Draco Malfoy was lying perfectly still in the middle of a large four-poster bed. The room was richly furnished, with ornately carved wood lining the walls, and thick hangings framing the bed and windows. You couldn’t see these details however, as the lights were off and the curtains closed, letting in only a sliver of moonlight which brushed across the boy’s face. The way the light washed all the colour from him made him look like a corpse, but he was far from it: his mind was alive with activity, as he contemplated the path that had just that evening been laid out before him.

He thought back to the unexpected visitor who had arrived at their house only a few hours ago, bringing with him a deathly hush and a string of words that would stay with Draco for the rest of his life. His father’s unfortunate absence meant that only he and his mother had inhabited the large house since he had returned from school for the summer, so the apparition at his doorstep was therefore greeted by his mother who, surprised as she was to see him, was even more shocked when his high, clear voice demanded to see Draco.

Draco had been summoned, and he remembered supressing the shudder of horror he felt when laying eyes on the Dark Lord for the first time. The taut white skin and blank space where his nose should have been were nothing compared to those haunting red eyes, which told Draco they knew of the revulsion he felt. He regarded him differently now of course: now that he knew of the important role he was to play in the Dark Lord’s quest for the purification of the wizarding world. If he managed to do this right, maybe he would rise further than his father ever had. He knew which particular Mudblood he would want to rid the world of, and he briefly pictured the crying, squirming girl at his feet, completely at his mercy for the first and last time in her life.

His mind returned to the Dark Lord’s visit and the orders he had been given. As he had walked into the room and seen his mother’s carefully expressionless face, he wondered what had happened. Was it his father? Had he been released from Azkaban? He remembered feeling hostile to this thought, and wondered why. The Dark Lord had spoken then, cutting into Draco’s thoughts as though his voice was a steel blade. “Ah, Draco, how much I have heard about you.� He didn’t ask him to sit down. “I wonder how much you know about me.� Draco didn’t know if it was a question or not. He glanced hesitantly at his mother, who stared straight ahead at the wall, not making eye contact. The Dark Lord didn’t seem to want an answer however, as he went on. “I have come here for one reason. I assume you are aware that your father failed me last month, resulting in his imprisonment in Azkaban, and your family’s consequent fall from the grace of the Ministry of Magic.� The last three words were uttered with an air of contempt and amusement riddled into one.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, my Lord.�

The Dark Lord rose and started to pace the room. “I turn to you now, hoping you will right your father’s wrong and restore respect to your family. I am willing to grant your family clemency, if you manage to complete the task I now set you.�

Draco wondered where his voice had gone. He was never scared by anyone, so why had his throat closed up, not allowing any sound out except a strangled grunt? His mother, silent and motionless up to this point, shifted uncomfortably, not taking her eyes from the stone wall opposite. The Dark Lord seemed not to notice her unease however, and continued pacing the room.

“I believe there is one thing, and one thing alone, that is preventing me from total power over our world. This must be removed before we can truly begin the process of purification and the enhancement of the magical community. I want you to remove it. I am assigning you the task of defeating this obstacle, as you are in a unique position: one not even my most cherished Death Eaters can possibly infiltrate.�

Draco’s heart was beating hard against his ribs, a bird desperately trying to break through the bars of its cage. Could the Dark Lord be referring to his place at Hogwarts? What was this “obstacle� he had to get rid of? Before he could begin to ask questions the Dark Lord spoke again.
“If you succeed you will be honoured above all. If you succeed, your family will rise beyond anything you could have hoped for.�

“And what is the obstacle, my Lord?�

“Albus Dumbledore.�

His heart was pounding now, like a horse’s hooves hitting the ground as it canters towards a finish line. “You want me to kill—"

“By any means necessary.� The finality in his voice showed that there would be no argument. The Dark Lord turned, looking expectantly at Narcissa who hurried to open the door, and escorted him out.

