Chapter Text
August 1996
Draco stood there, examining himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the drawing room. Did he look any different? He definitely felt different. The branding on his left forearm had made sure of that.
It burned. It itched. He hadn’t been told of any of the side effects that would come when he received it. He hadn’t been told anything about what would happen afterwards. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been told anything at all anymore.
There was a weight on his arm, a pull, that hadn’t been there before. He couldn’t help but find it similar to what he imagined the weight of chains around one's body to feel like. He was no longer his own man; he was not free. He belonged to Voldemort. Draco Malfoy was a pawn.
The feeling of the brand was alien. He assumed he wouldn’t notice its presence as severely as he did. It reminded him of an infection - continuously painful and gross to look at. The skin around the mark was irritated, raw. He watched it closely, expecting it to move, to twist and coil beneath his skin. But it remained still, a permanent stain on his porcelain skin, a constant reminder of his submission.
Voldemort’s magic lingered in the mark, even when the pain subsided. It would always be there, in the background of everything, reminding Draco of what he had become. A tool. A puppet for Voldemort to use as he pleases.
He eyed himself in the mirror once more, noticing the subtle changes. His cheeks were more taut. His skin paler than before, if that was even possible. His eyes seemed empty, sunken. The youthfulness he once carried had vanished, replaced with something colder, something harder. His innocence was teetering on the edge of darkness and he knew there was nothing he could do to save it.
His face contorted with self-disgust, the reflection mocking him. He turned away, as though the very sight of himself made him physically ill. He had no time for self-loathing, no time to dwell on the fact that he was no longer the boy he once was. He didn’t have the luxury of thinking he was worth saving.
He took a step back, straightened his back, and exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the weight of his own thoughts. He belonged to Voldemort now, body and soul. There was no going back.
Draco’s gaze fell to his forearm, the brand searing beneath his sleeve. He clenched his fist around the fabric, his mind wandering back to that night. The night his fate was forever sealed…
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”Keep it hidden, dear. We mustn’t let your schoolmates see it,” his mother whispered in his ear as the final moments of the ceremony came to an end. The air in Borgin and Burkes was thick with a kind of oppressive silence, everything was coated in dust as if no one had stepped foot in this forsaken store for years. Draco could hear the low murmur of his aunt’s voice nearby, Fenrir Greyback’s breathing heavier than it should have been, his unsettling presence a constant reminder of how far Draco had fallen. His mind screamed at him to run, to flee from this reality, but his feet were frozen. He was reluctant, terrified, but the choice had been taken away from him before he even had a chance to think about it. His body was not his own anymore.
“You must do this, Draco. We have no choice,” his mother had murmured just moments before the brand was seared into his flesh, forever a reminder of everything he was losing. Her touch had never felt so foreign to him.
He turned his head towards his mother. She gave a half-hearted smile that didn’t meet her eyes. He could see the sorrow in her eyes. There was something else as well - maybe shame? He couldn’t tell, but he hated it. Was she ashamed of him, or was she ashamed of what they had made him become?
Draco pulled the sleeve of his cloak down his arm, his fingers brushing against the raw skin. His gaze flickered around the dimly lit store, the walls felt as if they were closing in on him. The air reeked of mildew and stale magic. It was an insult to be here, in this dingy shop. For something that was supposed to be a rite of passage for a Malfoy. Why was his initiation to be held in Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley, a month before school was to start? He didn’t know. All he knew was the fabric scratching across his now sensitive forearm made him wince, but he forced the discomfort aside. There was no room for weakness. Not anymore.
He raised his right hand up to cup his mother’s cheek. Trying to reassure her. Could she tell he felt as hollow as the words about to come out of his mouth?
”Everything is going to be okay, Mother. I know what is expected of me,” he said softly, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. He hoped his tone would be enough to comfort her. Instinctively, he knew they were being watched. The Malfoys were always being watched.
Draco dropped his hand and let his gaze shift. Sure enough, Greyback stood across the room, leaning against a dusty shelf, arms crossed, with a vicious smirk plastered across his face.
