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His mind raced, trying desperately to find a thought to bind itself to. Where am I? Is Father here? Were the Dark Lords eyes that red in his disguise when we spoke before? But those all faded to dust as Draco Malfoys eyes narrowed on the most elegantly simple blade they had ever seen fairly glowing on its pedestal as the candlelight raced against its shine.
So delicately sharpened and polished - inlaid with emerald and its hilt a serpent with fangs bared. He could imagine how the glint of it would look against his skin and just as he could almost feel the even cut of it against his thighs his eyes were drawn to the figure, bound and writhing, on the floor at the Dark Lords feet. So this is my test.
The blade in his hand surprised him. He didnt remember stepping to the pedestal to take it up and its weight is unexpectedly light as if it were an extension of his own hand rather a newly admired weapon. But by then his heart was pounding so that it visibly shook the cage of his chest and he couldnt appreciate its delicacy, couldnt savor the feel of it in his grasp.
He stepped forward - toward the Dark Lord, toward the girl thrashing in her bonds and sunk to his knees. His eyes played across the row of figures at the Dark Lords side. Was his father among them? His mother? Were they among the robed and death masked audience as their son sank naked to his knees beside his first kill? No one told him this is what it would require of him, but a part of him so primal that on reflection he would be frightened of it understood and his eyes dropped closed for only a moment before sliding to the girl. To her terrified eyes.
Fuck! She recognized him and he saw it in her eyes frantically searching his own mind for how that could be possible. Mudblood. Hufflepuff. Older than you. Three years. Facts only from secondary memories that his brain screamed at him as his eyes widened. Shes not a muggle. I didnt think But then she was screaming thru her gag as if she had only realized what he was supposed to do with her - and the sound, just the sound of it, drew his hand up and across her throat before he could consciously order it to. The dull, sick, sticky sound of a very sharp blade sluicing through skin. Quick. Instinct. And, oh gods, that sick feeling of pride as her blood covered his hand and splattered to his naked heaving chest was instinct too.
But the feeling didnt last. From somewhere above him there was a sick, demented laugh short and cruel and he was being pulled to his feet by that same arm as the knife fell forgotten into the still spasming bosom of the dying witch. There was no time to register to moment. No time, and as the tip of that surprisingly fragile looking wand touched his forearm he couldnt even hear the incantation before the brand appeared.I thought this would hurt. I I what is And then all thoughts stopped, as the Dark Lord merely scratched across his own pale skin to open it, and his blood fell against the new black mar at Dracos arm.
When he awoke, fully dressed once more and lying in his own lush bed, the blinding pain would be only a distant memory as if in a dream. And the only evidence that it had been real waking life would be the Mark, harsh but deceptively harmless looking against his skin. But then, as the blood that was almost as dark as the brand itself touched his arm and he heard that voice at once beautiful and horrible murmuring, the pain caused his body to crumble. And as he fell he searched the empty masks for his father in the vain hope that he would save him. Gods. Father. Help me. Your son The conscious, complete knowledge that he would die from this somehow.
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