Saturday, 2 July 1994
"The Quidditch World Cup is being held on Dartmoor this year, had you heard?" Draco blurted the moment his parents took their seats in the dining room for breakfast. He asked this question ostensibly of his mother, as he would never presume to be privy to any information of which his father was not already well aware, but a darting glance in Lucius's direction betrayed his true objective.
"I'd heard it would be in England this year, yes," Narcissa replied, smoothing her napkin over her lap. "Remind me which teams are playing again?" She asked this solely for Draco's benefit; she cared so little for the sport that only her immense fondness towards her son could inspire her to even feign interest in the topic.
"Ireland and Bulgaria," he answered at once, his eyes flickering again towards his father. Lucius ignored both the look and the conversation, instead lifting the copy of the Daily Prophet that had been laid neatly by his plate and perusing the headlines. "Krum might be one of the greatest Seekers of all time," Draco went on pointedly, "though Ireland's Chasers have been pulled off some really astounding plays this season." He waited, and when neither spoke he pressed on doggedly. "They'll all be flying Firebolts—"
This comment did at last draw his father's attention, as well as his ire: Lucius pulled his gaze from the paper for only a split second to give his son a look of warning. Draco, however, had not been planning to use this conversation to plead his case for a new broom yet again, so he went on quickly, "— and it's meant to be a close match."
"They will not all be flying Firebolts; Nimbus is one of the sponsors," Lucius drawled smoothly, returning his attention to the Prophet. "Ireland will be, but Bulgaria is not."
"Right," Draco agreed impatiently. "Should still be a thrilling game to see in person though." The silence stretched on as Lucius refused to acknowledge his son's intentions.
"I'm sure your father will try to get you tickets, darling," Narcissa spoke up at last. "But you mustn't be disappointed if he cannot. I'm sure the best seats are already sold." Her tone was carefully guileless, but she could not fully hide the sharpness of the glance she cast in her husband's direction meant to gauge his reaction. "And very expensive, besides."
Lucius tore his eyes once more from the words before him, this time to glare at his wife. She took an innocent bite of her scone and her attention stayed fixed across the table on Draco. "What are you doing today?" she went on.
Draco watched his parents carefully. He knew them well enough to be certain there was something else going on here; however, after a moment, he shrugged and reached for a pastry. "I'll probably go to Greg's for a bit." Goyle's parents paid the least attention to the boys and were the easiest to deceive if they wanted to sneak off to London later.
Narcissa nodded placidly. "Lovely. And you'll be at the Ministry?" she guessed, turning her to her husband at last. He was still staring at her through narrowed and suspicious eyes.
"I suppose I will be," he agreed slowly. She offered a bright, angelic smile to them both. "Lovely," she repeated. "I shall expect you both for supper, then?"
Draco nodded, but Lucius answered with a short 'no.' She did not seem put off by his refusal as she rose to her feet. "It's wonderful to have you home, darling," she told her son with genuine warmth, touching his cheek affectionately before sweeping off to her private parlour to answer post.
That evening, Narcissa sat alone in bed, ostensibly reading, but her eyes had not moved across the page in some time. It was past ten in the evening when an elf appeared in the room, per her instruction, to announce that its master had just arrived back at the Manor. With a brief nod she dismissed the creature and slipped out from between the sheets, smoothing them to show no sign she'd been there, before moving to sit at her vanity.
She had selected a slip and silk robe that were not newly purchased— he would notice and that would undoubtedly be an overplay of her hand— but not among the most usual rotation of what she wore to sleep, and the slight novelty would serve to pique her husband's interest. For the sake of convenience and comfort, Narcissa generally slept with her long hair in a plait but knowing how he liked it loose, she arranged it carefully around her shoulders as she studied her reflection for any perceivable flaws. Naturally there were none despite her advancing years (an intensive regimen of anti-aging potions and creams alongside her noble ancestry saw to this) and she continued to glide the boar bristle brush through her locks until they shone in the low light.
Just as she was beginning to wonder if perhaps Lucius had decided to finish some work in his study before retiring, the door opened. He'd evidently expected to find her in their bed, as his eyes flicked from her unmussed pillows to the vanity where she was posed with a quirked brow. He wore a travelling cloak over his business robes and black leather gloves, and discarded the first of these carelessly over a chair as he strode over to her.
"Good evening, Lucius," Narcissa began archly, offering him a light smile that he did not return as he studied her. He did not immediately reply; his hands, still gloved, began to gather the freed strands around her face and shoulders to the nape of her neck.
"Would you like to share with me your reasoning behind the charade this morning and the—admittedly delightful—tableau you've arranged for me here?" he asked silkily as he wound her hair around his hand and tugged gently, forcing her chin to tilt upwards as he watched her carefully in the mirror.
