The Last Black Blood
Lucius was gone for three days and Narcissa knew that something had happened. He had stayed closer to home after breaking out of Azkaban. He had regularly been gone for days before his imprisonment, and she was used to having to cover up his absence. Now there was nothing - no owls from Minister Fudge, of course; it was difficult for the dead to send messages, and the new Minister knew her husband only as the Death Eater scum.
And in any case, no one knew that he had returned home after his breakout. Not even Draco. An owl could and would be intercepted.
But as always, Lucius returned - a little battered, a little paler, if that was possible, but still as much himself as ever. He would not tell her for what he had been gone, but that too was to be expected - he never had, had he?
But something was different. She had thought he had no true emotions but coldness and terrible hunger, but she could tell this time that he was concealing something more, and this time she had to know.
Questions, she knew, would be useless. Lucius did not answer to her. He was the master. If he wanted her to know something, he would tell her.
She started the afternoon after his return by searching for any sign, any hint of something unusual. All she found was a quill broken in frustration and parchment in his wastebasket, a single sheet torn by magic into a thousand million pieces, utterly unreadable but definitely in his hand. And she felt cold at seeing this, because it didn't seem like something he would do, writing and destroying. He was perfect, cold, confident, precise. If he wrote a letter it would be the right letter, if he phrased it carelessly it would be flawless.
She then asked Rolly, the house-elf responsible for Lucius' tea, if he knew anything, but Rolly could only shake his head slowly and tell her Lucius was his master.
Narcissa gave up her search before dinner, because Lucius would look for her and she mustn't be found searching. It was not for her to do, she knew, and she would be. . .punished.
She watched him sleep beside her that night, realizing she had not done this since Azkaban and that he was different. His beautiful face would twitch once ever few moments, his lips would move soundlessly, and sometimes he would seem to half-wake and draw her closer, his usually- unreadable expression marked with what looked like fear, or perhaps pain.
She finally let herself sleep when the dawn was coming on, and that morning woke before he did and, lying still in the bed and trying, to ignore his arm curled uncomfortably about her, attempted to decide what to do next.
Her plans were shattered and forgotten when he woke beside her, suddenly, sitting up straight, an emotion on his face, one of shock and surprise. He looked lost, as if unrecognizing of his surroundings, and he took deep breaths. His grey eyes raked the room and fell on her, but her eyes were closed long before he found them and her body was in a fair parody of sleep.
She felt him relax and lie back breifly, and then felt something unusual that made her wonder what truly had happened to her old Lucius.
She felt his lips on her forehead in an almost-gentle gesture, and then something impossible. Something unthought-of, undreamed-of, inconceivable.
A tear.
She stirred, and opened her eyes in what she hoped was a convincing fashion. His face was close to hers, but his eyes were fixed on her and she stared back at him, wondering whether she had imagined it.
He watched her closely, studying her, in an appraising manner, and then said in his maddeningly calm, flat voice, "Bellatrix is dead."
Something dropped out of the bottom of Narcissa's mind and she felt her entire body relax as if her bones had turned to jelly, collapsing. She felt from a distance Lucius' other arm move around her quickly, and realized after several dim seconds that she had nearly fallen from the edge of the bed. She heard a voice that could never belong to her say, "Dead?" and his, quietly, "Yes."
She was the last living child raised as a Black, but she had a feeling from the part of her that was still alive. A feeling that she had known this already. She had always thought that she would know.
Lucius was gone for three days and Narcissa knew that something had happened. He had stayed closer to home after breaking out of Azkaban. He had regularly been gone for days before his imprisonment, and she was used to having to cover up his absence. Now there was nothing - no owls from Minister Fudge, of course; it was difficult for the dead to send messages, and the new Minister knew her husband only as the Death Eater scum.
And in any case, no one knew that he had returned home after his breakout. Not even Draco. An owl could and would be intercepted.
But as always, Lucius returned - a little battered, a little paler, if that was possible, but still as much himself as ever. He would not tell her for what he had been gone, but that too was to be expected - he never had, had he?
But something was different. She had thought he had no true emotions but coldness and terrible hunger, but she could tell this time that he was concealing something more, and this time she had to know.
Questions, she knew, would be useless. Lucius did not answer to her. He was the master. If he wanted her to know something, he would tell her.
She started the afternoon after his return by searching for any sign, any hint of something unusual. All she found was a quill broken in frustration and parchment in his wastebasket, a single sheet torn by magic into a thousand million pieces, utterly unreadable but definitely in his hand. And she felt cold at seeing this, because it didn't seem like something he would do, writing and destroying. He was perfect, cold, confident, precise. If he wrote a letter it would be the right letter, if he phrased it carelessly it would be flawless.
She then asked Rolly, the house-elf responsible for Lucius' tea, if he knew anything, but Rolly could only shake his head slowly and tell her Lucius was his master.
Narcissa gave up her search before dinner, because Lucius would look for her and she mustn't be found searching. It was not for her to do, she knew, and she would be. . .punished.
She watched him sleep beside her that night, realizing she had not done this since Azkaban and that he was different. His beautiful face would twitch once ever few moments, his lips would move soundlessly, and sometimes he would seem to half-wake and draw her closer, his usually- unreadable expression marked with what looked like fear, or perhaps pain.
She finally let herself sleep when the dawn was coming on, and that morning woke before he did and, lying still in the bed and trying, to ignore his arm curled uncomfortably about her, attempted to decide what to do next.
Her plans were shattered and forgotten when he woke beside her, suddenly, sitting up straight, an emotion on his face, one of shock and surprise. He looked lost, as if unrecognizing of his surroundings, and he took deep breaths. His grey eyes raked the room and fell on her, but her eyes were closed long before he found them and her body was in a fair parody of sleep.
She felt him relax and lie back breifly, and then felt something unusual that made her wonder what truly had happened to her old Lucius.
She felt his lips on her forehead in an almost-gentle gesture, and then something impossible. Something unthought-of, undreamed-of, inconceivable.
A tear.
She stirred, and opened her eyes in what she hoped was a convincing fashion. His face was close to hers, but his eyes were fixed on her and she stared back at him, wondering whether she had imagined it.
He watched her closely, studying her, in an appraising manner, and then said in his maddeningly calm, flat voice, "Bellatrix is dead."
Something dropped out of the bottom of Narcissa's mind and she felt her entire body relax as if her bones had turned to jelly, collapsing. She felt from a distance Lucius' other arm move around her quickly, and realized after several dim seconds that she had nearly fallen from the edge of the bed. She heard a voice that could never belong to her say, "Dead?" and his, quietly, "Yes."
She was the last living child raised as a Black, but she had a feeling from the part of her that was still alive. A feeling that she had known this already. She had always thought that she would know.