Monday, 10 October 1977
Lucius sat at his desk with three pieces of parchment before him. Two were letters from his mother-in-law, the first of which was dated two weeks prior. In it, Druella's elegant script informed him that his wife had arrived safely in France, had eaten a small meal of vichyssoise, and was now resting comfortably. Her potions had been measured out and were ready for prompt consumption after supper. She fervently assured him she would keep a vigilant watch for any signs of severe distress in her daughter.
The second, dated a week later, read much more optimistically. Druella informed him that Narcissa seemed much improved, had taken up her music once again, and planned to return to Wiltshire expeditiously. He'd received the owl with a great deal of satisfaction and relief, and yet, Narcissa herself had never materialized. This led to the third sheet of parchment: a blank one, and Lucius had held his quill poised over it for nearly half an hour. He was not yet even sure whether he intend to write to his wife, from whom he'd heard nothing these past two weeks, or respond to her mother. He did not care to keep up a correspondence with Druella and was loath to give her the opportunity to open that channel by replying to her letters, but felt foolish using the information in Druella's two notes to begin a communication with his wife.
It was no use. Lucius dropped the feather in disgust, leaving an unsightly blotch of ink on the otherwise unmarred page. There was nothing to say that he felt like putting into writing. He was still frustrated by her hasty departure, resentful that she had refused to acknowledge this miscarriage as a mutual loss. While he had no desire to punish her or add to her suffering, he also could not find it within himself to offer sympathetic platitudes. While exceptionally articulate in both speech and writing, he'd never before had occasion to compose a missive based on feeling rather than fact; he could think of no words to appropriately inscribe the sentiments he wished to convey.
He would simply have to go to France himself.
The chateâu was built sometime during the reign of François I, and its architecture was typical of the French Renaissance. Lighter and more ornate than the Malfoy Manor, in addition to being several centuries younger, Lucius felt it to be unnecessarily flamboyant but then, he could say the same for most things in the country his wife so adored. At least this house showed more restraint than the monstrosity in the nearby town of Chambord. Two tuffeau pillars supported a wrought iron gate, left open to allow carriages and visitors during the day. The front lawn was a flat expanse of well-kept grass and boasted little additional adornment. The afternoon was quiet, and he felt distinctly out of place as he strode up the short drive to knock imperiously on the oak doors. They swung open after a beat to reveal a small house elf swathed in a cornflower blue checked linen tea towel.
"Where is your mistress?" Lucius snapped impatiently. The creature blinked up at him with large, blank eyes and shuffled its feet in obvious distress, but did not reply. "My wife?" he hissed. "Where is she?"
"S'il vous plaît, monsieur," it trilled helplessly, gaze shifting back and forth in alarm. "Je ne comprends—"
"For Merlin's sake," he snarled. "Narcissa! Where is—"
"Madame!" it gasped at last, finally recognizing his demand. "Oui, oui." The elf waved him into the foyer eagerly, chattering away happily now that it was able to be of assistance. It showed him to a sitting room that looked out over the rear lawn, and opened onto a wide patio that spanned the back of the house. He spied her at once through the double glass doors and, seeing that the veranda led down to the green, waved the elf aside and headed directly towards her himself rather than wait in the proffered space for her to come find him.
She was standing in the garden near a copse of hemlock trees, a book open in her hands. She walked slowly as she read, taking easy and unhurried steps through the grass, her long hair loose down her back. Her robes were unlike anything he'd seen her wear before, flowing and unstructured silk with a simple tie at the waist as the only definition of her shape. She looked well, and he felt relief mingled with irritation. If she was feeling well once more, why had she not written or returned to Wiltshire?
"Lucius?" she looked bewildered at the sight of him and froze where she was, closing the book and holding her hands behind her back as he approached. "What are you doing here?"
"I hadn't heard from you. Druella wrote a week ago and her letter sounded as though I should expect you at any moment, and when you did not materialize I felt I should investigate."
Narcissa bowed her head, looking discomfited. "I told my mother last week that I was feeling well and would likely return to the Manor imminently... she left shortly thereafter but I decided to remain a bit longer. I didn't realize she'd written to you, I would have sent word."
"You could have sent word anyway," he told her shortly, and she flicked a nervous glance up at him. So she knew she'd been wrong to remain silent for so long. Lucius crossed his arms but despite his frustration over the past two weeks could not find it in himself to be angry with her. "What are you reading?" he tried to start again, but she kept the novel firmly behind her.
"It's nothing. You'd think it silly."
