:::Marked:::
A lifetime came and went before the manor finally appeared on the grey horizon.
Morning mist and autumn fog hazed the air close to the ground. Draco landed, smoothly stepping onto the cobblestone path that weaved around the west gardens. He walked determinedly forward, broom in hand, not sparing a glance at the stern statues that glared down at him from the poisonous patches of hellebores and deadly nightshade that grew all around.
A house-elf was stationed as doorman on the veranda. It jumped to attention as it saw the young master approach, immediately turning, throwing its whole tiny body into pushing the door open for its superior.
Draco, however, was too impatient to wait out the struggle. "Never mind that," he commanded shortly, pushing the thing the rest of the way open and stepping inside. "I need someone to tell my father that I've arrived."
The servant nodded emphatically. "Gobfred can, Master Draco. Right away, sir, Master Draco," it said before scurrying off to find the cold, commanding master of the house.
Draco didn't waste a moment. He headed silently through the room and into one long corridor, working his way from the west wing to the front of the house. He could feel the weight of the vial in his pant pocket as he walked, could feel the scalding warmth of Hermione's blood through the glass, through the material, burning all the way to his skin. But he didn't stop, didn't so much as hesitate. The words on her note, so like the words he'd once spoken to her, were driving him onward—against his instincts, against his desires. The truth was there, forcing him forward.
Why is it we don't have a choice?
He strode into the empty drawing room, crossed to where a window seat provided a perfect view of his grandmother's rose garden. The little courtyard was still pristine, even now long after the matron's death, the bushes pruned and shaped, the stems stiff, the vines growing just as they should along the fence. Everything about Malfoy Manor emanated order, all perfectly placed, dutifully done up. Not even the flowers dared to be disobedient.
It was only a matter of moments before the familiar sound of Lucius Malfoy's voice cut into the silence.
"There you are! My God, you're late." His father was suddenly at his side, looking him up and down with his usual annoyance. "And disturbingly underdressed," he added with blatant disapproval. His silver eyes scanned his son, examining the wind-blown hair and the wrinkled robe with distaste. "You're a mess. You almost look as if you flew here." Draco looked away, causing his father's eyes to narrow. "You flew here?" he demanded in disbelief. His gaze found the expensive broom that rested against the wall of its own accord. "You didn't think that perhaps a fireplace or portkey would be more prudent?" When his son made no reply, he shook his head. "I suppose I should be grateful you decided to grace us with your presence at all…"
Draco didn't respond with his usual sarcasm. He didn't speak. He could barely think. It wasn't fear. It was overwhelming sadness. It was the thought of tomorrow, of how it wouldn't be what he had hoped. How it would be something darker, something far more gruesome.
How it wouldn't be with her.
Lucius watched Draco with skeptical eyes. Dillydallying and improper attire not withstanding, he was pleasantly surprised by this version of his son. There was no quick wit or biting sarcasm. There was no wry apathy or wild impulse. Draco had finally wiped away the droll smirk and replaced it with a more sober look. For the first time, it seemed that the willful boy Lucius had always known might actually be transforming into the son he'd always hoped for, not a prodigal prince, but a dutiful one—proud, serious, and, above all, obedient.
