Marked

July 5, 1996

The sun had long since set over the grounds of Malfoy Manor. Darkness had fallen hard and fast, chasing the sun's final rays beyond the horizon, and yet the waning moon climbed slowly, as if dreading its time in the sky. Hours passed, but the night felt interminable to Draco Malfoy.

A soft breeze carried the smell of vomit to him, and Draco winced. He had missed a spot. Unsurprising: his Scourgifys had been muttered and half-hearted. A pity: the smell reminded him of the fading burn at the back of his throat and brought back the bitter taste he had either grown accustomed to or learned to ignore. He took a deep breath and rolled himself onto his side as he prepared to heave once more. It was his body's attempt at self-preservation, though aspirating his own sickness held a certain vile appeal to it.

He waited, shoulders and abdomen tense with the effort of keeping himself semi-aloft. Then the breeze died, taking the nausea with it, and Draco relaxed. He exhaled with a soft groan, trying, and mostly failing, to control his head's descent toward the stone pavers as he rolled onto his back.

The courtyard was deserted, and had been for at least two hours. The Dark Lord's followers, thinner in rank since the Department of Mysteries debacle, were skittish about gathering for extended periods, even in as safe a location as the Manor. The Dark Lord would never admit it, but Draco understood the need for caution. Potter had destroyed the Ministry's hidden weapon, whatever it was, and the unexpected, unfortunate failure had left the Dark Lord weaker and more exposed than he had ever planned to be.

What other reason could there have been to perform an initiation – usually saved for the solstices, equinoxes, or at least full moons – on such an unremarkable evening?

Draco began to count the stars, trying to forget the pain in his left arm and the below-bone ache that made him too weary to move. Narcissa had kept him company for the first hour of his convalescence, but there was only so much self-pity she could tolerate before growing restless. He did not blame her; she had her own healing to do. One sister a blood-traitor, the other a sadist. Her husband in Azkaban, her son defiled and set upon the same path.

The compulsion was too strong to resist. Draco clenched his fist and felt his tendons move beneath his Dark Mark. The magic was still new, still settling into his skin and psyche. It prickled, as if from a nettle sting or an insect bite. Yet there was a thrill to it. Whatever the Dark Mark made him – evil, a coward, a monster, a pawn, all of the above – it gave him something, too.

The Dark Mark's magic was different, almost foreign, though it was surely his own, cast voluntarily by his own hand with his own wand. Draco had knelt before witnesses and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robe. He had recited the vow, chanted the spell, endured the burning, searing, scorching pain until it was done, sealed by the press of the Dark Lord's thumb against the serpent's undulating head. He felt the new ability within him, to summon and be summoned, to communicate and receive orders.

Power was power. Gaining even a fraction more than everybody else set him above. By his blood, he was superior. By his Mark, it was irrefutable.

Superior. Irrefutable. Powerful. The sentiments felt hollow, echoing and fading as he repeated them in the dark hours before dawn. Why would the lies not stick when he needed them most?

In those naïve years of his before, he had believed them without question. Power and pride were like tea and biscuits, fire and air, water and life. Natural, his rights as a Malfoy. He had thought – had known – that this mark, this brand, would secure him. Not only him, in fact, but also his family. His entire family. Generations hence would remember him for his cunning and his loyalty. The Malfoy genealogy would devote an entire chapter to him and only him. His father's mistakes would be lost to the memory of time, and he, Draco, would live forever.

The pavers were rough beneath his cheek, too cool for a summer's night. He pressed his face hard against the ground to better feel the stone's gnawing bite, a hard reminder of how far his reality fell from his fantasy.

His family was torn asunder, drifting in the Dark Lord's regime like ash on the wind. His initiation was a joke, and any fame he had hoped to scavenge from it was contingent on his performance as a Death Eater at Hogwarts. As a spy. How trite.

The bitter taste returned, and Draco's body flipped itself, spewing forth a jet of bile and mucous. It oozed into the cracks between the pavers, a faint slickness in the starlight.

Draco rolled over, closed his eyes, and brought his hands up to cover his face. The motion brought with it the smell of his aftershave, his father's aftershave. Sharp spice and subtle mint. It sickened him, but his stomach was empty even of bile. All he had was nausea, memory, and a violent need to run.

He felt suddenly helpless. As if he were flying without a broomstick, not falling so much as feinting, hurtling quickly and deliberately toward the ground without a chance of recovery or gentle landing.

