"Faustar!" The word rang out over the din of the Great Hall, and hung there like a grim spectre. Faustar, animal. Like Mudblood, the epithet Faustar brought instant silence and fear of retribution. To hear it flung at a Slytherin as powerful as Malfoy only added to that effect.

"What did you call me?" Malfoy hissed, white as his hair with fury. The one who spoke the word, a Slytherin by the name of Chienne LePain, neither quailed nor backed down, not even in the face of McGonagall's shocked,

"Miss LePain!" The Gryffindor Head of House made her way down from the Head Table with surprising speed. "Five points from Slytherin and detention with Mr. Filch! Do not let me hear you use such language again." The Deputy Headmistress' gaze met the small Slytherin's, and Chienne's green eyes dropped to the floor.

"Yes, ma'am." She said softly.

"Now apologize to Mr. Malfoy." McGonagall ordered. Cheinne did so, but her eyes eloquently bespoke her reluctance. McGonagall returned to the Head Table, satisfied. Snape glared at Chienne banefully. Slytherin's five-point lead over Griffindor had just been lost.

Once McGonagall's back was turned, Chienne smirked at Malfoy.

"Mark my words," Malfoy hissed, "you will pay for that. No one insults a Malfoy and get away with it!"

~*~

Draco stewed later in the Slytherin Common Room. He sat in one of the high-backed chairs, glaring at the far wall. The green laterns cast a sickly glow on everyone, but Draco didn't mind. Far better this than sharing quarters with Mudbloods as the other Houses did. Darkness suited Slytherin. Darkness suited his mood.

Who did Chienne LePain think she was, any way? A measly whisp of a second year, obscenely close to that dreadful little Weasley, Ginny. And she has the audacity to call him, HIM, Draco Malfoy, a faustar? Even Draco could break her over his leg, let alone Crabbe or Goyle. Draco supposed he could just get his cronies to beat her, but he wanted a more... personal revenge. Something to curl her straight brown hair.

Suddenly, he knew.

~*~

It was easy, patheticly easy, to plant Tom Riddle's diary on Chienne. Just a bit of a flick of the wand, and there it was. A relic of last year's attack by the Heir of Slytherin, the diary had contained a copy of a young Dark Lord's soul. The diary still bore the imprint of Voldemort's magic.

"Once the Dementors see that, they'll try to investigate. Let's see how little miss arrogance enjoys explaining why she had Tom Riddle's diary. They'll give her detention for the rest of the year." Malfoy chuckled. He knew that the second years often held races along the gravel path leading to the gates. Malfoy also knew that Chienne was more often than not the winner. Soon, yes, there. The race was set to begin. A bang of rock on rock, and the students were off. Chienne was in the back, but soon pushed her way to the front of the pack. Another ten strides, five... there. Chienne's hand touched the gate.

It was over in a second. If Draco hadn't been watching raptly, he would have missed it. Most did. Long, decaying hands reached out and grabbed black Hogwarts robes. Chienne's face was drawn into the hood for just the briefest of moments. Her body went stiff, then lax. The Dementor who had kissed the Slytherin dropped her body like so much refuse and turned back to his post.

"Oh, Merlin!" Ginny screamed, rushing to her friend's side. Other screams shattered the lunch-time silence. Malfoy stood there like a stone, staring blindly, numb. The Dementor had kissed her. Not ivestegated, not terrorized, but killed. Swiftly and without trial. Teachers and students pounded by the shocked Slytherin, but Draco didn't notice. It's... it's all my fault. I didn't mean... not... Draco began slowly moving, not really conscious where, only that it was away from the gate. They weren't supposed to kill her, just scare her a bit! Anger rose, sweet and hot, anger at the Dementors, anger at Chienne for neccessitating revenge in the first place. But by the time Draco had reached the lake, the self-deception had exhausted itself. Draco looked down in the water at his own pale reflection. Odd - there were wet streaks down his cheeks. Tears. Murderer. He thought to himself, his lunch turned to lead in his stomach, unusual tears of guilt leaving paths of saltwater. That's what you are, I am - Murderer.

Murderer.