The world beyond the windowpane felt like a pitiless hallucination. A foreign realm to him, despite living in the manor for his entire life, it felt too lucid to be real. The summer sun hung high, its light sprawled across the Malfoy estate's rolling hills and trickled in through the gaps in the silken curtains, painting soft patterns on the floor. The air was warm, the day bright just as any other summer day, yet still, the deep unexplainable cold was felt in his bones as if hundreds of miniature needles were poking at his ribs and torso.
A loud crack made Draco sit up in his bed and reach for his hawthorn wand.
"Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord, but the Duchess requests your presence in the morning room." squeaked a voice from behind the drapes of his bed canopy.
"Can't you tell her to bugger off?" Draco groaned in response, "I'm barely even awake."
"I'm afraid the Duchess was quite insistent, my lord." replied the voice.
"Alright Weeney, alright, I'll be there in a minute."
"I'll inform the Duchess, young master Malfoy." Weeney squeaked, before disappearing with a crack.
Draco hauled himself from the warmth of the bed, his body recoiling as the rays of morning light slashed across his pale, exposed skin. With quick strides, he crossed the room to the walk-in closet, his fingers grazing the polished wooden hangers. He surveyed the rows of neatly arranged garments with a momentary pause. After a brief contemplation, he selected a crisp white Oxford shirt with a stiff collar, paired with sharply pressed black dress trousers, and polished black leather Oxfords.
"Mother." Draco curtly greeted his mother while slowly walking into the morning room, "Is there any particular reason you decided to wake me up at such a ghastly time?" He huffed.
"Draco, dear, please sit down." She softly replied, "We need to talk."
"I'm sure you are, by now, quite well aware of the… company," Narcissa faltered, her voice holding a thread of tension, "that has graced the manor as of late." She hesitated once more, her words slipping from her mouth like silk before she continued. "And, given the… circumstances surrounding your father's unfortunate involvement in the events at the department of mysteries, the Dark Lord has come to a decision."
Draco exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding, his hands going white as they gripped the sides of the bergère.
"He has decided you are to take the mark and complete a mission for him." Narcissa choked out, tears threatening to stream from her eyes.
Draco jumped out of his seat, his grey eyes going wide in shock, "No!" his voice thundered, "I won't do it, I won't be like Father!" He spat the word out as if it was a poison on his tongue.
"Sit down, Draco!" Narcissa hissed, her voice piercing the air. "You are perfectly aware of what Bella is capable of, and there is no telling what will unfold should she learn of your... feelings on the matter."
Draco, sank back into the bergère, his head falling into his palms with a muffled smack as he tried to even his breathing out.
"You will take the mark," Narcissa's voice softened, turning almost tender. "I won't let you come to harm, my love. Never."
Draco rose in a deliberate movement and gave a nod to Narcissa. "Mother," he murmured with a quiet resignation. He turned sharply, striding from the room with swift, decisive steps. The sound of his shoes echoed through the hall, each step a reminder of the weight ploughing down on him. As he made his way back to his suite, a sense of detachment took hold of him—his mind whirling in a haze of worries, thoughts, and questions, his vision blurring at the edges as a cold sweat trickled down his spine.
A shrill voice shattered the fog, pulling him from his trance. "Drakey!" He turned, his expression cool as he acknowledged the unwelcome presence before him. "Bella, " he said with a forced politeness, "how may I help you?"
Bellatrix's lips curled into a grin, her teeth flashing in a smile that bordered on madness. "I simply wished to congratulate you," she purred. "I do hope you are eager for tonight. It is an honour, you know, to correct your father's mistakes. And it is not every day that someone has the chance to serve the dark lord in such extraordinary ways."
Draco's face froze, as though a mask had been placed over it, an expression of perfect stillness as countless questions raced through his mind, serve the dark lord how? What did she mean by 'extraordinary?'. Bellatrix's eyes roamed over him, examining him with intensity, as if measuring every twitch, every thought.
"Why, thank you," he replied, his voice cold, almost bored. Without another word, he spun on his heel and marched towards his suite.
As evening fell, Weeney reappeared in Draco's suite with a sharp crack, the sound piercing the sombre silence.
"Young master, Their Graces await you in the state dining room. All the guests will be dining there tonight."
