Theodore Nott was painting the Empire's Games symbol on mortar, his wand slashing the air in rapid movements. Three black shapes. Symmetrical. His long Scavenger cloak was grazing his ankles, collecting dust from the cracked pavement.
Bolson—one of the two High Scavengers remaining—had assigned Goyle, Soothsayer and him to a three-day Scavenger run to scour Edinburgh. This was their last day. For the two last days, their Dark Mark was prickling on their skin. But they weren't summoned, so they stayed.
Theo had painted over 14 symbols. Bombed five standing buildings. He was sick of it.
Soothsayer had found two Muggles. Unwilling to play next year—she killed them.
Goyle had found a half-blood thirty minutes ago. Willing to play. Goyle had silenced him and tied his hands, the half-blood's wand tucked in his trousers.
"Ready," Theo said, sheathing his wand. His only goal for the day was to go back to the lodge and brew a successful Draught. He was following the instructions word for word, but still the fucking potion always ended up some shade of blue (not normal, it was supposed to be clear like water) or smoking.
Soothsayer tightened the elastic at the end of her braid. "Let's go. I'm starving."
They apparated back to the Empire as nightfall was nearing. The half-blood hurled right at Goyle's feet when they landed. He made a disgustedface. "Bitch."
The Empire was buzzing with life—people were streaming by from one place to another. A lot of them were gathered around Town Hall. Death Eaters were flying in columns of black smoke in the sky.
"Woah." Soothsayer whistled in surprise. "What did we miss?"
Theo glanced at Goyle and jutted his chin toward the pale half-blood. "Better take that to the dungeons."
Goyle yanked on the woman's arm, striding towards the castle.
"What should we do?" Soothsayer asked.
Theo was already walking toward the dorms. "Whatever the hell you want. I don't care." He entered the building and went to his room. Maybe he had time to take a twenty minute nap before taking off for the lodge. Just twenty.
The heel of his boot slided on a folded piece of parchment on the floor, nearly throwing him off balance.
He half-sighed, half-grunted to pick it up.
I hope you understand why I did it.
This was Draco's handwriting. Instantly, a rush of blood spiked through his veins. Making him feel clammy and uncomfortable. He hurried out of his room, pushing Draco's door open. Unlocked.
Keela's food was everywhere, her dish overturned. Bed unmade. Drawers opened. His red notebook gone.
"The fuck?" he muttered.
Right then, his Dark Mark seared into his flesh and he hissed, slamming his palm over it. The Dark Lord's voice, eerie and reptilian, echoed in his head. Every Scavenger in Town Hall. Now.
His pulse quickened as his feet dragged him quickly to Town Hall. The babble of voices bounced around him as he weaved his way in a sea of black uniforms. Inside, the temperature seemed hot, the air smelling of wood and sweat. As the Scavengers advanced towards the meeting room, gasps and murmurs popped one after the other.
The room was a wreck. Most of the chairs were broken, scattered on the floor, and the long table was split in two. The chandeliers were unhooked and shattered, pieces of glass strewn across the marble.
The Dark Lord flew above their heads and they ducked, black smoke curling in his wake. He landed right at the back of the room and all eyes turned to him, agitation dying down.
Yaxley was nowhere to be seen, but Dolohov was in a corner. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, his eyes were not responding to the frenzy around him. Scavengers kept appearing—popsof Apparition outside and rushing flaps of cloak. Some were still streaming through the doors, and the space grew hotter.
Theo was crammed between bodies, silently coaching himself to remain as invisible as possible.
Voldemort's white skin formed a stark contrast against the black walls. His red eyes were skimming on the crowd before him. Nagini was wrapped around his neck and shoulders, the tip of her tail circling his arm to the elbow.
"Quiet!" he demanded, and the room fell silent instantly.
Theo's mind was flashing with the eight words Draco had left for him on paper. What had he done?
"Last night, player 41 escaped," the Dark Lord said, and surprised chatter erupted. "We believe Draco Malfoy has betrayed us. He left the Empire earlier." Gasps and growls of disbelief tore through the room.
A painful cramp seized Theo's stomach. Gripping and tightening. A wash of confusion wiped his brain.Escaped. Betrayed. Escaped. Betrayed. He schooled his features to stay stoic while he was unravelling.
