Author's Note: Rating is mainly for self-injury. If you are sensitive to such things, please beware of triggers. Other mature themes include mental disorders, substance abuse, suicide attempt, and violence. You have been warned.

Part One

"Draco, you have been summoned."

With those words, Draco felt his insides turn cold with both fear and anticipation. He stood as his mother nodded stiffly. "Thank you. We will be right there, Bella."

Bellatrix Lestrange did not move, and Draco watched his mother stand and turn slowly toward her sister, her face an unreadable mask. "I said we will be right there. Leave us, please."

"I will escort you," replied his aunt, and he watched as they stared at one another, their silent battle of wills almost crackling with visible energy. He did not wish to be involved in their personal quarrel, but it was too late: he was thick in the middle of it. He had been summoned by the Dark Lord.

"I would like a word in private with my son," snapped Narcissa. "As this is still my home, Bella, I insist that you at least wait outside the room."

His aunt narrowed her eyes, then gave them a small, mocking bow. "I'll be right outside, sister," she finally replied in a sing-song voice that made his skin crawl. He had not known his aunt until she had escaped from Azkaban the year before; most days he wished she were still in prison, and not his father. She was the most cruel and manipulative woman he had ever known, and he hated that she had moved into the manor with them, as if she had every right to be there when she had almost none.

She did, however, step outside the room, and Draco turned to his mother. She dropped the confident posture she had put on and let her shoulders slump, pulling him toward her for a fierce embrace.

"This is it, Draco," she whispered, kissing his head. "He will ask you to join him, to take your father's place. What will you say?"

Draco stepped back and laughed bitterly through his nose. How could she even ask him that? He had no choice, not after what his father had done, and he wanted to prove himself, prove that he was better and would not fail. "I will accept," he replied. "What else can I say?"

"You can refuse," she murmured. "Draco, you do not have to pay for your father's mistakes. Surely he will see that, understand that. You can serve him in other ways, as I have…" She trailed off as she realized how wrong she was, how desperate her words sounded. The Dark Lord would not acknowledge any type of refusal, not from Lucius Malfoy's son; he would accept nothing less than Draco's life.

Draco was of mixed mind as to giving it. He knew he owed the Dark Lord much more than his life for his father's failure; yet it was his Lucius Malfoy who had been caught in the Department of Mysteries, not him, and he resented his father for putting him in the position of having to redeem the family name even as he craved the opportunity to prove himself. It was his life, though, and it would be forever should he choose to join the Dark Lord…as if he truly had a choice.

"I can't refuse, mother," he finally said. "And I'm not sure that I want to. I'm ready." Now that it was time, he wasn't ready, not really, but they couldn't put it off any longer, or his aunt would drag them before the Dark Lord and gleefully throw them down as weak blood traitors.

"Draco," she murmured. "My son." Her eyes were bright with tears, but somehow she did not let them fall. He nodded stoically and took her arm as he led her across the hall to where the Dark Lord now sat in the dining room, as if he were the lord of the manor, and not Lucius Malfoy. The thought made Draco irrationally angry, but he suppressed it, knowing he must show only deference and respect. He did not wish to be punished for any semblance of disloyalty, not as he was pledging his life to serve a new master.

Bellatrix followed them in and closed the doors behind her. The Dark Lord sat alone, his long fingers clasped almost thoughtfully on the table before him. Bellatrix moved to stand behind him, as if she were both his servant and lieutenant, and Draco felt a strange rush of envy and disgust that he quickly suppressed as he faced his fate as boldly as he could.

"Good evening, Narcissa," said Voldemort, his voice deceptively low and seductive. The very sound of it made Draco's blood freeze, and he steeled himself for what was to come. There was power in that voice: he would not be able to resist it even if he dared. The Dark Lord knew almost instantly that he had won, and that Draco would be his, because his thin lips curled up ever so slightly. Draco stood tall, determined to appear stronger than he felt.

His mother inclined her head. "My lord," she said deferentially. "It is an honor to have you in our home."

Voldemort merely raised an eyebrow. "I have not come for sniveling honor. I have come to speak to your son."

Narcissa swallowed hard, but did not protest. "Yes, my lord."

"Step forward, Draco." When the Dark Lord commanded, he had little choice but to follow, and Draco stepped forward, willing himself to stop shaking. He would face the Dark Lord as a man, not a boy.

"My lord," Draco murmured, bowing his head. He could not look into those red eyes. And yet still he knew they were narrowed shrewdly as they studied him.

