The mission was finally, irrevocably complete----------- at least in theory. He knew precisely what he had to do, possessing a cold intelligence and a lethal level of competence that were more than sufficient to see the task through to its bloody end, and perhaps that was what had privately shaken him most. There was no longer any room for the soft cushion of doubt; he knew with a harrowing certainty that he would find a way to repair that cabinet, mending the broken pathway that would deliver the Death Eaters straight to Dumbledore's doorstep. He knew that the Headmaster would die by his wand, a sacrifice he would make for the betterment of his future and, ultimately, the absolute protection of his own blood. He would do anything for his family, anything at all, and so, yes, that pathetic excuse for a wizard would cease to exist, and perhaps then, once the deed was done and the debt paid, Draco's sleep would finally return to its natural state. The Dark Lord would revere him as a true and worthy servant, and though the sheer pressure of that destiny left him breathless and hollowed out, he clung to the belief that this was the only honorable path left for him. It was the future his parents had dreamed of, the path that would redeem his father from the stench of his own failures and protect his mother from the Dark Lord's unpredictable wrath.
Attending class should have been one of the first obligations he discarded, considering he would have no need for a school full of Mudbloods and Blood Traitors once the mission was fulfilled and the world was remade in a darker image. Nonetheless, due to Snape's aggravating and constant prying, he forced himself to show his face every now and again, even going so far as to suffer the presence of that brand-new professor---------- Slughorn. Right. The bumbling, status-obsessed moron who wouldn't even invite Draco into his exclusive little club was now the one tasked with teaching them Advanced Potions. Slughorn ordered the class to begin identifying an assortment of complex brews, a task so elementary Draco could have likely performed it blindfolded, and so he remained at the back of the room, thoughts drifting into a darkly distracted daydream.
He remained in that state of detached apathy until he heard Granger's voice------------ that offensive register that always seemed to grate against his nerves. It was a pity, really, that her blood was so foul; a ruthless ambition like hers would have suited Slytherin House perfectly, but since she was what she was, her very existence served only to irritate him. He felt himself glaring at the back of her head before he could consciously check the impulse, reminded once again that her proximity was the primary reason he loathed being in this classroom. And then, acting on a sudden need to assert dominance, Draco found himself speaking up over her, interruption her explanation just for the petty amusement of it... for the fleeting pleasure of watching her ruffle her feathers and seethe, because didn't all insufferable know-it-alls hate being silenced by their betters?
"It's the Amortentia, Professor," he drawled, cutting through Granger's like a cold snap of winter air.
