Continuing the saga (well, maybe not a saga…). Thanks for the reviews, everyone…you have such nice things to say, all the time. It's a little disconcerting, actually. Not that I want you to start sending flames; that's not what I'm saying at all.

I own nothing but the plot, and although it would be nice, no one is paying me for this.

Sometime in the middle of the night Draco had passed from unconsciousness into true sleep. He had been moved to number 12 Grimmauld Place, since it was the only safe place they knew of. Kingsley and some others had argued that he was a Death Eater and would jeopardize the Order; after all, he did have the Mark. However, McGonagall had insisted that Draco wasn't a threat in his current condition, and since he had been tortured he probably wasn't entirely faithful to Voldemort, and instead could possibly be an asset. The others were skeptical, but McGonagall's logic couldn't be refuted, so he was shaken lightly until he woke up a little so the address could be whispered to him, and he was let inside.

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He woke suddenly, jerked from a dreamless sleep to an uncertain wakefulness. He opened his eyes carefully, peeking through slits at the woman crouched next to him. Was this another part of Bellatrix's game, or was he somewhere safe? He opened his eyes wider when it seemed that the woman meant no harm, revealing bloodshot grey eyes. He cleared his throat. "And what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" He asked hoarsely, the calmness of his words in conflict with the wariness of his mind. He had no idea where he was, or who the woman peering at him concernedly was. She was wearing the robes of a healer. So that took care of one question. He tried to sit up, but was pushed back down by the woman. "Oh no you don't," she said briskly.

"And why not?" He asked, forcing a sneer. Memories of the last thing his conscious mind was aware of swirled in his head, causing him to reflexedly try to suppress them. Now was not the time for weakness.

"Because you were on the receiving end of an Unforgiveable curse applied multiple times not twelve hours ago. You are in no condition to be up and about this soon."

He snorted. "I am fine. I appreciate your concern, truly I do," his voice dripped with false sincerity, "but it is misplaced."

"Then, for your own good, I am forced to sedate you. Drink this." She handed him a cup filled with a foul smelling potion.

"I most certainly will not," he sneered.

"You have two options. You either drink this potion or I will force you to." She waved her wand threateningly.

Draco sighed. "Fine." He grabbed the cup and downed it in one gulp, grimacing. "Happy?"

Opal rolled her eyes. After a few minutes Draco began to yawn, and soon was asleep.

This time he dreamed.

He dreamed of horrible things, of menacing figures in dark cloaks and of pain. He dreamed of dungeons and snakes and evil laughter, of promises made and broken, and of a man with slitted eyes and a high pitched voice. He woke in a cold sweat, with a scream in his throat. He sat up and hissed as a lancing pain shot through his arm. I have need of you, my subject. You have a debt yet to be paid, an obligation to fulfill. You owe me, Malfoy, for your betrayal.

"Shut up," he muttered. "Just leave me alone." He knew the Dark Lord couldn't hear him, and was grateful of that fact.

"Are you talking to yourself?" asked a voice. He looked up, and was annoyed to find the youngest Weasley looking at him, her mouth twisted into an amused smirk.

"No," he said shortly, hiding his arm under the blankets. Maybe if she didn't see the mark she would leave him alone…

He was too slow. She caught his movement, and approached the bed, reaching out towards the bed as if to pull the blanket down to see his arm. He grabbed her wrist with the other arm, glaring at her. "Don't."

"And why not? You're not trying to hide something from me, are you?"

He snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Weasley."

She raised an eyebrow. "Fine." She moved as if to turn, then reached towards the blankets again, moving them aside before Draco could stop her. And there his brand was, displayed for all the world to see. She gasped, surprised, and he moved his arm, hiding the image of a skull and a snake intertwined.

It wasn't shame that made him hide it. It couldn't be; that was another trait that had been bred out of the Malfoy line years ago. She had surprised him, was all. Plus, she had been beginning to stare at it. It wouldn't do for him to be proud of it when he was surrounded by Dumbledore's supporters, not unless he was suicidal.

