The dark sword of the queen cleaves the white knight in half. The marble pieces of his body hit the chessboard and roll until they settle several squares away from each other. The black queen straightens, shrugging her shoulders as she repositions herself into a poise of readiness.
Across the board, Narcissa's king stands alone. The pieces of his army lie scattered in white fragments across the many tiles between him and Theodore's queen. Studying the chess pieces from above, the seven year-old boy's expression remains oddly blank as if carved from the same marble as the armies that he's been moving across the board for three games now. Two of which he lost before decimating Narcissa's army in this final match.
Narcissa isn't a master in chess, not like her dear uncle who raised her and her sisters. He was the one who always won the chess games against her as a child as well as against every single adult in the Black family line. That was to be expected though because that was simply how Uncle Alphard was. A man far more clever than the rest of his family, especially in games such as this.
Narcissa may not have anywhere near the same level of skill as her uncle, but there is something unnerving about losing to a child not even a third of her age. Especially one who spent the entire game avoiding checkmating her king until not a single other piece was left.
The boy looks away from the board and to Narcissa. His dark blue eyes are as unfathomable as the depthless ocean. Until he catches sight of her unease and flinches.
"I think that's checkmate." His voice is quiet, hesitantly reaching out while he shrinks back with the most movement he's shown for all three games.
Narcissa refuses to let herself ponder on how Mr. Nott must play chess with his son. Instead, she forces a smile. Avoiding a false cheerfulness, it's subdued in a way that Theodore hopefully takes as sincere.
"You did well, Theo." Her tone's warm because the boy truly deserves praise. The type that Elenore must have given after games like these.
"You beat Mother!" Draco gapes from his perch on his leather chair. He's leaning forward, staring at the wreckage on the board as it reverses itself. The runes etched underneath the tiles coax the pieces to repair themselves in preparation for the next game. Whenever that may be.
Theodore tucks his head down, his sandy brown curls the only part of him that doesn't seem to grow smaller at Draco's words.
This won't do.
"Theodore, it's alright to be proud of winning." Narcissa tries to keep her smile in place without letting a single glint of what's lurking in her heart out. The poor boy doesn't need even a hint of her feelings on his father. Not here and now. Hopefully, with time, Theodore will learn to accept her praise. Not necessarily in the way that Draco seems to soak up her smiles like sunlight; however, Narcissa will ensure that one day the boy can hold his head up in the calm acceptance befitting a Slytherin when receiving admiration.
Despite Elenore confiding in Narcissa once that she foresaw her clever son wearing the bronze and blues of a Ravenclaw, Narcissa doubts that any child who plays chess like little Theodore would go into any other house except that of the ruthless serpent.
"I could have won sooner," Theo blurts, his tone quiet and tight, "but Father says you have to make it so nobody wants to fight you because it's just too horrible to."
The chess pieces have repaired themselves completely as Narcissa holds herself poised in a posture of calmness. Shoulders relaxed, fingers loosely curled over one another. Breath slowly coming in and out.
"That sounds wicked!" Draco exclaims, oblivious to the mask his mother keeps firmly in place. To the underlying expectation curling under Theodore's words.
Theodore looks to Draco, taking in the way Narcissa's son still leans towards him. Draco's grey eyes are bright with excitement as Theodore stares back. The boy seems to unfurl then, holding himself a little straighter as his own dark blue eyes seem to lighten in response.
"I guess so." Theo shrugs, his voice stronger than before.
"Well," Narcissa says, her voice as tranquil as the opaque surface of a lake, "I think that's enough chess for today. What would you boys like to do next?"
No, that's not the question she should have asked. They've both been too eager for the outdoors, an obvious answer for boys wishing to explore. The woods they've taken a liking to are far too open, too many places for whoever is murdering wizards to hide. She'll have to think of something quickly to distract them–
"Lady Malfoy?" the high-pitched voice of a house elf reaches out from across the room. The troublemaker, Dobby, stands almost right against the opposing wall as if bracing for the icy stare she gives him.
"Master Malfoy is at the gate with a guest," the house elf wrings his long fingers together, staring at her as if trying to convey something in his overly large green eyes, "should I take Master Draco and Mister Nott to their room?"
The house elf's question is far too overreaching. Their kind are supposed to wait for their masters to decide what to order their servants to do. Not imply the actions they should take.
Naricissa's mouth dries, the indignation she should feel failing to rise.
