Power.

Power over life, over death. Power to control and command. The power, absolute, to decide destiny.

Draco Malfoy wanted so little out of life. Respect, fear, obedience - and intoxicating power.

He had watched his father end a man's life. Watched as green light flashed, reflected in the elder Malfoy's hard grey eyes. Watched as the man turned from a quivering lump of wasted humanity to mere garbage. His father had done that - taken potential and ended it. No sighs or whimpers of whispers of hope. Just the end.

That was power.

Walking through the stone hallways of Hogwarts, shuffling along with his Slytherin classmates through this outdated and idiotic House of Learning, Draco allowed his mind to linger on that second before the man had been hit with the Avada Kedavra Curse. The pooling fear had been expected; the somber resignation had not. The man, the worthless failure of a wizard, must have recognized that there was no mercy to be found in the Malfoy Manor.

A small body jostled Draco to the side. He scowled and whirled to face his attacker.

A skinny Gryffindor blonde boy was running excitedly towards the Dining Hall. It was...Crivit? Cremel? Creevey? Yes, that was it. Colin Creevey, Scarhead's most annoying little fan. The filthy mudblood had now ruined one of Draco's favorite robes. Not even a house-elf could get that stench out. Draco shuddered, tearing off his robe hurriedly and tossing it to the side. He loosened his silver and green tie, and continued along the hallway. His mouth was pinched and his hands rammed into his trouser pockets.

He pictured himself pointing a wand at the Creevey brat, muttering the Cruciatus Curse, watching the mean body twitch in pain, the mouth gaping in an endless scream.

"Draco?"

Draco glanced towards the slow voice. Crabbe was walking next to him, his broad stupid face screwed up in his 'thinking expression'.

"Draco," he said thickly, "what's the matter?"

"What are you talking about?" Draco snapped.

"It's just," Crabbe paused, recognizing the look of eager anger on Malfoy's face. He glanced at Goyle, who was lumbering along to Draco's left.

"You were muttering," Goyle supplied.

A twisted smile crept along Draco's face.

"Just thinking," he drawled. "Something you two imbeciles wouldn't recognize."

Neither of the two goons responded to the insult, the fact of which brought a thrill to Draco. He could order the two to jump in front of the Hogwart's Express next week and they would, without hesitation.

Power.

"I wonder how many OWLs I got." The Slytherin throng emptied into the Dining Hall. Crabbe and Goyle followed after Draco as he chose their seats. "Father was expecting at least ten, but I'll wager I got a solid eleven."

Goyle nodded wisely, then stared down at his golden plate. Crabbe eagerly took up the thread of conversation.

"I bet you got lots more than eleven," he said. "You're sure to be top of our class."

Of course he was just parroting what Draco himself had said last night. But that wasn't the point. You didn't surround yourself with the people who thought, you surrounded yourself with people who would think as you did. If everyone around you was concentrating on the pearls of wisdom you were dropping they'd be too busy to challenge you.

His father didn't teach him that. His father was too busy picking up pearls.

The rest of the school was filing into the hall, taking their seats, mouths gabbing incessantly. The latest hot topic was the Daily Prophet article.

HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS

The dreck of Potter-worship and Dumbledore loving had nearly made Draco sick. The idiot Minister, Fudge, was bowing and scraping, studdering apologies and worthless precautions.

But it wouldn't change anything.

The Dark Lord had returned. The war had begun.

And he, Draco, was going to be a part of it.

His father had promised him that this summer, after Draco's OWL results were received, they would take a trip. Lucius Malfoy had promised his son a Dark Mark of his very own. Draco was going to take the pledge of a Death Eater and be branded as a follower of the Dark Lord.

His currish eyes swept the student throng, alighting with a feverish delight on several faces. While all the other occupants of the hall shoveled food into their wagging mouths, Draco was choosing.

His father had promised him something else. If Draco made good marks, he would get a gift. Something that he'd been wanting for five years.

He had passed his OWLs, he could feel it. Now he was picking out his gift.

Draco's reverie was broken by a harsh screech.

"Ron! You have got to be joking!" Hermione Granger's bushy hair billowed around her as she continued yelling at the absurdly lanky red-head beside her.

Draco sneered, started to move his gaze somewhere less offensive, when a thought gave him pause.

Granger. Filthy, arrogant, mudblood Granger.

Perfect.

Draco could feel the grin building inside of him, could feel the laughter swelling just beneath the surface. Why hadn't he thought of the hag before?

He was suddenly looking very much forward to summer.

The supper hour passed in a blur. Draco was obsessively running over every scenario, trying to think of the best method. He spent many a happy moment imagining the look in her eyes, the expression on her face.

Would she, too, have resignation lurking behind the fear? Would she, too, bow to the inevitable?

To the power?

The Dark Lord had returned. This time only an arrogant boy and his geriatric champion stood in the way of Voldemort's vision. This time he would succeed.

And Draco Malfoy would be standing by his side.

The hall was emptying now, the students scurrying off to their Common Rooms, to their shallow lives. None of them could feel the winds changing, not one would see the sky grow black. They tripped along, following the great fool Dumbledore into their well-intentioned graves.

But he was a Malfoy. He heard the trumpets of war. He reveled in their harsh notes.

He strode to the doorway, not even aware of Crabbe and Goyle in his wake. Granger had just risen from her table. Her hair stuck out at odd angles, her bag was straining at the seams, her tie was cooked and there was an ink smudge on her chin. One might almost feel sorry for her.

If one was weak.

He couldn't help but smile as she glared at him.

Just wait, Granger, he thought. Just wait a few more months. Then everything you deserve will come raining down on your filthy mudblood head.

Draco had been promised a gift. His father always kept his promises.

He would raise his arm, point his wand at her throat. He would smile, oh so softly, as she begged, pleaded, cried out for mercy.

But there was no mercy at Malfoy Manor.

Then he would get to kill her. Then he would get to rip out her possibilities and trample them into nothing. End them. End her.

Draco Malfoy didn't ask for much, really.

Just power.

A/N: This was written in response to a challange by Mermaidrain. Canon!Draco is hard to write, so I hope I captured him accurately. Any feedback or review-type occurances are rewarded with chocolate biscuts.