"Is that…?"

"Keep your bloody voice down," he hissed. "You know very well what it is." He rubbed it absentmindedly, trying to soothe the dull ache.

"Does it hurt?" She asked concernedly.

Draco was chagrined. After the way he had treated her and her entire family for the past six years, she still managed to find some empathy for him. He was the enemy, even, and despite that she still was concerned. Despite his introspection, he fell back on old habits and gave her a trademark sneer, without thought. "What do you think?"

"I was only trying to help. Honestly, Malfoy; what gives you the right to be such a bloody twit?"

All the color drained from Draco's face. "Don't – don't call me that."

"What? A bloody twit? That's what you're acting like."

"Oh, piss off, Weasley."

Ginny sighed. What was she thinking, being nice to Draco? Did she really think he would at least be civil? She shook her head, ignoring his comment. "Fine, then." She turned on her heel and left the room, leaving Draco with the memories she had evoked with two simple words.

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" 'Bloody twit.' Am not," he muttered defensively. "What does she know? Nothing. She's just a Weasely. Muggle-lovers, the lot of them." The memories were coming thick and fast now, regardless of his efforts to suppress them, threatening to overwhelm him with their clarity. Bellatrix blasting the door to splinters, Kingston shoving him roughly against a wall, the trip to the Dark Lord's lair, all of it raging through his mind like a 10-ton dragon. And they continued to come, despite his attempts to hold onto his annoyance at Ginny, ripping away his carefully constructed mask. He heard his sentencing, felt the curse running through his veins, causing a pain that was inescapable no matter how much he tried. He heard Bellatrix's laughter, joyous and manic and terrifying. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the images, but they would not be shaken loose. Tears fell down his cheeks, which he quickly tried to wipe away, but as the Dark Lord called to him again, they were forgotten. Come, my servant. Stop this cowardly hiding. If you believe yourself to be loyal, prove yourself and return to my side.

"Stop it. Just stop it," he said, directing his plea to no one in particular. He rubbed the dark mark on his arm furiously, trying to stop the lancing pain that signaled a call from the Dark Lord. It didn't help, but then again he hadn't expected it to.

He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was afraid to answer. He knew the Dark Lord was likely still furious that he had failed to carry out his mission, and the fact that Draco was now hiding from Him was likely not making the fury any less. He knew he should return, whether or not a punishment was waiting for him there. The Dark Lord was his master, the mark proved it, and Draco belonged at His side. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not that he would be allowed to leave the house; wherever he was now, the Aurors would never let him leave, as they would suspect his reason for doing so.

That is a pathetic excuse. Honestly, I would expect something better from you, Draco. You are a Death Eater, one of the Dark Lord's own. If you really wanted to return to Him, you would find a way. Your loyalties are not shifting, are they…? His father's voice entered his thoughts. Draco snorted. Of course his loyalties weren't shifting; that was ridiculous. He was just being rational, like he had been taught.

He stared at the mark on his arm, remembering the night he had received it. He had been so happy, proud that he had been selected to join the ranks of the Dark Lord's most trusted followers. And now it was the source of so many different emotions, fear and pride and disgust. Pride was most easily understood; it was an honor, not a right, to be chosen and marked by the Dark Lord, and he had certainly earned it. Fear, although distasteful, was easily understood as well; he had displeased his master, and would have to pay the price eventually for it. He did not take disobedience lightly, nor did He look favorably on those who sought to hide from Him. Disgust was the most surprising to Draco; how could he be disgusted over something that he had been waiting for his entire life? But it was there nonetheless, whether or not he could identify why he felt it.

So, what do you think so far? Am I characterizing Draco right? As I've said, I've only come to appreciate him recently, so I didn't pay much attention to him when I read the books/watched the movies other than to get annoyed at him for whatever horrible thing he had done or to laugh at him when someone got back at him. I really need to do those things and pay closer attention. Oh well.