TW: SELF HARM*

Chapter 23 - That Old Black Magic

That old black magic has me in its spell

That old black magic that you weave so well

Those icy fingers up and down my spine

The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine

Old Black Magic - Harold Arlen

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

How long had it been now? Why had no one come looking for her? Why hadn't she been found? Maybe they had given up the ghost, stopped looking. Surely, they must have hunted for her as best they could, but who could possibly imagine she would be locked in an enchanted fairy trap, her magic being muted by some most probably dark spell of Lucius' construction.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Maybe it was as Lucius would hiss on a nightly basis into the gilded prison she was being held in, maybe no one even noticed she was gone. He had taken to visiting her to taunt her, clearly he had missed the psychological abuse. Narcissa, however, had not missed it in the slightest, but as the days went by, the words were starting to weave their way into the delicate fabric of her straining mind. He would spit out hurtful points, such as how Draco had abandoned her now for traitors and peasants. Even her only friend, Molly Weasley, was loving her life as a grandmother, what would she need a vague, feckless cousin hanging on her apron strings for when she had real family. And as for Kingsley and her, were they truly as serious as maybe she had believed them to be? Or did he just see her as most men did, as an easy thoughtless piece of garland for their arm, and even that was fading with age.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

As she has begun to do in her darkest moments, to the horror of the woman she once was, Narcissa scratched her long, jagged, filthy nails along a sore and crimson scar running the course of her emaciated arm, the sallow skin breaking easily beneath the assault, the sight of her own blood bringing her to her senses once more as the oozing dark liquid starkly contrasted with the almost translucent skin. She ran her fingers over the scar, the very thought that this was all they spoke of. In their meetings. As if she couldn't hear them. "Blood purity" this and "Pureblood truth" that. What truth? How many more times can a group of people be proved wrong until they finally accepted the facts. Blood meant nothing. Zip. It simply kept the sack of fleshing draping the bones working, and should that body stop, how important was the blood over the person who inhabited the whole being? Lucius had been broken beyond repair, all he could see was the blood. As she teased her wound, enjoying the sharp pain, reminding her she was still alive, her eyes fixed on the sluggish ooze, something in her barely holding on mind crossed her conscious, fleeting yet impactful on her fragile state.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Suddenly, Narcissa smeared a smut covered hand, coating it with any precious morsel of liquid she could. The blood. Of course! She started to cackle insanely, her wild hair whipping as she stood to her full sight, her maniacal laughter filling her cage. How could she be so foolish? Had she forgotten herself so far? She was Narcissa Black, of the Ancient and Noble House. The interloping Malfoy name was just a front, a facade that she had dropped many years before. The blood was always the strongest. The purest. The darkest.

Drip. Drip. Drip…

Narcissa, blood red hand held high above her head, shouted to the void. She was sure they could not hear her as she heard them, otherwise she would have had a lot more rebuke from Lucius for the choice words that she had let loose after one of his visits before taunting her with her Elven chit.

"I, Narcissa Black, daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black, of the Ancient and Noble House, mother of Draco Lucius Malfoy, offer this, my blood to the old magic. Hear me! I beg of you! Come to my aid! Free me from this prison! Give me vengeance!".

Drip…Drip…Drip…

Now, magic is a very primal beast. When constrained or constricted, it will snarl and gnash and bite at its trappings until it bursts, fangs gleaming, to its freedom, leaving destruction in its wake. It is older than the world, older than all worlds, creator and created. To hold one of its children against their will, one gifted with the blessing of being able to channel it, angers the ancient soul of it. Those who have been loyal to it and have shown true devotion to it are held closest. Of course, there are those who tried to manipulate and bend it to their will, or rewrite its key elements for their own agendas, but the magic stayed true. Houses such as Black, Weasley and Nott, all those within the disgraced "Sacred 28" and beyond, held within them the deepest, oldest connections to the raw power. Narcissa had been so long imprisoned as a Malfoy bride, she acknowledged she still was on a journey to becoming who she truly was as a woman, a mother and, in particular, as a witch. She was not the cold statue, she was fire. She was of the old ways, of the blood and the hate and the love, the darkness and the light.

…Drip…Drip…

She called again, this time in a language that seemed to resonate through her like she were the amplifier to a fiery guitar solo. She placed her bloodied hand to her chest and fell to her knees, begging to the Mother, the Maiden, the Crone, to the Fates, to Hecate. She allowed hot tears to fall, mingling with the dirty and grime and blood around her, calling out to the soul of magic to help her when her own was stolen from her. Her desperate wails seemed to ricochet off the walls around her, the very walls that had closed in on her vibrating with the strength of her faith and resolution. She begged for forgiveness, for turning away from the old ways for the new, her choices and decisions. Her words became a chant, a woeful hymn imploring the magic to give her sanctuary. She swayed back and forth on her knees, lamenting her fate and offering all she had for mercy.

Drip.

But no one answered.

-0-_

A shiver bolted through Draco's body like lightning from the heavens, shocking him from his sleep and causing him to jump up, briefly disorientated by the unusual surroundings. As his eyes adjusted to the dim slithers light, he saw the hairy gangly leg of his beloved intertwined with his own while the rest of Ron was sprawled in a much less cute position, snoring softly completely oblivious to Draco's sudden movements. It must have been past midnight, probably not too far before the dawn. They'd all said their goodnights and parted ways just past midnight, all heavy with the weight of the unknown on their shoulders and the hope that the morning would shine a better light on the situation.

