A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for HPFC and Hogwarts.

Word Count: 610

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling.

WARNINGS: Mentioned character death, grieving

Enjoy!

The stairs creaked beneath Draco as he descended them, pale grey eyes widening with each noise. He listened carefully for the sound of adults conversing; his father's friends stopped by a lot since the war was won. He was met with only silence, however, and continued to creep to the sitting room, where his father would be.

The five-year-old's tiny pale hands twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open a crack. Draco peered inside, ready to recount his nightmare to his father—it had been terrible, full of dragons and fire—when he heard laughter.

"Rabastan, really, you shouldn't make such jokes. My son is just upstairs, you know."

Draco blinked slowly, wondering at the grin his father was wearing despite the reprimand. Then his eyes drifted to Rabastan Lestrange, a friend of Lucius'. He stayed at the manor the most of all his father's friends, sometimes leaving long after Draco had gone to bed. Tonight seemed to be one of those nights.

"The boy's sleeping, Lucius. He can't hear us."

Draco frowned sharply. He was often underestimated by Rabastan, and he hated it. Still, he had to be nice—Auntie Bella said so. She said Rabastan was "respectable" and "good for the family". But Draco wasn't sure what the man was, aside from an esteemed guest.

A bottle clinked against glass; Rabastan was pouring some more wine into Lucius' glass. "He must miss Narcissa."

It was completely unexpected—Draco let out a little gasp as a sharp pain overtook him. His mother had been gone for a long time now, lost to a war he barely knew, but he could still remember her soft smile and the way she would tenderly brush aside his blond hair—so like her own—out of his face. Rabastan was the opposite—all dark features and arrogant grins.

But his father looked happy, so Draco wasn't entirely sure why he felt unsettled when he saw him with Rabastan.

"Of course he does. He lost his mother, and I… I lost my wife."

A flash of pain crossed Lucius' features, and Draco slipped into the room, unnoticed by the two men, torn between comforting his father and continuing to eavesdrop. Rabastan's dark eyes were sympathetic as he placed a hand, surprisingly gently, on Lucius' knee.

"Every victory comes with a price," he murmured. "And what remains of the Order… we will soon crush it. We will avenge her; she was exactly what I witch should be." He took a sip from his wine glass, a couple tiny droplets sticking to his beard when he set it down again. "Do you still mourn her?" he added quietly.

Lucius raised his chin slightly. "Yes," he rasped. He cleared his throat. "But not so much that I can't move on. It's what she'd have wanted for the both of us." He gestured towards the ceiling.

Draco suddenly wished he was still in bed. The conversation was difficult to follow, and he was starting to get cold. Rabastan didn't look like he was going anywhere soon, however, and it was only Draco's fear of the darkness on the other side of the door that kept him from retreating.

The hand moved further up his father's leg. "I didn't know her well enough to confirm or deny that," he admitted.

Draco narrowed his eyes. His father hadn't responded, and was staring deeply at Rabastan. Draco's eyes flickered to the mantle, and realized why he recognized that expression. There was a picture in a silver frame there, and in it his father and mother were looking at each other in the exact same way.

The two men were leaning forwards. Draco quietly slipped from the room.