Draco surveyed at the scene of destruction that lay before his eyes, trying to come to terms with it. The pride he had felt earlier during his initiation was gone – gone, to be replaced by a sick, hollow feeling of horror once he completed his first task. Did I really do that?
He had left Hogwarts but a few days ago, eager to fulfill his lifelong dream and join his father in the ranks of the Death Eaters. His father’s pale eyes, a reflection of his own, had lit up in satisfaction when he heard of his son’s choice.
“You will ascend quickly in the ranks, my son, if you just follow my footsteps. And you will learn to touch more power than you ever thought possible – if carrying out the Dark Lord’s orders does not give you satisfaction enough, you will find that such power is intoxicating enough to prevent you from ever leaving.”
His initiation had taken place at midnight the night before. It had comprised of many tests: the Dark Lord had first searched his mind thoroughly, looking for any trace of disloyalty. Of course he had found none; after all, serving the Dark Lord as his own parents had was all Draco had ever wanted.
He knelt before the Dark Lord’s chair in a circle of hooded and masked Death Eaters, the faint torchlight flickering. He did not know where he was, except that he was in what might have been an old, large cellar.
“I find your loyalty to be some of the deepest I have ever encountered, boy. Ah, and a certain dislike for Mudbloods…and a deep hatred for Harry Potter…Yes, you may serve me well, but how much can your loyalty be strained?”
The next moment Draco had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse. Pain such as he had never know it consumed him as he fell to his knees facing the Dark Lord’s hooded form, surrounded by a circle of Death Eaters. His father had stood there passively, his face hidden behind a mask as he watched his only child writhe and scream in agony. But pride would not allow Draco to beg for mercy from anyone, be it his father or the Dark Lord. And so he had lain there feeling as though he was being stabbed with a thousand knives all at once, white-hot knives that twisted into his skin cruelly…
When the curse was lifted he had remained curled before the Dark Lord’s seat, panting and gasping for breath. Murmurs fluttered quietly around the circle, murmurs of wonder.
“Silence!” the Dark Lord ordered. “So, boy, you did not cry out for me to stop even once. But I wonder, was that your loyalty or your pride?”
Still Draco had lain there, unable to even speak.
“You are very much like your father,” the hooded figure said. “Pride, incurable pride…but he has used it to his advantage. You will do the same. Swear that you will serve me, or I will end your initiation.”
Refusal to swear loyalty resulted in death. But Draco had never meant to refuse.
“I swear…”
“Hold out your right hand, boy,” the Dark Lord spat.
He hated being called “boy”, but dared not argue. Dazedly he held out his hand. With an ancient, serpent-entwined knife the Dark Lord made a long cut through the destiny line of Draco’s palm before making a curved cut along his own life line.
“Rise, Draco Malfoy.”
He stood shakily, and the Dark Lord seized his hand, mingling their blood.
“By your blood, swear that your fate will be forever joined with the Death Eaters, and that you will unswervingly obey my every command no matter what it may be.”
Draco recognized this ritual. The destiny blood oath was one of the strongest ancient magical bonds, one that was said to be nearly unbreakable. Once he swore, there would never be any turning back.
He hesitated for a moment. There was a certain, ominous ring to those words that he did not like.
But was this not his lifelong dream?
“Well?”
“I swear upon my life and upon my blood that my fate will forever be joined with the ranks of the Death Eaters, and that I shall obey you without hesitation. My wand, my life, it all belongs to you.”
The words had come to him naturally, and as he spoke them the Dark Lord formed a glowing, blood red tracery around their hands. When Draco finished speaking the scarlet ribbons sank into his and the Dark Lord’s hands. For a moment nothing happened.
A sudden weakness rushed through Draco, and he collapsed on the stone floor of the cellar once more. The Dark Lord laughed, his high, chilling laugh.
“There is only one thing left to do. Hold out your left arm.”
Here was the moment he had been awaiting all these years. He knelt once more, and extended his arm, rolling up the sleeve of his best robes.
The Dark Lord seized his forearm in one of his long-fingered, unnaturally pale hands. His wand pointed downward to an area just below Draco’s elbow.
At that moment, pain and pleasure flooded simultaneously through Draco. Here was his dream being fulfilled; he would soon bear the Mark, and bear it proudly…
The pain intensified, and he could not hold back a cry. Silence reigned in the room save for his cries, which echoed oddly off the walls.
Quite suddenly it was over. He glanced down at his forearm and saw a deep-red brand upon it, depicting the skull with a snake emerging from his mouth. He raised his eyes and met the Dark Lord’s glaring red stare for a moment, but unable to hold the gaze he quickly looked at the stone floor.
“And now, my new Death Eater, you must show the world why you are among the most feared wizards of this time.”
And so he had been given an address to a Muggle home, no more. Eager to prove himself and still bursting with pride, he had tortured the people senseless, one right after the other, before performing the Killing Curse. Scorch marks now decorated the walls, furniture was ruined, books ripped apart and off their shelves by the force of the spell…
His spell.
Was this all because of me?
He stared down at the bodies of the Muggles. The woman’s eyes, open and blank, glared at him accusingly. He did not even know these people, and yet…and yet…
A feeling of sickness washed over him. They were innocent, had had nothing at all to do with the Wizarding world. He had thought he would enjoy this sort of thing, but he did not feel any sort of thrill at all. Murder did not hold the same enjoyment that taunting someone did…He had not felt that rush of power his father had spoken of, did not feel enthusiastic about what he had just done at all. And now, for the first time ever, he saw what he truly was: a coward.
He had not even considered mercy when he burst in on the family. His head had not held any thought other than doing his father proud. It was not until the final screams and pleas for mercy had faded that he truly saw what he had done. And the sight was terrible.
What have I done?
Was this what being a Death Eater really was like?
Did I make the right choice? Did I even have any choice at all, with Father always watching me?
Oh yes, he had had a choice…but now it was too late. The oath had been binding, and he could no longer turn back.
Never.
And what good what it do, if I tried to resist? I would get myself killed.
He was a coward. A coward, always needing protection, never truly having confidence in himself, always needing to rely on others to protect his pride, always torturing others for the sense of control it gave him. Much as he hated it, that was all that he was, and all that he ever would be.
But his pride would not allow this other voice that had just emerged to win. Forcing back his sick feelings, he shot the Dark Mark into the sky and Disapparated back to where the Dark Lord was waiting. He appeared and immediately knelt.
“Well?” the high, cold voice demanded impatiently.
“It is done, my Lord.”