Draco stood in silence, watching the door and listening to the footsteps fade into the distance. So he had to kill Professor Dumbledore, the man who he had always hated, who had never bothered to protect or even distinguish pure magical blood, and the man who had got his father sacked from the school’s board of governors, thus initiating the gradual decline of the name of Malfoy. If he managed this, the Dark Lord would no doubt install a Death Eater, or at the very least a Slytherin, as Headteacher: someone who would instil the values of true wizard kind, banning the Mudbloods and blood traitors, half-giants and ‘chosen ones’ from the school. Draco imagined himself favoured by all the teachers, set above everyone in the school, renowned for bringing about the greatest revolution Hogwarts had ever seen. He savoured the small smile that flitted across his lips, and then awoke from the daydream in a start as his mother walked in.

She looked at him, anxiety brimming like tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry Draco,� she whispered. “There’ll be a way. We can get you out of this, I’m sure if your father talks—"

“Father’s not here though is he? He’s in AZKABAN, and stop pretending that he isn’t!� Narcissa stared at him in wounded silence and he felt a hot rush of rage sweep through him. “JUST STOP TRYING TO PRETEND THAT EVERYTHING’S NORMAL! Even when Father does get out no one’s going to forget what he did, how he failed to beat Potter! I’m going to do this. I can be better than him! I don’t want people to think of me as his son: I want to be the person who made the pure society possible. I want nothing to do with him."

“Draco—"

“JUST SHUT UP! DON’T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!� Draco stormed out of the door, heading back to his bedroom, kicking over furniture, and terrifying the house elf who had been quietly polishing the frame of an old family portrait.

He slammed the door of his bedroom closed, the echoing smack reverberating through the large, empty house. Kicking the hard wooden bedpost until he was rewarded with a sharp pain in his foot, he threw himself onto the bed. He wasn’t quite sure why he was so angry, but was unable to control the hot tears of frustration that unwillingly seeped from his eyes.

Ever since he discovered that his father had been sent to Azkaban, Draco had felt nothing towards him. That he could be so foolish to have both been beaten by Potter (whom Draco had beaten several times before) and to let himself be caught by the Ministry was disgusting. What scorn and mirth would Draco himself have to face when he returned to school and everyone knew of his father’s idiocy? He might as well be a blood traitor.

Now, however, he had been offered a chance of redemption: the chance to prove that he was not worthless, that he valued the new world that was to be built. Why did his mother not understand how important this was, how generous the Dark Lord was being? He would be valued above all, more powerful than either of his parents, and vital in not only encouraging the purification of wizarding society, but in the downfall of Dumbledore and his favourite, Harry Potter. Ignoring, for the time being, the fact that he would actually have to kill this great wizard, Draco thought about what he would do when he ascended to power, contemplating things he could force others to do and the people he could have revenge over. With these thoughts in his head he fell asleep, and it wasn’t until much later that he realised just how difficult this task was really going to be.

Narcissa Malfoy had always been a quiet woman, but Draco had noticed a marked difference in her behaviour since the Dark Lord’s visit. She seemed fearful when she looked at him, as though he might vanish at any moment. He also noticed the increased number of visits from his Aunt Bellatrix who, aside from her initial congratulations of his great opportunity, hardly spoke to him: she spent a lot of time with her sister, and Draco often came across them whispering furiously. They always stopped as soon as they saw him, and Draco guessed that they were arguing about him. “You can’t go to him, Cissy. The Dark Lord would never—" he had heard once, assuming that Narcissa still wished to enlist the help of his father – for all the good it would do.

Although he knew he should appreciate his Aunt’s enthusiasm and support for his task, he couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy. He did not really know Bellatrix well: not until she had escaped from Azkaban last year, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the place had seriously unhinged her. But she was his Aunt after all, and she must have his best interests at heart, surely.

Early one morning, while Draco and his mother were at breakfast, Bellatrix strode in, announcing that she had just this minute left the Dark Lord, and had a message for her nephew. “The Dark Lord is worried that you may not kill Dumbledore. He says he doesn’t know if he can trust you.� She seemed to find this doubt in her nephew personally offensive, but Draco was sure that it had nothing to do with her affection for him, and was more to do with the fact that she felt she could have done this herself. “He requires that you find a way to let Death Eaters into the school to make sure the deed is done should you be unwilling to complete it. He also wants me to press upon you that he will not react kindly to news of your failure.�

Draco heard these words in silence, but his mother trembled visibly at the last few. What was she so worried about? Didn’t she believe he could do it? Supressing a tidal wave of anger, he thanked Bellatrix and left the room.

