The tip of his wand pressed deeper and deeper into the boy’s arm. His flesh burned as if ignited by a torch. A fiery heat tore through his veins and penetrated his heart. The boy wanted to scream to release the pain of it all. He wanted to fall to the floor and cry out, but he could not. The agony was an honor. To endure it was a privilege reserved only for the Dark Lord’s select few who were chosen to carry out his most noble works, who pledged their undying loyalty to the Dark Lord alone. He had a duty. He would be strong.

The boy fixed his eyes upon his forearm, watching in amazement as a number of mysterious black lines emitted from the wand’s tip, streamed into his flesh, and began creeping in different directions, crawling and turning this way and that, as if drawing, scorching an image into his arm as they crept. The Mark slowly, tortuously, began to emerge on the surface of his skin. As the Dark Mark grew clearer, so did Draco’s future. He had taken his father’s place in the Dark Lord’s inner circle. He would fulfill the commands of his Master in his father’s absence. He would prove to Lucius he was a son he could be proud of, a son who was no longer a boy but a man.

When the serpent which protruded from the mouth of the skull seemed to slither and writhe upon his arm, Lord Voldemort withdrew his wand and fixed his blood-red eyes on Draco. The young Death Eater dropped to his knees and bowed low before his new Master, kissing the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes as he had seen his father do so many times before.

Draco was unsure whether to speak or hold his tongue still. From the racing thoughts in his mind, his mouth tried to form words to please his Lord, but they would not come. It did not matter. With a slow, cold voice, the mighty Wizard before him spoke first, and the servant, still on his knees, was keen to listen. While the Dark Mark continued to burn with a smoldering fire, Draco clung desperately to every chilling word from his new Master.

“Draco, my servant, you came to me, humbly requesting that I might allow you to be of some use to our most noble cause. I considered your request, and I must admit that I did have my reservations at first. So young and not yet fully trained, what use could you be to the greatest Dark Wizard who ever lived?

"But I could not ignore the daring it must have taken to approach me. Full grown men, powerful wizards, cower in my presence. Your resoluteness was undeniable. You possess rare traits I value highly in my followers. So I obliged, and tonight I graciously bestowed my Mark upon you, sealing your covenant with me like others in your family before you. Though, as you know, my dear Draco, not all of them have followed through with their promises. However, I am certainly not one to blame the son for the error of the father. So tonight, I am granting you your petition to be put to use, and I am entrusting you with a task of the greatest importance.”

There was a pause in his words as Lord Voldemort placed the end of his wand beneath Draco’s chin, raising his head, which was still bowed to the floor, lifting him to his feet, where the steel grey eyes of the servant became level with the snake-like eyes of the Master. Draco could feel the Dark Lord’s icy breath upon his face as he continued.

“I have chosen you,” Draco’s heart raced, and it took all his efforts to suppress the emotion surging through his body, “to destroy the obstacle which stands between me and Harry Potter. There is only one reason I have not been able to dispose of Harry Potter once and for all. One man remains, watching over him, protecting him constantly. He must die. And you must be the one to do it. I have chosen you, Draco, to kill the great Albus Dumbledore.”

A torrent of images and emotions threatened to overwhelm him, yet from the chaos within, the words he would speak came to him unmistakably. With a fearless expression, Draco stood firmly, his face inches from that of the Dark Lord. His only hesitation was to draw in a breath sufficient enough to propel the few short words he knew must come and must come clearly, confidently. “Thank you, My Lord.” The words from his servant spoke gratitude, submission, and reverence. And with them, Lord Voldemort disapparated, leaving Draco with a weight he had never known.

---

Draco lie on his bed, but he did not sleep. He was alone. In many ways, Draco had always been alone. He was the only child of a father who cared more about wealth and power than he did about his own son and a mother who was always more caught up in impressing other notable wizards and witches of the day than raising a child. The Slytherins he hung around with at school were more his followers than his friends. And this very night, the night he was accepted into the inner circle of the Wizard he so revered, he felt more isolated than ever. He had been given a task, an order that he must carry out. There would be no failure. He had to kill his headmaster, and he had to do it alone.

The crescent moon cast a feeble light through Draco’s window, but it was enough for him to make out the outline of the fresh Mark on his forearm. The Dark Mark was still quite painful, and Draco began to wonder if it would ever feel otherwise.

