168authorsnote:
'prettylittlepetticoats why do you keep making new wip's and not updating your old ones?'
' ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ '
anywhoooo, I do hope you enjoy this! I have been working with this concept for a few weeks and am so excited to publish it! I do hope you enjoy, and please let me know your thoughts! reviews encourage me always.
the timeline is a little different in this story, should be clear tho.
songrecs: bad things - machine gun kelly/camila cabello
Death Eater.
That was what the inky black mark on his arm indicated. The coiling snake, the skull in which it emerged, the pink edges showing how new it was, but the dark rolling black of where he had been branded, new but permanent.
Death Eater, Knight of Walpurgis, Follower, Slave, take your pick. He was marked, branded, denoted, a willing member of the Dark Lords pack, of his army.
Well … depending on your definition of 'willing'. Did willing mean strolling up to the most evil man (and he was barely even that anymore, barely even human now), in existence and asking very nicely and politely, with a bowed head that 'Yes, I would very much like to be Death Eater oh Mr Voldemort sir. Can you squeeze me in for my marking the Tuesday after next?', or did it look more like his unsavoury inclusion into the ranks?
His Mother screaming (make it stop), his Father screaming (make it stop … though not as important as Mother), his own screams, ripping through his throat, almost foreign sounding, as he sobbed, begged, no, no, no.
"Don't you want to be one of us Draco?"
"Yes, yes of course my Lord"
No, no, no. He screamed his throat bloody, actually tasted that metallic tang, sobbed and begged as the magic was woven into his skin, branding him forever, forever.
As a boy he had thought this would be the highest honour, the height of privilege to be part of the sacred ranks his Father before him had joined. The upmost of honours for a wizard, nothing better.
As a man he saw that whilst yes, he still thought muggles were scum, squibs worse, mudbloods maybe not as bad but still third-class citizens at best, half-bloods ruined and second-class citizens, purebloods top of the food chain, he also recognised that maybe once Voldemort had been a charming man ready to take power, but now he was fucking insane, and perhaps shouldn't be in charge of Wizarding Britain.
Just perhaps.
Not that he dared utter it, he was just thankful he was such a natural at occlumency and his Aunt Bella had been drilling it into him since 5th year, and so though he didn't dare utter it, he could still think Voldemort was fucking cracked without worrying about being overheard in his own mind.
Once it would have been an honour, now it was a burden.
Hell, he hadn't even been 'willing', had hesitated, had stumbled, hence his Mother lying on the floor, bleeding, choking, sobbing, his Father on his knees shrieking, and then him screaming but thrusting out his arm. Make it stop.
Anything to protect them, anything.
Even if it meant being fucking branded like cattle and given perhaps the most dangerous mission of all of them. He wasn't stupid, he was no fool, sure he was maybe 0.5% of a point behind fucking Granger in class, but he was clever, even cleverer than her in more ways than one, he knew when he was being set up to fail.
Kill Dumbledore? His shoulders had sunk as Voldemort had woven this as a great honour, a chance to redeem the Malfoy's sins, a chance to take his place in the ranks. However, Draco had seen it for what it was, a suicide mission.
But then Voldemort had glanced at his Mother, still poised and beautiful, even with dried blood on her chin, and Draco knew, suicide mission or not, he didn't have a choice.
But then, when had he ever had a choice? Death Eater, murderer, did it stop there? Was there a choice?
No.
He had thought that was it, marked and stained, sent off on a mission he was bound to fail, but no, the Dark Lord had hesitated, laughed even, and stopped him from leaving. Somehow there was more?
"Oh, I almost forgot, just one last thing before you go…"
Then his Mother was begging, his Father frozen in horror, fuck even his Aunt Bella looked a little worried. That told him how bad it was, and then there was Fenir Greyback, ugly bared teeth, laughing, claws out, half-breed abomination.
His Mother screaming (but this time for him), his Father now begging (good luck), Aunt Bella quickly covering up her doubt with a forced laugh (fucking bitch), and Fenir Greyback advancing, teeth out, claws out, coming for him.