Greyback’s smile widened, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. “Careful boy, your little games might not end well for you,” he drawled, his voice low and gravelly. Draco didn’t flinch. He tilted his chin upward, meeting Greyback’s gaze with unwavering defiance. Like any wild dog, eye contact threatened their role as alpha. Draco was not going to be threatened by a mangy dog.
Greyback growled low in his throat, his eyes narrowing, but Draco didn’t back down. He instinctively moved slightly to the side, positioning himself between his mother and the threat. His defiance had become an act of protection, but he refused to acknowledge it.
Greyback let out a frustrated growl. “I see. Interesting,” he sneered. With a lingering gaze, he slunk toward the back of the store.
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Now that Voldemort had returned to physical form and was living at Malfoy Manor, Draco knew how he must act and what he must do. He had to dampen the defiance he felt welling up. He feared Voldemort, that much was true. But he resented him. He hated seeing his face at the head of the table where his father once sat. He hated seeing that gray, skeleton-bone hand reach up and cup his mother’s face and having to watch as she trembled with fear. He hated how Voldemort would torture her and then treat her with such gentleness at the table. He hated the jealousy that filled his Aunt Bella’s eyes when Voldemort even looked at Narcissa.
Draco walked away from the conservatory and towards the foyer. His bags were already packed and sitting at the base of the stairs. He was to leave for Hogwarts tomorrow. As much as he despised that school, he no longer wished to be within the walls of his once beloved childhood home. He hated the thought of leaving his mother here alone with these people, but he had no choice.
The house had once been filled with laughter, the sound of his father’s booming voice and his mother’s soft hum as she went about her daily tasks. But now, it was just silent. Even though the Manor was teeming with people - Death Eaters milling about, servants in and out - there was no life. It felt suffocating, as if the house itself had died along with whatever warmth had once existed here.
The halls were cold, shadows in every corner deepened by the presence of those who cared only for power and fear. The conversations were a stark change from what they once were. The conversations that now filled the rooms were harsh whispers, laced with suspicion and malice. No one spoke in earnest; no one dared to.
This place had once been his sanctuary, a place he could feel safe, secure. The place where his family had been whole. Now it felt like a stage - a grim theater where everyone was pretending, where nothing was genuine. Everywhere he went, he was putting on a show. And the audience never stopped watching.
Voldemort had given him a mission. His first mission. To prove just how much of a pawn he was. To show just how little Draco meant to him, that his loyalty was just a worthless tool to be used and discarded. To embarrass him. He knew it was a suicide mission. He knew it was impossible to pull off.
The thought burned at the edges of his mind, a gnawing presence. The instructions, cryptic and commanding, felt like chains wrapping tighter and tighter around his chest. He was told to do it and do it well. Nothing else mattered - his life, his freedom, his very soul. Voldemort didn’t care. He had to do it, or die trying. He had no choice. No better than a house elf.
Draco could almost hear his father’s voice, urging him to be proud, to seize this opportunity to prove his loyalty. But how could he be proud? How could he feel anything but disgust? The weight of it all pressed down on him as he stood in the foyer, staring at the front door like it might offer an escape for him, but he knew better.
He turned away from the door, unwilling to entertain the thought of running. There was no escape for him - not with his mother’s safety on the line. He had no illusions. The life he had been born into, the path that had been set for him, was the only thing that mattered now. There was no place for him outside of this life, and he was too deep to pull away, too tangled in it to find his way out alone.
He brought his hands to his face and took a deep breath. His life was over. He was only sixteen years old and yet his life was over.
There was a pop and Draco instinctively dropped his hands, straightening his back. A small figure appeared in front of him, wearing the typical plain, ill-fitting garment of a house elf. With a low bow, the elf spoke in a high-pitched, but soft voice.
“Master Draco, it is time for supper, sir. The meal is waiting for you in the dining hall, if it pleases you, Master,” the elf said, voice trembling slightly with nervousness. Her large, bulging eyes looked at him anxiously, waiting for his response, ready to scurry off to her hiding hole at a moment's notice.
