Prologue
Childhood tales mostly described Changing processes as indefinite. Coquettish. Until the end. Fables glossed over that part.
Deep beneath Malfoy Manor, pain lanced through Draco's neck before pivoting sharply to drill down his spine, slicing and splintering bone in its plummet. Dirt and sweat and urine clung, saturating his hair and skin. He was caked with dried feces, the putrid stench inescapable.
His limbs thrashed, crunching his fingers against a stone surface. The cracks in his hand rebounded and dispersed pulses of stabbing heat along his arm and neck. The chilled floor was a welcome respite for his wounds, open and oozing and unable to heal in the dampness.
Streams of lead and ash were serpentine through his abdomen, coiling over soft innards and then dispersing into a pressure that stretched the skin to his ears.
Someone’s sobs were ripping from their throat.