Team: Pride of Portree

Round: Movies that Killed their Franchises

Position: Keeper

Keeper's Prompt: Spider-man 3 (2007)

Word count: 1888

I was inspired by the concept of the symbiote affecting Peter Parker. This is an AU where the Dark Mark is created with a dark energy that goes under the initiate's skin and begins affecting them, corrupting them on even deeper levels.

Also in this AU there's another resistance mainly led by Purebloods who oppose Voldemort and operate separate from the Order of the Phoenix.

Finally a WARNING for violence and less than palatable methods of tattoo removal.

Beta love to Story Please, Claudia Amelia Song and Crochetaway!

Ascent from Darkness

After the tenth blow, Tracey began to lose count. Her fists kept falling and falling until she wasn't even sure she was controlling them. The rage poured out of her as if someone had pulled open the floodgates keeping it at bay. She flailed around with maddening glee and didn't even notice when she missed a punch here and there, hitting the gravelly road and scraping her own fists bloody. Even as a pair of strong hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her away, she still kept kicking and screaming.

The creature curled up into a ball. It was sobbing softly. It. Tracey's body went limp as the realization of what she had just thought hit her. It struck her straight in the chest and knocked her breath out of her. After a moment, tears began pouring down her cheeks, which were throbbing with heat. The pair of hands held her tight but she had already stopped fighting back. Her tears mixed with the falling rain and the smell of blood that seemed to radiate from her hands, a mix of both his and hers that made her feel sick. Blaise Zabini set her down on the road, well away from her victim. She turned to look at him and as she wiped away the tears, she smeared blood on her cheek. Then, she whispered: "Help me… Please… Get it off me…"

The skin around the Mark was red and itchy. No, Tracey corrected herself, not itchy. It was more of a lingering burn. Except no amount of ice on Earth could soothe it. Staring at the perfectly manicured nails on her other hand, Tracey felt the sudden urge to scratch at the mark until it was reduced to nothing but a bloody mess. Instead, with a heavy sigh, she lay back on the cold stone floor of the dungeon and pressed her throbbing skin against it and tried to breathe.

She didn't exactly regret getting the Mark. It was all a part of the plan and she didn't have time to reconsider. It was her choice and she'd thought it all through. This was her way into their organization. This was how she'd get the information necessary back to the resistance of those few Pure-blood families who neither liked Voldemort nor trusted Dumbledore.

Yet she could hold back her tears no longer. A strange irrational anger was burning inside of her. She could not understand where it came from but it hurt. Her fingers dug into the gaps between the stones of the floor and when she opened her mouth to breathe, a scream escaped from her lips instead. A horrible, animalistic scream.

The air was cold up in the tower where they took her. It wasn't the piercing kind of cold that seeped into bones and never seemed to leave no matter how long one warmed oneself by the fire. This was a gentle cold that seemed to whisper mild rebukes into Tracey's ear about forgetting her coat. It was almost apologetic in the way it caressed her face and bare arms.

Tracey, on her part, barely noticed. She'd chosen the place because it was empty of people searching for one another in the mess after the battle. She took another swig of the firewhiskey that Draco offered and closed her eyes as the liquid burned its way through her throat. "Do it," she whispered hoarsely before her courage failed her.

Blaise looked back at her with hesitation. "We don't know this will work, Trace. Are you sure—"

"Just do it, please!" she replied with as much strength as she could muster. Truth was, she wasn't sure. She was afraid though. She was afraid that if she waited any longer, her courage would fail her. What she was sure of, was that she'd end up regretting not having at least tried.

The Dark Mark on Tracey's skin was neither a tattoo nor a brand. It was something… different. It felt… alive somehow. Like a creature under her skin; moving and breathing.

She remembered the ritual with perfect precision. She hadn't dared dull her senses with any poison of the mind for fear that Lord Voldemort would sense her deception when she was inebriated. Thus, every detail of the night had etched themselves into her mind so that she saw them even when she closed her eyes.

She couldn't say it out loud. She couldn't even think it, because, like the marshmallow man from the movie her father had taken her to, she feared that her thoughts would become reality again. But even when she tried to block it out, all she could see when she closed her eyes was the cauldron bubbling over with the black matter inside. She was fairly sure it was biological in nature. In as much as something so vile could be considered natural. She remembered Rabastan holding her down as she flinched to get away and how it moved on her skin like a fat black worm until disappearing into it, leaving behind the Dark Mark.

Even now it moved under her skin, still like a black worm and tried to dig itself a path to her heart. Deeper and deeper.

