Friday, 13 June 1980
For what felt like the dozenth time that night, Lucius awoke abruptly to the sound of... absolutely nothing. Stillness and silence filled the room. A bleary glance at the clock informed him it was a quarter past three in the morning. With a low groan he rolled over and reached for Narcissa's pristine pillow, untouched by her head for the past week and unlikely to be for some time.
It was strange how the knowledge that she was not angry with him, and in fact had never been happier, was of so little comfort when he woke alone in the middle of the night. He thought he might get up and check on her and the baby, but quickly discarded the idea. Either she would be having some much needed sleep or would be accompanied by whichever nurse was on shift for the night, and in either scenario he would only be an intrusion or distraction.
The nurses were necessary, for more than Draco. He'd read over Marlowe's report several times with something akin to horror— though the language was dry and clinical, and Lucius had little knowledge of Healing, even he had been able to deduce that Narcissa had been brought back from legal death at least twice, and he'd never heard of such quantities of blood replenishing potion being consumed by any surviving individual.
A week had passed, and still she struggled to rise from bed, but their son thrived. It was with pride that he listened to accounts of how strong his newly-minted heir was, though he occasionally wondered if these descriptions were exaggerated for the dual purpose of flattering him and distracting him from how little good news they had in regards to his wife. Draco certainly didn't seem particularly strong. Weighing in at just over seven pounds, Lucius had not overcome the impression that the boy was far too delicate a thing to be of the world yet, and was rather set upon not holding him in his own hands until the infant was a bit more substantial.
He did, however, pay a visit to his son and wife each evening before retiring and every morning after dressing. They were always brief— what little energy Narcissa possessed was reserved for attending to their son's hunger rather than conversation— and moreover unsatisfactory as he usually found nothing to say.
Lucius turned over, impatiently shoving his pillow into a more comfortable shape. It was too hot in the room, he decided, and fumbled for his want to cast a cooling charm. It was at once too cold, and he pulled the duvet up over his shoulders, his irritability growing. He was not entirely sure what he'd expected of fatherhood, but it certainly had not been that it would make his home feel emptier. Although that was not quite accurate; there was plenty of activity within the walls of the Manor, he simply was not privy to the large majority of the new goings on.
However, he told himself firmly, that was how it was meant to be. He supposed in infancy he, too, had been cared for by nurses. He vaguely recalled a governess minding him until he was around five years of age, after which his daily minding was turned over to tutors in a variety of subjects. He would naturally secure the same for Draco, as no young Pureblood heir should be without a knowledge of Latin and Gobbledegook at the very least. His mother had taught him Swedish, and he supposed Narcissa would want to teach Draco French. While he did not particularly relish the notion, he decided he would not attempt to stop her. A rudimentary understanding of wizarding history, both in Britain and abroad, would be necessary as well. Reading and arithmetic had too been left in his mother's hands; should Narcissa wish to hire someone for the subjects he would be happy to allow her to do so, but predicted she would not. Indulgently, Lucius decided he would find the boy a Quidditch coach as well, should he show an interest in the sport.
As a child he saw his father regularly at mealtimes, unless Abraxas was traveling, but very little apart from that. The only rooms of the Manor forbidden to him had been his father's study and the suite of rooms his parents occupied, although he seemed to recall on occasional, when he had been very small, sneaking away from his dozing governess and into his mother's bedroom when he could not sleep. When he had been perhaps four his father had come in and discovered him there, and thoroughly put an end to the behaviour once and for all.
He did not want to emulate Abraxas, but at the same time could not help but to believe he'd been brought up in the perfectly proper sense. Every rule adhered to, every custom followed. Undoubtedly Narcissa would spoil their son, she would be unable to help herself, and he would need to step in as an authoritarian figure if they did not want a tiny tyrant running the household.
He did not, however, need to mimic Abraxas's severe combination of criticism and disinterest, wherein he only took notice of his son's actions when he felt that they erred. It seemed to matter not at all if Lucius was able to recite Rappaport's Law without hesitation, nor an alchemical formula from tenth century monks— he did, however, at once point out Lucius's mispronunciation of 'bladvak' when he spoke on the Goblin Rebellion of 1612. Draco had no need to face such censure.
Lucius turned over again and forced himself to close his eyes and empty his mind. Still, it was a long time before sleep returned once more.
Thursday, 17 July 1980
Lucius hesitated outside the door of his wife's bedroom and then, feeling foolish, knocked thrice. There was a brief pause and then one of the nurses (Figg? He knew he should be able to keep them straight by now) opened it.
"Will you leave us for a while?" he asked, fighting to keep the impatience from his voice. He knew all three of the girls they'd hired were rather frightened of him, and he'd done nothing to prevent it. Despite the fact he was well aware that they were doing an excellent job in tending to his wife and heir, he could not help feeling that they were also the reason that he saw so little of them. Not that they were doing anything to prevent his access— in fact they were most accommodating; but he hated having any witnesses to his private moments with his family, and so he'd had almost none in the past six weeks.
She agreed at once, glancing over her shoulder to ensure all was well within before hurrying from the room. Narcissa was awake, which was not often the case when he came to check in on her before going to sleep himself.
"I just came to say good night," he explained rigidly but Narcissa beamed at him and held out a hand, inviting him closer. He moved across the room to sit on the edge of the bed beside her, examining the slender digits resting in his palm with a small frown. She was too thin. She'd lost all the weight from pregnancy and then some, and she had arguably been underweight to begin with. Her tall frame looked frail beneath the sheets. Most evenings she joined him for supper, and occasional mornings for breakfast before he headed to the Ministry or some other investor meeting, but he'd noticed that she ate little at these meals and each mouthful seemed to be a battle. However he doubted she would receive his assessment with any pleasure, so he remained silent. She had explained early on that the combination of potions she was taking made her sick to her stomach, but anti-nausea potions contained baneberry: an ingredient nursing mothers were meant to avoid as even the trace amounts present in the tonic could make an infant seriously ill.
Making a mental note to owl Severus in the morning to see if he knew of any alternative elixirs that might ease her symptoms, he leaned over to press a peck to her cheek, but when his lips brushed her skin he hesitated. The scent of her soap was fragrant and familiar and he wanted to linger to enjoy it for just a moment longer. Stifling a sigh, he dropped his head lower— not to kiss the sensitive divot beneath her ear as he longed to do, he did not need a healer to tell him she was not yet ready for that sort of activity, but just to rest his forehead against the curve of her neck for a moment. Her hands lifted, as if by instinct, to thread gently through his hair, and he felt an unbearable pressure that he hadn't even realised he was carrying begin to ease from his shoulders.
"What's the matter, my love?" she asked softly, and perhaps it was the tenderness of her tone, or the mindlessly given term of endearment that she'd never used aloud before, but Lucius found himself confessing the truth almost at once, though he'd not intended to do so.
