Hi, sorry about the delay in writing something new, I've had so much inspiration but I had to go eat a few dictionaries and thesauruses (thesaurusi? what's the plural of that, because it isn't in the dictionary. Or thesaurus.) to up my vocabulary. I've also got so many exams and coursework and essays in at the moment, and I'm in a play, that while all the words and plotlines and stories and even just some pretty damn amazing one liners and little speeches to go in the middle of stories that I can't figure a story out for, I have been far too stressed. But this, in my head, and in my Text Edit thing on my laptop, looks promising. I don't own anything, just to get that in there. All rights belong to the respective owners and publishers of the Harry Potter Books and Movies and anything related to it, plotline, however, is my own.

It's a dramione, but not conventional. Or isn't conventional in what I've written so far. I think I'm splitting it up into two different parts, I'm not sure though, I can't decide! Let me know what you think, read, review and take the time to read some of my other stuff as well. Opinions are always welcome, negative or not. Love all of you who like do a little favourite thing, its so nice when I get little emails saying a story has been favourited or reviewed, its that what keeps me writing, or thinking of things to write.

Thanks again, and more apologies.

- M x

In their sacks they ride, almost as if they're in their mothers womb: knee to chest, head pressed down. As if to die is merely to return to the beginning, to the flesh we were born from. All born from.

A rope is tied behind the knees to bind them so, another for their arms, and the mouth of the sack closed about their gagged heads, and then that bound again. Compact, easily diguised, for though we are known about, Muggle knowledge is limited on us. On whats happening.

Snatchers bring them, cargo after cargo. Cattle, all of us. Muggles, mudbloods, halfbloods: the lines all blur into one melee of hate and jealous rage at the power and freedom from power that we crave, desire and hate.

It wasn't always this way, this Dark.

I used to go to school, have petty fights, voice an opinion on a cause I suppose now, I should be happy about. Happy that I am who I am, that I am a Malfoy. A pureblood.

But people can change, can't they? Opinions can change once carnage has been set in motion, events happening? Times change, and things get broken that can't be replaced.

We live. We die.

I'm callous now, cold to it. People thought I was before?

Its nothing compared to now.

A knife now, to cut the binding. A woman, mousy brown hair, mousy brown eyes. Pleading, crying, average. Wand in her sleeve, papers in her pocket.

'Halfblood.' I sneer, it comes naturally, my eyes downcast at the paper. Middle-aged, 40, Ministry Worker. Family, children, husband, children in Hogwarts. No links to Dark Wizards, links to muggle-lovers. I sigh, ashamed of the pity I might possibly feel blossoming in my gut. I harden myself, shielded like diamond: untouchable. Her hair is matted with blood, she put up a fight, something to hide. Disrespect for those that fight for something they believe in, not something they're too scared to admit they disagree with, that is what should be fought against. She cried against my robe.

'I'm a witch, a witch, it's my wand.' She wrings her hands, cold thin wrists circling my ankles, clinging on. 'Its my wand.'

She flinches at my eyes, I imagine even I would, if I faced my reflection.

My voice is dull and toneless, the spell over before another breath spans the inches between our faces. I'm almost sorry.

Not for her.

For the fact I have to live like this now.

My name is Draco Malfoy, I am a Pureblood.

I am a Death Eater. One of the many, one of the forgotten.

I am 18 years of age.