by Mendax
On the outskirts of London, in the parlor of a rickety old mansion, Draco Malfoy was shaking--violently shaking.
The house itself seemed to sway in the strong winds of the thunderstorm that had been raging for over an hour now, and the occasional groan could be heard from the framework of the structure. To put it bluntly, the mansion was ancient. It had been passed down from generation to generation for well over a century, but Draco didn’t know any of that. It was, after all, a Muggle’s house. As far as anyone knew, the usual inhabitants were gone on some sort of vacation.
This was the chosen meeting place, and Draco thought desperately to himself that he would rather be anywhere else than there. He shivered again, the chills coursing through his body having nothing to do with the cold moisture that was gradually seeping through the thin walls of his current sanctuary. Or perhaps his prison.
On the other side of the room, Severus Snape sipped wine delicately, his expression stony and unreadable as he stared at Draco, sizing him up over the rim of his glass. Where others might have been disgusted, Draco found himself awestruck at the lack of emotion on Snape’s part, considering that his hands would be stained forever by the blood of the only man who had ever truly cared about his well-being. That, he thought, is a Death Eater.
Draco looked away, his face suddenly burning with shame and fury.
All his life, the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had towered over Draco as impressive figures, and he had long dreamed of one day serving alongside him. Everything about the life of a Death Eater had seemed magnificent, glamorous: the power, the wealth, the prestige, the look of terror that always flickered across the innocents’ faces at the sound of his name and at the sight of that writhing tattoo, black as the death it symbolized. It had been his greatest ambition for as long as he could remember--to glance down at his own pale wrist and see the Dark Mark emblazoned there. A sense of wistful yearning bubbled up inside his battered heart even now at the thought, until the sensation faded to leave him feeling robbed.
Robbed of the Dark Lord’s favor.
That night should’ve been his time to shine. It was his job, not Snape’s; the filthy glory-hunter had no right to muddle around in Draco’s business anyway. He knew what he was doing; he was no child.
It hadn’t, however, been as simple, as easy as he had thought it to be. The satisfaction of having successfully done the Dark Lord’s bidding had been faint - if present at all that night. The accomplishment he should’ve felt at leading the Death Eaters in the battles inside Hogwarts was not as great as he would have expected.
And there was nothing glamorous about killing someone.
As he turned this thought over in his mind, he was ashamed to admit that he felt slightly relieved that he had not had to kill Dumbledore. He wasn’t entirely sure that he could’ve done it, actually. The same indecision that had paralyzed him earlier plagued him even now at the memory, and another shudder racked his body.
Draco jumped, startled, as lighting flashed to match the roll of thunder outside in the midst of the storm. Instinctively, his gaze shifted to the foggy window on the far side of the room, his icy gray eyes scanning the scrubby woods surrounding the mansion for the silhouette of the dreaded figure--for him.
The Dark Lord’s arrival was inevitable, as they had already made arrangements for the short meeting that was to take place in the house. Now Draco, Snape, and the other three surviving Death Eaters who had struggled out of Hogwarts’ grounds only hours before were awaiting his arrival with anticipation and, above all, fear.
Draco did not know what to expect. He had never spoken to the Dark Lord in person--actually, he had never even seen him. He knew that he would be punished for the weakness he had displayed that night, but when--or how severely--he knew not. He might be reprimanded, tortured, or brutally murdered; there was no way to say for sure which he would choose.
He can’t kill me, can he? thought Draco hopefully. I mean, it was I who figured out how to use and fix the Vanishing Cabinets, I who led the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, I who remained loyal throughout. He glanced cautiously across the room at Snape, his gaze concealed under half-lidded eyes, and thought, I could just tell him that Snape wanted all the glory…that he killed Dumbledore himself before I even had a chance…
The thought had hardly occurred to him before he discarded it rather feverishly, knowing good and well that the Dark Lord would know he was lying. Not only was he a practiced Legilimens, but…he was so powerful that Draco had heard the other Death Eaters whispering about him. About how he could see in your eyes if you were hiding something… He could sense a lie…could sense treachery… He didn’t even need to use Legilimency half of the time.
Outside, the rain was lashing hard against the windows now, so it was difficult to make out any detail of the forested surroundings. Draco didn’t mind. He would rather not have to look, rather not have to see…
Draco pulled up his left sleeve to reveal the coveted Dark Mark etched into his fragile skin, and felt the blood drain from his own face. A skull…a symbol of death. That was what it meant. That was his duty. As a follower of the Dark Lord, that was his job: to kill those his master wished dead. And Dumbledore’s words came back to him unbidden, leaving an unpleasant ringing in his ears and a sick feeling in his stomach:
"You are not a killer, Draco."