Lucius held out his hand sternly and, after a reluctant pause, Narcissa placed the slim volume in it for inspection. It was of no use, of course; the title was in French, and he'd never heard of Alexandre Dumas fils.
"What's it about? La Dame aux Camélias?" He suspected his pronunciation to be imperfect, but she did not correct him as he returned it to her waiting grasp.
"It's nothing," she insisted again. "A romance," she admitted at last, casting her glance away from him. "A tragedy."
"Aren't they all," he drawled sardonically, following her gaze around the garden. Like any jardin à la française, it was elaborately and meticulously landscaped. This one displayed low, neatly-groomed hedges lining white gravel pathways. A fountain stood in the center of the geometric alleys and a bronze veela rose from the depths, water streaming down her hair as she tilted her face up to the sunshine. The south side of the property was bounded by the Loire river. They were standing off the tidy avenues in the grass, and the unruly trees appeared to denote the western property line. From somewhere within the thicket a birdsong was drifting towards them, bright and clear. It seemed to be following a tune in fact, something vaguely familiar. Lucius tilted his head, frowning.
"Is that a caladrius? I didn't think they lived this far north."
"Lucius," she spoke suddenly, uncharacteristically loudly, and the whistling stopped at once. "Let's continue this conversation inside, shall we?" Without waiting for his reply, she turned quickly and headed back towards the chateâu, leaving him no choice but to trail behind her, bemused.
"I don't suppose you've had a tour?" she sighed when they reentered into the sitting room, always the consummate hostess. He shook his head but had little desire to be dragged about the space and lectured to about each element of the architecture and portrait on display.
"It's nearly supper time, perhaps I could just be shown a room in which I can change my robes?"
"Of course," she agreed quickly. "Mimi!"
"Don't you have one that speaks English?" he asked hastily when the same elf that had answered the door earlier materialized before them. She shook her head apologetically.
"Just the one here. I'll send her back up once supper is ready."
Mimi led him cheerfully Lucius to the main hall and up a sweeping staircase to the first floor. The chateâu was laid out in a series of self contained suites rather than corridors. Several passages of the Manor were arranged similarly, resultant of renovations made around the time period this edifice had been erected, but was mainly designed in the medieval style of corridors and leading to individual rooms. He followed the elf through a parlour for guests, small study, more intimate sitting room, and boudoir before reaching the bedchamber at last, where his holdall was already waiting. Not wanting to arrive seeming presumptuous, he'd had Dobby pack for only a few days.
Dinner was a rather stilted affair. Neither was willing to discuss the past two weeks, and so the conversation revolved primarily around the quality of food and drink they were consuming. Narcissa's knowledge of wines in the region was admirable, and she seemed determined that they should discuss nothing of any greater substance than the terroir of neighboring vineyards. She begged off a digestif by insisting she had some personal letters to attend to, and Lucius could not resist a snide comment in praise of her fastidiousness as a correspondent. After she departed he realized he did not know where in the house she slept and he could not ask the elf; his only option would be to wander the residence seeking her out if he wished to see her again that evening. Having no choice but to retire to his own assigned rooms, Lucius was irate to discover nearly all the books in the study were in French, but after some searching managed to find an interesting Latin text on curses annotated by a feminine hand that was not his wife's. Still, he was sure he'd seen it before, and deduced it was Bellatrix, not Druella, who'd gone through circling passages and describing wand movements for several of the spells.
At last he deemed it late it enough for sleep. Lucius shrugged off his robes and trousers and was unfastening the cuffs of his shirt when there was a soft knock on the bedchamber door.
"Come in," he called, still rather surprised when Narcissa slipped into the room despite knowing she was the only other person in the house.
"I just wanted to make sure you'd settled in well and have everything you need," she told him quietly, moving effortlessly into the space with the easy and unconscious confidence of ownership. She lifted her wand and began to draw the curtains closed without prompting.
"You know, these were Bella's rooms when we were younger." She had hesitated before the last window, and the drapes remained untouched. "They're grander than even our parents', but theirs are on the south side, overlooking the river and the rear gardens. A far lovelier view, which my mother preferred, and my father prefers anything she does." Narcissa smiled crookedly, seemingly lost in thought as she stared into the darkness. "My rooms are directly above these. Both look out just on the drive and gate, as I'm sure you noticed."
Lucius nodded, but if she saw his gesture of assent she did not acknowledge it. He finished taking off his clothes and moved to find a dressing robe in his luggage, and still she peered thoughtfully into the night.