She tried to disguise any trace of her annoyance at being so easily found out. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean?" she asked politely. He reached around with his free hand, the tip of his middle finger running down from beneath her chin along her throat. The leather felt cool and slick against her skin.
"Oh, I'm sure you do," he purred, leaning over to place his lips near her ear. She could not fully suppress a shiver of anticipation, and his cold, grey eyes revealed a flash of heat though his sharp and aristocratic features remained still.
"Very well," she admitted, surrendering her inculpable act at last and leaning back against him. "Renata Baddock has gotten in her head the notion of hosting a fundraiser. For the wing at St. Mungo's that Fudge has been trying to find gold for. The wing that he's been trying to get you to fund," she added, in case there was any doubt. "I couldn't bear the thought of participating in her charity luncheons or sitting through some mediocre auction of ersatz artworks and then having her gloat over how many galleons she'd raised over so many months. I supposed if you would just give the man what he wanted, he'd be so grateful that he'd offer you anything you wished as a token of his appreciation."
Lucius had released the hank of hair around his fist and was now sifting his fingers through her golden tresses instead. "Anything Draco wished, you mean?"
"Well, you like Quidditch too." And it would not be the first time he'd used his connections at the Ministry to secure tickets to high profile events.
"Renata was much more fun before she married, don't you think?" he drawled lazily, all his coldness gone now that she'd admitted her true motives. Not that he'd ever truly been in the dark regarding them— they'd been married too long for secrets, the true pleasure now came in forcing the other to confess their schemes. Narcissa scoffed.
"I hardly recall, if you must know. But back to the topic at hand—"
"Yes, of course. On that matter I have both good news and bad news for you."
Her guard was raised at once, and she watched him skeptically in their reflection as his hands dropped to her shoulders. "Oh?"
"The good news is I've given Fudge the gold. You won't have to attend any more dull luncheons aside from the many that already populate your calendar."
She nodded— she should feel victorious, but the announcement did little to ease her mind with the lingering threat he'd added beforehand. "And the bad news?"
"Ah, well." He dragged his fingers over the nape of her neck. "He was so grateful that he insisted on inviting me to be his guest at the World Cup, seats in the Top Box."
She nodded stiffly again— she'd intended as much, she thought it would be a marvelous experience for her husband and son to share— but she was still waiting for the other knut to drop.
"Seats for me and my family. Draco and I will be going… and you'll be coming with us." A wicked grin stretched across his face at her horrified expression.
"Surely you jest?" she demanded, spinning around and rising to her feet.
"No."
"Take… take Nott's boy! Or one of Draco's other friends, there's no need for me to—"
"I will not be tasked with minding some schoolmate of Draco's for the weekend," he snapped. "And besides, it would be insulting to the Minister to give away a ticket he specifically allocated to the enigmatic Mrs. Malfoy."
Enigmatic was a bit of a stretch; Narcissa was hardly a recluse. However Cornelius Fudge did not quite have the blood status to reach the highest echelons of pureblood society, and as such had never received an invitation to any of her soirees or galas; in fact, she'd never met the man.
"I will not sleep in a tent," she informed him icily. "I read that that's what they're expecting all the attendees to do— stay on a Muggle campground, dress as them, spend a weekend without magic… It's barbaric."
"You will," he smirked in malicious pleasure. "But don't worry, darling wife; it will be a very nice tent."
Thursday, 18 August 1994
He hadn't lied— the tent was nice. It was an extravagant confection of emerald and cream striped silk with a tower at each cardinal point and domed central hall. He had even gone so far as to bring two of her beloved peacocks along as well, and tethered them neatly out front of the entrance. Still, she refused to be charmed.
"Unfathomable that the Ministry expects us to sleep in the dirt and grub about without magic," she sniffed disdainfully as Draco dashed eagerly inside to explore. Her eyes cast around haughtily, as though daring anyone to spy her in the Muggle attire she'd agreed to don only after her tailor had sent a Mudblood shop girl into Muggle Paris to acquire what she assured her was the very best non-magical attire available.
The getup consisted of a fitted jacket and matching skirt of cream tweed, with shining gold buttons adorned with two interlocking C's. Narcissa had inquired as to whether she could not have found a version with her own monogram upon them, but was assured that the letters indicated the name of the designer, not the wearer. "Absurd," Narcissa had scoffed. The skirt too had evoked something of an argument— Narcissa was adamant that she would not be seen outside the boudoir with bare legs as she was neither a schoolgirl nor a harlot, and eventually she had persuaded her tailor to cast a lengthening charm upon the garment, extending it from just above her knees to instead brush the ground. A fascinator atop her blonde coiffure had been designed by a newly famous and wildly popular Irish milliner called Philip Treacy and was her favourite part of the ensemble, though she'd never openly admit to finding any portion of it acceptable.
