Why me? Why did I have to be born to that name? The name that makes me so many things I've never wanted to be: a traitor, a coward, a liar, a cheat, an abusive bully. It actually sickens me to think that that filthy, murdering blood runs through my veins and there's nothing I can do about it; I'm stuck being a Malfoy forever more.
Nevertheless, this is not how I've always felt; I used to take extreme pride in proclaiming my name to anyone who'd listen: Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. This was before I fully understood what being a Malfoy entailed, before he returned, before I came to Hogwarts and saw the pain and suffering my family had caused by being in allegiance with him, the people left behind to deal with the losses inflicted by my father and his friends, whom I'd always thought of as uncles. It was then that I began to realise who I was doomed to end up as: a replica of my father, hating myself for all the insufferable agony I was causing but too much of a coward to walk away, say no and, for once, be the one to suffer the consequences of my actions. Obviously, that idea was what terrified me the very most, but what could I do to stop it? It was how I'd been brought up, my 'destiny' and if I didn't obey the newly risen He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, my family and I were bound to be severely and cruelly punished for my betrayal.
Therefore, nowadays, my heritage has become a physical pain, like the bruises left by my grandfather - Abraxas Malfoy, whose malevolence I did not choose to inherit. Every cell in my body repels the idea that half of my being is made up of the genes of uncompassionate killers, so much so that I wish I'd never been born. Yet, had I not been born, I'm not sure my mother would have coped with our dark, shadowed family tree, poor Narcissa Black, born into a pure blood family of sadistic Slytherins and tormenters, married into another family of even more malicious, cruel beyond belief, horrific excuses for wizards; little Cissy never really had the option of choosing any other path, although, as I found out through listening in on whispered conversations, she did try to follow in the footsteps of her admirable cousin, Sirius, she never really stood a chance.
That's why I continue bearing the endless abuse, for my mother, and, truthfully, for my father, because he was in a similar predicament to her but was pressured into becoming a Death Eater and once you're in, you'll never get out alive. So, you see, I can't blame them, they're just the same as I am.
Except they aren't, are they? Nobody is the same as Draco Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater to ever have lived, given the highest honour of all: to kill Albus Dumbledore. But not out of respect, not because I earned it, but because he thought - he knew - I'd fail and so did it to give himself a valid reason for my execution. Although, of course, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does not need – nor has he ever needed - a reason to kill anyone, I think he gets a kick out of the shame, dishonour and humiliation it causes his victim and their family. It gives him power, the one thing he desires above all else.
Like an iron clamp, never releasing its stranglehold on my neck, squeezing every ounce of oxygen from my lungs, removing all of my strength, he still has a hold over me as I creep toward my sure death, up the daunting, darkened staircase to the very highest tower in the castle, the place Snape had told me the deteriorated Dumbledore would arrive at tonight. My feet catch on every other step, each time the noise brings petrified chills reverberating down my spine and I jump like a cowardly little girl, unable to contain my mounting fear. With every beat of my already guilt-ridden heart, I curse the very day I was born a Malfoy, the world I was brought up in, my Death Eater parents, the task I never had the option not to carry out, him; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The monster under my bed, the nightmare I could never get rid of, the bully I couldn't quite shake off, always coming back stronger, more powerful, more evil than before, filled with a grievance for my family of which he'd get his precious revenge for through my execution. I fear him more than anything else in existence and I despise him with every fibre of my body, a burning hatred that will last the rest of my life, however short that may now be.
But I have to shake off these traitorous thoughts, for he has ways of knowing exactly what his prey have said, done, thought, heard, smelt, tasted and touched throughout their entire life; he is the most skilled at occlumency in this world. So I have to banish all thoughts, focus unwaveringly on the task at hand: I must kill Albus Dumbledore.
So I conceal my desperate pleas to be somewhere else, to be someone else, as I make my way into the room that holds my destiny. My feet grudgingly make their way toward the doorway but stop with a sudden jerk of my heart as I hear a voice, the voice of the man who has watched over me for the past 6 years, wanted me to become a better man, tried to prevent me from following in my father's footsteps, the very man I am about to murder.
Something must have gone wrong, the plan wasn't supposed to go this way, he was meant to be on his own; weakened, lonely and vulnerable. That was when I was destined to murder my headmaster. So who is he talking to? Who could have possibly known what I was going to do? Who would dare to warn him and risk feeling the wrath of Lord Voldemort?
But, of course, there's only one person who would have the audacity, the strong enough allegiance with Dumbledore to tell him, to risk breaking the unbreakable vow he made to my mother: Severus Snape. Of course. Aunt Bellatrix told me he'd try to wriggle his way out of the strongest possible promise he'd made in order to protect his precious master. Dumbledore's lap dog, that's what Bella had called him, she'd told me that he wasn't to be trusted, that he was, in fact, a triple agent, secretly working for the Order, server of the omnipotent Hogwarts headmaster.
Surely not, it couldn't be Snape, the Potions Master, the only teacher I could ever confide in when I'd been a younger student. At the very end of fourth year I had actually approached him to ask if there was a way out, a way I could not become a Death Eater without being tortured and murdered for it. I'd thought that he was about to tell me that there was a way, that he'd wanted to take it but it had been impossible for him when he was in so deep, however he'd help me to the best of his ability to get out without hurting anyone. To this day I truly believe that that's what he would have told me, had we not been interrupted by an his receiving of an insistent owl, claiming Snape's attention and when I'd finally plucked up the courage to broach the subject again he'd said that being a Death Eater was an honour to be cherished; why would I even consider another path for my life to go down?
It's only when the voices are suddenly silenced that I'm brought back from my reverie and realisation hits me: had Snape given me up to Dumbledore, there's no way I'd still be stood here, waiting to pounce. So it takes every ounce of courage I am able to muster for me to heave my feet from the floor and turn the corner into the topmost tower of Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry, where, standing as though anticipating my sudden appearance, his face solemn and silent, is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. I disarm him and so the night that will haunt me for the rest of my life begins.