"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood!" The words were out before he could stop them, and Draco instantly regretted it. He could see the fire growing in Granger's amber eyes,the hatred clearly visible on Weasley and Potter's faces. Even so, he smirked, and turned away, walking off with his posse of Slytherins.

"Nice one Draco!" Pansy Parkinson drawled, stroking his hair. Her pug-like face was in a pitiless half-smile as she said so. Blaise Zabini chuckled coldly, his handsome dark features clearly amused.

"Yeah, Malfoy, good one!" Crabbe and Goyle bellowed in unison in their monotones. They hobbled behind him, figures like gorillas. His personal bodyguards.

Together they all walked over to the common room entrance, the green light under the dungeons illuminating their faces.

"Salazar," Draco clearly said, his voice cold. They all sauntered inside, and took seats. Malfoy put his usual smirk on his face, and half-listening to their conversations, permitted Pansy to continue feeling his locks.

It seemed as always, just another day of mocking and being the King of Slytherin. He was all that mattered. Yet in his heart and soul, it was a whole different story...

Why, why had he said it? It was becoming a daily routine now, saying despicable things to increase his reputation he wished never to have had. Yeah, Crabbe and Goyle laughed, but they had to, didn't they. Being the stupid cronies they were, imitating every single action of his. So did Pansy, so smitten in her fancy for him, even Draco noticed it. Only someone as pug-faced and idiotic as her would fancy him. Who in their right mind would fancy Draco Malfoy, the pureblooded prat with the perfect blonde looks and popularity, but cowardice to rival that of Peeves facing the Bloody Baron.

It brought him back to a time during the TriWizard Tournament. He had gone along with all of them, wearing the Potter Stinks badges. He'd remarked, all the while hating himself for it, "My father and I've got a bet, you see. I reckon you won't last Ten Minutes in this tournament. He disagrees. He reckon's you won't last five." It was so difficult to keep the contempt in his voice. Potter had said back, confident as always, " Your father's vile, and cruel. And you, Malfoy? You're Pathetic." How he hated how Potter was right. Pathetic. That was Draco Malfoy for you. Pathetic summed it up, the definition of his life.

Always being his father's little toy. His pawn at Hogwarts. If Father said to hate Mudbloods, obviously Draco had to do everything to make their lives miserable. If Father thought Dumbledore was an old fool, so be it. Father's word was God's word. Draco was simply brought up that way. Brought up to be a carbon copy of Lucius Malfoy.It scared Draco, the thought that someday he would grow up to be just like Lucius. The father he hated so much the mere sight of him made Draco's blood boil with disgust.

Hiding the Dark Artifacts underneath the secret compartment in the Drawing Room Floor. How Draco wanted to announce it to the world, get Lucius in Azkaban. Lock him up permanently so he'd be unable to do any more harm to the rest of the Malfoy family. Yet another oxymoron: The Malfoy Family.

Donating money to get on Fudge's good side. Yet again, the money. Buying the whole Slytherin Quidditch team Nimbus 2001's to buy Draco's way in. Yes, The Gryffindor team got in on pure talent, Granger was correct. The bitter truth was what Draco hated so much.The hatred that made him say those nasty words.

Then making Arthur Weasley look like a fool when Lucius himself was the fool. Arthur Weasley was more of a man than any Malfoy ever would be or had been. But no, Draco was stuck with the wealth, and Lucius. Lucius. What a fake. What a git.

But, what could he do about it? Say something, talk back the tiniest bit, and the beating would begin. Mother simply cowered away into her room and cried while that horrid staff was brought down on his back, leaving scars he concealed behind his jeering, haughty, and wealthy personality. Potter, the courageous hero with the slash on his forehead. Potter, Dumbledore's pet. Perfect Harry Potter. What was not to hate? At least, in Father's mind. Deep in his heart, Draco had continuous bursts of envy. Envy for everything he could not have. Love. Courage. Friendship. The list was never-ending.

He never hated Weasley, despite all the remarks about how poor his family was. He laughed at how foolish he was. "If brains were gold, Longbottom, you'd be poorer than Weasley." Truth was, Weasley was much, much wealthier than himself. Why, he had all that Draco'd ever desired: A loving family.

And Granger. She was, actually, a genius. No matter what her blood-status. Yet he failed to acknowledge that, and continued to call her Mudblood. She was right, as always. He was a twitchy little ferret. Actually, a pathetic twitchy little ferret.

All these things flew around in his head. Regrets. Confessions. Desires. If only they knew, that every time he said something dreadful, it was confessions of his jealousy. The father he so relied on to back him up, was indeed the person he hated most in this world. That he never wanted any of this, from the Dark Mark now branded on his left forearm, to the sorting into Slytherin House. Most of all, the only thing he'd been bursting to say, was not "Here comes Potty and the Weasel", but Sorry. Sorry that he'd been that way. Sorry that he'd been such a snake. But most of all, Sorry that they'd never accept that.

Draco shook his head to clear himself of the thoughts. With great effort, he righted the wavering smirk upon his lips before anyone could notice. Pansy was speaking to him.

"Isn't that right Draco," she questioned, drawling once more.

"What? Oh, oh yeah," he muttered, oblivious to his surroundings, completely engulfed in his thoughts. Honestly he had no clue what Pansy had just said.

"See everyone. Draco's got an assignment. From the Dark Lord himself," she smugly replied, as if she was the one who had been given the task. The mention of that made Draco's insides lurch in fear. His palms began to turn clammy with sweat, and his heartbeat rapidly increased. He began to drum his fingers on his lap and tap his foot nervously. He could not let anyone notice. He had to make up some sort of an excuse.

"Oh, guys. I've got to use the loo. Just a moment," he hastily muttered then briskly walked over to the bathrooms. He stood in front of a mirror, now sweating greatly. He unbuttoned his top botton, and rolled his sleeves up. He turned the nozzle and flushed water on his face, attempting to conceal the now flowing tears. The liquid was cool and refreshing, yet did nothing to put a stop to his nerves. The high, cold words replayed again and again in his head.

"If you fail, you die."

He began to cry, in fear of his life, yet in disgust with himself. Why did it have to be him? What did he do to deserve this?

Inside, he was breaking down emotionally. Inside, he was apologizing for all he had done. Inside, he was unable to face reality. But on the outside, all that anyone could see was a pale white, pointed face, perfect blonde hair, and cold, gray eyes.