All that existed for him now was the crash.

Tears slipped from between his eyelashes and ran down his cheeks, cold against his skin. He began to tremble.

What had he done?

August 31, 1996

Draco's school trunk yawned before him, the graying shadows turning to black with the setting sun. He should have been packed by now, but all of his school items – so prized, so pricey, and so carefully selected – were wasted space. What would he do with quills and parchment this year? What good would his school robes do him? He was less a part of Hogwarts than ever before, and he had not even arrived.

His cauldron had made the cut, as had his stock of potion ingredients; a plan, vague and probably ill fated, had dictated their usefulness. His broom had not. He no longer flew, no longer had any desire to taste the air. He had tried it a few days after, in the insane and feeble hope that a return to his beloved pastime would be enough to escape his demons.

His body had known what to do. He'd mounted the broom, adjusted his grip, kicked off from the ground, and felt a momentary spiritual lift. A hope that there could be a way through this that would keep his sanity intact. No sooner had the connection between his feet and the earth broken than he had seized. The natural rhythms of his body ceased. He'd lost control, lost his broom, and plummeted.

The ground had risen to meet him and knocked the air from his chest. His vision had blacked, then returned with popping lights. He'd tested his aching body, moving his limbs, flexing his fingers and toes. Nothing had broken, except that everything had. His inability to fly meant that whatever was wrong with him – whatever was causing his sleepless nights, the horrid dreams when he did manage a few minutes of slumber, the too-vivid memories brought on by the sight of the courtyard or the scent of his aftershave – was more than psychological. It was physiological, a problem rooted in his body, coursing through his blood, inextricable from the thing he had become.

How long ago had that been? His mother's monotone reminder to pack for Hogwarts had given him context, but it meant nothing. The days and nights had blurred together, numberless, like trees in an unending forest. If he focused, maybe he could pick out events.

The first time the Dark Lord had summoned him. Pain had lanced up his left arm, curling near his elbow and doubling back down to his wrist, reflexively causing his hand to fist. The echo of his mission reverberated through his mind, and Draco had closed his eyes, welcoming the headache it inevitably brought. Fighting it had only made the pain worse.

His first lesson with Aunt Bellatrix. The sick-sweet scent of old roses had hung heavy on her, and the feel of her hands on his body, her presence in his mind, had made him feel filthy. After their sessions, he had scrubbed his skin until it was raw and scraped his tattooed arm until irritated red surrounded the black. It was his habit, an obsessive routine that failed to help except to make him feel like he was trying. And what good was that? Only time could cleanse him, and then only until his next lesson.

The memory had one benefit: it reminded him that his lessons were finished. Draco was as proficient at Occlumency as he would ever be. Though he did not look forward to it, returning to Hogwarts for his sixth year would be a welcome reprieve from his aunt, at the very least. Maybe the familiarity of the dormitory and the distraction of his friends would ease his mind, allow him to sleep, and prevent his dark dreams. Maybe the routine of classes would focus his mind and bless his days with purpose.

Draco looked about him. The sun had set properly now, and a few candles had winked into existence, illuminating small patches of darkness. The trunk's shadows had deepened, and he was struck by the thought of infinity, of crawling into darkness and hiding until the mess that had become his life resolved itself.

However appealing, the thought was childish. Every decision he made now would have ramifications beyond those immediately apparent. His choices would change lives, maybe for better, but more likely for worse. The responsibility weighed on him, and his body ached from its burden.

The days of inaction were far behind him. The years of consequence dawned.

October 13, 1996

The consequences of Draco's failure had never felt more real.

Details of Katie Bell's accident had spread through the castle like Fiendfyre. Draco had dismissed it as rumor until Snape snatched him out of the corridor and shoved him into an empty classroom. Draco denied everything; the mission was his and his alone. Yet Snape persisted. Superficially, his warnings were meaningless: you are not as smart as you think you are; this is not the time to play games.

Snape had never communicated openly with Draco, and Draco was so accustomed to it that he understood Snape's real warning.

They are watching you. If you do not take this seriously, you and your family will die.

Snape left with a whirl of robes, and Draco leaned against a bench, feeling weak.

He had located the Room of Hidden Things, had found the other half of the Vanishing Cabinet at Borgin and Burkes, and had started the necessary repairs. The necklace was supposed to be a stopgap, a long shot, a whim. That Bell had been injured in the process did not matter to him, but the chance that she might be able to identify him after she recovered did. That, and Snape's grim warning, made Draco wonder if he should find a way to silence Bell for good.

