He stood numbly. All of the Wizarding World was finished; with Voldemort alive and Potter dead, no one would last a second if they attempted to defy him. There was the Order of the Phoenix, yes, but many of them were dead and there were so many Death Eaters opposing them. There were cowards in the world—cowards like him. Like his father. Those cowards would kill any defiant organizations in a heartbeat if it meant they may be spared. And then they may be killed anyway.

His hands began to shake, a sensation he barely noticed he was so numb, and he moved them from his sides into his pockets. His mother's wand brushed his fingertips.

Voldemort began to laugh—he laughed like a madman.

"Harry Potter is dead!" Voldemort exclaimed and laughed again. The Death Eaters laughed too. The side of the Order (the side he stood on) remained solemn. Some cried. Draco looked to his shoes, the leather tarnished by marks from debris and dust. He focused on breathing, staying alive, and blocked Voldemort's voice from his mind. He'd become quite good at it in the months that Voldemort and the other Death Eaters had lived in his home.

Suddenly, chaos broke out around him. How long had he blanked? His trance broke and he saw Potter move—Harry Potter, alive. Voldemort looked shocked and furious. He turned; Draco expected him to shoot a curse at Potter.

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort shouted; his wand pointed into the crowd of Death Eaters.

Draco's gaze followed the flash of green straight to his mother's chest. He crumpled as she did, falling to his knees and suddenly unable to breathe. He couldn't see straight and his mind was a sudden blur of nothing but thumpthumpthump as his heart beat erratically.

Harry Potter was alive… but his mother was dead.

A hand—maybe more than one; he couldn't tell as he was blinded by disorientation—reached to comfort him.

Fighting dissolved into the chaos and he was led from the courtyard, stumbling on his own feet as he couldn't tell which way was up and which was down and whether gravity was trying to pull him into the earth or shoot him into space. He hadn't even realize he'd begun to cry until hours after the battle; he hadn't moved from where he was hidden away.

When he finally stirred, Draco could barely walk. His legs shook like a newborn colt's and his feet couldn't find solid ground, though it rest just below the soles of his shoes. He leant against the walls of the castle, the ruins cold and unforgiving, until he was outside. No bodies remained in the courtyard of Hogwarts. He strode along, nearly toppling down the stairs, to the place where his mother had fallen. It was frigid where her body had laid.

Eventually, he was joined by another. By Potter.

"It's my fault," Potter whispered. He kept a distance, feeling intrusive. "She lied to Voldemort. Said I was dead. She wanted… she wanted to know if you were alive."

Draco said nothing.

"Her body is in the Great Hall, with the others. I told them what happened." Potter spoke again but didn't come closer to Draco.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he finally said.

Potter's words hung in the air like thick clouds. Draco remained kneeled at his mother's death spot until he was sure Potter was gone. He moved then to the Great Hall. The living whispered when they saw him. Some gave him sympathetic looks—the most noted from Granger, the last person he'd expect to ever pity him. Pansy hugged him tightly and gave her condolences; pain shot through his chest at the direct reminder of his mother's death.

As he walks, he sees the dead; the old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Lupin, and his own cousin, Nymphadora. One of the Weasley twins. A Ravenclaw girl he'd always picked on in second year. That annoying Gryffindor who was always taking pictures of Potter—what was his name? Casey? A few faces he didn't know. And then Severus—his heart beat painfully again, struck harshly at the knowledge that not only his mother, but his godfather had died as well. Suddenly, Draco wondered if his father was dead as well. Was he an orphan?

The dead of the Death Eaters didn't receive the same respect as the dead of the Order. They laid piled against a wall—his aunt among them. Draco thought they deserved it; he hated the Death Eaters. He hated Voldemort. A portion of him hated his father for joining forces with Voldemort. This once fiery hate for everything associated with Voldemort burned both more coolly and more hotly; Voldemort had killed his mother. The numbness from her death chilled him to the bone and dampened his emotions, but at the same time it made him so furious that he wanted to kick and cry and scream and kill Voldemort hundreds of times.

As he continued to wander the Great Hall, Draco found his father sitting next to his mother's corpse, eyes fixed sadly on her unmoving features. Her eyes were closed and hands folded on her abdomen. Lucius looked up from his wife to find his son. He stood and held his son, whose arms were too limp to move.

Narcissa Malfoy

1955 – 1998

A loving mother and wife

Draco kneels at his mother's grave with a small bundle. A beautiful woman overlooks from the gate of the cemetery, happiness and sorrow gracing her features.

"Hey, Mum," Draco whispers, "I want you to meet somebody."

He shifts the bundle in his arms, which starts to gurgle and babble happily; a small, pale face comes into the view of the tombstone and Draco can't help but smile at the baby.

"This is Scorpius, your grandson."

A/N: I always sort of wondered why Voldemort didn't kill Narcissa for lying to him about Harry being dead. So, here's my imagination taking that "what if" and turning it into this.
I hope you enjoyed it :)