DISCLAIMER: ALL CHARACTERS ARE OWNED BY JK ROWLING: I SIMPLY BORROW THEM! DEATHLY HALLOWS SPOILERS - I ADVISE READING THE BOOK BEFORE LOOKING AT THIS FANFIC.

'Turning Away' is inspired by the question: What happened to the Malfoys in the nineteen years between Deathly Hallows and its epilogue? This is taken from Draco's POV, and as such has a quite different perspective to that of the omniscient JKR…

So… nineteen years it has been and finally a child of mine, my firstborn no less, is to enter through the illustrious doors of Hogwarts. I cannot deny that those years have changed me. Yet I have been forced to change, with the advent of the new wizarding world, one free of the Dark Lord's malice.

That Potter was my saviour during the battle for Hogwarts is what shocked me most of all. Potter, whose loathing of me was surely only surpassed by his hatred for the Dark Lord himself. Potter, who was able to stand up to the most deadly wizard of our age with a courage I have never possessed. But it does not do for a Malfoy to praise the half blood who lived.

Those few days following the fall of the Dark Lord were some of the most confused I have experienced. Returning to my parent's manor, to a house no longer commandeered by Death Eaters. Restoring it that it might now befit this new world. I cannot deny that this was the first time I had gone against my father's will: yet it seemed that my mother had only ever suffered from those Dark objects, out of a hope we might be given more credence with the Dark Lord, and be protected a little more from his wrath.

It was my mother who took charge following the Dark Lord's fall. My father had too long served him to recover easily from his destruction. Indeed, it was over those days that I discovered my parents' story is as colourful as my own…

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It was the second day after our return to the manor that she told me. My father was asleep, exhausted from the shock of the Death Eaters defeat. It was left to my mother and I alone to rescue the house, and so I was here, in the second dining room, disposing of the Dark artefacts that lined its bare stone walls. I held my new wand, no less than the old walnut instrument of my aunt Bellatrix. It seemed to have somehow recognised me as a new master when I retrieved in the aftermath of the conflict at Hogwarts. Almost as if I was its rightful inheritor. Upon the occasions she had noticed the wand, pale tears had crawled from my mother's eyes. She still mourned my Aunt Bellatrix, no doubt for childhood companionship than the fierce loyalty to the Dark Lord. To me, the reason for her grief did not matter. I still swore that I would punish that Weasley traitress.

As my mother shakily lifted another gold instrument with her wand, this one seeming to resemble a large pendulum clock, I stared at the inscription, intrigued enough to read it aloud, "Many kind returns, Bella."

"Open it." my mother whispered.

"Alohomora." I muttered, tapping it gently with the wand that had recognised me its master. It slide gently apart to reveal a small, ornately carved stone cup fill to the brim with dense blue-silvery liquid.

"Do you know what this is?" She asked, trembling, before pointing her wand back at my father's room.

"Yes: it is a pensieve. Dumbledore had one – Snape showed it to me when he assumed the position of Headmaster at Hogwarts. He never allowed me to view it properly, though. Apparently it held the thoughts Dumbledore could not handle." I sneered: Dumbledore was no great wizard: the Dark Lord, even if he did lie dead, had always possessed far more advanced magic.

Mother touched her own wand to her temple and drew from it a long, silvery wisp that flowed into the pensieve. When the stream of silver had finally stopped, I instinctively set the gold case down on our great oak table, and reached my finger into the liquid.

The room swirled as if it were the surface of Hogwarts' Black Lake, and I was pulled down into the silvery liquid… except it was now a dark nothingness through which I fell… Then my feet touched a soft carpeted floor.

I stood a little away from three figures, one who I recognised as a much younger representation of my mother, in demeanour lighter and more vibrant, sitting at the kitchen table of an old house. From the presence of the house-elf Kreacher behind me, I saw that it must be 12 Grimmauld Place: I had never realised that my mother had grown up in the same house as Sirius Black.

She faced a man and a woman: the man ordered, in an imperious tone that would shame my father's , "Kreacher, leave. I will not have you eavesdropping on family business."

The house elf turned on his disgusting heel and hobbled out, muttering, "Kreacher lives to obey Master Black, he treats poor Cissy like dirt…"

The man relaxed into his great oak chair and began, "Now, Narcissa, you know that your mother and I have been considering a suitable marriage for you for sometime now." To me he appeared small, snivelling, despite his forceful tones, "It is, therefore, that we have decided to accept Lucius Malfoy's most generous offer to take you as his wife. Think, Narcissa, what a great day for the House of Black, to be united with the noble Malfoy family!"

My mother, however, seemed to look back in disappointed anger, "Father… you should know that I would wed only one man: Fabian Prewett. I am sure he feels for me: he has been a most caring friend during our time at Hogwarts."

"Prewett… Prewett?" the woman shrieked, "You would desert the chance of marrying the eldest son of one of the noblest wizarding households for the love of some impoverished blood traitor?" Her wand spat angry red sparks into the air from its place on the table.

"Mother…" my own mother defended, nervously twitching at the sparks, "I do not even know Lucius Malfoy."

"Not know him? You were in the same house for seven years!"

"Yes, but why would I wish to involve myself with their cruel plans to impress the Dark Lord? They talked of murder and torture, Malfoy, Snape, Mulciber and Avery did. I know we all seek a pure blood order, but I do not seek to be a killer like Malfoy. Please, mother, just allow me to wed the man of my own choosing."

The woman (my grandmother, I suppose) looked as if she might concede, but the man fumed, "No, Drusilla, we will not let her throw away this alliance in pursuit of obsolete morals and some blood traitor!" Turning to my mother, he continued, "You will marry Lucius Malfoy, in two months time…"

My mother stood, as if to leave, to abandon this house that even I considered cruel. The man, however, pulled his wand from his emerald cloak, a long, crude birch stick, and muttered, "Crucio." A small spider crawling across the table scrunched up in pain.

The gesture was small, but the threat obvious. My mother looked away in pain.

Then I was dragged back through the black nothingness, to the dining room of in our manor, with its heavy oak furniture, and ornate fireplace. I was again sitting at the table upon which the clock-pensieve rested. My mother leant over my shoulder, her white face questioning.