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"No, Draco! Take all of your hate and throw it into the curse! You have to mean it, Draco! Do it! Do it!" the harsh voice of Bellatrix Lestrange demanded, the woman herself standing to his side on the balls of her feet as Draco tried again and again to make the poison green come out of his wand and hit the pathetic Muggle restrained on the floor in front of him.

He had been at it for what felt like hours. Draco had been roused from luncheon with his mother by his deranged aunt as she skipped in, grabbed his arm in an unrelenting grip, and pulled him through the halls of Malfoy Manor to where he was now, singing all the way how the Dark Lord trusted her to teach her baby nephew how to be a real Death Eater. Now, though, she was almost scarily impatient, or more scary than usual, as Draco continually failed to produce the emerald green from his wand and end the worthless heap's life. He was trying, he really was. If he couldn't cast the Killing Curse what use would the Dark Lord have for him then? Not even his name would save him, although even that had been ridiculed and cut down mercilessly until the Malfoy name was a laughing stock amongst the ranks, hardly commanding the fear and respect it used to. And now, to add insult to injury, the scion of Malfoy couldn't even kill an insignificant Muggle!

"Draco, you must concentrate! Just kill it! Kill it!"

Draco shook his head slightly and returned his attention to his target. Hardly a target though; the filthy Muggle was incarcerated by his aunt's wand on the floor in front of him and frozen still. Only his eyes were moving, which indicated his panic as they frantically moved around the room, searching for an escape.

"Focus, Draco," Bellatrix whispered in his ear, her chin resting on his shoulder and her breath sending shivers down his neck. "Look inside for that hatred I know you have. All you have to do is harness it and imagine sending it at the disgusting Muggle as you say the incantation. Look inside and find your hate. Mean it, Draco. You have to mean it."

Draco closed his eyes and started breathing deeply. He tried to forget his aunt, hanging off him, and soon he did. It didn't take long for her to start torturing the Muggle again, but it was better to have her attention diverted from him any day. Besides, what did he care about a stupid Muggle? She could kill the Muggle herself, for all he cared. Quieting his mind, Draco dove within his consciousness, much like how his Aunt Bella had taught him when she was instructing him in Occlumency. He knew the exercise required deep and meditative self-control and surely the principle was the same. He had to find within himself the desire to kill the Muggle. However, as much as Draco tried, all he could fathom was a desire for the Muggle dead, just not the desire to kill him himself. It was Dumbledore all over again, and this time there was no Snape to save him.

Draco began to worry even more, his nerves fracturing as he thought of the consequences of not being able to perform the Killing Curse. He would be a laughing stock and bring further dishonour to the Malfoy name. He would disappoint his father, shame him, and his mother would be a nervous wreck, fretting for his life. For surely the Dark Lord would not tolerate an incompetent Death Eater. He would either get rid of him or make sure everyone knew what would happen to someone who could not perform in his duties, set an example of him. Humiliation and torture would be forefront, and Draco wouldn't be surprised if his mother and father were made to perform this, if not simply watch as their only son suffered and was no doubt murdered before their very eyes.

It was a horrifying existence he lived. It was a game of chance, every single day, whether or not he would live to gamble his life the next. His father was desperate to please his lord and remain in his favour, and if not – well – the consequences haunted his dreams and waking hours. His mother was in a constant state of terror and exhaustion; she feared for his life, he knew. His mother didn't want him apart of this; she didn't want him surrounded by people who would willingly kill him if just one man gave the order. That man, the man more snake-like and inhuman than any he had ever before laid eyes on. If he was gone, Draco wouldn't have to worry for his mother, his father, himself, and have fear as his constant companion, but who would kill him?

Potter. Potter was prophesized to kill the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord viewed him enough of a threat to take every precaution to avoid being at the Gryffindor's mercy. Draco remembered that Death Eater meeting late last year. The Dark Lord had – he'd taken his father's wand. Draco could hardly fathom that his master had done that. It was humiliating! His name was mud now, his family was barely functioning, and his life was essentially over, all because of one Dark Lord's further existence, his presence in Draco's ancestral family home like a black cloud, choking him and squeezing him tight, constricting his body until he only moved or breathed at the will of the miasma.

These reflections refused to allow his mind but one thought:

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if the Dark Lord … wasn't around.

A particularly loud exclamation of pain had Draco slowly reopening is eyes, far too accustomed to such sounds to be startled. His grey gaze immediately fell on his gleeful aunt, her sadistically wicked expression heart stopping to any of the faint-hearted or indeed, almost anyone save the Dark Lord. If he were to survive said Dark Lord and his reign of terror, Draco would need to step up and please his lord. He didn't think he could cast the Avada Kedavra, and that humiliated him to no end, but he could surely be of some other use. He was returning to school for the second half of the year soon and would be far safer there, despite the Death Eater rule of the school. One last deep breath and Draco was about to speak to his aunt, what he was going to say, he didn't know, when she suddenly stopped playing with her toy and looked seriously in the direction of where the gate was located.

"Go to the dining room, Draco. Someone is paying us a visit," she said before leaving him as she swept out of the room, her dark eyes seemingly penetrating the very walls as though she could see through them all the way to the gate itself.

Draco glanced one last time at the Muggle, lying and whimpering pathetically on the floor, still bound in rope. Draco felt no sympathy for the animal. He was, after all, inferior and worthless. However, for a fleeting moment, as their eyes met, Draco felt a kinship with the prisoner, because he was a prisoner too; a prisoner in his own home. Draco shook his head hard this time, and expelled the thought almost as quickly as it had popped into his head and looked away from the heap's barely human feature. Draco was not like a filthy Muggle, he was far better. Turning his back on the heap of pain, blood, flesh and bones, Draco kept his posture austere as he marched towards the dining room where his parents were no doubt assembled, prepared to evaluate the arrivals to their home.

Standing in the room with his family, Draco watched as a small group was brought in, however it was the four youngest ones he could not tear his eyes from. There, standing in his dining room, was Dean Thomas, Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley and who was unquestionably Harry "the Chosen One" Potter, unmistakable even with a puffed up face.

Draco felt his blood run cold.

Note: I'm open to writing the scene following from Draco's perspective, most likely continuing on from where this left off, if anyone's interested, angst and internal conflict free of charge. So please let me know if you'd be interested in reading it (otherwise I won't bother ... most likely) and don't forget to review! It's like a shot of sugar to my system :)

Take care

Hermitt