You're Dead, Potter

You're dead, Potter.

The threat was fresh in his mind. He went to bed every night over the summer, thinking of it, dreaming of the one glorious moment when he would exact his revenge on the miserable bastard.

Thinks he can destroy me? Thinks he can destroy the Malfoys, does he? Not if I have anything to do about it, and I promise you, Potter, I will.

Draco watched him pass by that morning, hating the very ground he walked on. Sure, the rest of the school thought he was great. "Helped reveal the true threats among us." Well, it was sooner or later. They were bound to discover the Dark Lord's return with or without Potter's whines for attention. That's all it was. And he got it. That angered Draco even more.

None of them understood what it was like. What it is like for him. How could they possibly know? And why should they? They were just undeserving wretched excuses for wizardry, disgusting wastes of good blood. Good pure blood. Nobody saw the threat, the danger of getting too close to Muggles. They all adored those Mudbloods. Dirty blood. That's all they were. How he would love to spill that dirty blood all over the stone steps, the dark red staining the marble floors forever, in a more permanent sense than it had already by allowing students like that to enter these grounds. Nothing could wash it away. It was too late. Now people would be blind to the truth. The truth that in a world like this, only the strongest can survive. Only Purebloods.

You're dead, Potter. Already your insides are shriveling away, secretly terrified by what you've done. One day, I'll make you pay for it. And I swear it will hurt you beyond all reason. I'll do more than kill you. I'll destroy you.

He glared at the students squeezing past the corridors, trying to get to their classes. Look at them. They know full well the Dark Lord's back, and yet they still busy themselves with useless trivia. They didn't deserve it. They didn't deserve to live.

Turning away, he dragged his schoolbag to another corner of the hallway, away from the others. He was not in the mood to join their pointless games of academics. What did he need them for? He was a Pureblood- no, even better- he was a Malfoy. There wasn't anything he needed from any of them. Ever since the return of the Dark Lord was announced publicly, ever since the Death Eaters had finally escaped Azkaban like they all knew they would, Draco had lost interest in everything. Now he waited for his chance to seek his revenge. He didn't need the Dark Lord for that. He didn't need the Death Eaters either. And he most certainly didn't need his father to do it.

The Death Eaters were in hiding with the Dark Lord, plotting their worst. But from his father...

Not one word.

Not a single word.

He must be doing something important. For the sake of all the Pureblood dynasties in the world, most likely. That's why he's stopped being in touch with him and his mother. But Draco didn't care. From the moment Potter had saved the day, everything Draco liked best about being powerful in society disappeared. Now everyone knew, everyone despised, no one bothered to show any respect. He hated it. Didn't they even realize who they were disrespecting? He was the last remaining Malfoy! The single heir the perhaps the greatest Pureblood line in the entire magical world and they dared to show disrespect. They dared to follow Potter and his stupid ideals.

Damn them all to hell.

They had no idea. None of them knew what it was like. None of them could even begin to understand what it means to be a wizard- what it means to be him.

They don't understand.

He shut his eyes as the sounds of the students faded away. Class had begun. They would all be idly spending their time wasting away in front of pointless books that served no real purpose for the danger and horror they would soon face. He smiled as he thought of it. None of them had any idea what was coming.

The smile faded a little when he thought of last night. He'd been furious, seeing Potter and his friends at the feast, looking so smug and happy. It disgusted him, so much so he couldn't even hold his fork properly to eat anything. Not that he wanted to. He wasn't hungry, he hadn't been much in the mood to do anything lately, and that included eating. And sleeping, too. He remembered lying in his bed that night, staring up at the curtains with a kindling hatred beating in his heart. That feeling consumed to the point of insomnia; he could think of nothing else.

So he got out of bed and went downstairs to the Slytherin common room and was met with a few students, clumped together in tight cliques. They glanced at him when he approached, said not a word as usual, and turned away. They found themselves overcome with sudden fatigue, slipping away to their rooms. He scowled, watching them disappear, one by one. They were all a worthless lot of traitors. Every one of them. Only a few remained, but the few that did had fathers as Death Eaters. Just like his.