"We don't know how this could have happened," Voldemort continued, "but they must have been scheming for a while." His eyes then pierced through the crowd, searching and reading their mind.
Theo occluded immediately, heart beating as fast as it never had. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples. I hope you understand why I did it. He clenched his teeth.
He left me.
The Dark Lord was breathing quickly with anger. "Search everywhere you think Draco Malfoy could have gone. Look for number 41. The mudblood Hermione Granger. It is most likely that they're travelling together."
Scavengers around him nodded firmly.
"Is Theodore Nott in the room?" His question boomed in the room, and Theo's blood filled with ice, gooseflesh spreading on his arms. A ring of space opened up around him as the Scavengers drew him into focus.
The Dark Lord's eyes settled on him at last. There was a pause. A possibility. He inhaled. "The rest of you, leave and do as I said. Theodore, a moment with you."
The room cleared, but Theo stayed put. He didn't know what angle to choose. What avoidant strategy. He probably was doomed. Once they were alone, Voldemort walked slowly to him. The snake's head reached outward, straining towards his face.
"I have a few ideas where he might have gone, my lord." Theo spoke loudly, not lowering his chin. "I can get there quickly."
Voldemort hummed. "Is that so."
Since Theo was already about to die, he wondered if he ought not to try and defeat the snake first.
"You and Draco are close."
Theo was able to tell the difference between a statement and a question. He swallowed the thick boulder in his throat. "I should have seen it coming, my lord."
He squinted at him. "You look upset."
"I'm angry, my lord," he hissed, channelling the anger simmering under his skin. "I should have sensed something bad would happen as soon as he started shagging that mudblood."
The harsh words pained his mouth. But the reality didn't change. He left. They left. They had a plan, and they had fucking left. Something must have happened, but the reality still hurt him.
He fell to his knees, bending his neck. "I have failed you, my lord. I will not struggle if you want to dispose of me." He stayed there, waiting and hoping for his strategy to work.
"Draco Malfoy deceived us all," Voldemort said. "But you're an asset, Theodore, and I will put you to use."
Theo nodded vigorously. "Whatever you need, my lord."
"But first," he drew out his wand, "you must be punished for your carelessness."
He didn't have time to stand on his feet as the light of Crucio engulfed him whole.
On Sunday, a heavy and cold rain poured down on the Empire, blurring the landscape through Narcissa's kitchen window. She had a cup of tea in her hand.
Her perfectly manicured hand absently stroked the white cat seated on the counter. Her eyes were set on the faraway pines and the hazy shapes of mountains standing still behind the northern Ward Station. She was also alert to any animal that could roam close to her house—Draco's dog knew her house.
She would always keep an eye out for Keela. That dog had protected her son and gave him something to care for when he struggled to care for anything.
Snowflake was purring. The low sound brought her a slice of comfort. Shivers kept crawling back her spine. The back of her mind was entirely dedicated to images of her son. The Portkey he had given her was still hidden in her house, tucked behind gardening books in Lucius' study.
But Draco hadn't abandoned her. That's not how she perceived the situation. She didn't know the circumstances surrounding his departure. But whatever it was, she knew it was related to Hermione. But that young woman didn't force him to leave, whatever had happened. If Draco left, it was because he chose her safety before his own.
What Narcissa was struggling to handle since he left was theuncertainty. What was she supposed to do? Go look for him? Simply wait for him to come back? Execute the plan without him? Prove her loyalty to the Empire? If her son was now a traitor, they would certainly make sure to verify where her allegiance lay.
She had to prove that she was loyal to the Dark Lord without them asking her to do so. Or before.
She knew what plan Hermione had crafted—she knew her son was brewing the Draught of the Living Death with Theodore in Yorkshire Dales.
She knew everything. And still managed to remain a bystander. Draco hadn't involved her more than what was needed. A part of her longed to be reunited with him, wherever he was. Maybe, as a mother, she was supposed to leave the Empire behind and find her son. But she always knew her son very well.
