Draco stood listening to the Dark Lord drone on about the importance of purity of bloodlines and magical power and how they were to reclaim their rightful position in society and... Well, at that point, Draco simply stopped listening. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard this since birth, after all.

It was odd how strange he felt standing there. He was a Malfoy; he was used to commanding respect and deference. And yet, with no heavy black robes and no ghostly white mask, he felt... exposed. The others wore them, of course, except the Dark Lord and Pettigrew. Draco flicked a glance toward the cringing man and quickly looked away in disgust. Why had the Dark Lord ever accepted that Gryffindor? It made no sense at all.

Draco wished that this were over and done with. He had plans, oh, yes, plans for that Mudblood Granger. She might think that she was smart, but she'd learn firsthand about the privileges that came with being a Malfoy and with being a Death Eater. She should have stayed in the Muggle world where she belonged.

The Dark Lord kept talking and Draco let his eyes drift around the circle. They rested on the empty spot where his father should have stood. Lucius was still in Azkaban and Draco felt another hot surge of anger toward Potter. That was another name on his list for a lesson in privilege. Just as soon as he finished with Granger, he'd be paying Potter a little visit.

The slender Death Eater standing near that empty spot must be Aunt Bellatrix. And were those the black eyes of Professor Snape behind that mask over there? For just an instant, it seemed like those eyes conveyed disappointment. But surely that was merely a trick of the firelight, for Draco knew that Snape was proud of him.

Draco carefully avoided looking directly at the Dark Lord. Really, couldn't he have chosen a more pleasant form? That reptilian face and red eyes were hideous. Unconsciously, Draco smoothed down his dress robes with his hands.

Finally, the Dark Lord called him forward and Draco knelt and kissed the hem of his robes, all the while struggling to keep his lip from curling in revulsion. As the Dark Lord reached for his arm, a small voice inside began whispering for him to run away, but he heard the murmuring of a spell, and then the Dark Lord reached out and touched Draco's forearm with the barest tip of his finger.

The pain was excruciating and the voice inside was shrieking now, but it was too late and the pain just went on and on and on, searing through flesh and blood and bone all the way down to his soul.

And then it just... stopped.

Draco staggered to his feet, vaguely aware of the copper taste of blood in his mouth and, dazed, he touched his mouth, wincing as he realized that he'd bitten through his tongue. Suddenly, his stomach clenched hard and he fought to keep his dinner from heaving up and out of him and splattering onto the dirt.

Someone was draping a heavy, dark cloak around his shoulders and pushing a cool, white mask into his hand, and Draco stared at the blood on his fingers and then down at the mark burned into his arm.

He forced himself to smile. He'd wanted this, wanted it with all his heart. So why was he suddenly remembering something that was taught in second-year Muggle studies?

Why was he remembering that Muggles brand their cattle?