Cedar and Supplications

It was late. And the manor was dim. Quiet. Draco had just awakened from that odd nap that takes one after some trauma - the lie-down like a death preview. He felt bleary still, and the death analogy only further suffocated his contentment. The stone stairs were cold neath his feet and the wood floors were no better. It was January.

He padded into the drawing room. A fire still crackled in the floo, albeit small now. The cedar log there was sweet. Draco approached the chaise in the center of the room. He swallowed, throat dry.

His mother slept in what he imagined was much the same way he did. Utterly exhausted. Less peace, more necessity. But her face was smooth, at least, free of the creases and lines he'd seen for the last several weeks. Her hair, the dithering dichotomy of dark and light that it was, tumbled off the brocade cushion and hung to the floor where it rested against scattered parchments.

He knelt and swept the tresses up. Strands of silk. Tucked them behind her head. She made no motion save for her eyes behind lightly shadowed lids. He wondered what she dreamt and sighed. His stomach growled again. It was the first time in days he'd felt close to hungry.

Standing, his knees cracked. As if he'd aged 20 years in 20 days. Perhaps he had.

Narcissa's shawl languished across the chaise back. He took hold of it, familiar with the alluring cashmere softness, and spread it over her torso, covered the shoulder bared by errant dress. The deep sanguine material fluttered like a ghost as it draped the witch and Draco caught its scent as it settled.

He inhaled deeply. Tea by the sea. He always associated this with her. The Mediterranean vacations of his childhood. Salty air and sand. White tea sweet with honey and the vaguest hint of lemon. Mint. That waft of bergamot from the orchard near their cottage.

By the time the scent had passed - a fleeting memory trapped in olfactory - he was smiling. The expression felt alien to his features. He lingered a moment longer over his matron in repose, then bent to press a lingering kiss to her temple. Close, the scent warmed by her body, he was tempted to curl into the comfort. To clutch her close and cry into cashmere saturated with reminiscence.

But he stood. Wary of emotion. Knowing that one crack - no matter how tiny - could crumble the entire facade. He wandered into the kitchen without one backward glance.

If she was aware her son had tucked her in the evening before, she did not acknowledge the knowledge. In fact when Draco entered the solarium for breakfast, Narcissa merely smiled. "Good morning," she said quietly.

"Mum." He sat across from her. Rangey and gawky. Awkward arms and legs. She wondered if he would ever truly grow into them. Doubted it. He was a product of Lucius' lovely body and her own deep (if deeply hidden) self-consciousness. A combination at odds with itself.

"Sleep well?" She knew the answer. He was far too young for the black sacks beneath his eyes.

"Yeah." He toyed with a scone. Glanced at her. "You?"

"Mm." Conveniently, she chewed. Avoidance was an art form.

Draco nodded as if this reaction was not at all unexpected. His gaze settled on the pile of parchments by the breakfast. "What's all that then?"

She touched the stack with a dismissive hand. "Some...things I must take to the solicitor today."

He nodded again. Wiped a dollop of clotted cream on a delicate doily. "I see." He sniffed. "Mother…"

Her jaw tightened. As did her fingers around a serviette. "Yes?"

"I'd like to know." He gestured amorphously. "The things that are discussed. The...the details." She blinked at him, porcelain face unreadable. "I'm his heir, aren't I? Don't I have the right to know?"

"Oh, Draco." Narcissa shook her head. Tangles - carelessly ignored - fell into her troubled visage. "I would never hide anything from you. I just…" She sighed. Rubbed tired fingers across her forehead. "I wasn't certain you would be ready for all this."

"Right." He licked his lips, eager to be understood but not entirely sure how to be clear. "I know that there are things to be cared for. Resolved. I know that...legally...it must be complex given the circumstances." He reached haltingly across the table. Covered her hand there with his own. Her skin was shockingly cold. "You've already been through so much, mum."

"If it's about that, darling have no fear." Her smile that didn't reach her eyes was bitter. A farce. "I assure you your father has involved me in far more difficult situations. Both of us for that matter. And yet I'd say we've persevered."

He wasn't prepared for the steel in her response. The not so thinly veiled resentment. It humbled him somehow. He remembered her strength. "I only meant - "

"Yes, I know what you meant." The frozen hand beneath his turned and caressed. Bitterness bled to sincerity. "Thank you, dragon. I will be glad to have you with me." Assurance delivered, she withdrew her hand. It was her brisk way. "Besides. I imagine there will be plenty of bureaucracy to daunt you. You are of age now. And, as you so aptly pointed out, his heir." Her lips thinned after the word.

Draco's brow furrowed. He'd known the relationship between his parents had grown beyond strained, but he felt stymied by the cool hate in his father's widow. He had no response. Blew on his tea before sipping.

"Well." She went on. Primly folding her hands over the parchment pile. "If you truly wish to accompany me you should bathe soon. I've...we've...an appointment at half one. At Gringott's."

"Yes, mother." No more would be said. He watched her look beyond the glass walls at the surrounding grounds. It was dead. Dry and brown. Naked trees. The snow that had fallen consistently was now a thin icy reminder that there had been beauty for a moment. But the Malfoys had missed it.

No Yule log. No crackers. No puddings. Certainly no family or friends. There had been no gifts exchanged. His mother had wraithed about fretting while his father had isolated himself so effectively it seemed even impending trials wouldn't find him.

But find him they did. And fined him, they did. No Azkaban for the Malfoy patriarch. The Wizengamot had wisely punished him where his punishment would be most assuredly felt: in his wallet.

Draco wasn't aware what the final tallies were regarding his family's galleons, but he doubted the Wizengamot had been particularly gentle in their rulings. Despite Potter's compassionate plea on Narcissa's behalf. Draco's lip curled. His mother was hailed a heroine.

And he'd been a coward. Hardly as cowardly as his suicidal father. But he'd definitely been afraid.

"Draco?"

It was probably the second time she'd spoken his name. He looked up from the floor. "Hm?"

Her mouth worked for a moment, bowed lips finding difficulty in expression. Highly irregular. "I don't know," she began. Stopped. Licked her teeth. "I don't know what sort of damages we've...incurred. The reparations. The...funeral. The manor…"

Draco had seen numerous emotions swirl in his mother's dark eyes - desperation, horror, fear, fury, determination - but he couldn't recall hopelessness like this. His nervous belly fluttered. He reached again for her hands. "Well. We shall find out together." She nodded and attempted a reassured smile. He felt the pressure of her worry too thickly. Had to escape. "I'll bathe then."

He swept from the room quickly and left a chill whirl of air in his wake. In the waft, Narcissa recognized crisp cedar and warm nutmeg. Spice and wood. The two scents as at odds with themselves as her son was with himself. As the two of them were with their situation.

With her son safely out of sight, she rubbed at her cheeks. No color appeared. "Goddess, please," she whispered. "Please help us…"

AN: Writing a little wing just for me, I'm afraid. Some Narco from right where my heart lives. Perfume. There will be a lot of smells in this one. And magic and smoke and smut. So tell me your favourite fragrance and I'll feature it. In this chapter? One from Hermes - Un Jardin En Mediteranee - on Narcissa. And Draco smells like Viktor & Rolf's addictive Spicebomb. Also title credit goes to Narcissa's Dragon, who apparently can't come up with titles. At least, not for her own pieces. Thank you, Dragon.