So he needed a way to get Death Eaters into the school. Surely that would be easier than attempting to kill Albus Dumbledore? Unfortunately, the school would be guarded by too many powerful enchantments to allow direct access into it, so there was no way they could enter straight from the outside. There must be secret passages into the school which he might be able to find, but how long would that take? Hogwarts was an enormous castle in which any cornice, statue or painting could give way to a hidden passage. He couldn’t ask around either, that might look suspicious. He dismissed the idea for the moment, deciding to come back to it if he could think of nothing else.

Had anyone ever mentioned discovering something while running from Filch, ever hidden something they shouldn’t have had? Come to think of it, he had heard rumours of people hiding things in a place which would never be found. Wasn’t there that one seventh year, Adrian Pucey, who had hidden the mangled body of a house elf after testing his failed attempt at making Polyjuice Potion? He was sure there had been something in that story about an unplottable room. That might be less suspicious to ask about, and could even come in handy later. The question still remained, however: how to get people into Hogwarts without Dumbledore noticing. If only there was a way to use Floo powder undetected, then the Death Eaters could come from Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Diagon Alley… Draco sat bolt upright, the faintest memory stirring sleepily in the depths of his mind. Something someone had said last year, something about Hogwarts and Diagon Alley. But was it Diagon Alley? Draco cast his mind about, trying to remember the names of the streets nearby. There was Knifetwist Lane, which led off the main street; Spinelock Crescent, which curved around the back of Gringotts and led onto Knockturn Alley, which – wait – Knockturn Alley! That was it! He tried desperately to grab hold of the memory, but it was like trying to capture the golden snitch: every time he got close, it darted maddeningly out of reach.

A tapping at the window roused him, and he looked up to see his eagle owl, Icarus, perched on the window sill, a letter in his beak. Pulling himself up off the bed, he heaved up the heavy, wooden-framed window, and let the bird in. Unrolling the parchment, he found a neatly written letter from Pansy Parkinson. Another flare of annoyance rose in his chest: would she never get the message? He really was getting bored of her. He began to read.

Dear Draco,

I haven’t heard from you in a while, so I thought I’d write. I do hope you’re ok. How has your summer been? Mine has been dreadfully dull without everyone, I can’t imagine another three weeks of it. Why don’t we meet up over the holidays? I know you’ll cheer me up – Mummy and Daddy don’t have the slightest idea how to amuse me. I ran into Montague the other day in Diagon Alley. He has to retake last year, because he missed so much from being ill after getting stuck in that Vanishing Cabinet, so he was moaning about that. The oaf even had the nerve to ask me to join him over a shot of Firewhiskey in the Leaky Cauldron! Imagine! I must say I was amused, but I’d never waste my time with that old troll. He did say he’d heard news about Professor Snape however, but he wouldn’t tell me. I don’t suppose you know?
Please write to me soon, I’m wasting away with lack of decent company.

Yours ever,
Pansy xx
Quashing the now familiar surge of annoyance at Pansy’s blatant show of her feelings towards him, Draco pondered the letter carefully. He had heard nothing about Snape, but this didn’t interest him. He had forgotten about Montague’s recent foray into that Vanishing Cabinet. It had been those Weasley twins who shut him in there, and to be honest, if he couldn’t manage to stop them, he deserved the punishment. Draco remembered hearing him talking about it when he got out, saying how he had been trapped in an eternal limbo between Hogwarts and Borgin and Burke’s. Draco’s heart leapt into his mouth, as he made the connection between this story and that foggy memory he had been trying to dredge up earlier, and for the first time in his life he was grateful for Pansy’s letter.

He stared excitedly out of the window, his mind working quickly. If Montague had been trapped between these two places, then surely there must be a way to form a passage between the two; a way to get from Borgin’s shop, into Hogwarts, and back again. It seemed that one of the Vanishing Cabinets was broken, as Montague had never been able to get out at either end until he apparated out, and he’d need to find a way to fix that. One thing was certain: he needed to go to Knockturn Alley to see the Cabinet himself. Maybe Mr Borgin would be able to tell him how to fix it. Pleased with his rapid work, he left the room to find his mother, wondering whether his mission might not be accomplished much sooner than he had expected.

