"Everybody has their own dirty little secret… Some aren't so bad; you'd be embarrassed, sure, if someone found out - but you would just suck it up and try to put it behind you.
But there are some secrets that aren't so bad- but when you consider the person keeping the secret, then it's not something that can just be lived down."

"Come on, this is me we're talking about: Draco Malfoy. Draco fucking Malfoy. Anything I could possibly be keeping as a secret automatically falls into the second category. They are the type of 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you' secrets.
And that's really what all this is about."

"I don't think anybody here is actually surprised that I blew up that Muggle club. Malfoy, remember; everyone knows how much stock we put on the worth of a couple hundred Muggles or a Mudblood or twenty. Oh, please, don't shudder at the word - you all know that I'm thinking it."

"What you all really want to know is why - Why that particular, innocent club? And Why did I have to utterly destroy it: not just kill everyone in it, but then also take apart every last inch of the place…
You have to admit it was a particularly spectacular and masterfully-executed demonstration of spellwork, if I say so myself."

"The answer is simply because that club was my dirty little secret."

"I would go, all ponced up in glorious leather, sinful vinyl, crushing velvet, and exotic lace - you can immediately see why this was not a personal habit I could readily share with Father or the rest of our social…circle. Malfoys simply Do Not Flounce. Malfoys dress; Malfoys tailor… The word "poof" does not exist it a Malfoy lexicon."

"But when I was at that place, crushed on all sides by nothing but hungry, melting flesh, Muggles -utterly ignorant Muggle playthings - nobody knew I was a Malfoy. Nobody knew what a Malfoy was; or what it was supposed to mean. Nobody asked after my father; nobody knew I was being groomed to take up a career of service for the Dark Lord."

"Oh, I despise Muggles, tainted blood, half-breeds, and blood-traitors more than anything in the world, of course. But among them… All they knew was that I was their own personal God."

"Do you know what it's like to enter a room painted black, not because Mother thinks it goes charmingly with all the silver - but because of all the warped and twisted petty souls cluttering the room? There's no place to breathe, no place to sit, no place to think: it's just movement, and a steady pounding beat, and flesh, flesh, fetish. All around. Every place you look -but you don't even really look. After the first glances, your eyes are shut anyway, soaking it in through your pores - direct, not second-hand or vicariously through your eyes…"

"They loved me. Adored me. I was the center of the universe when I would walk into the room: the maddening horde would twist their gyres around me. You could tell by their clothes, by the manners they affected, by the way they did their hair: they wanted to be me. I was the original-they were all just cheap copies. Muggle approximations. So they would drift in and out of my company like little moons, trying to reflect the sun. They wanted me. Women, men, boys and girls - they all wanted to touch me, to have me inside them so that maybe, for one moment, they were a little piece of me."

"They were mine. Little pieces of me. And no matter how much I loathed every inch of their weak, pitiful fleshy existence - they were mine to enjoy, mine to exalt, mine to destroy, mine to protect. Me. Mine."

"And then, that night, I was minding my own business-nibbling happily at the tender morsel on my lap- and I looked up and saw him."

"Harry fucking Potter."

"In the flesh, the prat. The insufferable git. The Goddamn Boy Who Refuses To Just Fucking Die.
And he saw me there."

"So of course, I had to kill him."

"But, alas, here my story comes to its inevitable conclusion. We all know that Harry Potter has a very Slytherin-like way of never dying and staying dead. So he forced my hand: if he would refuse to go out quietly like a snuffed-out candle, I had only one option left. I had to kill them all.
Just by being there, by seeing them - he was taking them away from me! His traitorous eyes were making my little Muggles into adulterous whores. Any other wizard or witch would have done the same - but it was a thousand times worse that it had to be him - that the one presence I simply can't abide, was the presence that came in that night and tainted the whole place in one foul swoop.
Nobody is worthy enough for even the cast-offs of a Malfoy. Certainly not mine. Certainly not him."

"And if I can't have them… No one can."

At which point, the Veritaserum ran it's full course; Draco Malfoy, despite his wealth and upbringing, promptly leaned forward and threw up in front of the full Wizengamot. After a confession like that, there wasn't really anyone left to argue against a life sentence in Azkaban.

It's a pity, though,
because I heard that he was an extremely good dancer.