Narcissa Black-Malfoy was sitting at a pretty little café somewhere in America, where she had fled sometime before the war ended. No one in her family save her sister Bellatrix knew exactly where she was, not even her beloved son Draco. How she wished she could floo him and talk with him for hours about what he had been doing since she escaped the raid on the mansion that had nearly killed her and Bella and had killed Lucius. It was probably that muggle lover, Arthur Weasley, who led the aurors to their mansion. While in her reverie of the battle where she lost not only her husband, and financial ties to the Wizarding world, but her son, her beloved only child was lost to her now, she sat there sipping her tea, English Breakfast of course, waiting for Bella to show up so they could go shopping. A single tear runs down her face as she sips, thinking of the final moments before she left.

"Mom!" Draco screamed, watching her fall through the balcony of their home, trying to escape the Auror who was attempting to grab her, waving his wand with a screamed 'Wingardium Leviosa' spell to break her fall.

"Run Draco, just run. I'll be fine," Narcissa bellowed at him "Just get your self out of here, and to safety."

Without looking back, Draco turned on his heel and ran for the passageway the aurors hadn't found yet, hoping to make it outside to the forest, and hopefully freedom. Behind him he heard a bellowed "Sectumsempra" and a high-pitched scream following it. Yet he kept running, knowing his mother had tried her best.

Draco Malfoy had been busy since the end of the war. He'd managed to escape to Italy before Voldemort had raised the wards that kept England apart from the rest of the world, the intention being to take over one country at a time. Nobody on the continent knew why they fell not six months later… after all; Voldemort was England's problem.

The problem with England, Draco had soon learned after arriving in Milan, was that they assumed they were the center of the world – and therefore able to make judgments about how other Ministries should run their countries. He knew he would soon tire of this speech the moment the Italian Minister, Maso Lucciano, began for the eighth time. That the Italian Ministry was also making the same claims about their region he found secretly amusing. Of course he would not have told Maso this. It seemed to be a rule that one doesn't complain about inter-country politics especially not over dinner.

The instant he had arrived from the international apparation point, he had been surprised about how lax the security seemed. The minister himself had greeted him when he walked out of the terminal to find himself a new life in Italy. Of course, discovering the identity of the Minister had been its own adventure…

"Hello Mr. Malfoy and welcome to the most beautiful country in the world. I am Maso and your guide for the day. First, we need to get all of your papers in order." Maso had begun walking toward one of the translucent plexiglas cubicles where said paperwork could be done and visitors or immigrant's luggage could be checked. Suddenly, he stopped as if pondering something. "Malfoy, is that French?" The way that he pronounce Draco's last name was as if he was tasting it like one of the fine wines Italy produces.

Draco hesitantly smiled. He had been full of dread when the man had paused, of course assuming that someone had heard of the war this far south and with it, the taint that now would cover the Malfoy name considering his parent's affiliation with the Dark Lord. "That's right. My great great great grandfather was Jean-Marc Malfoi, who emigrated to England from the Toulouse-"

Maso simply began to nod as he continued his glide toward the box, absently noting the accent and historical explanation. "Pure blood?" he asked with an almost pitying glance.

"Very." Draco was just confused. Why would this man who knew nothing about him pity him for being pure blood.

"Me too. Ever since we were little, they tried to drill it into our little brains until they could hold no more and we could explain and trace our history back more than I don't know how many generations by rote… oh don't worry, it's not too obvious, Mr. Malfoy. More than your history, you'll need to overcome the colour of your complexion."

Draco couldn't help but grimace. He hated how sunscreen felt on his skin, the grease sinking in so that felt more like a pig at one of those foul Muggle fairs (that he would only too quickly assure anyone that he'd only heard about, had never experienced), but the alternative of painfully looking like a lobster was more horrid. And he had chosen a place in the Mediterranean as the place to escape to… why?

"And don't worry about the state of your name… it's still good on the continent. We don't care about the states of your British war or the side that your family is on. It's none of our business." Maso was quickly assuring him when he tuned back in to what his guide was saying.

Ah, that was right. He had chosen the Mediterranean because it was somewhere where no one would look for him. The Malfoy name was clear here. … But how would this man, presumably only an innocent guide, know that that was one of his concerns? That his name was French in origin was easy to guess, though by no means would he try to change it to mean "good faith" instead ('Bienfoi' just didn't have the same ring). He stalled right outside of the door to the box while Maso entered unassumingly.

