Don't scream, don't think, don't scream, don't think, don't …

Oh.

Narcissa Malfoy reached for her wand on the bedside table. "Lumos," she whispered. The faint light illuminated the room just enough for her to see the cheap closet that had to be kept closed by jamming a hankie between the doors, the faded curtains, and the drab, mustard-yellow paint on the walls.

It was true, then.

He was dead.

He was truly dead. Harry Potter had killed him. She had seen him do it.

He was dead, she was at the wizarding boarding house, and Draco was back at Hogwarts.

Draco was safe.

She'd just had a nightmare, and now that she was fully awake, it was all right to think. Not, perhaps, to scream. One had to remember the other inmates. Guests, she meant. Lodgers.

But it was all right to think. He couldn't do Legilimency anymore. He couldn't do anything anymore to hurt Draco. That was a good thought; one to hold on to.

What was it her mother used to tell her, when she had had bad dreams as a little girl? "Wake up properly, or the bad dream might continue. And think of nice things."

In those days, there had always been nice things. Her new doll. A dress. A birthday party. And if Narcissa couldn't think of anything, her mother would come up with something. She had been good at imagining nice activities for little girls: helping with baking biscuits, a tea party with the doll's tea set and her mother the guest of honour, doing a drawing for Granny with the lovely new colours. "Think of what you want to put in the drawing, Cissy," and little Narcissa had fallen asleep within minutes, her head full of multi-coloured flowers and a big, yellow sun with a smile on it.

These days, things were very different. Suns didn't have smiles on them. Flowers were too expensive, and besides, the room offered neither a vase nor a table to hold them. Draco's safety was a good thing, though. And it made her remember what she had to do now.

Continue life, that's what. Make the best of it. Present a cheerful surface.

Life was difficult enough for Draco. True, he could have ended in Azkaban, and it was thanks to Shacklebolt's sensible ideas that he wasn't. The Minister was right: all Draco would learn there was resentment and criminal tricks. At Hogwarts, he could finish his education as well as do community service on the restoration of the building. And if the report from his teachers was favourable – it was a probationary year, Shacklebolt had insisted – he could find a job after his N.E.W.T.'s and become a 'useful member of society'.

And Draco was supposed to feel grateful for this and to show that gratitude. Malfoy Manor was taken, he was robbed of both his inheritance and the work he was groomed for. He had been through unspeakable horrors, his father was in Azkaban, a now Dementor-free Azkaban, but still. All that was more than enough for her boy to get on with.

What he needed was a mother who was alive, free, and coping. He needed to know that she was there for him whenever he wanted comfort, and he needed to know there was no reason to worry about her at all.

Perhaps Narcissa could think of her next weekly letter. Of what she'd put in it. Not the desperation she felt. Not how, for the past week, she'd had to limit herself to one meal a day. Not the misery of the job they had offered her. Not the humiliations she had to suffer.

Narcissa Accio'ed the handkerchief. The closet door creaked open. Let it be, she thought. If the goddam thing wants to be open, let it be.

No. That was giving in. That was not the spirit. She had to go on, for Draco. And the only way one could go on was by maintaining certain standards. By not letting oneself go. Narcissa carefully shut the door with a face-cloth. No need to wake up the lodgers.

This wouldn't do at all. She had to think of cheerful things. She had to make light of her present surroundings. Of the job offer. She had to find amusing little anecdotes for Draco's letter.

She had to be a support. Not a mill-stone.

Now, what could she put in that letter? It was getting more difficult by the week to come up with something bearable. She had been driven to inventing things completely. Not that that was a problem; as a small boy, Draco had enjoyed her stories, and judging from the letters she got back, he still did. She could make something up, if only she could stop crying.

Why, of course.

The meeting with Fiona. That was perfect. She could get a good, funny, cheerful letter out of it. Blow your nose, Narcissa Black, and think of nice things.

Meeting Fiona had been nice. Unexpectedly so. True, Fiona and she went back a long way. The friendship that had started in their first weeks at Hogwarts had survived all of Fiona's marriages, Lucius's disapproval – quite outspoken after husband number three, or was it four? – and all the differences between two people, one of whom firmly believed that diamonds were a girl's best friends at all times, while the other was brought up with proper respect for the 'no pearls before five o'clock' rule.

So when Narcissa had spotted Fiona in Hogsmeade this morning, she had been fairly certain that Fiona wouldn't give her the cut direct. Fairly certain – but not quite. Too many people who once had begged for invitations to Malfoy Manor now enjoyed rubbing in her new status as a penniless DE's wife.

But Fiona had greeted her with enthusiasm, and within three minutes they had been ensconced in their favourite booth at Madam Puddifoot's, with a proper Cream Tea in front of them.

Narcissa had nearly gasped at the order – there went at least two meagre meals – but Fiona had insisted at once that it was her treat, given the very, very special favour she was going to ask of Narcissa.