Autumn had reached the castle. The few short months that had passed since that night at Malfoy Manor had seemed an eternity to Draco. As the rest of the Slytherins slept, Draco stared into the crackling fire of the Common Room, replaying his plan over and over in his head as the brilliant flames danced haughtily in front of him. It just wasn’t working. He’d been trying to repair the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement for weeks, a task which was proving to be far more difficult than Draco had anticipated.

And as he sat, furiously trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong with the Cabinet, Draco wondered how much longer the Dark Lord’s patience with him would hold. He could feel the Mark burn beneath the sleeve of his deep emerald robe, the pain of which seemed to be increasing as time passed. Do all Death Eaters experience the same effects of the Mark? The thought came to Draco. Or is this the Dark Lord’s way of expressing his growing intolerance with my lack of progress? Draco decided the time had come for his backup plan. Fortunately, Draco had been making a few arrangements for this in case it was needed. But he was going to need help.

Help, however, for a Death Eater at Hogwarts was not easy to find. That’s why Draco was working on the Vanishing Cabinet in the first place: to allow entrance into the castle for those who would otherwise be kept out by all the protective enchantments Dumbledore had placed around the school. The only other Death Eater Draco knew to be at Hogwarts was Professor Snape. And while Snape had always been Draco’s favorite teacher, he no longer considered him an ally. With his father in Azkaban, Draco was forced to watch as Snape took Lucius’s position as Lord Voldemort’s most faithful servant. Draco resented him and was determined to prove that he, Lucius’s son, was more worthy of honor from the Dark Lord than was Snape. So when Draco needed help at Hogwarts, he turned to the two people who had always been there to do his bidding in the past.

Leaving the warmth of the fire behind him, Draco stood up, crossed the cold, stone floor, and headed to the boys’ dormitories. He quietly dressed, woke up Crabbe and Goyle, who were both snoring like trolls, and told them to change and meet him in the Common Room in five minutes. Ever obedient to Draco, the boys climbed out of their warm beds and into the bitter darkness of the early morning hours. They dressed and found Draco waiting for them.

“What took you so long?” Draco questioned accusatorily.

Crabbe and Goyle began grumbling about being awoken so dreadfully early on a Saturday morning, but they were quickly hushed by Draco who brusquely ordered them to get their coats.

“Are you mad? It’s sleeting outside!” complained Goyle.

“That’s why you’ll be needing your coats,” Draco responded with a very simplistic tone in his voice.

Quite predictably, the boys followed Draco’s orders, and together they headed out of the dungeons and up the stairs of the castle. They walked silently, careful not to be noticed by the caretaker, Mr. Filch, who always took great pleasure in catching students wandering the corridors when they were supposed to be in bed. As the boys reached the seventh floor, the sun began to peep into the castle.

“What are we doing up here, Malfoy? I’m starting to sweat in this coat.” It was Crabbe’s turn to complain.

“Shut up, Crabbe, and give me a minute. Make yourself useful, and keep watch while you stand there.” Draco slowly began to pace back and forth along the wall. He was deliberate, focused. He closed his eyes and began muttering so softly that the others could not make out what he was saying. Seemingly out of nowhere, the great door to the Room of Requirement appeared. Though Crabbe and Goyle had seen the door before, the day the D.A. was uncovered the previous spring, they were no less amazed as they watched it appear in front of them upon Draco’s command.

Draco opened the heavy door and shoved his classmates into the room, closing the door behind them tightly. The room was small, no bigger than their dormitory. The walls were lined with shelves, and upon them sat a number of bottles and jars, full of what looked to be potions ingredients. In the middle of the floor sat a cauldron, and within it bubbled a murky gray concoction out of which rose a foul-smelling cloud of dark black smoke. Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other nervously and then turned to Draco.

“It’s Polyjuice Potion. Which one of you is in?” asked Draco sternly.

“Malfoy, what’s going on?” asked Goyle.

“That’s really none of your concern. Who’s in?” Draco asked again.

“I’m not drinking that stuff,” Crabbe asserted.

“Well, I’m not drinking it,” insisted Goyle.

“Look, there’s something I’ve got to do in Hogsmeade today, but I’ve got detention with McGonagall. I need someone to sit for me.” Draco was growing impatient.

“Isn’t this a bit much just to get out of detention?” asked Goyle.

“Goyle, give me a bit of your hair,” ordered Draco.

“Why me? What about Crabbe?”

“Because you’re better looking,” answered Draco sardonically. “And I don’t see why either one of you should mind. You’ll get to look like me for a while.”