Lucius held back a heavy silk flap and ushered her inside. She shot him an imperious look and grudgingly followed her son to the interior of the tent.
Despite the tent's already prodigious external appearance, an Undetectable Extension Charm had been cast to further enlarge the space within. A magnificent cherry table surrounded by a dozen Biedermeier chairs stretched before them, and a short distance beyond was an elegant clustering of lounges, couches, and settees formed a semicircle around a vast marble hearth that she suspected he'd linked to the floo network. A massive, gilt-framed mirror hung atop it, reflecting the cavernous space and entryway. In the apex of the vaulting ceiling, a glittering chandelier levitated to illuminate the scene.
"We're meant to eat in the parlour?" Narcissa inquired skeptically, weaving her way slowly towards the fireplace. "How… quaint." She stopped before the enormous mirror, her eyes narrowed distrustfully at her reflection, which was slightly distorted and spotted in the mercury glass. It was not a mundane object, but she could not immediately discern what enchantments had been placed upon it.
"No, Draco," Lucius spoke sharply and Narcissa turned to see their son freeze on the third step of the northern turret. "You'll be sleeping over there," he gestured to the opposite spiraling staircase. "That one is ours."
His parents' rooms were the only forbidden to him in the Manor, and he'd been in them only a handful of times in his memory, so he did not seek to go any further up the stairs; it made sense that the same rules would apply here as well as at home.
Draco nodded and began to move in the direction his father pointed, but paused before the fireplace. "I told Vincent and Greg that they could come for supper tonight. They've been here days already."
Lucius raised his eyebrows. "And did you think to ask you mother first? I daresay her social diary takes priority over yours."
Draco's eyes flicked over to his mother, who was examining the upholstery on a fauteuil through critical eyes. "Mum, can I—"
"Of course, darling. I wouldn't think to try to entertain under these circumstances," she sighed. "Not when we haven't even walls..." she drifted off, sounding mournful. Then, more brightly and with an indulgent smile, "Why don't you ask Pansy and Theodore if they'd like to join as well?"
Draco explained that the former would not be arriving until later that night, and the latter would not be coming for the match at all. "Pansy is coming with the Bulstrodes," Draco went on, "and their Portkey isn't scheduled until half eight. Theo's father wasn't interested in seeing the game, and I don't think Theo cares enough for Quidditch to come with anyone else." He thought for a moment. "Blaise may be here though, I could ask him."
Narcissa's lips tightened slightly at this suggestion— she had a somewhat contentious history with Blaise's mother— and Lucius hastily interjected.
"Let's just have Gregory and Vincent. Why don't you go see your room now?"
Draco nodded again and hurried off. Lucius turned his attention back to his wife.
"Don't you want to see where you'll be spending the night?" he purred, placing a hand on her lower back and guiding her towards the tower he'd forbidden their son from examining before.
"Very well," she agreed with a small sniff, "but I doubt I'll be able to sleep at all, exposed to the elements and surround by crowds as we are."
Lucius did not seem perturbed by her haughtiness as they mounted the stairs. "Good," he drawled, "I wasn't planning on having you do much sleeping."
Narcissa shot him a warning look over her shoulder, but as she turned and resumed her ascent a small smirk twisted the corner of her mouth.
Like the ground floor, the bedchamber had been decorated largely to match the interior of the Manor in her preferred aesthetic. A massive four poster bed swathed in rich velvet drapes stood as the focal point of the rounded room, and it faced a long, wide credenza that topped with a mirror much like the one below. There were two dragon leather chairs before a small hearth, and nearby a cabinet that, upon closer inspection, was found to be stocked with a variety of liqueurs and digestifs. The door to an adjoining bath stood opposite the fireplace, and a stately wardrobe was already filled with Narcissa's attire brought from home.
"Thank Merlin," she sighed, running her fingertips longingly over the fabrics. "I'm going to change into robes. I don't plan to go out again for the day to be spotted by any filth that cannot bear to see a properly-dressed witch."
Lucius came to stand behind her and eased the tweed jacket from her shoulders. "I won't be able to join you for several hours, there are some people I should go see first."
"Well it's alright for you," she sighed, leaning back against his chest and allowing his deft fingers to untuck and begin to unbutton her silk blouse. "Muggle men don't dress as dreadfully as the women do." In truth she was simply more used to seeing him dressed as a Muggle. His meetings often involved passing through non-magical parts of London and Muggle attire was expected at such gatherings. He owned a fair few flawlessly tailored suits for such occasions, such as the one he wore today. At first she'd found it strange, but after some consideration had decided he looked rather handsome in them and did not mind them terribly.
He'd finished unfastening her blouse and tossed it on the bed beside the jacket. His fingertips ghosted over the sheer slip she wore beneath, and he dipped his head to brush his lips to her neck. "The skirt is too long."
