Draco is in his forties and he's left peering-staring at his father and aunt in abject horror and something like cold terror in the pit of his stomach, though years-neglected occlumency locks down instinctively and his expression remains mildly interested as though he's simply watching a couple of inebriated young people wandering around a bloody store. Peasant almost makes his eye twitch though. Almost.

Darling makes him feel a little like he's going to be sick and not because he's frightened of them figuring out who he is anymore.

Taking a slow breath, he sneers smiles. "The sweets," Draco drawls lazily, "are directly behind you." On the opposite side of the aisle. Even as he speaks, he's trying to mentally do damage control. If there's no scene made he can just obliviate Lucius and Bellatrix. If there is a scene, he's going to have to obliviate everyone present, which is going to take time and effort and he'd rather put forth effort into preventative measures instead. The sooner this is over with, the sooner he can pay off the pub owner he's taken a room with and move somewhere else.