T he night sky was littered with bright silver stars. A stray breeze floated down from the far-away sky, and rustled the leaves. The air was crisp, a sign of the approaching Winter. And the scent of death flowed through the air like new blood.

Etched between the stars was a smoky figure of a skull and a snake. The snake was animated and moving, writhing in and out of the skull's open jaw. But the human laying below the Dark Mark was very much still.

Then, a voice slithered through the air. "Is he dead?" it asked, malicious and eager.

A voice in the dark responded, "Yes, Bellatrix."

"And it was the boy who did it?"

The boy said nothing. His hands were still shaking, his pulse was still racing, and the wand that was clutched in his hand felt more alive than it ever had. If he moved, then the wand would come alive, like a snake, and strike.

A weary sigh. A waiting heartbeat. Then, "Yes, Bellatrix," the same voice replied.

A cracking noise filled the air, and a phantom breeze stirred up the fallen leaves surrounding the dead man's body. Bellatrix was gone.

The boy exhaled raggedly, and something like relief replaced the dark look in his eyes.

"Don't worry," said the voice in the dark, weariness carved into the sympathetic words, "the first kill is always the hardest."

With an identical sound, the voice in the dark Disapparated, no doubt joining Bellatrix in relaying their small victory.

Victory for the Death Eaters. Victory for Lord Voldemort himself.

But what the boy was feeling was nothing close to victory. His heart seemed to be caving into itself. Whatever sad excuse for a dark heart he had was being eroded away. He was afraid nothing would be left.

Maybe that would be for the best. Maybe the killing was supposed to get easier. Maybe one day, he would not feel a damn thing at all.

Alone in the dark, the boy shivered at the thought. He glanced upwards to where the snake still slithered in the sky, to where the skull still gaped down at him in eternal shock. And on his arm, invisible in the dark of night, burned an identical mark.

He gripped his wand tight, and avoided looking at the ground. To where the wizard was sprawled on the green grass. The man appeared to be healthy, except for the fact that he was dead. Dead by a curse that the boy used to have nightmares about, used to fear with his whole being.

War makes hypocrites and monsters of everyone. And Draco Malfoy was not spared.

Nausea crept up his throat. But he forced it down. Because Draco knew that somewhere in the distance was a castle filled with students. All of them scared. All of them worried. And there was not a single one of them that was safe.

So Draco rolled down his sleeve so that his Dark Mark was hidden, and he raised his wand, preparing himself to Disapparate.

Harry Potter had abandoned them all, and disappeared without a single trace. And with him disappeared any hope for any of them. Impossibly, Potter was the "Chosen One". He was the only one who had a chance of defeating the Dark Lord.

Draco turned his back to the man on the ground, and Disapparated. In a place between here and there, he smiled to himself. Potter may be the only one to stop Voldemort, but there was nothing stopping Draco from making it as hard as possible for any more victories for the Death Eaters. There was nothing stopping him from slowing down the war, every damn step of the way.

P ansy Parkinson was used to being alone. Especially at night, of the late. All she had for company was the distant stars and her dark thoughts. But it didn't used to be that way. Once, she had been able to invite anyone to her room without any fear.

But now, everyone had fear. And nobody was safe.

She sighed, and rolled over in her bed to face the wide window. The night sky glistened far above her, and Pansy had never felt more alone.

Somewhere under that night sky, Draco was on his first mission with Bellatrix. It would be a miracle if he survived.

Pansy had never believed in miracles or luck or anything like that. Yes, magic was real, but miracles were pure fantasy. They did not, and would never, exist. Not in any world.

And, to make matters worse, the Seventh Year Slytherin girls dormitory was full with silent liars and pretenders and monsters. Pansy wasn't sure which one of them she was. Maybe all of them.

Across the room, laying in the bed farthest from Pansy, was Daphne Greengrass, who was by far the nicest of the lot of them. But no one trusted her, so she became a pariah in First Year, and had remained one since.

Millicent Bulstrode was once very popular through Third Year, but that was before the Slytherins grew bored of her physical, Muggle ways of annoying the Gryffindors. In fact, in Fourth Year, Pansy began calling her "Mugglecent Bulstrode". That nickname lasted years.

And Tracey Davis was plain annoying. Pansy had not attempted to talk with her in years. Because no one seemed to like her, Tracey decided to settle by spreading a new rumor each week. Most of the time, they were about Pansy, and the different boys that she had slept with. And, most of the time, they were true. One of the many downfalls of sharing a room with other girls.

And now, Draco was miles away, already starting his future, no matter how screwed up and twisted it was. Pansy was still at Hogwarts, abandoned. Like always.

In the loneliness of the dark, Pansy ran a careless hand over the inside of her left forearm. Never enough to send a message to all Death Eaters, but enough for her to feel the permanent black ink that made her a monster. As long as her black heart continued to beat, she would always be a Death Eater.

Pansy wondered if Draco had killed his target yet. She wondered if she would ever have to kill someone, or if she would stay forgotten forever. And she didn't know which one would be worse.

And that was what made her a monster. Pansy didn't need a Dark Mark to tell her that much.