I have never known the true taste of fear until now.
The room has a distinct, reptilian odour which stings my nostrils the moment I step in, making me feel nauseated. But that is nothing compared to the terror which lances through me as my eyes focus on the man seated in the armchair in the middle of the room.
It is none other than Lord Voldemort himself.
An eerie chill courses down my spine as I reflexively take a step backward, but am restrained by my father's heavy hand on my shoulder. My eyes never leave the pale, corpse-like face which looks calmly back at me. The fiery red eyes stand out in stark contrast to the porcelain-white complexion, and I recoil inwardly as the piercing stare spears through my very soul.
My father stands behind me, his grip on my shoulder firm but not protective. I can feel the tautness in his body, the stiffness of his posture. He nudges me downward with considerable force, and I sink to my knees with little resistance. The crimson eyes evenly follow me to my humbled position on the floor, and I gaze back, transfixed with fear.
My father bows as well, so low that he can probably see the closed door behind us through the gap of his legs. With his head still lowered, he speaks in a reverential tone of voice. "Here he is, my Lord."
Lord Voldemort coldly regards me. I'm shivering slightly, cold and frightened. I wilt under his stare as his intense eyes sweep down the length of my genuflected body, and I'm uncomfortably reminded of the way a predator contemplates his prey just before it pounces.
Finally, he speaks. "He is very young, Lucius." His tone is mildly disapproving, and those thin pallid lips barely move to form his words.
"He can be trained, my Lord," my father replies quickly, his tone strangely earnest. "He is a keen learner, and I have taught him well in your ways."
The silence that follows is excruciatingly drawn out, and the tense atmosphere in the enclosed room is suffocating. I miserably drop my gaze to the floor, feeling helpless and confused. My father was mysteriously silent and had said nothing when he escorted me to this room. I don't understand a word of what they are saying, and the anticipation of the unknown is far more terrifying than any other horror.
"Very well." The voice is sharp and unyielding, and Lord Voldemort raises his skeletal hand in a casual, facile movement. He beckons toward a wooden chair and a table nearby, which I haven't noticed until now. "Seat the boy over there," he instructs, almost disdainfully.
My father hastens to obey his command, lifting me to my feet and ushering me over. I stumble a couple of times, my legs betraying my muted reluctance. I am roughly pushed into the chair, and panic spirals through me as I see the gaunt figure rise from the armchair and slowly approach.
My father takes my left arm and extends it on the table, rolling my elbow-length sleeves up past my shoulder. My exposed arm is rigid with tension, and I stifle a whimper as Lord Voldemort draws to a halt next to me. From up close, I can see the faint, spider-like lines etching his face, which now looks more like a crumbling mask than its flawless appearance from a distance. His fierce crimson eyes mercilessly burn past my fear, searing my inner consciousness.
He slowly reaches into his flowing robes, and a long slender wand appears at his fingertips. I can do nothing except gawk, my eyes wide with trepidation as he brandishes the wand in a smooth, fluid motion, bringing it closer to me.
His hand suddenly darts out, closing over my left palm and pinning it to the table, immobilising my arm. His touch is like an icy fire, freezing the blood in my veins, emptying my nerves of all feeling. A chilling coldness flames through my body, making me gasp.
"Watch and learn, young Malfoy." Lord Voldemort suddenly speaks directly to me, and I blanch in fear. His voice is deathly quiet, but it echoes endlessly within the room and inside my head. "You will soon know that pain is a powerful ally, but before it can be your weapon, you must first conquer it." His wand strays closer to my trembling arm, but does not make contact.
All of a sudden, I understand why I am here.
I abruptly turn to my father, my eyes wild with terror. "Father, please…" I begin to plead, but he silences me with a reprimanding look, his grey eyes issuing a wordless warning. I continue to stare at him, imploring silently with my eyes, but he shakes his head at me, wearing a pained but determined expression on his face. I fearfully look back at Lord Voldemort, who has been watching me serenely, his wand poised above my arm. His gaze is calmly calculating, as though evaluating if I am ready for what I am about to receive.
But the truth is that I am not, and I know it. I can swagger around, spouting childish curses and boasting about my father's powerful connections, but I know that I am not ready for this. I know that I cannot bear the burden of Lord Voldemort's demands, or the brunt of my father's expectations.
