"Draco...Draco." Narcissa reached out toward Draco across the short stretch of paisley carpet that may as well have been an abyss for how distant he felt. He caught her eyes and her hand wavered in the air and withdrew, curling up on her lap like a wounded animal; pale fingers crumpled and tense. "I begged the Dark Lord not to hurt you. I begged him. Both of us did! You’re our son, Draco. I went on my knees before the Dark Lord and I offered him anything – anything, Draco – for him to stop punishing you." His mother’s voice was low and overflowing with shame, and pain, and abject failure and Draco listened in horror. His mother’s pallid cheeks flushed with colour and her gaze slid away from his. Anything; the word hung in the air between them.