The Mark of a Malfoy
Summary: In less than an hour, he will be marked. The cage is locked; the key has been thrown away; both lies and truth are thrown into sharp relief as the moon shines one last time. Draco wonders how this all came to be. Oneshot. Canon compliant.
Disclaimer: I'm too lazy to write one. Insert standard I-own-nothing-and-make-no-money-for-this disclaimer here.
The moon was as pale as ever as it shone that night. Draco, who had been leaning against the wall, scowled and moved away as it came out. He didn't like the night. He didn't like the dark. He wasn't afraid of these, of course... Just unsettled. He stayed out of the moon as much as possible. There was something about its calming light that made him want to relax, or sleep, or something... Something. Something other than sit and fume. Something other than attack, lash out. Something other than be Draco Malfoy.
He would much rather be asleep at night, and normally would have been. Right now, however, he was waiting. Waiting...
His eyes darted to his wand, which sat on his personal desk, quiet and unmoving.
"Light up, damn it," Malfoy grumbled. He kept one eye on the wand as he sat on his bed slowly, trying to avoid rumpling his silken black cloak.
His eyes drifted again, falling on the object right next to his wand. A pale, white mask. Draco's fingers drew up his sleeve, and he brushed his bare forearm, marveling at the way the moonlight reflected from it.
Would it remain so bare after this night? Probably not. In all likelihood, his arm would end up marked in a mere hour.
He allowed the sleeve to fall once more. A hoarse laugh passed his lips. He hardly recognized it.
What had brought him here?
Since he was old enough to understand that he was a Malfoy, he had known. It was an honor to be a Malfoy; it was a blessing to be the scion of a great and long-enduring family of witches and wizards, traceable back to the days when the Ministry of Magic itself had formed. Had memorized all his family going back a number of generations, and at least the most recent three generations of every other pureblood family in Britain - as was expected. He would be at a political disadvantage without such knowledge, naturally.
Malfoys did not have disadvantages. Malfoys were perfect, Draco thought bitterly. Perfect.
Lies.
Perfection didn't exist in humans. Draco knew that too well. When he was younger, he had absorbed every honeyed word that dripped from his father's mouth, and believed it. That he was perfect, that his father was perfect, that all Malfoys were nothing less than perfect - and the world would bend before them.
Lies.
Mother was off her rocker, just a bit. She had lost all trace of the woman she had once been over years of brutality and hiding from the world. When Lucius was around, or when they were in public, she was Narcissa Malfoy: cold, calculating, bitter, brutal. Conniving. Beautiful. Perfect. And then Lucius left, and in the sanctity of home, Mother emerged - weaker and weaker every time. When he was little, she would rock him to sleep, sing lullabies in her beautiful soprano, and dote upon him. Tell him stories - muggle or wizarding. But she told him never to speak of the muggle ones. Those stories were their little secret from Lucius; the muggle fairy tales she whispered to him were her way of rebelling, ever so quietly. It was her way of hoping that maybe one day, her little boy would grow up, and be hers, not his. One day, she hoped quietly, as she whispered the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, Draco would be a strong man, stronger than his father, and maybe he'd free her.
But over the years, he grew up, ever the little sycophant, and slowly he watched his mother fade. Sometimes Mother would look at him with a misty smile, and move as if to hug him - but she'd recoil, afraid.
He'd seen her do the same to Lucius. Had they become so alike?
And in the dark of night, restless, he would sneak out of his room, wandering the empty wings of the manor. Sometimes, he would come across his mother.
Lying alone on a rumpled bed, tossing and turning. Empty bottles of Ogden's Firewhiskey (such a common alcohol), one on the desk, one rolling on the floor. Not a drop left in either.
Sometimes she was sound asleep, and that was alright. Draco put her to bed, trying not to cry.
Sometimes she was awake, and that was not alright. Draco put up with her yelling, her sobbing, her dizzied dreaming, until finally she wore out, and then he put her to bed, trying not to cry.
Draco wasn't sure if Lucius knew his wife was an alcoholic.
Lies.
Lucius. No longer "father;" Lucius had thrown that title out years and years ago, preferring "dictator" - where Draco was concerned, at least. Draco had loved and followed his father for many long years. All of his youth. And then, third year, it had crashed to the ground.
