The screams come without warning.
Narcissa jolts from sleep, her heart in her throat. She knows that horrid sound, knows its origin and its pain. Flinging the bed curtains back she tears from the room, running at a speed she hadn’t thought herself capable of until that very moment. The doors to Draco’s room fly open without the need for her wand or even a whisper of a spell. She’s on him in an instant, dragging him back from the broken mirror, through the loose shards scattered across the floor. Their bare feet leave red smears over the ornate carpet as she pulls him away.
“Draco,” she says, over and over, attempting to console him but finding her own tears mixing with the blood pouring from her boy’s beautiful face. “Draco, please!”
He thrashes in her grip, continuing to howl an unearthly cry that reverberates through her very bones and shakes the window panes in their sills. Behind them, a candelabra crashes to the floor and a shock of blue flame licks up the gilded frame of an oil painting. Narcissa screams at the fire as if the very timbre of her voice could halt its progress. Draco spasms in her grip at the sound, his fingers digging into her delicate arms like talons on a hawk, clawing at her as if her skin were no more than the flesh of a fish. She holds him tighter on instinct, unwilling to let go, refusing to concede to the madness overtaking her precious son—the only person she has left.
“Please,” she repeats, the strength in her waning like the sinking moon outside the window. “Please, Draco.”
The piercing cry of his broken howl is the only answer she receives.
. . .
. . .