Work Text:
Narcissa barely recognises her husband when he staggers into the set of guest rooms His Lordship has relegated her to, leaning heavily on Severus’s shoulder.
"His Lordship's compliments," Severus says with a tight twist to his mouth. "Nothing like a spot of Cruciatus to say welcome home."
Lucius says nothing as she grasps at him with a sob that she muffles into his filthy, torn prisoner's robe. After a moment he puts a trembling hand on her back, callused fingers splayed across the silk of her dressing gown, then pulls away.
"Darling," she whispers, but he doesn't answer, just stumbles over to the chair next to the fire and sits. He leans his head back against the heavy brown jacquard and closes his eyes. He's painfully thin. She can see the shadows of the bones in his shoulders and his arms. His face is gaunt, his cheeks sunken.
Narcissa turns back to Severus. "When?" she asks.
Severus pushes his hair back off his forehead. He looks tired; the circles beneath his eyes are more pronounced. "He and Macnair arrived with Rodolphus an hour ago. His Lordship wished to speak to them immediately." He lowers his voice. "He's not pleased with Lucius."
"I didn't expect him to be," Narcissa says quietly. Severus watches her, eyes dark. She pulls her dressing gown tighter.
He catches her wrist, and his fingers are warm against her skin. "They've both failed, Narcissa. The Dark Lord won't be kind."
"I know." It doesn't matter. Lucius is home. "You'll help."
Severus hesitates only a moment, then nods; his hair falls forward again, sweeping across his cheek. "As I am able."
"Thank you." She touches his jaw lightly. There's a moment of silence; their eyes meet, hold. His thumb traces a circle against the delicate jut of her wrist bone. She licks her bottom lip. "Severus."
He pulls away. "I'll send for Draco," he says with a glance towards Lucius's chair, and then he's gone, the door shutting behind him.
Narcissa rings for an elf.
She can still feel the warmth of his hand on her skin.
Draco sits at his father's feet, holding his hand tightly, his cheek pressed to Lucius's thigh. He stares into the fire, silent, and his finger strokes across the back of Lucius's bony hand. Draco's hair is longer, brushing his shoulders now, and it won't be long before he'll be wearing it back the way Lucius does, Narcissa thinks.
Shadows flicker across their faces; Narcissa draws her bare feet up beneath her on the window seat. She can hear the laughter and shouts downstairs from the others, toasting His Lordship. Or worse. A shudder twists up Narcissa's spine and she curls in on herself, wraps her arms around her knees and watches her husband and son.
They're so very alike, her men, and soon they'll need to consider betrothals and flower-bedecked ceremonies for Draco. Without thought she touches the heavy Malfoy diamond on her left hand that will in turn go to her son's bride. It's not been off her finger since Lucius gave it to her beneath the tree that Christmas so long ago.
Twenty-three years. She'd barely been nineteen, and she hadn't wanted to be married to anyone, least of all Lucius Malfoy.
He's an arrogant prick, she'd told Bellatrix with a toss of her head as she threw herself across the foot of her sister's bed, and I've things I want to do with my life. I'm not a bloody centerpiece, damn it.
Bellatrix had just rolled her eyes and turned back to her breakfast tray. Watch your tongue, and you'll do as Father says, she said through a mouth of eggs hollandaise. She'd cut a sausage in half and handed a bite to Narcissa. He's a good match, Cissy, better even than Rodolphus. Handsome and moneyed and a brilliant house and all those lovely society connections. You should be grateful, darling, especially after that wretched mistake of Dromeda's.
I know, I know. Narcissa had stared up at the velvet bed hangings, twisting her fingers through her loose hair. The ring had felt like a weight on her hand. A chain tying her down. She'd blinked back tears. I'm just not in love--
Narcissa had been cut off by Bella's sharp laugh. Love is not a necessity for marriage, Cissy, Bellatrix had said over the rim of her teacup. Do grow up. The very idea that I'd love Rodolphus--what rubbish. That sort of idiotic tripe is for Weasleys and other fools. Marriage is for power, money and political associations. And given that Abraxas Malfoy has all, I can damned well guarantee his son will as well. Her mouth had thinned as she'd set the delicate china cup back on its saucer with a soft clink. You'll float down that aisle like a proper delighted bride if I have to levitate you myself.
Only family pride had kept Narcissa from resorting to that. Instead, white-veiled head held high and stomach twisting, she'd made her way down the nave of St. George's in Hanover Square as late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall, stained glass windows above the altar, taken Lucius's hand and pledged to love him, comfort him, honour him, keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others.
She flushes at the memory. Her fingers slide beneath the sleeve of her dressing gown and curl around her wrist. She can still feel the soft press of Severus’s thumb.
Beneath the wide carved mantel crowded with flickering candles and silver-framed photographs of Draco over the years, the fire crackles and pops. Narcissa slides off the window seat’s velvet cushion.
The wood floor is cool against her feet until she steps on the soft Aubusson; she tugs her dressing gown tighter around herself.
Her hand brushes over her son's hair. "Bed, Draco," she says quietly. "Your father needs rest."
She thinks for a moment Draco will protest--she recognises the mulish set to his jaw far too well now, having seen it quite frequently in recent months--but Lucius squeezes his son's hand and Draco bites his bottom lip, dips his head for the barest moment.
"I'll come back after breakfast," he says and his eyes are on his father. Narcissa understands. It's been so long. Over a year.
Draco kisses her cheek and he has to bend slightly to do so. Her son's growing up; he's seventeen now, and of age at last. Narcissa wants to protect him, to keep him from the horrors she knows are coming. From the pain he's already experienced. She tries. She's done all she can, but it's still not enough, she knows. It never will be enough.
Lucius stares into the fire after Draco leaves. His hair is still damp from the bath and smells faintly of rosemary; he's changed his prisoner's robe for silk pyjamas from the wardrobe in the corner.
Even so, he looks out of place. His skin is waxy and sallow; he's so thin his flesh hangs off his bones. It disconcerts Narcissa. She wants to say something, to tell him how much she needs him, how scared she is, how she’s not entirely certain what she’d have done if he hadn’t returned.
Instead, she pours a glass of whisky from a decanter one of the elves left on the hutch and hands it to her husband. His knuckles are rough; the skin's broken and dry. He looks at her, and his eyes, shrouded by dark circles, are empty. Hopeless.
Narcissa's heart twists. She cups her palm over his cheek.
She loves her husband. Deeply. She never expected to. Never thought she'd be this fortunate.
It had taken two years.
Two years of silences, two years of arguments. Two years of rough, angry fucks against the wall, the bed, the floor of the bath. Sex had always been easy for them, far more so than talking; Narcissa had been shocked to discover how very much she'd enjoyed Lucius's cock, how very much she'd enjoyed coming around him.
One touch of his fingers to her breast had been enough to make her wet, no matter how she told herself she despised her husband.
And then she'd found herself pregnant.
She'd cried for three days straight. She wasn't yet twenty-two; she wasn't ready for a child. She had been terrified and furious at Lucius's delight. I'm nothing but a brood mare to you, she'd shouted at him and her hairbrush had barely missed his head. It shattered the vase his mother had given her for her birthday.
You're my wife, he'd said angrily, catching her hand, and he'd splayed his fingers across her belly. And this is our child. It's a baby, Narcissa, not a monster.
