Prism

Draco Malfoy perched on the edge of his bed as moonlight streamed through his window, staring into the face of a complete stranger. A short, gaunt boy about his age with flat, silky blonde hair and slate gray eyes that looked as if someone starved the color from them. He wore black silk pyjamas with silver trim, and a gold chain around his thin neck.

"Hello," they both said at the same time, so closely that he couldn't tell one voice from the other. He avoided the other boy's gaze, instead staring down at his bare feet as they dangled a few inches above the green plush carpet.

"I know I haven't talked to you in a while, it's hard with all these prats hanging around this place. But you're the best listener I know.

Maybe you could even give me a few answers. Like what I've got to do in order to get father's attention or once. Other than at Ministry functions when I make a good conversation piece. Or a bad one if you ask him. Nothing's ever good enough. Not my grades, not my Quidditch skills, though if you ask me even I agree on that second part.

"It doesn't matter, though. I hate him. He's a stupid self-centered bastard and I hate him. Runs in the family."

Malfoy paused, sighing. "But it's nothing compared to how much I hate that Golden Boy. Mr. Harry I'm-Perfect-Because-I-Have-a-Scar Potter. Mr. Harry I-Can-Win-the-House-Cup-for-Gryffindor-No-Matter-How-Many-Rules-I-Break Potter. Him and his perfect little sidekicks. I hate that Weasley kid. I hate his loving parents, I hate his close friends who actually give a damn about him, and I really hate that little Mudblood who beats me in everything."

"I swear, Professor Snape's the only sane guy in that whole damn school. The only one who isn't enamored with that little whiter-than-the-driven-snow teacher's pet. The only one who won't let him get away with everything just because he's a celebrity. If only I could find out what he's drinking and slip a liberal amountof it into all the other Professors' pumpkin juice at dinnertime." He pounded his fist into the bed, one of the springs groaning in protest.

"I hate them. I hate them all."

"I guess that means you hate me, too, then."

He looked back up at the stranger sitting across from him, on a bed just like his, wearing his pyjamas, his gold chain. He was staring blankly, his eyes glazed over. "It is that hatred that allows you to exist."

He shook his head, the boy continuing to stare him down. The moonlight made his hair look much whiter than it was, almost as if it were glowing.

"What?"

"You seek your identity in the perception of others. The way the world chooses to see you is the way you see yourself. Should that perception ever change, the current self will cease to be."

He stared at the boy's colorless lips moving, but it wouldn't sink in. Sweat gathered at the nape of his neck, trickling down the valley of his spine. His hands shook and clenched. "How............? You're......."

"I am the ideal self. The self you wish to be, and have always wished for. I am friends with the one you see as the enemy. I stay with the Weasley family all summer, as loved and cared-for as any of their own children. The rest of Hogwarts sees me for who I am, not who my family is. They like me. They treat me as one of their equals instead of an outsider like the rest of my House. I am liked instead of respected. Embraced instead of feared. Loved instead of hated."

Malfoy ground his teeth, his eyes flashing like twin thunderclouds. "No..........."

"But if this self ever comes to be, the you that is now will disappear. You will become nothing. For your current self to continue to exist, you must perpetuate the current perception of others. You must continue to be respected, feared, and hated. That is why you hate me. Because your current self fears becoming nothing."

He blinked, unbelieving, his teeth tearing into his lower lip. "But that's impossible........." he whispered. "You.........are me."

"I am not you. I am all that you want, and will never have. I am that which you fear, that which threatens your identity."

"Liar," he hissed, in a harsh and strained voice he didn't recognize. "I fear nothing."

"Exactly. Nothing is what you fear the most."

"Liar!" he shouted, springing to his feet and throwing his fist at the other boy's face.

The quiet of the night exploded in the sound of shattering glass.

The moonlight scattered off the shining fragments, glittering on the walls and floor like water as he stood there frozen and panting. His balled fingers stung, and he watched drops of dark liquid fall onto one of the glass shards at his feet. He saw his own face in every one, countless pairs of eyes staring back and moving with him as he brought is hand back to examine.

Dark blood glinted between his fingers, flowing from lacerated knuckles. The pain made his eyes sting as he gazed back at the tiny faces on the floor. Each with a bloody hand and a horrified look on his face.

Yet each stare held just as much accusation. The blood on his hand seemed to glow in the silvery light and dead quiet. The insides of his eyes burned, and he felt something hot and wet running down either cheek.

He raised his hand to brush them away, and watched his countless copies do the same. Each perfect face drenched in moonlight, their skin and hair white like a unicorn's mane. But now they all had a red smear beneath each stormy grey eye. He put his hand to his lips, nursing the cuts with his tongue as the taste of his own blood filled his mouth like poison. Bitter and coppery. He gazed back at the tiny shards, at his face in so many angles like a Picasso painting.

"Reflection...." he whispered aloud, and watched them do the same. "Only a reflection.........."

THE END