House of The Rising Sun

Chapter Nine

Then

"Aren't you worried?"

"No, shut up. They'll hear us," Draco shoved his shoulder back into Theo's chest, which was far too encroached into his personal space for his liking. The group of Death Eaters in the Manor's drawing room were having a hushed and agitated conversation, of which his recently recovered father was at the center. Theo's father was beyond their line of sight from the gap in the door, but his low, croaking voice was distinct enough to carry.

"I don't care that he is your only son, he has never risen to his role, he has never bested anyone in any subject," Dolohov's rolling timbre was factual and Draco felt the sting in his words. "Heir or not, we should prepare Nott's boy to take up the mantle."

"Draco can and will do as asked. I have no doubts in his commitment to the cause," Lucius Malfoy stepped toward a nonplussed Dolohov.

"He'll be far less useful if the Mark burns him from the inside out," Dolohov narrowed his eyes. "Should he fail - oh, that'll be far worse than being a sympathizer."

"The Dark Lord's faith is not misplaced," the elder Nott rasped. "Though, to have my son Marked would only be moving along the inevitable. I know he will succeed in his promises."

Draco looked over to his wide-eyed companion, who's face had gone nearly as starched as his own. Theo didn't seem to notice his stare, expression turning blank as his own walls went into place.

"They both will," Lucius assured. "Theodore was bound with every risk in mind. Draco doesn't need so much oversight. When they return to school, his adeptness will prove it."

The group moved to disband and the boys muffled their footsteps as they sprinted to the alcove under the stairs. As the last gust of air from black robes passed them, Draco turned to his companion.

"Did you take a vow?"

Theo just looked at him.

"Who was it with?"

His jaw tensed.

Now

Draco woke to the sight of a flustered witch tying off shrunken parchments to an owl's leg.

Her dark hair was tied up in a chaotic and wavy ponytail, quietly striking in a navy blue summer dress, spotted with delicate flowers. She didn't seem to notice his staring, or that he was even awake, simply fumbling through piles of parchment as the owl flew off.

The morning light was quickly becoming obscured by roiling clouds, a low pulse of thunder settling through the calm streets. The previous night's papers sat discarded on the window seat and he thought about asking for them, but his body was content.

His hand slipped under the sheet, to the other side where he felt a lingering warmth.

Draco hissed out a breath as his left arm began to ache sharply, Macaria's head turned toward him, an unusually clear expression of concern on her face.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he bit out, sitting up in the tangle of sheets. She crossed the room to him, kneeling on the bed and gently taking his arm in delicate hands. He didn't resist.

He half expected to see the ink and skin torn to shreds, but she was not Marked and never had been.

His own forearm was reddening in thin lines, much like when the tattoo had first settled, but showed nothing of the pain beyond that.