"I want you to come back to our bed," he murmured, his fingers curling in the blanket that covered her lap and eyes sliding shut beneath her gentle ministrations.
"You miss me?" she surmised, and he could hear the smile in her voice. He stiffened at once; she was mocking him. And why shouldn't she? Their son, not even two months old, needed her on a visceral level, and it was absurd to suggest that she might sleep apart from him so soon.
Embarrassed and angry with himself for the admission, he rose quickly to his feet. "Never mind," he muttered, turning towards the door.
"Lucius Malfoy you come back here right now," she snapped, sounding exasperated. "Lie down." She pointed to the bed beside her.
He hedged. "I shouldn't. The nurse might be back at any moment."
"She'll not come back until I've called for her," she replied easily, beaming once more and patting the duvet invitingly. After another moment of irresolution he complied at last, removing his shoes and settling down next to her, supported into a half-seated position by an abundance of pillows and his legs stretched out before him. He felt a little ridiculous, but Narcissa did not look concerned.
"Unbutton your shirt," she commanded briskly, and he arched a curious brow. She rolled her eyes. "Just do it, don't give me that look." As she spoke, and he obeyed, Narcissa reached over into the cradle next to her to lift their swaddled son. It was fascinating to watch her confidence in handling the boy; every time Lucius touched their child, he seemed impossibly delicate and he was certain he would inadvertently cause him harm. She carefully unwrapped the blankets cocooning Draco, and then turned to place him gently face-down on Lucius's newly bared chest. "I understand you can't help with much at this stage," she continued knowledgeably, "but everything I've read says that it's beneficial for both parents to have skin-on-skin contact with their infants."
"Er..." Lucius had gone very still. "Can he breathe, though? Lying like that?" His hands moved instinctively to hold him in place as Narcissa summoned a throw that was draped over a nearby chair.
"Of course," she said simply, covering both father and son before nestling closer to rest her cheek against her husband's shoulder. "He's beginning lifting his head already too, do you see? And soon he'll start smiling," she sighed wistfully, stroking the platinum wisps of hair from her son's forehead and then reaching up to her husband's identically colored locks. "He looks just like you," she went on. "Most babies do look like their fathers, especially at first, but I think he'll grow up to be your mirror."
"Well he's a very lucky boy then," Lucius smirked. She laughed and quipped sardonically:
"Hopefully he inherits your humility as well."
"And what need has he to be humble?" Lucius challenged, unable to keep pride from his voice as he regarded the child slumbering gently on his chest. "He'll have everything. He'll be everything. A Malfoy and a Black— none of his peers can match his pedigree. At the rate things are going, by the time he's in Hogwarts, ours will be the dominant world— no more hiding from Muggles, no more Mudbloods polluting our institutions. With Dumbledore gone, Hogwarts will regain its title as the finest school for magical learning in the world, and we'll have the best tutors in the country to prepare him for it."
Narcissa hummed in sleepy, contented agreement with the assessment. "Will you teach him to play Quidditch?"
Lucius paused. "I haven't played in ages. I'm sure if he shows an aptitude for flying we can hire a trainer for him."
"A boy should learn to throw a Quaffle from his father," she disagreed. "I remember watching you play during my first and second year. You were excellent," she insisted with a yawn.
"A fine compliment from a woman who couldn't name a single player on Puddlemere United," he teased, and she gave a little self-deprecating laugh.
"That's an Irish one, isn't it?"
"No, darling wife, it's our local team," he explained patiently, placing a fond if condescending peck on the crown of her head.
"Draco still needs to be fed every three or four hours," she told him quietly, her tone suddenly serious as she lifted her chin to gaze up at him. "But in a few weeks he should be able to go longer and I'll be able to sleep in our room again." For a beat she hesitated before adding (regretfully, he hoped), "I still don't know if that means I'll feel quite well enough to..." Her blush finished the sentence for her.
"Of course," he agreed hastily. "I didn't mean to presume— take however long you need to heal. I'll wait as long as you need."
She nodded, appreciative, and settled contentedly against him once more. He wanted to stay there until she fell asleep, perhaps even allow himself the rare pleasure of rest, but he feared that, should he drift off, he might unconsciously shift and drop or crush his son. So, regretfully, he pressed his lips to her hair for a final time and indicated with a nod that she should take the boy and once she had, he rose to his feet.
"Sleep well, Narcissa" he murmured, watching with what might have been awe the sight of them. His family. He was certain he'd never truly understood the term before.
Narcissa was smiling down at their son, carefully re-swaddling him to place back into his cradle, but after a moment noticed that her husband still lingered in the doorway. She turned her shining face up to his, gaze bright, and her lips parted as though to speak. However she hesitated, and after a moment she seemed to swallow whatever words she'd been so close to vocalizing and simply said, "Good night, Lucius." Still, a pure sort of happiness suffused each syllable.
Joy, Lucius mused, was not an emotion well suited to himself. Smugness, superciliousness, schadenfreude, physical gratification— these were the types of pleasure with which he was familiar and comfortable. It suited Narcissa though. She was radiant.
"Good night," he returned, more fervently than either of them had expected, and he wasn't entirely sure why he was gripping the frame of the door so firmly his knuckles were white. He supposed he had thought she was going to say something else.
Friday, 15 August 1980
"Lucius?"
He jumped at the sound of his wife's voice at the door of his study, but had regained his composure by the time her head poked inside. "Yes?" he asked mildly, careful to keep any trace of sheepishness from his tone.
"I'm going to sleep now; I just wanted to remind you that my parents will be here at half past nine tomorrow morning."
"Yes, I remember." He had known, of course, when he sent Druella and Cygnus away after Draco's birth that he wouldn't be able to keep them at bay forever. They were much too fond of their youngest child.
"Are you sure you don't want me to owl your parents and invite them to visit soon as well? Perhaps in September?"
"Yes, I'm sure." His parents, on the other hand, he could hold off indefinitely. She nodded, evidently sensing that she'd interrupted his focus and that he was not in the mood for conversation, and slipped from the room. Once he was certain she was gone and would not return, he allowed his eyes to move once more downwards to the missive he'd received that afternoon and was at last able to examine thoroughly.
Lucius had a very discreet contact who had a special talent for uncovering information on individuals without detection and without question. He often contacted this wizard to obtain incriminating details of potential business partners, for the dual purpose of entering into an agreement with all the facts, and having ready blackmail should the need arise down the road if dealings turned sour. Three weeks ago, Lucius had given his agent a name— just a surname and general age, but it had been enough.
