Hello, loves! Alright, I don't own any character here. I don't own Harry Potter. This is AU and, in case it is unclear, Lucius is significantly older than Narcissa. As a fair warning this was originally meant to be a roleplay starter (...PM me if interested? ;D) so it doesn't feel complete to me at all. Thoughts?

Un.

I think I'll miss you forever,
like the stars miss the sun in the morning skies

It was raining that night, Narcissa vaguely registered as she stared out the half-cleaned windowpane. Her breath collected on the glass and she gingerly reached one, delicate hand to wipe away the fog. Her eyes reflected then, glassy and blue; the color of the ocean when summer had hit its apex and one could see right to the sand floor of the marine world. They were pale irises, unable to stand up to the dark depths of her pupils; the blue drowned in them, as if sinking into a black hole of nothingness from which it never would escape. Perhaps one day she would wake up blind to the world, her irises having finally succumbed to the pull of black, depressive depths.

She turned her head away, shaking the few blonde strands of her hair that had freed themselves from the taught bun on the back of her head. She tried to rid her mind of the melancholy thoughts that permeated her wall of complete apathy. One breath. Another. With one hand pressed against the gentle, practically unnoticeable curve of her stomach and the other pressed to the base of her throat she calmed herself. She caught her reflection again, this time from a mirror across the room. There she stood, all of nineteen in a gown that concealed that small bump in a magnificent way; only those who already knew would know about the babe slowly growing within her blue-blooded womb. It was blue; like the color of her eyes, the shade of her blood, the aura that surrounded her. The fabric fell to the floor, satisfyingly brushing between her legs as she walked across the hardwood. The gauze, tulle, and stain that stood between her and their could offer some form of protection from her betrothed, could it not? Her pleas and protestations did only so little, but the man was such a materialistic gentleman that the thousand-galleons worth of material might dissuade his advances.

She had found him in Paris, or more correctly- her father had found him and shipped his youngest daughter- a disgrace, an almost pariah to Paris. It was a perfect match, he said with a lack of emotion that was almost terrifying compared to the anger that had leapt from Cygnus' lips during the past weeks. She had failed him again. She had been his last child, his last daughter, and his last failure at attempts to conceive an heir. She had been his last hope for a respectable marriage as well and that had hope had disappeared faster then the droplets of water, outside, had made their way down the windows. She still remembered his eyes when it had been revealed. Anger. Loss. Disappointment. Another wave of melancholy- or was that nausea?- causing Narcissa Black to sit down on the edge of the bed.

She had found him for her. A meaningless man to marry and raise the child with, that was all Evan Rosier was for her. She had slept with him, just once, shortly after her arrival in the country. She had been seeking something; a warmth, an intimacy that she was so used to feeling in the aftermath of love making. There was nothing but a feeling of lead weight rolling in her stomach after the act. She'd rushed to the shower the moment he'd fallen asleep beside her. They already knew, then, that they were to be engaged and married; contracts had been sighed saying so, but it would have all be very inappropriate to announce and celebrate so close to her grand papa's death. Mourning had ended this past fortnight and she, the prodigal daughter, was called home. The act, so uncharacteristically pushed for by her father was a cover for the man her sire called a fiend and blackguard. Evan believed, as he should have, that the small pureblood growing deep within his future bride was a Rosier fathered by a Rosier to be raised by a Rosier.

Others knew different.

Her father, the illustrious Governor of Hogwarts, would never know the father of her babe. He would never know who had defiled-yet truly loved- his most delicate flower. He would never guess, never fathom in his wildest, crudest imagination, that the little feathering of blond hair and gray eyes came from the man who stood beside him at meetings- a man nearly his own age. He knew the man's history. He knew his employment history- a Potion's Master at Hogwarts- and his blood status. He knew the man's beliefs and allegiances. He knew the man's taste in brandy and cognac. He knew the man's name, his full name. But he did not know just who had been sharing his bed for the past four years.