Ha hadn't left her behind, because he still needed her in here. She didn't know for what exactly. She kept the laundry room's window upstairs opened for the ravens to drop their letters. When Theodore needed to communicate with the Order, he came to her house.
The Dark Lord hadn't said that he was visiting another country, which meant he probably was in the Empire at this time.
Her palms got sweaty, and she smoothed down her long-sleeved silk shirt down her arms. She had todosomething and take a stand.
She scratched Snowflake's chin, left the kitchen and gathered her things. She draped her coat on her shoulders, took her umbrella and left the house under the pouring rain. Walking on the spiral path, she drew closer to the middle.
She arrived at His house, erected in the middle like the center of the world. It was bigger and gothic, all sharp edges, pointy tips and black iron.
I am not afraid.
She knocked with the skull-shaped knocker and waited. A tiny house-elf she couldn't remember the name of opened the door, wide-eyed.
She didn't let it speak. "Hi. I'm so very sorry to come unannounced. Is our Master home?"
The elf nodded.
"Could you please tell him that Narcissa Malfoy needs a moment with him? It's an important matter." Her voice didn't waver, and she tightened her grip around the umbrella.
"What's taking so long?" The Dark Lord's voice boomed from deeper inside the house.
"I'll wait," Narcissa added.
The elf let her inside and disappeared with acrack.Narcissa stood in the cold and wide entrance. Everything was dark and looked cold, from the black iron and wood furniture, to the dark marble, to the Corinthian columns, the numerous chandeliers, the carpet and the tapestry.
Voldemort appeared at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at her. His white skin was a stark contrast to the darkened atmosphere. Nagini was wrapped around the handrail, coiling and hissing softly.
She immediately bowed her head when their eyes met.
"My lord, I truly apologize for coming unannounced."
She didn't hear him move, so she assumed he was still watching her at the top of the staircase. She continued.
"I have been thinking about my son's betrayal and trying to process it." She paused. "I am ashamed, my lord."
The Dark Lord descended a few steps, making them closer. "Do not waste my time with futile apologies, Narcissa," he replied coldly.
Her heartbeat quickened, and she finally looked up to him. "I am here to offer myself as punishment for his actions."
Voldemort's eyes tightened on her. His tongue swiped over his front teeth. "You think I won't punish your son if you're punished in his stead?"
"No, my lord. Respectfully, what I meant was, you can punish me while you wait for him to be found. Then you can apply your rightful judgment on him, my lord. I understand you must feel very disappointed in the Malfoy name. Both my son and my husband failed you, my lord. I understand the need to assuage their uselessness and I offer myself as a channel for your anger. Whatever you wanted to do to Lucius, or whatever you want to do to my son, you can do to metoo."
She waited, casting her eyes on his feet to convey her submission. She knew that there was another direction this could take. Voldemort could do to her what he did to Lucius and take her sanity.
"That is a generous offer." His tone sounded like a statement.
"Even then, this atonement wouldn't be enough. I am ashamed, and I am putting myself at your disposal."
His lips curled in a wicked grimace. "You were already at my disposal, Narcissa. What you're trying to do isn't going to change a thing."
Cold sweat pearled at the nape of her neck. Her heartbeat was panging in her chest.
"Tell me what I can do to make this situation better, my lord. If there is something different you need from me, I will do it."
He seemed to think about her request, features stiff. Time drew longer, minutes bleeding into one another. After a moment, he sighed.
"I don't know if I should be offended or proud that each of my followers is acting like I'm about to behead them. I am not a monster."
Surprise temporarily blind-sided her. She was about to reply when he cut her short.
"You came here hoping I wouldn't accuse you of the same crimes as your son."
Her tongue was pasty, sweat dripping down her spine. "Yes, my lord…" she said softly, earnestly. "I was hoping that you wouldn't make an association between his actions and mine just because I gave birth to him. I came here hoping to convince you that my allegiance was to you first before him."
Gave birth. The words were so direct, cold and impersonal that her stomach churned. She was his Mother. There wasn't anything else she was more proud of than giving birth to her son.
"Empire before blood," he stated.
"Empire before blood," she confirmed.
"If you want to display your loyalty so much," he said, "be my third arm."