"I have a task for you, Draco," Voldemort finally began. "Your father failed me in his. You must not fail yours."

"Yes, my lord," Draco replied. The shame stung once more, that his father had failed so completely in the Department of Mysteries. He must restore his family's name. Perhaps then he could stand by the Dark Lord's side one day, as his aunt did.

"You must not fail," the Dark Lord repeated. "You hold your family's life in your hands, Draco. You-and your parents-will die if you do not succeed. Do you understand?"

Beside him, Draco could feel his mother's sudden fear and panic. He wanted to reach out to her and reassure her that he was ready, but he could not appear vulnerable. He simply nodded, and Narcissa bit back a gasp.

"My lord, please-he's only a boy! You cannot possibly-"

"Silence!" snapped Bellatrix, coming around the chair to stand before her sister. "This does not concern you. It is between Draco and the Dark Lord."

"He's my son!" Narcissa cried. "He's only sixteen, he's not even of age-"

The Dark Lord raised his hand, and Narcissa stopped, whether by magic or by choice, Draco did not know. He simply stared straight ahead.

"Enough, Narcissa," Voldemort said softly. "I am giving him this one opportunity to prove himself and redeem your husband. He would be wise to take it."

"I will," said Draco, still not looking at his mother. He knew her tears would affect him, and he could not allow her to weaken him now. He would do this, and he would not fail.

"Will you take the Dark Mark first?" asked Bellatrix, leaving his mother to stand before him. "Truly and completely pledge yourself to the Dark Lord in this task?"

And there it was: the damning question his mother had feared. He heard her choke back another sob. He tried not to hesitate, but it was hard…so final, so forever…

"Answer the question, nephew," Bellatrix whispered. She reached out as if to take his face and force him to answer, but seemed to think better of it as her hand stopped just short of his chin. He glared at her, then gazed into the Dark Lord's eyes.

"I will take the Mark. What is my task?"

"I will reveal everything once you are bound to us," Voldemort replied. He stood and beckoned Draco forward. "Come, Draco Malfoy. Kneel before me."

Narcissa crumpled to the floor behind him, but Draco ignored her, his heart pounding. He faced the imposing figure before him and knelt, desperately hoping the Dark Lord would not look into his mind and see his fear, his shame, his need to prove himself. He was ready, he wanted this-but he was still terrified. His hope was in vain.

"You are wise to be afraid, Draco," Voldemort said softly. "Only a fool would not. But if you serve me faithfully you will have nothing to fear. For yourself or your family."

Draco swallowed and nodded; he could not speak, for his voice would certainly betray him even more than his thoughts.

"Hold out your left arm," Voldemort demanded, and Draco did as he was told. "Raise your sleeve." Draco bared his forearm to the Dark Lord and closed his eyes. He sensed rather than saw his aunt before him.

"Do you, Draco Malfoy, swear to serve the Dark Lord with your life, obeying all his commands to the very end of your days?"

Draco merely nodded, but she snapped at him. "Speak your answer!"

"I do," he whispered, his voice a croak. "I swear."

"Then let the mark upon your arm be a sign of your loyalty, a symbol of your fealty, and reminder of your vow." She stepped back, and Draco prepared himself for what was to come.

He had known it would hurt; how could it not? But he could never have imagined the searing agony as the Dark Lord burned the vicious symbol of the serpent and skull into his flesh. It was more than just skin slicing open, more than muscle on fire: it was Dark magic seeping into his very being, twisting through his arm, through his entire body, until he gasped out loud, unable to bear it any longer. His eyes snapped open.

His left forearm glowed with a dark light, and he moved his right hand as if to stop the fire spreading throughout his body, but his aunt grabbed his hand and twisted, forcing him to endure even more pain as the mark settled deep into his skin, a vivid red tattoo grinning cruelly at him. There was no blood, but he felt as if his arm were dripping with it. Slowly the new mark faded, leaving behind a dull ache that Draco knew would be there forever.

When his aunt released him, he let out the breath he didn't even know he'd been holding as he brought his arm to his chest and cradled it, unable to deny himself that small comfort after enduring so much pain. His head fell as the weight of his new-found responsibility settled heavily upon his shoulders. Yet he had made his choice; now he must live with it. He would save him family, and perhaps it would even bring him honor at the Dark Lord's side.

"Look at me, Draco." The Dark Lord commanded him, and he obeyed. This time he gazed unflinchingly into the red eyes boring into his own, though it was the hardest thing he had ever done. Voldemort slowly nodded, as if accepting his vow only now, after it was done. "You did well. You did not scream."