Draco drew in a slow breath, steadying the shaking in his voice before replying, "Thank you, Weeney. You may go."
The elf disappeared as swiftly as she had come, leaving Draco alone in the dim silence of his chamber. He sank onto the edge of his mattress with his hands clasped and body tense. It had to be tonight. There was no more room for hesitation, or the mark would reject him. He couldn't allow it, not for himself, not for his mother.
And after? What then?
Would they expect him to prove himself worthy of the mark? Surely, they wouldn't pull him from Hogwarts—would they? His mind flickered to Theo, Pansy, and Blaise. What would he tell them? He trusted his skill in deception, but for how long could he conceal something so monstrous? Something that would brand him, forever, as one of them?
Draco rose to his feet, fastening a black tie around his collar, deft fingers pulling it into a precise knot. His own reflection stared back at him from the mirror—those cold, emotionless, grey eyes, so much like his father's. They bored into him as if searching for something deeper, aiming to tear his soul apart.
Tonight, he would cross the point of no return. His fate would be sealed at last.
But he must.
As he took his seat at the grand dining table, a delicate but steady hand found his beneath the linen-draped surface. His mother's. A silent connection to the world he once knew, a world without him. He inhaled slowly, his eyes roaming about the table, his expression poised. The faces surrounding him—smirking, sneering, sycophantic—filled him with disgust. His eyes moved past them until they found Lucius, slouched and withdrawn. Once proud, once commanding, a figure he looked up to, his father was now a shell of the man he had been—gaunt, skittish, unkempt. Draco studied him with cold detachment before turning, instead, to Narcissa.
A hush fell upon the room as the chime of silver against crystal rang through the air.
"I should like to extend my welcome to you all," came a voice— his voice. Soft, yet carrying an inhumane coldness. "Tonight is an occasion of great significance, for we are to be joined by a new member among us."
A slow shifting of gazes. All eyes, now, upon Draco. He did not look away. His stare remained fixed, unwavering, upon the Dark Lord himself.
Voldemort studied him with amusement before his lips curled into something resembling a smile.
"At last," he murmured, his voice silk-smooth and laced with venom, "a means to account for the... regrettable failures of your father."
Lucius flinched, his very presence lowering as if he could will himself into nothingness.
"But first," Voldemort continued, a ghost of laughter in his tone, "we shall dine."
Draco did not eat. His fork traced idle patterns across his plate, the food left untouched, he was a mere prop in the charade he performed—feigning interest in the hum of conversation, nodding absently at murmured remarks. The minutes crawled until, at last, Voldemort rose.
"And now, for the main event," he drawled, his voice a slow, deliberate coil of sound. He surveyed the table, amusement glinting in those pale, inhuman eyes. "Gather in the main hall. A quarter of an hour from now."
Draco pushed back his chair, rising swiftly. The moment the eyes of the room were no longer on him, he strode out, measured steps quickly unravelling into something more urgent. Panic clawed at his throat, each breath tighter than the last. He turned down one corridor, then another, the walls pressing in, the shadows lengthening.
At last, a desolate corridor. Empty. Silent.
He glanced around before pressing his back against the cold stone, then slid down, sinking into a crouch upon the polished floor. He lifted his hands before him—long fingers trembling despite his attempts to calm himself, the white-gold glint of his signet ring catching in the dim light. The Malfoy crest, unchanging.
He had no choice. He had never had a choice.
For his mother.
For the Malfoy name.
Draco stepped into the main hall, a sea of familiar faces greeted him, each one steeped in shadow, cruelty, in inevitability. Severus, impassive. Bellatrix, alight with manic glee. Greyback, leering. Dolohov, watching with quiet malice. His father, gaunt and hollow-eyed.
And then his mother, her expression a stark contrast to the others. Wide-eyed. Silent. Terrified.
But at last, his face. Pale, snake-like, twisted into something that might have been enjoyment or happiness, had it belonged to anyone else.
"Come, Draco," Voldemort whispered, the words slithering through the air. "Kneel."
Draco obeyed, sinking to the floor before him, the cold stone biting against his knees.
"Tell me," the Dark Lord mused, his head tilting as he observed him like one might admire an animal at a muggle zoo. "Are you proud? Excited?"
Draco's lips parted before he had even registered the words leaving them.
"Yes, my Lord."