Michel Perrot was twenty six years old; the only son of François and Camille Perrot. He had a younger sister named Faustine, and both had attended Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. One of Michel's paternal uncles, Sebastien, had married Manon Lestrange, of the now-defunct Parisian Lestranges. After referencing several genealogies and old copies of wedding coverages in La Gazette du Sorcier, his contact had been able to determine that Rodolphus and Rabastan's uncle Marcellus had attended the wedding, and that the two had been third cousins. In return, apparently François and Camille Perrot had attended Rodolphus and Bellatrix's nuptials. Lucius felt frustrated with himself that he could not recall the pair, but then, he'd been only fourteen at the time, and hundreds of guests had turned out for the event.
The family lived in Blois (this he already knew), and a goodly portion of their income came from their esteemed vineyards. Lucius was dismayed to realised he not only recognized the estate name but had enjoyed many of their vintages in the past, and had to stop himself from instructing an elf to purge the Malfoy cellars of any bottle it might hold of his rival's label.
Not rival, he corrected himself firmly. Narcissa was his wife, the mother to his son, and she had stated in no uncertain terms that she was no longer in love with this other man. And moreover, she was happy... now that she had a child. Ecstatically. Narcissa seemed to glow whenever she spoke of or held Draco, and she did little else these days. She did not love this Michel any longer, and while she may not love him, Lucius, either, she certainly loved Draco. He swallowed hard, the words unfocused before his eyes. It was enough that she loved their son. It had to be.
There was more here, much more, but little of it held any relevance to Lucius. He cared not at all what subjects in which this Michel had excelled and which he'd detested, it mattered not at all the number of piano recitals the man had given and to whom, and which operas he attended in the past. It seemed the man lived a rather unspectacular life. Amazingly, his history of involvement with Narcissa did not appear anywhere in the pages. He was somewhat reassured; if this investigation into Perrot's life had not unearthed the affair, he doubted any would. There were few salacious details to be unearthed at all, it seemed. To each public show he'd gone to while under observation, he'd brought a different partner; sometimes a potentially romantic interest, but other times his sister or his mother or another man. Michel attended all the soirees in the nearby vicinity but seemed to favour no house or lady in particular.
Lucius sighed and rolled the parchments up, tucking them into a drawer of the desk and, after a guilty pause, sealing the drawer with a tap of his wand so that only he would be able to open it. It had never occurred to him to bother with such measures in the past: most of the security measures in the Manor were designed to keep out non-Malfoys. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then glanced at the clock. It was only half past ten. After pouring himself another drink, Lucius rose slowly and crossed the room to stand before the fire and stare into the crackling flames.
When he reached for the cloisonné snuffbox on the mantlepiece, he was only vaguely aware of his actions; he knew only that he did not feel like sitting alone and dwelling on his wife's former paramour for the evening. He held a pinch of floo powder between his fingers for several moments before determining at last that the person with whom he wished to speak would not be reachable by such means.
"Dobby," he snapped, not turning to see if the elf had materialised, knowing that it had by the piteous sniffling it produced. "Go tell Rodolphus to meet me... not here," Lucius added quickly, thinking how irritated Narcissa would be if she overheard her brother-in-law visiting. "Meet me in Mayfair. We'll have a drink and then perhaps..." he drifted off. A clear idea had not yet formed in Lucius's mind where he wanted the evening to lead, but the fact that he'd meant to floo his most violent and unpredictable acquaintance suggested along which lines he might be thinking. Dobby muttered a word of obsequious assent and returned within seconds to inform him that Master Lestrange had agreed, and less than thirty minutes later they were sitting in the study of Number Seven Chesterfield Street.
Rodolphus was in good spirits. He hadn't seen the other man since his son's birth, and Rodolphus was easily able to fill an hour telling him of some of the more colourful exploits of the past two months. Several of his Granians had foaled recently so he'd spent time in Germany, and whilst there had apparently invited Walden McNair to join them, and the pair had devised a plan to go to Sweden in the fall to hunt a Short-Snout. He extended the invitation to Lucius, who was vaguely tempted— he'd never killed anything so large as a dragon before— but in the end declined, citing the inability to leave the Ministry in such a vulnerable position for weeks at a time, but in reality because he knew Narcissa would not approve of the excursion.
After a few glasses of scotch, Rodolphus began to grow restive and proposed that they head out into town, giving no set destination and suggesting they go on foot. Lucius agreed at once, finishing off his drink with a practiced jerk of his wrist and rising from the armchair he'd been occupying. He'd assumed Rodolphus meant that they stroll through Diagon and perhaps Knockturn Alley, but instead he headed for the front door and set off whistling into the night.
They hadn't walked far when Rodolphus stopped abruptly, perhaps just over a mile from the townhouse, but any time in Muggle London felt like an unbearable trek to Lucius. Since he'd been glaring at the pavement it was a moment before Lucius noticed, and he had to double back several steps to return to his side. The taller man was standing before a brick building with boarded up windows, gaze sharp and attentive. A street sign on the corner told Lucius that they were on a lane called Denmark Place; the name meant nothing to him.
"What are you—"
"Quiet," Rodolphus commanded, holding out a hand. "Do you hear that?"
Lucius listened, and after a moment realized there was a sound of music and voices coming not from any neighboring pubs, but this unassuming edifice. As they watched, a staggering Muggle man approached the spot where they stood, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called towards the second storey window: "Ahoy! Toss us down the key, then!"
After a moment, one of the boards over the window was moved back and a bit of metal was thrown down. He headed for the locked door and Rodolphus jerked his head at Lucius, indicating that they should follow.
"Shame they're closing this place down, isn'it?" the Muggle slurred, carelessly allowing them to trail in behind him.
"Oh yes," Rodolphus agreed at once. "Say— what is this place?" The man blinked blearily at them.
"You don't know?" He had a heavy Scottish brogue, and looked only mildly concerned as he turned around to study them more carefully and observed their (to a Muggle, very unusual) robes. "Well, no harm in tellin' ya now I s'pose. They'll be shut down anyway come Monday. Unlicensed bars, these are. I'm heading up to the Spanish Rooms; not much of a dancer, but if that's what yer lookin' for you should visit Rodo's on the lower floor."
"Rodo's, you say?" Rodolphus inquired with a wild sort of brightness. "Sounds perfect. Come on, Lucius." The Muggle moved towards a window to clamber out onto a shoddily enclosed fire escape, while the pair of wizards headed for the floor reached via the internal stairs.
It was clear at once what the Muggle had meant about dancing. Dozens of couples were packed into the space, spinning and dipping and whirling as they moved in a salsa, their bodies pressed intimately together. Lucius scowled as he followed his friend to the bar. Drinking poor whisky and watching Muggle mating rituals was hardly the evening he'd hoped for. Rodolphus found them two seats (the man and woman occupying them quickly got up with blank expressions and left as the pair approached, leaving full glasses behind), and after they'd settled in he lit a cigar and offered one to Lucius, who declined.
"How are things going with the Crouch boy?" he asked, wincing slightly at the sting of his cheap liquor.