Draco had been anxious for most of the night, his thoughts occupied by the everclear facts before them. His mother had not been seen or heard of in days. Draco himself had seen him the morning of the Awards ceremony, he had held her and given her a kiss on the cheek before dashing off to grab his and Ron's suits from Diagon. It had been a normal interaction for them now, open affection towards one another, and she had waved him off from tea, her laugh tinkling as he left her to the rest of her day. She was happy, busy, she had friends and hope for her future. Now, she was missing. There was no question, she wouldn't have just up and left everyone without a word.

Tonight, he had heard her. As if she had been shouting in his ear. He had heard his mother, and she was calling out, she needed help. He hadn't been dreaming, he barely did that as far as he could remember. She had been there, or he had been with her, he could not say. He smelled her, the natural waft of her jasmine and lily perfume, but something more, almost metallic. Draco's mouth dropped open as he rubbed a hand roughly over his face. Blood. He had smelled blood. Was it her blood? Someone else's? Where was she?

Head swimming, Draco untangled himself and left the bed, grabbing his dressing gown and throwing it around himself as he padded softly to the living area, a magical fire still blazing in the hearth. He waved a hand and a glass of fire whiskey floated towards him which he promptly swallowed, the heat barely touching his throat as the warm liquid hit his stomach at breakneck speed. He summoned the decanter and poured another, this time settling into a seat near the fire and sipping the amber liquid slowly, mulling over what he could recall of what he had just experienced.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound was abnormal to him, so he looked around to the large windows to see if perhaps it was raining, or had at least recently been so. Dry. The moon was cutting a silvery trail across the sky, the clouds playing hide and seek with it and the stars as they waltzed their nightly dance. In the far distance the deep blues were adopting a tinge of purple and orange, and sign of the approaching dawn.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

There it was again. It couldn't be a tap, the rooms with taps in were too far away, even in this quiet, for him to hear them through all this soft furnishing. Where was it coming from? Draco rose from his seat and began to scour the room, the incessant drip growing increasingly louder, like it was echoing in his mind. Then he halted in his tracks as the voice of his mother seemed to fill the room. She was screaming, crying, wailing at the Fates for help, calling upon what? The old ways? What was the old magic? Was it the same as Dark magic?

His mother's voice became quieter and quieter, yet the drip remained, permeating the room and causing Draconto flail helplessly as he looked around for a source. Nothing. And yet…

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Now frustrated and confused, not to mention unnerved, Draco growled out loudly, anger barking out the words.

"MOTHER! MOTHER, WHERE ARE YOU?"

The wailing now was barely a whisper echoing around the room against the soft furnishings, making it feel like a empty chamber rather than a plush living room. The fire crackled brazenly and Draco scowled at it. Maybe the fire whiskey was playing with his already unsteady mind? Maybe the drip was just a random noise in an old castle? But there had been more. He had felt something, something he could never explain, like a painful yanking of something within him towards an intangible goal. It was a violent, borderline nauseating, attack of what Draco could only describe at his very being.

"Dray, you alright?"

Ron entered the room in only his boxers, rubbing his sleepy eyes and yawning. He looked bed tussled and barely swale and the sight eased Draco's mind almost instantly.

"Can you hear that?"

Ron stayed quiet and listened to the sounds around the room, taking in the familiar noises associated with a night at Hogwarts, from the Forest to the Towers with a far away whistle of the winds whipping through the owlery. The clicking of the flames in the hearth. A bemused look crossed his tired face and Draco decided to save him from his confusion.

"I can hear this constant dripping noise. Like a consistent drip drip drip. And I swear I heard…"

He trailed away, his gaze falling on the fire and glazing over in a way that made Ron feel more awake than he had previously. He approached his husband and laid a supportive hand on the small of his back, the other on his arm, not willing to startle him further than he already seemed.

"I heard my mother, Ron, I know I did. But I don't know how. I can tell where she is. I feel like my magic itself is trying to search for her but I keep hitting wall after wall. What if she's hurt? What if she's scared or being tortured? What if…"

"You carry on like this you'll end up popping or something, calm down Draco. Come on, breathe with me. In. And out. In. And out". Ron ran his hand up and down Draco's back to accentuate the breath, feeling him ease beneath his movements.

"You must have been having a dream or something…"

"I know what I heard, Ron! I'm not bloody stupid!" Draco sniped, regretting it instantly. Sometimes old Draco made himself known, and it made a now grown Draco cringe. Ron simply continued to soothe his partner, breathing audibly and ensuring his presence was centred and calm, giving Draco a rock to cling to.

"Come back to bed, love, I've got some Dreamless Sleep in my bedside table. We can see what is occurring in the morning, yeah?".

Draco allowed Ron to lead him back to bed and hand him the potion, remove his dressing gown and wind him in his arm, breathing softly into his hair as he held Draco to his chest, the steady drip still ringing in his ears, but now being warred with by the steadfast beating of his lover's heart. Draco slowly drifted off to sleep, his mind torn between the peace of his love and that infernal drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.