Draco did not respond, because it had taken every ounce of his being to remain silent.

"Now that you have joined us, you will have a mission," Voldemort said. "Rise. You may help your mother."

Once again Draco did as he was told. He helped his mother to stand; she was shaking, and it was all he could do to remain steady as they faced the Dark Lord together to learn his fate.

"You will find a way to get your comrades into Hogwarts when you return." Narcissa's hands flew to her mouth, but Voldemort continued. "And you will kill Albus Dumbledore so that they will be unopposed when they do."

His mother cried out, but it sounded to Draco as if she were miles away. All he could hear was the wild beating of his heart as his vision blurred, and he struggled against the impulse to vomit.

"Do you understand what you are to do?" asked the Dark Lord, and Draco forced himself to focus, forced himself to nod in numb terror. He was tasked with murdering Albus Dumbledore, his headmaster and one of the most powerful wizards of the century. He was charged with breaching the wards at one the most magically protected buildings in all of England. He was responsible for saving his family and redeeming the Malfoy name.

He was only sixteen: he was as good as dead.

Part Two

He was only twenty-two, but he might as well be dead.

Most days he managed to get up, get dressed, get out of the house. But what then? The last six months had seen nothing but preparation for the five-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and with the constant, never-ending reminders everywhere he went, he had found himself more often than not with his face in a glass of Firewhisky. His guilt and shame knew no bounds as the wizarding world prepared to mark both a tragic and victorious event that was neither for him: it just was.

Yet every day he was reminded of it: of what he had done, what he had tried to do, what he had failed at. No matter that he tried to hide the most vicious reminder with long sleeves on even the hottest of days: every time he undressed it stared at him, the faded Dark Mark seared into his forearm so long ago.

Swirling the drink in his hand, Draco snorted to himself. It wasn't that long ago. Six years. That was nothing. He'd lived with it for six years, and he'd live with it for another sixty, at least. There was no way out of it: he had pledged his service to Voldemort, and he had been marked for life.

Sometimes he could swear it burned, or itched, or even flared with pain. It didn't, of course. It was just the same dull guilt and regret that sent him into the pubs every day now. He didn't know what he'd do come Friday when the wizarding world collectively bowed its head and gave thanks to Potter and his whole sodding lot at the Ministry. Maybe he'd Stun himself unconscious for the day, just to avoid the inevitable stares; there probably wasn't enough Firewhisky in Knockturn Alley to do the job properly.

Friday finally arrived, and he got up, got dressed, and gazed numbly at himself in the mirror. He held up his wand, pointed it at the glass, then decided he would be better off pointing it directly at his head. He moved back to the bed, so as not to injure himself when he fell unconscious. But he sat there, and sat there, and did not cast the spell.

He was suddenly and unexpectedly angry.

He should not have to Stun himself to avoid the most important day in wizarding history. After six years, he should not have to hide, not have to bury his sorrows in glass after glass of rancid whisky until he could fall asleep without sobbing from the shame, the humiliation, the horror of the things he'd seen and done. He should have moved on.

Maybe he should Obliviate himself, literally erase his past and start over. But then his eye caught the faded mark on his arm, and though he might not remember it after he'd cast the spell, he would still be able to see it, and someone would tell him what it was and what he had done, and he would just have to do it all over again.

No, it was the Dark Mark, he realized. What he had hoped would bring him fame and glory at the Dark Lord's side had instead been nothing but a nightmare. He had started his sixth year at Hogwarts eager and proud to be counted among the Dark Lord's most loyal followers…only to quickly realize that the task he had been set was virtually impossible. It had been given only as punishment for his father's failure, not as an opportunity for redemption. He had been meant to fail.

And yet…he had succeeded. He had brought the others through the Vanishing Cabinet he'd worked so hard to repair, and he had Disarmed Albus Dumbledore, the greatest headmaster Hogwarts had ever seen. He had not killed him, no, but he did not regret it. He had realized in that moment, as he actually held Dumbledore at wandpoint, that he was not supposed to complete his mission: he was supposed to die. He had been set up, but he had survived. And though he had been angry and disappointed, more than anything the realization instilled in him a sliver of doubt that grew over the next year.

