Returning to Eden

-when you love someone but it goes to waste -

prologue

His breathing was harsh, and drops of sweat coursed down his face as he walked, his father's hand resting severely on his shoulder. Small flickering lights passed him, lighting up the faces of the people they passed, groups cackling together.

He closed his eyes against the onslaught, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Strands of blond hair fell over his eyes, and he made no movement to shake them out. It didn't matter, anyway. No matter what he did, he wasn't jus going to be Draco Malfoy after this day.

He was going to be Draco Malfoy, recently burned with the Dark Mark.

He stifled at sob at this, daring to glance up as his father, his face like stone, eyes staring straight ahead. Ever he had been five, he had longed to have a 'tattoo'- as Lucius had put it- that symbol he was part of something, something greater than life itself. Now, he finally realized the repercussions of it. If he got the Dark Mark, he was forever bound to Voldemort, and there was no escaping that. He had heard stories of a man who had tried, but he had failed, losing his life in the process.

Draco didn't want to end up like that.

Still, as they approached the dimly-lit chamber, he felt the urge to run.

But he couldn't. With his father's hand on his shoulder, and the sleeves of his robes pulled up to expose the pale skin of his forearms, he met Voldemort's eyes.

A wand tip was placed on his skin, and he burned, screaming with pain.

Panting, crouched over the cold tiles, he closed his eyes against the pain.

Hermione…

She looked up from her books, eyes wide. Hurriedly, she shoved the textbook into her bag, stuffing quills in there as well. Her legs pumped as fast as they could to escape the stifling heat of the library, her hair flying wildly after her.

Gods, had he? She had been awoken from her day-dreaming by the sound of a scream, and had looked around. No-one else had seemed to notice, though, and Madam Pince was still flipping through her newspaper, grey hair pulled severely into a bun at the base of her neck.

Had she just imagined it? She shook her head, and returned to her work, biting her lip as she scrawled notes from the textbook. Then there had been another scream, and her eyes had snapped up. Nothing, again. Where was this coming from?

She heard harsh breathing, and the sound of a body falling against tiles, before the hairs on the back of neck raised up. Her heart leaped up in her throat.

"Hermione," the voice whispered, and her heart stopped.

He had received the Dark Mark. There was no going back from that, she realized, stifling a sob. No matter how much she loved him, he would now and always be a Deatheater, and there was nothing she could do to change that. He was a Deatheater, and the Dark Mark was now tarnishing the skin of his left forearm. At one touch, he could summon Voldemort, and that put her in risk.

A tear slipped out her eye, as she slammed the textbook shut. She couldn't love him, not with the mark on his skin.

In the course of one minute, his mind had made a stupid, irrational decision, and he had ripped them apart.

He was pulled up from the floor with a tug, his head forced up, grey eyes meeting the harsh red of Voldemort's for the second time, and what he knew wouldn't be the last. The Mark burned on his arm, blood coursing onto the floor, in slow drops. Voldemort leant forward, and slowly, pressed his thumb to the Mark. A scream escaped his throat. Voldemort cackled, before gesturing towards his father, who nodded, helping Draco stand. He limped out of the room, still bleeding, the mark burning.

Voldemort resumed court, dozens of Deatheaters swarming to take Draco's place. His own father, he was ashamed to admit, bent low over Voldemort, kissing the end of his muddy robes.

Outside, panting, his mind swam with hundreds of thoughts, eyes closed against the burning pain. Gods, why? Why hadn't he run, run from the pain, run from Voldemort? Was his life going to be just like his father's, constantly under supervision, always having to serve Voldmort?

One thing was for certain, though. Now, with the Mark burning brightly on his arm, a symbol of what he now was, Hermione would never love him again.

He didn't stifle his sobs this time. The pain coursed through him, and his heart shattered into pieces. Slumping to the floor, tears coursed down his cheeks, wetting his robes.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And, back at Hogwarts, Hermione sobbed.

This is to be read before Returning to Eden, and as readers requested more insight to why he had done it, I wrote this. Hope you all enjoy it!