"Very well," Rodolphus replied passionately. "He's brilliant, Bellatrix is thrilled. She'd never admit it but I think she was always a bit envious that you'd recruited Snape, given the favour the Dark Lord shows him, but Barty more than makes up for it. Excellent with curses, but it's more than that; he's a thespian. I've never seen anything like it. He can persuade anyone of anything, so long as they aren't an Occlumens, and he's made great strides with Legilimancy. Bella laid the groundwork but the Dark Lord himself has taken an interest in his training."
"I'll bet she loves that,"Lucius drawled sardonically. Rodolphus looked thoughtful.
"She does, for now. You're right that she's likely to get jealous, but as it stands, she still considers him her protege... he's only eighteen." He waved the problem aside with a large hand. "We should have a few more years before it becomes an issue."
"Does he have any designs against his father? What a boon it would be for all of us to get Crouch out of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Bagnold's only just been made Minister and already I've heard talk of him succeeding her— it would be a blow. She's competent and I think she might be persuaded to turn against Dumbledore, given some time. I've been working on bringing her around to our side on some legislation that would strengthen Pureblood voices at the Ministry, and she's becoming rather amenable to the idea that handing over more power to Purebloods might prevent the old families from openly supporting the Dark Lord. Of course our goal would be to have both..."
They spent the next hour or so discussing tactics and strategies, paying no mind to keeping their voices down since there were no other wizards around and the Muggles were not fated to live much longer even if they had overheard and understood a word of what was being discussed. It was nearly three in the morning when Rodolphus set down his empty glass and waved the bartender off when he came over to refill it.
"It's late, Malfoy. Time to go." He paused thoughtfully. "I don't think that many of them will be able to escape," Rodolphus murmured in what might seem to a casual observer to be a non-sequitur, his eyes tracing the boarded up windows and easily blocked entrances. "But let's Petrify a few just in case shall we?"
Lucius nodded. To avoid raising alarm they froze a few people seated at the bar rather than any of the dancers, who would crash to the floor and cause a commotion. Men and women who would die as they sat, with smiles plastered on their faces and drinks in their hands. As they descended the stairs, they were surprised to see the Muggle who had let them in earlier being forcibly ejected from the premise. He was shouting drunkenly at the man pushing him out, but stopped when he spotted Lucius and Rodolphus on the sidewalk beside him.
"Alright then?" he asked guardedly, apparently recognising them but unable to place from where.
"Oh yes," Rodolphus grinned toothily at him, and then to Lucius, "Go seal the back exit." As he slipped around the building, Lucius heard the Muggle begin to complain loudly that he'd been overcharged for a pint and tossed out by the barkeep for disputing it, and Rodolphus's sympathetic murmurs of agreement that it was entirely unjust treatment.
"Colloportus," he muttered, and the heavy metal door made a suctioned sort of noise. He then raised his wand higher, to the windows above. "Incendio." Sparks shot forth from the slender length of elm, morphing rapidly into tongues of flame at they found purchase upon the plywood. A cold, satisfied smile curled the corner of his mouth upwards as he heard the first shouts of alarm begin to rise from within, and he turned to stroll casually back to the front of the edifice.
The Muggle was still bemoaning his ill-treatment. Rodolphus, however, cocked his head at the sound of panicked screams, and looked up. "Started without me?"
Lucius smirked, and Rodolphus pointed his own wand at the front door. "Incendio tria!" he bellowed and a jet of fire burst forth, hot enough to singe the hem of Lucius's robes, and scald the hands of the Muggle, who'd been standing much closer. However the creature lacked the instinct to flee, and instead stared at the front of the building, now entirely engulfed in an inferno, then incredulously back at Rodolphus, who was laughing loudly as the shrieks from within grew significantly in pitch and number. He blinked hard, disbelieving his own eyes, and at last turned away as though comprehending he should not be there.
"Remind us, friend," Rodolphus slung an arm around the man's shoulders, preventing him from escaping. "What was your name?"
"John Thompson," answered the Muggle, wary despite his intoxication. Lucius drew his wand.
"Right. Confundus," he pronounced clearly, and the man's eyes slid from focus. "You started this fire, Thompson. You were angry that they overcharged you and decided to do something about it. You'll not go into hiding— you'll go about your everyday life, and when they catch you, you'll confess. Understood?"
The Muggle nodded dumbly. Lucius pocketed his wand and nodded at Rodolphus, who released the man. Together they cast a final glance at the burning building, and then began to walk off in the opposite direction from where Thompson has gone. "It's been a while since we've had a night out," Rodolphus commented idly as sirens began to rend the sir. "I suppose they'll be few and far between now that you're a father."
Somehow over the course of the evening, the subject of his wife and son had not yet come up. It had indeed been the distraction he was seeking, but now Rodolphus was watching him curiously. He affected an unconcerned air. "I don't see why that should be. Narcissa, naturally, is rather busier now, but overall I've had few interruptions because of it."
It seemed Rodolphus believed him. "I'll see you soon then," he surmised, and Disapparated with a crack. Lucius hesitated only a moment longer before vanishing as well, albeit silently. He reappeared in the lane in front of the Manor, needing the short walk up the silent drive to recollect himself.
His room was dark, silent, and empty. He was almost drunk enough that he did not care. It was close to four in the morning, and he was almost exhausted enough to relish the thought of his cold, undisturbed bed. His robes smelt of spilt beer on old floors and acrid smoke; he shucked them off carelessly and slid beneath the sheets. The sleep he fell into was not restful; dreams of blazing red flames flared into a blinding white that became the soft flesh of arms, the brilliant gold silk of hair, and breathless blue, where the fire burned hottest of all, in sapphire eyes.
Monday, 1 September 1980
"Just think," Lucius drawled idly at breakfast. "Eleven years from now, we'll be sending Draco off to his first day of school."
A strange, pained sort of look came over Narcissa's face, but she attempted a brave smile and added, "We'll be heading into London at this very moment so he can catch the Hogwarts Express."
"Well... perhaps."
She gave him a rather alarmed look. "'Perhaps?'" she echoed, her fork paused halfway to her lips. It was good to see her eating again. Snape had come through most spectacularly with a baneberry-free anti-nausea potion, one Lucius suspected to be of his own invention, and over the past month her face had lost its hollowness and some of the sharper angles of her body were beginning to soften slightly.
"If Dumbledore is gone by that time and the Dark Lord's plans have come to fruition, there will be no need to go to school in secrecy," he explained. "We could fly him up to Hogsmeade in a carriage. He might come of age in a world very different from anything you or I have known; one in which we have no need to hide our magic from Muggles."
"Oh," she replied, seeming relieved by this interpretation. "That would be lovely too."
He kissed her, chastely, before heading out that day, tasting the strawberries on her lips with a jagged sort of wanting that he forcibly suppressed.
