It's Not a Fashion Statement, It's a Fucking Deathwish
For what you did to me/And what I'll do to you/You get what everyone else gets/You get a lifetime…
"It burned." That's all Draco would have said if asked about getting the Dark Mark permanently branded into the skin of his left forearm. Though truthfully, it had burned a lot more than just his skin. His very soul felt charred and painful, as if the Mark had killed a part of him.
In a way, it had. Draco's individuality, his freedom, everything that made him who he was- it was now gone. All taken and replaced by the expectation that he should desire nothing other than to serve the Dark Lord with every breath. Which was really stupid, in Draco's opinion. Though his opinion didn't count for much, in most people's opinion, because he was only sixteen, and therefore his words didn't carry the same weight.
Being Voldemort's youngest Death Eater really wasn't all that it was cracked up to be. Not only was he supposed to grovel before the Dark Lord's feet like a mindless idiot, but Draco also had to do the bidding of the other Death Eaters who thought they had a right to boss him around because they were older.
Ever since he'd been initiated into the ranks of Voldemort's "chosen few" (read: horde of minions), Draco had begun to lose all the previous respect he held for his father. It was obvious why Lucius had been in Slytherin- he was a cowardly bully who relied on the brute strength of his cronies to enforce his prejudices. In short, he was magical, but he'd fit in none of the other Houses, so he'd been put in Slytherin House because he was a pureblood.
Draco was almost to his wit's end- he was almost rooting for Potter to get the balls to go up against Voldemort once and for all, and end this bullshit. Almost. No matter what, Draco still was not to the point where he would sink so low as to bow down at the feet of precious Potter. Besides, he already was doing his fair share of groveling.
It was practically hilarious, Draco mused tiredly, that a half-blood would be leading a group of bigoted purebloods in cleansing the wizarding world. Really, how did none of his followers see that? There were no 'Riddle's in the entirety of the pureblooded histories. And Draco would know, because his father had made him read them over and over when he was younger to assure that Draco knew the superiority of the Malfoy name. So Tom Riddle had changed his name to Lord Voldemort. It didn't change his blood status, did it?
So really, the whole war was completely pointless, because no one had any actual reason for fighting about the stupidest things that didn't even matter. Getting rid of mudbloods and half-bloods wasn't going to solve anything. Most of the corruption in the Ministry was a result of purebloods like his father. And as that know-it-all Granger seemed hell-bent on proving, muggleborns were just as capable as everyone else.
Hell, Draco was beginning to see that. The pureblooded Death Eaters not being able to see what a pointless cause they were dedicating themselves to just proved it. And Granger could beat him- and the rest of their year- in practically every class.
Ever since Voldemort's wand had touched Draco's arm, he'd started to doubt the Death Eater's cause. It made no sense, and he was growing tired of it already. Draco let out another yawn, stifled behind his fist as his father continued to drill him on Merlin-knows-what.
He just couldn't wait for this war to be over- and it was just beginning.
AN: Well, the second chapter is up! I hope you liked it, and please review!
-Fiori ^_^