She blinked quickly, her heart banging in her ribcage. "That… That would be an honor, my lord. But what about Dolohov?"
Voldemort dismissed the name with an exasperated expression. "Dispose of him."
Dread filled her veins, and she swallowed. "Of course, but may I ask why, my lord? Are you certain I will be more useful than him?"
He closed the distance between them in a gust of wind, bringing his face an inch from hers. "Do not question my ways, Narcissa."
She bowed immediately, neck bent. "Of course not, my lord. I apologize." Naginia hissed softly on the handrail.
"Dolohov is… disorganised," the Dark Lord provided as an answer. "I have no use for him anymore."
"It will be my honor to replace him, my lord."
He swivelled away, going back up the stairs, his dark robes trailing behind him. "You have taken enough of my time. Leave and do as I say." He didn't look back at her, and she knew she was dismissed.
She let herself out without the elf. Only once she was back under the rain did she smile.
Voldemort didn't know how long she had waited to kill Dolohov.
Narcissa was back in her house that same afternoon, thinking about how she would dispose of Dolohov. Murder wasn't exactly her method of preference, but she knew that he was, in a direct or indirect way, responsible for what had happened to Lucius.
Three booming knocks at the door made her jump. Snowflake bounced off the couch, spooked.
"It's okay, darling," she said, and set her cup down. She grabbed a kitchen towel to pat the lukewarm tea off her arm and walked to the door.
A gust of cold wind filtered inside when she opened the door, the patter of rain even louder. It hadn't stopped raining all day.
"Antonin?" Her brows quirked up. Antonin Dolohov was on her doorstep, drenched with rainwater. His hair was flattened on his head, droplets of water sliding down his face.
What a… coincidence.
When the surprise had passed, she opened the door wider. "Come in."
He entered without a word, soaking up the rug at his feet. She wrapped her arms around herself to warm herself.
"You're all wet," she said calmly, poised. "Why didn't you use an umbrella?"
He blinked quickly to chase the water from his eyes. "Oh, hello, Narcissa."
She frowned, pausing, and examined him. He looked tired and agitated. But almost everyone was acting the same way since Hermione had escaped, and even more since Draco had left.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. If she wanted to be a good hostess, she would offer him some tea to warm himself. But one, she didn't particularly want him to linger in her house. And two, being a good hostess didn't matter if she planned to kill him. "Did the Dark Lord send you?"
"No."
He didn't say anything more.
"Okay. What are—"
"He left," he replied quickly, looking around the house as if searching for someone else. Like her son.
Her lips tightened. "Yes, I'm aware." Why was he bringing up Draco?
"And you didn't leave too?"
She was taken aback by the question. "I… I didn't know he was planning on leaving."
Antonin hummed, nodding along. A shiver ran over his body and he blinked quickly again. "I saw him. Before he left."
A stab of nerves electrified her. "Really?"
"Uh-huh."
"How did he look?"
"Determined."
There it was—that uncertainty creeping back in. That feeling of not knowing where she was standing, or what game she was playing. She had had other encounters with Antonin before, especially with all things related to the wards. But never had their conversations felt like this.
"Antonin, why did you come here?" she asked, weighing each of her words. "What was my son determined about?"
A deep frown creased his forehead, the portrait of pure confusion. "Your son? I'm talking about Lucius."
Her heart dropped in the pit of her stomach. The familiar shadow of deep, unequalled sadness loomed over her, tugging her toward the lightless hole of grief. Uncertainty ignited a path of questions in its wake.
She cleared her throat to focus her mind. "He died a long time ago."
"He was determined to succeed in the mission the Dark Lord entrusted to him. Right after the prophecy was accomplished." He wiped water from his face, another shiver shaking his body. "Do you remember?"
"Vividly, yes."
"Did he tell you what his mission was?"
She reshaped her features so they could remain blank. "It was confidential. All I knew was that he went to France."
Antonin narrowed his eyes at her, head tilting slightly down. "It wasn't my fault if your husband failed to carry it out. You know that, don't you?"
Hot turmoil surfaced under her skin and her nostrils flared. She was starting to see where this was going, but she opted for another angle.
"What was the mission?" she said between her teeth. She didn't expect him to tell her, but she couldn't talk about Lucius with him.
