I hope our story has a happier ending

some days you just get by

Draco's home life has always been a bit hellish, but this is—an entirely other kind of horror show.

Voldemort and merlin knows how many Death Eaters are around at any given harder; the Dark Lord had commandeered the master suite, of course, but Draco's yet to know of the man even sleeping.

He's been crucio'd, hexed, beaten, and cursed more times than he can count, but that part he'd expected.

(His mother's alive, though, and Hermione's safe, and that's—really all that matters.)

There are bright spots, some days, but they're bittersweet. Sometimes Pansy's over with her father, which is a light in the darkness, but Draco feels guilty for being grateful for her presence—knows she's better off anywhere but here, where her occasional public affiliation with other houses has earned her more than one round of torture.

Every waking moment is spent walking on eggshells, never knowing what pain might be next—which in all honesty wouldn't be much of a difference from living with Lucius, but now the stakes are higher, with so many more potential perpetrators around every corner.

Sometimes he's ordered to join older Death Eaters on missions, all of which are awful and gruesome and occur solely to cause damage and continue to sow fear and discord. He's not the only new recruit, by far, though many of the others come from bloodlines who have yet to "prove their allegiance" and are thus expected to execute more of the chaos.

(He learned early on to block it all out—dissociate like he always has on the other end of his father's wand, unfeeling and numb to keep from falling apart.)

It all blurs together, the days nothing and everything all at once as he watches the war's gears churn. He can't differentiate each from the next; it's the same people, same masks, same harm caused and feeling his soul darken, every day so similar it feels like a routine.

Until one day—something different.

"The Dark Lord wants you in the dining room," Fenir Greyback snarls from the doorway of the library—one of the members Draco is most wary of, and perhaps the only one currently in worse favor than the Malfoys.

Draco gets to his feet immediately, though he keeps his back to the wall and the volatile man within his sights. "What for?"

"Like I give a fuck."

(in actuality, the werewolf probably doesn't know, is angry at the reminder of how little respect he's shown, especially coming from a seventeen year old.)

They're silent the rest of the walk to where Voldemort presides, seated in a modified armchair at the head of the table, Nagini curled around the seat's back.

Draco eyes the snake in question—he'd noted early on that the megalomaniac keeps her oddly close, and has been slowly attempting to endear himself to the creature, as much as such a thing is possible.

Voldemort lifts his gaze to Draco's own, the entire room silent. "You've just come of age, Malfoy, correct?"

Confused, Draco hurries to nod. "Yes, my Lord."

"I've decided upon the task that will serve as your penance for your father's failure at the Ministry last spring." His lips curve upward, distorting the slits of his nostrils, red eyes standing out against the pallor of his skin. "I find myself growing tired of Albus Dumbledore's existence. So end it."

If Draco didn't have years of experience hiding his emotions, he wouldn't be able to restrain expressing the shock he feels.

(As much as he hates Dumbledore, to attempt his assassination is one of the boldest actions Voldemort has ever taken—one that will unequivocally rock the wizarding world.)