What Would You See?

What Would You See?

By Ada Kensington

Author´s Note: Sorry about that long and ranting section amongst the reviews where I thanked almost all and sundry for their kindness. I just wanted to put across my appreciation right there and then. In future, I´ll keep them for the end of succeeding chapters.

Now... on to Draco Malfoy!

* * *

The normally cold and pale faced son of the highly feared and esteemed Lucius Malfoy - the patriarch of the old, pureblood, Slytherin family, who were famed for their coldness and composure - was flushed scarlet and boiling with rage.

His thin, blue-veined hands were wringing each other crushingly tightly - drawing blood from deep scratches caused by his ragged, blue-grey nails, that ran sooth, dark and rich - spattering softly onto the cold, stone floor of the Slytherin Common Room. He was rocking back and forth, swaying ever so slightly, with his beautiful ash-blonde hair that he had inherited from his father, flying wildly over his face - and his eyes; his cold, grey, Malfoy eyes, were burning with hatred and fury - staring, glassily and unseeing, into the madly flickering flames of the massive, serpent-adorned, stone fireplace of the Slytherin Common Room.

Humiliated... Humiliated by a disgusting, ugly, buck-toothed, Mudblood, bitch, and her perfect Potter... famous Harry Potter... and his faithful dog, Weasley...

The sole heir to the extensive Malfoy fortune sat, at three o´clock in the morning, alone - all alone - in the Slytherin Common Room.

How dare you humiliate me, you filthy little Mudblood...

His face still stung from where she had hit him.

"How dare you humiliate me?" he spoke aloud now, his voice shaking with anger, and his hands still twisting and writhing in blood. "HOW DARE YOU!"

Suddenly, there was a click from the door that made him jump. Whirling around - his face still beetroot red and his hair even wilder than before - he found himself staring furiously at his Head of House, who was standing upon the threshold of the common room with his wand lit in his pale, thin hands and wearing a faintly annoyed - but exhausted expression.

"Stop your muttering, Mr Malfoy, and get back to bed," Professor Snape snapped wearily. "I will tell you once, and once only. You have five minutes."

Snape turned on his heel and strode out, slamming the door behind him - leaving the bitterly sneering Malfoy sitting on the green, Slytherin sofa next to the fireplace - the flickering light and shadows dancing over his stony face, which was gradually starting to twitch with anger. He whirled round once more to face the fireplace, and sank down heavily on the sofa, which emitted a soft, expulsion of air as he forced himself amongst the silver and black cushions.

It was only then that he noticed the blood.

He didn´t really care, however, and after healing his cuts as best as he was able, he laughed derisively at the thought of what the others would think of the small pool of blood that was spreading slowly out under the table of the common room. They´d think it a good mystery - with a good bit of entertainment and intrigue enough to satisfy their morbid curiosity.

"Well, let them be entertained," smirked the youngest of the Malfoys, as he stepped purposefully over the small puddle of blood - now turning thick and dark, and congealing on the cold, stone floor.

"Fuck Snape," he said grimly. "I´m going for a walk."

The now considerably more composed Malfoy walked casually over to the door of the subterranean, dungeon common room and turned the handle.

"Yes. I´m off for a walk, Professor," he said aloud - calling to the ceiling with a mocking laugh. "To clear my head, Professor, of the Potters and Grangers and Weasleys of this world! Now, wouldn´t that be nice?" he continued, his pale grey eyes now dancing with malice. "No more Potter, no more Granger and no more Weasley!"

Malfoy paused, mockingly, and looked up at the ceiling once more, and continued:

"What was that, Professor? You´re asleep? Oh, I am sorry! Guess you don´t mind if I go for my little walk then, eh?"

With that, the proud and arrogant son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy swept out of the Slytherin Common Room, up and out of the dungeons and out into the sleeping, deserted castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

"Draco..." called his father´s cold and unreadable voice. "I wish to see you in my study."

Young Draco, upon hearing his father´s voice echo magically through the cold and extensive network of corridors within Malfoy Manor, carefully laid down his book with a sigh. Irritably, he swung his legs off of his bed and onto the lush, dark-green carpeted floor of his lavish and large bedroom, and - with his face grim and set - he started off towards his father´s "study".

Lucius had never summoned him to his study in order to give him good news - so Draco prepared himself for the worst, and when he reached the large, mahogany doors of Lucius´s study, he raised a pale, thin hand to the silver, serpent, door knocker and gave three short, loud and sharper than necessary raps on the door.

"Enter," his father drawled, his voice drifting lazily through the doors.

Draco steeled himself, and throwing back his head and straightening his narrow shoulders - he swept into his father´s study, looking him insolently in the eye - and stood there with his head cocked to one side and an impatient sneer twisting his porcelain features.

"What do you want?" Draco asked calmly, folding his arms. "I was reading..."

"...and so you should be," his father said - interrupting Draco with the same maddeningly cool tone - rising from his great, high backed, mahogany chair and pacing round to the front of his huge, elaborately carved, mahogany desk, caressing the varnished woodwork, with a pale, thin, blue-veined hand. "So you should be..."

Draco could feel his insides churning with mortification and anger. His cheeks were flushing crimson and he could feel the heat rising already - but he couldn´t be weak. Not in front of him. He could not show weakness...

