Sounds of Sobbing

The sounds of sobbing wake him up. They echo.

He sits up straight in bed, clutching his arm and screaming in agony. Breathing hard and wiping sweat from the porcelain white brow, he clenches his fists, pulling at the sheets. The silk does not tear.

He lies back down, closing his eyes and hoping, even praying, for sleep to come and claim him. He prays for eternal sleep to save him from the life that is death in itself. Death does not come. He realizes that the sobbing is not a dream.

Wearily, he wakes up and as if an invisible hand is controlling him. It is His hand, controlling him, calling him, possessing him, driving him, killing him, refreshing him, willing him. He silences himself, pushing open the gothic door that opens the floodgates of pain, of memory. He is out of the sanctuary and into the house. He walks down the stairs, noiseless, like a house-elf. Only he is not a house elf, but a Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

It burns. Biting his lip, he falls to the ground. He falls to the hard, cold ground. He clutches his left forearm and wills himself not to scream. It takes all his strength and then some. His lip begins to bleed. The iron taste of blood overwhelms him, and he bites harder. Spasms wrack his body, but he wills himself not to cry out. Ignoring the pain and the calling, he continues on with resolve as sharp and metallic as the blood in his mouth, the blood of a Malfoy.

He arrives at the bottom of the stairs, finding her where she allows herself to be found, on a chair, in front of the door, as if waiting for someone to arrive. It is in vain. No one will come.

The sight of it almost kills him. She is like a flawless statue of white marble. The faint dark veins running through the white stone only add to its beauty. Her body is racked by sobs, but she sits up straight, looking at the door with expectant eyes. He approaches her from behind, unable to face the sight of his childhood deity, fallen, cracked, broken, dead.

"...Mother?" he says slowly. His voice does not rise above a whisper. She gracefully extends an arm and motions for him to come closer with the simple movement of long, slender fingers, just as pale as his own.

"My son." She regards him with cold eyes like blue arctic ice. He nods, not trusting his voice. A sudden gust of wind blows by, and two pairs of eyes glance at the door. Two gazes are intently fixed on the dozens of scenes carved into it. All of her attention is focused on the door. Mind, body and soul, she waits, gazing patiently at the door.

The silence is unnerving, even for him. He glances towards her uncertainly. She places her hand on his shoulder, smiling a strange, bitter smile. Her gaze never wavers from the door. He is glad. He does not know what he will do if she looks at him. He is scared by that smile. It is from another world altogether. It is from the world of her mind, it is from the world of the door. The hand on his shoulder makes the hair on his back stand on end. He is not cold, nor is he scared. It feels unreal when she speaks, looking at the door.

"Do not worry, my son. He will return to us." With these words, the grip on his shoulder tightens, becoming painful. He exhales, unsure of what to say.

He wants to shout loudly, and tell her that Lucius will never come back. He wants to batter, kick, and thrash. He wants blood. He wants to believe that he will soon wake up from this surreal half life. He wants to believe that his father will be home in the morning. He knows his trembling voice will betray his weakness if he shouts or opens his mouth to tell he truth. He knows that the spasms of pain shooting though his body will not allow him to move. He knows that his father will never come home from Azkaban. He does not want to know these things.

He is almost thankful when a second wave of pain washes over him, starting from the Mark and spreading to the tip of every nerve. It distracts him from the truth. He bites his lip once more, going rigid. She notices, lessening her grip on his shoulder. She speaks again, softly, venomously, issuing him a warning.

"It is not wise to ignore the summons."

He is unable to bear it anymore. He leans forward, placing his arms around her, embracing her. She returns the gesture, and he is almost comforted. He ignores the hairs on the back of his neck. He ignores the tremors shooting up his spine. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her familiar perfume.

She wraps her arms around him a bit tighter, but her eyes never waver from the door. She feels a spasm run up his spine, and she smiles. It is an eerie smile, full of pure, raw evil and at the same time, empty of all emotion. His body tells him that there is something wrong. He lets go, but keeps his eyes tightly shut. His heart is thudding with fear.

Slowly, he edges away and guides himself to the banister. Still unwilling to open his eyes, he grips it tightly and ascends. His knuckles are pale, almost translucent. He feels eyes on his back. He feels eyes everywhere, looking at him. He does not look. He is afraid to look.

She is still staring at the door.

Groping around the dark hallway, he manages to reach his own door. He finds the doorknob and twists, rapidly entering. It is not until he shuts in and locks it that his heartbeat returns to normal.

A new wave of pain ripples through his every nerve, just as his soft moan of pain ricochets off the walls. Unable to control himself any longer, he lets out a strangled sob, leaning on the door and sliding to the floor. He is forced to open his eyes in order to stop his eyes from drowning in tears. Even his sanctuary cannot protect him from the pain of the mark. His sanctuary cannot protect him from the pain of truth.

He does not move from the floor. The cold, hard floor is nothing compared to the threat of cold, hard reality.

"For this... for this, Potter, I will kill you," he mutters, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

The sounds of sobbing lull him to sleep. They echo.