The Mark of Lucius Malfoy
I’ve been in this meeting with the Minister and company for one hour and three minutes. We are trying to reach an agreement regarding the reallocation of my money from the ridiculous Muggle Liaison Office to the rest of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. (Officials have been complaining that I did not specify how my funds were to be distributed and that I was going to cause an audit).
At one hour and four minutes of this dreadful meeting, an irritation prickles my arm. I’m inclined to think Arthur Weasley has brought in fleas.
At one hour and five minutes, the irritation localises in the centre of my left forearm. It makes this meeting even less comfortable, but I am mid-sentence with the financial staff and can do little except rub my arm. I mustn’t draw too much attention to it.
Last I heard, the Dark Lord was “immaterial.” Merlin knows anyone who’s “immaterial” is lucky enough to not be bogged down with Ministry dealings.
At one hour and six minutes, it burns.
It burns as the meeting is adjourned, and though I have got my way in the meeting, it seems my luck is about to change.
It burns as I leave the premises, and it burns as I arrive at the front gardens of my home. That home houses my wife and child. My skin houses a permanent brand.
Ever so delicately, I roll up my cloak sleeve, followed by my shirt. The layers of bunched fabric squeeze and constrict my blood supply but do not stop the flow of magic. I am shocked to see it. Yes, it is called the Dark Mark, but it has not been this dark in over a decade.
How do I tell Narcissa?
My first instinct... it’s to apologise.