AN: Please read and review. I want to know your thoughts and opinions. TRIGGER: Some SA and drug use.

Third year was awkward for Draco as well as Marcus Flint. Lyra, above all the nonsense of Sirius Black, was known as the missing girl. In their world, only one type of person goes missing; blood traitors. For Lucius, his colleagues who had already disliked him, started rumours about abuse. Lyra ran because of the headnoise. It was all too much. One could say it was a mix because Lyra didn't feel safe at the Malfoy Manor and she lacked the pure blooded hate in her veins. Besides her family, there was one other person who hurt in silence.

Oliver Wood, who would have enjoyed talking to his mates about Quidditch, was pushing mashed potatoes around on his plate. It was about this time at dinner, Lyra and him would sneak off and go into the broom closet. Some would call it cheating, but for one suffering girl, it was called escape. It was true, she loved both boys, but one was a memory of who she was and one was who she was becoming. Oliver's eyes looked over at Marcus, for the first time, both boys shared a common emotion. He, too, was making pictures with his food.

Angelina nudged him, "Are we having practice tomorrow?" Oliver looked over at the girl, shrugging.

"Eh, who has time in seventh year for it all," he said, not like the typical Wood they all knew. The twins fell silent, never hearing Wood be so nonchalant about Quidditch.

"He's gone mad," Fred whispered, and George leaned in.

"Do you think he's sick?"

"Sick, sick," Fred nodded.

Katey choked, "but if we don't start talking plays now, we'll never win the cup against Flint!" Alicia sighed, shaking her head.

"I don't think Flint is playing this year," she noted, nudging them to look at him. "I almost feel bad for him. He definitely hasn't eaten a thing in weeks." Flint's muscle mass was way lower than usually. Bags decorated his under eyes and his hair was no longer combed through.

Oliver sighed, sitting up, "why is he allowed to sulk like that? The bastard was an arse to her, y'know? It isn't fair! He hasn't a fucking right to act like that-"

"Wood," Harry interrupted, showing up behind him, about to ask about plays. Oliver sighed, getting up.

"Hello, Potter," he said, patting the boy's back. "You're filling in for me tomorrow. I can't make practice." The boy blinked, and everyone watched Wood leave the Great Hall. Even Marcus paused, watching him.

Lyra wasn't as smart as she thought. Marcus knew Lyra started to fool around on him last year, but Wood still had no right to act like a twat. His fingers tensed around the fork, and Adrian Pucey, one of his closest friends, grabbed his shoulder. "She'll come-"

"I'm gonna fuck him up," he growled, knowing Lyra was at fault for the cheating, but she was a girl. A man knows not to touch another man's girl. Draco's eyes narrowed.

"Mum's still pretty upset about it," he whispered, "home doesn't feel the same. Hasn't talked to father in a few weeks. They mostly mumble words…I don't get it."

"I'm going to kill him," Marcus continued, "first match, I am going to knock him right off his bloody fucking broom. I'm going right for his head, y'know?"

Adrian winced, never hearing Marcus get so aggressive, "but is it worth it now?"

Marcus looked over at him, "if I could, I'd crucio him."

Everyone in earshot went silent, looking at Marcus Flint. It was rare to hear such words openly, but they understood he was not himself. His best friend frowned, "but would it be worth it? Lyra's gone, Flint. She's been gone for weeks-"

"She'll come back," Pansy interrupted, noticing Draco wasn't feeling well. Draco relied on Lyra for a lot of things. While simply cousins, Lyra was like a big sister who made him feel safe at home. Without her, the manor was falling apart.

Marcus Flint got tired of it all, and got up. He held his wand under his cloak and stalked Oliver Wood through the corridors. Everyone was at dinner, surely he could scare the boy and let out some inner aggression. His father had enough power to cover for him. Oliver was making it to the Gryffindor common room when Marcus snuck up behind him and pinned him against the door. Both boys were about the same height and stature. Oliver, startled, reacted by trying to swing a punch, but couldn't.

"Wood," Marcus said, his teeth clenched. His wand was pointed at the boy's neck, poking rather harshly. It could have impaled if pushed any deeper. Oliver narrowed his eyes to it.