He'd shouted at them, screaming furiously as if it was all their fault his life had turned from bad to worse, that it was their fault he'd been shaken and humiliated all summer. He hated them for saying nothing back. They didn't even think of anything to say, not even join in his argument or try to calm him down. They just sat and stared and finally looked away, uncomfortable. Didn't they understand what was going on? Didn't they realize the danger? Was he the only one who was aware of it, aware of what was coming? Didn't they know anything?

He'd rounded on Pansy, just because she was the closest one, just because she was the only one who came close to understanding the most. And that wasn't saying much. Their argument caused her voice to grow hoarse, but he wasn't nearly finished when she tried to turn away. But she didn't want to listen; he could see her hands trembling when she tried to stand and head for the girls' dorms. He looked back at the others, but they immediately glanced away.

Seething, gritting his teeth against the injustice, against the hurt and the waiting and the humiliation, he punched the wall again and again, until his knuckles bled heavily on to the cold, stone floor. His anger and fear dripped down the wall, staining the dark gray with dark red velvet.

Pansy ran forward and tried to grab his arm, Goyle was on his feet beside her. He whirled around and shoved her away, but when she came back, a determined look on her face, he hit her.

It was only a slap, a hard one across the face, but that's all. She didn't nearly have to over-dramatize it so much. Pansy fell back against Goyle who looked alarmed at having to decide whom to assist first, a hand pressed against her cheek. Her face was red, and, to Draco's amazement, she looked ready to cry. He didn't think he'd hit her that hard, but he had a funny feeling she wanted to cry from something more than just a slap across her face.

"Pansy-,"

But she shook her head and turned away for good this time. Perhaps she knew that he didn't know if he should apologize, much less how. He never did apologize for anything, he wasn't used to it, nor was he taught to do so, as his father most certainly never found the need to offer his regrets.

He was left standing there awkwardly again, with the rest of them sitting quietly as though waiting further instruction. Without another word, the backs of his hands aching and throbbing, he turned and stalked back to his dorm.

The next morning, his knuckles were still stinging when he tried to move them. Pansy discovered him in the common room, trying to wrap a piece of cloth around it messily, and without mentioning the incident from the night before, she took his hand and tried it up tightly in a much more effective way. She hesitated when she was done, as though unsure if she should speak or not, but in the end she offered him a knowing look straight in the eye and walked out with the other girls. He noticed that her cheek was still a faint pink.

It made him angry and the tired, hungry feeling he'd woken up with disappeared instantly. He was reminded of his threat and his promise by the mark that he'd left on Pansy's face, and he was back to being obsessed with his desperate need for vengeance. Which took him to where he was now.

Draco opened his eyes immediately; the same feeling that settled on the bottom on his stomach now returned with fervor, and he glared at the wall in front of him now. Walls were the only things left for him to hit now, the only things left to trap him inside himself. With a cry of suppressed rage, he smashed his fist into the wall in front of him, grinding the stones as hard as he could. Pain burst into his consciousness, but he ignored it. Breathing hard, he stepped back, staring at the blood he'd smeared all over the wall and looking down at his hand that throbbed painfully. The bandages Pansy had tied for him were rolled and twisted, no longer working. But that was his fault, not hers. No. It was Potter's fault.

He shut his eyes, gasping.

Oh, you're dead, Potter. I swore to you I'd get you for this, and I will. I'll get all of you. You think you can betray a Malfoy, a Pureblood?

He grabbed his schoolbag and stalked towards the dungeon room, determined to end this now. But when he opened the door, he stopped, staring.

Professor Snape turned and narrowed his eyes at him, clearly unhappy at having his class interrupted, even if it was by his possibly most favorite student. Favorite, yeah, right. Draco clenched his fists, dripping blood steadily onto the ground by his feet. He'd had time to think about his plan for revenge over the summer, time to think about his life in general. And the one thing that kept coming back was Snape. Now Draco understood. He never was a true wizard. He was just like the others, like Potter's gang of faithful followers, all set to save the world from its own inevitable demise. It occurred to Draco that Snape simply wanted information, information that he would feed personally back to Dumbledore himself. That's all. Draco used to think he'd be the one person at the school that would understand.