"Father..." I try again, and my voice is wrought with desperation.
"Draco." My father's voice is deadly soft, a threatening urgency in his tone. His grip on my shoulder tightens meaningfully, restraining me in the chair. Don't disappoint me now, Draco, his stern gaze commands me, and my half-formed words falter and die on my lips.
"We will proceed," Lord Voldemort announces firmly, behaving as though he hasn't heard my feeble protest. His fingers still rest against my open palm, sending a dull, aching pulse up the length of my left arm, which is already almost paralysed with fear. I slump back in defeat, my whole body shivering uncontrollably, my right hand clenching the handle of the chair so tightly that my fingernails dig ridges into the rough wood.
My left hand is forcibly turned on its side, exposing my inner forearm. Lord Voldemort raises his wand in a grand gesture, and I brace myself for the most blistering torment that I can ever imagine, knowing that it will only be worst.
"ENGRAVIO SEGNE MORSMORDRE!" he utters forcefully, and bright red sparks flare from his wand like a shower of fireworks. There is a strange hissing sound, and the tip of the wand starts to glow red-hot like a smouldering cinder. I even feel the heat radiating from the wand, and I swallow hard, closing my eyes in painful surrender just before he presses the burning tip against my bare flesh.
All I hear after that is the primal, anguished scream which tears from my lips, and all I can remember is the intense pain which twists through my entire being, penetrating my bones, scorching my soul. I smell the sickening stench of burning flesh, and I jerk convulsively as the raw, blazing sensation singes every nerve ending in my body. I bury my face in the palm of my other hand, sobbing desolately, as I ride out the dark red agony which seems to last for a brutal eternity.
Finally, he lifts his wand away. I collapse backwards, gasping breathlessly, choking back my sobs. The extreme suffering gradually abates, although remnant pain still ripples through my broken body. My eyes are still closed, and my face is streaked with hot tears, my voice hoarse from unheeded screams. The memory of the burning anguish still slices through my mind, and I take several moments to pull myself together. When I finally allow my eyelids to flutter open, it is the first thing I see.
There it is, red and seething against my pale flesh. The Dark Mark.
I instinctively flinch as Lord Voldemort takes my shuddering arm once again. He looks at it carefully, turning it over, inspecting his handiwork. He appears pleased, the ghost of a thin smile flitting across his impassive features. Then abruptly, without warning, he presses his thumb against the Mark.
I let out a fresh howl as the blinding pain rips through me once again. The agony is equally intense, and I thrash about with abandon, vaguely aware of my father shouting, trying to hold me down. The pain eventually peaks, finally edging over the threshold of my endurance. The world around me fades into a shifting blur, and I suddenly feel myself plunging into a vast chasm of darkness, as I shed the pain and fall into nothingness.
* * *
The dull pulse of a headache awakens me as I drift back into consciousness. I keep my eyes closed, clinging to the darkness which shields me away from the rest of the world. I wish I can keep them closed forever, so that I never have to face what awaits me on the outside.
I hear my mother's voice hovering above me. "He's too young, Lucius," she says, sniffing tearfully. "He was too young to receive the Dark Mark."
"We had no other choice, Narcissa," my father's gruff voice replies. He sounds weary and exhausted. "We have to pledge our loyalty to the Dark Lord, and show him that we fully embrace him as our Master once again. He does not forgive easily, and Draco is our only sacrifice of repentance."
The voices gradually fade into the distance as my parents leave the room, and I hear the door softly close. I keep my eyes shut for a few moments more, before I cautiously open them and gingerly shift myself into a sitting position.
I am in my own room now, far away from Lord Voldemort, but yet, closer to him than I can imagine.
My eyes flicker to my left arm, where the Mark has been freshly engraved. The skin is puffy and inflamed, but the bloody outline of the skull and the serpent is clearly ingrained into my flesh. It stands stark against my ashen skin, cruelly defined, bleeding my innocence, branding me as someone I never had a choice to become.
Salty tears flow freely down my face, stinging the healing wounds as they fall onto my arm. I draw my knees up to my chest, all alone in my room, and I close my eyes again as the harsh realisation slowly sinks in.
I am by myself, but I am not mine any longer.
I am Draco Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater in the brethren, bearer of the renewed Dark Mark.
And deep down inside, I feel no pride.
- fin -