Written for the 'rewriting' challenge at the Bellatrix Lestrange Forum.
Prompt: rewrite a fic written by another member - essentially, it's fanfic fanfic. And of course, just like fanfiction, the idea is not slavish dedication to the original, but creativity and a new reworking of the original idea.
The original fic: I chose to rewrite Puppet and Puppet Master by the lovely OnyxRose13. Her story depicts Draco's thoughts just after he receives the Dark Mark, with specific focus on both his inner turmoil and the incredible pain of being branded (physically, but also on some level emotionally). For the full experience, I heartily encourage everyone to read her fic as well.
Dirt
"For his family he was willing to get his hands dirty."
Puppet and Puppet Master, OnyxRose13
Draco is watching the ring of masked Death Eaters. Before them, before Lord Voldemort, he feels naked.
They surround him, and he is tempted to scan the circle for his aunt, but he suppresses the urge, and keeps his eyes fixated on the dingy floor before him. Lord Voldemort paces. His robes and the tips of booted feet move in and out of his vision. He begins to speak, but Draco's heart begins to pound in his ears, his blood pounds behind his eyes, and he hears nothing, the rushing in his ears is so deafeningly loud, his vision begins to darken, his throat constricts …
"Are you ready, Draco?"
Suddenly the world is still and quiet again, but for the soft murmur of black robes and the sound of his heart.
He grimaces, grits his teeth.
"I am ready … my Lord."
Draco half expects him to produce a hot branding iron, like the kind he had seen used in the French countryside. But of course he doesn't.
Lord Voldemort's wand has never looked so terrifying, and Draco has to resist the urge to screw his eyes shut, to scream in agony as the tip, searing hot, begins that inexorable pattern on his forearm.
It burns and he wants to look away, but his eyes won't cooperate with his body. He thinks that he can see the skin around the edges of the mark bubbling up, gruesome, burned. But of course that isn't true.
Draco isn't aware that he's shaking. He can't even hear the soft, mocking whispers, the sniggers of the other Death Eaters – the true chosen ones.
Blood begins to gather at the meeting-place of black and white. It isn't until that point that Draco realizes how badly he's shaking.
The blood runs down his arms in unusual patterns, and some spatters on the ground.
Some – just some of that blood – runs down the front of his forearm, straight down towards his wrist. Draco is aware, though only vaguely, that such a thing should tickle, but he doesn't feel it. It seems as though every nerve in his body has relocated itself to where his new master is carving himself into Draco's flesh.
The droplet of blood wobbles slightly at the junction of his wrist and palm, and just as the final touch, the serpent's head, is completed in a last excruciating flourish, the little drop of blood rolls down, and stains his hand red.
Thoughts?