Almost eleven years later, that small blond boy, now a fully grown young man, was sitting on a train, his clothes muddied and torn, and his face covered in blood, though most of it was not his own. To the people surrounding him, his appearance was frightening enough that they were leaving him alone, and the mothers were holding their children firmly by the hand so they didn't interact with someone of the 'wrong sort.'

Glumly to himself, Draco thought that he most definitely was of the wrong sort, and that they were right to stay away from him. After all, he was the son of a major member of the most powerful- and feared- crime cult in London. The Death Eaters, people called them, due to their high number of victims. Surely, said the general population, the only reason they killed so many was because they fed on the death. Honestly, Draco wished that were the case. If that were so, it would give them at least a shadow of an excuse for the senseless murder.

He winced as the memories began to force themselves to the surface reminding him of how he'd ended up on a train headed for Scotland, on the run, covered in blood and dirt.

It was the day before his eighteenth birthday, and Draco was sitting in the kitchen , eating the breakfast the maid had cooked him. Normally he would have enjoyed it, but today the meal tasted like chalk in his mouth. Today was the last day of 'freedom' he had left before he gave himself up to the life that their 'Lord' Tom Riddle demanded of them.

"Draco, come. We must find you some robes to wear to the ceremony tonight." Said his father from the doorway. He was wearing his usual crisp grey suit, his long blond hair contrasting nicely. In his right hand he held a walking stick with a silver snake's head 0n the top. He'd been injured during one of his 'missions' when Draco was ten. Lucius had had a limp ever since, though it was less obvious after years of getting used to it.

Draco frowned as he stood. "Robes? This isn't the medieval times, Father. I fail to see why I cannot simply wear a suit."

Lucius' s lips pursed in displeasure. He waited for his son to reach him before starting down the hallway at a rapid pace. "You know better than to talk back, Draco. While I may not punish you for such an infraction of obedience, my Lord Riddle will not take to it so kindly."

Draco winced, and said no more as they marched through the maze of halls that was Malfoy Manor.

After that fateful night eleven years ago, when the small, cheerful boy who lit up the room when he entered vanished forever, a new, colder Draco was born. This one was very much like his father. He did not smile. He showed no emotion. And most importantly, he did not obey. After meeting Lord Riddle in the dining hall, Draco Malfoy realized that any thoughts of rebellion were quite useless. After all, he'd promised Riddle that he'd do what he was told, and Malfoys do not break their promises easily.

His mother, Narcissa, was shocked to wake up the next morning and see the light gone from her son's eyes. At first, she tried to get it back, but after he curtly told her one morning at the age of nine that he had decided to throw out all his toys (they weren't practical), Narcissa Malfoy gave up. She resigned herself to the fact that her son had fallen to the strange power of the man who was sometimes reverently called the Dark Lord, just as her husband had all those years ago.

Draco stared at the robes he wore around him, feeling slightly uncomfortable with their looseness. Once he'd turned ten, he'd worn nothing but neat, expensive suits— wearing anything else felt foreign and strange.

"At the ceremony tonight, you must keep calm." His father was saying. "You will be nervous, and probably scared, but I trust you can do it if you put your mind to it. Remember, I was able to, and I, as my Lord often reminds me, am a coward."

Something about the way his father was phrasing his sentences didn't sit quite right with Draco. "I thought it was just me giving an oath and being given the Final Mark. Why should I be frightened of that?"

Slowly, Lucius's face drained of a little color.

The Mark.

Its official name was the Dark Mark, but rarely was it called by its full title. It was the image of a skull with a snake exiting the mouth, tying itself in knots. Not long after that fateful night where everything changed, the Malfoys had recieved orders that Draco was going to recieve the first of the three traditional Marks, the one over his heart. To 'remind him of his commitment,' the message said in neat lettering. The next day, the official tattooer of the Followers (what they prefered to call themselves rather than 'Death Eaters'), a short man with watery eyes called Wormtail by everyone, arrived at their house.

Wormtail was despised by all of the Followers- rumor had it that he'd been a double agent for a time, before making a mistake that had almost cost Riddle his life. Some wondered if that 'mistake' had been on purpose. Personally, Draco doubted it. He seemed to be the disgustingly loyal type, not one to wriggle away from someone, but wriggle closer and closer until they choked you. Either way, as a punishment Lord Riddle decreed that Wormtail would now only administer the tattoos to new recruits.

