It was especially strange that he could feel his Dark Mark, but couldn't see it, almost as though it was a bruise that hadn't had time to bloom on his skin.

"Draco, what are you doing?"

Damn. He'd been unconsciously rubbing his arm. Lucius looked mildly disappointed, but continued pressing forward, winding his way down the dark corridor.

Lucius carefully regarded his son. "You do realise what a great honour it is to be asked to join the Dark Lord's ranks at your age, do you not?"

"Yes, Father."

"And you also realise that our Master is generous in accepting you after my...transgression?"

Draco looked up in surprise. Lucius never mentioned his short stay in Azkaban, nor ever alluded to the fact that he'd had to spend over a year living underground evading capture. "Yes, Father, I understand." Draco wondered what he'd done to deserve a lecture.

Lucius's tone grew soft and he placed a hand on his son's shoulder, Draco noting that they were now nearly the same height. "Then, you understand that certain sacrifices must be made, don't you? We both need to prove our loyalty. We belong to the Dark Lord, soul, mind, and body."

At first, Draco nodded uncertainly, before remembering Lucius hated non-verbal response. "Of course, Father," he said quickly.

"Good. I knew you would understand." Draco didn't, but knew enough to feel uneasy. The two stopped in front of a heavy oak door. Lucius whispered the password too softly for Draco to hear, then indicated his son should cross the threshold. "Wait here, Draco. Someone will be along soon enough. Clothing is provided." Clothing?

With that, Lucius hastily pulled the door closed, effectively locking Draco inside. "Father?" called Draco uncertainly. "Father?"

But Lucius had gone. Draco whirled around to examine the room -- he was very confused, indeed. The room itself was nondescript in a mildly tasteful way, reminding Draco of some of the lesser guest suites in the Manor. What confounded Draco was the outfit carefully set out in the middle of the bed. He gingerly picked up one of the articles, racking his brain for any reason anyone would want him to dress like...well, like a woman.

He could refuse or try escaping, perhaps. But then his forearm started to itch and his father's words resonated in his head. Resigned, he vowed to uphold his family's honour and reluctantly stripped off his robes. What was even the proper order for putting on these things?

Ultimately, Draco decided to just start with the piece in his hands, some sort of frilly red and black panty thing. Sliding the tiny piece of silk up his legs, he discovered that he'd have a hard time keeping them in place. Did women really go around in these things all the time? Not exactly uncomfortable, but they did seem mildly impractical.

Next, a corset. Draco made a disgusted noise -- more red, Gryffindor colours. What self-respecting Death Eater would be seen in this? The disgusted noise turned into a stunned gasp when the corset fitted itself magically, forcing Draco to expel the air in his lungs.

Taken aback by the constriction, it was with some trepidation that he grabbed the black, criss-crossed stockings and pulled one into place. These weren't so bad, he decided. Thankfully, they didn't appear to have the instant tightening feature of the corset and he felt black was a far more respectable colour than the harlot red currently covering his chest, embarrassingly matching the blush that had started its spread across his flesh. Draco yanked up the other fishnet, causing a tear at the top of his thigh. This was partially to blame on his haste, but mostly due to the shocking tentacle-like attachments of the corset, which magically adhered themselves to the top of the stockings.

As he pulled the matching red gloves to his elbows, Draco was mildly relieved to find that there were no shoes to be found. They'd probably have been red, high, and shiny, and would have thrown him far off-balance. Well, more off-balance than he already was.

Draco disliked this loss of control. He waited on the bed for a person or the next test or whatever was coming. Shivering slightly, he apprehensively waited on the bed, trying to ignore the dread his father's words delivered. As the breeze caused his exposed nipples to harden and gooseflesh to rise and fall on his arms and chest, he thought about the times he'd been in situations like these.

It didn't take long, as there were no situations to dwell upon. He could remember his sweaty palm cupping Pansy's breast in a broom closet and being instantly swatted away. Last summer, he and Tim Nott missed their fathers, hated Potter, and snogged until one of the house elves accidentally walked in on them. That had had promise, but Nott automatically declared he wasn't a queer and Draco offered up the easy excuse that it was the heat.

And now it was now. Draco, sitting in borrowed clothes, shivering, and waiting for the door to open.

The door creaked, causing Draco to jump visibly, his heart now seated within his throat. In walked Peter Pettigrew, sweating despite the chill. He resembled a deer seeing wand sparks and might have been, if at all possible, more nervous than Draco. Draco shifted, uncomfortable from his spot on the bed, growing even more so when Pettigrew shut the door behind him, flashing Draco a weak smile. Draco didn't move.

Pettigrew moved from the door to Draco's place, looming over him. Draco mused that he'd probably look less threatening if Draco were to stand. The man was paunchy and short, face unshaven, a wild, haunted look about his eyes. Without a word, Pettigrew cupped Draco's chin, tilting his head for a kiss.

It's not that the kiss was bad. Pettigrew didn't bite his tongue or slobber all over his mouth. His stubble was long enough that it didn't scratch Draco's face. He didn't seem to mind that Draco hadn't responded. But, he had a sickly sweet taste about him, something like melted chocolate left to burn. It wasn't just his mouth -- the same smell rose off Pettigrew in waves, causing Draco's stomach to churn. Like grapes? Bad grapes. Watching Pettigrew sway woozily, Draco understood and fervently wished that the man would pass out on the bed.

But that wasn't meant to be. Pettigrew stayed where he was, saccharine breath in Draco's face. He leaned in for another kiss, trying to elicit some response from Draco as he wormed his tongue into Draco's mouth. Draco made some small noise at the unwelcome invasion, which Pettigrew took as encouragement. He pulled away, smiled crookedly, and caressed Draco's face.