The sun shone dimly through the many layers of grey cloud, stubbornly refusing to break through and let the streets of London bask in its warmth. Its appearance was not expected, however, as this summer had been a dull blend of constant drizzle and unseasonable fog. Not that English summers were renowned for their sun anyway, thought Mr Borgin, as he began to open up his shop; but it would be nice not to be reminded of the troublesome times that lay ahead, every time he looked out of his window. Mr Borgin was getting old now, and didn’t feel he had the strength for another long period of trouble. He had no opinion anymore about the Dark Lord’s regime. Although he had once considered himself an unofficial Death Eater, his main priority now was to keep his head down and not be noticed.

The shop was picking up business slowly, however, and that he did have the Dark Lord to thank for. The old Death Eaters who had previously avoided the shop for fear of association were drifting back, and even new, younger people came occasionally.

Today was turning into a rather quiet day though, and he was just thinking about closing up for lunch, when a young man walked in. He was very pale, with sleek, white-blonde hair, and must have been about sixteen or seventeen. He looked angry, as though he had just had an argument, and he looked over his shoulder furtively before closing the door.

“Good afternoon, sir, how may I be of assistance?� Borgin rasped, ingratiatingly, adding his customary bow, as if to say that nothing could make him happier than to serve.

“I believe you know my father, Lucius Malfoy.�

Of course, this must be the son. Borgin had never warmed to Lucius Malfoy, who had always treated him like he was an over-sized house elf, and he assumed the son would be no different. But wasn’t Lucius in Azkaban at the moment? He supressed the urge to smile gleefully at the thought of that odious man being left to the Dementors, and addressed the son.

“Ah, Mr Malfoy, of course, what an honour it is to see you again.�

The boy nodded curtly, as his eyes roved around the shop, before settling, curiously, upon the Vanishing Cabinet. “Am I right in thinking this is a Vanishing Cabinet?� he asked.

“You seem very informed, sir.�

“Then it is a Vanishing Cabinet?�

“Yes, yes.�

“I have been given a task to do, and I have been informed that this Vanishing Cabinet is part of a pair. Is this true?�

“Why yes, sir, there is another, but I’m afraid I don’t have it.�

“I know where it is,� said the boy, testily. “But I have reason to believe that it is broken. Do you know how to fix it?"

Borgin was confused, and slightly worried, and he carefully measured out his words as he replied. “Possibly. I’ll need to see it, though. Why don’t you bring it into the shop?�

“I can’t,� snapped the boy. “It’s got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it.�

Borgin’s doubts were multiplying fast. What was the boy doing that was so secret it couldn’t be moved? And how on earth was he supposed to know how to fix a Vanishing Cabinet without seeing it? Hiding his worry and impatience, he turned to the boy. “Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn’t guarantee anything.�

Anger flashed in Malfoy’s face, reminding Borgin so much of his father. “No?� he sneered, and began rolling up the sleeve of his shirt. “Perhaps this will make you more confident.�

Borgin looked down at the exposed forearm and briefly stifled a cry of horror. Injected into the skin was the writhing image of a skull, a thick snake protruding sickeningly from its gaping jaw. What had this boy done? Was this “task" commissioned by the Dark Lord? This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to get mixed up in!

“Tell anyone,� said Malfoy, “and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He’s a family friend, he’ll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.�

Borgin’s stomach clenched in fear, and he stammered out that he wouldn’t let it get to that.

“I’ll decide that. Well, I’d better be off. And don’t forget to keep that one safe, I’ll need it.� He pointed at the Vanishing Cabinet in the corner.

“Perhaps you’d like to take it now?�

“No, of course I wouldn’t, you stupid little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don’t sell it.�

“Of course not … sir.� Borgin added, begrudgingly, and bowed Malfoy generously out of his shop.