Neither Crabbe nor Goyle had ever stood up to Draco before. But this time was different. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep from being awoken so early on a Saturday. Perhaps it was that they hadn’t eaten yet, and hunger was making them less agreeable than usual. Perhaps they just didn’t think it was fair to have to suffer through Draco’s detention for him. After all, they hadn’t been neglecting their Transfiguration homework all semester. Or perhaps they were simply tired of taking orders from their classmate. Whatever the reason, neither Crabbe nor Goyle was about to drink the putrid, mud-like substance which sat gurgling at their feet.

“I’m going to go see if the elves have anything ready for breakfast.” Goyle stepped toward the door, but Draco defiantly moved to block his path.

“You’re not going anywhere, Goyle.” And without pausing to think, Draco hastily removed a shiny, silver, serpentine cufflink and drew back the left sleeve of his shirt. The room was silent but for the noise emanating from the cauldron. The boys stared at the Mark as it seemed to slither upon Draco’s forearm. Draco stared back at them, his heart beating vigorously. Their eyes and mouths gaped open, but no sound came out. The three classmates stood in the small room, frozen to the spot.

Though the stillness seemed as if it would hold them without end, Goyle was finally the first to move. He brought his hand to his head and with a stern yank, pulled out a lock of his hair. “Will this do?” he asked. His shaky hand presented Draco with the object of his request.

___


It was the day every Hogwarts student who was third-year and up had been eagerly awaiting: the first trip to Hogsmeade of the school year. In spite of the chilling rain and sleet that had arrived during the night, the road to Hogsmeade was full of students. Well in front of the crowd were Vincent Crabbe and Draco Malfoy, who looked exactly like fellow-Slytherin, Gregory Goyle. No one suspected a thing as Crabbe and Goyle would usually head to Hogsmeade together. Typically they were flanking Draco, of course, but today he was sitting in detention with Professor McGonagall.

When the boys reached Hogsmeade, Draco decided he needed to be rid of Crabbe for a bit, so he handed him the Knuts he found in Goyle’s pocket and sent him to Honeyduke’s. He knew that would keep Crabbe busy while he headed over to the Three Broomsticks. Although Draco had revealed to both Crabbe and Goyle the Dark secret which he hid beneath his sleeve, he was certainly not about to fill them in on the task he’d been given nor his plans to accomplish it. This was between Draco and the Dark Lord, servant and Master. It was his alone to carry.

As Draco entered the Three Broomsticks, the warmth of the tavern was a welcome escape from the frigid wetness outside. Draco spotted a table in the far corner and decided it was the perfect spot as the light was relatively dim, yet it offered a broad view of much of the tavern. He made his way across the room, clumsily knocking over a chair and then bumping into a man from the village. Draco, who generally moved with a certain amount of dignity, was finding it difficult to manage in the broader, heavier frame of Goyle. He tried not to draw too much attention to himself as he reached his destination, pulled out the wooden chair which seemed to screech loudly upon the well-worn oak floor, and sat down.

Without a moment to gather his thoughts, his eyes caught Madam Rosmerta’s. The owner of the Three Broomsticks had noticed Draco, or rather Goyle, and she started towards him to take his order. Before she could even mutter so much as a greeting to him, Draco spoke. “Butterbeer,” he said, his voice slightly quivering. She smiled, nodded and turned her back to him as she headed back to the bar. This was it. It was all happening so quickly. The Polyjuice would only last so long. He could not hesitate.

He knew the curse he had to speak. His entire plan depended on it. He did not pause. He couldn’t. His nerves might betray him. His wand concealed beneath the table in front of him, he breathed in a single breath of the stale tavern air and exhaled, “Imperio!” He’d done it. The Unforgivable Curse had rolled off his tongue so easily. And he knew it had worked instantly, for the moment he spoke the word, he felt a sensation he had never felt before, an intense power flowing from his heart through his hand to his wand. It was unlike any magic he had ever performed, stronger, almost overwhelming the sixteen-year-old who had given voice to it. And then, all he had to do was think, with a focus, a determination. But the magic of the Imperius curse did not require words. Draco merely had to concentrate on whatever he desired Madam Rosmerta to do, and it happened.

Draco sat in the corner, watching the scene play out before him, the scene he was inventing inside his head. Madam Rosmerta reached behind the bar and picked up the parcel which had mysteriously arrived by owl post just moments before Draco, or rather Goyle, had entered the tavern. She brought Draco his butterbeer and then disappeared into the ladies’ room with the package.

