Song: "Bad"

Artist: Michael Jackson

Ordinarily, Draco Malfoy despised the damp English air. It caused the ends of his hair to curl, trifling with his preferred sleek style. He was known to complain incessantly to whomever would listen whenever a mist settled over the Hogwarts grounds. Today, however, the humidity was the last thing on Draco's mind, for today was anything but ordinary.

He was being escorted by a very tall, blond Death Eater through an excessively damp hallway in an excessively damp manor. Where exactly this manor was, he did not know, for his escort had arrived suddenly at his home that morning (while Draco had embarrassingly still been in his pajamas and bathrobe), announcing that the Dark Lord had requested Draco's presence. Draco had been able to hear his mother and the Death Eater discussing something rather heatedly while he hastily dressed, and when he returned downstairs the Death Eater had grabbed his arm and Apparated him away before his mother could speak. They had reappeared in a dense wood and walked about half a mile to a clearing which contained several twisted ornamental trees and the crumbly, imposing mansion through which they were now hurrying.

Draco could assume why they were hurrying — no one kept the Dark Lord waiting — but he was in the dark about everything else. Why would the Dark Lord want to see him? Was it about Father? Why hadn't his mother warned him? He smoothed his hair nervously, and the tall Death Eater shot him a look of pure condescension.

The Death Eater led Draco down a narrow stairwell off the manor's kitchen, and now instead of being surrounded by faded wallpaper and dusty, ornate furnishings, they were encased in a tunnel of cold, gray stone. The temperature dropped dramatically. The basement, far larger than the house above it, seemed to Draco a maze of endless tunnels, punctuated occasionally by thick wooden doors. As they twisted and turned to their unknown destination, Draco stopped feeling merely ruffled and began feeling the dread and quiet panic appropriate for the situation.

He had never before been face-to-face with the Dark Lord. Why should he have been? From what he had heard, the Dark Lord called sudden meetings with only two kinds of people: those he intended to reward for a great deed, and those he intended to punish. This realization made Draco gulp. He hoped he had unwittingly done something good... he had heard horror stories about the torture of which the Dark Lord was capable.

Before Draco's imagination could run away with him, the tall Death Eater stopped an unmarked door, identical to all the others they had passed. Draco ran into him. The Death Eater didn't appear to notice; he drew his wand and pointed it at a random pit in the stone wall. After a moment, the rusty lock clicked and the door creaked open. From within, a high yet powerful voice spoke, a voice that filled Draco immediately with prickly, icy terror.

"Enter."

The Death Eater strode in without a glance back at Draco. Draco hesitated and fleetingly wondered if he remembered the way out well enough to just run away — but no. Even if they didn't catch him, word of his cowardice would eventually reach his father. Overcoming his fear, he cautiously took one step forward, then continued briskly into the room, trying to look as tall and confident as possible. He would appear before the Dark Lord as a man, not as a boy.

He had entered a long stone chamber with a high ceiling. It was dim, but at the far end Draco could see the thin silhouette of a figure seated on a chair. As he approached to where the tall Death Eater was standing about midway across the room, he saw that the chair was rough, wooden, unremarkable — but the figure sat upon it as though it was a throne. It was unmistakably the leader of the pureblood cause; the til-now faceless one whose name inspired unchecked fear; the most powerful wizard of all time: Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord gestured at the tall Death Eater, and he retreated to the back of the chamber. Draco's eyes locked on the Dark Lord's grotesque appearance; he could not look away. The red eyes, the gray-white skin, the snake-like nose were all hideous enough, but it was something else that intimidated Draco. It was his manner in general, the way he moved his spidery fingers, the way he sat in a rickety chair in a dungeon like it was a palace on top of the world. It was clear that the creature before him commanded great power — ugly, malicious, intoxicating power — and had thus obtained those characteristics himself.

The Dark Lord looked at Draco and said, sounding almost annoyed, "I want you to kill Albus Dumbledore."

There was a long pause in which Draco wondered if the Dark Lord was serious. He stood up straighter and resisted the impulse to smooth his hair.

Continuing, the Dark Lord said, "It is of no importance to me what method you use, but guilt must not be traced back to you. I expect you to complete the task no later than by the end of your next year at Hogwarts, the sooner the better. Do you understand?"

Draco had no words. Why would the Dark Lord entrust such an important and difficult task to an inexperienced schoolboy? Though he despised the old fool, Draco couldn't underestimate Dumbledore's powers. To kill him would be impossible! How was he expected to succeed?

Realization slithered through from the back of his mind. He wasn't expected to succeed at all. The Dark Lord was not careless. But what was to be gained from sending Draco to inevitable failure? His father had told him that the Dark Lord was always to be completely trusted, yet Draco could not stop doubt from encroaching him.

Confusion and curiosity overcame his fearful reverence, and Draco stammered, "B- but, Master—"

With but the slightest sound of movement, the Dark Lord was suddenly standing, wand out, and Draco was thrown to the floor by an unimaginable blast of pain. Draco felt his bones shattering, joints separating, skin tearing; he could not tell if his voice was screaming or if it was just his body—

The cessation of the pain was nearly as shocking as the initial blast. Draco's vision swam back into focus. Somehow he was still whole... he stared stupidly up at the Dark Lord, all pretense of manliness gone.

"Get up," the Dark Lord spat. Draco staggered to his feet. "Now listen to me, you foolish boy. My servants do not fail me. Do you know why?"

Draco, his heart pounding, did not speak.

"Because I'm bad," hissed the Dark Lord. "I'm a bad wizard. I do not say that I am a bad man, for you know that I am not even human anymore." The Dark Lord spoke slowly, quietly, menacingly. "I'm bad. Really, really bad. And you know it. All my servants know that if they fail me, I will do bad things. They only hope that I will be merciful and kill them." He stared at Draco with dangerous eyes. "Do you understand?"

Draco was frozen for a moment, but, terrified of another Cruciatus Curse, forced himself to nod.

The Dark Lord stepped back to his throne. "Come here," he said, seating himself.

Draco marched forward, his thoughts a confused blur of trepidation and wanting his mother. The Dark Lord instructed him to roll up the left sleeve of his robe and hold out his arm.

"Do not move."

The Dark Lord placed the tip of his wand on Draco's forearm and pressed down. Draco winced as his flesh burned and blackened. When the wand was pulled away, the Dark Mark showed starkly against his pale skin. Draco stared at it; the permanence of the Mark made everything real. He had been branded a soldier of the Dark Lord, thrust onto the front lines... and now realized how very little he understood about the war.