He had hated not feeling like he truly belonged to either side-to either Hogwarts or to Voldemort. He had betrayed his school, his house, his friends. He had watched people die at the hand of the Dark Lord, painfully tortured for no reason other than the circumstance of their birth, and it had sickened him. He might not have wanted to consort with Muggles and Muggle-borns, but in the end, he did not wish to see them horrifically killed, either. Or consumed by snakes…

With a shudder, Draco stared at the skull and snake on his arm. It was the symbol of so much potential and yet so much gone wrong: nothing but death and failure and pain and suffering. He couldn't stand it anymore. Grabbing his wand, he cast a silent spell and began to carve it from his arm.

He bit back a scream of agony as the Severing Charm touched his skin, then quickly cast another spell around his room so no one would hear him and try to stop him. He returned to his grisly task, determined like he had never been to be rid of the Dark Mark that had consumed his life for six years, as if the snake itself had swallowed him whole.

The scream that left him as he continued burned his vocal cords; he briefly considered Silencing himself as well. But then he decided to pour all his pain, anger, and grief into the primal sound, as he frantically tried to erase the mark on his arm, desperately hoping to reclaim that part of him which he had given to the darkness. Yet all too soon tears blinded his eyes, and the blood seeping onto his bed, even spilling onto the floor, covered his arm, and he had no way of knowing if he had succeeded.

Taking a deep breath, Draco bit his lip as he cast another spell to clean the fresh wound. As the water from his wand washed away the bright red blood, his heart stopped in his chest, for the Dark Mark was still there, leering cruelly at him, as if mocking his suffering. Only now it was laced with deep angry scars that stung fiercely as they were rinsed clean.

Swearing profusely, Draco cast a charm on his arm, numbing the pain and stopping the bleeding, though only superficially: he was no Healer, after all. As he stared at the failure now etched even deeper into his skin, something snapped, and he stumbled from the bed to the next room, his thoughts focused only on ridding himself of it forever no matter the cost. The smallest part of his mind recognized the break, the compulsive obsession that had taken over; the rest of him was too far gone to stop it.

Standing over the sink, Draco tried every spell he could think of, until he could no longer feel the pain because every nerve in his arm was either destroyed or numb with agony. Bone, blood, and sinew were visible beneath the damnable mark, but still he cut. The sink ran red with blood, until he grew dizzy from the very sight of it. He tried one last, desperate spell that failed once more, and then he finally stopped, vomited, and collapsed in a sobbing heap beside the toilet, his will overcome at last.

How long he laid there, he did not know. He contemplated ending it all, casting his first and final Killing Curse, but deep down, he did not want to die. He wanted to live, but he wanted to live free of his past and the constant reminder carved into his body as punishment for it. He wanted to survive, to succeed at one thing in his life when he had failed at so many others. And so he didn't cast the curse, because he would not die broken and defeated. Not after all he'd been through.

They found him like that, covered in dried blood and murmuring to himself. They took his wand and bound him-both his wounded arm and his hands, as if to protect him from himself-and they took him away. His mother was beside herself, his father disappointed. Draco didn't care.

He spent a week in a drug-induced haze before they let him out and he tried again. They brought him back and this time made him stay, made him talk about it. They gave him stronger potions to dull both the mental and physical pain, and even sent him home with it this time, which was a mistake, because he didn't bother with the instructions they gave him: he took it all.

When he ran out, he found more, until it no longer had any effect, and he was forced out of Knockturn Alley onto the Muggle streets for something new, something stronger, something that would work at dulling the guilt and pain. It was not hard to find; Muggles apparently had their own pain to smother as well. He'd be gone for days and not remember where he had been, but it was better than remembering the past and losing hope in the future.

Eventually he ran out of money. He ran out of drugs. He ran out of friends to turn to for either. He started seeing things that weren't there, hearing things only he could hear. And he knew, in the small part of his mind that was somehow still sober and not shaking, that he had hit rock bottom, that he needed help and would likely die without it. He still wasn't ready, though-wasn't willing to die.

He would not let the Dark Mark kill him.

He could not go back to St. Mungo's, because they had done this to him as much as he had done it to himself. So he entered a small apothecary one night, thinking there must be something that would help him-some potion, some plant, some exotic ingredient barely known to man that would break the vicious grip of addiction and withdrawal and pain and suffering.

And to his profound irritation, his intense relief, and his everlasting astonishment…there was, and one day he would be whole again.

End Notes:
Yes, I can actually write stories that are not about the Marauders. Yes, it's bleak. But! There is a sequel-actually, I wrote it first, then came back and wrote this. It's called 'Uncommon Friends' and it won a QSQ at Mugglenet Fanfiction. I'll post that next. Thank you for reading!