"'And death, as the sole means of reviving love for herself in his heart, of punishing him, and of gaining the victory in that contest which an evil spirit in her heart was waging against him-'" Narcissa read in a clear, gentle tone to her enormous middle. It was rather late, but she couldn't sleep. Pillows propped her into an almost-comfortable position, and she was curled beneath a silky comforter in the dim light of her bedroom.

"You know," she murmured, stroking her belly, "this is my very favourite book. I fully expect you to read it when you get big enough. Mipsie," she called for her elf, "a glass of water, please, no ice." She wished she could take a sleeping potion, but would do nothing to risk the integrity of her baby. Her baby- due any day now. Most expectant mothers were exuberant and eager; she was too, to some degree. But she knew, also, that there was a very real chance she would never get to see this child. And she was terrified.

"Where was I?" she mumbled, eyes searching the page. "Oh, yes. '-Presented itself clearly and vividly to her.'" With a soft snap, Narcissa closed the book and placed it on her nightstand. "We'll finish the rest tomorrow, shall we, dearest?" she whispered soothingly, glancing at the clock. Three hours past midnight, and still she was awake. With a soft groan, she eased herself back, and her little one kicked displeasedly. "Did I wake you, love?" she crooned, "I'm sorry-" she paused, eyes darting to the door. "Lucius?" It had been open for just a split second, but her suspicions were confirmed as the door swung back open and her husband stood, almost guiltily, in it's frame.

"Did you need something?" she asked, only slightly impatient.

"No," he answered abruptly. "I didn't disturb you, did I?"

"I was already awake. What did you want?"

"Nothing," he repeated, turning to go.

"Lucius!" he stopped at her irriate call. "Obviously, you had a reason for getting up in the middle of the night and coming to my room. Tell me. Please," she added as an afterthought.

"I..." he frowned, crossed his arms over his chest, and showed little sign of continuing. Narcissa pursed her lips, waiting. "I suppose just out of habit." Immediately, he seemed to regret his words, and took a step back towards his own bedchamber.

"Wait!" she called again. Once more, he paused. "What d'you mean, 'habit'?"

He exhaled sharply, and replied in clipped tones, "Since you've informed me of the risks in this pregnancy, I've made a point to ascertain that you..." he paused, then tried again. "That is to say, you obviously were in a more suseptible state while sleeping, and house elves can be unreliable, so I felt it might be necessary, or at least potentially preventative in the circumstance that any difficulty might arrise involving our only possible biological heir, that I should inquire into your continued well-being, preferably without disrupting your rest."

She blinked at him, nonplussed. "You've been checking on me at night while I'm sleeping?"

"Er... yes."

"Oh. Well, while you're already in here, will you help me up? I have to us the bathroom." With a heavy sigh, she shook her head. "Again." Narcissa held up her hands. Lucius moved swiftly across the room and lifted her carefully, taking her right hand in his left, and supporting her lower back with the other. With her left hand, Narcissa gripped his shoulder, and Lucius carefully eased her from the mattress.

"Is that-"

Suddenly, Narcissa gasped, eyes widening.

"Narcissa?" he sounded panicked. "Are you alright?"

"No!" she cried as she straightened up. "I need a washcloth and new clothes and I need to get the St. Mungo's! My water just broke!"

She wasn't certain how she'd expected him to act, but certainly not with the brief, sudden efficiency that he responded with. "Mipsie," the elf appeared quickly. "Get your mistress something else to wear and help her clean up. Dobby," a second elf materialized. "Prepare a carriage. You know which of the thestrals will get us to London the fastest and most smoothly. Go!"

Narcissa had been unable to apparate since conception- it was risky in even the most mundane pregnancy. Too often, children would be unintentionally splinched from their mother's womb, with horrifying results. Flooing was dangerous also, due to the bumbs and bangs frequently recieved, even by experienced travelers. They had to arrive by less convienient means.

When they at last stopped at St. Mungo's, Lucius carefully escorted her through the entrance, commanding a wheelchair be brought, and telling the nurse to locate and summon the specialized Healers they'd arranged to have present during the labor. He demanded that she be taken to the reserved suite and personally saw to it that she was settled and properly attended to.

"Is there anything else? Should I owl your mother or sister or... anyone?"

Mort. "No, nobody. Thank you. You can-" she paused, lips pressing together and an odd expression taking over her face. It dawned on him that she must be having a contraction. "-you can go now."

His brow creased slightly. "'Go?'"

"Yes, wait outside. I'd feel more comfortable if you weren't in here."

He hesitated. His lips were pressed together as though to physically hold in something fighting to be voiced- he swallowed once, as if to retract the unspoken words. Still, his efforts were unsucessful.

