Disclaimeris copyritus: All hail to J.K. Rowling.

2

Detente

December 31st, 1979

"Finally!"

Lucius slung his cloak into a corner of the entrance hall for the house-elves to clean up. The Minister's New Year's Eve luncheon had run on about three hours too long, and Lucius had wondered more than once if his wife had truly felt unwell when she had excused herself, or if she had foreseen the pompous bastard's endless speech.

But no, Narcissa had definitively looked greenish—it was exceptionally noticeable on her pale complexion.

And rather to his own surprise, Lucius found himself concerned. He marched through the mansion at a brisk pace to find his wife. She would be in her private chambers.

Perhaps it was the death of Cygnus Black, Narcissa's father, finally getting to her. She had carried on with an admirably stiff upper lip for the past two months, but Lucius knew how such things could fester. Then again, there had been no questions about the old bastard at the luncheon that Lucius heard—and he had been listening. They'd had a thrice-cursed job covering up the fact that Cygnus had died behind a Death Eater mask. The Auror who had killed and identified him had been clever enough to take precautions, and they had had to buy him off rather than simply kill him.

How ironic that it was her father's death that had brought Lucius and Narcissa closer. He had staged a properly dignified demise for the man, and Narcissa had been appreciative. Then they had begun having conversations, about her dead father, about his dead mother, and eventually, about anything.

He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. "Narcissa? Are you in here?"

"Lucius?" a weak for replied after a few seconds. "Come in. I'm in the bedroom."

Frowning, he went in and found Narcissa lying under the covers of her bed, looking pale. It would not do for her to get ill. Death Eater business was keeping him busy more than ever, now that the Dark Lord was obsessing over some damn prophecy or other, and he was increasingly counting on Narcissa to cover for his absences.

Still, there was more urgency in his voice than the Death Eater situation required when he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Better, now," she replied. "I think it was the entrée."

"You think? You didn't do the spell?" He took out his wand. Unless it was something serious, a simple detection spell would give them a definitive answer.

"No!"

Lucius started at Narcissa's vehement response. "I am, in fact, capable of a simple spell such as this," he bit off.

"It's not that," she quickly reassured him. "Only… Well, I feel better already, I'm sure the spell wouldn't find a thing."

Considering how pale his wife looked still, Lucius was not exactly convinced of her reasoning, but he conceded the argument. It paid to do that occasionally in marriage. So he sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard. Narcissa seemed surprised that he was staying, but pleased.

"I should have accompanied you home," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Merlin, but that speech was tedious. Do you remember Slughorn's Yule addresses, back at his parties at Hogwarts? Like that, only it lasted longer."

Narcissa's giggle sounded like birdsong, and Lucius smiled unconsciously when he heard it. "I tried to escape as soon as possible," he went on, "but after the luncheon, Nott dragged me along for celebratory drinks."

"Oh?"

"Ah, of course, you left before he mentioned—he got his wife pregnant again. Can you believe that? The Dark Lord is demanding more and more of us, the Ministry and that damnable Order is closer on our heels than they have ever been, and the fool thinks this is a wise time to throw some mewling babe into their lives!"

Narcissa had stopped laughing, and for a moment Lucius though it might have been something he said, but when he looked, he saw that she had gone as pale as the Bloody Baron again. Well, if she would not let him do that diagnostic spell, he couldn't help her.

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