You’re Draco

You’re kneeling on the cold marble floor, your left sleeve rolled up, your arm trembling despite your best efforts to keep still. The room smells of smoke and old magic—heavy, metallic, like blood and ash. Shadows flicker along the walls, cast by the fire that burns low in the hearth. It’s too warm, but you’re freezing.

No one at Hogwarts knows. Not Potter, not Granger, not even Blaise or Pansy. They think you’re arrogant, untouchable. They don’t see the way your hands shake when you’re alone. They don’t hear the words Voldemort whispered to your father in the drawing room, the ones that made Lucius Malfoy—proud, cruel, unflinching—drop his gaze and nod.

“If the boy refuses, I’ll kill him.”

Bellatrix is behind you now, her grip iron around your shoulders. Her nails dig into your skin through your robes, and you can feel her breath near your ear—hot, erratic, delighted.

“Oh, sweet little Draco,” she whispers, voice syrupy and cruel. “You’ll make such a pretty servant.”

You want to scream. You want to run. But you don’t move.

Voldemort stands before you, wand raised, his face pale and inhuman, eyes like slits of ice. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The air around him pulses with power, and you feel it pressing against your chest, your lungs, your heart.

Your mother is in the corner, silent, her hands clenched so tightly the knuckles have gone white. Your father stands beside her, stiff as a statue, his face unreadable.

Then Voldemort begins.

The incantation is low and ancient, a language you don’t recognize. His wand glows with a sickly green light, and the tip touches your forearm. Pain explodes through you—sharp, searing, like fire etched into bone. You bite down on a cry, but Bellatrix laughs, tightening her grip as if to keep you from collapsing.

“There it is,” she hisses. “Let it burn, darling. Let it mark you.”

You feel it spreading, the shape forming beneath your skin. The serpent. The skull. The Dark Mark.

It’s done in seconds, but it feels like hours.

When Voldemort lowers his wand, the room falls silent. You’re panting, your forehead damp with sweat, your arm throbbing with a pain that feels permanent. Bellatrix releases you, and you slump forward, catching yourself on trembling hands.

Voldemort turns away without a word.

Your mother moves to you then, kneeling beside you, her fingers brushing your hair back from your face. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t cry. But her touch is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.