Disclaimer: The characters and places belong to J. K. Rowling. Please, don't sue.

Death Eater's Confessions

Draco sat on the cold stone floor in an abandoned bathroom. He wanted to cry. Though crying would make no difference. He had no choice than to do it or die trying. Well, as impossible as the task was, he was approaching a certain death. If only that would save his mother's life. That was his only flickering ray of hope, the only thing that made him go on trying.

There never had been another path for him than to become a Death Eater. His father being one of those closest to the Dark Lord and with all the things that Draco had been taught to believe in he really had wanted to become one. It was his duty, a duty he hadn't anticipated receiving this soon, but his duty nevertheless. He had also thought that as a Death Eater he would have the power to make Potter suffer. Make him pay for all the times of public humiliation or inflicting physical damage on his person. And most importantly of all, to get revenge for sending his father to Azkaban.

Swallowing hard to get the strangling feeling to disappear from his throat Draco tried to concentrate on a crack on one of the floor tiles tracing his fingers along it. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't prevent images of his father withering away in a cold, dark cell, surrounded by Dementors from entering his mind. This impossible task he had agreed on was the only way to free his father and restore their family's honourable name. He had taken it so that his father would be able to be proud of him for once.

Still, deep inside, he knew that it hadn't been a choice at all. There was no saying 'no' to the Dark Lord. Draco was almost certain that if he had refused to take the task he and both his parents would already have suffered painful deaths. He had began to see it lately: loyalty and devotion meant nothing to the Dark Lord. It was just one of those lies that his father had been living in.

There were constant reminders of inaccuracies in Lucius' conception of the world that Draco couldn't quite ignore. Like Granger. Draco had thought that by mocking her and calling her names he could somehow make her of less value in everyone's eyes, but he wasn't convincing anyone, not even himself. How much of a Muggleborn she might be, she was still more capable in magic than any pure-blood he had met. He had actually admired her abilities until he had learned that her parents were Muggles, and that was when it had become unbearable for him that she was better than him in everything. True that he was pretty much insulting every other person purely out of habit and that he now was too old for the name-calling thing, but she still remained more annoying than anyone else. Her whole existence was an uncomfortable flaw in the great picture that he so desperately tried to believe in.

Draco blinked away the tears entering his eyes. It didn't matter at all what he believed in, felt or wanted to do. He didn't want to kill Dumbledore. Despite of what he might have said at any point of time, he didn't actually want anyone to die and he knew he most certainly wasn't capable of taking a life. He also knew that there was no way out of this. Nothing could save him and he was so scared that he trembled when just thinking about the things he had to do. Even if he took full responsibility for any choice he might be making there were only choices between horrible and worse. He didn't want to die but he would. He would not sentence his parents to death by running away. Not that running away would help anyway since the Dark Lord probably found him in no time and surely tortured him to death. He was trapped.

The thought was so overwhelming that he gave in to tears. He lay down on the floor an cried. He didn't want to care, but he cared. He was so tired of pretending. He was used to hiding his innermost thoughts and true emotions, but nothing compared to this secret. He desperately needed to pour his heart out to anyone who would listen, but that just wasn't possible. No-one could possibly ever understand what he was feeling, mostly because no-one had ever faced a situation that could even remotely resemble this. Not to mention that no-one could ever know. If someone had walked in right now and seen him crying the rumours of his betrayal would probably find their way to the Dark Lord's ears.

During his short life Draco had never had a friend to whom he could tell what he truly thought. Crabbe and Goyle were not the kind of friends to whom you could confide anything too complicated. Other Slytherins would only have used every weakness had he ever shown any. Not even Pansy would understand this. Well, especially not her. She was the kind of person who would be proud of him being a Death Eater and would look at him with disgust had she known any of what he thought. Not that they were that close any more. He was spending all his free time with the task and she wasn't appreciating it. He had never felt this utterly alone before.

"What are you crying for?" a girl's voice asked.

Draco almost jumped. How hadn't he heard anyone coming? He hurriedly wiped his eyes and sat up putting on a cold demeanour.

It was a ghost standing beside him and peering at him with mild interest. She was wearing glasses, her hair in pigtails and an old-fashioned school uniform.

"I wasn't crying," he exclaimed realising how ridiculous this sounded even to himself.

"Looks like crying to me, and I'm an expert on these kind of things. I'm Myrtle." She floated in front of him to take a closer look at him. "What are you sad about?"

"It's none of your business." He stared at her defiantly.

She now sat down, or more like hovered over the floor in a sitting position. "You don't have to tell me. I'm not anyone important after all."

They sat in silence for a good while. She didn't go away even if he had hoped for it. She just sat there inspecting him with a gloomy expression.

"I bet someone died," she then ventured.

"No, but someone will. And there is nothing I can do to prevent it." He was surprised at the words coming out of his mouth. Should he really be telling these things to a ghost? He looked at her warily. "You can't tell anyone I said that."

"I won't tell a living soul, nor a dead one," she promised. She looked serious. "That is a lot to bear."

He nodded feeling awkward having told her the worst part of everything. But she was a ghost after all. She probably understood death better than any living person. Maybe there wouldn't be harm in talking to her. It was not likely a ghost would be talking to the Dark Lord's followers. As long as she didn't know any details, he decided, it was safe. After all, he needed someone who would listen and not judge him. Now more than he ever had.

There was a long silence again. He didn't even know how to start telling her about how he felt.

"I've never felt in control over anything in my life," he finally admitted. "And now less than ever."

The ghost nodded. She didn't ask anything. She just sat there patiently waiting for him to carry on if he wanted to, but not pushing him to. He wasn't going to drop the walls, that he had spent his whole life putting up, that easily, but maybe he could learn to let someone in. A little by little.

A/N: This is the first story I've published and strangely it happened to be an angsty one. I'm thankful for reviews and welcome criticism. Please, do tell me what you think is good or bad and why.