"It worked out well for Bella when she grew older, having rooms on the opposite side of the house from our parents. Perhaps she'd planned all along on needing the freedom. The summer before her seventh year, Rodolphus would come wait for her every evening after nightfall, just beyond the gate. It was dark, but I could see the light from his cigarette as he stood just beyond the drive, waiting until she snuck out to meet him. They'd go to Paris or London or Brussels or sometimes even Spain..." A small sigh escaped her lips, but then she twisted them as though tasting something bitter. "Of course, I didn't know Rodolphus well then. Or I should say, I knew well enough that I did not much like him, but it hardly mattered who was waiting for Bellatrix at the end of the drive, only that she was whisked off every night on daring and romantic adventures... at least that's what I assumed at the time. I was only twelve. And his devotion was admirable—it still is, I suppose. He'd show up after supper and wait all night sometimes, if my father had associates visiting and she couldn't get out until quite late. It seems sometimes that he has no patience at all, and at others like the world could fall around him and he would remain unmoved, staring up at my sister's windows, smoking one cigarette after another until the dawn. And yet... she says she does not love him, and that he does not love her. What drives that sort of dedication, if not love?"
Lucius frowned, feeling that she had led them blithely into dangerous territory. He settled into an armchair and wished he spoke enough French to tell the damnable elf to bring him a drink. Rather than engage upon the metaphysical, he instead drawled, "And you never thought to tell your parents, put an end to her escapades?" Narcissa laughed, lightening the mood at once, and pulled the final drapes closed before turning at last to shoot him a wry smirk.
"I certainly did. The very first night I saw him there, I confronted Bella the next morning. So she started bringing me little bribes— chocolates from Belgium, pomegranate flowers from Grenada, a small landscape on a porcelain plate from Luxembourg... anything easy to pick up in whatever city they were in that night, but I was thrilled and to this day have never told Mother of her misadventures. I was always impressed how far they managed to go."
"Rodolphus is very good at creating unauthorised Portkeys," yawned Lucius, stretching his legs and tucking his hands behind his head. "It can be done without notifying the Department of Magical Transportation, but it's tricky and usually not worth the three month stay in Azkaban if you get caught; not many people want or need to travel in secrecy the way he does. I imagine he made the one that brought you to the lodge last year. I don't think the Ministry knows that place exists."
Narcissa did not look surprised by this news; it clearly fit her understanding of Rodolphus's character that he would risk prison simply for the ability to travel undetected to the city for a meal. Sensing she was about to bid him goodnight, Lucius pressed on. "Will you join me for a drink? Have your elf fetch something— the Chenin blanc we had earlier was good, but maybe a scotch? There are a few matters I was hoping to discuss with you."
"I don't keep hard liquor in the house," she prevaricated, flicking her eyes towards the door in clear reluctance to sit with him. "I've a few bottles of a Pineau d'Aunis you'd probably enjoy though," she admitted finally, clearly finding no graceful escape from his innocuous request. "Mimi!" The elf appeared at once, and after receiving its orders, disappeared to fetch the wine as Narcissa took the seat closest to his. "It's been a rather long day and I'm quite tired," she added evasively as Mimi reappeared with an opened bottle and two glasses.
"I don't mean to keep you for long," Lucius assured her, taking a newly filled glass and waving the elf out of the way. "As you know, the Samhain gala is in just a few weeks, but if you don't feel up to it, you need not feel pressured to act as hostess this year. Your health and expeditious recovery are far more important."
Her guarded expression softened at these words, and she took a small sip as she considered them. "You would really cancel it for my sake? It's the largest and most important social event of the year."
"Cancel? No, there'd be no need to do that. I've already written to my mother and explained the situation, she would be happy to stand in this year." Lucius had thought this a generously considerate compromise but she looked oddly deflated upon hearing the statement.
"Of course," she agreed dully. "I'll let you know by the end of this week but I've been planning it for months and suppose I should be able to manage it."
"Good," he replied, albeit uncertainly. Her tone and mien suggested this was not in fact good at all, but he decided to move on. "I'm glad to hear it."
"Was there anything else?" she asked coolly.
"Yes. If you'd like to stay here longer, that's fine; I didn't come here to drag you back to England before you're ready." He drained his wine glass and kept his voice carefully steady as he went on. "But if that is your decision, I would like to stay here with you. Obviously I'd have to return to London often to deal with matters at the Ministry; I could stay in the townhouse if matters kept me there late, but at this point in our marriage I don't think it makes sense for us to be living in two separate locales."
"This point in our marriage," she echoed slowly. "You mean the point at which you are ready for an heir?"