Automatic. Empty. A response drilled into him by fear.
"Look at me."
The words shot through the air, cold and commanding.
Draco obeyed, lifting his gaze, grey meeting black. For the briefest moment, there was silence, then, a whisper.
"Legilimens."
His skull fractured with pain.
Flashes of memory tore through his mind like a whirlwind—his first time on a broom, the wind whipping through his hair; his mother's face, soft with love; the sting of kneeling in his father's study, the distant roar of incomprehensible reprimands; Potter, green-eyed and self-righteous; the crunch of his own nose under Granger's fist; the slow, deliberate trickle of blood from his wrist, as the blade glinted with red in his palm; the rush of victory, triumphant and fleeting, as he watched Dumbledore's Army fall to Umbridge.
Voldemort sifted through his thoughts effortlessly. Even with a summer of Bellatrix's brutal training, Draco's mind was nothing before his power. The Dark Lord plundered through him as if the tall brick walls he spent so long perfecting—were parchment, tearing apart whatever he pleased, seeking, searching.
Draco willed himself to bury his disdain, to push it deep into the recesses of his mind. But even then, he knew. If the Dark Lord wished to find it, he would.
Then, release.
The pressure behind his eyes shattered, and Draco collapsed onto all fours, his body wracked with tremors. His breath came in shallow gasps, platinum hair falling into his sweat-slicked face.
"Pathetic."
The word dripped with contempt, Voldemort's voice curling around it like a lash.
"Such a disappointment. The heir of one of the oldest pureblood families... and yet, so weak."
Draco did not move. He did not lift his head. His hands clenched against the cold stone as he fought for air.
"Give me your hand, Draco."
The command was silk over steel. Draco did not have the strength to resist even if he wanted to.
"Hold him, Lucius."
He felt his father's grip—bony fingers, trembling yet firm—latch onto his wrist and shoulder, forcing his arm forward. Draco barely had time to brace himself before Voldemort began to murmur in low, measured Latin while pressing the tip of his wand to Draco's wrist.
The pain.
It rushed through him, raw and pure, as though molten iron had been poured into his veins. His wrist burned first, then the fire spread, searing through muscle and bone. His back arched, his vision swam, and from somewhere deep within him, a wretched, guttural, primal scream ripped from his throat.
His head fell back.
And the world shattered into darkness.
Draco awoke tangled in silk sheets, the fabric damp with sweat, clinging to his skin. For a moment, his mind spun in the haze of sleep, until memory struck.
His breath hitched as he tore his gaze downward, to his wrist, where the bandages wrapped tight. Hands trembling, he began to unravel them, the linen falling away to reveal raw, inflamed flesh. The Dark Mark glared back at him, an ugly stain against his white skin, red and swollen at the edges, as though it had been burned into him.
"Is that how it is supposed to look?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
He tried to move, only to be met with an aching stiffness, every muscle protesting as he dragged himself from the bed. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him, but he kept moving forward, one unsteady step at a time, until he reached the bathroom.
Bracing himself against the sink, he thrust his wrist under the icy stream of water. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as the relief washed over him, cooling the burn, and numbing the pain. He exhaled, slow and measured, before finally glancing up.
The mirror reflected a ghost.
His face—hollowed, bloodless—stared back at him, eyes shadowed, skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. He had always been pale, but now he was almost transparent, his features drawn with exhaustion.
How long had he been unconscious?
After tearing his gaze away from his spectral reflection, Draco flicked his wand, muttering, " Tempus. " The numbers shimmered in the air—only two in the afternoon. He exhaled, considering. Venturing beyond the heavy, warded doors of his chamber meant facing them. The voices. The expectations. The inevitable.
Instead, he turned back to his bed, selecting a book from the nearest stack before sinking into the silken cocoon once more.
The days passed in a slow, numbing haze. He did not leave his room. Meals arrived in hushed intervals, brought by Weeney—the only presence he allowed. He ate without tasting and drank without thought. The pain in his wrist dulled, fading from a searing burn to a ghost of an ache. Even as the swelling diminished, the Mark remained, dark against his skin, a permanent brand.
By the fourth day, the walls of his chamber had grown suffocating. Rising from the bed, he dressed with deliberate care, choosing a tweed sportcoat, grey trousers, and polished brown derbies. The weight of the fabric grounded him, the crisp lines giving him a sense of order, of control.