Lucius returned home around seven that evening in dark spirits. It had not been a good day at the Ministry. He had spent the better part of the morning in a very tense meeting with Bartemius Crouch and his Head Auror, the unpolished and entirely recalcitrant Alastor Moody. The previous week, Moody had led a counterattack against a group of men raiding a Mudblood Ministry member's home in Godric's Hollow that had resulted in the killing of (among others) Aldrich Wilkes. Wilkes came from an old, respected family— not named as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight but certainly one of the families that had most loudly protested their exclusion from the list. Many assumed their exclusion was due to the fact that a girl from the Wilkes family had, in her youth, spurned the advances of Cantankerus Nott. Upon learning that Aldrich had been identified among the dead, a shudder of stunned disbelief had rippled through the Wizarding community. Alrich had been young, only a few years out of Hogwarts, heir to a respectable bloodline and fortune, and incontrovertibly a Death Eater. Lucius had been tasked with the uncomfortably delicate task of attempting to use the fatality to dissuade the Department of Magical Law Enforcement from using deadly force in such incidents. After nearly two hours Moody had stormed from Crouch's office, growling that he had a dozen better uses for his time, and Lucius and Bartemius had argued in tensely civil tones for nearly an hour still before Lucius had given up on any hope securing a promise to the public that the aurors would revert to capture-only techniques.
After lunch his meeting with Millicent Bagnold, the first he'd managed to schedule since she'd taken her new office as Minister, had been cut short by an emergency call from the Bulgarian Minister. The rest of his afternoon provide some marginal success: he did prevent the introduction of a law that would have diminished the profitability of the Galleon and Muggle pound exchange rate— not that Lucius would confess to any personal financial interest in such matters. He rather lost track of time after that and it was dark by the time he was shaking off John Dawlish and insisting he would address the public perception of legality between curses and hexes at a later date.
It was an hour before supper when he reached the Manor, and he swept upstairs to change his robes, kicking an elf aside and muttering angrily under his breath when he stormed into his bedroom. Once arrived he stilled at once, paralyzed by the sight that met his eyes.
"Narcissa?" he asked cautiously, as though he might frighten her off. She smiled at him, rising from her seat at the vanity where she'd been sitting in her evening robes and brushing her hair. "Are you... back?"
"Draco's been sleeping for longer stretches the past week, usually drifting off after his seven o'clock feeding and staying asleep until four or five in the morning. I thought it might be time to try having him sleep in the nursery. There's a nurse on duty, of course, but he is almost three months now and I..." She broke off and smiled again, a little hesitantly. "Anyway, I'll just go wash my face."
Thrilled, Lucius watched her vanish into the bath and started to undress at once. It was not that he'd disbelieved her, precisely, when she told him she'd been returning in a few weeks, only that he'd imagined she would find the need to take much longer. Actually grinning as he threw his clothes off, a dart of anticipation shot through him and he did not immediately quash it, instead allowing it to play out in his mind for the first time in months. She was coming back to their bed, after all, it wasn't out of the question to hope that meant... He was just pulling back the sheets (much too early, admittedly, they would not be retiring for hours yet) when there was a soft knock at the door.
His newly-good mood evaporated at once. Seething, Lucius grabbed a robe, stormed across the room, and pulled open the door, his eyes blazing.
"Good evening Mr. Malfoy, I—"
"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?" he snarled, and the nurse's eyes went at once round with fear. "Have you no sense of privacy or discretion? In what world would it ever be considered reasonable to disturb your employers in their private sleeping quarters? Have you no previous work experience at all? It was my understanding that you came highly recommended but clearly we've erred in our judgment. We certainly can't have help with our son from a girl who lacks the prudence of a scullery maid. This is entirely inappropriate."
"I... but..." she stammered, her face a deep crimson and hands trembling. Her eyes brimmed with tears. At that moment, Narcissa emerged from the bath.
"Lucius!" she reprimanded sharply, hurrying over to the doorway. "What's happened?"
"I... I only came to tell you that Draco is ready for bed as you asked, Mrs. Malfoy!" the young woman blurted in a rush. Narcissa fixed Lucius with an incredulous look and took the girl's arm gently.
"Thank you, Isis," she said softly. "I'll be along in a moment, you may go now." When she'd all but run off, Narcissa turned back sternly to her husband. "Really?"
"I don't think the nurses should be bothering us at night unless there's an emergency," he defended haughtily.
"I told her to come fetch me to say goodnight to Draco! These aren't servants, Lucius, they're trained and qualified nurses!"
"That doesn't make them any less disruptive," he hissed, but she'd already left the room. Supper was not the pleasant affair he'd hope for, and bother were still on edged when they tucked beneath the blanket that night. Neither fell asleep with any sort of agility.
By midnight Narcissa had risen three times and tip-toed almost silently from their room, undoubtedly to check that all was well with Draco. When she edged back into bed after the third brief absence, Lucius decided he'd had quite enough. Words would not suffice, he was sure, but actual restraint might.
He fit his body around hers and secured an arm around her waist. He'd rather meant it as a warning, a physical barrier to prevent her from getting up once more, but at once she dissolved into the embrace, lifting his hand to her lips before threading her fingers through his and settling contently against his chest. He was shocked to find her asleep almost at once.
It was not the anticipated result, but it was not long before Lucius found himself drifting off as well.
Friday, 31 October 1980
Turn out was at perhaps an all-time high for the gala that year, and dozens arrived earlier than anticipated: everyone wished to catch a glimpse of the new Malfoy heir. Though reluctant at first, Narcissa had at last conceded to show Draco off for the first half hour only, and Lucius was fairly certain she'd agreed because she might have no other occasion to put him in such tiny formal dress robes.
With Adrienne Parkinson rooted at her side, the two women and infant seemed able to engage and enchant each visitor, and Lucius hardly needed to acknowledge his role as host. Despite the merriment and flurry of robes and activity, Lucius found himself drawn towards a still, staid figure, lingering near a window with a glass of amber liquid and watching the festivities with a dull, unblinking gaze. Edward Nott did not respond to Lucius's nod of greeting, but, unperturbed, Lucius stood beside the older man and watched the dancers for several silent minutes.
"It's strange," Lucius spoke quietly at last, "not having Lettie here tonight."
His words seemed to snap Nott from his trance-like state and he turned his pale eyes to Lucius and spoke rather abruptly: "Do you know she preferred to be called 'Laetitia'?"
Lucius blinked at the unexpected statement. "But," he was nonplussed, "everyone called her 'Lettie.'"
"And many call your wife 'Cissy,' do they not? Yet you never do, I imagine it to be because she prefers her given name." His words were terse but Lucius could not help but to see the truth in them.
"I'd never thought about it," he admitted. "You're right, she would much rather people call her 'Narcissa,' but her sister has made it rather difficult for her to be known as such."