Narcissa had refused to give her lover away, fearing for him. She had known the consequences of doing so. Perhaps the law would not punish him, for the law could not possibly know the extent to which this affair had been going on for, but her father could. Talks of marriage had been brushed away with such complete disregard that Narcissa's heart had felt flattened by the weight of the world now resting against her. Even when he knew, even when her lover had known about the babe within her, a proposition had not come that night. Not even talk of bringing the idea to her father for an alliance.

A week later she had been in Paris. No letters sent his way. No tokens of affection dabbed with her lavender perfume packaged in parchment envelopes to remind him of her. She had left, cut everything close to the seams of her life, and disappeared for three months.

And now she had returned. The crowd gathered below for the Beltane celebration the Black Family traditionally always threw had to know she had returned. There must be chatter below about just why she had disappeared and rumors of just who this Rosier fellow was. The engagement was no more rushed them most, though the timing so close to the end of mourning was just suspicious enough to feed the gossips.

Narcissa had not entered with her family, as she usually did. Nor had she entered in with Rosier. She had claimed a small upset in her stomach- something the family had taken for as being the woman's sickness that invaded all fertile, full witches. She had been, truly, nervous. She had not wanted all those eyes on her and all those whispers filling the empty space of air. It was better this way, small commotion rather than a large scene.

She slipped from her bedroom and into the ballroom quietly, not looking expectant or confident, as was her usual humor. Her nose barely raised itself into the air. An enchanted tray nudged her elbow and offered a glass of champagne- she rejected it, prodding the wood away. A House elf would bring her sparkling grape juice; water would further feed the gossiping mamas.

The blonde moved through the crowd of people, smiling and thanking everyone for their half-hearted 'welcome home!' and merely laughing as several friends requested to finally meet her darling Rosier. She stilled after yet another group of simpering girls, taking a breath and raising her eyes to the chandelier above her. She had, she realized with a soft gasp, reached the center of the room. In another breeze of realization, Narcissa closed her eyes and caught her breath. She was in the center of hundreds of people who were all laughing and smiling and drinking her father's bubbly. This was her world; the society she had been bred, born, and raised to grasp in the center of her pale, pureblood-filled palm.

She looked over her shoulder slowly and locked eyes with Evan, lowering hers quickly. He was moving towards her, faster as he broke through several groups of people (who, were no doubt, disgruntled over this new comer's rudeness). She moved around in a circle, her skirt spreading out as her eyes scanned the crowd. Mirrors. Mirrors and people. Everywhere.

Her whitewashed eyes found doors, ones she knew would lead her to her mother's garden. She moved towards them with her eyes closed, apologizing as she cut through the people, her hands coming up to protect her face. She only stopped, looking up, when she felt two hands grasp her wrists much too firmly. She looked up and bit her lip, locking her eyes with the muddy-puddle brown ones of her to-be husband. Narcissa studied his face for the firs time; his skin was smooth, untouched by any hardships of life. The lines in his forehead were severe, angry. Perhaps that was just the way his eyebrows were dipped down between his eyes. There were some patches of hair that had been shaved earlier, but only patches. She wondered if the man before her was even able to grow a beard yet.

"And where were you going, Miss Black?" He asked, the smile he wore on his face not quite reaching his eyes. His grip on her wrists tightened. "A hostess should not leave her party. Especially after arriving late, my love."

Narcissa swallowed. "I couldn't, I couldn't breathe. So many people, you know, my love." She stressed the last words, mimicking his tone. "Especially in my state. Escort me then, if you so insist?"

He did insist. He insisted on quite a lot of things. His plates had to be placed in very certain fashions. His clothing had to be expensive and from only particular designers. His coffee must be stirred clockwise and his fiancé must always be at his side. Narcissa leaned against the railings of the garden, taking a deep breath. The air filled her lungs, satisfying at least something within her.

She was closing her eyes, enjoying the buzz of little creatures in the garden the way the scents of flowers seemed to mingle with the air she inhaled, giving it a decadent taste. Did air have a taste? This did. It tasted like magic and peace and something lovely. Perhaps it was just the wishes she had deep down nestled in her womb next to the unborn child. Perhaps it was just Beltane.