Narcissa wouldn't write about the fear of being cut, of course, but the very special favour would make a great topic, indeed.

Now let's see … how exactly had it happened?

xoxoxoxox

Fiona Zabini had lost it.

Completely and utterly.

Narcissa had always known it would happen at some point, and today was clearly the day. It was the only possible explanation for the insane conversation she'd just had.

True, people did go in for career changes occasionally. And the end of the Wizarding World as they knew it was as good a time as any. After the final battle, Purebloods had lost their money and position all over the place. As a result, their worth as a career opportunity for Bridezilla Zabini was negligible – a change was clearly in order. And that was the kind explanation.

The other explanation contained the words 'sell-by date' and 'middle-aged', and nice gels didn't use those words to describe other nice gels, even if said gels had stolen a perfectly good boyfriend at the Christmas Ball of 19- well, of quite some time ago.

It was understandable that Fiona intended to remain Fiona Zabini. Eight husbands and as many inheritances – one might argue that a woman's work was never done, but at some point graceful retirement was the only way left.

Or so Narcissa had been taught. One retired to a smaller house on the estate, one played a smaller part in social life, one became venerable rather than enchanting. Until that time when extreme old age – white-haired, black-laced, lavender-scented extreme old age – rendered one 'enchanting' once more. One accepted the praise gracefully, even if one thought that it was tantamount to being treated like a toddler. "Isn't she marvelous - at her age."

What one didn't do was start a bed-and-breakfast.

In a former Muggle prison, too.

Yet that was exactly what Fiona-the-Madcap had done. With money from her one Muggle husband. "It's always a good idea to spread one's investments, you know," Fiona had said, and Narcissa had nodded. One didn't agree out loud if agreeing out loud meant disloyalty to one's husband. But one did see the point, oh yes.

"And that's where you come in," Fiona had continued. "Let's face it, Lucius left you in a pretty pickle."

Which was true. It was also a remarkably refreshing way of putting it. Not the understatement – of course one didn't wallow in a description of one's own, or one's friends' miseries. Fiona had made light of her own position, a very precarious one with a past that included saying "I do" to at least three known Death Eaters. A lot of people were trying to find out what, exactly, Fiona had done.

After the Dark Lord's first disappearance, Fiona had solved the problem by marrying the then editor of the Daily Prophet. Muggle born, admired for his courageous articles on Death Eaters' deeds, exceedingly wealthy. And, as Fiona had called it, a mature hundred and twelve.

And now she wanted to start this bed-and-breakfast, and she wanted Narcissa to help her, since she, Narcissa, was in a pretty pickle. If the whole idea wasn't so insane, it would be tempting. There was equality in that offer. No maudlin pity, no humiliation. Just Fiona and Cissy, two former Slytherins, making the best of things.

And Fiona was right. Lucius would spend at least twenty years in Azkaban. Narcissa had no money, no career to fall back on, no home of her own. As to getting a job "to tide you over, until your son can support you," as the dreadful probation officer had suggested, Narcissa had no intention whatsoever of doing so. She would get a job, yes, but not to 'tide her over'. She would not be a burden to Draco. Which meant that her future looked extremely bleak, indeed.

It was not that Narcissa was without skills. She could run a household. Command a large domestic staff. Organise parties, receptions, every kind of social gathering. She could arrange flowers, decorate a house, and open a fair or organise a charity event.

But these, as the probation officer had explained with quite unnecessary patience in her voice, "these are not precisely marketable skills, are they, Mrs. Malfoy?" And the woman had proposed a job as cleaning lady at St Mungo's. "I'm sure you're very house-proud," she had said.

House-proud! Her head-elf was house-proud, for the excellent reason that the immaculate state of the house was a testimony to her work. Molly Weasley was house-proud, for no discernible reason at all.

A Malfoy née Black wasn't house-proud. She was among the leading hostesses of her time.

And then Fiona had asked her to come and see the place. "It has potential, Cissy. Those stern lines. That prison structure. It needs a complete make-over, of course, but it could be a designer's delight. A boutique hotel, almost. I know it can be fabulous – but I can't do it. I haven't your eye. You must come and decorate the place. I'll pay you for your time, just like I would a professional decorator – you are a professional, only better. Oh, come on, do say you will!"

Complete, utter insanity. Fiona Zabini had finally managed to scatter her marbles as wide as her investments.

But nice gels didn't tell other nice gels they were bonkers. Nice gels went down to the dreadful prison place, pretended to weigh the pros and the cons, and found a kind way of letting the other down.

And it was not as if she had anything else to do during the weekend. It was better than sitting on the bed in her dismal lodgings. Had someone truly looked at a sample of that god-awful mustard paint and said, "Yes! That's it! That's the very colour I want"?

Anything was better than to sit in squalor and think.

Anything.