~||Servant to the Darkness||:
It was a task for me alone, a task from the Dark Lord, handed to me by my father. I didn't know what I felt more inclined to do, vomit or stride down the streets of Diagon Alley as if I owned the place.
Draco Malfoy, son of a known, and captured Death Eater paced his way from the bowels of Knockturn Alley, Diagon's reputably darker counter part. One did not need to recognize the platinum hair, nor the blue eyes, nor the name to know that this young man of sixteen years was a pureblood. His whole countenance exuded superior up bringing, from the slight up turn of his nose to the sureness of his step. His hair was carefully combed, and his face trained to an expression of cold and calculating. He would do any purist proud, he was his father's son, after all.
But Draco Malfoy was not Lucius. Draco Malfoy lacked a few things that his father didn't. A cold and undifferentiating loyalty to the Dark Lord for one. And though loath as Draco was to admit it, the fundamental fiber and cold judgment require to torture and kill. Though, to his credit, this was no fault of his own, but the fault of perhaps a too pampered up bringing, or a overly doting mother. Whatever it was, there was one thing Draco was, and it was Slytherin. He would side with the Dark Lord to ensure his own dark glory and his own safety. For Slytherins were survivors if nothing else, using anything it took to come out on top, or in the war's case, in one piece.
With an almost sneer on his pale features the son-of-a-Death-Eater strode into the sunny, bustling Diagon Alley, intent on finishing his back so school shopping before meeting up with his mother at Fortesque's.
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