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Confession Number Two: Not All Slytherins Want to Be Death Eaters

Once Draco saw even just a glimpse of the Great Hall, he felt a sense of dread, a feeling that he knew he wasn't at all used to. Ever since he had arrived in a young age of eleven, he always thought of Hogwarts as a place of Sanctuary, a place that was far away from his father's gaze and his mother's worry. This was the place where he felt most protected, most loved, screw Malfoy Manor, if he could spend all his years in Hogwarts, he would've. Sometimes he even wondered on why he bothered to keep coming back, keep coming back to hear his father's repeating praise on how the Malfoy family could please the Dark Lord or even see his mother's critical stare when his O.W.L's had arrived. Nine O.W.L.'s he had, but with his parents, it was never quite enough.

He glanced at Blaise who was sitting beside him, the same emotionless and gaunt expression he had was still plastered on his face. It was the same for Parkinson, with a proud and snotty expression on hers. With that look that seemed to permanently stick themselves on their faces while in public, he was sure that they could rival any 'acter' (as the muggles called it) there was in their generation. Even the way they act, they could win an award any day.

He took a seat at the middle with the Italian by his left and Parkinson at his right. If there were any one in Hogwarts that he had gotten close to, it was them. Though they didn't look as if they talked much nor do they do hugs or whatever those Gryffindors do, they were very close. One might even call them the 'Silver Trio', if they wanted to follow Potter's gang. Draco gagged at the thought. The Slytherins all 'round were talking with each other, exchanging ideas on what've happened back in the Ministry, while there were a few who remained silent. Some of them were actually willing to become death eaters, and he couldn't help but exchange revolted looks with Pansy. She was the only one who actually understood the dangers that was to come.

"Looks like Potter have gotten off the train," he heard Blaise mutter before whipping his head to the direction that his best mate was looking at. There was the boy-who-lived, or as he liked to call the boy-who-relied-on-his-friends-to-sacrifice-themselves-for-him-to-live, but of course, no one shared the exact thought as he had. Beside him was the Weasel, while on the other was Granger. She looked different, Draco noticed. The frizzy hair she once had settled into wild curls. It was still a bit bushy, but it had finally toned down and revealed more of her heart-shape face. The buck-teeth mudblood was long gone from the list of insults he once had for her. "Granger had changed..."

It looked like he wasn't the only one who had noticed it too.

"Still a mudblood," Draco sneered as he continued to stare at the Golden Trio making their way to the Gryffindor table. Granger glanced at his table though, and when she caught his eye, she shot him a dirty look before turning her attention back to her housemates. "And still an annoying swot."

"At least she doesn't look like an annoying swot," Blaise pointed out, and the Slytherin Prince found himself lost for words.

Pansy, hearing the comment, crinkled her nose in disgust. "Yes, yes," she said. "Everyone had changed in physical appearances, now could we please stop commenting how the mudblood looks? Born a mudblood, die a mudblood, I say."

Though they weren't really massive fans of blood purity, it was still a habit for them–Draco and Pansy. Being raised to believe it, the words that were spouting out of their mouths were the same comments their parents had been using on that interesting topic. It may have not been quite acceptable for other houses, but in theirs, saying the word 'mudblood' was like saying any other word. It never really packed quite a punch anyway. It was hard.

The Italian snickered, "Think of it as you must."

The Great Hall silenced down when Dumbledore came to view. Draco bit his tongue when he saw the old man standing in front of him, not even noticing his decaying arm. Beads of sweat slid down his neck and he could feel his hands started to shake. As if noticing his growing anxiety, Pansy placed a hand on his trembling hand, squeezing it slowly. The words that he had been saying faded to the back of his mind, and all he could do was just stare at the Headmaster. That was when he glanced at his arm. What had happened? Was he sick? A bubble of excitement started to grow in his chest.

Could Dumbledore die without him even laying a finger on his body?

He hoped so. Merlin, he prayed so.

Blaise nudged him, "Mate, you haven't touched the food in two minutes."

That was when he snapped out of his daze and noticed that there were plates of food already on the table. Feebly, he grabbed his fork and took some potatoes and steak, placing it on his plate. There was the Vanishing Cabinet he needed to worry about too. It was like his whole world was crashing down ever since the Dark Lord had came from bloody fucking life! "Snape as the DADA Professor, huh," Theodore Nott commented while they were eating. He wasn't a death eater, but from what he had heard from the meeting with the Dark Lord, he was on his next hit list on who-to-suffer-from-the-dark-mark.

"Finally," Pansy remarked. "We hadn't gotten a good professor since that bloody werewolf."

It was not really a secret in the Slytherin house that they liked the werewolf as their professor ever since third year. At least he had the guts to actually teach them something and show them what creatures they were likely to face and what spells that they needed to use. It was quite too bad that he had a 'problem'. Draco nodded in agreement.

"First year Professor stuttered too much, couldn't teach us a damn thing. Second year was Lockhart, think that explains it 'nuff. Third year was alright, but he had to be a bloody werewolf. Fourth year was a git. Fifth year, fifth year was a nightmare," it was Flint's turn to comment, crossing his arms. "That DADA spot is jinxed."

"Jinxed is a way to put it," Blaise noted.

And the others continued talking. Pansy and Blaise sometimes butted in, but Draco continued to stay silent, which was quite unusual for the three of them. Ever since first year, the Slytherin was a talkative one, always criticizing people and always looking down on others, but that was what they didn't get at all. Ever since the stunt the death eaters and the Order had pulled during the Ministry, ever since his father had been sent to Azkaban, Draco had lost half of the respect he had from his other housemates he once had back when he first arrived. Now, he had no one else to look down to because all of them, though consciously or unconsciously, were looking down on him! Draco fidgeted. The Malfoy name now was held like a piece of dirt, and there was nothing he could do to regain its former glory.

"Have you heard that Potter was there in the Ministry?"

"Yeah, with those blood traitors."

That was how fast the topic had changed. And it was now all about Saint Potter and his blood traitor of a friend. Blaise chuckled and Pansy and Draco glanced up at him, "The first year said that Potter had a chance against the Dark Lord."

Pansy snorted while the Slytherin Prince shook his head.

"If he does, he better do it quick," Draco snarked and Pansy nodded.