She'd looked away, blinking back hot tears. I'm frightened, she'd admitted after a moment, her voice quiet. Dromeda nearly died--
You're not your sister. He'd pulled her against him, and she could smell the faint, lingering bitterness of the cigarette he'd smoked earlier. It twisted her stomach. You're my Narcissa.
I despise you, she'd said, but she hadn't really meant it.
He'd just smiled and kissed her forehead. I know.
Four months later she lost the baby. She hadn't known what was happening at first, just that something was wrong, that the baby was too quiet, too still. Lucius had Floo'd for the Healers in desperation.
There'd been nothing they could do.
Afterwards, Lucius had slipped into bed with Narcissa. I'm so sorry, she'd whispered against his shoulder, and he'd stroked her hair, kissed her cheek. I called her Alcyone, you know. In my mind. I shouldn't have--Mother said not to, that it would jinx the baby--
It's not your fault, Lucius said, voice thick, you didn't-- He'd pressed his face into her hair and she felt the ragged huff of his breath against her throat. It wasn't your fault, Cissa. It wasn't.
He'd held her as she cried herself to sleep.
She fell in love with him then, she thinks, and in the days afterward, both of them stumbling through their grief.
Every year on their daughter's birthday--with the exception of the last--she wakes to a small bouquet of white roses and Alcyone geraniums on the pillow next to her. Lucius never remarks on them; neither does she. Neither of them has told Draco about his sister. Someday she will, she thinks. When he's older.
Narcissa takes Lucius's hand. "You should sleep," she says, and she twines her fingers between his. Lucius's fingernails are broken, yellowed. They’d always been perfectly kept before.
"Yes," Lucius says after a moment, his voice hoarse, and he drains his whisky. He lets her pull him from the chair to the bed.
He curls next to her beneath the coverlet and lays his head on her shoulder. She slides her palm over his hair, smoothing it against his temple. It's been so long since she touched him. Her hand shakes.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs against the swell of her breast. She aches.
Narcissa brushes her knuckles over the sharp angle of his jaw. "It wasn't your fault." She feels the barest press of his dry lips against her skin. "Sleep," she whispers.
She stays awake until the grey light of early morning filters through the curtains.
His Lordship takes great delight in tormenting Lucius. In punishing him for his failure.
Azkaban was not enough it seems.
Narcissa touches Lucius's wrist as he gives up his wand. Her husband's fingers curl around hers loosely; he stares down at the table. The hollows of his cheeks are shadowed in the candlelight.
She catches Severus watching them both. He turns away.
Charity Burbage twists above the table. Draco stares up at her in stunned horror. Narcissa takes his hand.
"Eyes, Draco," she murmurs and he looks at her blankly before blinking and nodding. His fingers are damp and tight around hers.
They've lost everything, save each other. And even that--
Narcissa holds fast to her son and her husband.
It's all she can think to do as Burbage crashes against the tabletop in a burst of green light.
She doesn't look at Severus afterwards.
Lucius rolls off her, and she reaches for him. He pulls away, sits on the edge of the bed. His back is a pale curve in the moonlight; through his tangled hair she can see each knob of his spine, each ridge of his ribs.
"It doesn't matter," she says, but she knows it's a lie. She wants him to touch her, wants to feel him moving inside of her body. It's been so long for them.
He says nothing, just stands and shrugs into his dressing gown. His cock hangs limp between his legs.
"Lucius," she says, but the door closes behind him. She falls against his pillow. It smells of him still and she closes her eyes, breathes him in.
Her hand slides between her thighs and she strokes herself, lightly at first, then rougher, the slick, wet smack of her fingers against her skin echoing in the room. She spreads her legs wide, presses a finger inside. Her hips jerk.
When she comes, back tensed, bottom lip between her teeth, she cries, tears seeping into Lucius's pillow.
Everything's changed.
"Do you want me?" Narcissa asks Lucius two days later, standing in the suite he's taken.
Sunlight gleams in his hair; he stares out the open window overlooking the gardens. Draco's flying outside, practising with a Snitch. His robes flutter out from the broom; it's the first time she's seen her son happy in weeks.
"Lucius," she says, and he looks at her then. He crosses his arms over his chest, shifts from foot to foot.
"Don't be ridiculous."
She catches his hand and draws him from the window. "Kiss me."
Lucius does, a brief, perfunctory brush of his lips against hers. She frowns and pulls him closer, slides an arm around his neck. "No," she whispers against his mouth. "Kiss me."
His lips are rough-soft against hers and she licks them lightly, opens her mouth and then he's kissing her properly, his fingers tangling in her hair.
They stumble backwards and land on the bed. She laughs into the kiss and pulls his hand to her breast; he kneads it through her robe, bites her bottom lip.
Her breath quickens and she slides her hand down his stomach, over his trousers. She rubs his prick through the wool, stretches up to kiss him again.
"Narcissa," Lucius says and she drags her mouth down his jaw. He pulls away. "Narcissa."
She blinks up at him.
"This isn't working," he says quietly. She glances down. He's not hard. "I can't--"
Narcissa reaches for the waistband of his trousers. "Let me," she says, and she unbuttons him, pulls his cock free as she slides to her knees. She holds him in her hand, warm and soft against her palm; he looks down at her and licks his bottom lip.
She takes him in her mouth, sucking lightly at his head. Her tongue flicks beneath his foreskin the way he likes. He breathes out, a quick ragged huff, but he doesn't harden. Her fingers stroke his shaft, pushing his foreskin forward against her lips; she licks down him, over her fingertips, stopping to drag her tongue across the warm curls covering his balls as her fist closes around his prick.
His fingers twist in her hair. "Stop." He pulls back, his cock still limp.
"Lucius," she says and she looks up at him. Her eyes burn wetly.
He fastens his trousers and turns away. "You should go."
"We should talk." She stands, steadying herself with one hand on the bedpost. It's never been like this. Even during their worst arguments, even when they despised each other, nothing had come in the way of their wanting one another. Not since that first night together. They hadn't even made it to the bed; they'd fucked instead on the floor and Narcissa's hips had been bruised for a week. Before Azkaban, they'd not been able to go three days without touching; her cycle had been torture on them both.
Lucius is already at the window. "Just go, please." He doesn't look at her.
She wraps her arms around her waist. "We could Floo Kurian."
"No Healers," he says flatly. "It's not like I haven't tried, Narcissa."
She hesitates. "How long has it been since..." She trails off.
Lucius's shoulders stiffen. He shoves his fists in his pockets. "Long enough."
"I see." She doesn't quite. She twists her robe between her fingers. "Perhaps it's just the aftereffects of the Dementors--"
He looks at her and she takes a step back at the vitriol in his gaze. "Go."
She leaves.
Neither of them eats at supper. Lucius pushes his food around his plate half-heartedly. Narcissa drinks, motioning for the elf to fill her glass as soon as it’s empty. The wine goes to her head, not enough for her to be noticeably drunk, but more than enough to dull the conversation around her. The Dark Lord has called yet another meeting of his advisors.
So very dull.
As always, Severus studies her from across the table, his eyes dark and glittering above the rim of his wineglass.
Narcissa shifts in her seat; her thighs brush together. They're damp already.
Her cheeks burn.