"There was something the Dark Lord needed at the top of Mount Saint-Michel's statue." His French accent was horrible. "To retrieve a mysterious object known to be hidden in arrows to God."
She couldn't speak for ten seconds, dumbfounded. Draco had mentioned that the Essence de Brume was hidden in those 'arrows to God', but her theories about what they were had proved fruitless.
"What does that mean?" she asked coldly, keeping her role perfectly. Maybe she could extract some answers from him before ending him.
"It is believed those arrows referred to the highest peak of a church or a cathedral, the closest thing to heaven, like a spire or a steeple. An arrow pointing to God. But the statue was heavily guarded, and Lucius failed."
Gooseflesh spread on her nape, anger thrumming in her veins. Lucius' mission had been to retrieve Essence de Brume for Voldemort. So he could create the fog.
"I remember tending to his wounds for three days." She was trying her best to battle the sadness seeping into her bones, weighing her down. "Why are you telling me this?"
A smirk split his mouth—an expression she rarely spotted on him. "Maybe that's where you should look for your son."
Silence fell between them, and the rain kept rattling the roof. She studied the man in front of her, wet and cryptic. A decision was unfolding inside her, and she let it crystallise.
She lifted her chin and drew her wand. "Come with me, Antonin," she commanded. "I believe I will need your assistance."
Narcissa and Antonin were flying under a cloudy sky, cloaked in black smoke. Her Imperius curse was still holding him tight, rendering him even more confused. She only needed him to activate the fireplace to transport them to France, and then apparate them to the statue.
She watched what he did to activate the Floo network—and examined closely when he deactivated it.
However, once in France, the farthest he could apparate them was the border of Normandie. Flight was necessary to reach Mount Saint-Michel. Narcissa wasn't used to flying. But the Dark Mark she took seven years ago allowed her to do so.
They had been flying for an hour already when Mount Saint-Michel finally appeared on the horizon. It was surrounded by water, connected to the mainland by a causeway. From afar, it had the appearance of a mountain. Once Narcissa was closer, she realised a circular village was built into its stone. It was enclosed in rampart walls, rising above tide level.
She was getting tired, her muscles and mind begging for respite. They made a final arch in the sky before diving for the island.
Her feet touched stone, and she ignored the tingling in her burning legs. Antonin landed three seconds after her, smoke dissipating in black wisps around him.
"Now what?" she said, looking around. It looked deserted.
He pointed upward to something behind her shoulder, and she turned around. The statue was on the peak of the mount, its pointy shape piercing the sky.
She tied the top half of her hair. Her hands were freezing. "And this is what the Dark Lord was talking about? At the top of that statue?"
"Lucius made the mistake of not looking at the statue, but only the spire. However, the highest point is the statue's sword. Are you hungry?"
Narcissa was under the impression that Antonin had been here. When Lucius had failed his mission. How come he knew so many details?
"I'm not hungry." Her reply was short and cold. What an odd question. "If Lucius failed his mission, why didn't the Dark Lord send someone else to fulfil it?"
"Oh, he did. But not here. There were other arrows to God to search."
A monstrous screech tore the air, then a myriad others. An angular creature, rampant and pale, appeared at the end of the cobblestoned street spiralling up and around the mount. It skeetered quickly toward them, shrieking.
Hundreds more of them followed, spilling out of crevices and alleys.
"Inferi!" Antonin screamed.
Narcissa's instincts sparked alive and she threw the first stunning spells at the Inferi running toward them. Human bodies raised from the grave, rotten flesh sagging on their bones. Some were crawling on their forearms, tearing their skin and smearing the stone with slimy, dark blood. Most of them were running like spiders on four limbs, eye sockets embedded into their skulls.
The street was overrun in seconds. The Inferi horde surrounded them, snarling and screeching, extending their skeletal arms towards them.
She shot spells one after the other, spinning in a full circle. But there were too many, and hundreds more were pouring out from all sides. A scrawny hand grabbed her ankle and she sliced the limb away.
There was no time.
She took flight, and a mob of Inferi jumped at the space she just left.
"Narcissa!" Antonin yelled from below.