"Mine, mine, all mine."

Pulling away, Pettigrew shrugged off his robes, revealing Muggle clothing underneath, much to Draco's astonishment. He unbuttoned his shirt, cursing when one the buttons came off in his hand. Despite his better judgment, Draco stared interestedly at the man's body, struck that he still had puppy fat and sparse chest hair, at best, like his body tried growing up, but never quite made it. Then, Pettigrew undid his fly and reached for the back of Draco's head with his opposite hand. With a surprisingly strong grip, he pushed Draco towards his crotch. When Draco hesitated momentarily, glancing up, he saw something flash past Pettigrew's eyes, which he didn't like and didn't trust.

An honour. Generous. Sacrifice.

Draco swallowed the cock pressed against his lips. His tongue, mostly dry, swept across the underside, leaving more unpleasant sweetness upon it, though this had a twinge of bitterness. A fine, dark chocolate left in a cauldron overnight, burned. No. Too salty.

In out in out use your tongue fuck yes you bitch so pretty my doll got to fuck yes dress you up oh yeah Lucius would die to see this fuck yeah the Dark Lord gave you to me mine mine fuck mine yes oh my reward his punishment shit god fuck yeah.

He imagined Pettigrew made noise, but he wasn't sure because there was pressure on each of his ears, Pettigrew fucking his mouth. Draco's head moved, but Draco never moved his head. As the hard prick hit the back of his throat, a mewling noise escaped his mouth. Pettigrew took this as encouragement and started fucking Draco's mouth harder and Draco made noise after noise, hoping the man would come so Draco could breathe again.

Suddenly, he was gulping tiny pockets of air, still restrained by the corset. Was that it? No, no, he was sure there was more. There would have been more. The man hadn't....

Pettigrew slowly fucked his own fist, an action which was more familiar to Draco. He knew how that worked, at least.

"Turn over," Pettigrew ordered.

"What?" asked Draco, befuddled and indignant.

"On your stomach," he grunted. "Hurry up."

Whatever bit of dignity still existed quickly dissipated, as Draco slowly stood up and turned around. He wanted to climb on the bed, but Pettigrew made a noise of disapproval, so he folded himself over the edge. Draco wasn't always a quick learner, but he understood the fundamentals of this game.

He felt Pettigrew's legs brush up against his thighs and his stomach turned again. Soft hand pressing the back of his neck, the other roughly tore the lace and silk, causing him to cry out. The panties were ripped from his body, a half of the corset's understraps torn away, causing one of the stockings to slide to his ankle. He could feel the straps nip at his ankles and he hoped that they attacked Pettigrew. Anything to end this. The hand gone from his neck, he flinched when hot breath puffed at his backside and realised that Pettigrew was kneeling. Oh, God, he wasn't going to....

Wetness stabbed at his entrance, circular patterns and a roughness that felt oddly wrong. The tongue moved slowly, lavishing Draco's hole with slow, deliberate strokes. Despite himself, Draco closed his eyes and moaned, ashamed as his cock twitched in anticipation. Pettigrew, seemingly encouraged, roamed his hands over Draco's backside and thighs, one causing shivers, the other warming in its wake. As his tongue moved faster, wiggling its way inside, Draco gasped. Warm fingers brushed against his ball sac. "Oh, yesssss," he hissed.

Pettigrew immediately removed his tongue and stood. "Little whore," he accused. Draco started.

The hand was at the back of his neck but - no, no, oh no - this was the other one, all cold silver. Why did that hand never warm? Draco felt the air choked out of him again as Pettigrew's cock rubbed against Draco's cleft, moving with the saliva. Momentarily relieving his throat, Pettigrew grasped both of Draco's hips and thrust. Draco felt the hard cock stab at his entrance, but nothing happened.

This wasn't going to work, Draco thought, nearly elated. He was too tight, he had to be, he was a....

But, Pettigrew gave a frustrated grunt and thrust again, this time moving a bit past his anus and Draco cried out - pain and no, no, no, please. Pettigrew thrust again, successfully sheathing himself within Draco, but it burned and it hurt and please don't move. Pettigrew began rocking and Draco bit his own hand, futilely trying not to cry out, already feeling hot prickles forming at the corners of his eyes.

No god no stop please. Pettigrew curled his free hand around Draco's cock, eliciting a hiss of mixed pain and pleasure, the pleasure never quite overriding the pain. No fuck fuck oh oh oh oh no! No! Pettigrew was humming loudly now, having found a rhythm on Draco's cock and his arse. Draco's screams grew louder, which only encouraged Pettigrew.

With a grunt, Pettigrew abandoned Draco's cock and grasped his hips again, slamming into Draco so fast that he knew, he knew he was being torn in two. Then, Pettigrew yelped in a high-pitched tone and a hot flood filled Draco. He was whimpering now, horrified as Pettigrew's hand milked his orgasm from him, staining the bed below.

Pettigrew withdrew, causing Draco to cry out again. He could already feel liquid leak from his hole, not knowing if it was blood or come or both that now trickled down his leg.

He stayed in that position, unable to budge, as Pettigrew dressed. Draco focused on a spot on the wall, wishing that Pettigrew would leave as fast as possible.

He was granted his wish. Running his hand from Draco's hair -- now plastered to his neck and face with sweat -- to Draco's tailbone, -- causing a wince with even that small movement -- Pettigrew said, "You've successfully passed your first test."

First? Draco was vaguely aware of Pettigrew giving him the room's password before he exited.

Draco remained unmoving for a long time. From that day on, he had a very special place within Voldemort's ranks.