"Narcissa," the words were very quiet, very restrained. "In the best of circumstances," he began slowly, "this will be difficult. Dangerous. Perhaps it would be better if I stayed with you." The words were so low, she could scarcely hear him.

"No, I don't think so. Really, I feel you should leave."

Nurse Becca Bourke was dashing frantically about. She had been told by her superiors that this was an important case, that these were important people, that the mother had insisted on keeping the child despite grievous personal risk. Becca had been assigned the task of running- since there could be no apparation inside the building, she was essentially the errand girl- dashing about for important things, such as Soothing potions, or less significant items, such as coffee for the doctors. At the moment, she was retrieving another pillow. However, as she dashed out of the delivery room once more (the Expensive one, one she'd never actually seen in use before today), she noticed something fairly odd that, in her hurry, she hadn't noted before. A man was sitting in one of the comfortable seats in the private waiting area. He was handsome and blonde, but his unusually elegant face was turned downward into a stressed scowl. His elbows rested on his knees, and his pointed chin sat on tightly woven hands. The woman (presumably his wife) cried out, and his eyes snapped to the doorway, and his whole body seemed to tense and lean towards the noise, though she didn't think he'd moved a muscle. A moan of pain followed, and his jaw clenched. As Becca hurried along, she mentally scrolled through all the people at the laboring woman's bed side. Numerous Mediwizards and witches, to be sure, but family? Loved ones? She didn't recall seeing any.

As she returned with the pillow, she considered pausing to share a word of sympathy, but something about him didn't seem to invite strangers. She pitied him, though, and wished there was something she could do.

Becca supposed, as she handed over the cushion she held, that this woman must have been beautiful. But her long blonde was sweat soaked and tangled from the hours she'd been suffering, her fair skin was reddened, and her face was twisted into a haunting countenance of agony.

It was dangerous to use magic during delivery, and often did more harm than good in such a delicate state. In this matter, they were no more advanced than Muggles. There was little to be done that could ease the poor lady's suffering.

"Mort-" Becca turned as she choked out a single word. "Please," she turned begging eyes to a nearby assistant. "I'm dying. I know it. I want Mort!"

Mort! A name! "I'll get him!" Becca called happily, glad to ease both of their pain. She hurried back to the waiting area. "Mort?" His eyes lifted at the sound of her voice, and she pressed on. "She keeps asking for you, Mort. She's quite frightened, I'm afraid, but she's asking for you."

He rose slowly, with none of the eagerness she'd anticipated. In fact, he looked positively distraught. And instead of moving towards where his wife lay, he turned instead towards the exit.

"Mort?" she asked, confused.

"My name," he muttered, not turning to look at her as his hand rested on the doorknob, "is Lucius."

It hadn't been hard to track him down. Lucius had more than ample connections to get whatever he damn well pleased; a mere person presented no difficulty. He was in a region of Diagon Alley Lucius himself had never had any desire to frequent; snidely, he thought that any pureblood man that wished to present a repectable face to society should have no business there. Trips to Knockturn Alley were preferable to this slum. Nothing but crass, filthy pubs and cheap whores here- Lucius' lip curled in distain as a young, large toothed girl layered in make-up attempted to snare his attention. He brushed past her and ducked into the dingy doorway of a squat edifice. The windows were too caked with dust to discern anything within, and when Lucius pushed door open, it stuck, whining abrasively as he forced it wide enough to slip through. A grimy bell rang wearily to announce his presence, but at five in the morning, there were only three occupants anyway. A creature Lucius strongly suspected to be a hag was lazily wiping down the counter and scarcely offered him a glance, and a round-bellied many with a white pouf of facial hair nodded drunkenly from the bar as he passed. On the far end of the counter, a man sat hunched beneath a black cloak. His fingers were laced around a large, nearly empty tumbler. It was he that Lucius approached with caution.

"Rodtimer Yaxley?"

He turned slowly. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his handsome face was wasted and unshaven, making it seem unpleasantly elongated. He was clearly and incredibly inebriated.

It took him a moment to realized whom his interrupter was, but his eyes suddenly widened, and his lips drew into a snarl.

"Malfoy."

Lucis probably could have avoided the blow, but he was intending on securing this man's agreement- it was probably better to permit one punch. He staggered back slightly but quickly regained his balance, wiping blood from his nose.

"I should fucking kill you, you sick bastard. You've got know idea how happy that would make me-" Too far gone for articulation, he drew back his arm once more, but this time, Lucius grabbled his wrist and, with a sharp jerk, twisted his around and pressed the other man's face to the sticky counter.

"There isn't much time," he announced shortly. "And you need to be cooperative." Lucius' tone was quite calm, even as Rodtimer thrashed inneffectively against his hold.

"We're going to go the the apothecary and get you a sobering potion, firstly. Once you've regained control of yourself, I'll explain the situation."