She looked down—the Death Eater was swallowed under a legion of limbs and bones. His black clothes were torn from his body, and fleshy hands scratched at his face, spindly fingers hooking in his mouth, his nose, his ears. A howl of rage and pain scorched through his throat, and soon he disappeared completely. The Inferi crawled over him, the swarm reminding her of an anthill.
"You messed with the wrong finally," she muttered, slashing through the wind. She knew he was dead when he stopped screaming.
She gained height until she reached the church at the summit. The statue was standing at the tip of the spire. But the spire was not the highest point. She circled the statue, unsure what she should be looking for. It was a golden-coloured archangel with curved wings, raising a sword above his head. He wore a helmet adorned with a spiked halo crown that looked like a metallic sun.
Below, the Inferi were scurrying up the mount, their shrieks a hybrid between boars and owls. Magic had raised them from the dead—who had done this? Were they the inhabitants of this place?
The Dark Lord needed something at the top of the statue.
The highest point. Closest to heaven.
The arrow closest to God.
She flew closer to the sword's tip.
A glint flashed in front of her eyes. Like glass catching the light. She had to stop flying if she wanted to look closely. But she couldn't land on the statue.
She aimed her wand at the archangel's hand. "Diffindo!"
The statue's wrist was sliced off, detaching the sword with the golden hand still attached to it. Her muscles strained to keep her in the air as she wrapped her second hand on the wand to levitate the heavy object.
She flew back to the mainland, noticing that the swarm had already lessened. She dropped the golden sword on the shore, then flew immediately back to the Mount. Antonin's body was there. Inferi were still crawling and scurrying in the streets, but they had abandoned his torn body, flesh and clothes ripped open.
She hovered right above him, surrounded by smoke, and the Inferi around tried to claw at her. She was still too high.
"Diffindo!" She used the same spell, and Antonin's head severed. She dove quickly like a bird chasing prey, and took the head by the hair. She arched back up before the Inferi could grab her.
She flew back to the mainland, holding Antonin's head, then plopped on the sand, panting for air. Her pulse was racing, her muscles cramping with exhaustion.
Still, abandoning the head, she scrambled to her feet and hurried to the sword. It was as long as her body. Dropping to her knees, she searched for the flash of glass.
On the flat of the blade was attached a vial that could fit in her palm. It was filled with an amber liquid. The vial was magically secured to the sword.
She pointed the tip of her wand on it. "Finite." The vial detached, and emotion eased its way into her painful soul. Lucius had failed to get this object. Which caused Voldemort to be disappointed in him—once again. And as punishment, they had taken his sanity. His ability to be coherent. To be polite.
To love his wife.
Narcissa took the vial between her index and thumb and studied it under daylight. She clutched it against her heart before bursting into tears with both relief and grief. She felt that maybe she had rendered justice to her husband.
The vial stayed on her living room table. Lights danced on the glass as she studied it. She uncapped it—the smell was unfamiliar. A mix of oil and petrichor. She scoured books after books in Lucius' study to find anything useful about this ingredient. To confirm it really was Essence de Brume.
She knew the Order needed it, but she wasn't sure what to do.
How to proceed.
She had the missing piece.
She spent all of Monday cooped up in her house. Reading and searching.
She had found the information on the sanity spell by looking into the book Healers through World Wars and Pandemic. A book Lucius had in his study. A book they had never opened when they were searching for what was ailing him because they didn't know it was related to pandemics.
When night came, she was still bent over the coffee table, reading. The cup of tea that was steaming an hour ago was now cold, untouched, alongside a plate of scones. Snowflake was sleeping on the backrest of the couch with his front paws tucked underneath.
She glanced at the elegant box on the chaise. She had wrapped a black, silk ribbon that elevated the look of the gift. She didn't feel guilty about anything.
The doorknob rattled urgently in the entrance and she stood abruptly, wand already casted. She circled the couch silently, the doorknob still shaking.
Then there were sobs. Haunting, boyish sobs that shredded something in her heart, tugging on her mother thread.
Theodore.
She opened the door and Theodore tumbled forward in her entrance, like he had been leaning on the door. He fell at her feet, crying with throaty sobs. She bent down immediately to tend to him.