"I mean—" he started swiftly, but suppressed the impulse to admit that he meant the point at which he no longer wished to live somewhere she was not. "I mean that it will be very difficult for you to conceive again if we are not cohabiting."
She nodded, looking rather grim as she rose to her feet. "Naturally you are correct. But I will have Mimi pack my belongings and I will return with you to the Manor tomorrow morning. If that is all, I'd like to get some rest now."
The second time she miscarried, shortly after the new year, she did not leave the country. She'd whispered the news of her pregnancy in bed on Christmas morning, as sunlight sparked through the frost-painted window panes and despite their first painful experience, Lucius had felt a bubble of optimism grow within him as she lay curled in his arms, sheltered from the chilly morning air. Wanting to cheer her up, he'd spent a frankly ridiculous amount at her preferred jeweler and furrier to commemorate the holiday, but conceded that her news was the far superior present. They had celebrated New Year's Eve at the Lestranges', and when she complained of feeling overtired the next day he hardly thought it cause for alarm. However her fatigue persisted into the next day, and when she mentioned she felt rather faint as well, he insisted on calling Healer Marlowe. Though the older man had been out of the country on holiday, he still arrived within the hour, but the telltale bleeding had already begun. Upon his exit this time Marlowe shared the disheartening statistic that as many as a quarter of pregnancies ended in spontaneous abortion, and not to be discouraged over this.
When Lucius was at last able to see his wife once more, he did not bother with offering words of reassurance. His last attempt had been an embarrassing failure at best, and at worst the impetus to drive her back to Blois. Instead he pulled a chair up to her bedside and sat leaning forward with an elbow on each knee and his fingers loosely clasped, hopeful that his presence could offer some small comfort, and that she would not feel alone.
It was a long while before she spoke, and when at last the silence was broken, he was unprepared for what she asked. "Are you angry with me?"
He sat up straighter, frowning in confusion. "Angry? Of course not, why would you think that?"
She sighed, her fingertips tracing the lace edging of the sheet covering her lap. "I don't know. I couldn't tell why you were sitting here."
"I've no where more important to be." He'd meant to express that this was the most significant thing to him, that sharing this pain was his only priority, but her lips tightened and a flash of fury cut momentarily through her grief-stricken eyes. He could hardly blame her for the misinterpretation, she had good reason to think the worst of him, but as he opened his mouth to clarify she spoke again, savagely this time.
"Of course you wouldn't, it's late and most offices are still closed for the New Year anyway, aren't they?"
He scowled. "Yes, but—"
"And I suppose even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named needs to take a holiday occasionally!" she snapped sarcastically.
"Don't jest about such things, Narcissa," he warned blackly. "It would be foolish to treat matters regarding the Dark Lord with flippancy."
She did not look chagrined. "I don't need you to sit here in silent judgement of my pain. It may be raw now but I'll bear it as I bear the rest, and in a few days you won't know the difference." She shot him a look of loathing and her next words were acidic. "It's not as if you notice anything aside from yourself."
"Damn it, Narcissa!" He stood abruptly, steel gaze flashing dangerously. She was staring up at him with a strange blend of emotions: fiercely victorious, but not pleased— more as though she had proven a point she'd hoped not to. He struggled to reign in his temper. "Damn it, Narcissa," he repeated, more softly this time. "I wanted this child too."
Before she could insult him further he turned and headed to the door, and as such missed her stunned expression as he strode from the room.
Lucius spent another sleepless night. The next morning, Narcissa was unexpectedly seated at the breakfast table when he arrived in the morning. He had assumed she would take her meal in her room if she ate at all, and after their exchange half thought she might have left the Manor entirely. Her eyes were ringed in shadows and she was wan, but she'd dressed and her hair was twisted in a simple chignon. He took his seat at the head of the table warily, watching her listlessly rearrange the fruit in her bowl with a sidelong glance. He found that he was not particularly hungry either.
Eyes still fixed on her dish, she reached out towards him, the fingers of her left hand closing briefly around his right wrist. She exerted only a faint pressure before withdrawing, but he knew the gentle touch was a signal that she'd understood him, and this time she would not be going anywhere.
Sunday, 2 April 1978
Lucius did want a child, for both their sakes, but found it to be a small mercy that she did not immediately conceive again after the second miscarriage. After a month or so he felt her begin to relax once more, occasionally even curling up to his side at night and suggesting holidays for the future— two of the only signals of affection he could interpret from her.
