Disclaimer: Lucius and Narcissa belong to JK Rowling.
Desk
The ink bottle is the first to be sacrificed.
It hits the floor and bounces, contents gurgling out to spill and soak into the Persian carpet, but Lucius does not notice.
Following in quick succession are the books, once stacked in neat piles but soon tumbling over the edge. Then the sheaf of blank parchment, crumpling and tearing beneath his palm as he braces against the blotter.
The black quill must already be crushed beneath her back, the letter he had been composing likely smudged and smeared by now across the silk of her dress.
The paperweight, a prehistoric chunk of amethyst, tumbles heavily to the floor, narrowly missing his left foot, but Lucius does not notice this, either.
He notices nothing else, cares for nothing else than Narcissa's mouth searching out his own in blind desperation, her fingernails biting into his scalp and the skin of his back, the spike of her heel catching him sharply behind the knee. He notices only her perfume, dark and rich and hanging in the air like vapour from a boiling cauldronful of poison. He notices her skin, beneath his palm, hot enough to scald. He notices the bitter note of tea on her lips, white chocolate a faint trace on her tongue.
After, as the haze of satiety threatens to overwhelm him, as she rights her expensive dress and checks her jewellry has not been lost, he will notice the damage. He will smile, and bury his face again in the velvet of her neck as she sways in his arms, some memory of dance. She will curl against him, hands possessive on his back, and her eyes will widen as she notices the mess, the decimation of a morning's work, the chaos they have wrought, upon his oak and ivory writing desk.