The blade is beautiful, just as it has been since Father gave it to me for my seventh birthday.

“Now, Draco,” he’d said.  “This blade will never dull, it will remain sharp and silver, like your eyes, forever.  Treat it well.”

I’m glad he’s in Azkaban and can’t see my shame.  I thought I could prove myself, to finally be admitted to that wickedly elusive club, but that was an illusion.  Professor Snape was welcomed back with open arms and I was cursed.  Even now my left foot twitches from Crucio.

It’s Potter’s fault.  How, I don’t know, but it must be his fault.  If it weren’t for him, Father wouldn’t be in Azkaban, he would be at Lord Voldemort’s side in his proper place.

And I would have the Mark and a promised place among them.

Instead, because of Potter, I have nothing but this blade, this silver blade.  Like my eyes.

I’ve prepared the area.  It was ridiculously simple to sneak back onto Hogwarts grounds.  The middle of the Quidditch Pitch seems appropriate.

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the Pitch, I lay out my supplies:  only my knife.

I pull my shirt off.  September is cold.  My nipples pebble uselessly but I ignore the sensation.

Taking the blade in my right hand, I turn my left forearm up to the sky.

It’s Potter’s fault.

“This is for you, Father,” I call to the silence.

I’m not sure how long it takes but by the time I’m done, the silver blade is slippery with blood and things I don’t want to identify.

And I finally have my Dark Mark.