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Summary
Draco had not spent sixteen years being pampered, adorned in bespoke French silks, and waited on hand and foot by a brigade of house-elves merely to become someone’s errand girl. She had no interest in dark crusades, no desire for military glory, and an absolute, visceral horror of the concept of manual labor. Her entire life plan—carefully cultivated and fiercely defended—was to graduate, marry someone absurdly wealthy, attend high-society galas, spend her summers in the South of France, and never, under any circumstances, lift a single manicured finger for an honest day’s work.
When the Dark Lord had brandished his wand and hissed that she was to prove her loyalty through servitude and bloodshed, Draco had looked at his serpentine face, looked at the sleeve of her bespoke gown, realized this lunatic expected her to work, and promptly raised her wand.
Before Voldemort could finish his grandiloquent monologue about destiny, Draco had cast a flawless, unforgiving Avada Kedavra directly between his slit-pupiled eyes.