A/N- New story. Hope you like it

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter.

It came out like a snake's would.

"Kill the girl, kill the hero."

Voldermort had never looked so happy. It was as if he had come upon some huge secret that held all the answers to the world's most sought after questions. He thought he might be sick, vomit at the very least. How could he kill a girl that he had gone to school with, had learned with, and had saw everyday? If that didn't make him a monster, than he didn't know what did. He hardly felt himself bow as he prepared to leave the Dark Lords presence. His feet shuffled against the cold stone floor and he knew that he would never be the same again.

He had never killed anybody before and just thinking about it made his stomach queasy and his bowels turn. He had never been a fan of Potter and his league of blood traitors, not to mention that mudblood he hung out with; but Malfoy had never wanted to kill them. Not personally at least. And in this dark hour he actually had time to think about why that was. He should hate them, he thought, after all they hated him. But would any of them actually murder him? Would they intentionally take an arrow and stab it in his back when he wasn't looking? Malfoy shook his head. It wouldn't do to think about such things. Nothing was in black and white and it would never be for Draco. He remembered his mother just then and the way she would toss her glossy blond hair over her shoulder and say he was different from his father. Was that it then? Did he want to be different? Did he want to believe that there was some spectral of good in him?

Questions, questions, questions.

He gingerly pulled out the photo of his target. Red hair, brown eyes. Nothing special. Then again it was always the ordinary things that were worth having. For a second Draco felt the gnawing sensation of doubt stop his train of thought and he couldn't help but wonder. Wonder if he went to Potter and his little lackeys right now and told them what he was supposed to do, what he was meant to do, would they believe him? Would they smile at him and thank him for saving weaselettes life? Or would they call him a liar and stick the cold end of a wand in his face?

Possibilities, possibilities, possibilities.

Malfoy ripped the picture to shreds angrily. He was a malfoy, he had only one path; there were no other roads to take.

There was no turning back.

The night air was cold against his lips, slapping his blond hair wildly around his face. From his cover in the trees, he could just make out a figure emerging from a crooked house. For a moment light filled the dark surrounding but then was gone again as the door to the house closed. He smirked nastily. How ironic. Like a door closing on his life; on his innocence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape check his pocket watch. Just a matter of time now. The dark Lord wanted everything to be perfect for Potter's arrival. No doubt he had sent horrifying images to saint Potter, prompting him to come play the hero again. We all know how well that worked the last time. He shifted his weight from his right side to his left; the metal contraption on his arm was heavy. He felt his body heave in disgust. Using muggle contraptions to exterminate blood traitors like them…perhaps the dark lord had lost his mind. Though he couldn't say it wouldn't leave the desired effect. From his position, he watched the girl raise a gloved hand towards the sky and look down in wonder. How childish. Snow for Christmas? Wasn't that just the things stories were made of? He remembered his first Christmas. Well the first Christmas he could remember. And there had been no sugarplums or fat jolly men then. There had only been his father's wand, a blood traitor and the sickening crunching of bones.

He supposed the Weasley's never had that, with their perfect family and perfect ideals. No, he was sure that they had basked in the warmness of love on Christmas. Love. What was love anyway? Was it a disease upon the brain or an actual physical attraction with a name? Whatever it was he didn't want it. He didn't want to be fools like Saint Potter and his mother. His mother who stayed with her father after everything he had done to her, done to them. Who wanted to be like Potter anyway? Rushing in to danger, not a care for yourself; just to feel the slow breaking of your heart when you watch that person die in front of you. As far as he was concerned, they could keep their frivolous letters and pink hearts. He wanted no part of it.

He saw one of the guys single Snape from his cover in the trees and knew it was time. Just a few yards away he could make out Potter and his set of goons racing towards them; no not towards them, towards her. He had almost forgotten about their disillusion cloaks. They were closer now; close enough for Malfoy to see his face. He wondered how someone could look so anxious, so desperate, but frightening all at the same time. He received the second signal from Snape and placed his hand on the trigger. Sweat began to collect on his forehead and his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. A couple of days ago his father had decided that he was to deliver the killing blow in order to further prove his allegiance to the dark lord. He knew if he didn't make this shot he was as good as dead. He felt it odd that now, at this very moment he should think of the line he had heard from the muggle play Macbeth. It had been one time in that damned Muggle Studies class and the Granger girl had been harping on about it, but still that one line stuck with him.

Out, out brief candle.

Truly wasn't life like that? A candle that could be snuffed out at the slightest touch of water? He shook his head. Better to think about the task at hand then some drowned out muggle play. His heart was beating faster now; it was so loud he swore everyone could hear it. Perspiration made the gun feel slippery and wet in his shaking hands. Weaselette had spotted them, the weasel that is, and had began to run towards them with an excited squeal. She was the only one out of the lot of them to look so carefree, the only one unaware of her fate. He could feel everyone's eyes on him. Potter was only about two yards from her and from his angle this was the best time to shoot. It was now or never.

Still he hesitated. The gun was literally shaking in his hands. He felt Snape, forcibly enter his mind.

Shoot! He beckoned. Draco struggled to focus.

Do it. He couldn't. Snape must have felt his resistance because he didn't leave immediately.

As your superior I order you to do it. Every memory he ever had of Ginny Weasley began to surface, making his knees weak.

Do it. I-

Do it now!

The gun shot rang out like a loud canon through the silent sky as Draco unclenched his eyes. Ginny's blood had splattered against the white snow and her body sagged against Potter's, who caught her just as her body was about to hit the floor. Out of the entire group Draco was the nearest to them and could hear Potter begging her to wake up while the granger girl sobbed uncontrollably. The Weasley boy was as still as a statue and seemed to not be able to believe that this was in fact happening. Just as an in human scream rustled the night air the house door opened and all the Weasley's toppled out, intent on knowing what happened. Upon spotting her daughter Ms. Weasley shrieked and Draco knew it was time to go. All around him deatheater's had disapparated, except for Snape who stood next to him with a strangely smug smile. He didn't look happy but he didn't look unhappy either. Draco imagined he would. The question though wasn't why Snape was unhappy but why Draco himself was. Unable to look at the scene any longer Draco disapparated, leaving the sorrowful sobs and a piece of himself behind with Ginny's slowly bleeding body.

Arriving back at one of Voldermorts many lairs, Draco stumbled to the floor dizzily and emptied out the entire contents of his stomach onto the chamber floor. He lay there for a while, thinking about the events leading up to his first kill and subsequently the killing itself. The world hadn't ended and natural wonders hadn't ceased to exist and yet it had. He could never go back to being who he used to be, all knowledge with no experience, hatred without contempt, student…but not a murderer.

After the cold floor had cooled his headache, he wandered into his bedroom and dressed swiftly in his night robes. He knew he would probably be punished tomorrow for not seeking out the dark lord immediately and reporting to him but for right now Draco didn't have the time to care. His thoughts were running wild, zigzagging like a muggle car without any brakes. He wondered, as if to balance the world out, a monster was born as a hero died; both in the emotional sense and the physical sense. Because he knew as well as anyone that your flesh doesn't have to be cut for you to die. He shook his head, no monsters were not born; they were made. Produced from a coveted model of twisted ideas and loosening sanity. A mirror image of their predecessor, trapped in a love starved child. He turned his gaze to the long mirror in front of him and didn't recognize the person, the thing, staring back at him.

He shut his eyes away from the mirror, ashamed of the thing he had become.

Most monsters are.