but it wasn't always that way
"Look, Cilla, a butterfly!"
She looked up from where they were sitting in the grass, mud splattered, mud splattered across the ruffles of her white dress. The sun shone out from above the rooftops of the sweeping manor house. It ought to have set long ago, yet was unwilling to leave the two children alone in the dark.
A frown crossed her face as she regarded the creature that the little boy had pointed to, and then the boy himself. Youthful joy lit up his eyes even as too-long strands of white-blond hair fell across them.
"But that's not a butterfly. It's a... a..."
"A caterpillar?" He smiled and oh so gently picked it up, one chubby finger nudging it to stay in his palm. "Would you like to hold it too?"
"No thank you," came the resolute reply, curls bouncing as she shook her head. "I don't like how it crawls and it can't even fly."
"It might someday, when it's a butterfly." The boy smiled again, and this time he was smiling at her.
Despite only being seven years old, Lucilla knew exactly what it meant when someone smiled at you like that. Every night as her mother tucked her in bed, she had told her stories of princes and princesses, kings a queens, of fair ladies and their knights in shining armour. Knights who fought the most fearsome of dragons to rescue their fair lady, their one true love.
But those were old muggle tales and Lucilla had been warned many times not to repeat them in front of her father's family. And now her mother was dead, and even though her aunt's library had more books than she could ever dream of, the dragons there were only ever killed for power. Not for love.
"Draco, darling?"
The children both turned away from their play. A tall, elegant woman with carefully-styled black and white hair stood at the end of the hedge-lined path which led to the house. A worried hand clutched at her pearls - one step further would have landed her in the same mud as their boots were covered in.
"You as well, Lucilla!" she called again.
Draco took Lucilla's wrists and pulled her up from the ground, they ran together across the lawn into the woman's arms. She clicked her tongue and smoothed the hair out of their faces.
Squirming slightly under her ministrations, Draco allowed her to tuck his starched shirt back in, and fix his collar. Lucilla patiently waited her turn. "Sorry about the mud, mummy," he said cheekily.
"Darling, I'm getting quite used to it by now," she sighed. Her fussing complete, a gloved hand was extended to each of them and all three walked back up the gravel drive. The hedges stood watch - guarding them against the outside world.
***
It was darker now, though the sun still peeked through the heavy drapes of the drawing room window at the boy and girl sat at a table. Their mud-stained clothing was gone, replaced with matching navy pinafores. Lucilla's had a grey ribbon. "To match your eyes," her aunt had said with a kiss, then turned back to her son.
A silver bell rang and an evening tea was brought through, an assortment of exquisitly decorated miniature cakes.
Her aunt stood by the fire, watching as the logs crackled and fell. And in turn, Lucilla watched her. Draco passed over a sponge embroidered with delicate white swirls. She held it up in the air, imagining her aunt to be adorned with that same beautiful lace.
Presently the sound of a grand door opening echoed through the otherwise still halls. Her aunt glanced over, hand on her pearls again but this time in hope. The door to the drawing room opened and in strode a man with the same long, white-blond hair as his son. He crossed the room to kiss his wife, then greeted the children tenderly.
Far away in the distance sounded a roll of thunder. The man looked up. "There'll be a storm tonight," he remarked with a casual air.
Lucilla tensed. Draco handed her another cake. "Father," he began innocently, "will the storm cover the whole country?"
The man stopped unbuttoning his cloak. "Yes, Draco, I expect so," he replied without looking their way, his angular face dispassionate.
"In the north too?"
Lucilla's cheeks grew hot and prickly. Her legs weren't long enough yet to kick him under the table. She wasn't allowed to ask about Azkaban, so Draco would do it on her behalf. His parents could not refuse their son a thing. Sometimes, though, she wished he wouldn't.
"Yes, Draco, there will be a storm in the north too."
His wife abandoned her post at the hearth, and unfixed the last of the buttons on his cloak. They walked out of the room together, leaving the children by themselves.
Resting her head on the table, Lucilla tried not to let the tears fall from her eyes. Draco said nothing. Once, she had told him about a dream in which a storm chased the Dementors out of the North Sea, away from the prison, and her father had managed to escape. He was clever like that - so she'd been told. And daring. If anyone could do it then it'd be him.
And when he was out, she would be the very first thing on his mind. He would come and find her, because that's how families worked.
A heavy teardrop rolled down her cheek and splashed on the lacquered wood. Draco unfolded a napkin, and silently dried the table, then her cheek. He reached for the tray and selected a sponge on which tiny blue flowers had been iced. Forget-me-nots. He offered it to her, and when she made no move to accept he took hold of one of her curls and softly tugged it.
"Ding-dong," he whispered. "Anyone home?"
And in spite of herself, Lucilla laughed.
***
The sun had finally ceased its watch, sinking below the horizon and leaving the stars to twinkle faintly in it's wake. Its last rays had reported the boy and girl still sitting at the table, heads bent together, giggling in secret. It was a family - or maybe one day it could be.
The sun didn't want to leave the children, but it did.