A soft glow of light flickered from the fireplace giving a feeling of false comfort to the formally cold room that waited in the silence of night. The room itself did little to help increase the effect of the firelight, having little of the warmth one would expect from a person's living space. Flames reflected off the stone walls, illuminating the embroidered tapestries decorating their surfaces, as the meticulously polished metal glinted coldly from the frames of pictures. The furniture was of the highest quality and each object and color blended together in a picture of absolute luxury. It was a room void of soft comfort, strict in its museum perfection.

Opposite the stone fireplace stood a four-poster bed, its ancient mahogany seeming to glow as the flames accented its rich color. A down spread of deepest green interwoven with silver Celtic snakes creased in rivulets inward to the form that lay in its folds. The spread, in disarray, was evidence to the restless sleep of its owner, his form plastered to the soft material giving no comfort. Cold sweat soaked his body, glistening on his face as he struggled against an unseen assailant.

It was the same. Always the same...

Glowing red eyes, cruel and mocking in the darkness of his mind. leered at him from the dense folds of a black robe. A shudder raked down his spine as the memory of cold, bony fingers griping and tightening against the pulse at his wrist and fear crashes over him, taking him under. Then the words, always the words; spoken in a raspy hiss that echoed through his head, followed by piercing laughter, hollow and empty.

"Morsmorde…"

Eyes flew open as the words clouded his thoughts and the phantom pain shot through his arm, burning below the surface, seeming to tear at his very soul. Throwing back the sheets he sat up violently, his legs dragging up as he wrapped his arms protectively around them. Lowering his head, he rested it on his knees as he fought to calm his rapid breathing.

'A dream…' he thought desperately, 'just a dream.'

Strands of pale hair wavered as he fought to even out his heartbeat.

'A dream… only a dream.'

Slowly his breathing became normal. His dreams had been haunting him for weeks, ever since he had come home from school to find his parents waiting with a surprise.

'A surprise!' his mouth snarled at the word. Surprise was a word to be used for joyful occasions; birthdays, Christmas, a new racing broom, not for what had happened to him. 'Surprise' was a term he would never associate with that day...

Brushing his hair from his face he lay back into his pillow. Raising his left arm he glanced at the faintly red flesh just below the inside of his elbow. Even in the dark he could make out the lines and shape that had been burned into his flesh; a skull and snake. Letting his arm drop unceremoniously back onto the bed he remembered the proud looks on his parents faces as he received his surprise, remembered every detail of the day he had lost his adolescence to the Dark Mark.



**************5th Year End of Term****************

Draco had alighted from the Hogwarts Express to be met by Peter. It wasn't too unusual, Peter had picked him up before then; however, the chauffer had directed him towards a wall rather than the usual barrier. His father had sent the coach instead of the car; it was enchanted, illegally, and thus quicker and more risky. It hadn't occurred to him to pay much mind to the change in transportation. He would be home sooner this way. The quicker the better, every mile between him and Potter was a relief and a blessing.

Sometime during the school year, somewhere inside him, something had changed and Draco did not like the result.

The abrupt halt of the coach disrupted Draco's thoughts, signaling his arrival home. Wrapping his cloak about him he stepped down from the carriage as Peter opened the door. As his feet met the gravel of the circular drive Draco felt the irritation fall from his shoulders, strengthened by the quiet confidence that came from having the foundation of generations beneath you. For the first time since he had left for Hogwarts Draco smiled; not sneered or smirked, but smiled, genuine and true. Looking around him, he let his gaze wander lovingly over his home. The gardens, trim and beautiful, his mother's work as much as the gardeners'. The dark forest that edged the grounds on three sides, forbidding and exotic. The house itself, tall, straight, proud and elaborate in its four stories and seemingly never ending history. Malfoy Manor was rumored to have been built from the ruins of Camelot. Draco liked to think that the rumor was true.

A flash of pale blue and silver caught the corner of his eye and he turned to look straight into the eyes of his mother. She was watching him with the tender and patient warmth that only a mother possessed. Whether his father cared for him or not had never really mattered, Draco knew she loved him enough for both. His smile had been on the verge of widening until something behind her pride caused his smile to falter and fade completely. Sadness. She had been on the verge of tears. He hadn't noticed, she had held herself so elegantly that he hadn't noticed the slight slip in her composure.

