A/N: This came from a combination of a request from a friend and my general curiosity as to what receiving a Dark Mark would actually feel like. Just a short one-shot from Draco's perspective of that traumatic event. Please read and review!

-Running

Ding-dong.

The tones of the doorbell echoed throughout the Manor and suddenly the scurry of house elves and various wizards and witches ran amok throughout the halls. Draco was holed up in his room, where he had been sent like a misbehaving child. He moved away from the desk he had been leaning against and gazed out the window, looking past the scowling reflection and down to the front walk. A small group of black cloaks was huddled there, the individual faces hidden from view. In the front, though, was a figure that was far more recognizable.

The Dark Lord was paying Malfoy Manor a visit.

A thrill of fear shot down Draco's spine as the line of Death Eaters entered the house one by one. The stones of the residence felt suddenly colder, as if the very foundation of the place struggled to combat the sheer evil that had just entered. When the last one crossed the threshold, he moved from the window and to his door. Silence. He frowned his frustration. He knew his mother hadn't wanted him to be a part of the meetings, he wasn't even a sixth year yet and she believed he was far too young to join the Death Eaters, but ever since his father had been imprisoned in Azkaban Draco had been consumed by a singular thirst to take over his empty place in the Dark Lord's circle, to bring honor back to the Malfoy name. Was he terrified? Absolutely, but he wasn't going to let his fear stop him. He had been raised better than that.

Suddenly, the door flew open, nearly knocking into him. He stepped back just in time. "Draco!" It was his mother. "What were you doing lurking right inside the door?"

He narrowed his eyes on her face. She had been drinking. The flush of the whiskey gave color to her ever-pale skin, the pallor even more death-like since his father had been gone. "Why do you think I was there, mother? It is preposterous that I should be kept from this meeting! There must be a Malfoy among the ranks. I'm not a child any longer."

He expected the usual tirade of arguments against his decision, but instead, to his immense surprise, his mother nodded demurely, her hands clasped in front of her. "It seems that the Dark Lord agrees with you, Draco, along with most of His followers." His spine stiffened in surprise. Finally...

"But please, Draco," she whispered vehemently. "Please be careful. I can't lose you." Her hands grasped his shoulders tightly and he fought a wince.

"Mother, I know what I'm doing. I can handle myself."

Her wide eyes searched his for a moment before she nodded and dropped her arms, rather abruptly.

"Come with me," she said, and he quickly followed her, pausing only to pull his door to a close. It was good that he had already dressed himself in a tailor-made suit of the finest material. The deep grey brightened his eyes and contrasted brilliantly with his hair, the fit snug and flattering to his form. He looked the part of an adult, ready and willing to carry the burden passed on to him from his father – and carry it with pride.

His heartbeat quickened as he descended the stairs to the main floor, where the soft voices of several of the Wizarding world's Most Wanted could be heard coming from the dining room. His mother led him in, and the numbers around the table surprised Draco; they had seemed so less from his window.

"Ah, the young Malfoy," the high-pitched voice of the Dark Lord whispered down from the head of the table. His mouth seemed to caress each word before releasing it, lingering longer on the 's' sounds. It was distinctly snake-like, and it was the most chilling thing Draco had ever heard. He immediately bent at the waist, going into a deep bow as he had been taught.

"My Lord," he replied, his voice slightly quavering at the beginning.

"Come. Sit. You may take your father's chair across from Bellatrix."

Draco nodded and walked swiftly down to the indicated spot. His legs seemed to suddenly be made of a jelly substance and they welcomed the reprieve from his weight. After a moment of tense silence, he dared to lift his eyes, surveying the faces of those around him. Many looked at him dubiously, the doubt of his abilities evident on their faces. His mother had taken a seat farther down the table and she would not look up from the highly-polished wood of the mahogany. His aunt, though, sitting across from him, was observing him with a look of pride and a dark, sick, fascination. His insides clenched at that look. It was no secret that his aunt was a fanatic for the Dark Arts and had supported the Dark Lord constantly throughout her imprisonment in Azkaban - but those years had not been kind to her. Not in the slightest.

"Draco," the oddly soothing voice of the Dark Lord resounded again, "I extend to you an invitation. Seeing as how your father is currently...indisposed..." there was a spattering of snickering around the table, "there is an empty place in my ranks." Draco's eyes flicked to the serpentine face of the Dark Lord, widening imperceptibly at being addressed so personally. "I wonder...would you kindly take your father's place? There is much work to be done, work that you will be extremely helpful in completing."

He couldn't believe it. For so long, for so many years, he had dreamed of this day, of finally being old enough and skilled enough to join the fight against those filthy muggles and mudbloods alike. He knew he was still young, still far less experienced and skilled than several of those who sat at the table with him, but he knew he was smart enough and powerful enough to take this head-on and succeed. He looked back at his mother one more time, and barely caught the twitch of her jaw. She was not pleased.