She looks away.
He finds her in an upstairs hallway.
"He looks like hell," Severus says without prologue. He doesn't need to specify to whom he's referring.
Narcissa lifts her chin; the hall swims only slightly. She's lost her shoes. She can't remember where. "You expected him to be well-rested? A year in Azkaban--"
"In which I spent two months some years past." Severus catches her arm, steadies her. "I think I'm fully aware of its horrors."
"Hardly the same."
His fingers are already moving against her skin, tracing slow, small circles. "Perhaps." His thumb smoothes across the crook of her elbow. She can't suppress the shiver.
"Stop," she whispers. She hates him for this. Hates herself. It was so much easier when Lucius was away. She could convince herself she was doing this for him. For Draco. "I love my husband."
"A fact that I've never argued." Severus presses her to the wall. It's even and firm against her shoulders. Steady.
She flattens her palms against it. Tries to keep from touching him.
"We've an arrangement, Narcissa," he says against her throat. His palm curls around her breast; his thumb rubs the hardening nub of her nipple through the thin silk of her robe. "If you think your husband's return is going to alter it--"
A pinch of his fingertips and she gasps, her hand catching his arm to steady herself. "You agreed to the Vow." She can't hide the tremble in her voice. They're in the middle of the hall--anyone could come by--another twist of her nipple and she arches against him. He smells of cloves and the sickly, musty stench of hellebore and blood.
"And you agreed to my payment." Severus's hand is already beneath her skirt, rucking it up her thigh. "I've kept that brat of yours alive. No easy task."
"Severus," she says and his fingers press against her. "The hall--" She breaks off into a gasp as he strokes over her clit, rubbing silk and lace through her wet folds. After a year he knows how to touch her, how to make her ache.
Severus's tongue drags across the corner of her mouth. "You taste like wine."
And then he kisses her roughly, shoves his hand into her knickers as if she were a tart in a back alley off Knockturn, and she's hardly better, she knows. He likes it like this, likes to remind her she's nothing but his whore, likes to bring her off with only a touch, showing her what an eager slattern she's become.
She wants him to.
"He'd watch us." Severus bites her jaw. His breath is coming in ragged gasps, his excitement evident as his fingers slide through her, slick and wet. "He'd watch me take his precious wife, fuck her pretty cunt--" He groans and he presses a finger into Narcissa, then another. His thumb circles her clit, moving faster. "You'd come for me and he'd see that, he'd hear it--" He jerks forward; he's hard and his tented trousers press against her hip. His cock ruts against her.
It shouldn't feel this good. She shouldn't want to touch him. To see his prick red and heavy in her hand. She presses her palm against his trousers and he kisses her, his teeth catching on her bottom lip, scraping the soft skin. She gasps into his mouth, curls her fingers around his prick. His trouser buttons catch on her wrist; the wool placket scrapes her skin.
Severus twists his fingers inside of her, fucking her harder. "Christ, you’re so bloody wet. You'd want to come--you'd beg to--“ His breath gusts hotly across her ear. "Beg me, Narcissa."
Narcissa's legs are tight; her body's tense; her toes press into the carpet, lifting her up. She spreads her thighs wider for him; she wants more. Needs more. The wall is hard against her shoulder blades, against her skull, and her hair catches on the sconce above her. She feels stretched, pulled apart and she clutches at Severus's shoulder, breathing hard. His fingers slide deeper, and nothing else matters, not even the voice deep inside her, suddenly muted, that screams at her, tells her she's a slut, a trollop, a--
"Please, Severus--"
She cries out, falling forward against him, and his mouth is on hers again, biting, kissing, licking as her legs buckle beneath her, and a languid wet warmth seeps through her body. He catches her hand, keeps it pressed against his cock as he rocks forward, and her fingers twist in his trouser pleats. When he shudders and jerks against her, his come spreading through the thick fabric, all she can think is that she wishes he'd been inside of her at that moment.
Her stomach twists.
Severus steps away, gasping, and her robe swings free. His hand is damp, the fingertips slightly wrinkled; his hair hangs in his eyes, limp and lank. Narcissa despises him as much as she wants him.
Her thighs are slick against each other; she shifts, and she can still feel his fingers inside of her cunt. She thinks of what it would have been like with his prick, how she'd feel his come trickling down her leg now. The thought makes her wetter. She wraps her arms around herself and looks away.
"I've a meeting with His Lordship," Severus says after a moment. He pulls his robe together.
She doesn't say anything, only nods.
When he's gone, she sinks to the floor, knees at her chest. She presses her face into her robe.
It doesn't block the musky smell of sex.
A door snicks shut down the hall.
Narcissa bathes in a scalding infusion of rosemary and sage. The steam curls around her shoulders, taking with it Severus's scent. She breathes in deeply, sinking lower into the hot bath.
She still aches from his fingers.
There's a knock at the door. It opens before she can answer.
"Lucius," Narcissa says and she hopes the flush that floods her skin seems to be from the heat. The wine is wearing off.
His hair is loose around his shoulders; his feet are bare. He sits on the edge of the bath, trails a fingertip in the water, brushes it against her thigh. She watches him.
He scoops water in one hand and drizzles it over her shoulder, her clavicle, her throat before sliding his wet palm over her skin. She licks her lip as his fingers cup her small breast. Lucius squeezes gently, smoothes his fingers over her nipple.
Narcissa's breath catches.
He fumbles with the buttons on his trousers, pulls them open, and his cock's out, not even hard. He raises up on one knee, presses the soft head against her mouth. "Suck."
She licks him, catches his prick in her hand and massages the shaft the way she knows he likes, thumb sliding down to stroke the brown-gold curls at its base. They're crisp and rough against her skin, and he tastes sour and acrid but she doesn't care. Her husband is in her mouth and she wants him--Merlin, how she wants.
His fingers twist in her hair, pulling out the pins, and her curls fall down over her shoulders, the ends wetting. She grabs his hips, shoves back the waistband of his trousers, digs her fingers into his skin. He hisses and pushes his still limp cock deeper. She can feel his scars beneath her palms, can feel the too-sharp jut of his hipbones.
Narcissa laps at Lucius's prick; this time it hardens beneath her tongue, lengthens against her lips. His hand is on her breast, squeezing and pinching and she catches it, holding his palm to her skin. Her nipple is hard against his fingers. She shifts to her knees; water splashes over Lucius's trousers, splatters across the tile floor.
She doesn't care.
Lucius's fingers tighten in her hair, He jerks her forward with a breathless God, yes, and she slides her hand beneath his balls, hefting them gently in her palm. With a groan, he catches himself with one hand flat against the wall. Narcissa's breast feels cold and bare.
His cock presses against the back of her throat; she chokes and he pulls away, watching her with those strangely, oddly dull eyes.
"Lucius," she says again, a whisper across the wet head of his prick. He catches her chin in his hand. His other hand curls around his cock; he pulls himself roughly.
"Is this how you suck him?" he says too softly, Narcissa closes her eyes, swallowing on the bile rising in her throat. Lucius's fingers dig painfully into her jaw. "Look at me."
Narcissa looks up at him, past his fingers pumping wildly on his cock. His face is twisted, his mouth thin. His eyes barely see her. "You don't understand," she begins, and he jerks her head up. Her neck aches.