His wand was out too.
First a cruciatus, but it just bounced off, then fuck it, the killing curse, also bounced off. Voldemort didn't step in, just laughed, as his Mother pleaded, Father sobbed 'my fault, my fault', and Aunt Bella was suddenly whispering in their Lords ear.
Another curse, another, another, fuck even an expelliarmus. But there was nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide, and he threw a slicing hex, with every last bit of energy as his back hit the door, with everything he had left he threw it, a simple slicing hex.
He had a moment of satisfaction when it got through, when it sliced just the tiniest of cuts (three or four inches) across the half-breed's face. Even the Dark Lord paused, shocked, very little got through to a werewolf. He felt just a hint of pride.
But then, pride cometh before the fall.
Suddenly on his back, Mother screaming, Father begging, Aunt Bella whispering. Pain, so much pain, give him death, give him the sweetness of the grave, give him anything but this, anything but this. Let him go, ascend to whatever afterlife there was, anything but this.
Blood, his own, running down his pale skin, but hidden in his black shirt, onto the floor, staining the Malfoy ballroom, blood, pain, agony. A scream – his own? He wasn't sure. So much pain, the floorboards stained with blood, 'I danced here with Pansy once', he thought.
Pain, blood, agony. This was it.
And then, nothing.
Only it wasn't nothing.
Part of him wished it was. Part of him wished the nothingness had persisted, to never wake, just the cold, quiet darkness. It was oddly comforting, not to know, not to think, not to feel. Cold, dark, quiet, better.
But then, apparently, he didn't deserve better, which was fucking preposterous. He was a Malfoy, he had always deserved better, been better, was better.
Still, as his eyes fluttered open, as the pain radiated through his skin but then seemed to burn off, like a candle being blown out, he realised that perhaps being a Malfoy wasn't quite what he had been told.
The lack of pain alarmed him, where before there had been agony, now he felt strength, and an odd sort of itch. The only pain was at his neck, and as he glanced to the side, he saw his Mother, her back turned, dipping a washcloth in water. Well, that meant it had to be bad, Narcissa Malfoy did not nurse nor get her hands dirty with menial labour. When he had cuts and bruises as a child, she'd kiss his forehead and summon an elf to patch him up, her manicured hands stroking his hair, but hardly bandaging or coming into contact with blood.
She turned back to him and gasped upon seeing him awake, as though she hadn't known if that would happen.
Yes, definitely bad.
"Mother?" He croaked and then let out a groan. It was peculiar, feeling so strong and yet the wound at his neck made him feel so weak. Not good, to feel so different within himself, but then he almost heard a dark chuckle in his mind, felt something tickle there and an awful cold shiver chased up his spine.
Fuck. Filthy fucking half-breed.
Him.
His Mother was looking at him, sat back in the chair next to his bed, as he blinked, as he looked at her, "Mother?" She had tears trickling down her cheeks, and then she nodded and began to talk, to explain – she looked a mixture of heartbroken and uncomfortable, and his urge was to comfort her, as she did the same to him.
"Darling" He didn't hear her explanation, talking to him as though he didn't realise what had happened to him. He felt like he'd been submerged in water, as she sobbed, as she apologised, as she asked if he wanted to see his Father. It was like he couldn't hear her, bubbles of water floating around his head stopping her voice from getting through.
"I'm so sorry"
"It will be okay"
"I still love you"
Words, words he couldn't properly hear, as he felt the strength in his legs, his arms, his torso, but that pain, that twinge at his neck. Where it was, the bite.
He raised his fingers to brush over it and heard his Mother sob again, heard the door go and his Father sob too. Yes, that meant it was very bad, and he couldn't help but wonder …
Was it worse for his parents that their son was being sent on a suicide mission to please the madmen they had thrown their lot in with (though perhaps that wasn't fair to his Mother), or was it worse that their son was now a filthy half-breed?
A werewolf.
He didn't know, but as he closed his eyes, his Mother's sobs still like bubbles around his head, his Father trying to reassure her and him with words, such empty words, he just didn't know.
