Draco tried not to rub at the Mark. It would catch at his peripheral vision and he'd think it was dirt, a stain, some kind of filth. Then he'd look at it and remember that it was honor. It was glory. It was being chosen.

It was a bloody trap and he was caught in it.

He'd always preferred long sleeves, but now he wore them all the time, even to bed. Even with Blaise. He didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to think about it. He'd just do what he was told, just kill the most powerful wizard in history before he'd even passed his N.E.W.T.s and his family would be fine and everything would go back to the way it had been before. That's what he told himself as he did his homework and wrote his essays and felt his feet dragging him, almost against his will, out to the Quidditch pitch.

He didn't walk out onto it. He just stood, at the edge of the stands, and set one hand against the wooden support that went up, up, up into the seats. He'd resigned from the team. He'd told them, most arrogant Malfoy voice he could summon, that he had better things to do.

He missed it so much he wanted to cry.

"I knew I'd find you here."

Draco didn't turn around. Blaise had his ways and their relationship had never been an easy one. Pansy would fawn, and Greg was a sycophant, but Blaise held himself aloof. He'd loved that at first. Getting the most arrogant of their house to shudder apart at his touch had been a triumph.

"You regret quitting yet?"

"I have a task," Draco said. He knew he sounded like a prat. He knew he sounded horrible. He wanted to turn and beg Blaise to love him, to hold on to him, to not let him go. Tell me I'm not a monster, he wanted to say. Instead he added, "He trusts me."

"He is using you," Blaise said. He turned the 'he' into a sneer, into condemnation.

"And I should run to Dumbledore?" Draco asked bitterly. They all knew how Dumbledore worked. He'd protect the people useful to him and no one else. Draco was pawn for the other king. You captured pawns. You didn't hide them away. You didn't save them.

No one was going to save him.

"It would be better than what you're doing," Blaise said.

"At least it's better than what you're doing," Draco said. When in doubt, go on the offensive. Better to attack than to be attacked. "Staying neutral?" He turned that into a sneer of his own. "You think that's going to work? You'll eventually have to pick a side."

"I think the side picked you," Blaise said. He started to reach a hand out as if he were going to set it on Draco's arm and Draco closed his eyes and waited for that touch. He prayed for that touch. If Blaise showed him even the slightest care, he'd crumble. He'd sob and ask for help. He'd do anything, risk anything, to make it out of this. The touch didn't come, and when he risked a look, Blaise had his arms crossed, any hint of vulnerability gone.

"But then, you're honored to be chosen, aren't you?" Blaise asked. "It's all you've ever wanted, being the Chosen One."

"It's not," Draco started to say. It's not like that, he wanted to say, but it was too late. Blaise had turned, his back straight and proud as he left Draco huddled against the stands.

. . . . . . . . .

A/N – Thank you to ff-sunset-oasis for the prompt on tumblr: "You'll eventually have to pick a side." Blaise/any pairing of your choice (or no pairing)