He hadn't wanted to do it. He had spent weeks, months, telling himself that he wouldn't. He had convinced himself – and, incidentally, convinced her – that he wouldn't do it.
He wouldn't take the Dark Mark.
He wouldn't be loyal to his father, to Voldemort.
Yet, somehow, by some sick, deluded, unfortunate twist of fate, he was on his knees in front of the self-proclaimed Dark Lord, his father standing proudly to his right, left arm extended and burning in pain.
Pain from the Mark being burned into his skin.
Pain due to his pledged allegiance to the Dark Lord.
Pain from knowing that he was losing everything he fought so hard to obtain.
He had to force himself not to vomit at the thought.
Trying to ignore the pain, he let his mind wander to the day he had assumed was the turning point in his life. It was the day he decided his father wasn't the smartest man in Great Britain. It was the day he decided to be his own person. It was the day he decided Mudblood Granger wasn't so bad after all.
He was walking along the lake when he first thought of it. He couldn't remember what made her come to mind – perhaps because he saw Potty and Girl Weasel snogging down the path a bit, or the sight of Weasel and that slag Brown going at it in the Great Hall just that morning – but she was there nonetheless.
He remembered his father telling him – during one of his visitations to Azkaban – that Granger had fought in the Department of Mysteries. And he couldn't quite grip the idea.
There had been six students there. Six people his age or younger fighting Death Eaters, fighting his father, fighting Voldemort.
Four of them were Pureblood: Weasel, Girl Weasel, Loony Lovegood, and that idiot Longbottom.
One was a Half Blood: Potter. But he was the Boy Wonder and the reason for the incident to begin with. Besides, his father's family had been quite respectable Purebloods.
And then there was the Mudblood: Granger. She was always there with Potty and Weasel. In some sick, twisted way, if it weren't for her, they wouldn't have made it.
Sad, really, that the Mudblood was the only one who could rub two brain cells together and come up with something smart.
He had always been taught that Purebloods (and, yes, he always thought of the blood statuses in uppercase letters, though Mudblood shouldn't be given the honor) were supposed to be superior to everyone else. Granger obviously disproved his notions.
He disliked being disproved.
He knew she truly was smart, only bested in two classes: Potions (to him and, for some strange reason this year, Potter) and Defense Against the Dark Arts (to Potter, since he didn't give a flying fart in space about that rubbish). She really could have been in Ravenclaw if she'd wanted to.
Stupid Mudblood making him question his thoughts.
And he was, at that point, because if he had been wrong about blood status and intelligence, what else had he been wrong about?
His mind zapped back to the present as a particularly intricate (and quite painful) part of the Mark was etched into his skin. He breathed as deeply as he could, trying to go back to her. To that moment.
"You really think Malfoy's up to something?" the Mud- erm, Muggleborn asked.
"I don't know. He's acting kind of strange," Potter responded.
The Weasel snorted. "That's nothing out of the ordinary." He was shocked the Weasel knew such advanced words.
"He doesn't have the Mark though," Potter added. "Saw him on the pitch. Skin was clean."
"Probably wouldn't let them touch his precious skin, the ponce." Weasel.
"I don't know," Granger responded. "He does seem different … but not in the Death Eater way like Crabbe and Goyle."
"You think those two thickheads joined?" Weasel asked. He had to admit that'd piqued his curiosity. Had his goons joined?
"I know they have. Parkinson was talking about it in the toilet the other day. Idiot."
At least he and Granger agreed on something.
"I think something's frightened him."
Granger really was too smart for her own good.
He listened a bit more as Granger and her two idiots talked about some secret mission. He didn't understand a word of it but then who really knew what those three were talking about at any given moment.
And then he saw his opportunity. Potty and the Weasel left her in the middle of the hallway, both making excuses. They were probably going to go find their birds and have a bit of fun.
Taking a chance, he stepped out from his hiding spot and moved to where Granger was standing. "I won't hurt you," he told her from behind. "And I won't hex you. I just … want to talk to you."
Granger whipped around and gasped in shock. He assumed it was because of his harried and slightly-less-good-looking appearance. "Malfoy!"
"Shh!" he scolded. "Do you want everyone to hear?"
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Please just talk to me. Or listen to me, rather. I just … please. I need to tell you something and you're about the most rational person I could find. Please."
He assumed it was the number of times he'd pleaded with her that made the girl nod and move into a nearby classroom with him.
Huh. He didn't usually use classrooms for this purpose.
"Well?" she asked, arms crossed in that prissy manner that made him want to ruffle her just because. "What is it?"
"I gave the locket to Bell." He saw that she was about to open her mouth so he quickly added, "It's a task. He, the Dark Lord, set it for me. Because of my father. He said he'd kill my family. It was the only way to save my mother."
"By poisoning Katie?" she asked him.
"It wasn't supposed to be her," he replied.
"Who was it supposed to be?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Then I can't trust you."
"You can!" he said quickly. "It's … there are too many people watching me right now. I can just … please … I don't want to be a Death Eater."
She looked at him in stunned silence. He really couldn't blame her.
"Prove it."
It took him three months to do so.
And in that time, he and Granger grew closer.
He had even been known to call her Hermione form time to time.
Usually after a particularly good snog.
"Promise me you won't join them, Malfoy," she whispered as they reclined together under a tree in the Forbidden Forest. Their hands were linked and they were swaying them back and forth, interlocking their fingers, smiles on their face until her request.
"Granger," he whispered.
"Please."
"I'll always be loyal to you," he whispered as he leaned down to capture her lips in a sweet, serious kiss.
He was brought back to a grim reality by the feel of his father thumping him on his back. "Well done, Draco."
He cast a glance down to his burnt flesh and tried not to scowl or cringe.
"Rise, young Malfoy," the Dark Lord hissed.
He immediately complied. "Yes, My Lord." The words had a foul taste as the left his mouth.
The Dark Lord smirked – actually smirked – before saying (hissing, really), "Bring in his initiation right."
He had no idea what was going on. No one had warned him about any kind of initiation other than the Mark.
His breath caught in his chest as he watched his uncle Rodolphus Lestrange drag someone in.
He nearly gasped as the form hit its knees.
He nearly cried when bushy brown hair was flipped from the bloody and bruised face of Hermione Granger.
"Everything has a consequence, Draco," his father commented idly. "This is the consequence of loyalty."