She had put it off for as long as she could, talked herself out of it and then into it, and then back again.
Bad idea, good idea, terrible idea, great idea, necessary idea.
In the end it all came back to the last – necessary.
She didn't want to perform the memory charm she'd been practicing all summer. She didn't want to turn her parents into different people, turn them away from her, not knowing her, memories wiped, off to the sprawling ranch she'd purchased in their name (which had been a task in itself). She didn't want to have them look at her with blank faces, to not know her.
She didn't want to be left alone.
But what choice did she have?
"Hermione, dinners ready" Her Mothers voice, would she ever hear it again after today? Her Fathers steady gaze, would she ever see the reassurance in his eyes once she sent them away? Hugs, gentle touches of comfort, a kiss to the forehead, holding her whilst she cried, stroking her back when she is sick, words of endearment, roll of their eyes as they debate.
Love.
"Coming Mom" She yells back, in her childhood bedroom, beaded bag at her hip, packed, ready to go. Everything here she'll leave behind. They'll pack everything up, presume this was a guest room, she has scrubbed all evidence of herself here.
Invisible, disappeared, gone.
The walk down the stairs feel like a death march, slow and steady to the end. She feels a twist in her stomach, her hands shake as she holds her wand. She shouldn't even be using magic, but she'd had a rare moment with Dumbledore the summer before, asked his permission, to make the trace invisible to her for this one spell.
He had been misty eyed, but agreed, understood, the only one powerful enough to mask her magic like that. He had spelled it on the last day of term, her wand a loaded and ready weapon for now, this moment, as she walks into the living room, armed and ready.
She feels as though she is walking to an execution, and she supposes in a way she is.
Though in this scenario she is the executioner.
A chill runs through her spine and she shudders as she walks into the living room, tread silent, breath held, her wand aloft. Her parents sit in front of the TV, not aware of her presence, focused on the afternoon news, of a bridge collapse, her peoples doing, not there's.
Part of her wants to hug them one last time, give them a last squeeze, memorise their faces a little more, but she knows she can't. She knows herself well enough to know that if she doesn't do it now, their backs turned, she will never do it. And she can't not do it, she knows what they'll be put through if Voldemort turns his eye to them, and she knows eventually he will.
"Obliviate"
The words leave her lips, and she makes the motion before she can stop herself. She wants to take it back almost immediately, but she knows she cannot. She watches, helpless as her face is wiped from the photos, as her things evaporate into mid-air, her exam results on the fridge (which her parents don't even understand but want to have pride in), her baby ballet shoes on the mantle. She watches as all evidence of her is scrubbed clean from her parent's life. She watches as she disappears.
And she disappears too, out of the house before they can turn around and see her as a stranger. She is out, door closed silently behind her, all of her earthly possessions in her beaded bag at her hip, nothing else, no one else.
She is alone.
She walks away from the house, down the road, away from her childhood home, away from her parents, away from it all. She only looks back once, and she is proud of herself when she doesn't cry, though perhaps that is concerning, perhaps she is too numb for tears, perhaps she is too tired to sob.
And so, she turns away, wand tucked away, head up, eyes dry, she walks away, and only when she finds a space to grab the portkey Dumbledore gave her, does she give herself the permission to breathe.
He was sure the station hadn't been this crowded last year.
Perhaps there are more firsties this time around, perhaps more parents accompanied their offspring to board the Express, or perhaps (and the more likely of the three explanations), he is just more aware of everyone now, more aware of everything, as he has been all summer long.
It is in everything, the smell in the air, the noise of steps, coughs, movement, the sound of it all as people hurried about their day. It is the taste of the air on his tongue, mixed with a potion set someone had dropped and the waft of baked goods people picked up at the stall outside the station. It is the sight of so many people walking past, but to his senses they look as though they are going in slow motion, it is the touch as a few brush past him and he flinches.
His Mother rubs his shoulder, and he flinches again, he feels guilt immediately as a shadow of utter despair flickers over his Mothers face. He manages to pat her on the arm but if anything he's probably made it worse.
