He was relaxing in the master bathroom's massive marble tub, warm soapy water dissolving two years' worth of tension and stress from his muscles. His head was leaning back into her arms, her nimble fingers massaging his scalp. He sighed blissfully.

There was only one person who was allowed to wash Lucius Malfoy's hair.

That person had been his mother during his boyhood. Back in his Hogwarts days, it had been himself, and that had been a disaster. Even if he had trusted the other Slytherin boys with his silky blond locks, he would have been relentlessly mocked and humiliated if he asked for help, and so he had been resigned to doing it himself. He still shuttered when he thought about the state of his hair during those seven years.

And now, that trusted person was his wife.

Narcissa rinsed the shampoo out of her husband's hair, washing away the film of grime and oil that had been accumulating since the Dark Lord set up his headquarters in Malfoy Manor. After all that neglect, the blond locks would need considerable time and attention to regain their former glory, but just having his hair clean made Lucius feel more like himself already.

Finally, Lucius had soaked long enough, and he rose from the tub and dried off with the towel Narcissa offered him. Despite the trials still to come, she looked more at peace than she had in a long time, air-dried tresses floating around her slender body. She had been so strong during the War, and Lucius hadn't realized how much Voldemort's presence weighed on her until that weight was gone. She was smiling, for Merlin's sake, with an authenticity that Lucius had nearly forgotten.

Feeling spontaneous and playful, he offered his arm to her and together they walked to their closet. A cloud of solemnity settled over the couple as they jointly remembered what would be happening later, and they slipped back into the arrogant roles of Lord and Lady Malfoy. Appearances and impressions were imperative today; Lucius would be facing the Wizengamot because of his allegiance to the Dark Lord.

Narcissa pursued her husband's wide selection of clothes and cloaks, each familiar to her, finally choosing a simple but elegant robe that he hadn't worn since taking the Mark—the trailing sleeves were split open at the elbow bend, so that the bare forearm could easily be exposed. Lucius looked at her with askance.

"You've always slithered free," she explained softly. "Always denied accusations. This acknowledges your mistakes, makes them… visible." She motioned to the faded Mark on his left arm, and Lucius suddenly remembered the look in her eyes when she had first seen that tattoo. She hadn't said anything, because good Pureblood wives didn't contest their husbands' decisions, but he had known it made her unhappy.

She had trusted him to be a good Pureblood husband, trusted him to not lead their family astray. And so he trusted her, and accepted the robe.

For herself, Narcissa picked a loose black robe that was unlike her preferred tailored gowns. She deftly wove her honey blonde tresses into a long braid, blushing when she caught Lucius watching appreciatively. It had been so long since his wife had worn her hair like that. Prior to the Second Wizarding War, she had always styled it in some elaborate twist that highlighted her slender neck and gave her a distant, refined air. Then, during the chaos of the Dark Lord's time at Malfoy Manor, she had only had enough time to pull her hair into a rough bun. But she looked good with her hair braided; softer, more tender and motherly.

Lucius tied his own hair back, pausing briefly to consider the color. In contrast to his wife's warm honey blond—which she had thankfully passed on to their son—his was more of a cold platinum shade, streaked with more white than he remembered. It was appropriate, given his past and current public perception, that his hair should be such a cold color.

The grandfather clock chimed and Lucius heard Narcissa draw a sharp breath. It was time.