A/N: Hey everybody, this is just going to be one chapter, I wanted to make
it a song fic, but there wasn't a song that fit. I hope you like it!
Disclaimer~ It's not mine but J.K. Rowlings.
Sighing he gradually opened his eyes. Much to his dismay he was laying on the cold marble floor of the exquisite library. Gold lettering gleaned in the light from the fireplaces, these books were the best, the chosen ones, hand picked by his ancestors, nothing here could tarnish his name.
He stared at the flames. They were astonishing, but given the chance they would destroy him. The colors danced, mocking him. They were captured behind a metal gate, but unlike him, they would survive if set free. He imagined the flames attacking the woodwork and books. His imagination ran and he could see the once so priceless objects charred and destroyed. Maybe he should destroy the Manor, but once again he didn't have the strength to give it up.
Rich velvet curtains were pulled open, revealing a lush Weeping Willow Tree. When he was younger he would sit underneath it and dream or read. The branches formed a wall and he was protected behind them. Now he knew that he was never safe, no matter where he went he couldn't escape his name or destiny.
His robes showed a Slytherian Crest, and he absentmindedly traced the S with his forefinger. Be it destiny, fate, or namesake, for whatever reason, he was a Slytherian.
'Everyone has a bit of Slytherian in them, son, we are just the ones worthy to show it.' His father's words echoed in his mind.
He wished that he could say that he could live without all of the luxuries, but that would be a lie. He wouldn't give 'anything' to be normal or carefree. He may have responsibilities and burdens, but it was worth it.
In his opinion, blood was worth more then anything, and for him, it had a high price to pay. Today was the day. Within twenty-four hours the Dark Mark would forever be carved into his arm and heart.
'Once a Death Eater, Always a Death Eater.' That's what his father told him, as if he had a choice at all.
'Your whole life is changing, from now on you are a man.' He did his best not to laugh at this comment. Now he could stand behind his name and his Lord, letting some one else do his bidding? This was not what men do, and yet that is what his father did, and his father before him and so forth. Some men.
He wished to feel emotion. Some sign, nervousness or even pain, at the thought of the Mark would remind him that he was normal, but he felt nothing. Instead, he was like a trained soldier, ready for anything. He followed duties without a second thought and was everything his parents wished for. He hated his own dull acceptance of his life. The burning desire never ceased, for he would always wish for something more yet never act upon instinct.
He forced himself up, and drug himself towards the large oak doors, seeming a lifetime away. His footsteps echoed and broke the eerie silence, like the beating of a far off drum. The doors were heavy, even more so on his worn muscles. Walking up the Grand Staircase he fully understood Muggle's elevators, as the marble was well polished and each step had to be well planned. Upon entering his room he fell into bed, not bothering with changing.
Getting to bed seemed like such a task, once he had awoken, but now that he was here he wasn't in the least bit tired. Sleep teased and taunted him, creeping up slowly then disappearing, leaving him staring out of his window at the few stars, the moon was higher then his window allowed, he didn't even have a nice view.
His mind wandered to the muggle books he read, or in reality skimmed. His mother thought that it would help if he were well rounded. She never did say what exactly it would 'help.'
One was that of a boy trying to escape his family and become a poet, the name was 'Comfort (by Carlolee Dean).' It was one of the few he had liked; it contained many exerts from other poems, but the famous line was original and unforgettable, 'I shall never choose familiarity over freedom, nor comfort over conquest.' It was almost the opposite of his life, his parents were rich and loved him, he was an only child, and he hadn't the desire or ambition to run.
He woke; wishing more then anything that he had the will to change, always aware that one day he would be just like his father. 'No!' His mind screamed, he could never be like is father. Sighing he pulled out a quill and began to write, without a second thought.
'Dear Professor Snape,
You always told me to tell you if I wanted to change, so here it is. I'm supposed to get the Mark at Midnight tonight. I need help, tell Dumbledor if you must, but just help me. The location hasn't changed; you should still be able to find it. Please.
-Draco'
As the owl flew into the air he watched, not daring to hope.
A/N: tell me what you think, I didn't want you to know it was about Draco until the end, because some people would have hated him right away, not giving him a chance. Anyways leave me a note if you would.