"Father's home!" Draco practically jumps from his chair, grabbing onto Theodore's hand as he tries to pull the other boy up.
"You should duel Father next. Maybe you can beat him too." Draco's words rush out in excitement at the prospect.
"Dobby, who is our guest?" Narcissa can't keep the strain out of her voice. Not when she's already shifting closer to the boys, close enough to grab them if necessary.
Before the house elf can respond, a crack cuts through the air in the parlour. Her husband stumbles into existence, another figure leaning heavily against him. Gasping intakes of air hit Narcissa's hearing, yet her husband isn't the one who sounds like he's dying. There's a scowl etched onto his face and his blond hair's disheveled from the hasty apparation. But Lucius is otherwise fine.
The tension in Narcissa's chest loosens. Her husband is home. After not even a day of questioning, the Ministry has released him.
Her relief sinks at the sight of the wrinkled hand that grasps onto her husband's robes. The familiar black and white streaked hair slick with sweat. For reasons unknown, Lucius has brought the elderly Nott into their home and that–
The old man jerks as if he's been hit, his bowed head rising until his hazy sea-green gaze is fixed to Narcissa's side. The pallor on his face is so pale that each gasp could easily be the last. There's a stillness to the air, the weight of it pressing into Narcissa's ears like the pressure from an incoming storm.
Magic. She may not be able to sense it like her precious boy, but any witch or wizard can feel something when enough magic builds up, threatening to overflow onto the world.
"It wasn't her time," the old man utters, his words falling as faintly as the first warning raindrops, "it wasn't her time to die."
The shriek slams into Narcissa like lightning, but when she turns the boy is already running. Theodore vanishes out the doorway, the weight of magic disappearing with him.
"Theo!" Draco bolts after his friend, past Narcissa's hand as she instinctively reaches for him.
"Narcissa!" Lucius' voice stops her in place, her unthinking strides halted by the demand in his tone. When she turns back, her wand is drawn. The spiral handle digging into her grip as her lips curl into a snarl.
"He loves her," the old man mutters, his eyes still an unfocused haze no matter how fixed his gaze is at the spot where his son was standing, "and it burns."
There's something wrong with the old man. Something that makes Narcissa's vicious words die in her throat and makes her stare, waiting for whatever incoherent words to tumble out next.
"What's wrong with him?" Her voice lacks pity or concern, only morbid curiosity in the same tone Bella would use back when they were children and she would occasionally find something dead in the gardens.
Lucius looks at her. His eyes burning with anger as he leads the muttering old man to one of the black leather chairs. His words spit out with venom.
"Veritaserum. They fed both him and the Rosier boy truth potion." Lucius lowers Nott into the chair, careful to ensure that Nott doesn't slip out of the seat and fall to the floor with how boneless he appears to be.
"Apparently, it didn't react well with whatever other potions he's taking. Not that the Ministry wants to take responsibility for that." Unsaid is that a man of Nott's age could be taking anything, potions to ease the flow of his blood through his veins, draughts to soothe the aches of joints. Any little delicate combination that might interact adversely with the power behind veritaserum.
When Lucius pulls away, Nott's attention snaps to him. His hand reaches out, stopping short of grasping the sleeve of his robe.
"Abraxas, it burns."
At the old man's plea, Lucius' face could be carved of stone. His grip white-knuckled on the silver head of his cane.
The thought is fleeting. Narcissa wasn't there for the end, but she has to wonder if this isn't the first time that an old man who felt as if he were burning alive reached out to her husband. Lucius had stayed with his own father as dragon pox burned its way through the elderly man. Is this an echo of those last few days?
"I'll get Severus. He'll know what to do." Lucius's tone is clipped of any emotion as he steps away from Nott. The old man's hand droops, trembling in the air as his gaze drifts back to the spot where Theo had been.
"He's at Hogwarts." Narcissa says. A reminder in case her husband forgot that the school season has long since started.
"And I'm on the Board of Governors. I can enter that school any time I desire without concerning myself with Dumbledore's opinion." Lucius snaps, misreading her words entirely.
His burning stare cuts one more time to Nott who has leaned back in the chair, now mumbling imperceptibly.
"Try to make sure he doesn't die while I'm out." With that order, Lucius spins. His body a contorted whirl as he vanishes on the spot and leaves Narcissa alone with the sickly Mr. Nott.
The skin on Draco's palm crawls. The cold grit of Theo's magic writhing underneath as Draco runs out the front door. Straight ahead, the hedges rustle as if in agitation, but Theodore isn't running down the front stone path to the gates of Malfoy Manor.
