A/N: This is just something that I've had floating around in my head for a while that I finally decided to write down.

No copyright infringement intended. I own nothing.

Enjoy.

Proper Methods

Part of him had always wondered how they did it.

Part of him didn't really want to know.

He knew how it was supposed to be done, how he was supposed to do it. After all, he had been taught the proper methods at school.

But they'd never seemed like the kind of people who would use the proper method for anything, let alone this.

To be honest, they'd never really seemed like people at all.

But rather cruel, twisted and little more than animals. Who, by some foolish twist of fate, were allowed to brandish wands.

He utterly despised them.

Yet was still intrigued.

He had asked his father about it once, about how they did it, but received little more than a scowl, an admonishing glare, and an order to leave his study at once.

He was still no closer to an answer.

And he simply refused to ask his mother.

As understanding as she was, not only would it make for exceptionally awkward conversation, but he would be severely punished by his father for involving her in such matters.

It was no question to ask a lady.

His Aunt Bellatrix, though not a lady in the slightest, wouldn't have been any help. She was incredibly biased in her views regarding the matter, and would cloud a straightforward answer with endless, murky justifications and vague explanations.

That and the fact that there was just something about her which frightened him.

His 'friends', if he could call them that, wouldn't be much help either. Crabbe and Goyle didn't have a brain cell between them. They were absolutely useless.

And what would they know about it anyway?

With no answer, and no means of finding an answer, he had to content himself with simply not knowing.

He supposed it was unimportant anyway.

He sighed.

But he still wanted to know.

It would be years before he finally learned the truth.

His father had been imprisoned.

His mother was barely holding it together, and even then only for his sake.

His Aunt Bellatrix had well and truly lost her mind.

Crabbe and Goyle still had no clue, and were now as mindless in their worship as his Aunt.

And the Dark Lord was desperate to exact his revenge on the Malfoy Family by making him, a sixteen year old, perform an all but impossible task.

He felt sick.

His forearm still stung.

The ink writhed grotesquely.

It repulsed him.

'Draco…' The Dark Lord crooned as the piece of parchment was placed before him, a quill in his hand.

His eyes flicked mindlessly over the hollow words, uninterested and disgusted by the contract.

Until something caught his attention.

There, at the top of the page, in soulless, dripping, black ink, was the answer he had craved for so long.

In unfamiliar, uniform handwriting, seven little words stood out as if ablaze.

In the year of our Lord Voldemort.

So that's how they did it.

He's always wondered how Death Eaters wrote the date.

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