But when the Death Eaters were rounded up and sent to Azkaban, Snape was not among them. No, he was the snitch, the sneak, the betrayer. His father risked his neck to protect the name of wizard, and here was Snape, pretending to do the same thing. He did not deserve to be in the same league as his father.

He was just like the rest of them.

"Mr Malfoy, you are late."

"Observant, aren't we?" Draco snapped back, feeling the anger rise again. But this time he had a target, not a stubborn, unyielding stone wall, not his unresponsive band of followers, not Pansy, not his fears.

Snape stared, not saying a word. Perhaps out of shock. Draco had never once said anything the slightest bit impolite to him before, but that was back when he had respected him. Now that respect was gone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Potter lean forward in his chair slightly, staring at him. Probably in shock, too.

"Ten points from Slytherin," he heard Snape whisper and his eyes swerved back to the professor's. He stared at him, the rage like a white-hot pain that now resided in his bleeding fist. He loathed him, standing there, thinking himself to be intelligent. That was a fatal move, Professor, he sneered. Taking away points? Trying to maintain authority? Well, it's too late for that, isn't it? I know who you really are. You're a traitor. You've forsaken the cause, the only cause worth fighting. You have no respect, you don't deserve to call yourself a wizard. I can see right through you, you-

"Traitor!" Draco shouted and threw himself at Snape, grabbing for his throat. Somebody in the room screamed; he caught a glimpse of Potter leaping to his feet. Snape himself lurched back, taken off guard, but Draco only shouted more threats, hurling towards the liar with a darker rage.

There was a bright flash of light and he was forced to close his eyes against it. Somebody yelled the words to a spell and he felt something grab his arms and legs and force him to ground. He fell flat on his face, the shock of which stopped his screaming momentarily. Ropes had sprung out of no where and coiled themselves around his ankles, keeping him from moving, and two separate ropes tied his wrists to the floor. Draco tried to shout at them, but he heard the words of another spell and a gag placed itself over his mouth. He lay there, gasping for breath between curses, struggling so hard against the ropes that he could feel them burning into his skin, felt the warm gush of fresh blood from the cuts dripping down his fingers.

Potter was standing beside him, Snape before him. He furiously struggled even more at the thought of them being inches from his grasp. He could kill the both of them now, if only- he- could- just- get- free-

Then someone else came running into the room, shoving Potter's rigid form aside.

"What is the meaning of this?" McGonagall's voice shouted. "Severus, why is-?"

"He attempted to attack me."

"Out of the way, Potter, out of the way. What do you mean attack?"

The sound of Potter's voice infuriated Draco even more, even if he did stop his words too soon, as if afraid or unsure of whether to repeat what he'd heard: "He just hurled himself at him, Professor. He said- he called him a...well, I tied him down, but-,"

"Fine, fine, go on and leave, Potter."

"But-,"

"Get out, Potter," Snape's voice ordered.

Draco struggled again, determined to inflict harm, then froze when McGonagall bent to touch his arm. How dare she touch him like that!

"Mr Malfoy, if I take away the gag, will you explain yourself decently?"

The gags disappeared, and he wasted no time. Panting for breath, he jerked himself around, glaring up at the two of them. "You traitor. You think you can get away with this? The Dark Lord will seek his revenge, he'll kill you both!"

McGonagall looked at Snape sharply, eyes narrowed and face pinched in something that wasn't so much anger as it was fear and alarm. Draco smiled in spite of himself, a mad sense of triumph filling his body. So they were afraid. They were, just as much as he- no, even more. Of course, they were. They should be. All enemies of the Dark Lord tremble in fear, no matter what they say or present themselves to be. Even Dumbledore hesitates.

Dumbledore had had the nerve to come to the Malfoy Manor personally, to pay his mother a visit. Draco had been in such shock to hear his Headmaster's voice in the sitting room that for a moment he'd been convinced he was in a dream. But he wasn't. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, at first having thought that the visitor had long-anticipated news of his father, he just stood there, staring at the scene in front of him. It was surreal.

There he was. He had the gall to sit there in his father's chair, the gall to act casual and comfortable in the Malfoy Manor, the gall to speak to his mother as if they were old friends, the gall to smile at him when he noticed him standing there.

Draco didn't smile back. He didn't even glare. He was too stunned to say anything.

