Receding
One hand steadied the wobbly witch against the vanity's edge. The other hand shook slightly as it hovered over the collection of vials, tubes and bottles. Fingers fluttered over corks before finally selecting a blue-green orb. Practiced, efficient, the thumb flipped cork free. Fluid flowed into a delicate glass snifter. It was white - thick and luminous. Threads of plant fiber fluttered in the viscous liquid.
Her other hand plunged into the pocket of her silken dressing gown to retrieve a smaller vial, this one black with insidious promise. As steely as possible, she uncorked and dropped a tiny drop - a tiny drop - into the opaque potion.
Eyes wide with concentration, she lifted the shot to the moonlight flooding her dressing room. Perfect.
It looked like its name: spider in the web. The black dollop of belladonna dropped tracers into the wormwood dilute. (A touch to the tongue was enough during the day, but for sleep, more was required.) It was beautiful, dangerous and alluring.
Narcissa watched the spider grow, web glowing. There was a moment before she drank - before she dosed - that was...essential. A moment of anticipation filled with promise. The only absolute left in the world.
She shivered. Chill permeated her thin, inadequate attire. But soon enough, even the cold could not affect her.
Teased to nearly whimpering, she tossed the shot back. There was no taste to speak of, or if there was, the witch no longer knew it. In seconds, the blissful numbness spread. She was...receding.
Sky blue silk slipped off a shadowed, prominent shoulder. Hair both black and white - days dirty - sluiced inklike down her back as her head tilted back, back. Her neck deformed. Mouth slack.
She didn't feel the floor.
Draco glanced up from his book. He recognized every bump his mother created. Could find her based on sound alone. It was convenient of late. Sighing, he set aside his reading and went to investigate. Dressing room. Near the vanity. Off of the carpet. She'll have more bruises.
She was a broken angel, dressing gown spread like wings. How boney her legs were, folded like origami. He knelt and pulled fabric over an almost bared breast. His nose wrinkled. She'd not bathed lately. Smelled of anise. Her clammy sweat was sickly sweet.
But she was featherlight when he lifted her. Her spine threatened to puncture the skin of his arm. He deposited her on her bed in the next room, drew the burgundy duvet over her lax form. She'd not stirred.
He collected her wand from the floor, placed it on her bedside table and regarded her face. Rarely did he look at her. The failure felt too fresh. He'd not realized soon enough how quickly, how steeply she was slipping. He stroked a hollowed cheek; the skin was dry and sponge-like.
He pressed his fingers into her neck, tested her pulse. It was steady, but damned slow. His forehead creased. "Fucking hell, mum." He sat on the edge of her bed. Unchecked, her body rolled toward him. "You're going to kill yourself."
It simply wouldn't do.
Wakefulness brought with it a myriad of unpleasant awarenesses. Her belly ached. Her scalp itched. Those bloody birds were too loud. The sun was too bright. Her head throbbed.
Sheets were tangled around her legs. She kicked free and pulled herself to the nightstand. Her fingers again performed their quivering mid-air ballet over...things. Wand. Not necessary. Glass of water. Where did that come from? Hair fastener. An earring. Where the devil is the other one? The earring clattered to the floor and finally -
An orb of smooth glass. It had rolled during the night. She struggled to sit up, popping another cork with her usual precision.
This potion was red with an oily hue. She swirled it in the sun's light, smiling. Nothing bad can come from the poppy. The days of measuring dosage using the various spoons had long passed. Now, she simply swigged directly from the bottle. And rarely was one swig enough.
This potion was for pain; pain in her belly, her head, her heart. The pains of memory, repetition and boredom. The pain of having lived. It was a magical eraser of sorts, simply wiping all of that...away. It made the days bearable.
The witch hadn't felt anything in months.
She swung her legs over the edge of her bed. There were some bruises on the side of her left knee. She rubbed at them. It didn't hurt. Must have... Hmm... What to do today?
Motivation came in spurts, primarily potion-driven. She had to pee, so she floated to the lavatory. On the toilet, she glanced around. The room was crisp and glistening somehow, the tiles shining. It was pleasing. Pretty.
Her face itched, so she leaned over the sink. Splashed some water. She didn't look in the mirror. But when she scratched her head, some hair wafted into the sink, curled there like shriveled snakes. Huh.