"Theodore?" she said, worried. "Love, what's going on?"
His face was buried in the rug, shoulders shaking with his cries.
She inhaled unsteadily, soft hands grabbing his arms. "Come now." She pulled gently, trying to help him up.
Slowly and shakily, he scrambled to his feet and she led him to the living room. She tried to locate a wound or a broken limb on him—he looked intact.
He plopped on the couch, instantly hiding his face in his hand and pulling at his hair. "I don't understand, I don't understand, I don't understand what's going on."
She sat next to him and kept a hand on his back. "Theodore, breathe. Look at me, darling. Breathe with me." He didn't look at her. "Look at me."
He turned his head to her. His eyes were bloodshot, face puffy and wet with tears. A mess of brown curls. This wasn't by far the first time she had to comfort a man in a state of emotional disarray, and she had picked up some tricks.
"Let's breathe together." She waited to see if she had his attention. "In—" she inhaled very slowly, and he copied her, "—and out." They repeated those steps a few times until his breathing slowed down.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice scarred by tears, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy, I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go. Draco is gone and I don't know what to do."
Her palm settled on his back again. "Did something happen?" she asked calmly.
He dipped his head in his hands again, before slapping his forehead repeatedly. "I killed them," he pushed out with a lament. "I killed three of them. I had to, I had to—or everyone would know that I'm a traitor. I had to, Mrs. Malfoy, I had to—"
She frowned, trying to follow. "What happened? Who did you kill?"
He shook his head and pulled at his hair again. Tenderly, she reached for his wrists and lowered them, keeping them locked in her grip.
"You can tell me, Theodore," she added softly.
His leg started bouncing. "They sent five of us, five Scavengers, to Liverpool and then they appeared. People of the Order… them. The good guys. I didn't have time to think—I had to! I had to fight them, because Goyle was fighting them, and Millicent too and there were more of them than I thought. And I killed them, I killed three of them— Dean, and Hooch and someone else, oh, god…"
Narcissa tried to soothe him, drawing circles on his back. "It's not fair," she murmured. "It's not fair that you have to play both sides."
"I'm a monster," he whimpered, before collapsing on himself.
She pulled him to her before he could slide to the floor, and he kept his face hidden behind his fingers. He had scratches on his skin, red and swollen.
"Nothing makes sense anymore," he mumbled feverishly. "Why did he leave, Mrs. Malfoy? Why did he leave just like that?"
Her heart squeezed. "I don't know. But I know my son. He'll come back for us. It's not over."
When she realised she was playing with Theodore's hair, fingers weaving in his curls, she stopped abruptly. Wondering if she was making him even more uncomfortable. She wasn't his mother, she shouldn't—
"Keep going, please," he blurted out, sniffing.
She resumed and they stayed silent for a while.
"You could write to him," she suggested.
"You seem pretty confident that he's not dead."
Her fingers stilled with horror and he straightened quickly to a sitting position. "I shouldn't have said that, it just came out." He slapped his forehead again. "I'm such a dick."
She sighed and lowered his hands again. "Stop this."
He wiped his face with his hands and nodded. Narcissa stood up. "I think you need some tea. What do you say?"
He offered a broken, closed-lipped smile. "I can't say no."
She smiled back warmly at him and went to the kitchen to reheat some tea. A headache was forming right between her eyes, throbbing slowly. She threw the old tea down the sink and filled the kettle with fresh water.
"Erm—Mrs. Malfoy?" Theodore called from the living room.
"Yes?"
"Who's that gift for?"
She sighed—the Nott family had always been curious people. "Hold on." She finished preparing the tea and came back.
"Don't open that," she ordered urgently when she noticed Theodore had the unopened box on his knees.
"Is it for me?"
She put the tray down on the table and chuckled slightly. "I'm sorry, it's not for you, darling. It's for the Dark Lord."
"Oh." He glanced down at the box, features slowly falling. "—What is it?" he added, sounding like he didn't really want to know. "It looks big."
"Put the box away, Theodore, please."
He obeyed immediately.
She sipped on her tea, sitting back. It was a relief that Theodore didn't read the card she had pinned under the ribbon.
Empire before blood.