Draco hadn’t cared to learn her name since her appearance at the Manor. She wasn’t the newest addition and she wouldn’t be the last one. He didn’t even expect her to be around come winter.
Draco stared at the elf and then looked away.
“I’m not hungry. Tell them I’m not eating.”
“But sir,” the elf spoke softly, wringing her hands nervously. “Your attendance has been demanded.”
Draco directed his icy stare at the elf. His anger bubbled inside him - an unfamiliar, gnawing sensation - as if the branding itself had begun to bleed into his thoughts, pushing him towards darkness. His anger was harder to control now, growing with every passing day.
Through clenched teeth, Draco sneered. “Then I guess I don’t have a choice, now do I?” Not expecting a response, he turned towards the west wing and made his way into the dining hall. The house elf scurried behind him, hoping to remain unnoticed by the other guests at the table.
Draco walked through the open doors into the dining hall and noticed the only vacant seat was between his mother and Walden McNair. He rolled his eyes and moved towards the chair that was undoubtedly awaiting him.
Draco reluctantly sank into the chair, the wood groaning under him. The seat was cold. His mother’s eyes darted to him with an unreadable expression. He could feel McNair’s cold, sinister gaze from beside him, but it was the figure at the head of the table that drew his attention. It took everything in him not to distort his face with disgust.
Voldemort’s pierced red eyes were fixed on him and the room fell quiet. As though his presence commanded all focus.
Draco met his eyes and hesitated only for a minute before placing his hands flat on the table, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. Draco took a breath through his nose in hopes of calming his nerves.
The corner of Voldemort’s mouth slightly upticked, “Ah, Draco. I trust the preparations for your mission are progressing?” he asked, his voice broke through the silence, smooth as silk but laced with an underlying menace. The question was both an inquiry and a command.
Draco’s casual demeanor did not falter. “Of course, my Lord,” he replied, the words bitter in his mouth, “Everything is in order.”
Voldemort smiled devilishly, “Good. I assume you understand the importance of this task I have so graciously given to you. This is your chance to prove yourself, to show me your true loyalty.” He was leaning forward as if he could see into Draco’s very soul.
“You will not fail me, Draco. Bellatrix will see to your… preparations.” Voldemort said, his voice a whisper that slithered through the air.
Draco’s stomach tightened. Bellatrix. The very mention of his aunt filled him with a dread he rarely felt. He had been subjected to her training before - only a couple of times, but still, her lessons were nothing like the ones his father might have imagined for him. She was ruthless, and her methods were cruel, always pushing him past his limits.
Draco repressed a shiver, the weight of the mission pressing harder on his chest. He could feel the eyes of the others around the table on him, clinging to every word of this not-so-private conversation.
Despite the storm of thoughts inside him, Draco replied, “Yes, my Lord. I understand.”
Voldemort leaned back calmly, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “Good, not that the fool would ever expect a child to do it,” he sneered, his voice dripping with content. “Such a pathetic, misguided belief in the innocence of youth. He likely suspects someone with the maturity of a grown man would take the task on. But do remember,” his cold gaze sliding to land on Draco’s mother, “failure is not an option.”
Draco’s gaze flickered to his mother for a brief moment. Her eyes were wide, her lips pressed tightly together. She was urging him to tread carefully. There was worry in her eyes, a quiet pleading that she tried to mask with a controlled, neutral expression. He instinctively went to grasp his mother’s hand in an attempt to reassure her, but stopped himself. Placing his own hands in his lap. Draco couldn’t afford to acknowledge his mother’s concern - not here.
A pang of guilt was creeping up on him. He could feel his mother’s concern. Which meant that everyone else in the room could as well. He showed no indifference. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness, not in front of these people. Especially not in front of Voldemort.
He clenched his jaw, forcing his expression into one of cool detachment and returned his gaze to Voldemort. He couldn’t show the effect his mother’s worry had on him. Not when he was so close to being pulled into the darkness of his own soul.
The room felt colder, the air thicker, as the weight of those words and their implication settled on Draco’s shoulders. He was trapped. Now and forever.