Tundra

This ground is too hard to break
It ruined a pick and a spade
Frozen and solid as a rock
My hands are numb with the shock

I do not know why I am even doing this. My life is on the line, of course; fail and the Dark Lord will kill me. Who's life is worth more? This Muggle, who I have been taught to hate, or me? He most likely has a loving family. Cousins that were never viewed as potential spouses, to keep a "pure" bloodline. He has love, a family, a wife; his life is his own. I have Lucius, supposed good citizen, and Narcissa, who might have loved if she did not fear abuse. Why should I kill him? Why am I trying?

This task would not be easy without the self-doubt. He has managed to stay in crowded, well-light places, where my arrival would be noted. Father has taught me about murder, among other things. One does not kill in public places, like that idiot Black; one avoids witnesses; kill your enemies yourself. When I was young, I tried to protest the last point; hadn't Voldemort met his downfall trying to kill Harry Potter? The resulting pain was not a satisfying answer in the least, but Father seemed happy in my learned silence. Happy? Father is incapable of happiness. He can experience malicious joy, sadistic pleasure, but not happiness. A Malfoy does not smile.

I am prepared for the dirty work
I've groveled for years in the bloody dirt
I have all the tools that I need
And now I admit my defeat

But I must not distract myself. I have trained too long, built up my father's pride too high, to fail. I will kill this damned Muggle if I must to die to do so. It cannot be that hard, to kill, when I've tortured and tormented so many of my enemies. My enemies? His enemies, not mine. My only enemy is myself. Soon my enemies will number many more, if I do not finish my task.

What will it take to cleave this earth?
Break this ground
It's got to break
What will it take to cleave this earth?
I cannot wait
'Til spring

Father would kill me if he realized my pity for this Muggle. I hate myself for it, for I am the one to continue the Malfoy bloodline. Damn my aunts and my uncles, why did all their pitiful offspring have to be girls? I am Lucius' heir, and I must conform to the example set to me by five hundred years of cold-hearted, dark, frigid, unattainable Malfoys. Aloof, evil, and not the least bit amicable. I am incapable of feeling pity. This Muggle is a hindrance in my effort to continue this life. He is not a person. He is a waste of air, food, warmth. He is not to have life wasted on him. Or so I have been told, and will tell myself.

My cargo is still half alive
They twine 'round each other and cry
They beg me to finish the task
Will I inter them at last?
I glare at the place
I'd make a grave
I carry the shame it would contain
But thinking cannot rend a hole
Too tired to stave off the cold

I can wait no longer. There are not many people hear, only my target and a few stragglers. I will not be seen. I can kill them all. No. That would be seen by the Dark Lord as too forward, and that would risk my neck. I must do this task to save my life, and I must make sure I carry it out in what might be called a "Save-My-Ass Plan." A Malfoy would never call it that, of course, too coarse. Too common. Too Muggle.

"Petrificus Totalus!" The first Muggle falls away, straight, tall, and amusingly stiff. Pleasingly stiff. He is like a corpse. The only good Muggle is a dead Muggle.

The next Muggle in my way is a woman, she is pregnant. I have not yet become a Death Eater, I can show some pity. I perform a quick Cushioning Charm before I petrify her, so that at least her despicable embryo will not be damaged. Despicable? I am the only one here that is despicable.

What will it take to cleave this earth?
Break this ground
It's got to break
What will it take to cleave this earth?
I cannot wait

Two left. One is already running. He is not my target. He does not matter. Even if he was my target, his running would not matter. I can hit a leaping stag with a single arrow at 100 meters, easily. I could kill these Muggles with much less effort..

"Avada Kedavra!!!" A flash of green light, a roar of wind. One Muggle is dead.

My heart, which once resembled a wind-swept moor, is a tundra. Perhaps, someday, I will be saved. The tundra will be warmed; but this can only come through death. Father would have to die. Voldemort would have to die. Redemption comes through death. This Muggle's death validates my life.

I am Draco Malfoy. I am 16 years, 1 day, 4 hours, and 2 minutes old. I have conformed. I am a Death Eater. I am my father's son.

What will it take to cleave this earth?
Break this ground
It's got to break
What will it take to cleave this earth?
I cannot wait
I cannot

What will it take to cleave this earth?
Break this ground
It's got to break
What will it take to cleave this earth?
I cannot wait
'Til spring