He wanted Hagrid to get in trouble, that oaf. He had no business teaching. A nice enough man, yes. A great groundskeeper. But his enthusiasm for animals was nothing. So he thought he'd mess with Potter and Hagrid in one blow, and deliberately insult Buckbeak.
A mistake.
Hagrid went untouched with the protection of Dumbledore. It was the animal who suffered.
It had been a beautiful, majestic thing. Draco had asked what Lucius was planning to do.
Lucius smiled at his son, proud of him. Draco remembered the words perfectly: "It will die."
Draco nodded, made his excuses, and left.
He didn't want this. It was innocent... He had asked for those gashes, quite deliberately, too. Wasn't like a broken bone was anything too bad; not in the wizarding world, at least. He'd bribed the family Healer to pretend it would take longer to heal than required, so he could wear a sling and wring it for all it was worth.
He even got Potter to do some of his Potions work.
There was no satisfaction in any of it. A guiltless creature, proud, majestic... It was going to be slain, and Malfoy was at fault.
Granger punched him that year. He took it. It hurt.
He deserved it.
At least the bloody bird-horse-thing got away. That was a relief. It meant that Draco was still innocent. He hadn't killed anything.
Yet. He was a Malfoy. There was always a yet.
After that, he kept his activities to the minimum of necessity - what was needed to keep up the charade? What was necessary to show the world that he was a Malfoy?
Draco had dreams. He would grow up one day. He would be of age, and then he would leave his Father and make a life of his own. Severus would help, maybe. He could help Mother; he would bring her back to the lovely woman she was supposed to be.
The Third Task.
"Draco, our Lord has returned."
The lies blossomed into truths. Horrible, terrible truths.
He was well trapped. Even if he could escape his father, the Dark Lord would never let him go.
Caged in. It was nothing new. He'd been a prisoner of the Malfoy name all his life; but the door had always been unlocked, up until that day. Now, he was well and truly shut in.
There was nothing to do but take the Dark Mark and hope (ha! hope!) he would survive.
Draco shook himself out of it in time to see his wand light up at the tip in a soft red color. He rose gracefully to his feet, holstering his wand and quickly pulling the mask up to his face.
It stuck to his face - magic allowed it to stay in place perfectly, hovering just beyond his perfect features. Draco took a deep breath, and looked in the mirror.
Death Eater.
"Draco."
He looked to the door. Mother was there, standing in the moonlight. It highlighted her pale skin. Too pale.
"It's time," she said quietly. She looked at him once, but then her gaze darted away - fear. Fear she never would have shown to anybody.
Not even him. Not anymore.
"Mother..." he whispered. "I don't want to die."
She looked at him piercingly. "You won't."
"Mother." Then, a forbidden word. "Mum. I..." The words stuck in his throat.
"I love you too, dearest," she replied, but it was automatic. A lie. So many lies.
"Do you not love me anymore?" Draco asked hoarsely.
She flinched, and looked away. "I will always love my little boy," she said honestly, knowing well that Draco was no longer little, nor a boy. Not after tonight. "Come."
Am I becoming the monster Lucius was? Draco thought. Do I even have a choice?
He nodded, ignoring all doubts, and hiding them behind the shadows of his mind. He covered the doubts in malevolence, violence, hatred, fear - all things Voldemort would want to see.
Voldemort did not want the cowardliness or reluctance. With Lucius in Azkaban, Draco was to take his place, and prove he belonged in Voldemort's ranks.
As long as it keeps me and Mother alive, he swore to himself. As long as, someday, we can run. We can go. We can be us... Mother and Draco. Not Malfoys. Please.
He drew the hood of his cloak up. Now, he was indistinguishable from other Death Eaters - even his fair hair was hidden away. He was a follower. One of them.
"Take me to the Dark Lord," he ordered Narcissa. She wasn't Mother now, she was Narcissa... And he was Malfoy.
"Yes, sir," she softly answered. She turned, her hand dropping its white-knuckled grip on the door frame. Malfoy followed swiftly, a gliding as a nightmare through the candle-lit halls of Malfoy Manor.
A cloud slid over the moon, and cast the world into darkness.
I'm considering continuing this fic as something that would be decidedly NOT canon-compliant, where Draco would escape getting the Dark Mark at the last second, leading into a long chain of events that change the war completely. Or, I might just leave it here, with Draco as the canon coward he really is. Not sure. Shrug. Anyway, please review; hope you enjoyed it.