She barely had time to think on this before she was turned about to face Rosier.

"This behavior…needs improvement, Narcissa." He chided, reaching up to press his palm to the side of her face. "Ever since we arrived here you have been…odd." He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers much too vigorously for her taste.

She accepted it for a moment, though her lips, as always had been her fashion when kissing Rosier, didn't move against his. She then pressed the tips of her fingers to the velvet of his robes and pushed him away. "Evan. My sickness," She said softly, pressing a hand to her stomach and stepping back. Her backside hit the brick of the wall and the leaves of a rose bush tickled the exposed skin of her shoulders.

There was silence then. Not a sweet silence in which she could enjoy the sound of her lover's breathing. It was tangible, unenjoyably, and awkward. She cleared her throat and gestured to the fountain.

"My sister and I," She began softly. "We used to wade in the fountain when we were girls, during the summer months. It would be nice to do so now, don't you think, Evan? The night is so warm and the air is so…. crisp with energy. Do you think it's the Sabbat?"

Narcissa allowed a lazy smile to spread across her lips, hers genuinely reaching every aspect of her features. Is this not what lovers did, sharing curiosities and self-indulgent desires? As her eyes returned to his, her smile disappeared far quicker than it had grown.

"I detest your flaws, Narcissa Black. You are to seek to remedy them. You are entirely too childish." He said coldly, releasing her upper arm. She had forgotten that he'd been gripping her skin. The discoloration was visible even with just the flicker of a few candles above them.

"Childlike," She corrected softly, jutting her chin out. Her flaws grew defensive.

"Far too silly," He continued, his face hardening.

"I am soulful," she snapped ever so slightly.

He leaned forward until his nose touched hers. She could smell whiskey on this breath. "And you have disgusting freckles."

She finally pushed him away, her weak wrists able to do so with surprising skill. She was far used to someone with muscles holding her down. On a bed. Against a wall. She was too distracted to let her cheeks flush at those fleeting thoughts. "That's a lie!"

"You deceive yourself," he barked. "You know," He said, breathing in her scent from his close proximity. "It's a sign of immaturity to wear lavender perfume before you're forty."

"Well…you're a poseur! I've heard you, down in my father's garden, talking to yourself and reciting romantic poems…about yourself! Ha! The great duelist!"

"You're adolescent!"

"I'm going to take my clothes off and go wading in the fountain!"

"It's not my problem, enfant. If that thing in your womb is a boy, you'll hardly talk with me again. I am going to go back to Paris or London and drink and gamble."

Narcissa's teeth were clenched so tightly a casual observer may have wondered if her tiny little bones in her jaw were ready to snap. "Oh, I'll find my own pleasures. I'll have an affair!"

Rosier was close again, his chest practically pressing her breasts flat. His breath slipped into her nostrils, the alcohol upsetting Narcissa's already generally unstable stomach. She was relived when he finally pulled away after a slow, steady warning of: "You had best be discreet, dearest."

She moved away from the spot with a speed she had not imagined her shaking legs to be capable of. Her twisting hands mimicked the feeling in her stomach; churning pits of snakes swallowing each other in and endless chain that would not stop until she collapsed to slept or spewed them up from within her. Twisting her fingers around the trellis, she ignored the shuffle of feet and small mutterings behind her.

Rosier had stood watching her for a few moments before turning on his heal and wanting nothing more than another scotch and to return to the gathering inside. He clipped another man's shoulder, who had had the opposite intention of him and was making his way outside, offering a rather apathetic apology. He barely looked up, just long enough to catch a glimpse of shoulder length blond hair tide neatly over one shoulder and cold, steel grey eyes. When Rosier was finally inside with another glass in his eager little hand, he turned his head just slightly to peek out the glass doors that lead to the garden just long enough to witness his petite fiancé run into this stranger's embrace and mouth 'Lucius' before her face was buried in his shoulder.