She was home, technically. It didn't feel like home.
Narcissa wanted Malfoy Manor to be the way it used to be, back before the Dark Lord had turned it into this. Dank, gloomy, and depressing. She wanted her family to be the way it used to be, back before Lucius flinched at every noise and Draco looked like he never slept.
She wanted it to feel like Christmas, with her family together and happy. She didn't want to have prisoners in the cellar. She didn't want to have her former friends (and her sister – how could you, Bella?) laugh at her husband and son.
She wanted the Dark Lord dead. She wanted him to die slowly and painfully, and she wanted to do it herself. She wanted to tear out his fingernails, then his toenails, and then break every bone in his body. One. By. One. She wanted to Crucio him until he begged for mercy, and she wanted to Incendio his liver, letting the fire grow until he was just a burnt husk. She wanted to lock him in a room full of dementors who wouldn't follow his orders. She wanted to lock him in a room full of boggarts – there must be something he's afraid of (she amused herself briefly by imagining fifteen boggart-Harry Potters taunting the Dark Lord).
She wanted him dead.
Narcissa glanced around furtively, hoping nobody had been close enough to even get a hint of what she was thinking.
Nobody was there – and that was the problem. It was Christmas – she, Lucius, and Draco always spent it together. Sometimes they had stayed at the Manor, and sometimes they had gone to parties or dances, but they had always spent Christmas together. But Lucius was avoiding his wife and son, and Draco was avoiding everyone.
It wasn't right. She wanted to spend the day with her family. She wanted Malfoy Manor to feel like home again.