A/N: This is a short angsty one-shot brought about by reading too much HBP fanfiction. I have always liked Draco (probably because I, for some reason, identify more with villains and minor characters than main characters), and the HBP movies just made me adore him even more.

Shakespearean

Draco Malfoy is nothing if not tragic. He is beautiful in the way that fallen angels are (just before they hit the ground) and as unfeeling as the dead bird clenched in his pale hand, and he can't remember the last time he laughed or even really smiled. He has been raised to be a flawless marble statue, an unquestioning slave to a soulless creature, and maybe at one time he was content with that (and even believed his father's hollow ideology but when it came down to it he couldn't translate words into actions) but now he is Hopelessly Lost.

From any angle he looks at it, his future is a grim one. No happily ever after for him (he never believed in fairy tales anyway, firstly because they're girly and secondly because the hero is always successful) and it really sucks because he's only sixteen and doesn't think he'll be able to bring himself to murder anyone.

Of course, everyone already believes him to be Pure Evil. They think that he revels in the act of torturing innocents and savors seeing blood pool around his polished shoes and kills kittens for fun (in truth, he's only killed one kitten, and that was when he was five and it was an honest-to-God accident that still bothers him sometimes), that he's as heartless and cruel as his father. In a way, he wishes they were right, because at least if he were as evil as they think he would be on solid ground, walking a set path and eager to fulfill the task set before him. As it is, he is suffocating in his doubt and insecurity, toeing the grey line between black and white while people at all sides pull at him and demand that he make his choice.

The thing about tragedies is, they always end in death. Draco can picture his own death quite clearly, which is bothersome and makes his hands break out in cold sweat, and the saddest thing about it is that he knows no one will mourn him. The Dark Lord will kill Mother and Father as well (they would be the only ones saddened by his death, but since they'll be dead too it doesn't matter), and the rest of the Wizarding world will glance at the death certificates, shove the bodies out of sight, and shrug.

After all, they are not heroes. They deserve what they get.

Right?