Autumn had reached the castle. The few short months that had passed since that night at Malfoy Manor had seemed an eternity to Draco. As the rest of the Slytherins slept, Draco stared into the crackling fire of the Common Room, replaying his plan over and over in his head as the brilliant flames danced haughtily in front of him. It just wasn’t working. He’d been trying to repair the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement for weeks, a task which was proving to be far more difficult than Draco had anticipated.
And as he sat, furiously trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong with the Cabinet, Draco wondered how much longer the Dark Lord’s patience with him would hold. He could feel the Mark burn beneath the sleeve of his deep emerald robe, the pain of which seemed to be increasing as time passed. Do all Death Eaters experience the same effects of the Mark? The thought came to Draco. Or is this the Dark Lord’s way of expressing his growing intolerance with my lack of progress? Draco decided the time had come for his backup plan. Fortunately, Draco had been making a few arrangements for this in case it was needed. But he was going to need help.
Help, however, for a Death Eater at Hogwarts was not easy to find. That’s why Draco was working on the Vanishing Cabinet in the first place: to allow entrance into the castle for those who would otherwise be kept out by all the protective enchantments Dumbledore had placed around the school. The only other Death Eater Draco knew to be at Hogwarts was Professor Snape. And while Snape had always been Draco’s favorite teacher, he no longer considered him an ally. With his father in Azkaban, Draco was forced to watch as Snape took Lucius’s position as Lord Voldemort’s most faithful servant. Draco resented him and was determined to prove that he, Lucius’s son, was more worthy of honor from the Dark Lord than was Snape. So when Draco needed help at Hogwarts, he turned to the two people who had always been there to do his bidding in the past.
Leaving the warmth of the fire behind him, Draco stood up, crossed the cold, stone floor, and headed to the boys’ dormitories. He quietly dressed, woke up Crabbe and Goyle, who were both snoring like trolls, and told them to change and meet him in the Common Room in five minutes. Ever obedient to Draco, the boys climbed out of their warm beds and into the bitter darkness of the early morning hours. They dressed and found Draco waiting for them.
“What took you so long?” Draco questioned accusatorily.
Crabbe and Goyle began grumbling about being awoken so dreadfully early on a Saturday morning, but they were quickly hushed by Draco who brusquely ordered them to get their coats.
“Are you mad? It’s sleeting outside!” complained Goyle.
“That’s why you’ll be needing your coats,” Draco responded with a very simplistic tone in his voice.
Quite predictably, the boys followed Draco’s orders, and together they headed out of the dungeons and up the stairs of the castle. They walked silently, careful not to be noticed by the caretaker, Mr. Filch, who always took great pleasure in catching students wandering the corridors when they were supposed to be in bed. As the boys reached the seventh floor, the sun began to peep into the castle.
“What are we doing up here, Malfoy? I’m starting to sweat in this coat.” It was Crabbe’s turn to complain.
“Shut up, Crabbe, and give me a minute. Make yourself useful, and keep watch while you stand there.” Draco slowly began to pace back and forth along the wall. He was deliberate, focused. He closed his eyes and began muttering so softly that the others could not make out what he was saying. Seemingly out of nowhere, the great door to the Room of Requirement appeared. Though Crabbe and Goyle had seen the door before, the day the D.A. was uncovered the previous spring, they were no less amazed as they watched it appear in front of them upon Draco’s command.
Draco opened the heavy door and shoved his classmates into the room, closing the door behind them tightly. The room was small, no bigger than their dormitory. The walls were lined with shelves, and upon them sat a number of bottles and jars, full of what looked to be potions ingredients. In the middle of the floor sat a cauldron, and within it bubbled a murky gray concoction out of which rose a foul-smelling cloud of dark black smoke. Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other nervously and then turned to Draco.
“It’s Polyjuice Potion. Which one of you is in?” asked Draco sternly.
“Malfoy, what’s going on?” asked Goyle.
“That’s really none of your concern. Who’s in?” Draco asked again.
“I’m not drinking that stuff,” Crabbe asserted.
“Well, I’m not drinking it,” insisted Goyle.
“Look, there’s something I’ve got to do in Hogsmeade today, but I’ve got detention with McGonagall. I need someone to sit for me.” Draco was growing impatient.