He wonders, does his Mother still want to give her son comfort with a touch of her hand, a hug? Or does she view it as soiling herself with a half-breed? Even though it is her own flesh and blood?
He remembers Andromeda then, and as his Mother pulls him into said embrace, he wonders.
He has wondered a lot over the summer, about himself, his family, the cause. The bite at his neck is healed, a shiny silver scar that itches before his transformation, but the Dark Mark on his wrist doesn't heal, it remains stained, inked into his skin, dark and oppressive. He has a few other scars now as well, wolfsbane can only do so much after all. He has a slash on his back, a bite at his hip, and two long cuts across his mark … though that had in human form.
Scars and slashes, on perfect marble skin, but not perfect, not anymore.
'You are perfect Draco, a perfect pureblood Malfoy, descendent of two noble houses, you are the whole world my son, just perfect'
He has come to realise that hadn't been true then, and it certainly fucking wasn't now.
With a sniff he released his Mother, allowed his Father (who's entire expression was permanently one of guilt now) to give him a clap on the shoulder, before he moved towards the train. His Mother grabbed his wrist though and he had to resist the instinctual urge to rip his arm away, instincts were one of the hardest things to adapt to.
Before his instincts had been subtle, lie, don't trust, don't believe. Now they were basic, animalistic like the beast he was, run, hunt, bite, defend, growl, fuck … though he hadn't done any of the latter, it was there. All instincts, running under his skin like a fucking disease, the disease he'd been infected with, constant, ruling him now.
"Draco" His Mother spoke gently, never one to betray her emotions in her tone, "Be careful my son" He nods, and managed to give her a kiss on the cheek, at least it got her to smile, he could count that as something he'd done right this summer he supposed.
It was a short list to keep track of.
With a final nod he walked to the train, his stuff already onboard. He stepped on, and didn't look back, there was no need. Instead, he moved forward, intending to find the Slytherin cart, to see Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Greg, Vince, for this summer he'd been a hermit, it had been months since he'd seen them. He felt the burn of his bite then, and though it didn't hurt he swore he could feel a throbbing in his wrist, on his mark.
With a growl he quickly moved past a 2nd year he'd made jump, and stormed into one of the empty compartments, at the back of the train. He'd see his friends at the feast, but right now as he waved his wand, glamouring the compartment to look out of order, he knew he needed to be alone. With another wave the curtains shut, the lights dimmed, he closed his eyes and attempted to fight the instincts telling him to run, attempted to block out the incessant noise his now advanced hearing could pick up, and attempted to get just a moments peace, the first moment of peace he'd had since he'd been branded and bitten.
She had been quiet the entire time, had hugged Harry and Ron a second longer than normal and then remained subdued and slightly morose as they boarded the train.
She finally understood what it was for Harry, to not wave to any parents on the platform, and she found herself slipping her hand in to his, giving it a squeeze before releasing him (Harry slightly baffled) before she was sliding into a seat.
She knew her quietness would be questioned, and so she decided to pull out a book, none of her friends would question her silence if her head was buried in, 'Wand Theory, The Concept Behind Wandless Casting' by Aldalbert Waffling, and they didn't as she kept her nose firmly in her book couldn't find it in herself to read a word.
'Obliviate'
Pictures fading, objects disappearing, parents sat motionless on the sofa, one last look at the house.
'Obliviate'
Memories gone, daughter erased, practically dead.
In a way she was thankful she'd cried so much when she'd left, there were no tears left now.
None.
"Hermione?" She jumped a little as Ron spoke, cocked his side to the side, "The Prefect meeting?"
Ugh, that, now? She has no energy for that. Last year she'd been proud, hell she remembered her Mother and Fathers utter delight, Prefect was something they could understand after all. They'd grinned and cheered, taken her out for dinner and been so utterly proud of her.
Gone.
"Hermione?" Ron nudged her again and she just nodded, sliding her book into her bag, and making her way out of the compartment. She missed the look Harry gave Neville and was near silent as Ron began to talk about the privileges they would have as prefects, and how this year with Harry as Quidditch Captain he could share them.