Each recruit would get three Marks. The first, placed over the heart and called the Heart Mark, was signifying that your allegiance was now eternally to the Dark Lord, and no one else. It was given the day you swore to serve Riddle. The second, placed on the back of the neck and named the Speech Mark, signified that your every thought and spoken word belonged to Riddle. It was given after a month of training. The third, known as the Final Mark, took up almost the entire left forearm. Instead of a tattoo, it was branded into your flesh, marking you forever. It showed that every part of you- your body (the third Mark) your mind (the second) and your soul (the first) belong to Tom Riddle forever.

Draco got the Heart Mark at the age of seven, making him officially the youngest of the Followers. From that point on, his childhood was over. The next eleven years were spent turning him into the perfect Follower of Lord Riddle. When he turned thirteen, he recieved the Speech Mark. Then, there came years of mental training and conditioning, during which he learned how to think and speak, and eventually the mask he'd used as a small child became the only thing he knew.

But on his eighteenth birthday, when he was to get the Final Mark, something seemed to break in him.

Lucius licked his lips. "Draco… there is something about the ceremony that I have not told you. My Lord will likely punish me for it, but I am weak, and could not seem to tell you."

"What are you talking about?" Draco said, an actual emotion- confusion- leaking into his words. "What haven't you told me?"

His father hesitated, looking for an instant like he was genuinely afraid, before his mask became colder than ever. "After the Final Mark is placed on you arm, the Dark Lord will require you to prove your allegiance by removing another piece of scum from the world."

Draco blinked in astonishment. "You… you're telling me that I'm going to have to kill a Mudblood?"

Lucius coughed. "Yes."

Mudblood.

It was the name they'd given all those deemed less than 'pure,' those of different races. Draco didn't like the name very much, deep down, but he knew nothing else to call them. They had always been Mudbloods, and who was he to hate the name they'd been given?

"Oh." Draco said, and though a tiny voice in his head was screaming at him that this was wrong, the rest of him was excited by the prospect. "Why would you be scared to tell me something like that? I've been waiting to make my first kill for my Lord for years now."

The muscles in his father's face visibly relaxed. "I am relieved. Lord Riddle will be pleased indeed to have you in service."

Draco smirked. "Not as pleased as I will be to be in his service in the first place." But deep down, the tiny voice continued to scream, and as soon as Lucius turned away, the smirk faltered.

To Draco, his body was constantly at war. Most of him, the part that was obedient to the wishes of his Lord, loved the name. That part loved the idea of removing the scum from the earth, and was perfectly happy to never have an original thought in his life. Most of the time, this part of him was at the surface, and was much more powerful, strangling the life out of the weaker, rebellious side. But deep in his soul, the thought that everyone was the same, really, that killing was wrong no matter who it was, that individuality and freedom were good things, continued to live, if not thrive, and hold out against the wave of darkness.

Deep down, Draco knew that if he'd let himself kill that poor woman at the ceremony, that tiny light would have been extinguished, and he'd have lost himself completely. He was therefore incredibly grateful that he'd been able to see reason before it was too late.

At the ceremony, Draco was placed in the center of a circle, Followers on all sides. He wore long black robes with silver trim, and the dim lighting of the ancient stone room made his face and hair have an almost unearthly glow. On his face was an elaborate makeup set up that made his face appear to be a skull. It was itchy and hot, and he wished he didn't have to wear it.

Oddly, Lord Riddle was not attending the ceremony. He had 'other things to do,' according to his right-hand-man, a tall fellow with greasy black hair named Severus Snape. Draco didn't question it. He didn't want to see Riddle again if he could help it.

After that night, Draco had never seen Tom Riddle again in person, although there was the occasional message transcribed by Snape and sent via messenger, usually some lower-level bloke like Yaxley or Dolohov.

They were almost always the same; a list of things that Lucius should teach Draco over the next year, and then a reminder to the boy himself that he, Riddle, was his master now.

Draco never liked the messages.

After he was surrounded on all sides, Severus Snape stepped forward. By his side was his aunt, Bellatriz Lestrange. It was common knowledge that she was madly in love with Lord Riddle, and that he favored her. That fact, along with the knowledge that she was also completely insane, made everyone leave her alone if they could help it. "Draco Lucius Malfoy." Said Snape in a voice that clearly announced his inner sneer. "Step forward."

Draco did, his face blank and his eyes darker than usual.

"You have been pledged to our Lord Riddle since you were a boy, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And now that you are coming of age, you are ready to give yourself fully into his service?"

