Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, it belongs to Ms. J.K. Rowling

I don't mind flames at all, but I would prefer constructive criticism.

It was cold out that day; the sky was grey and overcast with frothy evil-looking black clouds. The sky's mood fit the occasion. Draco felt alone and terrified. Don't let it show, he urged himself. Even with his mother's hand tightly gripping his upper arm, steering him though the tangled sharply-turning alleyways, he felt cold and out-of-place. Numerous times he tried to shrug her off, but she always resumed her clench-pulling him along-when he looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was following them, which was frequent. His mother, on the other hand, seemed more intent on getting were going. Down Knockturn Alley and into a small shop Draco knew too well. Soon, other joined them. Long black cloaks swept the old seemingly never-swept floor. Their faces varied from the madly excited (Aunt Bellatrix) to the uncomfortable (his own) to the merely bored (many others). Yet everyone seemed tense, on edge. He nervously adjusted his tie. Part of him wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. I will join the powerful and the famed, he reassured himself. Which, of course, was all he ever wanted.

Later that night, or, more correctly, quite early the next morning, Draco sat on the floor of his room and stared at his left forearm. It still burned harshly. His house-elf had offered a pain-relieving potion, but he had refused. He liked the idea of being brave, to be able to power though the pain. Inn the beginning it had been searing, unbearable. He studied the horrid mark on his arm. I am a Death Eater, he thought with relish, and only the barest hint of reluctance. And, for the first time in a while, he smiled.

A week or so later, Draco had been brooding in his room when his house-elf told him his mother needed to see him. He quickly ran downstairs and stood attentively in front of his mother. Narcissa Malfoy was seated rigidly in an antique armchair (a family heirloom inherited from Grandfather Abraxas Malfoy) in the drawing room and had a very upset look on her face. The room was large and beautifully decorated, with plush black carpet that covered most the stone floor. A large ornate mirror hung above a marble mantelpiece, below which a roaring fire burned. Still, the room seemed dark as the light from the fire only reached about a quarter of the room. The long curtains had been drawn over the diamond-pained windows.

"Draco," Narcissa began, her voiced cracked with fear, drawing out his name so it lasted awhile, "The Dark Lord," she paused, and Draco shuddered at the very mentioned of him, "has ordered to speak with you."

Draco recoiled. In his youth, before the return of the infamous He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, Lord Voldemort had been somewhat of a scary bedtime story. He was powerful, his father used to tell him, the greatest Legimancer of all time. He was THE great dark wizard. He had abilities know one understood but everyone feared. He could strip your mind and leave it with nothing but pain and sorrow. I was his right-hand man. I watched him destroy and re-build the great dynasty intended to be by our ancestors. He was purifying the land, ridding it of Mudbloods and Blood-traitors, Muggle-lovers and Squibs. The purebloods once again reigned above. We even started muggle-hunting again (he said this with a particular look on his face-as if he dearly missed the sport). Then he was stopped, finished off by this boy, about your age now. No older than a baby at the time. Harry Potter was his name, how he did it we still don't know. Some say he might have powers no one knows, that he may be the next great dark wizard.

So of course, growing up, he had been curious. And when he first met this famed Harry Potter he tried to make a friend of him all the while thinking that if he was the next great dark wizard, it would be good to have him as an accomplice. But, alas, he had already befriended that blood-traitor Weasley, and rudely refused to shake Draco's hand. He soon learned that Potter was nothing more than an incompetent boy who had simply gotten lucky. He agitated Draco so much, and the two became arch enemies. Every time Draco saw Harry he was reminded the shame his family had been though, forcing his farther to lie and say that he had been under the Imperious curse. Forced to bribe many important people into lying for him. Forcing his family to be looked upon in shame by all those disgusting Muggle-lovers that (since the downfall of the Dark Lord) filled Britain. But most of all, he was the reason Draco's father was now in Azkaban, being tortured by Dementors. But remember, his father had always said, remember who you are. You are above them. You are powerful. You are pureblood. A pureblooded Malfoy, there is no higher standing.

But no the Dark Lord was back, and Draco soon realized that he was not simply some scary fairy-tale. He was real. Radiating evil and malice. He terrified Draco. Mostly Draco just tried to stay out of his way, but now he wanted to talk to him?

"What does he want?"

"I do not know, he would not tell me."

"What shall I say?"

"Whatever appeases him."

"When?"

"As soon as possible."

"Which means?"

"As soon as he gets here."

Draco gulped. Malfoy Manor had served as a sort of headquarters for the Death Eaters these past few months. Still, he got a little jolt every time he found out the Dark Lord was going to arrive.

