I got some notifications this morning about this story from FFN which reminded me that I hadn't posted this chapter here yet. I do intend to keep updating this fic here but please join me at the same username on AO3 if you use it for more timely updates and all my other stories! I am not going to be posting new works here anymore, just finishing this one.

What did Draco really know? His whole life he had seen his father's Dark Mark displayed casually at home and never in public, and then one day when he was about 7 or 8 and was starting to read ahead of his age, he saw an article in the newspaper reflecting on the horrors of war. There was a photograph of the same skull and snake intertwined that was so familiar to him printed there, except it was shimmering in the night sky above a house that had collapsed in on itself. There he saw the words Death Eater for the first time, and wondered if his father was one. He began to read the newspaper every day after that, if he could without attracting attention to it, and eventually determined that yes, that must have been his father. Sometimes Professor Snape was actually mentioned in these articles, sometimes even giving a quote, but it seemed that the Malfoys were not to be spoken of, or contacted.

There was a day when a woman actually shouted at them in the street, him and his father. Lucius pushed Draco behind him and changed his grip on his cane - Draco couldn't hear what the woman was saying, but he heard his father's exaggerated voice asking her to calm down and remember herself. It seemed like they were not speaking to one another as strangers. Nothing seemed to help; Lucius turned around abruptly and pushed his son away, sending both of them back into the crowd.

Sometimes his mother drank when his father wasn't home. It was abundantly clear that this was to be a secret, and Draco sensed that on some level it was out of fear that she did it. Yes, occasionally he would wake up and leave his room and find them together sharing a bottle of wine, laughing a little too loud, but that was not like the way she sat alone on the couch and watched him play or read while she poured endlessly into a rocks glass. Then she would check the doors many times on unsteady feet, locking and re-locking them in some kind of long ritual. This happened maybe half a dozen times between the time he could remember and the first time he left for Hogwarts.

About once a year a heavily weighted owl would arrive with a knotted together package of parchment scraps, scrawled all over with spiky writing in margins and on the backs of of old forms or circling around newspaper articles. He associated these moments with the name Bellatrix, and he associated that with a box of photographs that rested under his mother's jewelry box, and with a large portrait over the fireplace in his grandparents' house. When the letters arrived his mother would sit down at the dining room table and piece them together like a puzzle, usually asking to be alone but occasionally checked on by her husband. Then she would retire to bed for the rest of the day, and Draco would never see the remnants of the exercise again.

And then he went to school, and it all started to make sense. The crowd he attracted told him many things their more indiscreet parents had told them; some new horrible thing happened every year surrounding Harry Potter, and his father always pressed him for details about it the very evening he returned home for the summer. After his second year, the tension he found at home was thick and unbearable, and he, now alone every day with unfettered access to the Daily Prophet, knew why.

The Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup looked just as the one printed in the newspaper had all those years before. That was frightening enough. And then Draco, from behind a tree, saw his father step away from a group of masked men and reveal himself, and then hurry away in the opposite direction. That was worse.

He knew, during the hysteria after the final task, that his father was not at home. He thought maybe his mother would be doing her drinking and locking routine, and wished he was there with her. Later, he could hardly look at the man who picked him up on the train platform, and who pulled him into a corner of the Muggle station and began to explain to him that there was a new guest in their home.

Lucius was blinded by it again. For a moment in time, he was powerful. He bought new robes for his task, better ones than he ever had for the Dark Lord's work before, and as planning went on and on he began to be able to see himself wearing them in a dim Ministry, leading in a new way, trusted as he hadn't been the first time, slipping the little glass orb safely into his pocket after capturing the boy.

The boy. Lucius had of course run across him plenty of times by now, usually in scenes that turned out to be somewhat embarrassing for him. But that night in the graveyard was the first time he had really seen Harry Potter as he was – as a wizard powerful enough to challenge his master. Everything before that had been him as a boy in over his head and lucky to survive. Now it was obvious that he was a key to everything, maybe even a future member of their ranks if everything could be pulled off correctly. Because somewhere deep in Lucius's heart there was that pull that reminded him that Harry was just the same age as Draco, the same kind of once sweet child who had been scabbed over by the ugliness of war. He did not want to kill him. He did not want to see him killed. He wanted to fix it all so that he would see where his powers could truly make a difference.