He dismissed the idea once he thought through what her death would entail. One murder was enough to contemplate.

November 24, 1996

His dormitory was as familiar as his bedroom at the Manor, but Draco found no peace beneath the velveteen canopy of his four-poster bed. His friends were indeed distractions: moronic and simpleminded, obsessed with their marks and their Quidditch, either ignorant or in denial of the tension lurking beneath the school's surface.

Snape's insidious warning, as well as the grave, creeping notion that he was expected to fail, colored his thoughts and bled into his actions, causing Draco to withdraw into himself. He could trust only himself, and sometimes, he doubted even that. His marks slipped, then tumbled. His robes hung off him, his once-muscled shoulders and arms losing first their tone, then their strength. He could hardly focus, hardly stay awake, and hardly sleep. He felt caught between life and death, straddling consciousness, a stranger in his own life.

Perhaps that was the problem: it was no longer his life.

April 3, 1997

Lucius Malfoy stood in the corner of the Transfigurations classroom. He was quiet and still, and his steady eyes mirrored Draco's, who regarded his father in tense expectation. His heart pounded in his chest and his spine ached from holding his body so stiffly. His hands cramped from his claw-like grasp of the desk.

How long was his father going to wait before drawing his wand and cursing the lot of them? How long would it take Draco's classmates to notice that a Death Eater had miraculously escaped from Azkaban and entered the well-protected school? Did this mean Draco could abandon his task? Did this mean Draco had failed? How long did he have before the Dark Lord killed his family? Would he be allowed to say goodbye to them? Would he have the chance to apologize?

Lucius inclined his head and tilted it slightly toward McGonagall. Draco followed his gaze and saw nothing extraordinary: a dried-up old witch droning on about human transfiguration. Was that his mission now? McGonagall? Should he kill her instead of, or in addition to?

When he looked back to the corner for further instruction, Lucius was gone.

Draco slowly uncurled his fingers, blinking rapidly. His father was not the first impossibility Draco had seen wandering Hogwarts' halls. His mother, his aunt, the Dark Lord himself – all had made appearances, and Draco had been sure each was real until each was not. Even then, he wondered.

He set his elbows on his desk and put his head in his trembling hands.

Nothing seemed real anymore.

May 23, 1997

Draco woke up in a pool of his own blood, shirtless.

Snape leaned over him. His sonorous voice reverberated off the marble arches as his magic stitched Draco's body back together.

Draco closed his eyes. He wished that Snape had been a few minutes too late.

September 2, 1997

Draco asked himself two questions every morning.

Where was he?

How had he come to be here?

He turned to his bedside, opened his nightstand's drawer, and withdrew the encrypted list he kept. It was a litany, oft updated, of all the dark deeds that had occurred since last term's end.

Dumbledore had died. Lucius had returned. The Dark Lord now resided at Malfoy Manor.

Draco had witnessed the torture and death of a Hogwarts professor.

Draco had tortured a Death Eater named Rowle.

The second question thus answered, he examined his surroundings to surmise the first. Dark green hangings and an ebony bed frame. The watery quality of the light streaming in from the hangings' seams. The smell of cologne and sweat. The sound of snoring.

He had boarded the Hogwarts Express out of obligation rather than desire. Further schooling was a waste of time. He knew it, and he suspected his mother did, too. He did not broach the subject with her, however, for he knew that discussion, too, would be a waste, as was his desire to go abroad, to escape the Manor and the evil lurking within it.

Indeed, the mere concept of desire was pointless. Desire was the act of wanting, an implication that there existed things in the world worth having, a future in which those things would hold intrinsic or extrinsic value, and that to have or not have those things would matter.

Nothing mattered. Ideology, family, power, prestige… Each was a noose with which to hang himself. The only difference was the length of the fall.

He remained in bed the entire day. No one tried to persuade him otherwise.

April 16, 1998

Draco knew them as soon as he saw them – the Golden Trio, the ones they had been searching for, the ones whose deaths would mean the final, blessed end to the tragedy of his past eighteen months. All he had to do was confirm it, and yet, as he locked eyes with Potter, he felt no strong compulsion to do so. Draco's lack of emotion hardly surprised him; he had not been living for months now, instead stumbling through his days as if he were walking in someone else's skin. He felt nothing. He was nothing.

But Potter… Potter was something.