"… How…?"

"My twin brother Massimo is right now sitting in the seat of Minister of Magic. For magical twins, there is not much that can be kept secret from one another. But of course you know that. No, Mr. Malfoy, you are quite safe in this country."

"Thank you." And with a sense of relief, Draco entered the box.

. .

That had been years ago. He still remembered the shock from when he had walked straight into the Minister's office from that hallway to indeed find Maso's identical twin sitting at the desk… only to rise and attempt to wrestle Maso into it with a glare.

. .

"When I said I would take over for a little bit, I assumed you weren't asking for more than a lunch period. But no, you had to take all afternoon off and leave me trying to pretend to be you. Maso, my dinner crowd has probably already started and here you are just flaking and who is this?"

"Draco Malfoy from England. I'm assuming it's not for vacation that he has come, so I thought I'd just…"

"You thought 'you'd just'?! Maso, what, may I ask, is wrong with you? You're the Minister of Magic!"

Maso shrugged. "You were already here, Massimo. I don't see what the problem-"

Draco had just watched this interaction, dumbfounded but amusement rising quickly until Massimo raised a giant sparking spoon in his direction. Realizing that this was probably not the best situation to be in, he tried to slink toward the door.

"Oh no you don't, Mr. Pointy-Face-who-gave-my-brother-an-excuse-to-make-me-stay-here. You're coming to dinner. You obviously don't eat enough. You're so thin!"

"Massimo, you should really stop sounding like Mama…"

It had been over dinner that the idea that he should model came up. Massimo and Maso had a family like the Weasleys only classier, Draco decided as he munched on the fresh bread and seafood risotto with wine that made up dinner. He bet the Weasleys just shoved food in their mouths and talked while it was still in there. But the Luccianos, even though their family was as big, were continental to the core and took hours over dinner in the back room of Massimo's restaurant.

"Draco, honey. Eat more. You're a stick figure." Mama Lucciano murmured as she put another heaping helping on his plate.

"Mama! I want to be as thin as Draco." whined Saveria, the twin's little sister who was the same shape as her mother… round.

"But why, Sava? You are beautiful as is." Massimo's wife's flattery wasn't the best, but Saveria's argument came out just a little weaker when it came.

"But Draco could be a model."

Draco had come to Milan with only what he had on him and he was sure when it was discovered he was gone, any accounts his parents had access to would be swallowed up within theirs. It didn't matter if he was over 17 and a legal adult, he was still a pure-blood son and that counted where the Ministry was concerned… except he had his key, he realized. Maybe…

"Thank you for the meal. I really need to go. If I hurry, maybe I can…"

"No no no… you stay here tonight. No reason to spend money on hotel when you can have a home roof over your head."

"Oh Mama… The boy is probably tired. He'll wanting to just begin to try to set up his new life." Maso sighed, trying to cajole his mother.

"Nonsense. Draco, you stay here tonight. It's Sunday. Nothing will be open, much less this late."

Surprised by this information, Draco could only acquiesce. "Thank you ma'am."

"No 'Ma'am,' young man." She suddenly looked fierce before her features again settled in her familiar soft smile. "Call me 'Mama.'"

Draco returned the smile "Then thank you Mama Lucciano."

Mama's face broke out into an unabashed grin.

.

Not another one! The paparazzi were after him again, assuming he was a model or an actor or something exotic like that. Maybe Saveria was right. They'd followed him for days after he left Maso's house – to the bank, to the realtor's, even to every restaurant that he decided to try. They even tried to follow him when he went into a robe shop on the Italian version of Diagon Alley! This was getting annoying, to say the very least. But he was a Malfoy, and as such wouldn't curse them into oblivion because they annoyed him. He only sighed as he turned around to find another teenaged girl with a camera, and gave a gargled shriek, and with a turn, disapparated back to Maso's house, as he hadn't yet found an apartment.

Authors notes: Amory Blackwood here, no, I haven't died yet. I've just been ignoring my Naruto fics, and I may take them down until I find the muse who started 'em, so I can continue on them. But this muse came up and bashed me over the head with a plot line, but only half of it. My co-writer Jemtmtraveler has the other half of the plot line. Lets hope you all love it as much as we do.