Nott exhaled sharply and shook his head. "You must pardon my manners, Malfoy, I'm afraid they're rather out of practice. It's been a... trying year, I haven't had the opportunity to often be social."
"Not at all," Lucius dismissed the half-hearted apology at once. Though he would never admit to his fears or the fact, he'd very nearly lost his own wife to the same fate Nott's had suffered. Instead, he raised his glass in a sombre toast. "To Laetitia," he offered, and Nott raised his own slightly as well.
"To..." he broke off, voice sounding strangled, and instead of completing the sentence he drained his tumbler.
"Look," Lucius began stiltedly. "You..." he was not sure how to phrase his forthcoming offer as something that did not sound like charity, which of course the other man would not accept. "Should you visit the Manor in the future, once the boys are older, you ought to bring Theodore with you. Draco will need friends his own age." This was the sort of things wives would normally handle— assimilating their children to society— but Lettie was dead and Narcissa had despised her besides.
Nott nodded again, and perhaps there was a trace of gratitude there. "I believe your wife is looking for you," he murmured, tilting his head. Lucius looked in the direction he indicated and Narcissa was indeed moving thought the crowd with a searching smile, now unburdened by their son.
"Enjoy your night," Lucius replied in farewell, knowing that Nott would not, and moved towards the hostess. Her face lit up upon apprehending him, and he greeted her with unexpected fervor, taking her hands in his and pressing each one to his lips. "Let's dance," he insisted, wanting to feel her close in his arms, and she agreed with a laugh. Having her in his arms again was a delight, and she happily reported all the intel she had received so far: Deirbhile Crabbe was pregnant again, though her first child was only a few months older than Draco; Francesca's Zabini's third husband had at last died; Hiram Avery was engaged to the oldest Burke girl. The waltz was over too soon and she was pulled away to entertain more guests; as could only be expected, it was not until most had retired or departed that he was able to claim her once more, and they retired arm in arm.
Lying still beside her was both satisfactory and torturous. In the quiet alone, it was difficult to deflect questions from his mind that revolved solely around only the two of them. She had her son, after all. In moments such as these, he could not shake the lingering spectre of the words she'd spoken in unguarded anger upon learning that he was willfully preventing her from conceiving a child, now many years past but still sharp: why have you even bothered to come to my bed?
Of course, he reassured himself, they shared a bed now. Their marriage had changed so much since then. Sometimes he even caught her looking at him, not with the same breathless adulation she showered upon Draco, but with a wide-eyed and happy sort of expression that made him think she might even... but there was no point in dwelling on "might" or "perhaps," he needed to consider facts.
She would not have any more children, according to the very reliable statement by Healer Marlowe. However, he had not yet shared this piece of information and was hesitant to do so, particularly in light of the fact that she seemed wholly disinterested in any form of physical intimacy since becoming a mother. If she truly viewed sex as a means to an end— the end being its most basic biological purpose of procreation— he thought he might never tell her the unhappy news. For what if she otherwise never showed interest in him again?
He turned on his side to study her profile in the moonlight. She was well enough. Tonight she had danced and eaten and laughed for hours, reveling in the opportunity to speak endlessly with friends and family on the topic of their son. And still, she had not yet shown even the slightest inclination towards resuming their martial intimacy. He wondered if he ought to address the topic; after all, she'd always been hesitant to bring up these sorts of matters. And she had never initiated sex, aside from the period in which they were actively trying to have a child and several— as she'd been very clear about— hormonal incidents during her pregnancy. Was he being foolish, waiting for her to signal readiness?
But he had promised her patience. As much time as she needed. That said, he'd never fathomed that that amount of time might approach five months without even a hint that her desire might return! He'd been so hopeful when she'd come back to their bed, but it had been for naught. His fingers inched towards her body under the cover of darkness but paused before making contact with her skin, as he was loath to wake her. He rolled again onto his back and pushed his hands through his hair; there was nothing more he could do.
Thursday, 13 November 1980
"Would you care to go into town for supper tonight?" he asked in a mild tone, eyes fixed on the headline of the morning Prophet. Narcissa made a small sound of dissent.
"Why would we do that?" she asked airily. Her eyes carefully followed the path of Nurse Figg's hand as she brought another spoonful of some sort of mashed vegetable to Draco's mouth. They'd begun last week with introducing solid (or at least semi-solid) foods into his diet. Lucius had been glad to hear this news— it meant their child's development was well on track, and moreover that he'd no longer be relying solely on his mother for sustenance. It did, however, come with the drawback that now breakfasts, one of the rare times he had alone with Narcissa, were no longer private.
She turned to look up at him questioningly, and he realized he had not yet replied to her query. "No reason," he said hastily, moving his hand slightly to cover the date on the paper before him. She caught the movement and frowned, and then comprehension dawned.
"Oh!" Narcissa cried, clapping a horror-stricken hand to her mouth. "Oh, it's your birthday... of course it is, I'm so sorry. We should do something." She hesitated and then went on, "It's just that... we've never left Draco before." This was untrue, and he simply raised one eyebrow in her direction, causing her to flush and correct the statement. "I've never left him," she amended. "I don't know if it's a good idea."
The nurse glanced over and, after a beat of silence, spoke up hesitantly. It was not the same woman Lucius had so severely frightened several months back, but clearly the story had spread and they all avoided him as much as possible and rarely spoke in his presence. Frankly, he usually preferred it that way. "If you'll pardon me for saying so, Mrs. Malfoy, we'll be quite alright here if you'd like to have an evening out."
Lucius very nearly smiled at the nurse, but Narcissa's frown deepened and she bit her lip. She very obviously did not want to go, but now had no excuse. "Thank you, Ilithia." At last, she forced a cheerless grin. "Supper out it is, then. Where shall we go?"
He assured her he'd choose an acceptable locale, and she rose to her feet with a nod of resignation. "I suppose I ought to go see what I can wear," she offered cryptically before exiting the dining room. Rather intrigued by the comment, he did not head off to his study after he finished eating, but rather followed her course back to their rooms and found her looking forlorn amongst a flurry of gowns.
"Nothing fits," she informed him miserably and without prompting, staring at the piles of discarded robes around her. "The gown I wore to the Samhain gala is the only dress robe I have that I can get across my chest, but that's much too formal for a meal in town."
Lucius moved to stand beside her, surveying the small hills of silks and satins with a critical eye. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest she wear nothing at all that evening and they instead stay in to celebrate (while still letting the nurse believe that they were out), but he forced himself to swallow the suggestion and instead asked, "What about that gold gown you bought in New York? I seem to recall it being rather loose?"
"Yes..." she agreed slowly. "But it's entirely wrong for November, and besides, terribly out of date. I think I may have gotten rid of it, as a matter of fact."
"Did you?" he asked, fighting to keep the disappointment from his voice. She'd looked breathtaking in that dress. And afterwards, when he'd taken it off her and tasted every inch of her skin, unnaturally aglow in the artificial Muggle lamplight from the street.
