ALLURING || D.M.

Chapter 44

The dining hall of Malfoy manor seemed cavernous now without the thunder of voices, without the too-loud laughter of Avery, the rasping baritone of Rabastan Lestrange, the cutting wit of Corvinus Travers, it was as though the walls had stretched higher, the air thickened with a hush that made the ticking of the ornate clock on the far wall sound intrusive. Their chairs sat vacant now, ghosts of dominance and menace clinging to the space where they had made themselves at home. Breakfast had been laid as though nothing had changed, cut fruit arranged in delicate fans, toast stacked neatly, a silver teapot sending tendrils of steam into the heavy silence.

Pale morning light seeped through the leaded windows, catching on the silver goblets of orange juice the Mistress and young Master were eating for breakfast. Narcissa's hand trembled as she reached for her teacup. The liquid trembled with it, a faint ripple in amber, betraying her nerves more than her face ever could. She had composed herself with the precision of a woman who had been trained to be since girlhood, hair swept neatly, robes immaculate, posture queenly. But the façade cracked at the edges, her fingers trembled. The knife scraped too harshly against the plate, slipping.

She set it down too quickly, porcelain clattering against silver. Her other hand, pale as paper, went to smooth the edge of her sleeve, as though the fault lay in the linen, not her own muscles betraying her.

So Draco noticed, of course. He sat further down the table, still in his father's chair as though it were a throne and he, its rightful heir. His plate sat barely touched before him, he picked absently at a slice of toast, eyes trained on his mother with the sharpness of someone who had inherited her gaze but not her restraint.

"You're shaking" He said suddenly, the words a flat observation, not an inquiry. Not unkindly, not kindly either, simply factual, the way one might remark on the weather. Narcissa's hand froze around her teacup. For a moment she did not answer, as though sheer silence might erase his remark.

Draco leaned back, tilting his head, studying her, "Mother" he pressed, "What is it now?". His voice carried a faint, almost mocking exasperation, the tone of a son who had grown too used to his mother's new fretful nature, who had learned to lace concern with impatience.

Narcissa set the cup down carefully, too carefully, porcelain clicking, "It's nothing, Draco, I..." her voice caught, thinned to a whisper, "I didn't sleep well". His brows joined slightly, he was tired himself, though in another way. Yet as he leaned back in his chair, fork dangling idly between his fingers, he told himself it was over. The Death Eaters had left. The house was quiet again.

"Sleep" Draco repeated, his mouth twisting, "They've gone now, haven't they? Every last one. You should be... I don't know... relieved. You look worse now than when they were here". The words hit harder than she expected, she flinched, just slightly, before lowering her eyes to her untouched plate. Draco saw it. He saw everything.

Draco lifted his goblet, took a sip of orange juice, and set it down again with deliberate calm, as though by sheer will he could smooth the unease out of the room. But his mother's hands would not still. "You're paler than usual" He muttered, trying to mask observation as dismissal. His pale brows furrowed slightly. "Honestly, Mother, if you fall ill after fussing over them day and night all summer".

Narcissa's shoulders twitched. She drew in a breath, but it quivered. For a moment she seemed about to answer him, but instead she pressed her napkin to her lips. She shook her head quickly, as though warding off his accusation, but her composure cracked. The silence stretched. Then it broke, "I'm fine".

Draco frowned now, "What is it?". He had grown up with her hands smoothing his hair before bed, with her voice reassuring him after nightmares, with her poise steady when Lucius stormed about. To see her acting like this now, it was wrong. It was infuriating. He jabbed his fork into a slice of fruit, lifting it without eating.