She put her head carefully on the stones, placed the piece of tough leather between her teeth and closed her eyes. A pair of hands held her arms down and she felt the blade. The leather tasted bitter and she wished she'd had more firewhiskey. Or that she had been less of a coward and asked Madame Pomfrey for a pain potion.

The pain was growing rapidly. It felt like fire and ice were battling inside her. She felt the overwhelming desire to fight back, to claw and strike at Blaise and make him stop. But Draco's ice cold hands held her down firmly and none too gently. He leaned closer and whispered: "Breathe! Just breathe!" even as Tracey was dreaming of ripping out his throat. She struggled and struggled and struggled until she felt she could take no more—

She didn't really notice the effects for a while. She went about her days as planned. She infiltrated the Death Eaters and brought back whatever scraps of intel she could. She did small favors for Lord Voldemort. Just enough to appear loyal. And if she was a bit too prone to anger, could anyone blame her?

Tracey Davis had let them burn the Dark Mark on her very skin to help take Death Eaters down. She had the right to be a bit frustrated. So what, if she yelled a little? Or threw stuff at Blaise or Millicent when they didn't understand what she needed of them? Or that she slapped Ginny Weasley in the Great Hall after finding out that her shenanigans were at fault for Tracey not being able to get intel on a Death Eater raid to the resistance behind Hogwarts' gates?

Or that she felt such pure joy when her fingernails left marks on Draco's face after she struck him?

Only the last one scared her. She sat staring at that tiny speck of his blood under her fingernail. It taunted her and for the briefest moment when she glanced at a mirror, she saw her face reflect that same twisted glee she'd felt.

She spent ten minutes scrubbing her hands under steaming water until all the blood was gone and her skin was a deep red. Then she lay in the dark and swore to never do it again.

The pain ended as abruptly as it had started. Tracey exhaled and collapsed back on the stones. It was still there but it was a dull ache and she felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her chest. She felt free.

Blaise cast a quick healing spell and once Tracey looked down on her forearm, she saw nothing but a jagged scar where her mark had been. For a few minutes, she just stared at it, fearing the snake and skull would reappear as a cruel trick. Yet a ray of hope began to spring in her chest. Did she dare hope that Lord Voldemort had forgotten about such a Muggle way of removing his mark?

Of course, she did it again. Because they were all incompetent. Foolish. It was their fault they made her angry. How did they not understand what it felt like? To have to take part in Death Eater raids and not be able to do enough?

She tried. Gods knew she tried. She tripped them up and guided their spells and hexes away, but there was only so much she could do before the Death Eaters would notice. Only so many people she could save.

If she could have torn off their masks… No, not just masks, but their stupid faces! She hated them. She loathed them. She detested them. There was not a word strong enough! But even though her chest was overwhelming with rage she could not hurt them.

Trouble is, rage can't stay pent up forever. It searches for a way out. Whether it was Tracey attacking Gregory Goyle in the common room or tripping some firstie who was running away from the Carrows or mocking Ginny Weasley with revolting words, it seeped out of her. She knew she was being cruel for no reason — but lately, being cruel was the only thing that made her happy in a world she hated.

So she didn't even notice the black worm under her skin inching closer and closer to her heart.

After what felt like an eternity, Tracey relaxed. She raised her hand and with her thumb traced the fresh scar. Then she lifted her arm and kissed the jagged lines. She reached out and pulled Blaise and Draco close, her arms wrapping around them and they sat there forever until the rain stopped and the traces of the final battle got washed from Hogwarts grounds. Until—for the first time since last summer—Tracey felt clean.

Almost clean apart from that memory she could not shake from her mind. Because no matter which way she twisted it, she could not hold the worm solely responsible….

It was the final battle and Tracey didn't have to hide anymore. She could take out her hatred on them all. She cursed Death Eaters indiscriminately, not even bothering to choose hexes. Her Dark Mark throbbed and drew her to attack the other side but she fought it and won. The black worm did not seem to care whom it got her to hurt.

Somewhere amongst the confusion, she caught a glimpse of Rabastan. The anger burned tenfold as she recalled him holding her down. It might have been her choice to take the Mark but at that moment it was all his fault. She howled as she cursed him and he fell. He raised his wand and disarmed her but there was no stopping her momentum. She ran into him and began punching. She hit him over and over and over again. Blood ran down his face and yet she could not force herself to stop. She didn't want to force herself to stop. He deserved it! She had the right to do this and nothing, not even her own conscience would stand in her way.