"Just answer," Lucius spits out and his hips buck forward, his fist slides back down his shaft, the head of his cock slick and red through his fingers. "Do you like his prick in your mouth? Do you beg him to come down your pretty throat?"
"No." It's a lie. She knows it.
He knows it.
"Liar," he chokes out, and his body shudders. His fingers twist over his prick. He groans. “Bloody lying whore--”
"No!" She pushes at Lucius, shoves him away. He cries out and sticky-warm come hits her shoulder as he staggers backwards, slams into the wall.
Narcissa doesn't bother to clean herself, doesn't wait to see if he's hurt. She pulls herself from the bath, her feet sliding on the wet floor, and she slams the door behind her.
She wards the bedroom shut.
Lucius can find his own damned way out of the bath.
She stands wet and naked in front of the fire, staring at the flickering flames, and she shivers.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
"I was only trying to protect you both," Narcissa says. Lucius stands behind her, staring at the bookshelves in the library. An early August rain taps at the windowpanes, steams the air. Her husband doesn't say anything; she turns. "Lucius."
He pulls a book from the shelf and flips through it, barely glancing at the pages. "By fucking Snape."
She chews on her bottom lip, chooses her words carefully. "I asked him for an Unbreakable Vow. He wanted payment."
"Between your thighs." The words are dull, flat.
A shaky breath. "Yes." Narcissa steps towards him. "What was I supposed to do, Lucius? You weren't here and His Lordship set an impossible task for our son--"
"Anything but fuck him!" Lucius looks back, and his eyes are cold. He throws the book on the floor. It drags itself a few feet away; its ancient leather binding crumbles on the carpet. It hops once, twice before resting against the bottom shelf, pages fluttering weakly.
Narcissa wraps her arms around herself. Her fingers move on the tight silk sleeves of her robe, pulling at the fabric, then smoothing it. He's every right to be angry. "Draco could have died, and His Lordship would have been delighted." Her throat tightens; she swallows. "He wanted to punish you. And me." She meets his gaze. "Severus kept our son alive. As he promised."
Lucius looks away. "And you couldn't have offered him money--he's nothing to his name. He would have scrambled for a Galleon."
"What money?" Her voice rises. "The Ministry froze nearly all our funds when they locked you away. There's not been enough money to run the Manor or to keep up His Lordship and this bloody entourage of his in the manner he thinks he should be. I've had to sell things, Lucius. The entire east wing is closed because there's nothing left in the rooms. And Grandmother's wedding china was the first to go." She clenches her fist, digs her fingernails into her palm. It'd hurt to send that to Borgin and Burkes. She'd briefly thought of contacting Dromeda for the first time in years, of begging her to purchase it from her.
Bellatrix had put a stop to that, pointing out that Grandmother would have died before letting a Muggleborn such as Theodore eat off her plates.
Narcissa blinks hard, twists her silver serpent necklace around two fingers. Draco had given it to her for Christmas the year he’d Sorted Slytherin. "It's not been easy." The chain bites into her throat.
"You were a fool to go to Severus," Lucius says after a moment.
"Bella would agree," she says and she looks away. "But he has His Lordship's ear and he's kept your son and I alive."
Her husband's jaw tightens. "Perhaps you were better off dead."
Narcissa breathes in sharply and steps back, almost as if she'd been slapped. The serpent drops back between her breasts, cold and heavy against her skin. "No," she says quietly and she straightens her shoulders. "I did what I had to do to survive." She lifts her chin. "We're in this because of you, Lucius. I wouldn't have chosen to enmesh us so deeply with His Lordship again. Not after last time. We've been through this once already. You promised never again--"
"And you'd have had me branded a traitor on his return?" Lucius glares at her. "Look at what he had done to Karkaroff!"
She looks away; her hand shakes. She curls her palms around her elbows. "You're a hypocrite, you know."
His mouth tightens.
"I know about Bella," Narcissa says quietly. She brushes a lock of hair back behind her ear.
Lucius tenses. "That was twenty years ago."
"And we were married." She looks at him steadily. This isn't an argument she'll allow him to win. "And there've been others since. I'm not a fool, Lucius. I've overlooked them all because I love you. Because I love Draco."
Silence stretches between them.
He breaks it at last, pushing past her. "I can't look at you right now."
The door slams behind him.
She closes her eyes.
Narcissa knows His Lordship notices the distance between herself and Lucius; she sees it in the way he regards her over his wineglass at supper a few weeks later.
He's taken Lucius's seat at the head of the table. Bellatrix has hers.
She feels like a stranger in her own home. Her only consolation is the sideways, terrified glances the elves still cast her way when His Lordship gives them an order. When he turns away she inclines her head slightly, giving them her permission, and they scamper off. It's a small amount of control. Enough for now.
So Narcissa smiles brightly at something inane Yaxley has said and drinks more viognier. She pretends she doesn't see Severus watching her across the table, pretends she doesn't feel Lucius tense beside her, pretends it makes no difference when he crosses his fork and knife over his plate and pushes away from the table long before His Lordship suggests they retire.
The Dark Lord sets down his wineglass and murmurs something to Nagini; she slithers off, nudging the door open with her blunt snout. She disappears around the doorjamb with a flick of her tail. His Lordship tilts his head towards Narcissa and smiles thinly.
Narcissa looks away with a shiver.
Pretense takes its toll.
Bellatrix sits on the garden bench. The rose arbor curves above her, filled with pink and red and cream blooms. "He told me you knew. About us."
"I'm not an idiot." Narcissa drops another spray of roses into the half-filled basket. She grasps another branch, mouth tight. Her Diffindo slices through it roughly, sending leaves and petals scattering over her sister's feet.
Bellatrix reaches for a leaf, crushes it between her fingers. Green sap smears across her thumb. "I know."
They don't say anything for a moment, and then Narcissa sighs. "Why?"
"Because I could." Bellatrix looks oddly young in the sunshine, surrounded by the roses. She reaches for Narcissa's hand. "The same reason Severus spent last year in your bed."
Narcissa picks up the basket of roses. "It's not the same at all," she lies.
She makes it to the conservatory before she throws the roses away.
She and Lucius don't speak.
Draco watches them quietly, his brow furrowed, and Narcissa can see her son withdraw further into himself. It's not like him, these silences, and it's almost a relief when he packs his school trunk and she kisses him goodbye at King's Cross. Lucius doesn't accompany them.
"Be careful," she tells Draco, straightening his robe. The Carrows will be teaching at Hogwarts this year. Narcissa doesn't think they'll harass her son, but the family's fortunes have fallen and Lucius is no longer in favour. "Go to Severus if you find yourself in trouble; he'll look after you--"
Draco's mouth twists. "I'm certain."
The train whistle blows before she's time to ask him what exactly he meant by that, and he disappears in a curl of steam, Vincent and Gregory on either side.
He doesn't look back.
"A girl for you, Lucius," His Lordship says with a too-sharp smile, and the drawing room stills. Nagini raises her head, her coils undulating around her master's feet. "Perhaps this one might keep your interest."
Narcissa holds her head high, her cheeks aflame. She can feel Severus's gaze on her. She won't look at him.
Lucius steps forward, bows slightly. "My Lord." He touches the whore's face, dragging his thumb across the too-red swell of her bottom lip.