Something smelled funny. She sniffed. Oh hell! That's me! A burp of laughter escaped. Perhaps a bath today. She could have the elf draw one. Meanwhile…
She wandered the halls of her home like a wraith. Sometimes leaning against a heavily embossed wall for support. Ages old paintings stared down at her, disapproving as she passed beneath them.
But sometimes the disapproving glance was a newer one. A scowling, darkening glare from shocking blue eyes. Her son.
Today, when she shuffled past the opened door of her dead husband's study, their son emerged after her. "Finally awake?"
She stopped. Swayed on her feet as she turned to him. "Is it terribly late?"
"It's nearly two o'clock, mother."
"Oh." If her eyes had been capable of surprise, they would have shown it. As it stood, a glassy stare was all she could muster. "Lunch then?"
"I've already eaten." His forehead creased. "Are you hungry?" He would love to see her eat.
"I could tolerate some fruit. Perhaps a scone." Her shoulder hit the wall and she leaned properly.
His lips tightened. "Come in here and sit. Tatty!" He summoned the elf briskly. It popped up bowing, wringing its tea towel tunic. "A fruit tray. In here. With tea."
"Yes, master." Tatty touched a knobby finger to his one gnarled ear and popped away.
Draco took hold of Narcissa's arm - as much to steady her as to welcome her. Lead her to the chaise before the wide opened windows. She squinted against the sun. Noted the parchments spread across Lucius' great cherry desk. "What are you working on?"
"Father's estate." He propped against the desk, watching her. Her leg shook when she sat straight. "And a few other...arrangements."
"Arrangements?" Tatty appeared with the tea. He touched his ear and a little table whisked before the witch. He dropped the tray there and disappeared again. Narcissa began distractedly fussing the creamer and sugar bowls, arranging fruit hither and thither, opening a scone.
All for show really, Draco knew. She barely ate. "You're a disgraceful mess," he said quietly. She froze, fingering the spreading knife. "I won't insult your intelligence, compromised as it is. I believe you know what I speak of."
"I've been under a great deal of stress."
"I am the one under stress, mother. You've not lifted a finger unless it was to unplug a potion bottle." Impatient, he buttered her scone and thrust it at her. "D'you know what day it is?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does today, yes."
"Why?" She bit the scone. Chewed it thickly.
"You're going away for a while, mum."
"What?"
"You need help and -"
"I have you!"
"I'm tired of picking up your boney arse wherever it falls, witch!" He checked his temper, rubbed his eyes tiredly. He knew how weak she was - how damned sensitive the potions made her. "You need healers, mum. This has gotten...bad."
"So you suddenly care?"
"Don't you dare," he growled. "Don't you dare say that. I've had to watch your self destruction long enough. Wasn't it enough I had a funeral to plan? An estate to settle? A trial and the damn Daily Prophet at our heels? Forgive me for being a little slow on the uptake of realizing my mother had become a potion-addled emotional derelict."
She flinched and he backed away. Sighed as he rolled up a parchment. He wouldn't let her manipulate him - change his mind. The healer had already discussed this with him. Instead, he maintained his false calm, and outlined the plan matter of factly. "You'll go to St. Mungo's tomorrow morning. There's a very nice private wing. You'll have your own room and your own staff. I assure you I've spared no expense. Your healer is -"
"You're locking me away."
"I'm trying to save your life, mother."
"I can do better, Draco!"
"Not here." His throat burned. "Please, mum…" He wiped his nose. "This isn't up for debate. It's done."
"But…" She spread her hands helplessly, stared at her meaningless lunch. "What will I do? When will I see you?"
He wondered if she felt the tears on her face. "I'm assured I can visit as often as I like."
"Will they be kind to me?"
His heart twisted. She was so fucking fragile. "They'd better." He coughed a laugh. "As much as I'm paying them they should install a bloody throne for you."
His attempt at humor was acknowledged by a sniffling smile. Her nose ran unchecked and he knelt with handkerchief. "I love you so damn much, mum." He wiped at her face, ignoring the extra grime that wiped away. "I want you better. I want you back." Fighting was impossible. He let his own emotions escape and pulled her to him. She felt like a sack of brittle sticks sagging against him. "Please just try. For me."
"For you." She clutched him desperately. "But I'm so very afraid, Draco."
"Me too, mum." He kissed her greasy head. "Me too."
