Chapter 4: Trapped
As the afternoon waned and the sun's light glow darkened and retreated from the windows of Malfoy Manor, Narcissa Malfoy watched as her son receded with it. His grey eyes had grown darker, his body frailer, blood draining from his face and leaving him pale and clammy. Sweat dampened his fair hair and plastered it upon his forehead, which throbbed beneath the heel of her hand with his accelerated heart rate as the day beat on.
Narcissa sat by Draco's side throughout the treacherous hours as his health declined ever more. He remained solemn and withdrawn, curled in upon himself in the middle of his bed. She watched his back, heart wrenching with each tremor of pain to send a quiver up his spine and a jerk in his shoulders. At first, she stroked his head and murmured words of comfort and reassurance. But, after a while, he shrugged her away and there were no words left to delay the inevitable.
She could not bring herself to leave the room, though. What if he needed her? What if he cried for her and she wasn't there? Narcissa recalled a time when Draco was small, and he had called for her, and she hadn't been there. She had lost a part of her son that day. And when he had shouted for someone, anyone just a month ago, to help him and she couldn't reach him...
Well, in short, Narcissa had lost too many pieces of her son for her to be at ease leaving him for but a moment. And she would soon have to leave him all night.
There was a tap on the door and then it swung open a moment later, a wizard clad in traditional black robes filled the space. His dark hair was long and limp with grease. His hook nose cast a shadow over his drawn face. He carried a goblet of a putrid smelling potion, still steaming as though just ladled from a simmering cauldron.
Severus Snape entered the room swiftly and efficiently, striding over to Draco's bedside and placing the goblet on the table beside him. "Wolfsbane Potion," he said. "I trust I need not emphasize how imperative it is that not a drop be left in this vessel before moonrise?" He cast an empty gaze over the unresponsive boy, and then swept from the room. "Narcissa?" He beckoned from the doorway.
She shook her violently, casting an anxious glance to her ill son and reaching for him with a shaking hand.
"Let us leave him, Narcissa," Severus said firmly. Dipping his head in the first sign of sympathy, he said quieter, "Allow him a respite from the facade he plays for us."
Narcissa studied her son, realizing now what had taken Severus mere moments to discern. He was not being cold because that's how he felt. He was hiding behind the easiest emotion to muster, indifference. Of course he would want to cry, to sob and scream at the unfairness. And of course her son was too proud to do any of that with his mother as witness. She nodded and hesitantly exited the room.
She silently berated herself as she and Severus withdrew down the corridor from Draco's room. She should have known he would be concealing his true feelings, playing a role for her benefit. After all, she had played a similar game with her parents after Andromeda had run. Was still playing that game with Bella, as a matter of fact.
"Thank you, Severus," she murmured, lost in thought. Her voice was hoarse and sounded to her like it was drifting up from a deep well. She looked into the face of the man who had just made Draco's life infinitely more easier, had mere weeks ago sacrificed a great deal for him. Possibly he had laid aside his own life. "Thank you for everything."
He nodded to her, discomfort writ across his face at her shameless gratitude. "I should be going," he said. "It won't do to leave Wormtail for long. The filthy spy."
"Of course," Narcissa nodded. "But, Severus..." She paused as his eyebrow quirked curiously. "He'll be alright, won't he?" She did not have to indicate that she meant Draco.
"We'll keep in touch, Narcissa," Severus said in place of answer, leaving the poor woman trapped in her bitter regret as the moon's ascent drew ever nearer.
/
Draco sat pressed into the corner of the dungeons in Malfoy Manor, his bare back curled against the stone and cold toes tapping on the weathered floor. He had left his robes at the top of the stairs with his mother and he now awaited his first transformation cold, humiliated, and alone.
The Wolfsbane Potion he had consumed earlier had scathed his nostrils, burned down his throat, and now lay bitter in his stomach. He only hoped that the vile concoction did what it was meant to do and doused the rageful mind of the truly transformed werewolf. Otherwise, he would be due more scars than the one that had already so cruelly shaped his future. He tucked his left forearm closer to his chest, refusing to face the gruesome mark.
