Always Home
With no small amount of trepidation, Draco examined his surroundings. Masked, dark-robed men were all around him. One of them – he wasn't sure which one – was his father. But Lucius Malfoy didn't intend to show himself. He would offer no comfort to his son.
While the Death Eaters stood, talking in low, hissing whispers, moving slyly through the crowd, Draco was sitting. He and three others, all of them older than himself, occupied a low-slung metal bench with no padding or comfort. Abstractedly, he thought about the couch in the Slytherin common room, with its green velvet and soft cushions, and the silver serpents snaking along the armrests. Slytherins deserved the best that could be offered. It was an insult to make him take such a plain bench, which any Muggle might sleep on.
Without warning, the whispers stopped. This was a prelude to the ancient moan of the heavy door, as it opened slowly.
Draco could see the pale, thin hand on the door handle. The colorless nails. The paler knuckles. And he could feel the strength that this frail-looking hand possessed . . . a strength that was growing.
His silver eyes went higher, stretching up the black-shrouded arm, and delving into the fathoms of the black cowl. He hoped to seem calm and appraising, and a trifle mocking. That appearance was what everyone at Hogwarts recognized, and what they might one day fear. Then Draco learned why no one looked appraisingly at Voldemort.
The eyes. Blazing red, like a fire of controlled anger, with slit-pupils. Those eyes looked into Draco's silver eyes, and into the mind behind them. Into the depths of his fear, into all the cowardice and false pride that Draco had ever felt. A cold smile formed under the flat nose with its slits for nostrils. An appraising smile.
"Your son is afraid of me, Lucius." The voice was like winter, cruel and thin and cold, like the smile that was not mirth but intimidation.
Draco's father said nothing. Among the masked Death Eaters, he was only another anonymous figure.
A small man, balding and greasy, hurried out from behind Lord Voldemort. "Now we will brand the new ones," he said nervously, darting a glance at his Lord. He looked as though he wanted to get this over with.
"Yes." Hissed, like a snake would hiss.
"Felicia Arcanus," said the small man. A haughty woman at the far end of the bench stood. She held up her left arm, baring it to the elbow. Her skin was pale against the black of her robes.
Lord Voldemort raised his wand. In a strange, sinuous language, an incantation was murmured. On the pale flesh of the woman's arm, a black mark suddenly burned and smoked. Gasping, making shrill noises, cradling her hand, Felicia sat again.
"Devon Curspicus." The short, elderly man stood, flashed a yellow-toothed smile, and was branded. He made no sound, unlike Felicia. He simply sat.
"Ju Ling."
"That's Ju Ming," corrected the Asian man. He smiled good-naturedly and bared his arm. Other than a sharp intake of breath, he didn't react to the branding.
"Draco Malfoy."
Draco stood. He knew that it would hurt to be branded with the mark of Lord Voldemort. If his father's words hadn't been enough, Felicia and Ju Ming's reactions would have told him. He also knew that his family's pride asked for him to take the pain in stride.
Beneath the hood, pale lips moved. A thin arm raised, lifting a long wand. Then the pain began.
It was immediately more painful than anything else that Draco had ever felt. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, but he could feel stinging tears forcing their way out. Tentatively, he touched the mark with his right hand, then pulled his hand away. It burned his fingers as it burned his forearm, and the pain just seemed to go on forever . . ..
Draco sat, succumbing to the urge to whimper like a pathetic puppy. Is this what Harry Potter feels when his scar hurts? Is this what Voldemort does to people?
One of the black-robed Death Eaters moved to stand behind Draco, as soon as Lord Voldemort turned his attention elsewhere.
"Don't wail like a child, Draco," berated Lucius.
Like a child, Draco whispered, "Can we go home now?"
The mask seemed to grin. "Among your fellows, you are always home."