A/N: Thank you so much, YourHuffleNamedLunaGrey and afedrigo, for reviewing last chapter! I always appreciate receiving feedback from you guys!

Chapter Two: Marks

Salt. The smell was so firmly pierced into the air that it lodged itself into Draco's throat, pricking upon his tongue. It was nearly his undoing and undoubtedly what must have woken him from the realm on the brink of death.

He had been so near it. So close. He had felt himself slipping away, exiting this world which had nothing left for him but pain. He could have avoided the worst of it, could have ended his short life with pure blood in his veins and pride to his name. Yet, his senses were far too overpowering now to let him so much as sleep, never mind die.

If he could make sense of anything besides the salt, he would find his ears ringing from nonsensical sounds in the distance, a throbbing light beyond his closed eyelids, perspiration trickling from his limp hair, over the groove of his lips, finally to crawl down his neck and settle in the crook of his throat. His arm and chest burned despite the cold substance pressed between it and the chafing gauze. He could hear laboured breathing at his right side and felt soft fingers curled about his wrist, applying a slight pressure no doubt meant to be comforting.

As much as Draco scorned what awaited him in the waking world, it was the reassuring touch from his mother which coaxed him into breaking the surface of consciousness.

His eyes opened and closed several times in rapid succession before the lids found their bearings and no longer fell over his vision. His mother must have heard the change in his breaths for her face slowly came into view, bending over him. Concern shone blatantly in her expression and undeniable trails of tears stained her cheeks, leading from her bloodshot eyes. That must have been the cause for the smell of salt.

Her soft hand removed itself from his arm, to rest on his forehead, as though checking for a fever. The ends of her long blonde hair tickled his nose. "Draco?" She asked in scarcely more than a whisper.

His fingers twitched and then his knees locked as his shoulders stiffened. It was such a practiced, routine motion to bend his ankles, press his elbows into the mattress, and lift his neck in order to rise from the vulnerable position one's body is forced into during slumber, that it came as a shock when sharp pain stabbed into his chest and shot up his arm, sending a fiery itch through his very bones and clouding his vision.

"It's best not to move, darling," his mother cautioned, a tremor in her voice as she seemed to hold back more tears. "We've applied dittany to the w-worst of it," she stuttered. "But anything that the s-s-saliva t-touched will s-scar." Unable to compose herself any longer, she turned away from him, shoulders heaving with unabashed sobs. The sound of her weeping filled the room, reverberating through Draco's newly heightened hearing.

He supposed a good son would attempt to console her. In all fact, any well-meaning man would put a lady of her status above himself and do all in his power to staunch the steady flow of tears. Yet, Draco neither saw himself as particularly good or well-meaning. As his mother continued to express her emotions so unbecomingly into the sleeves of her robes, Draco began his own ritual of mourning, though his was a silent affair, at least to the eyes and ears. Within his head and heart, however, a thunderous gong had resounded, the ending note to his comfortable life and promising future.

His heart. Each lethargic thump in his chest was another pump of an animal's blood coursing through his body. What was he without pure blood? How could he maintain his place as an heir to the Malfoy estate when he was now merely a part-human? He was worse than Potter, worse even than the Mudblood Granger. How had this happened? He had been at the top, destined to thrive in the new world the Dark Lord was planning to create. But, now, there was nothing. He would be an outcast, living on the dregs of proper wizarding society. Draco Malfoy had never felt so alone.

/

As the days passed idly by in Malfoy Manor, Draco recovered to the best he was able and he was soon able to move about the house with little difficulty. The wounds on his chest and forearm had closed but the scars refused to fade and while Draco knew better than to expect them to, he kept catching himself staring at the gruesome teethmarks and jagged scratches as though willing them to disappear.

Despite his new curse, his mother stayed faithfully by his side. She had nursed him whilst he was bedridden and even now she supported him and looked at him with no revulsion or loathing in her expressions. Perhaps there was some pity and sorrow. Draco could hardly blame her for that. He was her only son, the only heir for the Malfoy fortune. Of course she would be devastated to lose that. Those moments when she was undeniably pitying him, however, were moments when he could not meet her eyes and would have to excuse himself from the room.

Draco Malfoy didn't want anyone's pity. Nobody's but his own.

Such was how he spent the next couple of weeks, wallowing in self-pity, moving as if in a daze from room to room. There seemed nothing more to look forward to, nothing more to work for. As minutes ticked by into hours which morphed to days, the full moon drew ever nearer. Watching the moon grow each night became something of a pastime to him, counting down the nights until he could no longer pretend to be human.

It was the day before he and his mother planned to embark to Diagon Alley in order to replenish on school supplies for the coming year. He had been moping in his room, as was his wont, when there came a tap at the door. "Yes, Mother?" He asked sullenly.