"Yes, sir."

Snape nodded in approval. "Wormtail. Bring the iron."

Wormtail muttered praises up to Snape, grovelling, before scuttling over to the fire, where a branding iron in the shape of the Dark Mark was red hot from the flames. He picked it up and brought it over, a slight manic glint in his eye.

"Present your arm." Snape sneered.

As though it could sense the memory, Draco's left forearm stabbed with pain. Looking around the train, making sure that no one was currently watching him, he turned to the window and gently pushed up his left shirtsleeve.

The Final Mark glared up at him, raw and angry, not quite turned black yet. He pushed down his sleeve unhappily, and then made sure that the collared shirt he was currently wearing covered the Speech Mark on his neck. Thankfully the shirt he'd worn under the robes at the ceremony had a high enough collar.

He'd willingly accepted the Final Mark, and he hadn't even screamed- raising the tolerance to pain was one of the things he'd worked on- but the moment he'd seen her, innocent, just wanting to go home to her family, he'd felt his good side surge up within him, and he just couldn't do it.

The pain was agonizing, blinding, but he did not scream. He'd been tought never to scream. After the scent of burning flesh began to cease, he straightened and let the sleeve of his robes (and his shirt he was wearing underneath) fall down onto the Mark. It stung where it touched the raw burn, but he didn't let himself flinch.

"And now, to complete the ceremony, the blood of a Mudblood will be spilled. You will come to find, Draco, that despite the name, their blood is red, not brown." Snape said, the same smirk he almost always wore still plastered to his face.

A woman was dragged forward, kicking and screaming. She was in her early thirties, and appeared to be of Indian descent. She was quite beautiful, with her large dark eyes and smooth skin. "No!" She cried. "No, no, please, I have a family, I have children, don't kill me! I'll give you money, whatever you want, just please don't kill me!"

Draco was given a knife. A knife. Not a gun, with which he could shoot her in a place where she might live and blame it on bad aim (despite the fact he was the best shot in all the Followers, except for his Aunt Bellatrix). No, a knife, which made it personal, which meant he would have to slit her throat and watch her blood pool.

And the thought of killing this woman, who just wanted to get back to her children, sickened Draco. And the fact that it sickened him made him more scared than he'd ever been before in his life.

Honestly, Draco wished he'd just dropped the knife and sprinted out of the circle.

He wished that he hadn't stood there, staring at her.

He wished that his father hadn't come up to try and convince him to do it already, to just get on with it so they could go to bed, like he was completing a homework assignment.

He wished that he hadn't been so afraid that the only thing he could think of to do was to stab his own father.

He wasn't sure how long he hesitated before Lucius came up to him, looking more nervous that he'd ever seen him before. He licked his lips and leaned in close, whispering right into his son's ear.

"Draco, listen to me, it's just a Mudblood. Just cut her throat, and it'll be very quick. Then we can go home and make you a cup of tea and enjoy the rest of your birthday. Okay? We can rest for a while and forget this mess, so just kill her."

For some reason, his body decided to move. One moment he was listening to his father, and the next he was spinning around and plunging the knife deep into his father's stomach. Lucius Malfoy coughed, and Draco realized that there was blood on his lips. Then the man sank to the floor, a stunned and betrayed expression on his face.

There was silence for a long moment. Then his Aunt Bellatrix let out a screech of rage, and raised a gun. Draco knew in that instant that he had to get out of this place, and never come back. He dodged the bullet, though he didn't know how, and grabbed the knife from his father's fallen body, and prepared to fight his way out.

And he had. He honestly wasn't sure how long it took, nor how many Followers he'd injured. He didn't even know if his father had lived or died. All he knew was that at some point they let him run, and he ran all the way across the city until he found a train station. Once there, he booked a ticket for the farthest place from London he could find using his credit card his family had given him, thrown away the black robes, and climbed onto the train.

It had been hours since the ceremony ended in disaster, and Draco still couldn't quite believe what had happened. So many things could have changed the outcome of events. Had his father not come up, he probably would have either killed her or run. Had his mother come up, would he have stabbed her? If he hadn't hesitated, would that have spelled the death of his conscience? And most importantly, if the only thing different had been the presence of Tom Riddle, would the outcome have changed?