He was rather surprised when she asked him over supper whether or not there was a Malfoy family tree she could study. Naturally there was a thorough record dating back from before the early medieval period, though the visual presentation was not in the tapestry form to which she was accustomed. Each birth and death was meticulously inscribed in a codex, and the earliest sheets were delicate vellum that could crumble with insensitive handling. After their meal he took her into his study and located the dusty tome, walking her though the notations and abbreviations, as well as pointing out some of the more historically interesting figures (he did not, however, care to point out previous instances where the Black and Malfoy families overlapped... he supposed neither of them would enjoy that discussion). He arrived at last upon his own name, linked with a double line to hers on the day that they'd spoken the Bonds. She ran her finger thoughtfully over the ink; there was, to no one's shock, no issue yet descending from their union.
"I know our luck has been poor thus far, but I feel confident it will change," Narcissa began, sounding somewhat fanatic; her flush reminded him oddly of her sister in declarations of support towards the Dark Lord. "Life illuminated by children is truly the most anyone could hope for. I'd love a daughter," she confessed, coloring more deeply.
Lucius took a deep breath, and tried to consider her perspective.
"You won't have a girl," he spoke at last, as carefully as he could. "It's not because of what I want, you simply will not. Malfoys used to have girls, when it was advantageous to marry them off to other powerful families across Europe. We used to have second and third sons too, when the infant mortality rate was higher. But now…" Lucius gestured, almost helplessly, to the record before him. "Two hundred years and there's been only one each generation. A male successor, no more and no less. It's been beneficial— the wealth is never split or spread among sons, and it's far more difficult to intermarry when the family tree has fewer branches. It can't be coincidence, but I've never seen or heard of generational magic like it in any of the other Sacred Twenty-Eight, or any other families for that matter."
Narcissa was frowning. She had come to stand beside him, and was carefully scanning the names denoted in the book. "Here," she said quickly, pointing. "Not two generations ago! Not a daughter, but your father has a brother…" However, she quickly fell silent as she read the dates written below the names.
"My father had a brother," he correctly softly. "Before he was born. The boy died at the age of fourteen, and though all logic said my grandmother should have been too old to have another child, my father was born a year later."
"I come from three sisters," she tried again, "perhaps—"
"Perhaps," Lucius agreed quickly, turning to her. "Perhaps we will have more than one child. I simply don't want you to be disappointed if we do not." He could already tell by her expression that she was.
"But for you... there already was a child." Her words were cold, but not accusatory.
"There was. I'd imagine, anyway. Last time I saw her there was going to be. She wanted a baby for her own reasons. I shouldn't have agreed, although I suppose I didn't put much thought into it. I didn't think it'd be so easy. She never asks for money, she never reaches out… I think she's in east Africa, or Japan now, or somewhere else. I don't know if she had the child or where it is. It isn't mine, really. It's barely even hers. It's this concept that may become a witch or wizard someday."
"Your firstborn," Narcissa answered softly. Before he could stop himself, Lucius shrugged and replied:
"Well, first that I know of, anyway."
She wanted to leave, he could tell. He immediately regretted the words, as he could see her rejection of them in her narrowed eyes and stiffened posture. But he didn't want to lie to her anymore.
"How could you allow something so foolish to happen?" she demanded through gritted teeth. He, who had taken great care to ensure she, his wife, could not even hope to conceive a child for their first three years of marriage.
"We were… drinking," he confessed, although it had been more than that, something crushed and white that he thought must have been a potion ingredient and let her add it to their absinthe, but she confessed later were Muggle pills; something that had made him feel relaxed and euphoric and stupid and agreeable to they notion that they should have sex, even though neither of them had taken a contraceptive potion that day nor had access to one. "She said she wanted a baby and that mine would ideal. I wasn't thinking clearly at the time so I agreed to…" Well, no need to get into specifics, Narcissa knew perfectly well how babies were made. "We didn't take precautions. I didn't really think much of it the next morning, and I didn't see her again for some time… a month, two? Anyway, as soon as I met her again she told me it had worked and at first I didn't even remember what she was talking about. She said there was no doubt about it being mine, but to stay away from it. She wanted it for herself. She's selfish though. I think she just wanted another flattering mirror."
"Maybe it isn't," Narcissa ventured tentatively. "Yours, I mean."
Lucius shrugged. He privately could think of no reason why Angelique would lie and then disappear from his life, but it was a somewhat comforting thought. "It isn't mine either way. The child that you and I have together— or children," he amended quickly, "—will be my only children."
She nodded thoughtfully at this promise, but her finger was still on the opened page of the book before them, her pale, slim finger absently tracing the single line connecting each generation of the Malfoy family: father, son, father, son... and each generation, only one.