Narcissa Malfoy peered behind the heavy mahogany door, her usual look of pity and sorrow playing on her face. Still, this time there was something more. Fear? Draco flinched as though he had been burned. Up until now, fear had never been amidst the unpleasant array of emotions his mother could not help when looking at him. Had she finally decided that sharing her home with a creature such as he was too much of a burden? His moment of panic was short-lived, due to his mother's next words.

"You have a visitor, Draco, dear," she said. "He's waiting in the parlour."

Draco descended to the parlour, having an assumption as to who this visitor might be and none too eager to receive him so soon. Greyback's words continued to come back to him, each time sounding more and more like a threat. "I confess that would be a shame. You seem like a strong one," Draco shivered unconsciously. It seemed all too likely now that the mad werewolf was coming to collect him and make him apart of his growing pack.

Steeling his courage, Draco exhaled shakily and yanked open one of the double doors. It was not Greyback awaiting him in the dimly lit sitting room. "Hello, Draco," said the Dark Lord.

"My Lord," Draco dipped his head, halting in his tracks.

"I see you're walking. That is very reassuring," The Dark Lord smiled, a grim sight.

Draco wondered why he had come. His punishment towards the failure Lucius Malfoy had been fulfilled and it did not seem likely of him to come to gloat. Seemingly aware of his thought process, the Dark Lord continued, "I have not come merely to see you at your lowest, though I eagerly await Lucius's chance to witness your falling from grace. No, I am here because I realize that you have some use to me."

"What more could you want from me?" Draco asked bitterly. "Hasn't my suffering been enough to quench your sadism?"

"You will pay for insolence one day," the Dark Lord warned. "No. I would like to show you something, Draco. You can enter now, Bellatrix."

The dark-haired, pale skinned woman unearthed herself from the shadows, fingering her wand. She

looked down her nose at him in a gesture eerily reminiscent of her sister. "He did live, then," she said, sounding none too thrilled.

"Your arm, Bellatrix," the Dark Lord held out his palm. Smiling supercilously, she pinched the cuff of her lacy robe between two filed fingernails, pulling it slowly up her arm. As the cloth ruffled farther into the crook of her elbow, an inky black snake was revealed upon her otherwise unblemished skin. She folded the last bit of fabric over, uncovering the skull with its mouth open wide to accomodate the snake's tail. The Dark Lord rubbed his thumb over the skull in an almost fond gesture before reaching his other hand and pressing the end of his wand upon it. The Dark Mark seemed to grow darker still as the snake writhed, curling and uncurling about the hollow face.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" He murmured. "The power of the Dark Arts. Nothing but a picture, a bit of a mark on one's person, and others fear it. People cower from it. And they bow in its presence." Throughout this speech, Bellatrix's gaze never once left the Dark Lord's face, a kind of admiration being found there that she saved only for her leader.

"Draco, I am building a new world," the Dark Lord continued. "One where Muggles and Mudbloods live beneath our thumbs, if they live at all. One where half-breeds, like you, cease to be a bother. One where pure bloods reign, where the Dark Arts run wild. Draco, it will be such a beautiful world. A world where all is in its place."

"Why are you telling me this?" Draco asked.

"Because I am giving you a chance to avoid it," he answered. "Bellatrix will live quite the privileged life in my new world. Not only because she is pure, but also due to this." He gestured to her Mark, still in his grasp. "All of my followers, whom have stayed faithful to me, all who fight beside me, all who bear this mark shall find themselves in rule. Currently, Draco, you have a very different mark on your arm. I cannot take that branding away. But, I can give you a new one. And, in my new world, nothing beneath the Dark Mark will matter. Not even a werewolf's blood."

He released Bellatrix. She did not unfurl her sleeve and instead grazed her lips against it, as though she could still feel his touch.

Draco stood for a moment in silence. For weeks he had tried to come to terms with what being a half-breed might mean, what kind of life he would lead after his father returned. He had no trouble imagining. He would be a beggar, starved and mad, or else wasting away underground with Greyback's pack. Anything seemed better than that. And wouldn't it make up for everything, smother father's disappointment, which was sure to come, at least a little, if only he became a Death Eater?

"What would I have to do?" He asked.

The Dark Lord smiled. "I need you to kill Albus Dumbledore."

None in the parlour could have known that just outside the door, a certain blonde witch had been listening intently. Narcissa Malfoy acted not as the Dark Lord's 'faithful servant,' in her sister's words, but as a mother who's son had been jerked from her grasp far too many times and changed more into his father because of it. Narcissa needed help. So, she embarked find Severus Snape.