Draco Lucius Malfoy

Draco trudges through the dark alleyway with Crabbe and Goyle storming ahead in front of him, his shoes clunking ominously against the cobblestone floor. There's a chill in the air tonight, and it has absolutely no relation to the December breeze billowing the cloaks around their inky silhouettes─ tonight, Draco Malfoy will become a murderer. And that's a chilling concept for him to grasp.

Even he can admit that he was never an outstanding person. But to go from arrogance and what he likes to call impishness to cold-blooded ruthlessness in one night was never what he expected. This time last year, he was counting down the seconds to the new year. Come midnight tonight, however, Draco will officially be a killer. He will be commencing the new year with blood on his hands in lieu of firewhiskey on his tongue.

Crabbe and Goyle were too quick, too eager. They purposefully chose a house with lights on, 'so that they could see the terror in the scum's eyes, and the life drain from them as they kill them', as they so crassly put it. But Draco wasn't nearly as enthusiastic. They chose this. They had the choice of which he was cruelly denied. But if he had been given it, of completely free will, wouldn't he have chosen this path for himself anyway? Only now that he's had the option taken away from him does it feel less like a reward and more like retribution.

That's the irony of it all.

If his father hadn't failed that mission in the Department of Mysteries and gotten him and a handful of fellow Death Eaters imprisoned, Draco would still be gagging for it. He'd still be pulling on his father's coattails, as he did when he was a child begging for more pumpkin juice, pleading with him to let Draco join the group. He'd still be whining incessantly about wanting to 'contribute'. Contribute. Contribute to the deaths of innocent muggle civilians─ he understands that the grass is always greener on the other side, but now he cannot even comprehend begging to do such a thing. Again, ironic.

He chooses a house with the lights off; he can kill them in their sleep that way. It will be the only mercy he'd be able to grant the muggle. He had deduced, from the lack of car and the one bicycle propped up against the outside wall, that it was a single homeowner. Not a family. Less people to kill that way. With quick efficiency, he apparates into the living room, making an immediate show of his powers. He had expected emptiness, had anticipated (and dreaded) stalking to the bedroom and casting a simple killing curse. Over before the poor muggle could even wake. He's going to do this. It would be haunting, but fast.

Or so he thought.

But then he gathers his bearings, vision askew from organs twisting inside places they shouldn't be─ apparition is still a cruel mistress, even after all this time─ and sees... a girl. The same age as him. Nineteen. So much life to live. He should be horrified. Horrified that he showcased his powers to a muggle, horrified that said muggle is awake for her killing, and horrified that he has to look her in the eyes when he murders her for no given reason. But what disturbs him more is her apparent impassiveness to a man appearing in her living room out of thin air. How she glances up at him not in fear, not even in defensiveness, but in complete boredom.

And Draco knows that killing her will be no simple task.