Written for QLFC's Round 1: Where My Death Eaters At? as the Keeper for the Arrows. (Prompt: Write about your chosen Death Eater with their family.) Many thanks to both Screaming Faeries and gunner brat for the beta.

WC: 1474

Draco sat, unusually terrified that the seven heavens and the nine hells would collide with him in the middle.

"Got any change, mate? I need a bus ticket."

Ah, yes, this was what he had feared. "I'm afraid I do not," he said.

"Right, I should've known that rich people like you don't carry around anything but fifties."

The man harrumphed and walked further down the tube, asking some more passengers before leaving the car. Draco frowned as he noticed that the back of the man's cap had a hole, as well as both his shoes and pant legs. It would be like a Muggle to look on the brink of poverty all the time. But it was exceedingly acceptable that he appeared nicely dressed even in cheaper Muggle wear.

Draco folded his hands in his lap and stared at his twisted fists.

He took to the sky like a serpent without wings.

The soft chink of his soles against the granite path tapped a cadence like a snare. Draco almost expected that a line of bagpipes would spring from the bushes to play a dirge. But not even the chirps of his birds, only silence, accompanied his piece. The soft grey sky illumined by the sun suggested warmth, but Draco knew that these were some of the coldest days of autumn.

He had only a briefcase in hand. Perhaps his hostess would not notice.

Draco took a deep breath as he approached the front door. The wards had still accepted him, but what of the people inside? Before he could even raise a hand to pick up the knocker, an elf flung open the door. "Oh, young Master Malfoy! Dippy could not ignore the shift in the wards! Master Malfoy, please forgive Dippy for opening the door before he could knock."

"Dippy, would you kindly alert my mother than I am here?"

"Oh, Master Malfoy, Dippy has already."

"Then, did she say I could come in?"

The door swung wider as Narcissa Malfoy appeared, in while Draco was out. "This is your home too."

Draco hesitated for a brief second, then crossed the threshold.

The water was cold; he'd been in the bath too long. Fully submerged, he forced his eyes open in murky-white water, forced himself to feel the sting.

Narcissa hadn't asked him any questions, just took him in like she would a stray.

Soap combed through his thin hair, between his toes, now every orifice of his body. He was dirtier than he'd been at the start.

Merlin, the look on her face was more vulnerable, more naked than he was now.

Draco gasped as he violently pushed through the surface of the water. His bitter lungs couldn't take it anymore.

Draco focused on feeling the trail of water carving valleys down his back. He was eroding.

"Why don't you cast a drying charm?" Narcissa said gently. They were the first words she said to him since their reunion.

Draco licked his lips, and they were prickled, dry and torn. He hadn't cast a moisturizing charm either. These two charms were part of everyday Wizarding childhood, he remembered. A drying charm after a bath, and a moisturizing charm soon after. For the past few years he had used the hairdryer that came with his apartment, but he hadn't been able to bring it with him. "I will if you wish it, Mother."

They were his first words to her since their reunion, as well. Some things never changed; he was still outwardly obedient.

Their first real conversation was four lines. Draco wanted to speak more, but the circles under his mother's eyes told him to beware of thin ice. It had been ages since he had to tread carefully; working in retail didn't require that. What else had changed?

"How is Father doing?"

"Fine."

"When can I see him?"

"Whenever you want to. I think he's ready to see you." Narcissa's voice was not sad, just angry in the clipped way that reminded Draco of nettles.

The headstone was less ornate than Draco expected. He didn't ask for an explanation.

"Mother, do you need anything?"

Narcissa looked up from where she sat under the tall French windows. She closed her book with a snap amplified by the room's high ceilings. The noise crashed down on Draco like it was a candle holder hurled into the air.. "I've been fine for the past four years."

Draco tried not to let his frown show. And how was she, now? Was she fine, now?

"I want access to the pensieve," Draco said. It was unlike him to make demands so quickly into the conversation or in such a brusque way. At least this thing was different.

"Your father will never have a painting," Narcissa said, changing the subject. "At least not for the next few decades."

"Father left me memories, and I know it."

Narcissa broke eye contact and opened her book again. "A Malfoy would know how to access it."

"I just want your permission. I do know how to get into it, Mother."

"But you don't. I've changed the password."

Draco came to a fast realization; his father had disowned him. Draco supposed that this is what he had originally wanted. When he had fabricatedlegal papers (using magic, so they were practically flawless), read a little on muggle jobs and apartments, and disappeared without a word, (he knew his family would never allow him to leave if they knew), he had wanted to cut all ties from the Wizarding world. He wanted live among people who didn't understand prejudice against Muggles or a childhood criminal record that could haunt one for the rest of one's life. He was wrong; they had things eerily similar and just as severe.

Then, he had the gall to come back when the Muggle world's reality was not what he had thought it to be.

Narcissa's words were a sharp contrast to what she had said when she first greeted him at the front door. She pulled him from the water by bringing in his lifeline and was preparing to pounce.

"Would you be so inclined to tell me the password?"

"Lucius Malfoy has been convicted by a unanimous Wizengamot of forty two accounts of battery and assault, twenty four accounts of murder, treason, cruel and unusual punishment, slander, hate crimes, inciting civil war, and tax evasion. His sentence: life in Azkaban."

Lucius was as stoic as ever, but Draco recognized the shine in his eye.

Perhaps that is when his father decided that it'd be more worth it to die.

The scene changed. Now, Lucius was standing in front of a mirror, speaking directly to it. Draco saw the hollowness in his cheeks, the yellow skin under his eyes, his unbuttoned and skewed shirt.

"Draco, when you come back," Lucius said, "I will not be here. I want to tell you that you are wrong. You assumed that I would be rotting in Azkaban with the dementors. You assumed that I'd appear in The Prophet on the front page, hands cuffed and not with cuff links.

"At one time, I might have done it. But today is not one time. And you'll know why."

The scene at dinner went like this if one looks at it through snapshots: Quiet dings of silverware. Angry sawing of venison. Thank you, Dippy. Could you pass the salt, please? Candle flame at the dining table pulsing with accidental magic. The herbs are growing well in the greenhouse. I don't want to talk about it. Thank you for your kindness and hospitality.

"How were the memories?"

Draco put down his fork and knife. "Have you seen them?"

"Of course."

"They were fine."

Narcissa's voice was surprisingly forgiving. Perhaps she had been lonely the past few years. "I'm glad you know."

Draco raised an eyebrow. He'd been brought up to skip platitudes that started the way hers did, and told that nobody would actually believe him, but when he scrutinized her expression, he found she was sincere. He'd also been taught to not bring up any serious conversations at the dining table. Yet, here he was.

He breathed in so deeply his lungs grew full, and then let them go. He pushed out the dust that had settled inside them.

Draco had gone to the place he thought would remain constant, and it still wasn't quite the same. He wondered what the Wizarding world would be like.

"You didn't have to run to move on," Narcissa continued.

"No," Draco replied. "But I did. I was young, afraid, angry at the both of you. I'm sorry for leaving you without warning."

Narcissa let those words hang in the air. "It is not the apology I had hoped for."

"I will never be sorry for leaving."

Narcissa's face showed its age as her expression turned pained. "Forgiveness will come."