Draco's world became irreversibly jumbled that summer. His father was suddenly slavish to a terrifying skeleton of a man, and his mother began to retire from their family life altogether. There was some wound in both of them that had never healed, and Draco had only ever seen the bandage. Now it was all revealed to him, the pus and festering seeping into everything. He and his mother were often alone at dinner together, eating interminably slowly with the idea in both their heads that Lucius might arrive to join them. It was rare. But during the day Lucius wanted his son with him constantly. There was none of the usual summer relaxation; suddenly he was not only allowed to know about Death Eaters but expected to show enthusiasm for learning how to become one. He had a feeling there was some greater plan underway than the discussion of who held what Ministry position and who could conceivably become loyal to them, and who they would rescue from Azkaban and when, but these things were enough. He found he had no curiosity to learn anything further.

When he received his prefect's badge in the mail, he didn't tell his parents. He was pleased with it, if not entirely surprised, but somehow he didn't want to start the conversation. He folded the letter up tight around the badge like wrapping on a present and placed it in his bedside drawer. A few days later Professor Snape was there, and he asked him about it in front of his parents, which caused a scene larger than the one he had imagined was coming if he had been able to tell them directly. His father immediately clapped him on the back and promised him a new racing broom, but he could tell in the depths of his mother's long hug that she was upset at how he had let it happen.

Christmas was not like Christmas. Draco would have preferred to go to his grandparents' house for the entire break, not just Christmas Day, but he knew it would have devastated his mother. The walls of the dining room that were normally decorated with greenery were covered with large maps of both the interior of Azkaban and the whole area surrounding it. Wands were laid out and tested relentlessly to make sure they were malleable enough to suit any freed wizard whose hand they were thrust into. Lucius wanted Draco to help with this, and watched proudly as he cast hex after hex down the length of the ballroom, even though the unfamiliarity of the wands was such that it almost caused pain.

Lucius had promised Narcissa that Christmas Eve and Christmas Day would be theirs entirely, but his work bled very late into the evening on the 23rd, and when the day broke he slept in late, and the idea of doing anything festive began to feel foolish anyway. She ate breakfast with Draco and then excused herself to a guest room she had cordoned off as a safe room for gifts. Her wrapping took longer than she expected, mainly because she could not concentrate on it and caught herself staring out the window listlessly again and again, and it was late afternoon when she went to seek out her family. She found Draco with his bedroom door barely ajar; he was on his bed curled over on his side, fully dressed with only his shoes removed. Something about the dark dress socks he wore made Narcissa's heart ache. She longed for white knee socks, for a toddler with no worries.

"I don't feel well," he called when she tapped on the door frame.

"What's wrong?"

"My stomach. Just leave me alone."

"I don't want to," she replied steadily, feeling strongly that this was a moment where he desired mothering he couldn't ask for. She let herself in. "It's Christmas."

"Does it feel like Christmas to you?"

Narcissa sat down at his turned back on the edge of the bed, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Tomorrow we'll go to Grandmother and Grandfather, and that will feel better. The house isn't right at the moment, I agree."

"My father isn't right."

"Draco, please. Look at how principled he is. We have to support him through this, and it'll all be better soon."

Draco turned his head slightly into his pillow. "It doesn't feel like it will."

Bellatrix was there. Bellatrix was sitting at Narcissa's vanity, letting her comb out her matted hair as best she could, and she was saying completely out of character things, like thanking Lucius, who was sitting in the armchair holding a bag of ice against a lump on his head, for helping to free her.

"Will you go see them tomorrow? Please?" Narcissa was urging her. They had been talking about their parents, Narcissa sadly reporting that their mother in particular was growing frail.

"I'm afraid the shock will kill them." But that was an excuse.

"Please, Bella," Narcissa whispered. She finished one long braid and started on the other; it had seemed like the only way to make the mess in front of her lay down.

"Let's talk in the morning, Cissy. You can't imagine…"

There had been the embraces you'd expect, and the first unstoppable tears. But after that, and as this act of gentleness came to an end, what could the sisters say to one another? A photograph of Draco with his prefect badge on his chest had been presented and admired as much as Bellatrix knew how to admire something. She had been fed, alongside her compatriots who had now been settled in guest rooms there or in other willing houses across the country, and now she wanted to go to sleep, and not talk to her sister any longer. Narcissa kissed her good night, and turned her attention to Lucius.

It was a wonderful plan. Lucius had never been more sure of his own idea. Potter would be so easy to manipulate, proud as he was of his likeness to his only remaining role model. As they sat there and talked of it, Bellatrix laughed over the times she had misled Sirius in their youth. It had been so simple, and fun, she recalled, to make him dash into the street in front of a Muggle bus because he thought she had placed his pet rat under the wheels. Narcissa paled a bit when her sister told that story, despite the revelation that the rat had remained clutched in Bella's pocket the entire time.