Draco can't see him anywhere. Not to the right nor to the left. There isn't even the sound of his friend's footsteps to lead Draco to him. Just an awful ringing silence left in the wake of Theo's scream.
"Theo!" Come back!" His voice wobbles as Draco turns again and again. If he guesses wrong, he won't find Theodore. The Manor's ground's are too big. If Draco picks the wrong direction, he'd run forever and never find Theo at all.
The grit underneath his skin is too rough, too cold, and Draco cries as he clutches his hand to his chest.
"Theo!"
"Master Draco." The house elf appears right beside him. His bright green eyes level with Draco as the boy startles, his hiccups quiet as he stares.
"Does Master Draco want to find Mister Theo?" Dobby looks so serious, his mouth a grim line as he holds out his long-fingered hand for Draco to take.
"Where is he?" Draco pleads, not remembering that Father never talks like that to the house elves.
"Master Draco needs to tell Dobby to take him to Mister Theo," Dobby explains calmly, "that's how elf's magic works."
The hedges rustle, their sharp vines moving underneath their leaves despite there being no wind at all. The sun's warm on Draco's head, but his hand feels nearly frozen. He reaches with that hand, grasping the house elf's warm, long fingers in his.
"Take me to Theodore Nott." He orders like he's supposed to even as his voice wobbles and tears flow from his eyes.
The world rushes past them instead of contorting and twisting with the pressure of a wizard's apparation. Within the space of a heartbeat, the two of them reappear to one of the side gardens of the Manor. The grass tickles Draco's bare feet as he looks around, catching sight of a dash of brown amidst the green sprawling over the ground.
Just in front of Draco, the lawn is green and vibrant. Yet, it's shriveled and brown several feet further away. The brown stalks over there are tall enough to reach past Draco's ankles as if someone forgot to keep that patch of lawn tidy. In the center of those brittle, dry stalks, Theo lays curled on his side. His sobs burn in Draco's ears as Dobby's grip on his cold hand tightens.
Theo's magic ripples through the air again, the pressure of it weighing down on Draco as he tries to reach forward. The house elf's hold stops him. His grip like a chain holding Draco in place.
"Let me go!" Draco yanks hard, but the house elf plants his feet and refuses to move.
"Master Draco, it isn't safe! Dobby won't!" The elf's voice is high and taunt as he disobeys the order running through him.
The green grass around the edges of the dead, dry patch grows taller before Draco's eyes. When it reaches that ankle height, it lightens, turning brown and shriveling in an ever spreading circle around Theodore.
"Theo! Stop, it's okay!" Draco cries because that's Theo's magic ruining the grass, spreading cold and quick over the surface of the lawn and killing it. The magic beneath Draco's palm roughens, pushing beneath the skin like ice shards that want to break through.
"Mister Theo! You'll hurt Draco if you don't stop!" Dobby's shout cuts through the pressure, alleviating the sense of it pressing down on Draco. The brown, dead circle stops growing, the sobbing of the boy in its center dying down into quiet gasps.
Even the gasps fade as Theo lays there shaking. After only a moment of quiet, Draco gives a sharp yank making the house elf finally let go of him.
He walks over to Theo, his voice wobbling as he says Theodore's name again and again. Theo doesn't respond like he's supposed, flinching when Draco finally puts his cold palm on his shoulder. The boy uncurls, scrambling just out of reach as he turns back to Draco.
His blue eyes look nearly black with his blown out pupils swallowing up most of the color. Theo's lip quivers as he clutches his knees against his chest. Tear trails streak down his face.
"There's something wrong with me," Theo whispers, barely loud enough for Draco to hear. "There's something wrong."
The cold in Theo's magic still lingers in the air, seeping through Draco's skin as he lungs forward. He grabs onto his friend too quickly for Theo to pull away. To run off again where Draco won't find him.
"No there isn't." Draco insists, tightly hugging the rigid boy, "you're just Theo. There's nothing wrong with you because you're Theo." Because there isn't anything wrong with Draco's friend. There can't be. His magic is just cold and gritty because he's different like Draco is. That's it. That's all.
When Theo loosens in his hug, Draco ends up crying as Theo wraps his arms around him too. Theo tucks his head against Draco's shoulder, and those sandy curls brush against his cheek. He doesn't cry. Staying silent even as Draco sobs, clutching Theo as tightly as he can so the boy won't run away again.