can't even get decent flunkies!

It's hard being alone. Except… I'm not really alone. I'm surrounded by people waiting for me to make a wrong step in the most complicated dance in the world—the dance of life. Everyone else gets to choose their own steps and music, though. At least up to a point. I don't have any choices.

That's not exactly true. I could choose to rebel against my father, I suppose. But is it really worth being killed? Actually, death would be preferable to one of Father's punishments.

I'm just so tired of it all. I don't particularly like any of the people I go to school with, but there's got to be something more than what I have. I'm not a person, I'm a puppet. I'm dancing to Father's tune, just like I have been my entire life.

One of my earliest memories is of him sitting me down for a 'talk.' Talk. Ha. Lecture is more like it. Talk implies that there are two sides to the conversation. I was summoned to his office, and told to sit down. He put me in the most uncomfortable chair in his office. And then he started outlining what was expected of me. At the age of four, I was told what I would do with my life, and who my friends would be, and what house I'd be in when I got to Hogwarts. But the thing I remember most—more than the speech and how unfair it all seemed—was that I had to sit still in that uncomfortable chair. If I squirmed, he'd bark 'crucio!' at me. After the moment of agonizing pain was over, he'd look at me like I was a disappointment, and he'd say 'Sit still, Draco.'

Draco. Who names their kid that? Oh. Wait. The same people whose parents named them Lucius and Narcissa. Stupid question.

Father's giving me that look. Now that he knows I've seen him, he's looking at Parkinson. I'm supposed to marry her. That cow. And she's my cousin. First cousin. Isn't there a law against that or something?

If I had a choice, who would I go out with? Not a Slytherin, that's for sure. And I don't care for blondes, which leaves out most of the Hufflepuff girls. Weasley's hair is pretty, I suppose, but the freckles are a definite turnoff. Not to mention she's in love with Potter. And I can't believe he hasn't figured that out yet. Maybe one of the Patils? Yeah. And I'll bet Padma wouldn't step on my toes while we danced together.

Note to self: When the party's over, soak feet in icewater.

Well? Good? Bad? Ugly? Review? Please?

Wyrm… cut it out with the question marks or we'll cut off your chocolate priveledges.

Nooo! Not my chocolate! Cuddles the chocolate My precioussss… Don't worry. We won't let the nasssty alter ego take you away from me.

… Crud. Where did I put that hugme jacket?