Weeks earlier she'd have been grinning, pleased to enter her 6th year, her badge pinned proudly to her chest, smiling up at Ron, but now? Now she just felt empty.
Alone.
Thankfully, they reached the prefects compartment quickly, but it was obvious as they sat down that some people were missing.
"Is Malfoy skiving already?" The new Head Girl, Charlotte Fawley said with a shake of her head. She then turned to look at the other Slytherin 6th year prefect, who Hermione noted had bothered to show up – Pansy Parkinson. "Where is he?"
"I don't know" Pansy said, her nose upturned as always as she looked across at the Head Girl, "Don't bother me about it Fawley" She said, her tone dripping with contempt. Hermione could practically feel Ron rolling his eyes next to her.
"Well, he's needed here, any volunteers to go find him?"
Unsurprisingly, no one stuck their hand up. Few people wanted to deal with Malfoy in regular settings, never mind trying to drag him to something he didn't want to go to. Even Pansy rolled her eyes and went about inspecting her nails, clearly she wasn't planning to volunteer.
"Hermione?" Charlotte said, with a kind smile, Hermione cursed herself then for being so reliable she was the person they'd go to, to wrangle an unruly Prefect. She was in no mood to deal with Malfoy, especially not today.
"Really Charlotte?" She asked, and noticed the Head Girl's eyes widen a little, Hermione was rarely one to talk back to authority figures … well discounting Trelawney and Umbridge.
Even Ron gave her a side glance and she suppressed a sigh, she knew she was acting a little differently than usual, but could it be helped? All she could see in her head, over and over…
'Obliviate'
Memories lost, minds changed, practically different people.
'Obliviate'
Wouldn't recognise if passed in the street, probably in Australia by now, an orphan in all ways.
Gone.
"Fine" She blurts out, just so that people will stop looking at her, she doesn't want to track down Malfoy, certainly not in her current mood, but as she stands up, she realises at least it will stop everyone looking at her like she's grown a 2nd head, and currently that is preferable.
As she hurries out, Ron still looking at her like she's crazy, she thinks to herself … why hasn't she told her friends?
Their reactions? Harry would be overcome with guilt, Ron would be awkward and pat her shoulder, Ginny would look on in horror and but try to bolster her and call her an 'honorary Weasley', Neville would nod in understanding with tears in his eyes, Luna would know in her own odd way. But even knowing that, their reactions she felt she could handle, so why?
She thought it was maybe because saying it out loud made it real.
She knew, Dumbledore knew, but no one else. If she kept it to herself was it real? Yes… but it was easier to pretend it wasn't.
Gone.
With a huff she tried to shove it from her mind as she began to look into each compartment. She was somewhat successful, having pushed it to the back of her head every other waking minute. She tried to focus, her eyes scanning the seats as she walked down the train, looking for Malfoy.
Her lips turned into a grimace then, who knew she'd ever be voluntarily looking for Malfoy. Not something she wanted to nor ever wanted to do again.
She found it a little odd he had missed the Prefect meeting; he did so love lording it over others. In a way they were similar, she loved being a Prefect, but for the right reasons. Still, her badge hung a little crooked today, as she had been unable to summon the enthusiasm for it all that morning.
Or any morning since she'd turned her wand on her own parents.
Again, she was thankful there were no tears left, no need to be weepy when she inevitably tracked Malfoy down and dragged him to the meeting.
She realised then that she'd walked the entire length of the train and she hadn't seen him. How strange. She walked it once more, the snaking journey taking ten minutes end to end, but still, nowhere to be found.
How strange.
"Concealed maybe?" She mumbled to herself, ignoring the 4th year girls giggling at her talking to herself as she set back walking the length of the train, this time wand out, casting a simple 'Homenum Revelio' at each empty compartment she passed.
