When Draco shows her the mark, she forces a smile on her face as if she is proud of him. Later, in the privacy of the master suite, she vomits until she cannot, sinking against the raised bathtub praying for strength.
It's impossible not to recall the last time she felt this sick she'd been pregnant. Then, Lucius had been by her side; bringing her water and a cool compress, always ready to hold her hair or rub her back. His absence now is so tangible she wants desperately to scream. But the walls are not so thick that her sister would not hear, and so perfectly manicured fingers dig into carefully tended skin, finding the groves she made earlier during her agonizing wait.
Despite this being her house and Draco not yet of age, she had been banned from the parlor when the Dark Lord called. Not a marked warrior, like her sister, who had been left to enforce the ruling, only arms sporting a particular blemish allowed. Narcissa had been left to pace back and forth, straining her ears to hear what was going on, striving not to wince every time she heard Draco cry out, and glaring at the back of her sisters head – she who watched the door in fascination, another reminder of the curse upon them all.
Picking herself off the floor, she brushes away the wrinkles in her dress, immaculate once more. She will not lose Draco the way she lost Lucius. She will not lose Draco the way she lost Bellatrix and Andromeda and Sirius and Regulus. No matter the price, the only war she fights is the one for her son's life.