Cinnamon, accented with lavender oil. Draco pulled himself out of sleep. He craned his head, trying to find his mother, she always used cinnamon. Cinnamon with apples in a pancake. This smell had to be coming from her. It was. He looked at her with his sore, hot eyes, trying to get his brain to work out why she was there.
"Honey?" her voice poured, lustrous into his sleepy ears, as his eyes focused on her face. "Honey, wake up?" Now he was conscious and suddenly aware of all the things that he had missed while he waking up.
His mother's face was taunt and anxious. As she gently pulled back the covers, he saw that her hands were shaking involuntarily. There were two points of pink in the middle of her cheeks and small tears were leaking horizontally down her face.
Draco leant forward to quickly brush them away. "Father says you're now supposed to cry." He whispered anxiously, trying to comfort her.
Narcissa composed herself, gulping and flicking a long strand of hair up into its original position, taking out from no-where a hand mirror.
"Draco," her voice was shaky, but firm, "Draco I want you to pack." She looked over at him waiting for the obedient 'yes mother.'
"Why mother?" the little boy turned his perplexed face towards her, questioning her directions.
"Just do it!" she snapped, her face losing some of its kindness. Slowly, it seeped back, she looked down. "We're going on a little adventure, to Bella's, won't be lovely?"
Her voice was strained and Draco knew better than to argue. He busied himself with packing his clothes into his only carry-case, a black-wheeled thing that he kept under his bed. He used it often to go to relative's houses, especially Aunt Bella's.
"What about you mother?" he asked realising that his mother was still in the room, "Aren't you going to pack?" As he scrutinized her, he could have sworn that she had got paler as he had said it.
"N-no Draco," his mother replied carefully, then brightly, "I can borrow some of Aunt Bella's clothes."
S
Still uncertain, Draco finished packing. Slowly he walked up to his mother who led their way downstairs. When she turned around, Draco could see the purple of a newly formed bruise, sitting just underneath her hairline.
The hall was deserted, Draco could smell the musty odour that he always associated with his home. He couldn't smell the normal smell of breakfast, nor the essence of jasmine that clung to the air like velcro whenever his father passed. Something was wrong, why was it still dark?
Narcissa wasn't making for the dining room, she was walking speedily along the hall. Draco fought his carry-case, desperate to catch up. Where was father? Draco was beginning to feel frightened, wishing that he was back in bed.
Narcissa was holding her arm at a funny, Draco noticed from behind, tight, like it hurt. Draco could hear nothing but their faint footsteps and the rumbling of his carry-case along the cold marble floor.
He glanced up at the clock, seeing how it dominated the mantle piece, then rubbed his eyes.
2:35!
It didn't make sense. Mother was reaching for the jewellery box, up behind the clock, where Draco knew contained their floo powder.
"Mother, where's father, shouldn't he be here?" he asked in desperation. Narcissa slammed down the jewellery box, her eyes closed, breathing deeply. Why couldn't he understand?
She reached over again for the jewellery box. Her hand were trembling so much it was causing the jewellery box's lid to jump around, hitting the container repeatedly with little thunks that echoed menacingly.
Narcissa grabbed Draco's upper arm, no tine to be nice, "In. Draco. Now." She manoeuvred him into the grate, stuffing floo powder into the hand that wasn't holding his carry-case. "Father can't come, work matters.' Draco nodded. "Go on." Whispered Narcissa, "You know what to say."
Draco smiled and nodded again, his father had taught him.
"Le Lestrages!"