Lucio knew, now. He would have more questions. Draco had forbidden her from the beginning to tell him about Harry or Ron, and even though she had been furious that he would dare to forbid her from telling her own son about the most integral people of his own life, she had eventually come to the realization that perhaps it was better off that way. It was too painful, too shameful, to tell her son the story of her life before her capture, the adventures and magic, and independence, the brave, beautiful people she had known. She could picture his excitement and eagerness to learn more and then as he would grow older and wiser, realize how boring and pitiful her life had become since then, and even if it was not by her own volition, he didn't know that. He would pity her or become embarrassed by her. He would adore his powerful father more and more, and her influence over him, her only true influence over anything inside this damned house, would fade.