What on earth was he going to do? What exactly was he expected to do? And what was the boy doing that was so secret and, undoubtedly, on behalf of the Dark Lord? One thing was certain: he was going to have to be even more careful than usual not to draw attention to himself. He shuddered at the thought of visits from Greyback, and turned to greet his new customer.
*
Platform 9 ¾ was unusually subdued on 1st September. It was still packed with people, but they were no longer lingering on the platform. Parents had tight, anxious faces and ushered their children – if somewhat unwillingly – onto the safety of the train. It was like Diagon Alley all over again, thought Draco, no one wanted to hang about outside. As if ceilings and walls could keep the Dark Lord out! He scoffed at the stupidity of these people. A small boy hurried past him, knocking into his arm, and Draco winced at the impact. His new Dark Mark was still hurting as much as the night he’d got it, and he knew he should be more pleased to be officially confirmed as a Death Eater; but now there was no way to forget even for a second where his loyalties lay.

Towards the end of the platform he saw some of his fellow Slytherin sixth years. Crabbe and Goyle looked as gormless as ever, and Zabini was attempting to talk to Pansy, who was instead looking around her, tossing her hair and pouting profusely: a look that didn’t suit her strange, pug-like face. Her eyes lit up as soon as she saw Draco, and she pounced on him in a whirl of hair and robes. She was talking rapidly, but he wasn’t listening. Something about an awful summer and asking why he had not written.

The five of them found a compartment in the middle of the train, and closed the door to block out the shouts and squeals emanating from the thick swarm of younger students. Draco was quiet for a large part of the way, letting Pansy talk at him, and watching the others discuss their mediocre little lives. He felt strangely detached from them all now. His mission from the Dark Lord had made him realise that things like good marks in school, Quidditch matches, and trivial dilemmas did not matter. He smirked at the simplicity of his friends, and laid his head on Pansy’s lap, attempting to sleep.

It didn’t last long, and he awoke from a light doze to see Zabini being invited to join some professor named Horace Slughorn for lunch. He recognised the name, and thought it might have been the name of the old Potions master at Hogwarts. That was strange: what about Professor Snape? He hadn’t left, had he?

“Did anyone actually find out what happened to Snape? I heard there was a rumour about him,� Draco drawled. Crabbe and Goyle looked confused, but Pansy, of course, knew.

“I heard there have been some changes at Hogwarts. Dumbledore found it impossible to find another DADA teacher, so asked Snape. I suppose Slughorn’s replacing him as Potions master.�

Draco closed his eyes. He hadn’t been looking forward to seeing Snape again. He would know exactly how angry the Dark Lord was with his father, and how weak the fool had been. Draco would just have to avoid him as much as possible.

An hour or so later, he was awoken again by the sound of Zabini’s return. He was trying to slam the compartment door closed, but it seemed to have got stuck. Suddenly, it was unclear quite how it happened, the door was closed, and Zabini and Goyle were grappling to get off each other. A flash of colour caught Draco’s eye, and he thought he saw something dart up to the luggage rack, but was quickly distracted by Zabini and Goyle’s commotion.

“So, Zabini,� he asked, when everything had settled down. “What did Slughorn want?�

“Just trying to make up to well-connected people. Not that he managed to find many.�

The spurt of anger that was now so common to Draco erupted again. Well-connected people? He came from a long line of powerful pure-blood wizards. How was that not well-connected? “Who else had he invited?� he demanded.

Zabini ticked off a list of names on his fingers, but at the mention of the idiot, Longbottom, and the Weasley girl, he sat up bolt upright. “He invited Longbottom?� He really was angry now: the shun felt like a slap in the face, and he didn’t listen as the others discussed the merits of the Weasley girl. “Well, I pity Slughorn’s taste. Maybe he’s going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father always used to be a favourite of his. Slughorn probably hasn’t heard I’m on the train, or—"

“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,� cut in Zabini. “He asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.�

Draco could have punched Zabini for that blatant dig at his father, but he decided that he would act as though he didn’t care. “Well, who cares what he’s interested in?� he said, nonchalantly. “What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher. I mean, I might not be at Hogwarts next year, what’s it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?�

He felt Pansy stiffen under his head. “What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?�

Draco smirked, pleased with the effect his words had had, and decided to hint at his new position as Death Eater. “Well, you never know, I might have – er – moved on to bigger and better things.�

There was a stunned silence. “Do you mean – Him?� whispered Pansy.

“Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don’t see it as that important these days. I mean, think about it … when the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone’s got? Of course he isn’t ... it’ll be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown.�

“And you think you’ll be able to do something? Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?� scoffed Zabini.

“I’ve just said, haven’t I? Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something that you need to be qualified for.�

There was a stunned silence, and Draco looked in satisfaction at the expressions of awe on their faces, as he knew they would all be wondering just how important he had become. Through the thick fog that crept sluggishly past the window, he saw lights glimmering faintly in the distance. “I can see Hogwarts. We’d better get our robes on.�

In the scramble to open trunks and bags, Draco was sure he heard a hard thump and a particularly audible gasp, coming directly from above his head. It sounded like Goyle’s trunk had hit someone, but when he looked up, he saw nothing there. He remembered seeing that flash of colour earlier, and he was suddenly overcome with a strong sense of unease. Had someone been listening in? He yanked his robes out of his trunk, as his heart sank to the very depths of his stomach. There was only one person foolish enough to try to eavesdrop like this: Potter. Well, he was just going to have to learn a little lesson, wasn’t he?

The Hogwarts Express slowed gently to a halt, and Crabbe, Goyle and Zabini barged out of the compartment. Pansy stayed behind, holding her hand out to him, as though he was some stupid child who couldn’t make it off the train on his own. “You go on,� he muttered. “I just want to check something.�

When she left, he closed the door and pulled down the blinds, knowing exactly what he was going to do. He took his wand out of his trunk, and whipped around. “Petrificus Totalus!� The frozen body of Harry Potter fell from the luggage rack and onto the floor, just as he knew it would. He stepped over to the body, and smiled lazily.

“I thought so. I heard Goyle’s trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back … That was you blocking the door when Zabini came back in, I suppose.� The thought had only just occurred to him. Potter stared at him insolently, and Draco had a great desire to cause him an immense amount of pain.

“You didn’t hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I’ve got you here…�

He brought his foot down hard on Potter’s face, and heard the satisfying crunch of breaking bone. “That’s from my father,� he whispered, his contempt for his enemy seeping into every syllable. “Now, let’s see.�

He pulled what seemed to be some sort of Invisibility Cloak out from under Potter’s body. He wondered whether he should keep it, but decided he could use other ways to disguise himself if he needed, and instead threw it over Potter, making sure that nothing could be seen. “I don’t reckon they’ll find you till the train’s back in London. See you round, Potter… or not.�

He deliberately stepped on the invisible body as he left the compartment, and he closed the door with relish, imagining Potter’s panic as the train pulled out of Hogsmeade station, and wondering whether he would even be found at all. Did anyone ever check the carriages thoroughly? Draco found it hard to supress his chuckle at the idea, and turned towards the last of the horseless carriages, looking at Hogwarts with surprisingly buoyant feelings. He’d finally got the better of Potter. It seemed like this year was set to be a huge improvement on the last.

The excitement that permeated the air of Hogwarts at the start of each year was tangible. Everywhere you went you heard shrieks of laughter, catcalls, moans about homework and excited voices discussing the gossip people had missed out on over the holidays. First years walked around in tight packs, gazing in confusion at the tangle of passageways, staircases and classrooms that was Hogwarts.

This year, however, although Draco knew that nothing had changed, he found it more difficult to join in with the celebratory atmosphere. He was pleased to be back, whatever he said to his friends: two months of nervous silence and frightened glances from his mother had almost been too much to bear. And yet, now he was here, he didn’t feel right. He knew he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone of his involvement with the Dark Lord, but he was never able to forget it, and keeping something like that so secret was more challenging than he had thought.

Still, things weren’t all going badly. The first thing Draco had done was to seek out Montague and try to find out the whereabouts of the Vanishing Cabinet. It was lucky Montague was so thick, because he didn’t seem to suspect anything. He told Draco that when he had accosted the Weasley twins, he must have been on the first floor, because he remembered coming up from the kitchens when he saw them. That night, Draco had scoured every room on the first floor and, lo and behold, in the corner of an abandoned classroom, sat an ancient-looking black cabinet, identical to the one he had seen in Borgin’s shop. He didn’t think anyone would bother to move it, not after all these years, but just to be safe he cast a Disillusionment Charm upon it until he could find a safer place to keep it.