Draco began to pace up and down the drawing room. What shall I say? What could I have done to warrant a visit from the Dark Lord? He turned quickly and, without another word to his mother, ran to hide in his room until the Dark Lord arrived. What would his father say? "Get ahold of yourself, boy! You mustn't show fear, unless, of course, he wants you to." Yes, that's exactly what Lucius would say. So that's what he would do.

Draco was surprised to find out that instead of sending the house-elf this time his mother had come to be the bearer of bad news.

The Dark Lord had arrived.

"He is waiting in the drawing room," she simply said. She looked stiff, unaffected. But Draco knew under the false calm Narcissa was nearly as worried as he was. He could see it in the way his mother's cold eyes darted back and forth. Draco walked slowly down the main hall. Generations of Malfoys were depicted in portraits along the hall. Their eyes followed him silently. He turned the bronze handle.

He was sitting at the head of the table. The light barely reached him from the large crystal chandelier, yet his face shone out of the gloom. His long black robes stood in shocking contrast to his deathly pale, almost translucent skin. His snakelike face was smirking, his slitted nostrils flared with superiority.

"Sit, Draco." The words slithered out of his mouth like the huge black snake he called Nagini at his feet. The room was Draco sat a few chairs down from Voldemort, far away enough to make Draco more comfortable, but close enough so the Dark Lord would not know he made Draco uncomfortable. Sadly, the expression on Draco's face gave away any negative feeling he had toward the great Dark Lord.

"You do not wish to be here, Draco?"

Draco tried to straighten his face. To be emotionless, like his father.

"No, my lord, it is the highest honor to have you present here," he said, trying to sound as much like Lucius as possible. Calm and insistent.

"You lie," Voldemort said scathingly. Everyone knew the one thing Voldemort hated the most was his followers lying to him. That guy had a lot of hatred in him. This meeting was obviously not going well for Draco. A short silence ensued; he didn't really know what to say next. He was scared, he knew higher-standing followers had been murdered on the spot for smaller offenses. He thought about apologizing, but he was worried that might make it worse. Luckily, Voldemort spoke again.

"I have an assignment for you."

Draco's head was reeling. An assignment…? This could not be good.

"Yes, my lord?"

"I am granting you a high honor, Draco. You know that for years I have been…pestered…by a certain wizard. Albus Dumbledore (the Dark Lord sneered as his said the name). I need him gone. You, Draco, I have granted the task of, oh how shall I put it…? Finishing him off?" The snake-man smiled, his blood-red eyes glinted. Nagini wrapped herself around the table leg and hissed softly.

Draco couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. He wanted him to kill someone? And not just anyone, but one of the most powerful wizards of the age? Of course, Dumbledore was a crazy old fool, his father had always said that. It should be easy, right? But to kill someone. He was only sixteen.

"My…my lord, " Draco stuttered, unable to make eye contact he stared at his lap, "Why…why must I be the one to kill Dumbledore?" Fearful confusion contorted his pale, pointed face.

"What better task for a new, and so promising, initiate? Why, Draco," the snake man laughed, high and cruel, "you should be happy, to be set to such an honorable task." Voldemort leered, Nagini hissed. Voldemort softly stroked the snake head. It hissed again, softer this time, like a cat's purr.

"Yes, my lord, of course." Draco was shaking now. Sweat poured down him like a waterfall.

"You will not fail, Draco." It was a demand, not encouragement. Draco tried to speak put the words piled up and stuck in his throat.

"If you do…" he let it trail off into the horribly unknown, smirking all the while.

"And," the Dark Lord finished up, "you will have it done by the end of your school year, preferably sooner." Voldemort said it as if he were assigning a school project. Then he got up, Nagini following at his heels. Suddenly the previously unlit fireplace at the other end of the room roared bright, filling the room with light. Draco's jaw slacked as Voldemort turned into thick, black smoke, Nagini with him. At the same moment the fire burned green, and Voldemort flew across the room, over the table, and into the emerald fire, disappearing. Draco sank back into his chair, silently.

Draco sat on his bed, gripping the black comforter as though he might tear it to shreds.

"Surely…surely, he didn't mean..." Narcissa's eyes were wide with fear. She gripped her son's shoulders with an iron grasp, "tell…me…exactly…what he said…"

"I've told you…what he said…I've got to kill him."

"But you won't succeed, he knows you won't! He sends you on a suicide mission! Why…because he knows it'll will tear my Lucius apart…this has nothing to do with you, Draco! This is punishment for Lucius's mistake at the Ministry! Because he knows…he knows you can't…"

Draco suddenly shot up, standing with anger in his eyes, "You think I can't! Why couldn't I? I've been given an honor and all you can do is cry, Mother!" Draco made the decision right there he would not shrink away from this duty. If he succeeded he would be revered above all others, and if he failed he would die trying to uphold the family honor. But he couldn't…he wouldn't… fail.