"I don't want to be sober, you moron!" he bellowed. "It hurts too much when I'm sober, and that's all your fucking fault!"

"I won't let her see you like this," Lucius murmured, eyes narrowed icily. "It will just upset her more."

At last, Yaxley's struggles ceased. "Narcissa?" he whispered, almost reverently.

"She... she may be dying."

Rodtimer stiffened and his eyes widened. For a moment, he seemed unable to breathe. "Cissy?" he gasped. "Wh-" his expression hardened, but the agony was still apparent there. "What did you do to her?"

Lucius's jaw tightened, and he did not deny the accusation. "We need to hurry," he repeated.

When they arrived back at St. Mungo's, Rodtimer was sober, clean-shaven, well dressed, and clear-headed for the first time in a long time. He was also beside himself.

"Which floor is she on? Why won't you tell me what's wrong with her? She might be fine, right?"

Lucius ignored his buzzing questions, leading him silently through the building until they reached the birthing ward. At last, Yaxley's endless queries ceased.

"Malfoy?"

"In here," Lucius growled, seizing the other man's arm and shoving him forward. "Just go."

"I-" he stopped abruptly as a pained cry sounded from nearby. "Narcissa," he murmured distractedly, moving towards the noise, seeming to forget Lucius was even there.

His paces quickened and he brushed past the curtain just inside the doorway. There were nurses and Healers buzzing around, but Rodtimer scarcely saw them. "Narcissa," he breathed, but the word caught in the back of his throat. She's dying. But she couldn't be! Not his Cissy, not his beautiful, sparkling Cissy. He stumbled to her side, and touched her cheek tenderly. "Love?" he whispered. Her eyes slowly unscrewed, flickering open and finding his face after a moment.

"Oh!" she gasped, a flash of eleation swallowed quickly by pain. "Ooh," she moaned, eyes closing once more. "Oh, I've died, haven't I?" she whimpered, clutching at his hand and burying her face in the pillow.

"No, no love, don't say that," he said quickly, pressing a flurry of kisses across her eyelids, nose, and flushed cheeks. "Narcissa, don't-"

His words were drowned by another drawn out wail- her fingers tightened around his, grinding the bones together. He winced, but not from his pain- rather, from the agony reflected on her face.

"Mort,"

"I'm here, Cissy. I'm here," he crooned, helping her wrap her limp arms around her neck and cradling her torso carefully. "I'm here."

For Lucius, the hours blurred together. He couldn't guess how long he'd been sitting there listening to her sobbing cries when, suddenly, silence fell. He held his breath, waiting to perhaps hear the cry of an infant- but there was nothing.

She's dead.

He buried his face in his hands, groaning softly. He'd killed her. It wasn't that he hadn't killed before- many times, in fact, but that had always be premeditated, and for a purpose. He was glad that he'd gone to get Rodtimer, glad that she could be happy, if in pain. And- he paused to listen again, but was met once more with silence- no child, even?

The baby did not cry as he was lifted, instead drawing breaths in quick, sputtering gasps. There was a colllective sigh of relief as he was quickly cleaned and the cord neatly cut. Narcissa's bleeding was rapidly tended to, even as she clung to Mort. Her skin was damp and drained of color, her tenuous hold on her lover alarmingly weak- but she lived.

"Your son, Mrs. Malfoy," a healer murmured with deference to the moment, extending the child. Narcissa lifted her head fractionally, but collapsed back into the pillows, moaning softly. Her tired blue eyes watched her infant longingly, but she was unable to even utter a word. "Ahm, Mr. Malfoy?" she question, holding the boy to Rodtimer's arms.

"I'm not-" he began to object, but grasped the baby as the woman drew back.

For a moment, he stared in awe at the cloudly blue eyes that seemed to blindly trace his own face. The boy clenched a tiny fist, and turned his head when Mort brushed a reverent finger across the smooth, red cheek, small mouth opening. He held a piece of Narcissa, his Narcissa, in his arms, a miniscule human being that was composed of the woman he loved.

And Malfoy.

Immediately, his chin jerked up, and his gaze sought Narcissa's. The love he saw in her eyes brought a curious, painful tightness to his chest, and he dropped to his knees beside her.

"He's perfect, Cissy," he whispered huskily, pressing his lips to her cheek. "Perfect."

"Mort," her voice was little more than a sighing breath. "I love," she paused to suck in a quick gulp of air, "you. I need... you to..."

"Hush my sweet, save your strength,"

She closed her eyes, a tiny crease fluttering across her brow. "No. Listen. Mort, you must... be happy. Live again. Rebastan said-"

"Damn Rebastan," he hissed, "But you must understand, I can't live without you. I can't-"

"You must. Please. For me?"

With a heavy sigh, kissing her temple. "Anything for you, Cissy. Anything."