He was a little worried, however, as he had been directing all his thoughts towards trying to get Death Eaters into the castle, and he had been ignoring his main task: he still didn’t know how he was going to kill Dumbledore; and after hearing that the Dark Lord was already doubtful of his abilities, he was becoming doubtful himself. He knew he had to do it, had to prove that he was different to his father; but he had to admit that his creative juices were running low. He wasn’t exactly experienced in the field of killing, and he wasn’t sure how to start. Draco had therefore decided to focus his attention on the Vanishing Cabinet, and hoped that some inspiration would come to him in time.

Meanwhile, he had his lessons to contend with. He hadn’t anticipated how much harder NEWTs were than OWLs, and he was having trouble keeping on top of his schoolwork already. On Wednesday afternoon, he found himself traipsing down towards the dungeons for his first Potions lesson of the year. As he rounded a corner, he was disgruntled to see that he would be sharing this lesson with Potter, Weasley and Granger Mudblood. His annoyance at seeing Potter enter the Great Hall after his revenge on the first night had subsided quickly: he supposed that everyone would be watching out for the ‘Chosen One’, and instead he consoled himself with remembering how nicely Potter’s nose had crunched under his foot.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Horace Slughorn’s gargantuan belly wobbling through the door a good few seconds before the rest of him, and he hurried to the front of the classroom with his fellow Slytherins. Although he had laughed it off, he was anxious to prove himself to Slughorn: anyone who was anyone appeared on Slughorn’s famous ‘shelf’, and Draco intended to make it too. A large cauldron containing a transparent liquid was bubbling sluggishly at the Slytherins’ table, and Draco was jolted from his thoughts when Slughorn plodded over to it. “Anyone tell me what this one is?”

From the back of the classroom he heard the all-too-familiar gasp of excitement, followed by the bossy, insufferable voice of Hermione Granger. “It’s Veritaserum, a colourless, odourless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth.”

Well, he knew that. Honestly, that girl was such a suck-up that she could never bear to consider that others might know just as much as she did. Draco could already see Slughorn succumbing to the adoration almost every teacher had of the girl. It wasn’t until she mentioned Polyjuice Potion, however, that he began to pay attention. He had often wondered if it might come in useful, but had never been sure if he could make it. He didn’t want to risk making it incorrectly – especially if it was him taking it – but now here was a large cauldron full of the stuff. How could he get it? Could he make a distraction? The loud grumble of Slughorn’s gravelly voice intercepted these thoughts, and Draco realised that he really should try to make a good impression on this man, and tried to pay attention.

“Oho!” Slughorn cried, dramatically, turning towards a tiny black cauldron on his desk. “Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious potion called Felix Felicis.” Another dramatic gasp left Granger’s mouth, and Slughorn smiled indulgently. The two should get together the way they were going on. “I take it that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”

“It’s liquid luck. It makes you lucky!”

Draco was fully alert now, staring fixedly at the little cauldron. A potion that could make you lucky? That could solve all his problems. It would be easy to fix the Vanishing Cabinet, to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and even to kill Dumbledore. How on earth could he get his hands on something like that?

“Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong,” Slughorn was saying. “However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavours tend to succeed… at least until the effects wear off.”

“Why don’t people use it all the time, Sir?” asked a Ravenclaw boy, voicing the query Draco himself had been wondering at. Surely it could make your life perfect.

“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness and dangerous overconfidence. Too much of a good thing, you know… highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally…” He trailed off, and Draco feverishly imagined obtaining this potion. He was sure it wasn’t that bad if you took it a little too much… “And that,” continued Slughorn, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson. One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis. Enough for twelve hours’ luck. From dawn to dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.”

Draco nearly laughed. He actually had a chance of legitimately owning this potion! And he would get it. As soon as Slughorn had instructed them on how to win it, Draco was frantically leafing through the pages of his Potions book, assembling his ingredients, and trying to cut them smoothly with his shaking hands.

