Disclaimer: I don't own HP, sadly.
If anyone cared to look, they would notice she didn't exactly fit in. Her robes covered most of her dress, so no one could see the tatty hem on her skirt. Her fingernail polish was chipped and her nails were chewed back to the quick; her hair was tangled and matted and hung in a sheet around her face. Her skin was pale and covered in rusty-coloured freckles. People were staring at her, but she took no notice. Her purpose was not to prove anything to anyone, nor was it to impress anyone; her purpose was her own, and she'd be damned if she let anyone get in her way of that.
The sun was shining brightly overhead. It was a typical July day, and she knew he would have hated it. He loved the winter, when snow fell down and covered the world in still, white silence. They'd spent the winter together, curled up by a roaring fire as they watched the snow fall and held each other. That seemed so long ago… she shook her head. Reminiscing about the past wasn't going to bring him back, no matter how much she did it.
The people were stirring, walking amongst each other and talking, but she did not join them. Instead, she walked forward as if in a trance and placed her hand on the smooth white marble of his casket. Her other hand was resting unbeknownst to her on her stomach, and she steeled herself. She could do this, she could get through her life without him; after all, she'd lost her first love to the war, why not her second as well?
She didn't even notice that the tears had started to cascade down her face, didn't know that all her defenses were crumbling until they were gone. There was a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up. The contrast between the two women standing there was striking; while one was tall and elegant, with aristocratic features, white blonde hair, and perfectly tailored robes, the other was small and scared, with freckles, wide brown eyes, carroty hair. Instead of the icy reprimand the girl expected from the woman, she was offered a small, sad smile. The woman wrapped her arm around the girl's shoulders, leading her away from the group. Narcissa Malfoy would be damned before she'd let anyone call her son's widow or future grandchild a pauper.
Short, sweet, and to the point. Don't forget to review, and happy reading!