Narcissa was not angry.
She was furious.
The Dark Lord had declined the invitation to her wedding with Lucius Malfoy, but that was not what she was angry about. In fact, she was rather glad of it. What she was not glad about was the fact that the horrid wizard had abruptly decided that he needed all of his Death Eaters at his side immediately – five minutes before the wedding ceremony was to start. In an agony of pain from the Dark Mark searing his forearm, Lucius had been forced to Disapparate away and find out what the Dark Lord wanted – so Narcissa had been informed by an anxious groomsman, who had then Disapparated himself.
Narcissa and the wedding guests had been forced to wait a full two hours until the groom was able to return, slightly intoxicated and very apologetic. Apparently, he'd been compelled to attend a sort of twisted Death Eater variety of a bachelor party – one which involved lengthy congratulations from each individual Death Eater, accompanied by shots of Firewhiskey, followed by breaking up a Muggle wedding celebration and torturing the wedding party. Of course, she did not learn any of the details until after the ceremony in which she was forever joined to a ruddy-cheeked and breathless Lucius Malfoy.
But even then, she was not truly angry. Annoyed, yes. Irked, yes. But it had come out all right in the end, because fully half the wedding party and many among the guests were Death Eaters as well. Those who were forced to wait understood, and when the absent Death Eaters returned, the wedding went forward. The ceremony was splendid, the reception spectacular; and she and Lucius had been whisked off to a villa in the French Mediterranean for their honeymoon. The first day had been sheer bliss, as had the second. Then, on that third evening away, Lucius tore himself away from her in the midst of a passionate kiss, clutching his left arm.
"So – so sorry, love!" he panted, in between gasps of pain. "He's calling – I'll be back as soon as I can!" and with a look of pure anguish, he grabbed his wand from the nightstand, turned on the spot, and Disapparated. Narcissa was left half-sitting on the bed in utter shock, which instantaneously morphed into blinding rage. Not rage at her new husband, of course, but at the accursed, damnable tyrant to which he was enslaved. What she would not give if she could just –
And then she stopped, wide-eyed, with complete surprise at the sight that met her outraged gaze.
Apparently, her husband, in his hurry to depart, had left without a few rather important things.
Her anger was momentarily stymied as she fought the urge to giggle at the predicament in which Lucius must have found himself at that very moment.
And then, with a loud bang! he was back, looking extremely embarrassed and rather horrified.
Narcissa was the first to recover. "A little chilly, were you?" she asked archly, an eyebrow raised.
"T-tr-trousers!" he stuttered wildly.
"There," she said, pointing out where they lay in a heap on the floor. While he put them on, she ran and fetched his shirt and robes. Draping them around his shoulders, she pecked him on the cheek and whispered, "Don't forget anything this time. And hurry back."
"Of course, dearest," he said, and disappeared once more.
Narcissa finally indulged in the laughter she'd been repressing. She was still angry, she really was, but the image of her husband Apparating into a meeting of Death Eaters sans clothing was entirely too absurd not to be recognized by a good laugh. She didn't stop until she was startled by another loud pop!
There stood Lucius again, more breathless and redder in the face than ever.
"What?" she asked, surprised. She didn't see anything amiss.
"Boots!" he explained. He dashed to the closet and hopped across the room, pulling them on. "Goodbye, love!" he called before Disapparating for the third time in the last four minutes.
Narcissa wondered if this sort of thing happened often among Death Eaters couples, or if it was just her.