He had always been an object of interest to Draco. At first as a potential ally, and then as a certain nemesis. Now, kneeling before him, his face purple and swollen from a jinx that had to have originated from Granger's wand (he doubted Weasley would have had the foresight to cast it), Draco's attention was once again caught.

It was the eyes. Bloodshot and green, earnest and frightened. Potter was a man who cared, quite fiercely, about his future.

Draco did not understand. How could Potter care? Did he not understand how this story ended? He, Weasley, and Granger had no chance of defeating the Dark Lord. Ending it here might even be a kindness, might spare countless lives by ending the war before it could spread.

Draco could be a hero, in that way. He might not have played a pivotal role in this war, but his name – or at least his surname – would always be mentioned in connection to this moment. A footnote in the Dark Lord's inglorious history.

Potter's eyes, though! So hopeful, so willing to believe in humanity. Yes, Draco saw it in his eyes: Potter was certain that goodness lingered within Draco, like a seed in a burned-out forest that simply needed the right conditions to flourish.

He frowned, drawing the excitement of his father and mother, who crowded closer, clutching at him, desperate that he tell the truth and give voice to what they all already knew.

But Potter was wrong: Draco had no goodness left in him. The seed buried in his forest of ash was one of desire for control. Conditions, however, were indeed ripe for growth.

Potter's life depended upon what Draco wanted, and even though he knew the feeling was fleeting, he allowed it to engulf him. Draco closed his eyes and felt more human than he had in ages. He could not allow himself to wallow, however, and so answered quickly.

"I can't – I can't be sure."

Potter's eyes widened slightly, and Draco stepped back, both pleased and terrified. How this answer changed the future, he had no idea.

In truth, he did not much care. What mattered was that he had made a change, rewritten his own story if just for a day. Maybe the present would continue on its path unaltered and the Dark Lord would win. Or maybe Potter's hope meant something, and maybe Draco was part of that. Maybe Potter would mislabel Draco's desperate grab for a modicum of control as mercy, and maybe that would change something, too.

Lost in thought, Draco did not notice Potter and Weasley get dragged away. Then Granger screamed, and his attention focused with razor-sharp accuracy.

Bellatrix straddled the girl, screaming her questions, spit flying from her mouth. With every slash of his aunt's wand, Granger's choking sobs rose and fell. Garbled truths fell from her bleeding lips, transporting Draco back in time, to a night of no significance, when the pavers were too cold, and his vomit was too close, and his life had changed forever.

Something inside him shifted. If given a choice, Draco would have resisted it, but the connection suddenly forged between them – between him and Hermione Granger, of all people – was below consciousness. Her arm oozed blood and, even from a distance, Draco knew what his aunt had carved. Draco clenched his left fist and knew that, in at least one way, they were equals.

September 19, 1998

Draco only half-listened as the Chief Warlock summarized the testimonies made over the course of his three-week trial. The evidence against him was damning: he could offer no good excuse for the torture or the attempted murders, and the truth – that he had had no choice in the matter – did not play well with the court.

Despite the best efforts of Potter and Weasley, his immediate future involved a dark, dank cell in Azkaban. The only unknown regarded duration. Whatever the decision, he would not complain about it. He deserved punishment and was even starting to believe the court's narrative about this being the first step in his rehabilitation and healing. His rehumanization.

Since that aspect of his life was a certainty, he focused instead on the question, the mystery that had already given him restless nights.

Hermione.

She had been staring at the space around him for weeks now, but never seemed to look directly at him. She flinched and pulled at her right sleeve. Her skin was pale and drawn over her cheekbones, giving her heart-shaped face an unattractive, pointed quality. Her clothing was unkempt, her hair dull and lank, her normally sparkling eyes unfocused. She was sleepwalking through her life. Who better to recognize the symptoms than one who had done the same?

The knock of the Chief Warlock's gavel was his cue to stand. The bailiff's hand descended onto Draco's shoulder. Before the door closed upon the next few years of his life, he looked back. Hermione remained seated, a static figure in a room full of movement. She flinched as Ginny's hand brushed her shoulder.

The door closed, and Draco looked forward. The subconscious connection between them, forged by violence, bloomed in Draco's mind, suddenly undeniable. He needed to see her, speak with her, and understand her. He yearned to touch her. He wanted to run his fingertips over her scars, the jagged peaks and uneven crescents of her pain, aware somehow that sharing the hurt would ease them both.

Draco was resolved: soon, he would know just how deep their similarities cut.