This ficlet was inspired by @poxei âs incredible artwork. Go check out some of her other work! You will not be disappointed. Trigger warning: self-harm.
Itâs been four hours. Four fucking hours since heâs officially become a Death Eater and he has already killed three people. Draco braces his arms on either side of the basin and heaves deep, gasping breaths, trying to dislodge those sickening images from his mind.
Every time he closes his eyes, he swears that he can still feel Aunt Bellaâs rancid breath on his neck, whispering to him to just kill the âfilthy Muggle scumâ already. He can still see her wicked grin as a jet of green light strikes the young girl first. He can still hear her shriek of glee when he points his wand at the girlâs sobbing parents next. They were just Muggles, he chants to himself like a mantra. Only Muggles.
He looks down at his left forearm, at the serpentine embodiment of death and dark magic marring his flesh, corrupting his skin, his mind, his fucking soul. As if his soul hasnât been corrupted enough, he chuckles darkly. The coppery stench of blood hangs in the air and bile rises in his throat, hot tears stinging behind his eyelids.
He canât remember the last time heâd cried. He hadnât when the Dark Lord performed bout after bout of the Cruciatus Curse on him for his fatherâs failures. He certainly hadnât when his âmasterâ dragged the tip of his wand down Dracoâs arm, leaving a trail of scorched skin in its wake. And he hadnât â but had come damn near close â when the black tendrils of the Dark Mark lapped at his flesh like Fiendfyre.
But here, in the confines of his ornate bathroom, he lets his Occlumency walls fall and his tears fall faster. He cries for his mother, his sweet mother, who deserves so much more than this wretched life. He cries for his father, who should be here to help him but is in Azkaban instead. He cries for Albus sodding Dumbledore, who would be dead by the end of the year.
But most of all, he cries for himself because heâs just joined a homicidal cult of sadists who mindlessly devoted their entire lives to serving the darkest wizard of all time. He cries because he has twelve months to figure out how to get said homicidal cult into Hogwarts and kill the Headmaster of his own school.
He glances back at his arm and resentment bubbles within him, replacing the sadness. The raised flesh around the ink is red and itchy and he feels the overwhelming urge to just get rid of it. He pulls out his wand from his robes, levels it at the offending stain on his otherwise porcelain skin, and mutters a Slicing Hex. The skin tears open and Draco watches with disturbing fascination as dark red blood seeps from the gash, dripping to the black marble tiles. He grimaces when the Mark remains clearly distinguishable.
He slashes his wand again and another gash appears, deeper than the first but far shorter. No, that just wouldnât do. He whispers the incantation once, twice more before his knees buckle and he sinks to the floor, vision blurred. His heart soars in delight when he can no longer make out the outline of the ugly skull and snake. Could it really have been that easy?
âVulnera Sanentur,â he mumbles, mustering up the last of his energy to cast the healing spell, and his skin stitches itself together. He releases a strangled sob at the sight of the Dark Mark still intact on his mangled forearm. It was foolish to even hope, he knows.
âDraco!â shouts a voice, and he can hardly hear it over the steady pounding in his ears. Narcissa Malfoy scurries into the bathroom and kneels next to her sonâs bloodied form, pulling his head into her lap. âWhat did you do, my Dragon?â she asks, tears welling up in her own eyes.
His heart skips at the name. She hadnât called him that in years. The last time had been when he was seven years old, after heâd broken his leg in a flying accident. He would give anything to go back to the time when a broken bone was the worst of his worries. âI hate it,â he whispers, eyes darting to his Mark. âI hate this. I hate him.â
Narcissa strokes his hair. âI know,â she says, pressing her lips to his forehead. âI know you do. Itâs just a matter of time, my Dragon. It will all be over soon.â Draco, for his part, hopes that sheâs right.Â
gummygunk
stormborns
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
areudirty
