Draco was sitting in his rather small bedroom, putting the finishing touches on his packing. He's be leaving for Hogwarts today in two and a half hours. It was six thirty. It wasn't really neccisary for him to be up this early, nor was it neccisary for him to pack this many things. In fact, he'd emptied every drawer in his dressor, cleared every book off his bookshelf, and packed everything in his room except the furniture. Why? Because he was afraid . . . afraid he'd never see any of it again. In his fear, he'd even ripped off a bit of the wallpaper and stuffed it in his suitcase.
You may be wondering why he was so frieghtened. You would be too if you were in his shoes. For he'd been given orders from the Dark Lord to kill Albus Dumbledore. If he failed, he would be killed, either by Profesor Dumbledore or by Lord Voldemort. But at the same time he was a bit proud. If he succeeded the rewards would be unimaginable. He, Draco Malfoy, would be the Dark Lord's favourite, who once Dumbledore was disposed of, would be the most powerful wizard on earth.
Draco sighed and laid back down in exhaustion, though he couldn't sleep. For it might have been the last time he ever did.