August 1996
Malfoy Manor
Wizarding Wiltshire, England
Draco shot up in bed from a deep sleep and the movement made his freshly mangled arm throb with pain.
He looked over to the clock on his bedside table which informed him that it was midafternoon. He sighed sadly and rubbed his eyes, which were sore and irritated from either a lack of sleep or far too much, he wasn't sure.
Since the Dark Lord had reentered his life some days prior, Draco had been cast full throttle into the role of footsoldier, spy and budding assassin without so much as a second thought from any of the other Death Eaters, most of whom were either close friends of his family or were his actual relatives. During his branding, the Dark Lord had made mention that he was the youngest person ever to be honored with the mark, but then later reinforced to him privately that he would not be truly worthy of it until he had completed his work and 'compensated for the failures of his father.'
Draco had been eager to prove himself, but his 'assignment' as it was put to him, seemed impossible for even a skilled wizard of age, let alone a 16 year old. That's not to say he was helpless. The passing of information he could easily do, the vanishing cabinet might prove more of a challenge, but wasn't out of the realm of possibility. But, killing one of the most powerful wizards on Earth? Not bloody likely.
When he entered Borgin and Burke's that night and was led into the back room for the ceremony he saw Fenrir Greyback, a werewolf that served Voldemort, just casually chewing on a dismembered human hand. Nobody else seemed to be bothered by it, but it consumed his thoughts - thoughts that should have been focused on being grateful for a second chance or possibly on how to transfigure himself into a bird and get the hell out of there. Even as the Dark Lord slashed and scarred his flesh while he bit halfway through his own tongue to refrain from screaming, his eyes would still occasionally flit back to Greyback, ripping tendon from finger and nursing a tumbler of firewhiskey. It made him ill.
After his marking and more discussion of his responsibilities, he returned home and retreated instantly for his room, barely even registering the pleas from his mother begging him to 'wait' and 'talk to her' and 'forgive her.'
Draco swallowed hard at the thought and peeled himself weakly off of his sweat soaked sheets. He lumbered into his bathroom and approached the mirror with hesitation. Bracing his palms on the marble of the sink, he looked up.
A ghost. He looked like a ghost. Stark white, haunted expression, sickly shadows ringing his eyes. His gaze wandered with distaste over his shirtless form and stopped on a round little bruise on his right shoulder that had already healed to a dull brown. He recalled immediately what it was and how he'd gotten it. He grazed his fingers over it lightly and whispered her name to his reflection in the mirror.
Suddenly, his stomach lurched and his heart started pounding.
What's the date? Where is she?
He rushed from the bathroom, through the bedroom and into his private sitting room. Hurrying over to his large desk, he looked down at the ornate calendar made of golden rotating blocks that told him the date.
Roaring in anger, he shoved it off the desktop, along with anything else he could get his hands on and throw.
August, 24th. She was already gone. He promised her that he would find her before she left and he had missed her. To be painfully honest, he hadn't even thought about her since everything else had happened. In a moment which he could only describe as an embarrassing rash of poetic delirium, he touched the bruise on his shoulder again and noted that Lyra's mark was fading, while Voldemort's was growing darker and deeper into him. Unable to think of anything else to do, he pitched himself into a chair and cried like a child.