Yes, he knew. If his Lord had been there, that woman would have been bleeding out on the stone the moment the knife was set in his hand. That woman, the Mudblood, would have been the one he murdered, instead of his own father…

Draco didn't think. He couldn't. He simply lashed out, cutting whoever was in reach, and trying not to wince every time a blow of someone else's landed. At some point, though, he was right by the door. He looked back for a moment, and saw that they were letting him go, almost as though they'd been ordered to, and then he just ran.

He ran and ran and ran, tripping over his feet, wiping the skull makeup off his face (it was ruined from all the blood, anyway), falling into the mud whenever he decided he wasn't going fast enough. Through the busy city streets he ran, ignoring the strange looks, ignoring the shouts of anger every time he bumped into someone, simply focusing on the all-comsuming need to get out of London, to get away, to go as far from this place as he could possibly go.

Draco felt dizzy, and a little sick, the memories and the Mark and the knife wounds combining into one migraine of enormous proportions. He rubbed the Heart Mark unconsciously, wishing it would be gone forever. He wished that he could become that happy, innocent boy again, the one that laughed and smiled and lit up the world.

He'd become a monster over the years, and it made him sick.

If magic were real, or time travel, then he'd go back in time and change everything. He'd find a way to save his childhood. He'd find a route through his life where he didn't hurt or kill his father. He'd find the place where they could be a happy, normal family, instead of one involved in this deadly game.

When he reached the train station, he stumbled up to the counter, where a middle aged woman was staring at him with a truly horrified expression. He realized he was covered in blood, and figured she probably thought he'd killed someone. Vaguely, he realized that he might have. He hoped she wouldn't call the police.

"I need to get as far away from London as I can." He said, trying to sound as though he wasn't running away from something.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Why? You didn't kill someone, did you?"

"No." Draco lied. "My father owed this man some money, and he came and… and killed him, right in front of me. This isn't my blood. I need to get out before he kills me, too." He did his best to convey the emotions he imagined such a boy would be feeling. Fear, confusion, desperation— of course, he really was feeling these emotions currently, which made the whole thing easier.

Even as he watched, the suspicion in her eyes melted away. "Of course, you poor thing. Let me see… the best thing I can see would be Hogsmeade. It's up in Scotland. There's a private university there, Hogwarts. My son Dean goes there, it's very nice."

Draco felt his face slide in relief. "That sounds great. Thank you. I, uh- I have my credit card, I think—" he did, he never left the manor without his wallet on him, and being fairly rich he was never hurting for money.

The woman shook her head firmly. "Oh, no, dear. I could never do that. I'll buy it myself. And I'll get you first class, too— no, don't tell me otherwise. You've gotten a terrible shock, and I won't leave you without something."

Feeling a tad guilty about his lies, Draco thanked her and ran to catch his train. He had enough time to throw out his robes, and then got on, wishing he'd thought to clean some of the blood off his face before climbing on board.

He hoped that whatever Hogsmeade- and perhaps Hogwarts- had in store for him, no one would be able to find him. If Riddle and the Followers found him, they'd kill him in a heartbeat. He'd been told hundreds of times that there was no use for betrayers in the Followers.

One thing was for sure- he couldn't stay Draco Malfoy while he was there. The Malfoy name was becoming more and more famous, and while he doubted that northern Scotland had heard of the Death Eaters yet, he couldn't take the chance.

Draco thought about what to do. His mother's maiden name, Black, would do for a last name. The Black family, though famous in the past, had fallen out of the limelight not long after his father's marraige to his mother. It would be safe to use the name there. As for the rest of his name, he couldn't use Draco for his first name. He couldn't risk word getting out that Draco Malfoy was wanted for murder. Draco wasn't a very common name, after all.

He thought maybe Hyperion. His mother had said once that if she'd had another son, he would have wanted to call him Hyperion. Well, he felt that this was his chance to become the son she'd always wanted but never gotten.

Hyperion Draco Black.

A new name for a new life.

Hey, guys, Author here!

So here's Mafiafoy chapter one! I'm really excited for this story (my first full length HP fic EVER), and I hope I do well with it.

Since I thankfully get to keep my computer over the summer, there should still be some updates, but I WILL be gone from June 23rd to like July 22nd. With no computer OR Internet, or even a phone. Sorry, but nothing I can do.

But I'll be here all of August and early June, so hopefully I'll keep writing then.

Sorry for the long and boring author's note...

Please comment and let me know what you think about my story, now that the plot is becoming more clear.

Love,

Trellya

(for those who don't know, that's not my real name)