He wondered what time it was. He had been down here an awfully long time. He wished the moon would just hurry up and rise instead of making him wait like this. Draco hid behind impatience and frustration because, the truth was that he was afraid. He was afraid of the transformation. He was afraid of the potion not working. He was afraid of hurting himself, of hurting his mother. He was afraid she might leave him, might finally realize that he was too much of a burden, an embarrassment, a threat. He was afraid of what his father would do when he finally came home. He was afraid for the rest of his life, of what awful future awaited him if he could not fulfill the Dark Lord's will.
That would be hard, though. In spite of his blatant hatred for the reigning Headmaster of Hogwarts, Draco did not want to be a murderer. Or an assasin, or whatever technical phrase was used for what he was planning. The point was that he did not care for Dumbledore. But, he did not necessarily want the old fool's blood on his hands.
Suddenly, a tremor shot up his spine. He started shaking and then he was sobbing as he bit back the terror, determined not to cry out and admit his weakness. And then his bones shattered and new teeth pierced through his gums and his jaw bones started snapping and shifting to make room and his knees reversed direction and his skin was awash with fiery itchiness as fur erupted from it and Draco could not keep back the screams anymore. They ripped from his chest, gushing up his throat with a mouthful of blood and Draco cried more because he didn't want to scream and he didn't want to spill blood and he didn't want to be a monster. But, he realized that night that it didn't matter what he wanted.
/
Draco did not recall when the transformation ended for the pain at last grew too monumentous for him to cling to consciousness, and by the time he came to, he was no longer Draco Malfoy, the young wizard. He was a true werewolf.
He tried to stand on his new legs, but they shook terribly and then gave out beneath him. He was suddenly wracked with exhaustion. The potion was working; he was not being drawn into a frenzy of any kind. There was no hunger. However, he wasn't quite himself either. Self identity and memories were hazy. It was nearly impossible to hold a thought. It was as though he had downed an entire goblet of Sleeping Draught and was now drifting between bafflement of his surroundings and confusion as to why he should care. But, he was not out of control. He was not feral. There would be no scarring tonight, at least not the physical kind.
Yet, as that relief set in, there was a sadness too, one that the wolf could not understand, one that Draco could not really begin to fathom, especially in his addled state. But, he knew, however detatchedly, that he was not himself. Even when the moon set and waned, he doubted that he ever would be again.
/
Narcissa had set the warding spells upon the door half heartedly before moonrise, not nearly to her usual competance. It was not that she put so much faith in the Wolfsbane Potion, though she never doubted Severus's abilities. It was that she was not at all comfortable locking her baby up like that, and she was not about to just leave him down there. Even if it meant putting her own safety at risk.
She had not even bothered with the Silencing Charm. She could face his screams. She could face his pain. However, when it started... One cannot begin to imagine the horror, the absolute agony to hear her child suffer like that. His shrieks of anguish cut her raw and she felt herself breaking, inside and out. It loosely reminded her of when he was young, and he had hinted at a fondness for a Muggle book he had seen. His father had taken him aside. He had called for her. She was too late to stop the hand from striking him. Too late to save him from the world of prejudices she and Lucius had been raised in.
His cries also reminded her strongly of that night a month ago, when that awful man, that monster, had trapped him in that room and destroyed his life. And she had been powerless to stop him.
Narcissa could not take it any longer. She cast aside the flimsy warding spells and darted down the steps, anxious to comfort him, to be there for him. Strong hands grasped her by the shoulders and spun her around before she could turn the corner. She cried out in shock and frustration, but her captor held her fast where she stood. "Trust me," Severus assured her softly. "You don't want to see this."
He led her back up the narrow steps and shut the door. At her protest, he did not lock it. He did not maintain the physical contact. Never mind the chasms between their class and blood statuses, it seemed to make him severely uncomfortable. However, he did stay with her through the night, perhaps to make sure she didn't do anything reckless again. Narcissa wished she could say it was comforting. That his presence was what she needed to make it through the nightmarish ordeal. But, with her son in such pain below them, all she could feel was trapped.
