Draco skulked along the edge of the road, slick with icy sludge, that lead down to the village, hand in pocket, clutching the worn wooden handle of his wand. He could've easily Apparated there, but he wanted the walk…the anger dispelled…

Mother was being absolutely ridiculous. This was an important opportunity -no- an honor. A privilege. A chance to prove himself. To show…everyone…that he could do this, that he had what it took. To…help his father? To save him? To get him out of that place? Maybe that would make mother sleep at night, make her stop staring at the walls.

Draco looked up from the muddied snow. He had reached the village. He strolled through the labyrinthine, stone-paved streets, glossed over with frost. Flakes of snow swirled around him, clinging to the high collar of his black woolen pea-coat, and settling in the strands of glossy white hair that settled over his rain water-gray eyes. He turned a corner and entered Twilfitt and Tatting's robes shop.

A cheerful bell tinkled as the large, glossy door closed behind him. It did not suit the atmosphere of the room. The tall, thin woman stacking bolts of cloth on a shelf met Draco's haughty, challenging stare appraisingly.

"I need new black dress robes," he stated simply.

He had always felt entitled, naturally, but it was different now; now he felt…empowered. He could command now, truly command everyone. By midnight he would have the Mark, and with it the authority. 'Mother just doesn't understand', he thought firmly as he walked back out into the snow with the robes, wrapped in green silk, tucked under his arm. 'She has never been given this chance, she can't possibly know how it will feel to serve him this way.' Draco immediately regretted even thinking this. He leaned against a cold, black stone wall, watching the snow fall. With father gone to…to Azkaban… he knew exactly how she felt: vacant. Helpless. At the mercy of… It was Potter's fault. It was Potter that had landed his father in prison. Potter that had locked the cage shut. Potter with his ideals, and his heroic deeds, and his friends. Draco brushed a snowflake from his white eyelashes and Apparated back to his manor.

It was his manor now, wasn't it…with father gone, he was the man of the house. Draco had hoped it would've felt…well better than this. It was a weight that pressed, cold and leaden, against his chest. He pushed back his hair, kicked off his galoshes, and reminded himself of the honor of the task ahead - of the day when his father would come back.