Part 1

The sound of his bedroom door swinging sharply open had Draco Malfoy raising his platinum blonde head and forcing a calm he did not feel onto his features. His rapidly beating heart slowed somewhat, his posture relaxed a fraction at the sight of his mother in the doorway, taking him in with one assessing, sweeping look from the same silver eyes Draco had inherited from the Black side of the family.

She held his gaze for a moment, stepped further into the room, then closed and warded the door behind her for privacy -a necessary evil in these times given the nature of their two volatile house guests and in the influx of visitors this evening.

In a rare show of vulnerability, Narcissa allowed herself to slump ever so slightly against the door for a moment, her normally regal flaxen head bowing toward her sternum, her eyes shutting as she took a deep, steadying breath before raising herself tall into her perfectly-bred posture once more. She had to be strong -she willed it upon herself.

If her son noticed the slight tremble to her hands as she approached his position on the bench seat, he chose not to comment. This was hardly the time.

Taking a seat gracefully beside him, she reached out her left hand to rest it upon his right, her own right hand still desperately clutching at her wand hidden in her skirts.

For a time, mother and son soaked up the temporary respite provided by the other's presence, the only time they could truly feel even a modicum of peace in the face of their new reality: Lucius, stubborn and proud fool that he was, was now gone for the foreseeable future, locked away in Azkaban after his run-in with Dumbledore and his Order at the Ministry. A pall had settled upon the two remaining Malfoys since the news had broken, for each knew that while the Dark Lord had the ability to free Lucius, he had not the inclination, and likely would not deign to do so until he felt Lucius had sufficiently suffered for his apparent failings in retrieving the prophecy.

Now, sitting next to her son, Narcissa looked over at him and knew that tonight would change everything once again. The ceremony where he was to be Marked -she valiantly suppressed her shudder at the thought- would be held shortly in the ballroom downstairs, and she would not be allowed in the room with him to offer strength and comfort. Only Marked Death Eaters were permitted at such an event, and while Lucius had informed her loosely about his Marking shortly before they married, he had kept mum on most of the details, so she was unable to prepare Draco better than she had thus far.

"Expect the worst, and you'll be as prepared as I expect one can be for such a thing," she had told him that first night home after dinner, once the Dark Lord and the remaining Death Eaters returned to the Manor and it was confirmed that Draco would be expected to take the Mark in his father's stead, as she had feared. Draco gave the performance of his life, drawing on the bombastic and passionate Black temper he shared with her sister Bellatrix to show everyone at the table the fire of vengeance he held for those who had put his father in prison, and his excitement at being given the opportunity to retaliate for the injustice. She was sure his sentiments were true to an extent, but she knew her son better than anyone.

Sure enough, in private he had broken down in her arms for fear of what would be expected of him, of the burden now placed on his young and naive shoulders, and for the loss of innocence that would surely swiftly follow. For it was one thing to boast and bully, and lord his father's influence and social standing over his peers at school -a habit she had shamefully only gently dissuaded him from over the years- and quite another to now have to answer directly to the most fearsome Dark wizard to ever live. Merlin forgive her, she had wanted to shelter him from it all for as long as possible. He was her only son, her only child, and protecting him thus far had meant keeping him naive to certain realities. Realities which were now crashing down upon them in the form of an angry and vengeful Dark Lord, and the war he would surely now bring out into the open.

"What's the worst?" he had asked her quietly, but she knew upon looking into his eyes that he knew. Her son would likely be expected to endure or inflict torture, perhaps even death, upon some hapless muggle or muggleborn prisoner, not counting the pain of having the Mark branded into his skin itself.

"No matter what happens, no matter how bad it gets," she'd whispered to him as she gathered him in close to her, pulling him down so that her lips were right at his ear so as not to be overheard. "I will always be proud of you, no matter how you endure this, and I will love you no matter what you are forced to do. You will still be my son."

He looked at her now, his matching silver gaze meeting her own, and they both knew it was time. Time for him take that final step out of childhood, time to walk through the gates of Hell itself and tether himself into service, in the likely vain hope that it would assuage the Dark Lord's need for vengeance against Lucius for his failings.

"There'll be no coming back from this, will there?" he murmured to her quietly. The sharp lines of his face seemed starker in the firelight from the hearth, and he looked so much like Lucius at that age that it took Narcissa's breath away for a moment. He had seemingly aged so much in the span of just a few weeks, and it terrified her that her little boy might forever be gone from the world. "I'll never not be a Death Eater now. It'll always be permanently attached to my name, no matter what I do or don't do, won't it?"

It was a rhetorical question, she knew, so instead of answering him, or providing useless inane platitudes, she simply raised their joined hands to her lips, and kissed the back of his hand, before clasping it tightly between both of her own. He knew that she would love him regardless, he was just coming to terms with the reality of this fate, this duty, that had been chosen for him decades ago when a man-turned-monster recruited his grandfather to the cause; a duty that he was now being expected to fulfil. She did not know what she would do if he was given an assignment from the Dark Lord, nor what the magnitude of it might be -though she hoped and prayed that Marking him would be enough- but she did know that if there was anything she could do to protect her son, she would do it. Anything.

Draco took one last deep breath in, looked around at his childhood bedroom, and squeezed his mother's hand one last time before standing tall to his feet and buttoning his suit jacket. He knew he would have to take it off for the ceremony, so the Dark Lord would have access to his forearm, but dressing sharply had always been a way he had mentally prepared himself for situations, one of his father's lessons that was deeply ingrained into his identity as a Malfoy. He felt as if his world had tilted on its axis, and he needed all the steadying influence he could get.

As he walked to the door, he heard his mother's cool mask start to slip, as she gasped quietly, and he looked over his shoulder to see her raise a hand to her lips to stifle the traitorous sob that had tried to escape.

"Thank you, Mother," he whispered to her, knowing she would understand that he was expressing his love as well as his thanks -it was their way. Without looking at her again lest he lose his nerve, he opened the door and strode down the hall to the grand staircase, slipping his carefully cultivated arrogant mask on as he went. The portraits he passed of his ancestors nodded at him as he walked by, acknowledging him as the Head of the family since the Master was absent and his magic restrained in Azkaban. He nodded in return, finally feeling the mantle of being a Malfoy man, something he had longed for since he was a boy trailing after his father.

It didn't feel anything like he thought it would.

As he approached the ballroom doors on the ground floor, he sent up a quick prayer to whichever gods may be listening, asking for the strength and courage to get through this, for his mother to survive this war, for his father to be liberated before it was too late for his health and sanity. Mercy, peace, and justice; cherish and protect us, he thought, remembering the old prayer his Grandmother Black had taught him as a child. For himself, he prayed that he could protect his family, no matter what happened to him by the end of it.

He took a final deep breath, burying his doubts and fears deep, ensuring that his occlumency shields were all in place so as to appear not to exist at all. He reached out a thankfully steady hand, and pushed open the door to the ballroom.