Title: From the Cold

Author: silenus (silenusnz@hotmail.com)
Rating: well give it a hopeful R
Pairing: eventual slash of the HP/DM variety.
Disclaimer: characters belong to JK Rowling. I'm just borrowing them for a tic.

Summary: a family secret, the emergence of a new talent. Can two boys find peace and forgiveness in post-war Hogwarts? A Harry/Draco story.

Chapter One: Discoveries

If you lied,

I could think that it's all right

I could pretend,

That I don't see much of anything…

… if the truth be told,

I'd rather you lied.

'If You Lied', stellar*

It was one of those things you think will never happen to you. It was unfathomable, and yet a small part of you, that small part that had so readily accepted this as inevitable, couldn't help but be relieved.

It was over. It had happened.

There would be no more sleepless nights, just lying in bed contemplating the possibilities of what if. No more whispered conversations and concerned glances.

And no more denying yourself the only thing you ever wanted, because now she knew.

Knew that her only son, lying unmoving on the hospital bed before her, would in all probability not last until morning.

And so, holding her sons hand as he lay comatose and unresponsive, surrounded by both teacher and student alike, Narcissa Malfoy did the one thing that she had denied herself for seventeen years.

She broke down and cried.

* * *

Since her husband's death a year ago, Narcissa had become accustomed to her new role as Mistress of Malfoy Manor. It was in essence a role she had prepared for since birth, yet the presence of her husband had prevented her from being anything but a trophy wife with no power of her own except for what she was allowed to exert over the house elves.

Now she relished her freedom and took delight in befriending the house elves, a perverse pleasure in defying Lucius even if he was no longer around to be defied.

She had also taken simple delight in redecorating the entire manor in vibrant colours and extravagant hues. She remembered that Draco had been rather horrified in finding the study striped of its characteristic green and redone in red and gold when he had returned home for the holidays after his sixth year at Hogwarts. However, by the end of the summer, he had found his mothers antics amusing and had even let her redecorate his part of the house in the east wing, though he'd put his foot down and stubbornly refused to have it done in Gryffindor colours, regardless of how well it might have suited the furnishings.

She had eventually settled on a colour scheme of white and silver, though she had been sorely tempted to use various shades of pink just to spite her son. It would have been worth it merely to see Draco's controlled temper break with having that particular colour in his room. Even now she thought bemusedly about adding a single pink pillow to his growing collection of white and silver ones.

She had only tried once to entertain at the Manor.

She did not try again.

The Manor had become the unofficial headquarters for the Death Eaters during the last days of the War, and as such was forever linked in both Draco's and Narcissa's minds, and as Narcissa found out, in the minds of her guests, as being an infallible 'dark' place. Even the dressing up that the Manor had recently received could not remove its ominous presence. There were even some places that Narcissa, regardless of how many times she had the house elves clean the room or recolour the walls, refused to enter.

The dungeons. The attic. Lucius's study.

Though she would, she promised herself, get there eventually. She took comfort in the fact that she was slowly, no matter how slowly, re-taking the house. It would be her coup-de-tat.

The night that she received the owl from Hogwarts she had been sitting in the drawing room thoroughly engrossed in a game of chess with Pearl, one of her more sociable house elves. Sociable, extremely talkative, and yet a hopeless chess player. Narcissa felt that her own inability to concentrate on the game in most cases proved that all in all, they were probably well matched.

Had it not been for Pearl's sudden and inexplicable stall in her non-stop chatter, Narcissa may not even have realised that an owl was tapping rather urgently on the stained glass windows opposite. They were the only windows in the room and overlooked both the lake and the formal garden, providing the best outlook from any window in the entire Manor, which was the main reason she frequented the drawing room in the first place.

"Pearl? Pearl, you should probably go. I'm going to let in." Narcissa had found out, in one rather eventful evening, that her house elf disliked anything that had the ability to fly. She thought that it may have had something to do with some of Lucius's 'activities' during the war, but she certainly wasn't going to pry. "We can finish the game tomorrow."

Though on a close inspection of the board had to ruefully admit that it might have been better if she'd let the owl in, and in the ensuing debacle could tip over the board – after all, Pearl was thoroughly beating her, and she didn't feel that she could add the humiliation of losing to a house elf to the rest of her troubles.

She looked up just in time to see Pearl click her fingers and disappear in a cloud of silver, the odd line sparkling as it was caught by the light emitted from the dying embers of the fire, and the preceded to walk over to the window. She had only recently learned that the colour of the apparation clouds produced by house elves were different depending on their actions in respect to their master's (or mistresses) wishes. A gold cloud represented an elf who was acting against their master's orders, a silver cloud an elf acting with. Any variation of these colours represented the degree to which the house elf agreed or disagreed with the order. Narcissa reasoned that this was their own way of defying the rules in a system which disallowed them any privilege at all. Even if no one noticed the distinction.

It was, she supposed, one of the reasons she was so very fond of them in the first place.

She reached over and unclasped the window from its frame, and not a moment too soon. The owl, finally granted access to the room circled overhead then settled calmly on the mantelpiece above the fire, its left leg raised slightly and attached to it, plain to see, was an envelope bearing the Hogwarts seal.