"Hm?" she asked, pulled from her reverie.
"The skirt is too long; Muggles wear them much shorter."
"Of course you'd have noticed something like that," she replied acidly, moving out of his encircling arms to remove the offending garment herself. However zippers were not something with which she was overly familiar, and he smirked and crossed his arms as he watched her struggle. "Tell me, do you secretly admire Muggle women?"
He was in too good a mood to antagonise, and he let the remark pass without bothering to muster any offence. "No," he replied idly, and she permitted him to step close once more to unzip the skirt for her. "It's just that I wished to see more of your legs."
"Well," she conceded at last as the skirt pooled at her feet and she pushed it aside with a delicate quirk of her ankle. "You may, but I don't think think they're something that all of Wizardom need gawk at."
To this he did not reply, instead running one palm down an aforementioned limb and catching the hem of her slip in his grasp. "No," she chided at once, "that's staying on under my robes."
Undeterred, his hand slipped between her thighs and he murmured, "I can work around that."
"Lucius!" she scolded laughingly, but turned nonetheless to press her lips to his. She was about to point out that it was in the middle of the day, and they couldn't (or at least shouldn't, she amended mentally as his teeth grazed her clavicle), but before she could make the proper (if unconvincing) protestations, something caught her eye. "We— Draco?"
Lucius turned towards the doorway with a low sound of irritation, but it was empty. Narcissa moved instead towards the mirror with confusion. It appeared that this mirror was connected to the one below, and it was as though they were peering through a window into the parlour. Draco had apparently come down from his room and was now sitting on a couch and poring over some Quidditch publication or another, no doubt reviewing previous matches of the season in preparation for the grand finale tomorrow.
"Ah, yes." Lucius drew his wand as he strode over to the glass. "Just a security measure, so we might be alerted should anyone attempt to enter the tent. It detects movement." He tapped it once and it became a normal mirror at once, showing only the two of them in its reflection. "Where were we?"
"I think," Narcissa replied, turning to straighten his necktie and place a peck on his cheek. "That you had people to go see before supper?"
"Yes," he agreed regretfully, briefly cupping her jaw before turning to descend the staircase. "I'll be back before nightfall."
Narcissa smiled as she watched him go, not bothering to hide it since he was turned away and could not see. After a moment she returned to the mirror and tapped it with her wand to see him depart from the tent, and then slipped on robes before drifting down the tower herself to have tea with her son and look forward to the evening ahead.
Lucius rose slowly, luxuriantly from bed and summoned a velvet house robe and slippers. Narcissa stretched, cat-like, and rolled slowly over onto her side to watch him, raking her long blonde hair from her face in a contented sort of manner as he poured himself a drink and settled before the fireplace. He picked up a pile of post his elf had collected and delivered from the Manor, idly swirling his scotch as he read.
"I don't suppose I could stay here while you and Draco go to the match tomorrow?" Narcissa proposed, propping her head against her hand. "Even a dreadful scrap of fabric for shelter is better than being packed into a miserable stand with a hundred thousand other witches and wizards."
Lucius chuckled and shook his head without looking up. "It's the Top Box, I'm sure there will plenty of room for you to avoid rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi."
Narcissa sighed and rose to her feet. This time Lucius did look up, and watched with interest as she located a night dress and slipped it over her head before turning his attention back to the parchment in his hand. "Anything going on in the world other than Qudditch?" she asked mildly as she began to brush and plait her hair, noticing in the reflection over her shoulder that Lucius was scowling at whatever he was reading.
"That blathering fool—" he did not have to explain that he meant Albus Dumbledore, she could deduce as much from his tone, "—has decided to bring Alastor Moody on as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor." He crumbled the note in his fist and flung it into the fire. "Gods, I knew we should have sent Draco to Durmstrang."
"We're not going over that again," Narcissa sniffed, crossing the room to pour herself a glass of wine and take the other armchair. "As long as Draco avoids trouble when he's around—"
"You think Moody will be unbiased towards any son of mine?" he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Draco's marks are disappointing enough without an ex-Auror—"
"Draco's marks are perfectly fine!" Narcissa interjected defensively. "He gets higher scores in potions than any other student in Slytherin."
"He's eighth in his year overall. Behind, in addition to half a dozen others, a Mudblood Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake. At this rate he won't even make prefect."
"The Head of House recommends the prefects, of course he'll be chosen," she soothed. "Besides, the only other realistic candidate would be Theodore Nott, and I'd hardly say Dumbledore prefers Edward Nott to you, if he's taking such matters into consideration."
Lucius did not reply. His eyes flickered to the enchanted mirror, and for a split second a faint line of confusion appeared between his brows before he quickly resumed reading with an innocent air. Suspicious, as she was any time her husband attempted to look innocent, Narcissa turned quickly around just in time to see Draco slip out of the tent. She sprang to her feet.