“Isn’t this a bit much just to get out of detention?” asked Goyle.
“Goyle, give me a bit of your hair,” ordered Draco.
“Why me? What about Crabbe?”
“Because you’re better looking,” answered Draco sardonically. “And I don’t see why either one of you should mind. You’ll get to look like me for a while.”
Neither Crabbe nor Goyle had ever stood up to Draco before. But this time was different. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep from being awoken so early on a Saturday. Perhaps it was that they hadn’t eaten yet, and hunger was making them less agreeable than usual. Perhaps they just didn’t think it was fair to have to suffer through Draco’s detention for him. After all, they hadn’t been neglecting their Transfiguration homework all semester. Or perhaps they were simply tired of taking orders from their classmate. Whatever the reason, neither Crabbe nor Goyle was about to drink the putrid, mud-like substance which sat gurgling at their feet.
“I’m going to go see if the elves have anything ready for breakfast.” Goyle stepped toward the door, but Draco defiantly moved to block his path.
“You’re not going anywhere, Goyle.” And without pausing to think, Draco hastily removed a shiny, silver, serpentine cufflink and drew back the left sleeve of his shirt. The room was silent but for the noise emanating from the cauldron. The boys stared at the Mark as it seemed to slither upon Draco’s forearm. Draco stared back at them, his heart beating vigorously. Their eyes and mouths gaped open, but no sound came out. The three classmates stood in the small room, frozen to the spot.
Though the stillness seemed as if it would hold them without end, Goyle was finally the first to move. He brought his hand to his head and with a stern yank, pulled out a lock of his hair. “Will this do?” he asked. His shaky hand presented Draco with the object of his request.
___
It was the day every Hogwarts student who was third-year and up had been eagerly awaiting: the first trip to Hogsmeade of the school year. In spite of the chilling rain and sleet that had arrived during the night, the road to Hogsmeade was full of students. Well in front of the crowd were Vincent Crabbe and Draco Malfoy, who looked exactly like fellow-Slytherin, Gregory Goyle. No one suspected a thing as Crabbe and Goyle would usually head to Hogsmeade together. Typically they were flanking Draco, of course, but today he was sitting in detention with Professor McGonagall.
When the boys reached Hogsmeade, Draco decided he needed to be rid of Crabbe for a bit, so he handed him the Knuts he found in Goyle’s pocket and sent him to Honeyduke’s. He knew that would keep Crabbe busy while he headed over to the Three Broomsticks. Although Draco had revealed to both Crabbe and Goyle the Dark secret which he hid beneath his sleeve, he was certainly not about to fill them in on the task he’d been given nor his plans to accomplish it. This was between Draco and the Dark Lord, servant and Master. It was his alone to carry.
As Draco entered the Three Broomsticks, the warmth of the tavern was a welcome escape from the frigid wetness outside. Draco spotted a table in the far corner and decided it was the perfect spot as the light was relatively dim, yet it offered a broad view of much of the tavern. He made his way across the room, clumsily knocking over a chair and then bumping into a man from the village. Draco, who generally moved with a certain amount of dignity, was finding it difficult to manage in the broader, heavier frame of Goyle. He tried not to draw too much attention to himself as he reached his destination, pulled out the wooden chair which seemed to screech loudly upon the well-worn oak floor, and sat down.
Without a moment to gather his thoughts, his eyes caught Madam Rosmerta’s. The owner of the Three Broomsticks had noticed Draco, or rather Goyle, and she started towards him to take his order. Before she could even mutter so much as a greeting to him, Draco spoke. “Butterbeer,” he said, his voice slightly quivering. She smiled, nodded and turned her back to him as she headed back to the bar. This was it. It was all happening so quickly. The Polyjuice would only last so long. He could not hesitate.
He knew the curse he had to speak. His entire plan depended on it. He did not pause. He couldn’t. His nerves might betray him. His wand concealed beneath the table in front of him, he breathed in a single breath of the stale tavern air and exhaled, “Imperio!” He’d done it. The Unforgivable Curse had rolled off his tongue so easily. And he knew it had worked instantly, for the moment he spoke the word, he felt a sensation he had never felt before, an intense power flowing from his heart through his hand to his wand. It was unlike any magic he had ever performed, stronger, almost overwhelming the sixteen-year-old who had given voice to it. And then, all he had to do was think, with a focus, a determination. But the magic of the Imperius curse did not require words. Draco merely had to concentrate on whatever he desired Madam Rosmerta to do, and it happened.