To say that she had not been expecting it would have been a lie, as there was the smallest part of her that already knew what the letter contained and couldn't quite make up its mind between sobbing hysterically, killing the messenger, and apparating to Hogsmeade at once. In the end she settled for taking a few calming breaths and reached for the letter.

It was with unsteady hands that she broke the seal and opened the letter, recognising at once the familiar scrawl of the Headmaster.

To Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy,

It is my regret to inform you that your son, Draco Lucius Malfoy, was taken ill this morning and has slipped into a coma from which he has yet to waken.

Your immediate presence is requested at the school, tonight if possible.

If you can apparate to Hogsmeade, I'll have someone from the school meet you there to accompany you the rest of the way.

We await your owl.

Yours in faith,
Albus Dumbledore.

It's one of life's mysteries, she supposes, that your body can function quite apart from your mind, without thought. Because she doesn't remember leaving the Manor, nor sending the Headmaster an owl in return, though she supposes that she must have done both of these things because here was Severus Snape, patiently waiting outside the entrance to the Three Broomsticks to meet her.

Severus Snape had not physically changed since she'd seen him last, the day of Lucius's funeral, but she supposed that the war had taken it's toll on him as much as it had taken its toll on her. The greatest scars, after all, are the ones you cannot see. But she didn't hesitate for a second in taking his offered hand as they made their way towards Hogwarts.

Now that she was close, this close to both her son and her greatest fear, the energy that had seen her this far dissipated, and each step closer to the school became that much harder. If Severus noticed her reluctance he didn't say, just kept his same steady pace that she grudgingly matched stride for stride.

"How have you been Severus?" Anything, anything at all to take her mind of the reason for her visit. Please, please talk to me Severus. Anything to stop her thinking about her son. Her son who was currently lying in a bed less than a kilometre away, dying.

"Fine. Yourself?" She remembered belatedly that Severus never had been one for small talk, though he seemed to pick up on what she was trying to do, for he continued, "the students are revising of course, though with the Christmas holidays approaching, no one seems inclined to be doing much of that."

"I don't remember that being too dissimilar to when we were children. I particularly remember Lucius-" and she broke off quickly, only just remembering that that probably wasn't a memory he wished relived. "I'm sorry." And she was. She could look back on most of her life and see the anger and discord that being with Lucius had created and was sorry for that. Sorry for the hurt she had caused. For her son. For the man walking beside her. For herself. And even, when she was being particularly honest, for Lucius. Their union had bought no one happiness. And yet.

Yet, it had bought her Draco. She would have endured anything for that.

"Albus has asked me to remain at the castle to help supervise the students remaining for the holidays." Left unsaid was that he was staying for Draco. If he lived.

Narcissa appreciated it all the same. "Thank you," and watched as Severus smiled back, noting that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

* * *

The hospital room had the feel of approaching death. It was nothing definable, per say, just obvious in the expressions of the people seated inside, and in the lingering stillness of the only person who remained unmoving.

Narcissa clearly remembered her father's wake after his death and the similarities between that event and what was happening now was a little too real. A little too much, and she was grateful when she felt a hand at her elbow directing her to the chair next to her son's bed which she sank appreciatively into and gripped her sons hand.

Madame Pomfrey, whom Narcissa recalled from her own days at Hogwarts, keep bustling in and out of the room, trying, she supposed, to kept up the pretence of being busy. Severus stood patiently by her side, and avoiding looking at the sole occupant of the bed, said, "Minerva has gone to fetch Albus."

Feeling that she wasn't quite up to the task of responding, Narcissa simply nodded and looked around at the other occupants of the room. On the opposite side of the bed, across from her, she recognised Draco's friends, Vincent, Gregory, Blaise and Pansy. Pansy looked like she had been crying but appeared much too exhausted to continue and lay slumped against Gregory on the chair they shared. Gregory was very carefully running his fingers through the girl's hair, in what he supposed was a comforting gesture, and had his eyes fixed solely on the pale figure of her son. Blaise had fallen asleep, his knees curled up and against his chest, his head rolled back and directed towards the ceiling. No one felt inclined to wake him. Vincent keep glancing worriedly at Draco, and shooting glares across the room at an annonymous figure.

Following his gaze she saw a small boy, probably the same age as Draco, tucked discretely into the window seat in the far corner of the room. There were no overhead lights and what light there was in the room didn't quite reach that particular corner, and it was no wonder that she had completely missed seeing him when she first entered the room, as his entire figure seemed to meld with the darkness, enveloping it.

"Narcissa this is Harry Potter." Severus had caught her look and if she knew her old friend correctly, was attempting to distract her and keep her mind of her son. Why the Potter boy should still be here was anyone's guess, though the Headmaster at the very least had granted him leave to stay.

"I believe we've met Professor." His voice was somewhat throaty, as though it had not been used in quite some time, and representing the only Gryffindor in a predominantly Slytherin environment, she realised that this was probably the case.

"We have? Ah, yes, The Quidditch World Cup." And didn't that seem like a lifetime ago?