Just as he was about to ascertain that he was more than ready to do anything for the Dark Lord, another voice spoke up, "My Lord, surely it would be more prudent if someone more experienced were assigned such important work?"

Draco's eyelids narrowed slightly at the voice of his godfather, Severus Snape. Of course, he would be the one to try and deny the son of his school-mate his first moment of glory and honor. His mother's face brightened noticeably but Draco's countenance only grew darker.

"Severus, I do appreciate your concern for the boy," he had to stop from scowling at the term 'boy,' "but it is high time he join us. I am sure, were his father here, he would not object. As it is, his mother is in attendance."

All heads turned as one to the now distinctly rosy face of Draco's mother. "Narcissa," Voldemort continued, "do you have any issue with your son joining our fight for the rightful place of wizards and witches ruling all the other races?" His tone made it perfectly clear that he was not truly asking her permission, but merely making a mockery of the notion that someone, especially a witch who was not even truly a Death Eater, could stop him from doing anything he wanted.

For a horrifying moment, Draco thought his mother was actually going to say something, but she only swallowed once and shook her head, no.

"As I thought. So, Severus, while you are quite the excellent godfather, I'm afraid you are quite alone in thinking that Draco is not ready to be trusted with our work."

"As you say, my Lord."

"Now then, Draco, will you take your father's place among my ranks? Will you join our fight for the betterment of the human race and the subjugation of all muggles and mudbloods?"

Draco's hands clenched into fists underneath the wooden table as he looked up at the head of the table, at the most powerful wizard of all time, and said,

"Gladly, my Lord."

Several murmurs of shocked and pleased responses fell softly on his ears, but the look on his aunt's face trumped them all. It was more than obvious that she was positively gleeful that another member of her family was joining the Death Eaters.

"Excellent. Now, then, the first order of business..." Pale arms lifted off the table, one hand beckoning to Draco, the other holding a wand aloft - one of the most finely crafted wands Draco had ever laid eyes on. "Come here, Draco. Offer your arm."

Draco swallowed hard and pushed back from the table. He hadn't known he would be receiving the mark so quickly; he had not truly had time to prepare for this sure-to-be unpleasant experience. Often throughout his childhood he had asked his father about it. Knowing what it was and what it represented, Draco had always wanted to know how much it had hurt. Was the mark as painful to get as most of the curses one who bore it would perform in their life? A tit for tat kind of thing? He knew that muggles and wizards alike had ink tattooed on their skin – permanent pictures or words in their flesh. Would the level of pain be similar to that? He had often asked – but his father had not once given him an answer, insisting that it was of no importance since the Dark Lord had been defeated and therefore Draco would never receive a mark of his own.

How things had changed…

He slowly stood and carefully placed one foot in front of the other as he approached the Dark Lord, willing his legs to obey him and not cause him to fall face-first in front of the gathered assembly. When he finally covered the short distance, the nearly wraith-like form of Voldemort rose from his chair, his black robes billowing around him, almost like smoke. It was a terrifying thing to be so close to this powerful wizard, and Draco's fear threatened to choke him.

The Dark Lord held his hand out and Draco proffered his left arm, forearm facing up. Cold, bony fingers wrapped around his wrist and Draco couldn't help the sharp intake of breath that followed at the contact. Many nights now he had seen the Dark Lord in his home, the Manor having become some sort of base for the Death Eaters, but never once in his entire life had he made physical contact with him…it was not agreeable in the slightest. From the point where the bony fingers touched him, chill bumps erupted across his skin – like his flesh was trying to push the darkest of wizards off of it. It was like tangible tendrils of a slimy, cold reptile were spiraling around his arm and over his chest, claiming him as its own.

He tried not to look into the soulless eyes, but the harder he tried, the more his eyes made their way up to the gaze of Lord Voldemort – a gaze that held nothing inside it but power. Draco swallowed convulsively and had to bite the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't make a sound of fear. He must be strong. He must be brave. He would not let his father down. He would prove to everyone that he was capable of this, that his father and mother had raised him right.

He would prove that he could be the best damn Death Eater there ever was.

The Dark Lord pressed the tip of his wand to Draco's forearm. The pressure was slight, but it made Draco feel weaker all the same. No. He would not crumble now. He straightened his spine and looked down at the dark wooden tip contrasting against his pale skin. This was a necessary step towards greatness. His eyes rose once more and looked at the various expressions on the others who still sat at the table, as if they were simply awaiting a meal. It was as if he was putting on a show for their amusement. His prideful ego bristled at the thought. This was no show. Draco was becoming a man of his father's – a true supporter of his family's lineage of beliefs. He looked back into the face of his Lord, the wizard who would now forever dictate Draco's every move.

A disturbing smile that made a mockery of fatherly affection graced the Dark Lord's features as he said, "This will hurt."

