I don't own Harry Potter
Or do I?
JK, I don't. It's by J.K. Rowling, who is too good a writer for her own good! =P
This is my take on Draco getting his mark, so enjoy!
Running.
Through the gardens, past the gate, and into the distance.
Hair pulling him behind, cold night air rushing into his lungs.
He could hear them calling, but it was as if someone had turned off his brain.
The only thought was to get away.
Safely hidden in the bushes, he mulled over the conversation he'd had with his mother only minutes ago, though it seemed like years.
What they were telling him to do...it was impossible.
No one could do it, if the Dark Lord had never done it, how could he expect a 16-year-old boy to do it?
Although. it didn't seem like he had a choice.
"I need to...You must be joking Mother! The Dark Lord wouldn't want me to-"
"But Draco, you must," Narcissa's harsh voice cut through his protests,"we will be honored above all, and the Dark Lord will no longer be angry with us. Our lives are in peril if you refuse to do as he says."
Draco finally turned around as comprehension dawned on him. The Dark Lord was threatening his Mother with her life, as well as...his own.
"And of course you will need to get a..." Narcissa trailed away, gesturing vaguely at her left arm.
But Draco understood.
And he ran.
Straight through the back entrance, he fled.
It seemed like a dream.
It was someone else, being pried from the ground by his mother at dawn.
It was someone else, being comforted, then pulled into the mansion to get ready
It was someone else, who was being given an impossible task to save his family.
It was someone else.
It had to be.
He moved forward, with his mother on his right and his left arm's sleeve pulled up.
Coming closer and closer to the throne sitting at the end of the hall, lined with spectators, some looking on with jealousy.
He could feel eyes on him as he proceeded, but determinedly kept his head bowed, looking nowhere but the embroidered carpet beneath his shoes.
As Draco stopped to the foot of the tall, pale man sitting atop the chair, he dared to look up, but quickly bent his head again, getting a glimpse of slits for red eyes, and a thin white mouth pulled into a sneer.
"Bellatrix," Voldemort called, barely above a whisper, beckoning her from the shadows next to the high chair.
Bellatrix stepped out, wand poised as Draco raised his own arm, shaking as he did so.
She gently pressed the tip of the wand to his forearm, and whispered the incantation.
Draco yelped in pain as black swirls of ink spun out from the wand, slowly forming an intricate depiction of a snake protruding out of a gaping skull.
She lifted her wand and the brand burned deeply into his skin, as ruptured, yet triumphant applause rang throughout the small hall.
The deed was done.
And it was the most terrifying moment of his life.
"Morsmordre Tergus"
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