The mark bit at his skin, the tattoo burned when he was called.

Draco thought it a plague on himself, a stain on his skin. It was shameful, cruel, traumatic. Draco was not his father- at least he didn’t want to be. But it seemed this mark tied the two together inseparably.

Draco was sat on his bed, hair ruffled, breathing heavy. He pawed at his flesh, eyes teary, mind racing.

“It’s horrible.” Draco snapped.

You had tried to help him, he was your best friend after all. He needed the comfort, clearly, panic warred with shame in his features and assassinated any pride of his newfound status.

“If I touch it too long it burns, alerts him.” He muttered, nails digging into pale palms.

Draco recoiled, suddenly looking rather fragile and vulnerable. “I don’t want to be a death eater. I don’t want to kill people— I don’t want to kill Dumbledore” he paused, shaky breath growing drastically more frantic, “but if I don’t he’ll kill me.”