Draco’s work was not done. He would have to Imperius someone else, a student or a teacher, someone who could get back into the castle. His eyes scanned the tavern to see who could potentially be his next target. No! At a table on the opposite side of the room sat the three people he least wanted to see: Harry, Ron, and Hermione. If they suspected Draco of anything, they would start snooping and surely make a mess of things. His heart sank while his contempt for the three of them grew. Then again, he wasn’t Draco; he was Goyle. Perhaps this would be enough to keep any suspicions at bay. And then a marvelous thought came to him: Maybe it’ll be Granger. How ironic if Dumbledore’s favorite little Mudblood was the one to deliver the package to him. Surely, he’d open it with delight. Potter and Weasley would likely be right there with her when it happened. And they’d get to watch as their beloved Headmaster… His sinister thought was interrupted as Katie Bell, a Gryffindor he’d often played Quidditch against, walked directly through his line of sight, headed for the ladies’ room.

He couldn’t wait for Hermione. He had to act. “Imperio!” Draco whispered the curse, and he felt the same powerful sensation surge through him once again. He knew it had worked. Moments later, Katie Bell exited the ladies’ room and left the Three Broomsticks, headed back to the castle to deliver her newly acquired package: a gift for the Headmaster. Dumbledore would soon be dead. This was too easy. It was Dark. It was eerie. It was wonderful.

But Draco had no time to dwell on his recent accomplishment. He knew the effects of the Polyjuice Potion would wear off soon. He had to get back to Hogwarts. Draco signaled Madam Rosmerta over to his table one last time and gave her a handful of change for the butterbeer. Among the coins was a fake Galleon upon which he had placed a Protean Charm. Draco had no reason to doubt the success of his latest plan to kill the Headmaster, after all, the cursed necklace which was on its way to Dumbledore had a long history of bringing death to anyone who touched it. Nevertheless, Draco had also learned that there was value in a backup plan. He would leave Rosmerta under the Imperius Curse as it wasn’t always practicable for him to make it into Hogsmeade, and he would be able to give her orders using the charmed Galleon if he required use of her again in the future.

Draco left the Three Broomsticks as inconspicuously as possible, located Crabbe, and hurried back to Hogwarts in the stinging rain. Draco felt an overwhelming sense of pride. He was a Death Eater. He was serving his Master well. He would prove himself to his father. He would soon overshadow Snape. He would make the Dark Lord proud.

Draco and Goyle met in the boys’ bathroom down the corridor from Professor McGonagall’s office just as they were beginning to transform back into themselves. Draco was glad to change out of the clothes that had been saturated by the chilling wetness outside and pull on his warm, dry robes. Goyle, on the other hand, was struggling to get his limbs into the mess of dripping wet clothes Draco had so willingly relinquished.

“Sorry about that, Goyle. It was a bit of a mess out there this morning,” offered Draco.

“No worries, Malfoy. I’ll gladly drip from head to toe if it means I don’t have to be you anymore,” Goyle responded.

“C’mon now, detention couldn’t have been that bad. It’s just McGonagall.”

“It wasn’t the detention, Malfoy. It was that bloody Mark of yours. It was creepy, like it knew I wasn’t you. My whole arm felt like it was on fire.”

Draco said no more. He had never considered that Goyle would feel it, too. The Death Eater walked alone down the corridor to Professor McGonagall’s office. He had to sit for his detention.

“Outta my way! Outta my way!” the boy shrieked. And before Draco could grasp the handle of the door to Professor McGonagall’s office, a scrawny but determined first-year had barreled over him and entered her office first. “Professor, come quick! Something terrible has happened! Professor Hagrid sent me to find you. He is on his way up to the hospital wing and wants you to find him straight away!”

Professor McGonagall jumped to her feet, an uninhibited determination on her face. Darting out of her office, she caught sight of Draco, who had been returning for the remainder of his detention but was now dusting himself off after his recent collision. “Draco, you may go now,” she quickly offered as she sped down the corridor toward the hospital wing.

It couldn’t have happened already, could it? Could Katie have already made it back to the castle and given the package to Dumbledore? No, there hasn’t been enough time. Or has there? And if he has touched the necklace, he wouldn’t be in the hospital wing. He’d be dead. Right? Maybe this has nothing to do with me. Maybe it’s something completely different. Or maybe the cursed necklace really worked.

