Draco must have fallen asleep there, rested against the base of a large willow tree, because he awoke by a sharp jerk. Opening bleary eyes, he found himself looking up at a masked face. The sight almost made him cry out, but quickly he sucked in a breath. He hated those damned masks. Even if they were meant to scare only the enemy, every once in a while he would come across one unexpectedly and have the temptation to run for his life. At least he knew that they worked. He himself had not had the chance to wear one, and part of him was silently glad for that. As a young boy he had tried on his fathers. It had been much too large, yet he couldn't forget the sight of his eyes through the mask. Even in their innocence, through the metal of the mask they looked cold, hard, and calculating. The eyes of a killer, he had realized, that's what they would look like.
Shaking off the memory he forced himself to stand, hoping that he successfully hide any traces of his brief fear. He had no idea who it was behind that mask, as he realized then that it was very dark out. The moon still shone among the stars. Surely they couldn't mean that his punishment was to be started at this ungodly hour. Rubbing a hand across his neck he looked from the sky back to the Death Eater. They had already left him and had started back to the sitting room that over looked the Manor's gardens. With a light sigh he knew that he had no choice in this. He had to force himself from the spot, almost command his feet to move – they wouldn't do it on their own. Slowly he let his eyes roam over the gardens, doing his best to memorize every detail of them. Every flower, every petal, the light scent, and the way the leaves rustled in the gentle breeze. A year. A whole year stuck in a hell hole. Without thinking about it, his eyes drifted down to his left arm.
Draco could still feel the burn of the mark, could still wince remembering as he watched the ink become one with his skin. He had waited for that moment for most of his life, yet when it came there was only bittersweet regret. He had thought that once he gained the mark, he would feel proud. That his father would finally gaze upon him with some sign of respect. But his father hadn't been there, had he? No, he had been rotting in a cell. All thanks to that…Potter. He sneered even then at the name. If only he could have succeeded. If only they had brought the boy to the Dark Lord then and then…he could had watched the light fade from his eyes. That should have been the plan. But he knew better. Plans rarely worked as they were supposed to. Although Dumbledore was dead, he had failed. His pride was once again lost. His father would never look upon him with a kind word. He was as worthless as he was told he was.
He gave a violent kick to a shrub that wasn't growing as big as the others, located next to the door to the sitting room. As he entered, he didn't need to look around. His mother wasn't there; he didn't expect her to be there. But still, a small glimmer of hope he had that his mother might actually show that she cared flickered and died. As he followed where the Death Eater pointed, to a small circle drawn on the floor, he found his hands growing slick with sweat, his brow as well. He'd seen that circle before, it was to trap all of his magic, lock it away so that he had no hopes of it.
"Your wand, Draco." The Death Eater said, his voice as soft as stone as he held his palm out.
Draco was given no choice, with a grimace he pulled the slender piece of wood from his sleeve and placed it in the gloved hand. He didn't take his eyes of the ground. He didn't want his last memory of home to be a masked stranger ordering him around. No, he would remember the gentle scents of the garden.
The rest of the instructions simply…washed over him. He didn't bother to listen as they placed his wand to the circle. Its illumination hurt his eyes as he felt the last glimmer of magic leave his body. He was now no better than a worthless muggle. Wouldn't Potter love to see him now? Unable to even lift a book or unlock a door with a simple spell. The thought made him sick but he held it back. He must show no sign of emotion. If he even dared these men would eat him alive for it. There was some shred of pride in him, and Draco had every intention of keeping it.
Strangely enough, Draco felt empty without magic, almost cold. It was like a source within him was gone, like the fire that burned to keep him alive was fading out. No words were spoken as they threw his bag at his feet. A single bag. That was all the possession he was allowed. A bag to hold everything he could stuff in it. He didn't even know what it contained – the elves had most likely packed it for him. The House Elves knew him rather well, and though he never dared admit it, he was sure that they would know exactly what he would desire from his home.
"Gonna cry, little brat?" One of the Death Eaters sneered as Draco bent to lift his bag and shove it on his shoulder.
Draco lifted his chin, showing defiance, and a bit of that Malfoy pride. He was not going to cry. He swore to himself he would not let a tear fall. This was a result of his weakness, and the Dark Lord's foolish plan to bring down his father and his family. Though he felt it, he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes.
"Leave him alone." Another Death Eater snapped from the other side of the room. "Poor thing's gone through enough, and now his mother isn't even here. Shame" This one was a woman, who seemed to have a shred of compassion. But it made no difference to Draco. Her compassion was wasted on him; he had no use for it. It would gain him nothing now. "Here," the Death Eater tossed a pencil at him.
He didn't have to ask what it was, the moment he touched it he felt the pull behind his navel. So it had started. Silently, Draco was glad that they tossed it at him, so that he would be caught unaware of what was happening
(My apologies for the short chapters. Once we get more involved they will become longer)