Draco's mouth fell open in fear at those words and he had to fight not to jump as a green light began to glow from the end of the wand. It was soft but vibrant – the most clear green he had ever seen. It descended into his flesh, but it was painless. Had it all been a trick just to scare him? Were they having a go at the youth soon to join them? Before he could even feel fully offended at the notion, the pain started.

At first, it was just a bit more pressure, like someone was gripping his arm tightly, but it grew – it intensified. The light disappeared into his arm and black lines began to appear from the tip of the wand, literally snaking around his skin inch by inch. It felt like a knife was slicing down to the bone. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Deeper the pain went until he felt that surely his arm was going to sever from his body and fall to the ground before him. No other pain he had ever felt came close to this – nothing in life had prepared him for such torture.

The black lines continued their gruesome dance across his skin and Draco was dimly aware of his knees giving out, causing him to fall to the floor. He surely would have fallen completely had Lord Voldemort not been holding his arm in a vice-like grip. Spasms ripped through his body over and over as the pain grew worse. He kept thinking he would pass out – that surely now it was too much for his body to take consciously, but he never did. He felt every single pore as the Dark Mark was formed on his skin.

It burned – like a thousand fires; it cut – like a thousand swords; it stung – like a thousand hornets. There was no escaping.

His voice finally came to him and he let out a scream of pure, unadulterated agony as his arm was finally released and he fell further down to the floor. He held his arm in front of him and watched as, for the first time, the snake poured forth from the skull's mouth and began to wind around it in some dark, sadistic dance. His breath came in gasps, the pain barely receding at all. He willed the symbol to stop moving – each movement tearing through his arm like fiery steel.

At long last he was able to take a full breath without the overwhelming desire to scream out. A soft, final whimper escaped from his lips and he closed his eyes tightly, feeling the wetness of tears on his face. He hastily lifted his arm to wipe away the sign of weakness, and only then did he become aware of a muffled sobbing from the table. Shakily, he rose to his feet, his fingers gripping the table so tightly they turned white against the dark wood. His mother sat in her chair, her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. She met his eyes and he felt his heart drop into his stomach. She looked so miserable…so sorry.

"Very good, Draco."

His body jolted at the soft voice so near his ear. The Dark Lord's hands rested on his shoulders and he thought he might pass out from fear, the residual pain of the Dark Mark burning away on his arm.

"I, of course, have no true idea what that feels like, but I've heard from others seated here that it is very akin to the Cruciatus curse, in a way."

Draco swallowed and managed a nod. He had never been crucio'd, but he imagined that must be exactly what that unforgivable curse felt like. His stomach roiled at the thought that now he would have to perform such magic on others. A task he once found exciting – he faced with dread.

"You may take your seat now, Draco Malfoy, the newest Death Eater. You have done well. I am sure your father will be very proud."

His mouth was dry; it took several swallows before he could respond with a semi-raspy, "Thank you, my Lord." He quickly returned to his seat, nearly collapsing into the chair. The once-beautiful face of his aunt looked at him with the most twisted and dark version of pride that could exist. Her mouth was cracked open in a wide smile, her broken and blackened teeth evident behind her lips. It was enough to make his gut churn uncomfortably.

"Good job, Draco," she whispered before turning to her sister and saying softly, "You must be so proud, Narcissa. Any chance to please our Lord is a chance that must be taken."

His mother nodded absently as if she wasn't even listening. The cold sweat on Draco's forehead was finally dissipating as the pain continued to recede. He felt eyes on the back of his neck and he shifted in his chair and met the unfathomable stare of Severus Snape. His entire life he had been unable to read the thoughts of that man, despite his natural ability to judge what others were thinking and feeling, and now was no exception. It was maddening, but Draco felt that, for once, he might be glad of it – his own mind was enough of a maze of emotion right now without the added confusion of someone else's point of view.

For the remainder of the meeting, Draco's concentration waxed and waned. He knew it was important for him to listen, to know what was going on, to offer input if it was warranted, but he couldn't stop thinking of what this 'work' would be that Lord Voldemort had spoken of. What could it possibly be that one of the more experienced Death Eaters couldn't do that he could? It had to be something at Hogwarts, right? No, because then Snape could see it taken care of…

When he finally fully tuned back in to what was going on, it was when the cacophony of chairs scooting on stone grated in his ears. The meeting was over. He rose as well, but Lord Voldemort motioned him to sit back down, along with his mother and aunt.

"Just a moment, Draco, Narcissa, Bellatrix. There is something I wish to speak to you about…"

Severus paused in his exit.

"My Lord, do you not wish me to stay, as well?"

"No, Severus. You may take your leave."

Draco couldn't stop from turning in his chair and meeting the eyes of his godfather. For a brief moment, there was a flash of something there.

For a moment, Draco had seen an entire world of sorrow in the eyes of Severus Snape.