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The Burning of the Dark Mark


A blinding panic filled Lucius Malfoy as Alastor Moody and Albus Dumbledore led him through the castle to Moody’s office along the Defense corridor. Derek Bell stomped along beside him, his face contorted in anger. Though Lucius managed to stay collected on the outside, carefully arranging his face so as to conceal the urgency stirring in his gut, he was ballistically terrified. The way his arm had burned had been far more severe than he had ever felt it and he was certain that was a terrible foreboding of the level of rage the Dark Lord was feeling. What could possibly have caused such a strong fit of anger, Lucius wondered, and would the Dark Lord forgive him for not immediately rushing to the mirror to check in when he felt the mark? He had to respond to the call, and he’d let his panic get the best of him - attacking that idiot, Bilius Weasley, had been a fit of stupidity. He should never have done, but it was too late now, and he could tell by the angry expression on Derek Bell’s face and the straight, tight-lipped looks on the headmaster and professor’s faces that he wasn’t about to walk lightly from the offense.

“Get in, the both of you,” grumbled Moody, opening his office door with a growl. He watched as Derek and Lucius stepped inside and more graciously waved Dumbledore ahead of him before going in himself. The spacious office was dark when they first entered, but with a flick of his wand, Dumbledore lit the torches all around and soon the room glowed with a soft orange light. Moody waved his wand callously and two chairs swept up behind the students, sitting them down so that Moody himself seemed to loom above them menacingly. He glowered down upon them with his one eye, the patch over his other a grim reminder that Moody had experience with dark magic and dealing with offenders. “Explain yourselves.”

“Malfoy attached Bilius Weasley,” Derek said quickly, his tone livid. He glanced over at Lucius with accusation in his eyes, a twist of displeasure to his mouth, then back to Moody, “So I cast the colloshoe charm to keep him from fleeing before he could be caught. He was trying to leave the scene,” he explained.

Moody glanced at Malfoy, expecting a denial, but Malfoy kept his face perfectly composed.

Lucius was afraid if he spoke he might crack and his nervousness would have to be accounted for and then what? He couldn’t very well tell Moody and Dumbledore that the Dark Lord was expecting him to check in with his bewitched mirror, could he?

“Nothing from you, ‘ey?” Moody grumbled, eyeing Malfoy darkly. He looked to Dumbledore.

“Master Malfoy, do you deny having attacked Mr. Weasley?” Dumbledore asked gently, probing without accusation.

Slowly, Lucius shook his head no.

“Hexed him with his back turned, no less,” Derek injected.

Dumbledore held up his hand to stop Derek from continuing. He stared right into Malfoy’s face with a searching sort of expression. His eyes moved over Malfoy’s, as though he were looking clear into Lucius’s mind and having a look around. “You left the dinner hall in quite a hurry,” he said slowly, “Is there anything that you need to tell us about that may have… brought on… the attack?”

Lucius felt annoyed at Dumbledore’s persistence. As though the old baffoon gave a damn about him at all! He knew Dumbledore was aware that his father, Abraxus Malfoy, was close to the Dark Lord, and therefore must guess that Lucius was as well. Surely Dumbledore couldn’t be so stupid as to believe that Lucius was going to pour out the secrets of the Dark Lord to the headmaster. The anger he felt toward Dumbledore allowed him to swallow back some of the nervousness about getting in touch with the Dark Lord and he steadied his voice and said, in a low voice, “No, sir. There is nothing that I need to tell you.”

Moody rubbed his chin as Dumbledore withdrew from inspecting Malfoy’s eyes. “Each confrontation such as this is wrought with both good and poor motives, and I merely wanted to be certain that we acted correctly for the situation, you understand.” Dumbledore had seen them harden, had seen Malfoy close off the vulnerability he’d had. “This isn’t the first go you’ve had at the Weasley boy,” Dumbledore said, turning away.

“Well he’s a blithering idiot,” sneered Lucius.

“Look who’s talking,” hissed Derek.

“I wasn’t the one who started the conversation in the hall, though, was I?” Lucius snarled, turning to face Derek, “Perhaps if the ginger-headed git hadn’t spoken out of turn --”

“Can’t take a spot of teasing, can you?” Derek snapped.

“ENOUGH!” Moody growled in a tone that was both quiet and loud at exactly the same time. Both boys looked to him. “Weasley started this, you say?”

Lucius didn’t much feel like deliberating over the details. He just wanted out of that bloody office. The faster he got out, the faster he could attend to the Dark Lord’s summoning and the less trouble he would be in later. “Will you please just assign my detention and let me go so that I can get on with my business? I’ve homework to do - including quite a long essay for your class, Professor.”

Moody looked to Dumbledore. Dumbledore took a deep breath. “The three of you --”

“Three of us?” Derek cried out, “But I didn’t --”

“The three of you --” Dumbledore repeated, holding up his palm to stop Derek once again, “Will report to my office tomorrow after lunch, when Bilius Weasley is out of the hospital wing and we can collect the facts to piece together the story entirely.” He looked imploringly at Lucius, and then to Derek. “You shall all report to the gargoyles on the third floor corridor to meet with me tomorrow afternoon. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Derek, frowning.

“Yes, sir,” Lucius said quietly.

Dumbledore nodded. “Very well then. I am sure that you want to go and check on your friend in the hospital wing,” he said to Derek, and turning to Lucius, “And please, Mr. Malfoy, let us know if you require any assistance in completing your… essay.”

Lucius nodded curtly.

“Off you go,” Dumbledore said, clapping his palms to urge them off and the boys stood up and left the room, letting the door close behind them, as Dumbledore and Moody stood in the center of Moody’s office, staring after them. When the boys had been gone for several long moments and silence had refilled the space around them, Dumbledore said, quietly, “We will monitor the owls and the Floo Network, of course.”

“Of course,” Moody said low. “Already have been. Constant vigilance.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes… of course, I would expect nothing less from you, Alastor.” He paused, nibbling the edge of his lip thoughtfully, then said, “And perhaps a cancellation of the remaining Hogsmeade trips is in order as well… I fear that we may not be able to stop the tides from rising perilously close to the shores of the castle.”

Moody grumbled his agreement.

Dumbledore drew a deep breath, “I only wish I knew how to stop the coming storms.” He turned to look at Moody with an apologetic smile. “Well, I shall let you rest, Alastor. It seems you may have a busy time ahead of you.”

“It seems so, sir,” agreed Moody.




Lucius ducked away from Derek at the stairwell without having said another word to him. Derek climbed up, headed for the hospital wing, while Lucius went down. The moment he thought he had ventured far enough away as to keep the sound of his echoing footsteps from reaching Derek’s ears, Lucius broke into a run, sprinting down the stairs hastily, his robes flapping about his knees as he ran, the Dark Mark still stinging his forearm. He was tempted to pause in the hall of the dungeons to press his arm against the cool stone walls to relieve some of the pain that jetted through his body, but he dared not delay the Dark Lord any longer than was absolutely necessary.

“What happened?” Mulciber asked, looking up from the couch as Malfoy came into the Slytherin common room moments later. “I saw you attack that Gryffindor bloke…”

But Malfoy didn’t pause to respond. He flashed past the others in the common room, pushed past Severus Snape on the stair to the boys’ dorms, and shoved his way into his own room. He crossed to the trunk at the foot of his bed, threw open the lid, shoving away the items that he’d buried the mirror beneath, tossing them carelessly side to side, desperate to reach the mirror as quickly as possible. But dig as he may, the mirror was not there. Rage and panic mixing in his blood, he overturned the trunk entirely, but still there was no sign of the mirror.

And suddenly he understood the anger in the burning of the Dark Mark.