Draco sat in the corner, watching the scene play out before him, the scene he was inventing inside his head. Madam Rosmerta reached behind the bar and picked up the parcel which had mysteriously arrived by owl post just moments before Draco, or rather Goyle, had entered the tavern. She brought Draco his butterbeer and then disappeared into the ladies’ room with the package.
Draco’s work was not done. He would have to Imperius someone else, a student or a teacher, someone who could get back into the castle. His eyes scanned the tavern to see who could potentially be his next target. No! At a table on the opposite side of the room sat the three people he least wanted to see: Harry, Ron, and Hermione. If they suspected Draco of anything, they would start snooping and surely make a mess of things. His heart sank while his contempt for the three of them grew. Then again, he wasn’t Draco; he was Goyle. Perhaps this would be enough to keep any suspicions at bay. And then a marvelous thought came to him: Maybe it’ll be Granger. How ironic if Dumbledore’s favorite little Mudblood was the one to deliver the package to him. Surely, he’d open it with delight. Potter and Weasley would likely be right there with her when it happened. And they’d get to watch as their beloved Headmaster… His sinister thought was interrupted as Katie Bell, a Gryffindor he’d often played Quidditch against, walked directly through his line of sight, headed for the ladies’ room.
He couldn’t wait for Hermione. He had to act. “Imperio!” Draco whispered the curse, and he felt the same powerful sensation surge through him once again. He knew it had worked. Moments later, Katie Bell exited the ladies’ room and left the Three Broomsticks, headed back to the castle to deliver her newly acquired package: a gift for the Headmaster. Dumbledore would soon be dead. This was too easy. It was Dark. It was eerie. It was wonderful.
But Draco had no time to dwell on his recent accomplishment. He knew the effects of the Polyjuice Potion would wear off soon. He had to get back to Hogwarts. Draco signaled Madam Rosmerta over to his table one last time and gave her a handful of change for the butterbeer. Among the coins was a fake Galleon upon which he had placed a Protean Charm. Draco had no reason to doubt the success of his latest plan to kill the Headmaster, after all, the cursed necklace which was on its way to Dumbledore had a long history of bringing death to anyone who touched it. Nevertheless, Draco had also learned that there was value in a backup plan. He would leave Rosmerta under the Imperius Curse as it wasn’t always practicable for him to make it into Hogsmeade, and he would be able to give her orders using the charmed Galleon if he required use of her again in the future.
Draco left the Three Broomsticks as inconspicuously as possible, located Crabbe, and hurried back to Hogwarts in the stinging rain. Draco felt an overwhelming sense of pride. He was a Death Eater. He was serving his Master well. He would prove himself to his father. He would soon overshadow Snape. He would make the Dark Lord proud.
Draco and Goyle met in the boys’ bathroom down the corridor from Professor McGonagall’s office just as they were beginning to transform back into themselves. Draco was glad to change out of the clothes that had been saturated by the chilling wetness outside and pull on his warm, dry robes. Goyle, on the other hand, was struggling to get his limbs into the mess of dripping wet clothes Draco had so willingly relinquished.
“Sorry about that, Goyle. It was a bit of a mess out there this morning,” offered Draco.
“No worries, Malfoy. I’ll gladly drip from head to toe if it means I don’t have to be you anymore,” Goyle responded.
“C’mon now, detention couldn’t have been that bad. It’s just McGonagall.”
“It wasn’t the detention, Malfoy. It was that bloody Mark of yours. It was creepy, like it knew I wasn’t you. My whole arm felt like it was on fire.”
Draco said no more. He had never considered that Goyle would feel it, too. The Death Eater walked alone down the corridor to Professor McGonagall’s office. He had to sit for his detention.
The Mark of the Death Eater by Thestral Wings
Chapter Endnotes: Sorry it took so long for Chapter 2. This story will ultimately be about 10 chapters. I wrote the last 5 or 6 first. Now I'm having to go back and fill in. Not the easiest way to write. Oh well. Thanks for waiting!