Panting softly from his run, Draco stepped behind a tree to catch his breath.
Above him, in harsh, bright green hung the Dark Mark, announcing the murder and carnage to the whole region.
Above him, in crisp, pure white hung the moon, illuminating the region, leaving him open to attack.
The Dark Mark; the Light.
The forest, the in-betweens.
Soon - he won't be able to shy from commitment; soon there will be only one side of the fence.
Deep down, he knows that what he really wants is to have his arm remain the pale, pale white of moonlight, unblemished.
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