A small thrill of victory, and then it all came crashing down.
“I’m sorry, Draco. Seamus. I wish I had a choice.”
“God.” It was almost a whine, a prayer. Someone forgive him. Someone... He sobbed once, just once, before catching himself and clenching his jaw tight to regain control of himself. Get this over with, he told himself, and he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. Harry stepped aside for the first time, to reveal a thin iron stick about a foot long with something at the end, a sort of thick bar. He picked it up out of its holder and said, “Draco Malfoy, born June 5, 1980. Graduated Hogwarts June 1998.”
The change was almost imperceptible unless one had been looking directly at the end of the iron rod, but shapes were formed; letters and numbers unique to Draco’s case, and it began to glow a bright orangey-red. Thankfully, and against all odds, Harry’s hands had stopped shaking, but his movements were too slow, sluggish, as though he were moving through a fog so dense it forced stillness into his limbs.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said again, blinking rapidly. “I’m so sorry.” Idiotically, he added, “Try to keep still,” before pressing the branding iron to Draco’s Mark.
Draco’s mask was impassive as he watched the tableau. He refused to let anyone see it get to him, his head tipped, pointed chin in the air just a bit as he tried to appear relaxed. But he was tense, fingers gripping the edge of the chair, gaze locked onto Potter’s as he drew closer.
He could smell the heat, that metallic tang hitting him in the back of his throat as he drew breath in. Draco yanked at his arm, trying to pull out of the bindings and feeling them wrap even more tightly around him in response. He grit his teeth, pulling as hard as he could even as the iron met his flesh.
A groan escaped before he managed to drag it back, breathing hard to try to get through the pain. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t handle it, couldn’t maintain stoicism and in the end he screamed.