Yaxley and Greyback leer at Narcissa as she pushes past them. She doesn’t care. She needs to breathe. Needs air. Needs...something.
Severus follows her into the conservatory.
"He won't do it, you know," he says, leaning against a pillar.
She wipes her palms across her eyes. "Severus, there are moments when a woman wishes to be left alone, you realise."
Severus raises an eyebrow. "And I sincerely doubt this is one of them." He crosses his arms over his chest. "He won't fuck the girl."
Neither of them truly believes that.
"I don't want to talk about it."
He sits on the bench next to her. They say nothing. Severus finally hands over a handkerchief. "Dry your face. The last thing you need is for any of that lot to see you upset."
She takes it without objecting. "I think they already know."
"No." He looks at her, and his skin is pale in the moonlight. "They know you're angry. Entirely different."
"Perhaps." She folds his handkerchief and hands it back.
He shakes his head. "Keep it." He stands. "I'll say you went upstairs. Utterly furious. Told me to bugger off, radgey bint that you are." A touch of Yorkshire breaks through.
"Such language." Narcissa smiles faintly. "Thank you."
Severus brushes his thumb over her mouth.
Even after he's gone she can still feel the soft touch.
She presses her fingers to her lips.
The elves stop looking for her permission.
Narcissa sees the pity in Bellatrix's eyes, the smirks of the other Death Eaters as they recognise the Malfoy's fall from power. She's lost everything that mattered. Her husband refuses to be in the same room with her. Her son won’t return her owls. Her home doesn't even belong to her any longer.
His Lordship watches her always, a curious smile twisting his thin mouth.
She doesn't know what to do.
Severus's hands slide down her back. She shouldn't be here, she knows. This isn't the Manor. Here there are too many eyes. Too many portraits. Too many tongues to tell her son.
But she needs to feel wanted.
She shifts beneath Severus, stretching, and she wonders what Dumbledore would say if he could see the two of them here in the Headmaster's quarters. The sheet and coverlet are twisted at the foot of the bed, damp with sweat and come. Severus bites at the curve of her arse.
"Merlin," she whispers as his fingers slide beneath her, rubbing over wet curls, and he drags his tongue through her crease. She arches up with a hiss, her breasts rising off the mattress. Her nipples catch on a fold in the sheet and she groans at the scrape of soft cotton against already abraded skin. "Severus."
His thumb slides into her cunt, wet and hot, just as his tongue flicks over her arsehole. She's never done this before, never wanted to do it, but his fingers press against her clit, rubbing slow circles, and his tongue swipes across soft, puckered skin, then presses deeper.
Narcissa clutches the sheet, twists it between her fingers as she rocks back against his mouth. Severus pushes her hip into the bed, holding her still. His tongue thrusts into her again. She writhes beneath him, panting. "Please," she chokes out and when he drags his tongue back over her hole, then pulls away, pressing his wet thumb into her instead, she shudders with want.
Severus bites her arse, hard enough to leave a mark, then he licks over the stinging skin. "On your knees," he says, and Narcissa lifts up.
"Where did you learn this?" Her breath catches as he pushes his thumb into her arse, then pulls it almost out again. The head of his cock presses against her slit.
Severus slides into her slowly, breathing hard. He grunts and grabs her hips with one hand. "Spend enough time with Knockturn whores and you pick up a few things."
"They've potions for those now, you realise." Narcissa laughs as Severus jerks her back against him, straddling his thighs. He runs his hand up and down the swell of her belly, fingers barely touching her skin, before he cups her breasts and squeezes.
He flicks one nipple with his thumb. "Cow." He presses another fingertip into her arse. It burns and she tenses. “Breathe,” he whispers against her throat. She does. His fingers press slowly deeper; his cock shifts. She’s full, stretched.
It feels incredible.
She moans.
“Like that, do you?” Severus bites her earlobe.
Narcissa turns her head and kisses him roughly. "Are you going to fuck me or not?" she whispers against his mouth.
He pushes her forward onto all fours. She gasps as he rocks into her hips, as his fingers twist inside her arse. He catches a rhythm, steady and quick, cock and hand moving together.
“Oh, Christ,” she whispers. She wonders why she’s waited this long to try this. Her arms buckle; she falls against the mattress, her face pressed into the pillows.
Somehow she slides her hand between her legs, rubbing wildly at her clit. Her fingers slip over her wet folds, slide across Severus’s cock as it slams into her.
He groans and presses his fingers into her arse again. “Make yourself come for me, Narcissa.” His breath is hot against her skin; he kisses down her spine.
Narcissa twists beneath him, shoving back to meet his thrusts, and her fingers are rough against her clit. Her body tenses, her back arches. “Oh, fuck,“ She bites her lip and rubs harder. Her knees press into the mattress. “Severus.“
“Want to feel you come on me,” he gasps and he bites her shoulder.
“God--oh, Severus--” Wetness floods her fingertips as her body jerks and arches, and not even her legs will hold her up any longer. She breathes into the pillows, shaking.
Severus pulls his fingers away, grabs her hips. With a groan he slams into her, pressing her hips hard against the mattress, fucking her roughly. “Want---“
He falls onto her with a shout, and she can feel his thighs tremble against hers before he rolls away, pulling her up against his side.
They lie silent for a long moment, until Severus looks over at her. “Are you all right?” he asks gruffly.
Narcissa presses her face against his chest. “Do you think we might do that again?” She can feel her face burn.
“Not bloody well tonight.” He glances down at his limp cock. “I’m not eighteen any longer.”
She laughs and kisses his nipple. “Pity.” She looks up at him through rumpled blonde hair. “Later, perhaps.”
A small smile curves his mouth for the briefest moment. She likes it. "I think that might be a possibility, yes." He brushes a lock of hair off her cheek. “Sleep now.”
Narcissa settles against him. She closes her eyes.
At least for a little while longer she needn’t think.
"Are you mad?" Bellatrix pulls open the drapes of Narcissa's suite late the next morning. Sunlight floods the room and Narcissa shields her eyes, blinking against the brightness. She curls back against the chaise, pulling the cashmere throw higher over her shoulders. Barely October and she's already cold. "Honestly, Narcissa, you've lost your mind. There's nothing else to be said about it."
"Good. Now go away," Narcissa mumbles and she presses her face into the velvet upholstery. "I'm tired."
Bellatrix jerks her up. "You look like hell."
Narcissa pushes her hair back out of her face. "Thank you, Bella."
"You were at Hogwarts last night." Her sister's eyes narrow. "Everyone's speaking of it." Bellatrix sits next to her with a sigh. "You and Lucius, the both of you--"
"Don't," Narcissa says coldly.
Bellatrix falls silent. She sighs and pulls Narcissa to her, and her fingers stroke lightly across Narcissa's shoulder. "What are you doing, Cissy?"
"I don't know," she whispers and she turns her face into Bellatrix's robe. "I don't know anymore."
Lucius comes to her later.
He wakes her, climbing into her bed naked, and she's barely awake before her gown is at her waist. She catches his hand as it trails over her thigh. "What are you doing?"
He looks down at her with bright eyes. "Do you love him?"
The question draws her up short.
She can't answer for a moment and Lucius's jaw tightens. "Do you?" he asks again.