"Go fetch him at once!" she demanded, looking around rather frantically for a robe that she could wear to chase after him herself.
"Let him go, Narcissa," Lucius argued patiently, remaining seated. "He spends most of the year away from us and manages perfectly well. It's half past ten, he's probably just gone to find Pansy."
He offered this with half a sneer. Lucius made no secret of the fact he found Pansy Parkinson an underwhelming companion for his son, having mentioned before how very like her mother the girl was; Narcissa, on the other hand, adored Pansy for precisely the same reason. From their school days Narcissa and Adrienne Parkinson (née MacDougal) had been the closest of friends, and their relationship had only grown when Draco and Pansy were young. However, when the two were around six, Ari had become pregnant once more, this time with twin boys. Four years after that, Ari had given birth to another son.
Narcissa had been truly happy for her friend. However, with so many small children now in the Parkinson household, their lives had no longer aligned as easily as they once had, and their visits became more infrequent. Moreover Narcissa, who had very little cause to envy anyone for anything, had found it somewhat painful to see her friend's home so full and busy. She had always wanted more children, but a series of miscarriages prior to Draco's birth had been followed by de facto infertility afterwards. Though she had never explicitly cited this reasoning for her distance from Ari, Lucius seemed to deduce as much on his own and could generally be relied upon to hold back openly acerbic comments on the subject of the Parkinsons, despite his dislike of mother and daughter (and overall lack of regard for the patriarch as well).
"Well..." Narcissa conceded, "if he isn't back by midnight I'd like you to go find him."
Lucius did not agree to this, but Narcissa slid back into bed and picked up a novel from the bedside table. Every few minutes her eyes would flick from the page to the mirror, but she did not have to wait for more than a half hour before the door flap opened once more.
True to Lucius's prediction, it appeared he had gone to find Pansy Parkinson. But the pair was joined by Millicent Bulstrode, Vincent and Gregory, Blaise Zabini, and the oldest Greengrass whose name Narcissa could not recall.
"Are your parents here?" asked the Greengrass girl (Dinah? Dahlia? she was a plain, forgettable creature) rather fretfully, casting her eyes around the tent. Narcissa blinked in shock: she hadn't realised the mirror would carry sound as well.
"Yes; just keep your voices down and it won't be an issue, they've been asleep since an hour after supper," Draco replied with a roll of his eyes. "Tired, I suppose, at their age..." he continued, as if to suggest that he would never be so dull as to retire at such an early hour. Narcissa bristled, but Lucius muffled a snort at their son's ignorance as to why they'd actually bid him 'good night' at nine in the evening.
Draco called an elf and demanded drinks for the group, and Narcissa squinted and rose to her knees to confirm that only Butterbeer was being served.
"Alright, enough." Lucius walked over to the mirror and tapped it with his wand so it showed only their room reflected back at them. "Let's give the children some privacy, shall we?"
If Narcissa strained her ears she could just barely make out the sound of happy young voices from below, but now had no sense of what was being said. "He thinks we're old," she bemoaned. Lucius chuckled and shrugged off his robe before slipping back into bed beside her, cupping his body around hers and pulling her close.
"Perhaps he's right. I am forty, after all."
"Forty-one in just a few months," she taunted, nuzzling into his warmth an flicking her wand to extinguish the lights. "And I don't turn forty until May."
"Shall we have a party this year?" he offered carelessly, his arm resting comfortably in the curve of her waist as he pressed a peck to her shoulder. "Or perhaps we can take a trip. We haven't gone on holiday in far too long."
"Oh, I don't know... perhaps if I survive this match tomorrow."
Friday, 19 August 1994
Narcissa took as long as she possibly could to get ready for the match in hopes that her husband and son would eventually lose patience and depart without her. It was not until Lucius entered their bedroom and offered to carry her bodily to the stands if she did not wish to transport herself there on her own two feet that she admitted to being ready. She did not think he would actually do it, but he delivered the threat with a calm, serious hardness in his tone that brooked no dispute and she had learned better than to flippantly test over the years.
As a result of her dallying they were very nearly the last group to enter the Top Box. It was even worse than she could have imagined: of the twenty chairs in two rows along the box, nearly half of them were taken up by Weasleys, accompanied by a black-haired boy she recognised at once as Harry Potter. Even without the scar and fame and Draco's constant complaining about him, she would have known his ancestry at once: the boy was an exact replica of the boy she remembered her cousin Sirius always hanging around with at Hogwarts, and whose house he'd run off to after Aunt Walburga had burnt his name off the family tapestry at Grimmauld Place.
