Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any other related thematic elements by JK Rowling.

Pride

I have never felt the intensity of true fear until now, this very moment.

The room I stand before has a strong, nauseating reptilian odor which stings my nostrils the moment I step in. Already, I am beginning to feel sick. But this sickness is nothing compared to the horror which pierces through me as my vision settles on the man seated in the armchair in the middle of the room.

It is none other than Lord Voldemort himself.

A biting chill courses down my spine, and I automatically take a step backward, but I am restrained by my father's heavy hand on my shoulder. My eyes seem unable to leave the pale, corpse-like face which stares calmly back at me. The fiery red eyes stand out in stark contrast to the porcelain- white complexion, and I flinch inwardly as the piercing stare spears through my very soul. I am of no importance here, where my will shall be disregarded and I shall be treated as merely a servant. But then again, that is why I am here.

My father stands behind me, his grip on my shoulder firm but in no way protective. I can feel the stiffness of his posture, the forcefulness of his stance radiating. He pushes me downward with un-forewarned force, and I sink to my knees without resistance. The piercing crimson eyes uniformly follow me to my self-effacing position on the floor, and I gaze back, feeling unable to move. My mind races, yet no thoughts are strung together, for they are all broken by the shattering silence. Silence had never seemed so loud.

My father bows as well. While his head is still lowered, he speaks in a reverent tone. "Here he is, my Lord." His pathetic-ness towards the Dark Lord clashes evilly with his forcefulness towards me.

Lord Voldemort coldly regards me. I'm shaking slightly, cold and undoubtedly frightened. His stare causes me to wilt like flower petals in the desert and his intense eyes sweep down the length of my genuflected body. The resemblance of our positions to the way a predator circles its prey just before it strikes is strongly disconcerting.

Finally, he speaks. "He is juvenile, Lucius." His tone is somewhat disapproving, and he speaks so intensely softly that those thin pallid lips need barely move to form the words.

"He can be trained, my Lord. He learns quickly, and has been taught your ways well," my father answers quickly, his tone pleadingly earnest. The silence that follows is excruciatingly drawn out, and the tense atmosphere is suffocating. I miserably drop my gaze to the floor, feeling helpless and confused, as the Dark Lord considers. I know the conclusion I want him to reach. I decide that the anticipation of the unknown is far more terrifying than any other horror.

"Very well, Lucius, although your word has never been entirely reliable." His voice is sharp and obstinate. Lord Voldemort raises a skeletal hand in a casual, simple movement, pointing towards a solitary wooden char seated at a small table, which I haven't noticed until now. "Seat the boy over there," he instructs firmly, but satiated with resentfulness.

My father rushes to obey his command, and in my head I laugh bitterly. He lifts me to my feet and steers me over. I stumble a few of times, my legs betraying my reluctance to move forward towards my dismal fate. I am pushed roughly into the chair by the heavy had that is my father's, and panic drowns me as I see the skeletal figure that is my father's master approach me. The scene is nothing short of sinister.

My father takes my left arm and extends it on the table, as if I am a doll to do whatever he is willing, like I am no longer human. Never has my hatred towards him been stronger. He rolls my elbow-length sleeves up past my shoulder, my shivering increases. My exposed arm becomes stiff with tension, and I barely stifle a whimper as Lord Voldemort comes to stand next to me, surveying. Up close, I can see the faint, spider-like lines etching his face like scars, which now looks more like a crumbling mask than its unblemished appearance from a distance. His scalding red eyes mercilessly burn past my fear, searing my inner consciousness.

He precariously reaches into his midnight robes, and a long slender wand appears at his fingertips. I can do nothing except stare, my eyes wide with trepidation and my lips parting slightly as he brandishes the wand in a smooth, fluid motion, bringing it tantalizingly nearer to me. It is getting harder to breath, like my lungs have detected the danger of the situation and rebelled against me. Everything is against me.

His hand suddenly darts out, closing over my left forearm and pinning it to the table, immobilizing it. His touch is like an icy fire, freezing the blood in my veins, emptying my nerves of all feeling. A chilling coldness flames through my body, making me gasp.

"Watch and learn." Lord Voldemort suddenly speaks directly to me, and I squint, trying to feign defiance, but it is no use. His voice is deathly quiet, but it echoes maddeningly inside my head. "You, the son of my betrayer, shall now learn that pain is a powerful assistant, but before it can be used as your weapon, you must first conquer it." His wand strays threateningly closer to my trembling arm, but does not make contact.

Suddenly, I understand why I am here.

"Kill one, and you are a murderer. Kill hundreds and you are a conqueror. Kill all and you are a God." His voice remained a pronounced whisper, as he spoke the sickest truth I have been told.

I abruptly turn to my father, my eyes wild with terror. The combined physical and emotional pain being poured onto me causes me to act on impulses that are of no use. "Father, please..." I begin to plead, but, as I silently knew he would, he quiets me with a reprimanding look, his steely eyes issuing a wordless warning, and returns his chin to its lofty position. I continue to stare at him, pleading mutely with my eyes, but he stiffly shakes his head at me, wearing an aggrieved but determined expression on his face. I dare to look back at Lord Voldemort, who has been watching me serenely, his wand poised above my arm, soaking up and relishing in my state of panic. His gaze is calmly calculating, as though evaluating if I am ready for what I am about to receive.