"I felt sick that day," she told Lucius later, when they were alone again.

"Hm? When, lovely?" He could hardly be distracted from his pages and pages of notes outlining what was known about the Department of Mysteries. An incomplete floorplan lay cast off beside him in frustration.

"When Bella stole Sirius's rat. He was really young, maybe 8 years old, and he really did almost die. They started locking the front gate to us children after that."

Lucius put his quill down and looked at his wife. They had stayed in the large dining room after the others had left, and the fire was dying behind her. She was deep into a glass of wine, and was not trying to make eye contact with him at all. Her eyes stayed focused off into a shadowy corner, and he couldn't seem to reach her.

"You understand we can't protect Sirius in all of this, don't you?"

"Yes, Lucius, I understand."

"Oh dear. I didn't mean to patronize."

"I'm going to bed."

"Then I'm going to bed." A flick of his wand sent all the parchment and quills and ink pots into his little travel writing desk. "I won't have you getting lost on your way."

She smiled a bit as he came around to her side of the table, and relief traveled his spine. Lucius placed his hand at the nape of her neck, and she reached up and took it.

"I don't want you to be unhappy," he murmured. Her hand tightened on his.

"I'm not unhappy. I just find it hard to remember my childhood when it was so…different…than we are now. I can't believe that Sirius and Regulus aren't here now, that one of them wasn't Draco's godfather."

"Let's not have it be different between us now. These are happy times."

Narcissa saw a tunnel of darkness before her. She hadn't felt happiness, not in a true, lasting way, since the Quidditch World Cup. If she had been looking harder, she might have found a dearth of it even as long ago as the loss of Dobby. Lucius loved this life. A long time ago, she had sworn she loved it too, loved it as much as it took to keep him. Now it felt like there was hardly any him to keep.

She was afraid to broach the subject with him, but she knew that he also noticed the pacing of Draco's letters slow to a crawl after Christmas. To say anything that indicated that she was hesitant, especially while the Dark Lord prowled the halls of their home, seemed like a death sentence for all of them. But there was finally once night where Lucius came upon her in the sitting room, almost in completely darkness, reading and rereading Draco's last letter. It was dated two weeks prior, an unthinkable period for a mother who had been spoiled for four years with near daily missives. There were tears welling in her eyes.

"It's not as bad as all that, Cissy," he said as he withdrew the parchment from her hands. "Severus is watching over him."

"But he's…he's unhappy. We've made him unhappy. When we saw him last he was so sad, so withdrawn."

"Severus reports none of that. He's helping Umbridge, he delights in it. He wrote of it right here." He pointed down at the page.

"It is different, Lucius, to delight in being paid attention by a professor who gives you some pretend power than it is to be truly happy. To care for your parents as you used to!" Her voice was rising frantically.

"Narcissa, please. Lower your voice. Come here." He did his best to fold her up into his arms, but she was stiff, almost as if she didn't feel it. "He's 15 years old. He is doing well in school, by all accounts he is well liked. He was not going to write to us daily for the rest of his life."

Narcissa stood up, and without looking at him she walked away.

Lucius didn't come home. Before, he had at least come home. They had taken him, but she had been there. But she waited up, and then – is it really waiting up once the sun has risen, and crested? Surely then it is just waiting.

When they left the night before, the Manor had been so bursting with activity that Lucius hardly said goodbye. Narcissa had actually spent more time with Bellatrix, lacing up her dress. Then there had been a call around the room that alarms were being triggered, there was no time left to waste, and she thought she remembered Lucius touching his finger to her forehead as he rushed away. She sat with the Dark Lord for a while, but eventually he grew so deep into his thoughts, and then became so obviously agitated, that she went away and hoped he didn't notice.

Bellatrix came back, but the Dark Lord did as well, and he was so furious with her that there was no explanation given for any of it. They went far away from Narcissa, and she heard the sounds of pleading, whimpering. It didn't bother her much. Was that horrible of her?

They merely sent a letter this time; apparently the threat of the Dark Lord was enough to keep Aurors away from the house. Lucius was not going to be tried in any reasonable timeframe – he had been caught in the act, and there were laws about this sort of terrorism.

She sent Severus a letter, although he knew everything, and asked him to take Draco into his chambers that morning and explain it to him. She asked him to let him come home early, but Severus couldn't give her that.

I'm afraid Dumbledore won't be making any allowances for us now, he replied, so she waited blankly in an empty house for her son to return too.