"I don't know," she says honestly, her voice breaking. "Not the way I love you, but..." She trails off and presses her trembling lips together. "What are we doing, Lucius?" she asks softly after a moment. Perhaps Bellatrix is right.
His palm is splayed across her stomach; he stares down at his fingers. His hair is loose, pale silver in the moonlight. "All I can think of," he whispers, "is him inside of you. Of how you'd look on top of him." He looks up then. "I want to see it, Narcissa."
"No," she says, shaking her head.
He grabs her hand, pulls it down to his cock. He's hard. "It's the only thing that works," he whispers. "Only thinking of you with him--" Lucius looks away, his cheeks flushed. "How do you think it makes me feel knowing that I can only get hard to the thought of my wife cuckolding me?"
"Lucius." She curls her fingers around his cock. She's missed this. Missed him.
He pushes against her hand. "I want to watch." He bites his bottom lip, his disconcertment evident. "I want to see his prick in you--Merlin."
Narcissa twists her fingers over the head of his cock. It's mad, this idea. Insane. Utterly ridiculous. She can't help but admit that it makes her ache, curls her toes into the mattress. "Lucius," she says again, and he kisses her roughly.
"Harder," he chokes out. “Tell me how he fucks you.”
She jerks him with both hands, whispering into his skin how Severus fingers her when he’s inside of her, how he sucks her breast, bites her nipples. Her palm slides over the slick head of Lucius’s cock; she runs her thumb beneath his balls, stroking lightly.
It’s wrong this, she knows it is, but her legs shift restlessly. She’s wet just talking about it, thinking about it and she slides one hand between her legs, slipping her fingers inside of herself, tracing the swell of her clit.
Lucius watches her, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and he whispers, “Narcissa.”
She pulls her hand away from her cunt, fingers wet and slick and she strokes them over his cock. “Come on me,” she says, and she presses her still damp fingers to his mouth. “Please, Lucius.”
He groans and he sucks her fingertips, dragging his teeth across her soft skin. “Bloody hell--“ He shudders.
A twist of her hand down his prick and it’s enough. He comes with a shouted Narcissa, his body shaking, his cock spurting thick and sticky over her hand, her stomach.
Narcissa strokes his hair, wraps herself around him.
"I'm mad," he murmurs against her throat. He rubs her stomach, smearing his come into her skin. "Utterly."
"No." She kisses his temple, brushes her knuckles across his cheek. "Just a bit broken." She sighs. "I think we all are."
"Perhaps." Lucius falls silent.
They lie curled together, staring into the darkness.
Narcissa's almost asleep when she hears a quiet don't love him whispered in her ear.
She slips her fingers through Lucius's and holds tight.
Severus sets down his wineglass. "Absolutely not." He stares at them both as if they've lost their minds.
Perhaps, Narcissa thinks, they have.
"I'm giving you permission to fuck my wife, Severus," Lucius says flatly. He twists his glass of whisky between his hands; it glints dark gold in the firelight.
"In front of you." Severus stands. "I think not."
Narcissa catches his wrist. "That's not what you said in the hallway once."
He scowls down at her. "Fantasy, Narcissa. Not reality. I've no wish to find myself on the receiving end of your husband's Killing Curse."
"No wand, Severus." Lucius meets his gaze evenly. "And should I have wished for that, it would already have occurred, I can assure you."
Narcissa strokes Severus's palm. "Please," she says softly, looking up at him. "Please do this for me."
He swallows and sighs. "This is beyond mad."
"I know." Her thumb slides down his wrist, circling lightly. She draws his hand to her breast, slides it beneath her robe. "Please."
Severus shivers. His fingers pinch her nipple. "Not fair, Narcissa."
She smiles faintly. "I never claimed to be."
His eyes flick towards Lucius. "You're certain of this."
Lucius hesitates; Narcissa thinks this is the end, certainly he'll back out. Instead he nods and he looks at them, eyes dark. "I want to watch you take her."
She can see Severus's pulse flutter in his throat, knows when he's made his decision. He reaches for the clasps on her robe, loosening them. "Then I want her naked."
The grey silk pools on the floor at her feet. She's wearing only a pair of black lace knickers purchased on rue Saint Honoré, a pair she's quite aware both Severus and her husband enjoy. Her bare breasts prickle in the cool air; her nipples harden.
She watches as Severus's eyes darken. "Get on the bed," he says roughly, pushing her towards the four-poster. He takes her wineglass from her; it's still half-full. He watches her over the rim.
Lucius follows them, taking a chair nearby. His breath comes in slow, sharp huffs; he shifts, spreading his legs wider.
Narcissa kneels on the bed. "You've too many clothes, Severus," she says and she takes her glass back. The merlot is sharply bittersweet against her tongue.
He shrugs out of his robe, dropping it to the floor, then unbuttons his frock coat. It's a slow task, and she reaches out to help him, pushing the coat from his shoulders. Severus leans against the bed, drawing off his boots, and she slips behind him, pressing her bare breasts to his back. She loves the feel of his shirt against her nipples. He relaxes against her, allows her to kiss his throat, hold the wineglass to his mouth. He sips; his boots thud against the floor.
Narcissa looks at Lucius. He nods, and his eyes gleam at her. "Go on," he says hoarsely.
She slides on hand down Severus's chest, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, and when she reaches his trousers, he turns, and grabs the wineglass as he pushes her back against the bed. Only a few dark red drops spread across the pale green brocade.
Severus straddles her hips.
"Such lovely tits, wouldn't you agree, Lucius?" he asks and his fingertips brush against her skin. "Perfect for sucking."
Lucius shifts in his chair. "I would concur."
Severus doesn't look at him. Instead he pours a bit of wine between Narcissa's breasts, then leans down and licks it from her skin. A thin stream rolls down her side; he catches it with his tongue.
"A nice vintage," he murmurs, and he pours more onto her, sucking the wine from one nipple before biting it gently.
Narcissa gasps and arches up beneath him. She can feel his cock against her hip; he's already hard, and she wants him inside of her. "Please, Severus," she breathes out, and he flicks his tongue at the other nipple.
"Patience, Narcissa." He drags his mouth down her stomach, stopping at points for more wine, more slow, careful licks. "Can you smell her, Lucius?" he asks and he looks up now, eyes fixed on Lucius's face. "Can you smell how wet she is?"
Lucius's fingers trail across the bulge in his trousers. "Not enough. She should be wetter if you're doing your job properly."
Severus smiles at that. "I might agree." He tosses the empty wineglass aside and pushes Narcissa's legs wider. "Perhaps we should address that right now."
His tongue swipes across her inner thigh and Narcissa twists her fingers in his greasy hair. It's thick and lank against her skin. She doesn't care. Severus closes his mouth over her knickers, licking her through the lace and she shudders beneath him, one hand on her breast. "Oh, God," she whispers, and it's enough to spur Severus on.
Somehow her knickers are gone, and she's not certain how, but his mouth is back, and his tongue laps quick and fast at her clit, then drags through her folds, giving her time to calm before he makes her thighs tremble again. She turns her head and Lucius has his prick out, heavy and red in his palm. He's barely touching himself.
It's too much, watching him and feeling Severus's mouth on her, and her hips buck up with one long suck on her clit, and she cries out. Severus presses a finger into her, then another, matching his strokes to the rhythm of his tongue. She can't stop moving, can't stop shifting beneath him, can't stop pressing her hips up against his mouth, his tongue, his hand.