The truth is that I am not, and I know it. I can parade around, discharging childish curses and bragging about my father's powerful connections, but I know that I am not ready for this. I know that I cannot bear the burden of Lord Voldemort's demands, or the brunt of my father's expectations. I know that I cannot bear to be alone for the rest of my life, surrounded by an evil I blatantly refuse to accept.

"Father..." I try again, and my voice is pathetically desperate.

"Draco," he spits, barely containing his threatening urgency. My father's voice is murderously soft. His grip on my shoulder tightens meaningfully, and my shoulder seizes up to keep me from falling forward. Don't disappoint me now, Draco, his stern gaze orders me, and the words I had only begun to form immediately die on my lips.

"We will proceed," Lord Voldemort states decisively, seeming to pretend as though he hasn't heard my unheard protest. His fingers still rest press against my forearm, only now sending a dull, aching pulse up the length of my left arm, which is already almost completely paralyzed with fear. I slump back in defeat, but not surrender, my whole body shivering uncontrollably, my right hand clenching the handle of the chair so tightly that my fingernails dig ridges into the rough wood, as I anticipated the process becoming of me.

My left hand is forced to its side so that my pale inner forearm is exposed. Lord Voldemort raises his wand in a majestic gesture, and I brace myself for the most blistering torment that I can ever imagine, knowing that it will be the climax of my life; the point of no return.

"Engravio Gensen Morsmordre!" he utters forcefully, and bright red sparks flare from his wand like a shower of fireworks proclaiming the word of everything I can envision to be deadly. The tip of the wand starts to glow red-hot like a smoldering cinder. I feel the heat emanating from the wand, and I swallow hard, closing my eyes in painful surrender just before he presses the burning tip against my bare flesh.

The only thing I hear is the primal, anguished scream which tears it's self from my lips, against my will. All I can remember is the intense, blinding pain which racks through my whole body, penetrating my bones, and scorching any sane thought. I smell the sickening odor of burning skin, and realize that that had been the nauseating smell I had detected when I first entered the room. I jerk convulsively as the blazing sensation singes every nerve ending in my body, confining me to a small cage for Lord Voldemort to throw around at will. Without thinking, I press my hand hard against my forehead, as I force myself to ride out the dark crimson agony which seems to last for an eternity.

Eventually after a period that seemed too drawn-out to be humanly understood, he lifts his wand away. I instantaneously collapse backwards into the graciously cool chair, gasping breathlessly, choking back sobs that could surely get me killed. Expression of emotion is expression of weakness. But weak is the only word I choose to describe myself as. The extreme affliction gradually lessens. My eyes are still closed, and my face is streaked with hot tears I did not know had escaped, my voice hoarse from unheard screams. The memory still slices through my mind, and I take several moments to pull myself together. When I finally allow my eyelids to flutter open, it is the first thing I see.

There it is, red and clashing and vibrant against my pale skin. The Dark Mark.

I automatically flinch as Lord Voldemort grabs my arm once again. He inspects his work carefully, turning it over to look. The pain returns for a second, but it is dull in comparison to the last time. He appears pleased, the ghost of a thin sickly smile flitting across his expressionless features for merely a second. Then, without warning, he presses his thumb against the Mark.

My legs automatically jerk up towards me as the pain rips through me for the second time. The agony is equally intense, and I thrash about with abandon, vaguely aware of my father shouting, trying to hold me down. Voldemort appears amused, and pushes his hand harder and harder around my arm. The pain finally reaches a point that steps over the threshold of my endurance. The evil around me fades into a shifting blur, and I find myself plummeting into a vast chasm of darkness, shredding the pain, and letting go of everything.

.....

A strong headache pulls me awake as I slowly drift back into consciousness. I keep my eyes closed, knowing better now, and find sanctuary in the darkness that shields me from the rest of the world. I want to keep them closed forever, so that I never have to face what is ahead of me out there.

I hear my mother's voice hovering worriedly above me. "He's too young, Lucius," she says, tearfully. "He was too young to receive the Dark Mark."

"What else could we have done? We had no choice, Narcissa," my father's stiff voice replies. He sounds exhausted. Perhaps the Dark Lord had not approved of my actions. "We have to pledge our loyalty to the Dark Lord, and show him that we completely accept him as our Master once again. He does not forgive easily, and Draco is our only sacrifice we can give that will earn mercy.

The two voices gradually fade as my parents leave the room, and I hear the door gently close. I keep my eyes shut for a few moments more, before I warily open them and shift into a sitting position against a cold headboard.

I realize that I am in my own room now, far away from Lord Voldemort, but now, closer to him than I can imagine.

My eyes wander to my left arm, where the Mark has been freshly engraved. The skin is red and inflamed, but the bloody outline of the skull and the serpent is clearly ingrained. It stands stark against my ashen skin, harshly defined, bleeding my innocence, branding me as someone I never had chosen to become.

Tears that have steadily been forming behind my eyes for hours finally flow freely down my face, stinging mark as they fall onto my arm. I draw my knees up to my chest, all alone in my room, and I don't mind the look of childishness. I close my eyes, this time in surrender, and let the harsh realization slowly sink in.

I am by myself, but I am not my own any longer.

I am Draco Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater ever, bearer of the renewed Dark Mark.

And deep down inside, I feel no pride.

...............................................

A/N: So this is what happens when I'm either in a really bad mood, or I'm trying to be all descriptive, I can't remember which. Tell me what you think. I did use a quote (Kill one and you are a murderer...) that I found in "The Portable Curmudgeon" although I can't think of the name right now. Also: has this plot been over done? I would imagine that it would be a popular subject, although I've never actually read a story like this...