The bushy-haired, buck-toothed girl sitting with them could only be the Mudblood with whom they associated. Narcissa felt that calling her 'plain' would be an insult to plain girls everywhere, and she dragged her attention back to Lucius, who was currently introducing her to Cornelius Fudge. She could scarcely muster a nod in response to the Minister's fawning bow, and when they finally continued on to their seats, she furiously reached around Draco to catch her husband's sleeve.
"You promised there wouldn't be any scum in our box," Narcissa hissed under her breath. "When I agreed to come to this spectacle I never dreamt that we'd be seated by these..." Her expression conveyed her utter revulsion better than any adjective might.
"It's a tragedy, the level this administration is willing to lower itself to pander to public opinion," Lucius replied softly enough that only she and Draco could hear. "But while Potter remains so widely popular, I suppose the Weasleys will continue to cling to his rising star and insinuate themselves where they do not belong." However he could expound no further upon the subject, as the commentator had just dashed into the box and began to speak, his voice projecting throughtout the stadium. It took her a moment to recognise Ludo Bagman.
"Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome!" he boomed energetically. "Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"
She tried, as the crowd erupted into roars, to remove the disgust from her face and at least display a passive countenance for the duration of the match. Skilled as she was at falsifying a perfect society mask, it hardly seemed worthwhile to do so for these people.
The Bulgarian mascots were presenting first. Narcissa surveyed the veela dancing for only a moment before her eyes flicked with cold recrimination in her husband's direction. Both Malfoys were fiercely jealous of the affections of their spouse, and while perhaps any reasonable wife might permit her husband to show a moment of interest in the enchanting dancers, Narcissa, reasonably or not, would accept no less than absolute devotion at all times. In the early days of their marriage, before he had fallen in love with her, Lucius had had something of a wandering eye, and she was still loath to be reminded of it.
In all fairness, Narcissa was not entirely without sin herself. But any indiscretion on either part was long past and he'd learned many years prior to curtail even the slightest trace of warmth towards any other beautiful woman while in her presence.
Lucius was not paying attention to the veela. He instead was already watching his wife when her gaze found him, waiting expectantly for this silent accusation and to be discovered without fault. The brow he quirked was teasing. See? he seemed to say. I know better than that.
Her lips turned upwards at the corner in a small conciliatory gesture. Of course you do. She looked instead at their son, seated between them. Draco had scooted forward in his chair, watching the scene with wide, fascinated eyes, and she swallowed her amusement as her gaze swept across the box. One of the Weasley boys and Harry Potter beside him looked ready to fling themselves onto the field below— good riddance— and beside them the bushy-haired Mudblood Granger sulked. Bagman was bouncing eagerly on his toes— she saw his robes stretched tightly across his stomach and noted he hadn't aged particularly well, though it had been over fifteen years since they'd last met— and the Bulgarian Minister for Magic, Dinumituski Oblansk, had a self-satifised grin on his face as his eyes flicked between the performance of his team's mascot and the foolish reactions of Cornelius Fudge, who had risen to get a better look.
It was hardly a surprise, of course, that when the Irish mascots soared out overhead, the red-headed miscreants in the row before them were soon grubbing on the ground for the leprechaun gold. Narcissa, on the other hand, merely flicked a Repelling Charm above her head so that none of the raining coins disturbed her hat.
And then the match began in earnest, and it was all that Narcissa could do to keep her eyes from glazing over in boredom within the first minute. It was far more amusing to steal glances at her husband and son, though she did not wish for either to note her observation lest they alter their reactions in any way. Draco had not moved from the edge of his seat since the veela had made their appearances, and his eyes darted eagerly after the players. Lucius, of course, would never wear excitement so visibly upon his face or bearing, but in moments of what she supposed must be high tension, he would lean forward fractionally and for a moment he and Draco looked so alike that she wanted to laugh and kiss them both.
Bagman's voice was terribly grating at this volume. Narcissa was not sure which ball or player she was meant to be watching. Why in Merlin's name was there a house elf sitting by an empty seat in the Top Box? she wondered. Could she have gotten one of their house elves to come in her stead? No, Lucius almost certainly would have noticed.
The game was becoming more violent, though this hardly made it any more interesting to her. She had not been to a Quidditch match since her school days, and she had only gone to those in her earliest years when it felt obligatory to be seen there as not to be mistaken for a social recluse. By fifth year she could beg off attending with her housemates by claiming that she was revising, and she'd never once missed the experience of sitting on hard benches in all sorts of weather, packed in and jostled about.
Lucius had played Seeker during her first and for half of her second year before Abraxas insisted he quit the team. She strongly suspected that, without this egregious demand, he might have been able to salvage some semblance of a relationship with his father, but things had never improved after that. Even back then, Narcissa had not minded Quidditch so terribly when she watched Lucius play: in her inexpert opinion she always thought him very good at it, and moreover easily the most handsome player on the field.