"I'm not sure," she sighed absently. Then she turned to peck his cheek and assured him, "I'll have Ilithia get Draco ready and the three of us will go into town, I'm certain I can find something that will work with some minor tailoring."
Thus excluded from the discussion, Lucius trudged back downstairs to his study to pen an eloquent treatise to Albus Dumbledore on why he believed The Fountain of Fair Fortune, amongst other pro-Muggle works he'd spotted in his time as a student, should be banned from the Hogwarts library. He found that, having a child of his own, he suddenly cared much more for these sorts of issues.
When suppertime arrived, he Apparated with his wife to Ambrosi Alley and they headed towards their final destination of the Halcyon. However once they'd been seated, things did not follow precisely according to plan. To say Narcissa was distracted would be a grievous understatement. She could scarcely stay still in her seat, craning first over one shoulder to check the time, and then the other to watch the fireplace by the host stand for a floo. When the server came she seemed to realize she hadn't even opened her menu, and blushingly asked Lucius to order for her. After some time he managed to draw her into conversation, which she lost the thread of immediately when an owl arrived for the maître d'hôtel. "Not an emergency, I hope?" she breathed, her eyes wide as she watched the man open and read the parchment from across the restaurant.
"Probably just a booking request," he replied through gritted teeth, and sure enough they watched as he walked over to the large tome that held names and times of reservations and made a note with his quill. Narcissa exhaled and turned back to her husband apologetically.
"I know I'm not exactly delightful company right now," she admitted. "I just can't help it. It... it's already an adjustment, you know, to have a baby growing inside of you and be a physical part of you and then suddenly he's... he's out in the world and it's as though your heart has left you and you're expected to go on with it living outside of your body. And then to leave such an essential part of yourself for any amount of time... even a few hours..." There were actually tears in her eyes. This had been a bad idea. Her wild mood swings, which had begun in pregnancy, were apparently still far from under control.
"He's his own person, Narcissa, not a limb or organ you've lost," Lucius pointed out reasonably. "And besides, perhaps I deserve this."
She frowned in confusion, distracted, and he continued somewhat sheepishly. "During our courtship and in the early days of our cohabitation I was rather inattentive, on occasion."
"On occasion?" she echoed with a laugh. "I can hardly remember an occasion during which your eyes were not glazed over in boredom."
"I hated those teas," he admitted, shaking his head and taking a swallow of scotch. "I could devise no surer torture than two hours every two weeks spent trapped in conversation with our mothers."
"I always wondered why you never insisted that they leave us alone for a while," she shook her head with a wondering smile.
"I should've done," he concurred. "Honestly I just never gave it any mind. It didn't occur to me that you might have been suffering through meetings as entirely as I; you seemed pleased enough to go on with them discussing the flower arrangements at the latest wedding or who'd worn what robes there."
"I tried to hint at my desire to speak with you alone countless times. Once my mother turned her ankle riding, and she could hardly stand but still accompanied me to the Manor the following day. I asked you at least three times on that visit to see the gardens, knowing my mother would not be able to join and yours would likely remain indoors with her, and you just kept answering that it looked as though there might be rain."
He chuckled. "Did you really? And of course I was utterly blind to your intentions."
"Utterly," she agreed with a smile, and reached across the table to close her fingers, affectionately and fleetingly, around his wrist. "You've since improved though, I daresay," she teased. "Now spotting intentions even where there are none."
He knew she spoke the words in careless jest, but they seemed to strike an unexpectedly tender spot within him and he pulled his hand away from hers, feeling chagrined. Was he really so hasty to misconstrue her attentions for something more they were meant? And was it so transparent?
"Well, now we've all the time in the world," he murmured inadequately.
"Yes," she agreed quickly, and he was pleasantly surprised to see her reach for her wineglass for the first time since her pregnancy. "Santé," she offered, and he toasted as well. The rest of the meal passed companionably, and when they arrived back at the Manor his kissed her and sent her upstairs before answering one final piece of post.
Overall the night had gone decently well, and he could not entirely squash the pinprick of anticipation he felt as he entered his bedroom that night. After all, it was his birthday. A year ago on this day they'd not been speaking, but the year before that she'd marked the date quite delightfully. However, when he opened the door, his optimism was dashed: she was curled up beneath the duvet, soundly asleep. He rubbed his chin ruefully and, with a quiet sigh, moved over to the bed to press his lips to her temple before heading into the bath.
Sunday, 21 December 1980
"It's one of the biggest events of the year, Narcissa. I can't miss it. Bartemius will take it as a personal slight if I don't attend and I can assure you that Crouch and Malfoy relations are dubious enough as it stands. Millicent Bagnold will be there, it's the first social event she's made time for since she was named Minister, and—"
"I'm not asking you to miss it!" Narcissa exclaimed, interrupting his rapid listing. "I'm just saying that I will not be going. Come now, Lucius," she reached for his hand but he turned away, pretending not to have seen. "It sounds like it will be mostly Ministry machinations anyway, and I'd just make us both miserable worrying about Draco's cold."
"He doesn't have a cold any longer!" Lucius exhaled sharply. "He's been perfectly well for a week! You're just using him as an excuse to avoid attending."
"I won't let you guilt me for caring for our son," she returned stiffly.
Lucius was still fuming when he left that evening. He did not even bother to tell her farewell before taking off for the Crouches, and arrived to the event in sour spirits that he quickly hid beneath a veneer of cool civility. He made the appropriate salutations to all the necessary Ministry members, but his true interest was not sparked until he saw a witch in a revealing crimson gown sashaying his way.
"Francesca? I'm surprised to see you here."
"Oh?" she pouted full, ruby lips and swirled the deep burgundy wine in her glass with a practiced quirk of her wrist. Everything about her demonstrated a careful artistry, from her glossily manicured nails, shining and over-styled hair, to her vividly painted features. "I hope it's a happy surprise, at least."
Honestly, he couldn't say. "Who's watching your son?" he asked instead, trying to rest gaze somewhere that wasn't her chest or lips and failing spectacularly. To distract himself, he took a drink of scotch.
She rolled her eyes. "Blaise has a night nurse and a live-in nanny, Merlin knows having a mother around too would be overkill."
"Really?" he replied silkily. "Even though you've offed his father?"
Francesca gave him a stern look, her dark eyes darting left and right to ascertain no one had overheard his comment. "If you're going to be vulgar, let's at least talk outside," she suggested, linking her arm through his and guiding them into the cold night air. "And if you must know," she continued in an undertone, "just because my husband tragically passed doesn't mean my son's father isn't alive and well."
"Ah, well that explains why your husband needed to conveniently vanish before her started asking awkward questions," Lucius drawled, allowing her to steer them into the hedge maze, despite being fully aware of the fact that he was rather drunk and the change of locale could only lead to trouble.
