Her heartbeat thrummed a steady rhythm, like the beating of a drum, like a funeral march.

Beside her stood Lucius, ominous in his Death Eater robes that flowed from over his head, gathering at his shoulders and waist, before spilling down to the floor. His mask was off, however, and grey, kind eyes looked back at her. His knuckles drawing across the line of her jaw.

“I will be there with you, the whole time,” he promised.

“Where are Draco and Theo… Where is Blaise?” Hermione asked, her voice barely above a strained whisper.

Lucius’ hand rested on her shoulder – a comforting weight.

“Draco is with Narcissa, she will be there for his and Theo’s markings. Blaise is waiting with his mother Elenora. You are the first to be marked… it is a great honor, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded dumbly.

“Why are you not with Draco?” Even with all this fear, she still couldn’t stifle her curiosity.

Lucius thought for a long moment, his eyes flicking from the heavy oak doors and back to her.

“It is the way the Dark Lord has always done it. Mothers offer their sons, fathers offer their daughters – though you are only the second witch to be offered to the Dark Lord,” he answered.

She merely hummed her understanding, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she waited for whatever was on the other side of that door.

For once she was not dressed in colors so dark they were almost black. This evening, after dinner, Narcissa had been waiting in her room, ornate white dress robes laid out on her bed. Pansy had been there as well, relieved that for now she was spared from the marking, and helped Narcissa dress Hermione’s shaking form.

The white robes she wore were beautiful, embroidered with gold snakes that appeared to slither over her shoulders, down her torso, and around her waist. Unlike the usual long bell sleeves, these stopped right above her elbows but then dripped down so low they almost skimmed the ground.

Her hair was down – the first time she’d ever left it so in the presence of the Dark Lord, something Narcissa said had been at His request. Only a select few of his inner circle would be present for her marking and he wanted her as recognizable as possible.

“Are you ready?” Lucius asked, breaking through her reverie.

She swallowed once, took a deep breath, then nodded.

No going back now.

Lucius knocked seven times in a slow rhythm on the door, then they heard the deep, hissing voice of the Dark Lord.

“Enter.”

The wide doors swung open and Lucius stepped through first, Hermione a step behind and to the right. Unlike before, she’d been instructed to enter with her head held high and her gaze straight forward.

It was dark in the room save for the blazing fire. In the center sat a ring of tall, unlit black candles, big enough for two or three people to comfortably lay in. The ornate rug had been removed, as well as all the furniture. Not even the Dark Lord’s throne was present, though Nagini slithered nearby towards the opposite end of the room.

At one end of the circle, the Dark Lord stood, his bone white wand in hand.

Lucius and Hermione stepped to the outer ring, her magic beginning to hum in her veins in response to whatever wards had been put within the room. Beside her, Lucius stood calmly, barely a breath coming from him.

“Who offers themselves into my service?” the Dark Lord asked.

“I, Hermione Jean Granger, offer myself my lord,” Hermione answered.

“Who stands with this witch, to aid in her marking?” he continued.

“I, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, stand with this witch my lord,” Lucius replied.

The Dark Lord nodded his head and beckoned them to step into the circle.

Hermione pulled her robes around her, stepping over the candles with bare feet, and Lucius joined her on the other side.

“Kneel,” the Dark Lord commanded.

With a grace she hadn’t known she possessed, she dropped to her knees before him. A sharp finger pressed the space between her eyebrows, cutting a thin gash, blood trickling down between her eyes. Beside her, she saw Lucius remove a shining, goblin made dagger, cutting down his thumb.

The Dark Lord moved to the side as Lucius stepped before her.

“Blood of the father, strengthen the magic of the daughter. May your power help her grow strong,” the Dark Lord said in an almost rhythmic tone.

Lucius pressed his bleeding thumb to the cut between her brows, his fingertips brushing the skin of her cheek tenderly.

“Magic of the father, heal the wounds of the daughter. May your strength help her survive.”

Wordlessly Lucius healed both their wounds, she shivered as she felt his magic pass through her. It felt like more than a normal healing spell, more than a wound closing. It felt like the echo of whatever bond had been forged between her and Draco, but familial and paternal.

