Contingent | D.M. + H.G.

Chapter 1: In Which He Plots

Draco Malfoy was nervous.

The unfamiliar sensation hit him like a ton of bricks once he pinpointed what exactly it was. Of course, this was entirely due to the fact that he very rarely felt this way. This uncharted territory made him uncomfortable because he realized he wasn't sure how to navigate it. He could taste the insecurity leaking into the blood that came from the constant gnawing of his inner cheek. He couldn't figure out what in his life had gone so terribly wrong that it had all come to this.

He knew he needed to focus, to center himself. He closed his eyes, breathing, letting himself slowly sink into his meditation. He was in his childhood bedroom, so it should have been easy to disconnect for a moment. It was proving more difficult as of late, due to circumstance.

It seemed somewhat trivial, but this helped him immensely with his Occlumency. It was imperative, Severus had insisted, that Draco must master, what with the Dark Lord living in his house and all.

The tone of his thoughts were bitter to match the taste that lightly coated his tongue as he continued to accost his cheek. More than anything, Draco ached to have control back, but the constant spiral he was stuck in was intent on keeping him there.

He let up on his right side and switched to start in on his left. He sighed internally as he felt the beginnings of a new bad habit forming. Right, he thought snarkily, like he needed another one of those.

Everyone had their own sort of ritual when it came to Occlumency. For Draco, he envisioned himself laying on his back in an empty field, as he stared up at a perfectly cloudless night sky. He would lay there as he named as many constellations as he could and buried his memories away in the connections between the stars that formed above him. He found that there was something symbolic about how his mind processed it - he was named after a constellation after all. Full circle and all that.

The occasional downside, if one could even call it that, was that it was all too easy a task to get immersed in once the process started - which was why he jumped when he felt a hand lightly brush his hair from his face. Draco's eyes shot open to see his mother staring down at him, wide eyed and concerned. She hadn't stopped worrying about him since his fourth year, and it showed in the new lines on her face.

"I apologize for scaring you, but we really must be off. I tried knocking," Narcissa said, looking at her son. He looked tired, and he knew it. Draco hated that she worried so much, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He was trying to get better at masking his emotions from his mother. He knew her worry was unconditional, and it had only gotten worse with their latest unwelcome houseguests. She did a good job of hiding it; she was a good actress.

He nodded, pursing his lips. "How is he?" he said. She knew at once what he meant.

"He's...as usual," she said. Her eyes gave her away as they dropped away from his.

"Will you be okay once I'm gone?" he quietly asked her. Her eyes flitted up to meet his once again. If her baby blues were reminiscent of an undisturbed snowfall, his swirling greys were an unrelenting torrential downpour. He hated this part - his mother had always predictably been his soft spot. She gave a wry smile and raised a hand to cup his face gently, her thumb stroking his cheek affectionately in the way only a mother can. "Aren't I always?"

She hated to see him like this. She wished more than anything, she could take this from him, to lighten the load on his shoulders. This was never supposed to happen - she should have seen this coming. He was just so young. Her heart ached for what she knew was come. As much as she loved her son, she knew this wouldn't end the way he expected. He simply didn't know himself as well as he thought he did.