Scheherazade Malfoy

Three, two, one...his father's face coalesces on the armoire. Dead on time.

Projecting from the curlicue M signet ring (on a chain over the mirror).

As always.

And, as always, Malfoy stands at attention before him, is ready to spin the tale of another day, on yet another night.

No, only beaten by that Mudblood because she cheated...of course, cheated better than him. Wouldn't happen again. On his word as a Malfoy.

Not all strictly true, of course. Granger really was better at Arithmancy than him, no matter how much he worked. As for her cheating...not a chance, the sanctimonious bitch. It would almost make it easier if she did.

Yes, The Cause.

Not that Malfoy's life was about easy. Notorious Death Eaters - family traditions - blah blah blah. Et cetera, ad nauseam, ad infinitum.

Yes, Potter again. He showed him, though.

Malfoy was sick of the expectations. He was sick of the history. He was sick of his father breathing down his neck. He was sick of the nightly cross-examinations. He was especially sick of bloody Voldemort, or He Who Shall Not Be Named, or whatever He was going by at the moment. Oh, he knew all about His power. (Malfoy had always been good at recognising power.) He even feared Him, to some extent. Not enough, though, to submit, to be degraded.

It was assumed that he would be a good bad boy. Everyone he knew seemed to have a D. Malfoy-sized hole in their plans, all ready for him to drop into place.

But all this waiting and scheming for future pain was twisting him into strange new shapes. It had begun with the nightly cross-examination, and Potter. His father had demanded regular intelligence from Hogwarts; Malfoy's progress, all the different ways he'd found to torment Hufflepuffs (with just a few suggestions), the imbecilic inadequacies of Dumbledore, the new ways Potter had found to get in trouble.

Knocked that filthy Ravenclaw slut right off her broom.

Draco had lied almost from the first day. He was naturally mendacious where it was to his own advantage, and it was clear that his father would never accept the truth; that Potter and co. were far more popular and successful than he. He might beat one or two of the terrible trio at something but the others always made up for it. Lessons, Quidditch, chess, duelling....

Except in lying. Or, telling stories, as he thought of it. A new story every night, and if this satisfied his father he was allowed to live. So far he had kept his head. It had been a near thing, though, at times; he tried not to think about the end of First Year (he'd had to invent a new type of groin boil potion when he got home to make up for it).

That had been bad.

Hard to hide it at school, Father. Better to wait for the holidays.

Ah, the Dark Mark. It seemed to be tacitly accepted, that he'd get it. Even that he had it, and he was hiding it well. That Dumbledore hadn't found it. That Dumbledore knew about it but was actually working for the Dark Lord.

Laughable.

Draco wasn't sure what he wanted to do, but he was sure that this wasn't it. He was destined for far greater things than flunkeydom. He deserved better than an ignominious burial in the footnotes of other people's lives. He was Draco Malfoy. Awful. Clever, quick, ruthless. Untouchable. Once he knew what he wanted, he'd go straight out and get it.

In the meantime, he lied to his father. One story at a time, one night at a time, buying his freedom.