Oliver pulled his wand from his pocket, prepared to jab it into his side, "get off me."

"If you want to fuck with another man's girl, you should at least be ready to get your head bashed in," he said, before adding, "I could kill you and have no regrets." Usually his threats felt empty and weak, but Oliver Wood felt that.

He wanted to react with his typical Gryffindor temper, but the other boy had the upper hand. "You lost Lyra long before she left, Flint-"

"You think it is all so simple, don't you?" Marcus commented, "she loved me. She loved me since we were children. You? You were simply a toy."

"And you were simply boring," Oliver retorted. Marcus pulled away. Oliver sighed, "she couldn't stand you anymore. She hated what you were. You don't know Lyra. The real Lyra, Flint."

Marcus thought back to last New Years Eve. That is when Marcus confronted Lyra about the cheating. He had done it, too, and they both were angry. She had promised it was nothing, but fun, and Oliver was pathetic to think anymore of it. "I guess I am more like my mother than I thought," she had laughed, climbing into his lap and pecking kisses along his jaw. "It is so fun to play and toy with people." On the flip side, Oliver has memories of Lyra crying and feeling frustrated because she couldn't escape her family's cycle of hatred. Everytime she looked in the mirror, she saw her mother smiling back at her with a tormenting grin. Neither boy knew Lyra as much as they believed.

"Go ahead," Oliver said, "hit me, You want to!" And he did. Marcus punched Oliver in the throat and the boy stumbled to the ground. Commotion swarmed them as all the students urged more punches. Little did they know how deep this fight was. It wasn't just two boys battling their insecurities, but two young men tormented by a single girl they both trusted.

~.~

"How old are you?" a man asked, sitting on a dusty arm chair in a small room. There were a bunch of gadgets and such Lyra never seen before. She was cold, wearing one of Cilli's tight dresses. Lyra was told to say 18, but the man knew she wasn't. "It's okay, we can work with 17." His grin was something awful, yellow and broken.

"I was told we were just taking some photos?" Lyra asked, looking around, "do I sit there?" She pointed to a couch just as dirty as the chair.

"You can take a seat," he agreed, looking at her heels. "Take them off." Lyra thought it weird, but did so. The man joined her side and touched them, humming, "men like weird things." He inspected them before dragging a finger up to her thigh. "You could use a shave."

"And why is that?" Lyra went to pull away, but he didn't let her. He demanded she spread her legs a bit more and pull her dress down. "But why?"

He was confused, "want to work for me, right?"

"Yes, but why do I have to show you anything?" she asked. "I'm going to leave, this is-"

"Shh, shh," he hushed her, "we can go slow. I will teach you everything. I raised a lot of girls like you. Shy and innocent. Are you innocent?" He got in closer, but Lyra slapped him across the face like her Uncle once did her. He was flabbergasted and shocked. Before the anger could set in, she stormed out the double doors. She wanted to kill Cilli! The man rushed after her.

"Wait!" he called, "just wait! There's a club next door."

Lyra paused, and turned, "what? For I can get fondled-"

"He's looking for dancers," he suggested, "no touching. He doesn't allow his dancers to be touched. You go up there, swing around a metal pole, and be done with it. Some of them girls go home with enough money to buy a rental. All cash. I'll bring you there?"

By the time Lyra was 19, she held a famous name in the community, if you will. It was the easiest cash one could get if you were willing to lose any inch of dignity. Four nights a week, Lyra wore the tiniest of clothing that barely covered anything, got up on a stage filled with shiny specks and swung around a pole. Her act lasted until her top 'accidentally' came undone before proceeding with a few personal requests in the backroom. Lyra no longer felt anything about it anymore. It was a job. A good paying one, too. Some nights she'd rack in 600 quid! She was living well! Had her own flat, food, and life. For 4 nights a week, it felt like all play and unreal. Some slaved their whole life away working just for a fraction of what Lyra had. Some clients even have offered to pay for trips, cars, and top designer clothing. Her Aunt would have killed her if she had known what Lyra was doing. Was it the safest and proudest job? No, but Lyra enjoyed it after a while. Perhaps there is some truth that those who live the high life sell their soul in some way.