One of the Bulgarian Beaters, a huge, bearded young man, paused directly before the Top Box to smash a Bludger at one of the Irish Chasers, and when it made contact he grinned wildly and laughed aloud and for a second she was vividly reminded of—
No.
The match dragged on and she tried harder now to keep up with the events of the game but it was a challenge when she scarcely recalled the rules. She could see by the scoreboard that the Bulgarians were losing badly, but was fairly certain that didn't matter so long as they caught the Snitch— and hadn't Draco mentioned something about the superior Seeker on their team? She wished he'd hurry up with finding the tiny winged ball. Or the Irish. It didn't particularly matter to her. Lucius had not declared a preference, she knew he would simply claim to have supported the winner all along, so Narcissa felt no need to do so either.
One moment of interest was when the veela stormed the field in outrage (she had never seen them transform before in person) and thankfully the match ended shortly thereafter. The task of waiting in the massive crowd to exit the stadium and return to their tents felt insurmountably daunting, and she shot her husband a pleading look that he missed at first because he was speaking with Oblansk. Draco was so excited he was practically babbling, asking her if she'd noted the nuance with with Krum's feint had persuaded Lynch to follow, how it all came down to hand positioning on the broom to make it truly believable.
Naturally she had noticed no such thing, but still smiled tiredly and placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder. Lucius turned back to them at last, and as soon as he caught sight of her expression he suggested, as she'd hoped, that Narcissa Apparate back to the tent and the two of them would meet her there in a little while. She was only too happy to agree.
Back in the tent, she quickly found a potion for her growing headache and somewhat frazzled nerves, and decided to lay down until her family arrived.
It was nearly two hours before Lucius and Draco returned to the tent, and they were not alone. Narcissa was glad for the brief respite she had been afforded, because she was now obligated to switched at once into the role of a gracious hostess. Her husband had brought with him a handful of familiar faces: the Carrow twins, Walden Macnair, Petrus Avery, and Sinclair Crabbe.
It was the last of these she greeted first, asking after his wife.
"Deirbhile's taken the boys home," he explained, and then with a sheepish grin, "I couldn't turn down the chance to celebrate though!"
She agreed with a smile, and noticed Draco yawn hugely.
"I think bed would be best for you, darling," she encouraged, half expecting him to insist upon bringing his own housemates over as he had done the night before, but mercifully he conceded this point and sent himself to his room, having no further desire to stay up with his father's associates.
Drinks were poured, too many, and the group of old friends settled in for a long night of revelry. Hours passed in companionable conversation before the sense of camaraderie became too lax, and strictures began to fall to the wayside.
Lucius smirked lazily, taking another long sip of firewhisky. "My god," he drawled, "but things have been boring lately, haven't they?"
"Boring?" screeched Amycus, laughing raucously over her Firewhisky. "I'm not sure where you've been Malfoy, but that match was one for the ages! A win from Ireland but Krum still getting the Snitch, I can't think of another—"
"That's not what I meant," Lucius snapped, and some of the merriment in the immediate vicinity died down. Lucius stretched, and as he did so, his hand wound around Narcissa's waist, drawing her closer. It was unlike him to handle her so familiarly amongst company, and she shook her wine-induced sleepiness aside to focus on his words once more.
"Those Muggles, the ones that checked us in. A little cocky, don't you think?" he queried the group slyly, his thumb stroking his wife's lower back.
"Well," Macnair poured himself another drink as he spoke, "It was a bit mad for the Ministry to let Muggles run the campsite, I agree. They seemed to think it would draw less attention, but the way they've been Obliviating the bloke, I reckon they might've well has sent him on holiday for the week."
A slow, malicious grin stole across Lucius's lips. "What say you… we have bit of fun?"
Narcissa knew immediately, with these words, that he was drunk. Insurmountably so. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the murmurs around the room became suddenly hushed but eager, thrumming with dark energy.
"I'll be back in a moment, dear," Narcissa excused herself quietly and rose to her feet. Lucius nodded generously and finished his drink. Narcisssa twitched her wand to send a bottle of scotch soaring in his direction. She knew further inebriation was not the answer, but she needed to buy a few moments.
"Draco," she hissed, having ascended the stairs to her son's loft. "Draco, darling, wake up."
He turned over and blinked groggily at his mother standing at his bedside. "Mum? Whass—"
"Hush," she commanded, softly but sternly. "Dress quickly, take your wand, and head into the forest. Speak to no one. Understood?"
"Erm…" Draco rolled over, and fumbled for his wand. "Yeah," he mumbled, his fingers closing around it at last. "Yes," he repeated more confidently now, as his wand emitted a glow that illuminated his loft. "Give me a few?"
"Of course," Narcissa allowed, pecking his forehead. "No more than five minutes though."