Draco’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the small boy who had brought the message to Professor McGonagall. “Are you alright?” the boy asked with a nervous tone of concern in his voice.

Draco paused for a moment, willing himself away from the thoughts in his head and back into the doorway of Professor McGonagall’s office, where two bright eyes were staring up at him. “What? Yeah. Fine.” Draco mumbled as he tried to make sense of all that was happening.

“Sorry I ran into to you,” the boy apologized with a bit of trepidation and began to back away from the much larger sixth-year.

“Did Hagrid say what happened?” Draco asked brusquely.

“No. There wasn’t time. He was in a hurry to get the girl to the hospital wing.”

“Girl? What girl?” he drilled further.

“I don’t know. I mean, I saw Hagrid carrying her. But I didn’t see who she was. It all happened so quickly.”

“Carrying her? Was she dead?” The words came out of Draco’s mouth fiercely. From the moment he had released them, Draco wished he could take them back. The eerily odd question hung there in silence.

The boy seemed a bit taken aback either by the directness of the question or the sharpness of its delivery; so there he stood, his mouth agape as if words were wanting to come, his eyes wide on Draco.

Composing himself, Draco rephrased, “I mean, do you think she’ll be alright?”

“Hagrid was taking her to the hospital wing. That means she’s alive, right?”

“It must,” Draco added softly, with a hint of relief in his voice. The boy did not wait for another question. He turned and disappeared down the corridor. Draco stood, motionless, uncertain what had just happened and equally uncertain what the next few minutes and hours would bring. He had to learn more: who was hurt, how badly, and what seemed most important to Draco at the moment, whether the fault was his. Though all of his being wanted to run, to hide, to escape, to breathe, Draco forced himself to walk down the hallway towards the sounds of voices which were now beginning to reverberate throughout the castle.

His steps were even. He consciously thought through every movement he made, neither moving too hastily nor too slowly, not wanting to draw attention to himself… not wanting to look like he was up to something … not wanting to look like he was scared … not wanting anyone to know the truths hidden within him. As he walked steadily onward, passing chattering groups of students, his ears began drinking the words around him.

“I saw Hagrid. He was running through the castle carrying a girl!”

“I heard she was attacked in Hogsmeade!”

“Who was she?”

“I think I’ve seen her play Quidditch.”

“She’s a Gryffindor, I think.”

“Did you hear? Someone was hexed in Hogsmeade!”

“A band of Death Eaters attacked Katie Bell!”

By the time Draco had crossed the length of the castle, he had overheard several versions of what transpired in Hogsmeade that morning, from the plausible to the inane; and there were enough pieces of truth amongst them for Draco to pull together what had happened. And when the sudden shock of the story would settle in the hours to come, everyone would eventually come to know that it was Katie Bell who had been hurt, cursed when she touched an opal necklace that had come into her possession in Hogsmeade. What no one would know, however … what they could not know was that Draco was to blame, that he had all but handed her the cursed necklace himself. What no one would know was the heavy weight Draco had been carrying and the fact that it had just grown tenfold inside him. The only thing that lessened the load which threatened to crush him was the fact that Katie hadn’t died, at least not yet.

Somewhere between the north end of the castle and the south, Draco’s careful, even steps had broken into a run, taking him past the gargoyles and suits of armor which lined the corridors of Hogwarts and whose watching eyes, it seemed, were all focused on him as he darted past in search of a place to find escape. Draco threw open the door to the boys’ bathroom on the deserted sixth floor corridor and ran to the furthest cubicle where his legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the hard, stone floor.

As he leaned his back against the unyielding tile wall, Draco trembled, his elbows on the knees which could no longer bear his slim frame, his head buried in his hands, his steel gray eyes drowning in the flood of tears he could no longer contain. Draco wept in quiet seclusion while the rest of the castle was busying themselves with their attempts to sort out the details of the incident that transpired on what should have been an uneventful fall day in the village of Hogsmeade.

I didn’t mean to hurt her! I didn’t want her dead! The curse wasn’t meant for her! What went wrong? She must have touched it. And Dumbledore is still alive. How could I have made such a ridiculous mistake? The Dark Lord is counting on me. He’s waiting. He’s STILL waiting. And now the necklace is gone, and that bloody Vanishing Cabinet is still broken, and …

The voice in Draco’s head was silenced with the high-pitched sigh of a girl. Startled, he lifted his head to find the girl who had made the sound sitting atop the toilet in the same tiny cubicle where he sat. Surely his eyes were fooling him. He brought his hands back to his eyes and rubbed away the tears which were obviously blurring his vision. Blinking a few times, he opened his eyes wide and looked up again.