~*~br*tney~*~
Disclaimer~ It's not mine but J.K. Rowlings.
Sighing he gradually opened his eyes. Much to his dismay he was laying on the cold marble floor of the exquisite library. Gold lettering gleaned in the light from the fireplaces, these books were the best, the chosen ones, hand picked by his ancestors, nothing here could tarnish his name.
He stared at the flames. They were astonishing, but given the chance they would destroy him. The colors danced, mocking him. They were captured behind a metal gate, but unlike him, they would survive if set free. He imagined the flames attacking the woodwork and books. His imagination ran and he could see the once so priceless objects charred and destroyed. Maybe he should destroy the Manor, but once again he didn't have the strength to give it up.
Rich velvet curtains were pulled open, revealing a lush Weeping Willow Tree. When he was younger he would sit underneath it and dream or read. The branches formed a wall and he was protected behind them. Now he knew that he was never safe, no matter where he went he couldn't escape his name or destiny.
His robes showed a Slytherian Crest, and he absentmindedly traced the S with his forefinger. Be it destiny, fate, or namesake, for whatever reason, he was a Slytherian.
'Everyone has a bit of Slytherian in them, son, we are just the ones worthy to show it.' His father's words echoed in his mind.
He wished that he could say that he could live without all of the luxuries, but that would be a lie. He wouldn't give 'anything' to be normal or carefree. He may have responsibilities and burdens, but it was worth it.
In his opinion, blood was worth more then anything, and for him, it had a high price to pay. Today was the day. Within twenty-four hours the Dark Mark would forever be carved into his arm and heart.
'Once a Death Eater, Always a Death Eater.' That's what his father told him, as if he had a choice at all.
'Your whole life is changing, from now on you are a man.' He did his best not to laugh at this comment. Now he could stand behind his name and his Lord, letting some one else do his bidding? This was not what men do, and yet that is what his father did, and his father before him and so forth. Some men.
He wished to feel emotion. Some sign, nervousness or even pain, at the thought of the Mark would remind him that he was normal, but he felt nothing. Instead, he was like a trained soldier, ready for anything. He followed duties without a second thought and was everything his parents wished for. He hated his own dull acceptance of his life. The burning desire never ceased, for he would always wish for something more yet never act upon instinct.
He forced himself up, and drug himself towards the large oak doors, seeming a lifetime away. His footsteps echoed and broke the eerie silence, like the beating of a far off drum. The doors were heavy, even more so on his worn muscles. Walking up the Grand Staircase he fully understood Muggle's elevators, as the marble was well polished and each step had to be well planned. Upon entering his room he fell into bed, not bothering with changing.
Getting to bed seemed like such a task, once he had awoken, but now that he was here he wasn't in the least bit tired. Sleep teased and taunted him, creeping up slowly then disappearing, leaving him staring out of his window at the few stars, the moon was higher then his window allowed, he didn't even have a nice view.
His mind wandered to the muggle books he read, or in reality skimmed. His mother thought that it would help if he were well rounded. She never did say what exactly it would 'help.'
One was that of a boy trying to escape his family and become a poet, the name was 'Comfort (by Carlolee Dean).' It was one of the few he had liked; it contained many exerts from other poems, but the famous line was original and unforgettable, 'I shall never choose familiarity over freedom, nor comfort over conquest.' It was almost the opposite of his life, his parents were rich and loved him, he was an only child, and he hadn't the desire or ambition to run.
He woke; wishing more then anything that he had the will to change, always aware that one day he would be just like his father. 'No!' His mind screamed, he could never be like is father. Sighing he pulled out a quill and began to write, without a second thought.
'Dear Professor Snape,
You always told me to tell you if I wanted to change, so here it is. I'm supposed to get the Mark at Midnight tonight. I need help, tell Dumbledor if you must, but just help me. The location hasn't changed; you should still be able to find it. Please.
-Draco'
As the owl flew into the air he watched, not daring to hope.
A/N: tell me what you think, I didn't want you to know it was about Draco until the end, because some people would have hated him right away, not giving him a chance. Anyways leave me a note if you would.
~*~br*tney~*~