Not this time, you mad bastard...

"I have no idea what you´re babbling on about, Lucius," Draco drawled coldly - putting a slight venomous edge to the last word. "So, if you don´t mind..."

Lucius Malfoy´s eyes flashed - and he instantly reached for his wand. With a searing flash of scarlet, Draco felt the curse hit him like the upswing of a sledgehammer. It lifted him off of his feet, and with a sickening thud, he hit a bookcase, scattering grimoires and dark arts compendiums everywhere and landed upon the hard, flagstone floor - rolling helplessly for a moment - before coming to rest near the doors in a heap of ash blonde hair. Draco heard his father´s rapid footsteps advancing to where he laid, spread-eagled, on the floor, with rising panic and dread. He tried frantically to get up - but his body, wracked with injury, would not let him.

He´s going to kill me this time for sure... the mad bastard is going to kill me...

Lucius Malfoy knelt down heavily on one knee by his injured son and grabbed a large handful of his soft, blonde hair, and wrenched Draco´s head up brutally. Lucius´s face was as porcelain and as masked as ever, but a corner of his mouth was twitching violently, which betrayed his fury, as he stared stonily into his own grey eyes that he had given to his young son, Draco.

With a small whimper of pain, Draco felt his head being jerked closer to his father´s, as his father whispered venomously into his ear:

"How could a Mudblood," Lucius whispered, spitting out the last word with disgust, " beat the son of a Malfoy in every subject taught at a wizarding school which they have attended for generations, for three consecutive years in a row?

"She´s a boring, Mudblood, know-it-all" Draco choked, feeling his father breathing down his neck as his grip tightened on Draco´s hair. "...andshe´sneveroutofthelibrary," he gasped as his father abruptly jerked his neck once again. "But I swear, I swear," he choked - his voice rising with the pain, "I swear that next year I´ll try harder. Next year I´ll beat that filthy, little Mudblood! I promise! Next year! Next year!" he cried, as his father let go of his hair and slammed his head to the ground.

Lucius Malfoy rose once more and paced the length of his study - returning to his chair behind his expansive, mahogany desk. Sitting down casually, as if nothing had happened, he picked up a sleek, coal-black, feather quill and resumed his writing.

"I shall expect to hear glowing reports from the old fool about you, Draco - especially in your Dark Arts," Lucius said, coldly - immersed in his writing. "Now, get out of my sight."

Draco rose shakily to his feet. His face burned. His hands curled into fists. His hair was flying wildly over his flushed face - and his eyes were glaring at his cold bastard of a father with a deep hatred, which bordered on pure and utter loathing. Nevertheless, Draco pulled himself up and swept out of his father´s "study" without a backward glance.

Make a fool out of me, would you, you sick, twisted bastard? Well, one day... One day, Lucius - we´ll see... We´ll see if we can´t wipe that smug look from your arrogant face...

* * *

That is why, when Malfoy stepped cautiously in front of the ancient and powerful Mirror of Erised, he did not see himself catching the Snitch before Harry Potter, or gaining higher marks than Hermione Granger in a test. He saw himself standing, looking a bit older than he was now, with his wand pressed painfully to his father´s temple, and his hand around his father´s scrawny neck - choking him, just like he had choked him all those many, degrading and mortifying times at home.

But it was his father´s expression that Draco was most pleased with. It was a look, as such he had never seen before on his father´s smug, contented face. Lucius´s wide, grey eyes were nearly popping out with fear, his cold, porcelain face was unusually pale, with large beads of sweat running down his sickly, snow-white skin. He was shaking visibly, and - to Draco´s pleasure - seemed to be pleading with him.

It was fear. Pure fear - unadulterated in all its simplicity and glory. He wanted his father to fear him - wanted him to respect him, revere him, and love him, and loathe him.

Draco closed his eyes lazily and smiled - revelling in the image before him.

"That´s it, Lucius," Draco said aloud, whispering through his own private, vindictive pleasures. "Plead, whine, beg for mercy - you sad bastard - for you shan´t be getting any."

Draco had been staring at the mirror for over an hour now, and planned to sit and stare at it for a few more hours before returning to his dormitory. He was convinced that the mirror - whatever it was - showed the future, as he was completely convinced - and had been for a long time - that one day, he would show his father just what it meant to be a Malfoy.

One day, I´m going to wipe that arrogant sneer from your face, Lucuis - and after I do that, I´m going to kill you. That´ll teach you to make a fool out of me, you sick, twisted bastard...

Draco suddenly had a thought - a rather twisted thought, but it seemed ironically true nonetheless - and he laughed softly to himself.

Hmmm... it seems as though the student has learned from the master. Well then, Father, we should all be thankful for irony now, shouldn´t we?

* * *

After a little while longer staring at the wonderful image - the sun penetrated the windows of the deserted classroom, and the dark, wood floorboards glowed warmly with the light of the dawn. Draco - still very much wide-awake - kicked away the dustsheet that he had sat on for the past two hours and decided to venture back down into the dormitory. Mrs Norris and Filch would be long gone by now, and it would be safe to walk back down to the dungeons and slip, soundlessly, back into bed.

And that´s exactly what he did - for no one really noticed him leave.