An Ounce of Blood

"Mother?" His voice came out a whisper, all but swallowed by the darkness of the tomb.

Draco stood in the archway at the bottom of that long descending stair, the torches along the subterranean hall more accentuating the darkness than relieving it, and he all but forgot the sun shining above. Each shadowy passage held another long-dead ancestor, another name on the endless and steadily unraveling tapestry of house Malfoy. He couldn't see their resting places, his own mother was no more than a silhouette in the distance, but Draco felt their presence. He knew that just beyond the false security of those flickering lights they lie in wait, cold hard faces carved in cold hard stone. The dead were the masters of the catacombs and never was that fact more evident.

His first memory of the tombs was that of a child, eyes shut tight against all those unyielding faces no matter his father's short rebuke against cowardice. He could still remember the way the torch light danced in Lucius' eyes as he towered above him, looking across their shared history encased in frozen earth, and how he'd wanted so badly to grab his father's hand in that stretch of silence by the entrance. To feel some sort of warmth deep beneath the earth. To remind his young mind that not all was darkness and decay as the crypt would have had him believe. But more than anything, he remembered the long walk to the end of the tunnel. He remembered his father then looking down to him.

Every day, people are born and people die. The world takes a fleeting interest, no more. As we breathe, we are simply men; it is when we join these ranks that our names are finally remembered. Only family can truly make an immortal from those whom are destined for the earth.

And at that moment, so long ago and yet close enough to taste in this place, he came to understand the reality of death. At five, his father made him to understand that even he was going to die and sleep in that dark tomb – the thought still made his hands shake.

He tried to remind himself that he wasn't a child any longer, but it did no good. Boy or man, he was a Malfoy and all roads led here. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sounds of water trickling into pools and the scurry of faceless vermin across long-sealed crypts and they sent a shudder through him. Draco braved a step forward. "Mother."

Shivering slightly from the chill, he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and made his way down the corridor. Each footfall sent echoes bounding across the stone and yet she was still. It wasn't until he was close enough to make out the red hue to her robes, the faint smell of her hair, that Narcissa turned.

Her face, always so fair, was lined and worn in the faint light. Dark circles rested under her eyes, and there was no mistaking the shimmer of tears, still wet, on her cheeks. Her light hair, usually pulled back, lay long and limp down her back. His hand flew to her face only to be pushed aside. That small touch was enough though. His fingers still stung from the brush of her cold skin.

"Draco. Forgive me, you..." Her eyes rose to meet his. "You startled me."

Draco sighed and looked away. He felt so ill at ease in her presence now, and his tongue refused to cooperate with the smallest request. "It-It's late. It's... cold. We should—"

"No." Again their eyes met, hers just as startled as his own. This time, Narcissa turned away. "I can’t…"

"It’s alright, Mother. We can talk upstairs, in the parlor if you’d like. I can send for something warm to drink an—"

"Have you finished packing?"

He didn’t dare look her way, not then, and focused his eyes instead on a crypt to her side. It was empty, a great gaping hole lying in wait. Draco didn’t care to think for what. Finally he spoke. "I’m not leaving."

"Draco, please."

The soft yearning in her voice made him shiver all the harder, and he fought to still the hands limp at his sides. He ventured a glance at his mother, thought against it and turned to look to the other side. Another empty crypt. "We’ve been over this. No, Professor Snape said tha—"

"Severus be damned."

Draco sighed, wanting to reach out for her (as he wanted his father’s hand long ago, for warmth and comfort and ignorance of death so close at his heels). "You don’t mean that."

"And your Dark Lord with him, for all that amounts to."

It was difficult not to look at her then, difficult not to notice the sudden fire in her eyes as it threatened to engulf the meager light of the nearby torches. He could make out the clench of her small jaw beneath almost translucently pale skin and the subtle shudder in her fingers as they firmly clutched the thin robes to her body.

The tomb itself seemed to echo that small quiver, set to silence as her words hung in the air between them. After a small while, he slipped from his cloak and eased it over Narcissa's shoulders. "Don’t say such things," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper and yet still managing to bound through the stone hall. "Please… We shouldn’t be here. Not now."

His touch lingered, faint at her arms, and she looked so fragile in the great folds of his cloak that he dared not pull away. They stood like that for some time, bodies close and her eyes so distant, until Narcissa moved back.

"No." She shook her head, hair falling to partially cover her face. Narcissa paid it no mind. "If you insist on following through with this madness, I’ll have no part in it. Now let me be." She turned to the side, staring into the darkness of an empty crypt. Her voice was low but he heard. "Let me wait the return of my husband and my son to the only place the gods deem to allow."

Draco couldn’t have said what struck him harder: her words or the loss of her touch. He felt that much colder, that much more the child. She spoke of sorrow and loss as though he hadn’t the faintest idea as to the word’s meaning. Without thinking, he grabbed Narcissa by the wrist and spun her to face him. "That’s enough. I’m not five, and it will take more than a few rotting corpses or the promise of my own inevitable place among them to frighten me. Stop being foolish, Mother, and let’s go upstairs."

It was only when he saw her wince that he felt his fingers digging deep into the flesh of her wrists. Draco recoiled.

"It is so easy to forget that you are a man now," she replied without hesitation, pulling his cloak tighter. Her face was plain, but he couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes still shimmered just before she cast them to the floor. "I know you’d rather not hear it, but you are so like your father." Narcissa glanced up again, peering at him through her lashes. "And you are right. It really is time I rest." She opened her arms. "Come. Give your mother a kiss goodnight."

Although he would later call it insight or the like, it was only confusion that gave him pause. It wasn’t like Narcissa to give in, especially not when she’d committed herself so fully. He’d seen her face set in nothing short of fury not moment ago and now…

Draco let his mother draw him close, her head resting so lightly on his shoulder, before he spoke. "I’m so tired," he whispered into her hair without knowing why, as she reached up to cup his face and place a kiss on his cheek. The soft words were true, no matter that he would barely remember saying them afterwards, and he allowed himself to forget his hesitation for the comfort of her arms.

"I know, Draco." Her hands were warm, her hair smelled of the lilac perfume he remembered from his childhood, but her lips were cold. "I know." So was her wand, pressed deep into his neck, and the darkness of the tombs swarmed forward to take him with one muttered word.