“You’re not seeing things. I’m really here,” said the girl.

“This isn’t the girls’ bathroom,” Draco put forth, more as a question than a fact. After all, he had been focused on other things when he had pushed the door open and dashed inside.

“I know. I get bored. I need a change of scenery from time to time.”

Draco sighed heavily. As she spoke, Draco began to notice that the girl sitting next to him wasn’t a solid form. “Are you a ghost?” he asked.

“Yes,” she stated very matter-of-factly. “Why are you crying?”

Draco hesitated as he tried to sort out an answer. The truth was that he was not sure whether the tears he was shedding were for Katie Bell, who lay in the hospital wing seriously injured or even near death, or for himself, afraid to face the certain punishment that would come from his failure to carry out the commands of his Master.

“It’s nothing,” he finally answered.

“People don’t just cry for nothing. There’s always a something when you cry. I should know.” The girl let out a moan, the sound of which was almost painful to Draco’s ears, and she floated up towards the ceiling, performed an extravagant loop-de-loop, and returned to her sitting position on the toilet next to Draco.

“Who are you?” The question fell from his tongue before he could stop it. Did I seriously just ask her that? I’m sitting on the floor of the loo, having polite conversation with a ghost. I must be mad.

“Moaning Myrtle.”

“Come again?”

“Moaning Myrtle. I always chose to cry in the bathroom, too. I never really had anyone I could talk to either.”

Draco said nothing but nodded his head ever so slightly to indicate that he understood.

“You can talk to me, you know.”

“I don’t think so, Myrtle, but thanks.”

“You don’t like me either. No one ever did. Are you going to make fun of me now?”

Still seated on the floor, beside the toilet, Draco wasn’t in much of a position to be mocking anyone, and neither was he up to it. “No,” was all he could muster as he wiped the moisture from his cheeks once again.

“Everyone else did, especially that Olive Hornby. She was always such a bully. It’s partly her fault I died, you know.”

Draco wasn’t sure why he was being cordial to Myrtle. It was unlike him to waste his time talking to ghosts, particularly a homely one with glasses and significant self-esteem issues. Perhaps it was because she didn’t know who he was and, therefore, had no expectations of him. He didn’t have to act the part of the smooth Slytherin, the confident leader, the one who was always in control. He had nothing to prove to her. Neither did he fear her nor have to obey her. She was just Myrtle. And he found that on the floor of the boys’ bathroom at that very moment, he didn’t have to be anything to anybody, not to his classmates, nor his father, nor his new Master. He was just Draco.

As Myrtle droned on about Olive and her sad years at Hogwarts, Draco half-listened for a while, then regrouped his thoughts and attempted to compose himself. He got to his feet and stepped over to the sink where he noticed his reflection in the mirror. His blond fringe hung sloppily over his eyes which were red and swollen from the sudden rush of tears. His face looked thin. His complexion was colorless. If he didn’t know it was him standing there, he would have sworn he was looking at someone else.

Still examining his own reflection, Draco reached for the tap, allowing the cold water to fall into the sink in front of him. He removed his serpentine cufflinks, placed them safely in his pocket, and began rolling up his sleeves to splash some water on his face and rinse away the sticky saltiness that remained. As he leaned his head over to meet the coolness in his hands, he found himself no longer staring at the stranger in the mirror but at the familiar black serpent on his arm, whose unnerving eyes seemed to penetrate deeply inside of Draco. Draco closed his eyes and breathed fully. I’m a Death Eater, for god’s sake! I asked for this. One minor slip-up and I’m acting like a frightened, little schoolboy. What was I thinking? Running. Hiding. Crying. What a disgrace! The Dark Lord can’t see me behave this way. I’m better than this. I’m stronger. I’ve just got to keep working, stay focused. I can do this! Draco drew the water to his face and let all signs of his brief, weak moment wash down the drain in front of him.

“Hey, Myrtle,” began Draco as he dried his hands and face, “you’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?”

“Not if you come back to visit me again,” Myrtle answered with a flirtatious smile and a girlish giggle.

“Fine then,” Draco reached for the door but paused just one moment longer and, looking directly at the peculiar ghost, added, “Thanks, Myrtle.”