And then, without quite deciding where he was going, he walked.
The manor stood tall and proud behind him as he took to the main gravel path, the crunch of stone beneath his steps the only sound. As he went off the main path, step by step, he let the estate unfold before him, until at last, his legs led him westward.
To a pond.
The water lay still and undisturbed, a glassy expanse reflecting the grey sky as if it was unaware of the events transpiring around it. The journey had taken twenty minutes—enough time to clear his thoughts, but not enough to silence them.
With an exhale, Draco sank onto the grass, unbuttoning his coat before shifting onto his back. The earth was cool beneath him, as he let his gaze drift to the sky—an expanse of dull, uncharacteristic grey, heavy with the weight of an impending summer storm.
Time blurred. He did not know how long he lay there, staring at nothing, listening to the quiet ripple of water against the bank. Then, the faintest rustle of movement. A presence settling beside him.
"Mother." His voice was measured. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I have not seen you for days," Narcissa murmured, her tone gentle releasing the tension in his shoulders. "And you'll be returning to school in a couple of days."
Draco sat up, blinking at her in surprise. "Already?"
She nodded."Yes. But more importantly, the Dark Lord wishes to see you tonight."
His breath stilled. A cold fist clenched around his ribs. Immediately, as if summoned by the mere mention of its master, his Mark came alive, sending sharp, pulsing waves of pain through his arm.
"What for?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Narcissa met his gaze with an unspoken sorrow. "Tonight, he will give you your task."
A beat of silence. Then, with quiet grace, she rose to her feet, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. Looking down at him, her features softened.
"It will end soon, my love," she promised. "I swear it."
And with that, she turned, disappearing in a swirl of disapparated air.
Draco kept by the water's edge for some time longer, staring at the rippling surface as if it might offer him some kind of answer. It did not. With a breath, he pushed himself up, straightening his trousers before setting off toward the manor.
The walk back was a blur of green and grey—rolling fields stretching endlessly before him, thick forest canopies swaying overhead. The air was cool, carrying the scent of rain, but Draco barely registered it.
By the time he reached the manor's doors, his heart pounded in his chest. He did not pause, did not allow himself the moment of hesitation he so desperately craved. Instead, he strode forward, straight through the entrance, down the vast corridors, and into the main hall.
They were waiting.
A handful of Death Eaters stood scattered about the room, shadows stretching long in the dim candlelight. The air was thick with whispered conversations, the murmuring of cloaked figures. And then, at the head of it all, him.
"Draco."
That voice—smooth as silk, cold as ice—sent a chill down his spine.
"Come."
Draco obeyed, moving forward before sinking to one knee before the Dark Lord. His head bowed low, breath shallow, fingers clenched at his sides as he waited.
Voldemort's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"As you know," he began, "I have chosen you for an extremely important task. You are to return to that wretched school, and in your time there, you will kill Albus Dumbledore."
The words struck him like a physical blow.
Draco's breath faltered. His pulse roared in his ears.
Kill.
Not just anyone. Not some nameless, faceless person. But Dumbledore. The only wizard who had ever rivalled the Dark Lord. The man who knew more, saw more, than anyone else.
Him? He was expected to kill him?
His hesitation must have been obvious because Voldemort's voice lowered to a sick mocking of reassurance.
"I sense your doubt," he murmured, tilting his head. "And so, I offer you a little incentive."
Draco felt it before he heard it, the weight of something dark and curling around his ribs, tightening.
"Should you fail to carry out this task, I will kill both of your parents."
The floor beneath him seemed to tilt.
A strangled breath escaped him, cold sweat beading along his brow. His hands pressed firmly to his knees, began to tremble.
There was no choice.
"Am I understood?"
"Yes, my Lord," Draco choked out, voice barely above a whisper.
The Dark Lord smiled. A terrible, knowing smile.
"Leave."
Draco wasted no time.
He pushed himself to his feet and turned on his heel, striding from the hall, each step faster than the last until he was nearly running, desperate to put distance between himself and the presence behind him.
By the time he reached the solitude of the corridors, his breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. His fingers grasped his wrist, pressing against the Mark that still ached, still burned, though not nearly as much as the words now seared into his mind.
There was no way out.