As she cast at each empty compartment (and only found one annoyed snogging couple for her effort), she wondered why Malfoy was both skiving and would be hiding himself. It seemed so unlike him to be hidden away and quiet, shouldn't he be tormenting Harry and bragging about?
But then she didn't flatter herself that she knew him, she didn't want to.
Finally, she reached the other end of the train, where the final car was more empty compartments than not. She cast at the three on one side, all empty, and then the final compartment, right at the end of the train.
"Homenum Revelio"
She felt a swooping sensation and realised she'd hit the mark.
She kind of wished she hadn't.
Still, she knew someone was sat in the compartment, she didn't know who, the glamours and concealments placed on it were good, very good. With an annoyed twitch she swiped her wand to begin dismantling them (it didn't occur to her she could have just gone back and said she couldn't find him), which proved a feat, not that she needed have bothered, as the door opened with a rattle.
"What do you want?"
The first thing she noticed about Malfoy (who remained sat down, had clearly opened the door with his wand and wasn't even looking at her) was that he looked terrible and fantastic at the same time.
He looked exhausted for one, hair limp over his forehead, lines under his eyes and heavy bags. He looked paler than she remembered, and his entire body seemed to sag with tiredness. She even felt an odd pang of pity, which she repressed, she wasn't about to feel sorry for Malfoy of all people.
But it was strange, he looked tired yes, but at the same time he seemed to … glow. Like he was surrounded by gold, or silver, she couldn't tell which, but it was a glow. He also looked more handsome than she remembered, but then she'd never considered him handsome, sure she'd objectively understood he was good looking but had never felt attracted to him, she'd have needed to be a masochist for that.
It was so strange, and she found herself walking into the compartment to stand opposite him, without even meaning to. So strange.
But then the strangest thing was as he looked up at her, and his grey eyes were threaded with gold.
A little gasp left her lips as she looked at him, she knew she'd seen that before, and she knew where, but surely not? Not Malfoy?
She didn't even notice the awful dark mark staining the skin of his wrist as she realised.
Malfoy was a werewolf.
"You're a…"
The words didn't leave her lips, as he jumped up, not a word said, and his hands grabbed her by the arms, almost lifting her off the floor, shoving her back against the compartment wall. A little squeak left her lips as he did so, and she felt her head rattle a little as he pushed her, not releasing her, stood almost flush with her.
"Don't" It was a command, a plea, his eyes gold threaded more than grey now, as he looked down at her (she realised he'd climbed a few inches in height as well). "Don't"
"Why are you glowing?" She asked, not the important question, but it was what she asked. As she looked up at him, her hand even rising to touch his face, almost against her will, to touch his cheek. She didn't want to, didn't intend to, she just found herself doing it.
Was this the Imperius curse? No, she remembered being under that in 4th year, when Harry had been the only one able to fight it, and she'd performed bird calls in front of the class. It had been different, a mind wiped clean, this was her own mind, but her actions were being prompted.
But then, her mind was also just filled with one question … why was he glowing?
It was a pretty glow, almost blinding, but not quite. Beautiful. How was Malfoy beautiful? She didn't know, but he was.
She should have noticed the mark; she should have been looking for other signs of his new self. She should have shoved him away and hexed him. But she didn't, she just found herself reaching up to touch her face.
"Granger don…"
Just as her words had been cut off, so had his.
Her fingers brushed just barely over his cheek, just a tiny hint of skin on skin. But that, apparently, was enough.
"Malfoy?" She said, cocking her head, as he glowed, brighter, harsher, gold, silver, maybe both?
"Granger" Hers had been a question, his was a statement.
She didn't have much time to consider that, as her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and the last thing she remembered was Malfoy's groan of almost acceptance as he caught her as she fell, and darkness came.
But then words echoed through her head just as the black took over.
'It is done'
What was done? She didn't know, oblivion called.
sooo thoughts?
so so hype to get this going! I'm already halfway through chapter 2, and so excited for this! I've wanted to write dramione for a while, and really hope you enjoy!
do let me know your thoughts, your guesses for big twists (cause y'all know I love them!), and your likes/dislikes.
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speak soon