Alright, next chapter! What's Narcissa going to do after this?


I've done it! I've successfully managed to buy two wands of completely different material from our previous ones, and the wandmaker suspected nothing! Mine is now birch with a unicorn hair core, Draco's is mahogany with a dragon-heartstring core (although he hesitates to admit it—it was just like Lucius's old one). So tonight, to look less suspicious, we're sleeping out on the streets of Diagon Alley. I told the wandmaker our names were Mildred and Roger Vane; we lost our home in a Death Eater raid and our wands were snapped, so we're living on the run for now until we can find a more permanent home. I'm so relieved this actually worked. It's a believable story—we're going to get far with this one.

Right now, we sit on the curb outside along with all the other homeless war casualties. Of course we have money. I tricked Lucius into sweeping our vault just a few days before we ran away so that if I needed money to "bail him out" it would be readily available. All he did was sign the paper releasing our funds from Gringotts. I went and picked up the money. But when I got back, I told him that I'd only taken out a thousand Galleons because I didn't want anyone "breaking in" to steal the money. The idiot paid such little attention to me that he didn't even question it. So yes indeed, we do have more than enough money to last us for a very long time on our own. We're just acting out the part of being homeless.

An older man reaches over and hands Draco a mug of some sort of stew a bunch of the other stranded magical people have been brewing. With trembling hands, Draco accepts—he's done a very good job with playing a character. As he sips at the steaming mug, his silver eyes dark across the page of a dirty old edition of The Daily Prophet; another one raising questions on our whereabouts. He reaches out with bony fingers to tap on my elbow. "Moth—Mummy," he corrects himself. A formal greeting of "mother" would look too suspicious, as it is usually something only pureblood wizards use. I turn my head, wrapping him into my arms nonchalantly—as if he asked for it. But as I cuddle him on my lap, I look down to follow where his discrete finger is pointing. "The Missing Malfoys—is Lucius Still a Killer?" the title reads. Our pictures are side by side, me and Draco, and Lucius's is beneath us.

Where it belongs.

I can tell that Draco's thinking that they're going to throw his father into Azkaban again—or maybe even kill him. Is he afraid? I'm sure he is. He spent so long trying to make Lucius happy—if he had known it would all come to this, he wouldn't have wasted his time. Finally, he vocalizes his fears. "They're going to suspect him, Mummy." he whispers so that no one around us will look on. I lean close to his ear, barely even whispering. "Very soon, baby….very soon…we'll be far away by then, though. He won't hurt us. They're going to arrest him as soon as they have more evidence, and then he'll be locked away forever." Draco shivers. But he has a small smile on his face. I can only take it to mean that he doesn't regret our choice to run away—it's actually making him feel freer.

I hold him just a little bit closer. All the people to the left of us begin to cry out; yelling gratitude, begging, thanking. Someone must be coming over to donate money. Usually a person gives a few knuts to just one beggar, but this person seems to be walking down the line, handing out money to everyone. Oh no. I mentally swear inside my head.

It's George Weasley.

He looks almost the same as he has since he was a child—except there's a little hint of that typical grin missing from his eyes. Sure, he smiles at everyone he hands a Galleon to, but his brown eyes are rather empty. Almost like they're looking for something. Apparently the joke shop is doing so well, he has Galleons to spare. Quickly, I reach over and dig my fingernails into the dirt, bringing them up again to smear more imperfections across Draco's pale skin as well as my own. We will be recognized. Especially if he remembers Bellatrix's features—if I ever thought I looked anything like my older sister, now would be the time to be proved wrong. He's coming closer. Wait…

How young do I look?

Quickly I bend down to Draco's ear again, skillfully sweeping a hand up my skirt concealed by all the begging people. "Draco," I whisper, barely audible again. "Mummy's pregnant," I see his silver eyes raise up to meet mine, clearly understanding (but at the same time inwardly panicking). He sits up. George Weasley is closer to us than before. He freezes when he finally makes eye contact with my son. Draco timidly blinks (perfectly in character) and clutches the half-empty cup of soup to him, George moving his eyes from him to finally me. Oh, I can so see my old friend Molly in him. She's right there, standing right in front of me like she always had, ready to ask me "Cissa, is that Malfoy boy bothering you again?" Almost subconsciously, I feel myself nodding as if I'd really heard that question. So George smiles a little sadly. He reaches out, placing a gold Galleon into Draco's hand, and two into mine. "For the little one on the way," he murmurs softly, just so only I can hear him. And just like that, he walks away.

It's funny how I don't feel the slightest bit of guilt at all for lying to my husband, to the Auror branch, hell, to the entire wizarding world. But I feel sick to my unfertilized stomach for purposefully deceiving my once-best friend's son.