"Mr Potter found Draco this morning. It seems he collapsed in the hallway after his Arithmancy class." And felt compelled to see this through, no doubt. Blessed be the young.

She gripped her son's hand harder, and began to cry.

* * *

His hands were so cold and unnaturally pale. His hair, damp with sweat, was matted to his forehead and his eyes were closed, though Narcissa well knew that when open, were a dazzling silver and blazed with intelligence and humour, though usually at someone else's expense.

"Narcissa."

He was just so unnaturally still.

"Narcissa."

So very still.

"Narcissa, we must talk." He had entered behind her and now stood, posed, at the end of her sons bed. His voice was softly rebuking and she wondered if he knew what she knew.

"Albus. How long….when…"

"I feel Madame Pomfrey should explain the circumstances, it is, after all, not exactly my area of expertise."

"Narcissa," and though matronly, Madame Pomfrey's voice was not unkind. "Draco was brought in this morning. It appears that he collapsed shortly after class. Harry brought him in. He slipped into a coma shortly after that and we haven't been able to revive him yet, despite our best efforts."

"Did he….did he say anything?"

"Before he collapsed?" Startled at the odd question, Madame Pomfrey looked questioningly at Albus, then at Harry. "Harry? Did Draco say anything?"

It must have come as something of a shock, Narcissa supposed, from being left alone in the corner, practically ignored by everyone else, to having eight pairs of eyes staring at him. And yet, the only person he was looking at was Draco, though he turned slightly to Narcissa in order to answer. "He, um. Said something about the thorn of a rose, or something like that. And he said that it wasn't time." He paused and looked down at his hands, spread outward, fingers flayed both palms up and then switching, palms face down, before looking back up at Narcissa. "I don't know what he meant though."

"He meant, I suppose, that it wasn't time for this," and no one in the room doubted what she was referring to.

"Narcissa, I do not believe we have a lot of time with Draco here. If you know anything," and he looked at her, his eyes boring into her soul, "anything at all, we need to know. I believe Madame Pomfrey has already informed you that at this rate Draco will not last until morning." His voice echoed solemnly in the room, the only sound being Pansy's renewed sobbing and hitched breaths as she struggled to contain herself.

"I don't know what to tell you Albus, except perhaps that Draco has suffered from headaches most of his life. Since he was five I believe. He originally complained to his father, but Lucius did not approve of weakness, and he soon stopped complaining. I don't believe the headaches ceased though." Her voice was rather emotionless and pitched for Dumbledore alone, though due to the nature of the discussion, there was not a person in the room who wasn't hanging on her every word. "His nightmares started when he was around ten. He never talked of them to anyone, and I'm only guessing based on what information I've received from house elves, but I know that he slept very little and that he only managed that from weariness or the Dreamless Sleep potion. He seemed better at Hogwarts though, less troubled," gently stroking her son's forehead and wiping several strands of his hair from his face.

"He had a few nightmares, though they weren't common, and he never talked about them. No one did," Vin said, looking nowhere but at the floor.

"He wouldn't in any case. But they must have been getting worse. Much worse."

"I think you need to explain what you mean Narcissa."

"My family is a very old one. Very traditional. We guard our bloodlines just as much as we guard our secrets, and of course very old families tend to have very old secrets as well. My great-grandfather was the last to show signs of the gift, not including Draco of course. He died before I was born but from what I was told, and what I've managed to guess, his symptoms are very similar to my sons. Chronic migraines. Persistent nightmares. Eventual collapse and then death. He was twenty-one at the time. The medi-witch who administered him suggested that both your age and the time that elapsed between collapse and death were exponentially related to how talented you were. It took Morius three days to die," she sighed rather half-heartedly and looked up at Albus. "I do not think Draco will last that long."

"I don't understand." And judging from the looks around the room, Harry Potter was not the only one who did not understand, though in Albus Dumbledore's eyes there was a spark of something very much like acceptance, and then something very much like fear.

"Tell me Narcissa, what did the medi-witch diagnose Morius with?"

"Morius was diagnosed as a seer."

"Oh, heaven forbid. Narcissa are you sure?" her hands clasped before her, Madame Pomfrey looked imploringly at both Narcissa and Albus, then finally at Draco himself, as if he would provide the ultimate solution.

"As sure as I can be. I believe that he is having a vision, or experiencing a vision, and his mind is not dealing with it. It's simply shutting down. He's, for lack of a better way of saying it, trapped in his own mind."

And there was silence. Utter silence.

"I think you're forgetting something," and once again Harry Potter entered the spotlight, and became the focus of everyone's attentions. "He said, 'it wasn't time'. I think Malfoy knew what was happening to him."

"Perhaps you're right. That doesn't help us though does it? It doesn't help Draco" and only looking back did she realise that that sounded slightly more accusing than she had meant it to be.

"Perhaps not. But I give you my word Narcissa, that I will not just let Draco die. I give you my word." And Albus walked forward and gently took Narcissa's hands in his own and squeezed gently before turning, and drawing the teachers to him, quietly left the room.

And for the second time in less than an hour, Narcissa grabbed her son's hand and wept.

Only this time, she dared to hope.

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