When she descended, she knew even five minutes would be a struggle. Somehow Lucius was already in his black robes, and his mask (which she hadn't had to see in over a decade) was cast carelessly on a side table. The others were babbling eagerly amongst themselves in hushed tones, laugher punctuating their conversations as they too pulled on black garments. Spotting Narcissa, Lucius offered her a wide grin and stretched out his hand.
"Join the fun," he murmured, pulling her into his arms and moving his lips to her ear. He pressed another glass of wine into her hand; she wasn't sure from where he'd summoned it.
"Darling," she couldn't resist a small laugh at his antics as she took a sip. "Don't you think I should keep an eye on Draco?"
Lucius shrugged. "He's fourteen now, he can go off by himself for a bit. Besides it's not as though he's in any danger with this lot on the loose."
It was true, and there was something exciting about seeing him like this; seeing so many old friends and acquaintances gathered together like back in the old days. They had never been, collectively, totally free of suspicion, and long gone were the masquerades and feasts that used to be held so frequently and publicly.
Narcissa quietly slipped her hand around her husband's wrist and squeezed gently to indicate she would follow him. She trusted Draco to stay well out of sight and away from danger— she was not sure her husband could be relied on to do the same in such a state and the campsite was quite literally swarming with Ministry officials. He smiled down at her, a little lopsidedly, and summoned a black cloak for her to put on over her robes.
"And the final touch," he added, conjuring a shimmering sliver disk that it took Narcissa a moment to recognise as a mask.
When he held it up, it moulded magically to faintly follow the contours of her features while still appearing largely blank. Lucius tucked her long blonde hair affectionately under her hood, and chuckled softly. "You look just like your sister," he jested, unable to see her face blanch at the sense of foreboding that swept over her in response to the casual remark that he never, ever would have dared make in his right mind. They did not speak of such things, or such people, any longer, and had not done so for over a decade. He placed a careless peck on the cold, smooth forehead of the mask that she could not feel before donning his own and turning to lead the group out of the tent. Narcissa threaded after him, determined to remain close to his side.
The Irish celebrations had largely died down by now, and their group of seven attracted no attention as they quietly wove their way towards the cabin where they'd been given their lot assignments. Lucius had insisted that their lot be near the entrance in order to prevent the necessity of his wife trudging through rows of tents, so the trek to their quarry was a short one.
Narcissa had never in her life set foot in the home of a Muggle, and had no intention to do so now. She instead lingered outside while Lucius quietly unlocked the door and the rest of the party slipped inside; not especially quiet, as their drunken sniggers carried in the cool summer air.
Within a minute or two, the family of Muggles was hauled unceremoniously from the small shack, and a few Cruciatus Curses were shot in their direction, causing them to writhe and twist. Someone had had the foresight to Silence them so they suffered in silence. One of the veiled figures— Lucius, she realised as she recognised his elm wand— flicked his wrist and one of the children went somersaulting into the air, thirty, fifty feet overhead before tumbling downwards and slowing only when he came within inches of the grass. A grating peal of laughter— the Carrow twins— and the girl child was pitched upwards in a similar manner, cartwheeling dizzingly skyward and plummeting in a steep drop, stopping just before the fatal impact.
The rest of the group joined in, tossing the family with coarse shouts of mirth for several minutes before Lucius proposed slyly, "Why don't we go for a walk?"
Narcissa knew it was reckless, but as he took her hand and chuckled again, it did not seem so terrible... they were just levitating the family after all, there were no Unforgivables being used as they trooped towards the campsite— and look! Others were suddenly joinining in as well, shouting and laughing and pointing their wands upwards to spin one Muggle, flip another... Wizarding pride ran deep, especially after such a spectacular sporting event, and while some had feared the Death Eaters during their prime, many others revelled in their purpose of elevating the magical above the Muggle. It was disgraceful the way they had to hide... they way they had to dress like Muggles and camp like Muggles and kowtow to what simple Muggle minds could comprehend, and it was not only Death Eaters who knew this. The crowd that was slowly blooming around the core group reaffirmed this fact. The Ministry officials trying to fight their way through the horde was of no matter, the Ministry had always been weaker than the pureblooded wizards who had once followed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but now espoused the same beliefs as their ancestors that had nothing to to with an individual. Magic was might, and this notion was little more than patriotism tonight.
In the distance, somewhere in the forest, a ghostly green light exploded above the tree tops. Her festive spirit was wiped away and searing panic darted through Narcissa's veins— had someone been killed? Draco was in those woods— she felt a split second of relief when she recognised this was not the flash of a Killing Curse, but a different spell entirely. An emerald constellation was blooming over the leaves, taking shape to form...
And then cold dread and blank confusion swept her. It wasn't possible, there was no way she could be seeing... Beside her Lucius froze. Then her husband's fingers became an iron manacle around her forearm and she was dragged into the suffocation of side-along Disapparation with a resounding crack.