Half an hour in, it wasn’t going well. The Draft of Living Death had to be the hardest potion he’d ever attempted, and the Sopophorus Bean which he was supposed to be cutting was stubbornly refusing to be tampered with. His only consolation was that, in the buzz of activity, he had siphoned off some Polyjuice Potion into a flask. If he didn’t manage to get the Felix Felicis, at least he’d have got something out of this lesson.

He looked around furtively at his fellows’ work, and was heartened to see that many people had looks of panic on their faces as their solutions congealed nastily at the bottom of their cauldrons. Even Granger had lost her normal air of smug complacency. He looked up as Slughorn neared his table, and decided to show the man exactly why he should be of interest. “Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxus Malfoy?”

“Yes, I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn’t unexpected, dragon pox at his age…” he trailed off again, and wandered absent-mindedly over to the Ravenclaw table. Draco stared at him, dumbfounded. There was only one reason Slughorn would not want to know more about the grandson of the esteemed Abraxus Malfoy, although he didn’t want to admit it. He knew there must have been some truth in what Zabini had said on the train, but he wasn’t used to being treated like everyone else. He stabbed at the Sopophorus Bean viciously, without thinking, and it slipped from his grasp, hitting Zabini in the head.

“Watch it, Malfoy,” he snarled, and then smirked when he saw Draco’s lack of progress. “Looks like some of us won’t be able to rely on favouritism to pass this year!”

Draco seethed silently, loathe to admit that Zabini had a point, but unable to ignore the rapidly mounting evidence. He paid little attention to the rest of the lesson. What had seemed to be starting out as a good day was fast becoming intolerable and, to top it all, Potter won the Felix Felicis. On a normal day, he may have felt smug that for once Granger had been beaten, but now he just didn’t care. As Slughorn called an end to the class, Draco followed Zabini out of the room as quickly as possible, but as he neared the end of the dungeon corridor, he heard a sharp voice call his name. He spun around at the familiar sound, and saw Professor Snape standing outside his office, beckoning at him to come in.

“I’ll see you later,” he mumbled to Zabini, and, heart sinking, followed the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher into the dark room. He had rarely been in Snape’s office – that honour was usually reserved for rule-breakers – and he noticed with distaste the questionable jars that lined the walls, which he vaguely remembered from last time. He looked at Snape, and wondered how much he knew. Surely he hadn’t brought him in here to lecture him about his father? Well, if he did, Draco would be sure to set himself apart from the oaf.

Snape took a breath, and stopped. He seemed to be trying to choose his words carefully. Draco gave an impatient sigh, signalling that he had other, more important, places to be.

“There’s no point acting like that, Draco, I know everything,” Snape said, testily. “Not only do I know why your father was sent to Azkaban, and how he failed the Dark Lord, but also the task you’ve been given. I want to help.”

Draco stared. He tried to process the information. He had had an idea that Snape might know about his father, but how did he know about Draco’s task? Surely the Dark Lord hadn’t confided in him? Unless he didn’t really know. Maybe he had only heard a rumour, and was feigning knowledge in an attempt to get information. There was something about Snape that Draco could never quite trust. It was as though he was never fully telling the truth, that he knew everything about you, and yet hid everything about himself. What if he just wanted to help in order to take credit for Draco’s work? There was no way he would let that happen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco drawled, in the most bored voice he could muster. “Perhaps father was sent to Azkaban for some misunderstandings, but it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Perhaps not, but the task is undeniably to do with you.”

“Task, what task? I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Draco.” Snape looked him coldly in the eye with a clear, penetrating look that made Draco feel as though he was falling into a black, bottomless pit.

“Of course I don’t know what you mean,” he spat. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t be asking for your help!” He yanked his bag over his shoulder and strode away before Snape could say any more. There was no way Snape was going to steal his glory. He was going to do this alone, and nothing any stupid adult said was going to stop him. He had spent his life looking up to his father, who had seemed the epitome of power and poise, and being spoiled by the adoration of his mother; but it wasn’t until these past few months that he had come to see them for what they really were. They didn’t really care for the cause. All they cared about was winning. They were cowards, and he was going to prove how much better he could be. He was going to succeed, it would be him alone who was rewarded, and there was nothing that would stop him.