She can't stop shaking. "Please," she says, and she wants Lucius to see her being fucked, wants him to have what he needs, what he wants.
What she wants.
Severus slides up her, and he fumbles with his trousers. "Tell me to fuck you," he whispers into her ear, and he wants this as well, she can tell. Wants it as much as Lucius, as much as herself.
He wants her.
It's a powerful feeling, this, and she reaches down, pulls his cock out as she pushes his trousers off his hips. He kicks them loose and the feel of him naked against her makes her shiver. "Fuck me," she says against his mouth before she kisses him, knowing that this time her husband is watching.
Severus shudders beneath her hands.
He has her legs wide and he's pressing against her, almost hesitating, but she pushes her hips up and he's inside.
“Oh, Christ,” Narcissa whispers. “Feels so good�"“
Severus moves slowly at first, and she can hear Lucius's sharp breath next to them. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching. She wraps her legs around Severus's hips, pulling him deeper.
"Harder," she says into his ear, and he rises up just enough and thrusts roughly, lifting her hips from the bed.
He watches his cock slide into her, eyes bright. He trails a finger over her slick curls, flicks it over her swollen clit. “Bloody trollop,” he says softly.
Narcissa’s breath catches; he bends down to kiss her, all tongue and teeth. She arches up to meet him.
"I want to see her," Lucius says, and Severus catches her hips and rolls onto his back, pulling her on top of him.
"Ride me." He reaches up to roll her nipple between two fingers. "Show your husband what you look like on my prick."
She groans and she spreads her thighs wider, catching herself on Severus's hips as she rocks down onto his cock. Her hair is loose; he reaches up to pull it free, sending hairpins scattering across the bed. Blonde locks fall into her eyes, over her shoulders, curl around her breast.
Lucius kneels on the bed, fisting his cock, slow and steady, watching her, and she rolls her hips, letting him see Severus's prick thrust into her. He gasps; his hips buck and the head of his cock is wet and red between his fingers.
Narcissa smiles. She looks down at Severus, at his thin, scarred body, at his narrow chest and sallow skin. He's not beautiful, not compared to Lucius, but she wants him, needs him inside of her.
Lucius leans forward and cups her breast, sucking it into his mouth. She jerks, curls her palm around the back of his neck.
"Oh, please," she whispers, and he bites her nipple eagerly, tugging it gently between his teeth before drawing back, his prick still in his hand.
She falls forward and kisses Severus. "Fuck me." She rolls onto her back. "Please."
"Christ, yes," Lucius says, but they barely hear him. Severus is staring at her with dark, bright eyes, his hair hanging down on either side of her face. His mouth is soft, open.
She touches his cheek and he closes his eyes, breathes out. "Narcissa," he whispers.
Narcissa kisses him.
It doesn't matter that Lucius is watching. At this moment she doesn't care. It's only herself and Severus right now, thrusting against each other, their bodies moving together, his cock deep inside of her.
And then he pulls back; his hair swings forward, catches on his sweaty jaw. He watches her steadily as he fucks her in quick, rough strokes, and she grabs his shoulder, writhing beneath him.
"Please," she chokes out. He grabs her hip, holding her still as he slams into her, his hips rolling forward, pressing her deeper into the bed. Her fingers slip on his damp skin; she leans up to drag her tongue along his throat in one long lick, shoulder to ear.
He gasps.
Severus tastes salty, earthy, incredible, and she can't help but press her face against his neck again, sucking lightly at his jaw, her tongue flicking against his skin. "More."
He thrusts into her again, his hips jerking, and Narcissa's thighs ache, and she's close, so close. She pushes up, her legs wrapped tight around his hips. "Severus," she says tightly, highly. She digs her fingernails into his shoulders, scrapes them across his skin. “Please�"oh God�"“
Severus comes with a sharp cry, shuddering over her.
And then he's gone and Lucius is on her, kissing her as he drags his shirt off his shoulders. She tangles her fingers in his hair, so soft and fine, and he's inside of her, lifting her, pressing her against the headboard.
"Narcissa," Lucius mouths against her throat, her jaw. "Love--" He breaks off with a groan and he slides deeper into her, his cock slick with Severus’s come.
The edge of the headboard digs into her shoulder blades, but she doesn't care; she just kisses her husband eagerly, her hands cupping his cheeks, his hair still twined between her fingers.
Aching, she wants more, needs more. Needs him. "Please," she says again. Lucius grabs the headboard and holds fast as he thrusts into her. Narcissa's feet tense on the mattress; her toes curl into the rumpled coverlet. "I need you." She kisses him, bites his bottom lip. "Love you."
Lucius fucks her quickly, pressing her into the carved wood and it's enough, him moving inside of her. She tenses and gasps, comes with Lucius's name on her lips.
She slumps forward, aching and exhausted; she holds him as he jerks against her.
They fall together on the bed.
It takes a long moment for their breath to even. Narcissa smiles at him, brushes his hair back from his face. His cheeks are flushed, damp, his eyes bright. "I love you," she whispers.
Lucius traces her mouth with his fingertip. "And I you."
She kisses his palm, presses her forehead to his shoulder with a soft laugh, and then rolls over. “Severus?”
There’s no answer. No clothes lying on the floor, no discarded boots.
“He’s left,” Narcissa’s voice catches in her tight throat. She swallows past the sudden ache.
Lucius strokes the back of his hand against her cheek.
She feels oddly empty.
“Narcissa.”
She's in the conservatory, tending to the winter plants when Severus enters. He holds himself stiffly; his robe is draped over one arm.
Narcissa sets the shears aside and rises, dusting potting soil from her skirt. "Severus," she says and she holds her hand out.
He ignores it. "You sent for me." He doesn't look at her.
"Yes." She motions him to a prepared table. A pot of Darjeeling and plate of his favourite currant scones and clotted cream awaits. She sits and waits for him to take the seat opposite her before she pours a cup of tea and hands it to him. "You left early the other evening."
"I assumed my part in the activities was over." His hands look odd against the delicate china, fingers long and potion-stained. She shivers, thinking of what they look like cupping her breast, sliding inside of her.
She sips her tea. "That would be erroneous."
Severus looks up at her sharply, then scowls. "Our agreement is at an end," he says tightly. "Perhaps my holding you to it on your husband's return was a mistake."
"Or perhaps not." Narcissa gives him an even look over her teacup. "Lucius and I would like you to join us this weekend." She holds his gaze. "For its entirety if the school can manage not to crumble without you on site."
He flushes and catches his cup before it falls from his hands. He sets it down gingerly. "I doubt that would be wise."
"Wisdom isn't always a virtue."
Severus licks his bottom lip. "Narcissa," he begins, his voice soft.
“I want you.” She twists her serviette between her fingers. Her cheeks burn. “I want you in my bed.” She pleats the small square of fabric, her thumbnail catching on the hem, and meets his gaze. “I want you in me.”
Severus doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His fingers flex against the white damask tablecloth. “Lucius,” he says at last.
“Knows.” Narcissa lays her serviette on the table. “Accepts.”
Severus’s mouth twists to one side. “And when he tires of this charade?”