“Light of the followers, illuminate the way of your new comrade. May the flame of your power burn evermore.”

There was a shifting of wizards in the dark and then all at once the candles surrounding them burst into flames.

Lucius stepped behind her and knelt, drawing her back until she drew her legs from beneath her and leant against his knees.

A strange, unearthly chanting began around her in a language she did not recognize, deep voices rumbling through the dark that echoed deep within her chest. Lucius joined in, his breath shifting the hair around her face as his arms wound around her middle, steadying her.

Magic crackled over Hermione’s skin, but it was deep and dark like the night around them.

The Dark Lord raised his wand high above his head, pointing the tip downward as he hissed in the same, strange language. A small stinging sensation began on her left forearm, growing hotter by the second.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to stifle the moan of pain. But as the Dark Lord’s wand began to shake, tears pricked her eyes and her back bowed. Lucius gripped her tighter, his cheek pressed against her temple.

The sensation became a burning agony across her arm, as if her skin was bubbling and melting, though when she looked it was still smooth and pristine. She couldn’t stop the scream that burst through her lips, tears falling from her eyes to trail down her cheeks and over her chest.

Images skittered in front of her eyes.

Her parents smiling.

Harry and Ron on the train in first year.

Theo and Daphne, clinging to each other in laughter.

Pansy rolling her eyes while elbowing a chuckling Blaise.

Narcissa, pulling her into her embrace.

Lucius with a warm smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Draco, his lips forming the words over and over: I love you.

Something clung to her that she could not see. A shape in the darkness that held her down as surely as Lucius was. She closed her eyes and tried to retreat inward, to see her library.

There stood the handsome Tom Riddle, but now he wore the robes of the Dark Lord. His curling black hair framing his dark blue eyes that stared at her impassively. With two long strides he stood in front of her, his hand cupping her chin.

“There is no hiding from this, sweetling. There is no hiding from me,” he whispered against her lips, his fingertips biting into the skin of her cheeks as his eyes flashed red.

She was ripped from her library, her eyes opening as she screamed again. The burning was not just physical – it was as if her soul was on fire. The world began and ended with the pain. With the darkness that circled her heart and squeezed.

It could have been minutes, or hours, or days as she burned. Black spots danced in the edges of her vision, but unconsciousness did not release her from the torture.

Occasionally Lucius broke the chanting to shush her or rock her gently, but otherwise did not assist other than to keep her from writhing on the floor.

Finally, finally , the burning began to wane. The agony pulled to a sharp point in her left forearm. Her eyes wheeled in the darkness, catching on the glinting of a mask or the flickering flames, before resting on the pale skin of her flesh, now broken by the black skull and slithering snake of the Dark Mark.

Slowly, beginning from the hem of her robes, inky blackness began to swirl upwards as if she’d waded into thick black oil. It was heavy, this magic, and with each second that passed she watched as her robes turned black as Lucius’ – almost as black as the Dark Lord’s – and the gold snakes shimmered in brighter contrast.

The Dark Lord lowered his wand, a thin sheen of sweat around the pale skin of his face as he stepped forward, extending a hand to her.

“We welcome the newest Death Eater into our ranks,” the Dark Lord said, drawing her to her feet.

The specters that lined the room stomped their feet and under the din, the Dark Lord drew Hermione close. Her whole body trembled and without wanting to, she leaned her body weight against him, grateful for his hold on her.

“You will be my right hand, my blade. Mon couteau aiguisé. ” His bony fingertips brushed at the wetness still clinging to her face.

Then he moved to slowly turn her so that the members of the inner circle present could see her. With a single tap of his wand to the mark on her forearm and he murmured revelare .

She felt the robes around her lengthen until the black material covered her forearms, the fabric around her shoulders slithering up to cover her hair in a wide hood, and a cool trickle of metal cascaded down her face until she could feel her breath pressed back against her face from the mask she could now only see out of from the small eye holes.

“Couteau,” he announced loudly to the room. “My protégé.”

And all around them, Death Eaters fell to one knee.