"Mum?" Draco crept into the kitchen. "What are you doing?"
Narcissa pressed hands together, observing her son. He was a Death Eater. A Death Eater. A scared to death, walking on eggshells in his own house, Death Eater.
But he could always find time to come into the kitchen and ask his mum what she was doing.
"Cooking, Draco," said Narcissa tightly. "Turkey."
"Turkey? For who? We only have that on Christmas.."
Narcissa swallowed. "The Dark Lord," she whispered, before losing her battle and dissolving into tears. "I'm cooking turkey for the Dark Lord. I'm cooking turkey for the Dark Lord. I'm cooking. I'm cooking turkey. For the Dark Lord."
Draco wrapped his arms around his mother, hugging her tightly, roles of mother and son reversed temporarily. "It'll be okay, Mum," he promised quietly. "I swear."