“We’ll talk about it.” She lifts her teacup, takes a sip. Her hand barely shakes. “The three of us.”
“It’s insane.”
Narcissa sets her cup down. “Perhaps.” She touches the back of Severus’s hand. Her fingers trace small circles against his skin. “You want me, yes?”
Severus draws in a shaky breath. “Dirty Quidditch, Narcissa.”
“I like winning,” she says quietly. “You want me.”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
“Well then.” Splitting a scone in half, she dollops cream across the one side, then spoons strawberry jam on top. She lifts it to Severus mouth. He takes a bite, watching her.
Narcissa drags her thumb over his top lip, wiping away a smear of cream. She brings her thumb to her mouth and licks it clean.
“Fuck,” Severus says.
He leans across the table and his fingers tangle in the soft chignon at the nape of her neck. He kisses her roughly, catches her bottom lip between his teeth.
“Severus,” she whispers into the kiss.
He laughs, a quiet, almost caustic huff against her lips. “I’ve lost my mind.” He pulls away, sits back in his chair. His mouth is wet; his hand trembles as he reaches for his teacup. "There's something you should know."
She raises an eyebrow and he shifts in his chair and sighs.
"Regarding our previous arrangement. His Lordship thought I should be recompensed for…" Severus flushes and looks away. “He informed me that I should require your body in payment for my vow.” A dip of his head and his hair swings forward, falling across his cheek. He studies the plate of scones. “I didn’t object. Obviously.”
She’s not surprised. “What better way to punish Lucius?" Her mouth thins. "He's been quite pleased with the results of late."
"You suspected." Severus frowns. "And yet you--"
Narcissa shakes her head. "No. Not at first. Not until Lucius came home." She runs a finger along the rim of her teacup, staring down into the pale gold-brown liquid, then she looks up at him, eyes hard. "I've no idea why the damned lot of you insist on thinking my head is full of fluff. I'm not an idiot. "
"No," Severus says quietly. His fingers brush the back of her hand for just a moment. "You're not."
“Thank you.“ The gentle touch sends a shiver down her spine. She lifts her teacup. "You’ll join us."
"It's a wretched idea," he says.
Narcissa takes another sip of tea.
Severus sighs. "Bloody hell, I'm to regret this, aren't I?"
"One must always have things to regret, darling," she says with a soft laugh.
Her fingers curl around his.
Severus smiles.
Early morning light streams through the bedroom window, tinged with the faint chilled grey of winter. Narcissa blinks slowly, biting back a yawn as she stretches, shifts in the bed. She turns her head. A bouquet of white roses and Alcyone geraniums lies on the pillow next to her.
She touches the white satin ribbon and blinks back tears.
Lucius, fully dressed, sits on the edge of the bed and touches her cheek. "I'm sorry I missed last year," he says and she smiles up at him. She catches his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.
"It wasn't your fault." The Christmas tree glitters in the corner, fairies twinkling among heavy fir branches and delicate glass globes.
Lucius smoothes his thumb over her cheek. "Perhaps not." He hesitates. "Should we wake him?"
Severus stirs behind Narcissa and wraps his arm around her waist. "Bloody fucking hard to sleep with all this nattering going on," he mumbles into her shoulder.
With a roll of his eyes, Lucius stands. The mattress shifts. He walks to the Floo, rings for an elf. "Tea and scones, Severus?"
"And eggs and a bloody half-rasher of bacon. Some damned bint wore me out all sodding night." Severus curls against Narcissa, his leg slipping between her thighs. "And my trousers, I suppose. Unless you've a better idea."
Narcissa laughs, a bright, cheerful sound that makes her husband turn from the Floo and smile. “Perhaps I might.” She sits up, the coverlet falling from her pale breasts. Her nipples harden in the cool air.
“Lovely,” her husband says, walking back to the bed.
Severus cups one breast, smoothes his palm over her nipple. “Indeed.”
Narcissa reaches for Lucius and draws him down to her.
To Severus.
To them.
“Happy Christmas,” she whispers and kisses them both.
Breakfast is forgotten.
It’s raining when they bury him.
There are few mourners beneath black umbrellas; he would have preferred it that way.
Potter stands to one side, hands shoved in his pockets, the Weasley girl at his side. Draco watches them both from the corner of his eye. Narcissa can see his fists clench in the folds of his robe.
She touches his shoulder; he steps away.
It’s not a slight, she knows. Just her son growing up. Growing apart. As he should.
Still, it stings somewhat, especially today, and she reaches for Lucius’s hand. He draws her closer silently.
They linger at the grave after the others leave. Severus has been buried in the Malfoy plot; neither she nor Lucius discussed it.
There was no need to.
Narcissa kneels on the wet grass, places a hand against the smooth ebony coffin. There are no flowers heaped on top. How he would have hated that.
He was never hers, she knows. There was always Evans, and she saw the look on his face the one time he spoke of her, late at night while Lucius slept. They’d sat naked before the fire, backs against the settee, and a bottle of whisky between them, not bothering with glasses.
It had never mattered. She had never been his, and he had accepted it. But they had had moments of peace in this wretched war. Of happiness.
She misses him.
Lucius touches her shoulder. “We should go home,” he says quietly.
Narcissa catches his hand. “Lucius.” She holds his fingers tight, looks up at him. She’s terrified suddenly, uncertain of what he’ll say. She’d wanted to tell them both, together, but the battle… She takes a shaky breath.
Her husband frowns. “What?”
She closes her eyes. Better just to have it out.
“I’m pregnant.”
He stills, and the rain pours down around him, rolling in fat drops off the curved, charmed silk of the umbrella. “I see,” he says finally.
“I want to keep it.” Narcissa stands. She looks down at the turned grave, then back at her husband. “I can’t--not after this.”
“Whose is it?” His eyes are fixed on her.
She’s done all of the charms already. “I don’t know,” she lies. Her hand splays across her belly. Only two months in and she has yet to begin to swell. Her daughter will be a Christmas baby. Narcissa prays against all odds the child is born with her fair hair. For Lucius’s sake.
Lucius doesn’t say anything for a long moment, then he nods his head. He knows. She’s certain he does. But he takes her hand, kisses her palm. She relaxes. The child will have the Malfoy name. “We’re too old for another Draco,” he says wryly.
Twisting her umbrella between her fingertips, Narcissa smiles faintly. “Merlin, yes.” She’s forty-three almost. The idea of bearing this child is ridiculous, she knows. Still. She’s not been able to bring herself to take the potion sitting in the bathroom cabinet.
Now it would be impossible.
“Home.” Lucius takes her arm. His fingers are solid and warm against her skin. “I’ll not have you wandering about in this weather.”
Merlin, how she loves him. She curls her hand over his, leans in and kisses him, a quick, soft brush of her mouth against his. “Thank you,” she whispers.
He meets her gaze steadily. “I cared for him too,” he says at last, voice quiet. “I wouldn’t have shared you otherwise.”
She nods; he looks away.
It won’t be spoken of again.
Narcissa stops at the graveyard gate, looks back, her hand still curled on the wrought iron bars. Sunlight filters faintly through misty, wet clouds--a quick small burst of hope.
She smiles and whispers a promise she’s certain Severus hears.
The gate swings shut behind them; raindrops rattle through wide oak branches once more.