His mother ignored him as she usually did when guests were present, since Draco was normally not allowed to enter the room until he was sent for. Since his father's arrest, however, he'd walked into any room unannounced whenever guests came, desperate to learn something. But now Dumbledore sat in his house like a respected guest, and very unexpected:

"It has come to my attention that there are certain connections to the attacks last June with your husband, Narcissa."

Draco couldn't believe his mother was letting that man address her like that, and he stared unblinkingly at her, waiting for a response. She simply stared back at Dumbledore calmly, her lips drawn in a thin line.

"Unless you care to deny what has been proven by Mr. Potter and the Ministry, I must ask about your son's future involvement with the school."

Here, Narcissa paled ever so slightly. "Are you telling me that Draco may not be admitted for this term?"

"Not unless you choose otherwise. Narcissa, I'm here simply to clarify whether or not Draco will be returning. Should he choose to do so, please know that his prefect status will be left as it is. I firmly believe that his academic progress will lead him to the right course, assuming he wishes to continue his education in my establishment. Would you mind terribly if I asked him myself?"

Narcissa turned to stare at her son, who was standing behind Dumbledore's chair the whole while, apparently unnoticed by the guest so far. The Headmaster followed her gaze, and regarded Draco with mild surprise, giving Draco the impression that he had known of his presence the entire time.

Draco did not want to go back to Hogwarts. Not among those Muggle-loving freaks. He wanted to go back to a Hogwarts that was run by Purebloods, inhabited by Purebloods. The kind of wizardry that deserved to be acknowledged. The only kind. But he also knew that it did not matter what he wanted. His father and mother were expecting him to uphold the correct way of wizardry in the wretched school. He had to return in order to keep an eye on the stupid Mudbloods, for the benefit of the Dark Lord. That was why the other students whose parents were connected with the June attack on the Ministry or even the Dark Lord in general were going back at the beginning of the next term. It would give the hated Potter-gang the satisfaction they craved if Draco did not come back. And he refused to let that happen. So Draco looked Dumbledore straight in the eye and said plainly,

"I will return to Hogwarts in order to prepare it for the Dark Lord's imminent return. And when he comes to take the school, I will gladly give him what he deserves, and rid those unworthy of being in his presence."

He could not tell if his mother approved because she showed no change in her expression, but he did catch a glint in her eyes. Feeling even more confident, he turned his attention back to the old man in front of him, who had not said a word since his reply. Instead, Dumbledore continued to stare at him with a blank, passive look and when he opened his mouth, he hesitated, closing it again.

That was all Draco needed. He smirked knowingly, and before the Headmaster could say anything else, he lifted his chin and bid his mother good-bye. Before he could leave however, he saw something in the old wizard's eye that froze him in his tracks.

He saw pity.

He saw understanding, sadness, regret, and pity.

Draco was so stunned he couldn't react. He just stared back at the man, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, feeling completely defenseless. He couldn't even think, How dare he look at me like that? until well after Dumbledore had left.

Now he had almost managed to forget that memory. Now, he'd almost managed to convince himself that the only thing that mattered in that exchange was that even Dumbledore had hesitated at the mention of the Dark Lord's victory. Now he'd almost managed to ignore the fact that what he'd seen in his Headmaster's eyes were something he had never and would never seen in anyone else's eyes. No one looked at him like that. He was Draco Malfoy, son of the most powerful wizard under the Dark Lord himself. No one saw a reason to look at him like that. What reason did Dumbledore have?

He had none.

And as he walked away from McGonagall and Snape after they let him go, after Snape had plainly stated that Draco take a detention and said nothing else when the other professor tried to argue a harsher punishment, after he marched past Potter and his gang who stared at him with a sort of curious disbelief, he knew that no one had a reason to look at him with anything other than fear.

No one understood him, no one ever would.

And what did it matter anyway?

Soon they would all pay for their traitorous acts.

But deep inside, Draco still could not fully understand why it bothered him so much.

Forgetting it, he focused on what mattered:

You're dead, Potter. I can see the look in your eyes. You're afraid. You're done with losing people, you're done with fighting. But it has only just begun. You think it will be over soon. But it will only be over when I see you dead.

And I swear, I will.