"That, and the fact that Blaise needed to have my name," she added carelessly at normal volume, once they had escaped any obvious eavesdroppers. "I don't have any brothers, and the Zabini line is far more important than his was."
It was true; each of Francesca's husbands had been nouveau riche, magical but without particularly impressive bloodlines. "Anyway," she continued, as they wound deeper through the narrow yew hedge pathways. "How's fatherhood treating you? You look tired." Her lashes fluttered as she peeked up at him coyly. "Surely the little one hasn't been keeping you up at night?"
Lucius did not respond immediately. They had arrived at a clearing, at the center of which stood a small Palladian rotunda. With a smirk to him over her shoulder, Francesca slipped her hand into his and he allowed her to lead him between the Doric columns into the shadowed interior. A warming spell had been cast on the stone edifice, and she sighed with relief— he hadn't considered how she might have been affected by the winter chill, so focused had he been upon his own discomfort which was entirely unrelated to the weather. They were far enough from the house that the music was only a hint in the background, and no voices reached them. She leaned back against a marble column with a lazy smile, her back arched, fingers still twined with his. With a playful tug, she invited him to move closer and Lucius found himself unable to resist the temptation to step forward and press his body against hers.
It had been something close to eight years since he'd been with Francesca, but at one time he'd known her better than any other woman. Her body felt different beneath the exploration of his hands- her breasts and hips softer and fuller, her waist still small but cinched tightly in a corset; he could feel the stays through the thin silk of her gown. It had always been one of her favorite undergarments. He wondered if the changes were the product of age or childbirth and, unbidden, he wondered if Narcissa's body still felt the same.
The thought was a sobering one and, with a strength he'd not previously realized he possessed, Lucius pulled himself away and leaned back against the column so they were side by side. Francesca gave a short laugh of disbelief and turned to face him, her shoulder still against the stone and arms crossed as she regarded in bewilderment.
"You can't be serious?" she scoffed wonderingly. Lucius had long suspected that Francesca had Veela or, more likely given her Italian heritage, Siren ancestry. Rejection was not something to which she was accustomed.
He shot her an agonized glance, his gaze dipping for a split second to her décolletage before he covered his face with both hands and groaned. Francesca laughed outright, shaking her head slowly.
"You really do love her, don't you?"
"She's just had my son," he mumbled evasively, not lowering his hands. With a smirk, she reached out to run her fingertip down the lapel of his dress robes. "Don't," he protested, though he did not move away or stop the progress of her fingers. "How long, after Blaise was born, did you wait before...?"
Laughing again, she let her hand rest on his abdomen teasingly before she responded. "Well the healers said to wait six weeks, but I was feeling better after four. But isn't your little one at least six months by now?" He nodded mutely; if she moved her hand any lower, he would not be able to stop her, and he wasn't entirely sure what he wanted her to do next. Perhaps he would not feel the weight of infidelity so acutely if she only used her hand, or her mouth…
What she did decide to do surprised them both. Francesca gave a great sigh and withdrew, crossing her arms once more. "I honestly can't believe I'm saying this, but go talk to her, Malfoy." She glanced over her shoulder, back towards the party. "If things don't go the way you're hoping... well, you know where to find me." She sighed again, a low husky sound— whether or not she'd meant it to remind him of her frank sounds of pleasure during sex he could not say, but it did and he curled his hands into fists to stops them from reaching out to stroke her hips. "I must confess myself a bit disappointed," she admitted flippantly. "I suppose I always assumed we would be lovers and friends for many years, married or not." Then she smiled, a dazzling of sharp white teeth and blood-red lips. "But I am content to just be your friend. And who knows? We have many years of life ahead of us still. There may still come a time when we are more." And then, for her own amusement and because she was cruel, she leaned in and her fingers feathered teasingly over the bulge that was visible beneath his robes, but she withdrew before he had even fully exhaled a sharp hiss of air in response to the touch.
"It's good to know that things may change but Lucius Malfoy will always be a horny bastard," she smirked again, rising to her toes to peck his cheek before dancing back towards the house. His throat felt tight and part of him wanted to call out to her to stay, but a much stronger part wanted to move towards the Disapparation point, and it was this urge that he obeyed, a sense of relief overtaking him once he was home once more.
"Lucius! Why, you're back so early." Narcissa set her book aside and smiled up at him placidly. "And how handsome you look," she added warmly. She was not upset with him from earlier, and why should she be? She'd gotten her way and remained home with Draco. He crossed the room swiftly and dropped to one knee beside her chair, taking her hand in both of his.
"Narcissa," he began in a slightly strangled voice. "I know that I said I'd wait as long as you needed. And I meant it. But-"
"Wait," she interrupted. "I know what you're going to say and... you're right. It's been entirely too long, and I do apologize. Draco's birth was so traumatic and it was some time before I felt well enough... and then I suppose I was rather... well, perhaps it sounds silly, but nervous. It had been so long already."
He brightened considerably at her words. "And now?"
With a conspiratorial little grin, she leaned forward to curve her palm around his jaw. "And now I think I've deprived us both quite long enough, and do hope I'll be able to make it up to you."
A thrill went through him at the words, and he stretched to receive the kiss, but she hesitated, her lips a fraction of an inch from his. He wasn't sure what she was waiting for... when he reopened his eyes in confusion there was a small line between her brows. Her nose twitched.
Francesca's perfume. She could smell the scent of another woman clinging to him, as less than an hour before the woman herself had done. Lucius fought to keep his expression innocently neutral as she drew back, her hand still cupping his chin.
"Dance with many women tonight?" she asked slowly.
"Only dancing," he promised her quickly. "And talking." He pushed the thought Francesca gripping him momentarily through his robes from his mind.
"And that's all you did? Nothing else?"
"Yes." He hadn't kissed her. He certainly hadn't fucked her. Despite this fact, he knew there was guilt was written across his face: But I could have. And worse: But I wanted to.
"Alright," she conceded softly, lowering her head and this time pressing her lips to his as she decided to believe him. Relief washed over him as he eagerly returned the kiss, though Narcissa drew back before he was ready for it to end. "Go take a shower. I'll be in bed waiting for you when you've finished."
(A/N: I've tried to avoid notes in this story— I don't think they age well, and I didn't want to detract from the flow of the chapters— but I wanted to take a moment to really express my appreciation for those of you leaving non-account reviews that I haven't been able to respond to directly. I love discussing this story in depth via PM, but wanted to send out a general "thank you" here! I've tried to keep everything in this story as close to canon (dating each section keeps me accountable) and fact as possible (would highly encourage any readers to look up the Denmark Place fire mentioned in this chapter if you haven't heard of it, and many more prior events in the story are based in actual events) but always let me know if you spot something that looks factually off. I read and re-read everything you say in your reviews, they inspire me, and always hope for more!)