"Mother…"

The warmth and concern in her son's voice had almost broken her control. Almost.

"Draco," she smiled and Draco could tell that it cost her some effort.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

A single tear slipped over her cheek, but she wouldn't dare wipe it away. Knowing her pride Draco had reached up, taking her face in his hands, accidentally brushing the tear away as he kissed her in greeting. The effort was not wasted on Narcissa and she smiled easier, "Welcome home."

He had already been going over the situation; the change of transportation, Peter instead of his mother, his mother greeting him at the door, her attitude. Something was going on. Quirking an eyebrow he questioned her with his eyes, afraid of upsetting her further.

Understanding, she slipped her arm through Draco's as they entered the manor. "You're father has a surprise for you." Her voice was stretched, "We will be having company this evening. You are expected in the Dinning Room in two hours." She paused, "It's formal." The last had been spoken almost harshly and Draco began to understand. Voldemort.

Four hours later, Draco stood in the center of a circle of Death Eaters, his hand held possessively by Pansy Parkinson, she and her father had been invited to witness Draco's initiation. The dinner had been a formality to discuss their engagement and begin planning the wedding that would take place when Draco turned seventeen next June. Pansy had practically radiated pride and joy; she had a fiancée and the reputation of being the first female Death Eater. Even Narcissa hadn't been admitted into Voldemort's inner circle. Draco had simply stood there, cold and numb with everything that was happening.

When Voldemort had entered the circle, walking toward them, Pansy had stood her ground and Draco had had no choice but to grudgingly admire her courage, especially when many of the elder Death Eaters had shrunk away. Voldemort had smiled in cruel pleasure at the couple that was to join him and, calling for silence, took Draco's left arm in his hand, pointing his wand to the flesh just below the elbow.

Pain, white hot and searing, shot through him. Tearing. Burning. Rending. Closing his eyes he watched the color bloom under his eyelids. Focusing on it, red transformed to vivid purple, purple to blue, and blue to pitch black. He could feel the lines etching themselves on his arm, cutting their paths in a mixture of fire and steal. He was sure that his flesh was parting it its wake and that blood would soon flow in rivulets over his arm, but time passed and the only blood he could feel was dripping from his lips. Then the pain was fading, the black beneath his eyes fluctuated to a brilliant green, and he was aware of his teeth cutting into his bottom lip.

Opening his eyes he met Pansy's. Hers were wide as she looked at him; fear and admiration reflected in her eyes. Looking down at his arm, he watched as it pulsed brilliant blue before fading into the familiar black form that he had seen on his father's arm. Voldemort's hand was still locked around his wrist tighter than he had thought the frail looking fingers appeared capable of and he looked up to find Voldemort watching him with unbelieving eyes. Uncertain, Draco turned to his father. Pale and shaken, Lucius' eyes had been locked on Draco's arm.

Voldemort's grip loosened from Draco's wrist and Draco to the opportunity to wipe the blood from his face with the back of his arm, his other hand was still lock in Pansy's and her grip was as tight as Voldemort's had been.

"So..." Voldemort rasping voice pierced the air and Draco looked up, "Draco. Dragon. Ironic that it would be a boy so young with a name to match." There had been envy and cunning in Voldemort's words.

***********End************



Draco hadn't understood then what Voldemort's words had meant, nor why when Pansy's own arm had been marked hers hadn't pulsed blue as his had. He understood now. Understood better than either Voldemort or his father knew.

Turning to the wall he closed his eyes, willing away the memories and the pain.

Willing away everything...

Finally sleep answered him and as he lost consciousness he dreamed of school, of darkened hallways, of quidditch, and finally of things that would be left unremembered in the daylight hours. His mind brought him fantasies of emerald eyes, stolen kisses, and warm embraces. Sometime in the night he whispered the name of his dream lover who kept even the darkest of memories at bay.

"Harry Potter..."