A/N: This story weaves together two plot lines. Please see the immediately preceding Background Chapter for reference! All "part a" chapters take place in the year after the war, and all "part b" chapters take place five years after the war. This is a work in progress, so I will occasionally update already-posted chapters for spelling, grammar, or flow. The main storyline will not change.
April 2003—
Draco Malfoy sat across from his mother and fiddled with his silverware. They had met for dinner in Burgundy at an expensive French restaurant that Narcissa Malfoy frequented since she took up residence at their summer home. She had slowly begun venturing out into the world again, which was easier away from her old social circles. It had taken Narcissa a few years to get used to living on her own (if living with a full staff of house elves could be considered alone), but she did adjust to her new lifestyle—and beautifully so, if Draco had anything to say about it.
Draco, on the other hand, had moved to a newly procured flat in London near Diagon Alley, which afforded him easy access to his work. His flat was heavily warded against muggles and wizards alike, which provided Draco with relative solitude in an overcrowded city. His flat, very unlike the other Malfoy homes, was modern and—in a word—austere. Though Draco spent half of his life traveling to exotic locations for work, he seldom returned with trinkets or artwork for himself. If he did exert efforts in finding magical artifacts or decorations, they were always intended for his mother.
Narcissa and Draco had met for dinner every month without fail since he completed his education at Hogwarts. They initially met to discuss plans for Malfoy Manor, which was being thoroughly renovated. The changes to the sprawling complex were so extensive that Draco had often wondered if it would have been easier to demolish the whole thing and start anew. They both knew without staying that the only hope either ever had of calling the Manor their home once again was to obliterate the chance of it recalling any memories. The shadows of its past were too dark for them to bear.
Narcissa sat quietly that evening studying her son with eagle eyes and a mother's wisdom. Anyone could see that Draco was preoccupied more than usual, but only she could see the truth behind his calloused, sarcastic veil. She knew by the clench of his jaw and twitch of his wrist as he rested a hand on the table that something unsettling had happened. She may not have been the perfect mother to him, especially during the war, but she could read all his little quirks and mannerisms as easily as the menu items in front of her. Draco only fidgeted when he was reeling from a shock and letting his mind pummel into overdrive in its aftermath.
"The bouillabaisse is lovely here, Draco," she said as she smiled at him. Draco looked up at his mother blankly.
"Yes, I'll try that tonight. What are you having, the same?"
"I think I'll try the special. Jean-François is a marvelous and inventive chef."
He nodded and rested his head in his palm, finger tips against his temple. Even with his mind racing, Draco always heard everything she said. It was one thing she loved about him that so starkly contrasted his father. Lucius Malfoy loved his wife dearly, but his worries had always consumed him to his very core, leaving no room for Narcissa or Draco alongside his inner turmoil. But Draco, no, he always made room for his mother. They shared a very quiet bond that easily escaped even the most scrutinous onlookers. An outsider seeing the two seated across from each other now would find only a proud, haughty woman attending to her son with mild interest, while her arrogant and cold progeny occasionally deigned to respond dismissively. Fortunately, neither of them cared at all for other people's opinions and let the witches and wizards around them think whatever they would.
Draco sat forward slightly, resting his arm back on the table. "I ran into someone today, who I thought I'd never see again," he said quietly. His eyes darkened as he spoke the troubling words out loud. Narcissa leaned forward, resting her arm on the table to mirror her son, barely touching her finger tips to his. He didn't pull away.
The waiter approached just then, speaking to the Malfoys in French, to offer meal suggestions alongside the preferred wine pairing. They both ordered with perfectly fluent accents, then turned their conversation to the latest renovation topic—paintings and tapestries for the new great hall.