(A/N) I'm updating with unprecedented quickness, I know, but I'd nearly written this and completely written the second chapter. I am now groveling for reviews. Please, please, pretty please review. I love feedback, and how can I do better if you won't tell me what I'm doing wrong?
A week later, Narcissa was still at the Virtus Draconus. Lucius hadn't called, but on the second day he'd sent a bouquet of lilies, a peace offering, Narcissa supposed. She hadn't responded, but she'd kept the flowers. She'd heard nothing from him since.
Celia Clare, now Mrs. Parkinson, had, as Narcissa had hoped, been spreading rumors about Regulus's death. Gwen Lennox had helped them along, though Narcissa was not entirely sure why. Cornelius Fudge called every day with sympathy and very little else. Sternly reminding herself he was useful to her, Narcissa forced herself to see him, though his puffy, stupid mudblood face sickened her. A great many other people called, and Narcissa cried a great deal. Not actual crying, of course. Beautiful crying, the sort that didn't disturb her make-up, or make her eyes red. A few tears, then an embarrassed retreat behind her handkerchief, and a brave, wan little smile.
Pyramus called every day or two, sometimes with his mother, sometimes alone, always in a roundabout way, wanting to know whether anything was happening. Narcissa did her best to ignore his hints. She sat in her pristine hotel room, pouring tea and crying for visitors, and waited. Surely even the Ministry would come up with something soon.
In the afternoons, Narcissa often called on her aunt, arranging for the funeral, as neither of Regulus's parents was in any state to do anything. Grimmauld Place frighteningly empty in the early evening, dark and cold, with only three quiet people on three large, echoey floors. Narcissa found it a little frightening the way the house, always in her memory full to the brim with relatives and friends decked out for New Year's or Midsummer's, echoed and muttered to itself, shutting out the warm rain and muzzy sunlight to contemplate it's shadowy innards.
On the seventh day, Narcissa returned to the Virtus Draconus, glad again that she'd turned down her aunt's offer to stay at Grimmauld Place. Even a hotel was better than that dreadful house. She reached her room to find a hastily written letter from Fudge. They were going after a gang of Death Eater that night. Bellatrix was supposed to be with them.
For the first time in a week, Narcissa smiled as she fell asleep.
Fudge called early the next morning. The raid had been a success. Fudge had been astounded at the speed with which Bella had confessed everything, including the murder of her cousin. Narcissa tried to look distraught. It wouldn't have fooled Lucius, but it was well enough for Fudge.
Fudge was sympathetic, of course, pressing her hand and asking what he could do to help. Narcissa sent him away rather more sharply than she had previously. Even for Family she couldn't out up with a fat mudblood who wore off-the-rack maroon robes.
On his way out, Fudge begged her to be remembered to her husband; without Lucius's tip-off, the raid would never have succeeded. And then, green bowler firmly in place, he was gone.
For a few minutes, Narcissa just stared at the door. Lucius…. After the name her mind stuttered to a stop. But he was mad at her. And the way he looked at Bellatrix, the way he'd always looked at Bellatrix, since he was thirteen. He'd never turn her in, never betray their pet Cause. Unable to quite understand, Narcissa forced herself to move, mechanically checking her hair and make-up, sitting at her desk and applying herself to writing out invitations to the funeral as her mind tried to understand.
By the time the mail arrived, she was unsurprised but still unnerved when Tiberius, Lucius's snowy owl, brought her a note informing her that Mr. Malfoy would be returning to the manor that afternoon, and would she care to join him?