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history × we don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.
The middle of a war is a far from ideal time to try for a baby. It may well be the very worst time to try for a baby, though Narcissa has no other experience to compare it to and less and less desire for any. A baby - no, an heir - is a necessity, an unspoken condition of marriage. She promised to love, honour, obey and for the love of Merlin, get pregnant; of course the Dark Lord can't fail, but men can fall and Lucius has no brothers to take up familial obligation if he does. Watching her own noble and ancient house fall to pieces is its own kind of pressure as she turns her gaze resolutely away and commits herself instead to this family, to her husband and to the Malfoy name.
It seems ridiculous to her suddenly that it's so frightening to be pregnant out of wedlock when it seems next to impossible for her to get pregnant in wedlock - for how it's harped upon you'd think all it takes is a gentle breeze and a wink. Narcissa, who had resorted rather quickly to the assistance of a mediwitch, is beginning to think that the next woman to expect congratulations on her impending bundle of joy is going to suffer for it. Suffer extensively.
A handful of years isn't, she assures herself, cause for panic. Still-
-when she does return, moderately shell-shocked, from her most recent appointment with the healer, the strongest feeling that she can identify is disappointment. The relief that she was waiting for doesn't come, nor the internal reassurances that she'd never considered asking Lucius for. Instead of being buoyed she feels exhausted, new fears arrayed before her. This is exactly what she wanted and she doesn't know what to do now that it isn't making her feel better, so she peels herself out of her gloves and her cloak, leaves instructions for a bath to be drawn, and tiptoes past Lucius's study on her way to their rooms in the hopes that he won't notice she's arrived home. She can't tell him like this; she has to be happy, and she isn't happy, and she should be, so it'll just have to wait a little bit.
Narcissa picks through the offerings of her wardrobe, richly coloured gowns and pale robes, and when she finds the bathrobe she's looking for she sits on the edge of the chaise in her dressing room, clutching it in her hands, and bursts into tears without quite knowing why.
It seems ridiculous to her suddenly that it's so frightening to be pregnant out of wedlock when it seems next to impossible for her to get pregnant in wedlock - for how it's harped upon you'd think all it takes is a gentle breeze and a wink. Narcissa, who had resorted rather quickly to the assistance of a mediwitch, is beginning to think that the next woman to expect congratulations on her impending bundle of joy is going to suffer for it. Suffer extensively.
A handful of years isn't, she assures herself, cause for panic. Still-
-when she does return, moderately shell-shocked, from her most recent appointment with the healer, the strongest feeling that she can identify is disappointment. The relief that she was waiting for doesn't come, nor the internal reassurances that she'd never considered asking Lucius for. Instead of being buoyed she feels exhausted, new fears arrayed before her. This is exactly what she wanted and she doesn't know what to do now that it isn't making her feel better, so she peels herself out of her gloves and her cloak, leaves instructions for a bath to be drawn, and tiptoes past Lucius's study on her way to their rooms in the hopes that he won't notice she's arrived home. She can't tell him like this; she has to be happy, and she isn't happy, and she should be, so it'll just have to wait a little bit.
Narcissa picks through the offerings of her wardrobe, richly coloured gowns and pale robes, and when she finds the bathrobe she's looking for she sits on the edge of the chaise in her dressing room, clutching it in her hands, and bursts into tears without quite knowing why.
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Or at least, this was the plan until he hears muffled sobs coming from her room.
Lucius is up and heading for her side before his brain has fully processed what he's doing. At first he's afraid she's hurt, or that something went wrong at her appointment. Injury, illness.
Lucius has steeled himself, as much as a young man can, to the possibility of his own early death. But he would be utterly unprepared to loose Narcissa.
"Love - " He comes in. There's nothing immediately wrong, so he isn't quite sure what to do. "What is it?" He comes to crouch in front of her.
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Her eyes well up again as she tries to stop weeping in front of him, trembling with frustration. "I'm all right," she says, in absolute defiance of the obvious.
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She's scaring him. Narcissa never comes apart, and he really isn't at all sure what to do. He wants to fix this. But he keeps calm; years of learning to do just that kick in, and he doesn't let his fear take him over.
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The way she says it, half-helpless, is a little disconcerting.
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Her insistence that nothing is wrong isn't helping him remain calm, but he's still giving it a valiant effort.
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"We're going to have a baby," she blurts.
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"I... I don't understand, then. What's wrong? Please, talk to me."
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Her rising voice is taking on a certain edge of anger - Narcissa feels cheated, like she's worked so hard for something only to find it isn't what she thought it was at all.
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It's only something new to worry about when she isn't finished worrying about so many other things. Nothing is fixed by a baby, and it isn't as though their lives were simple and uncomplicated in the first place. She curls her hands into small, tightly balled fists and tries not to cry again, frustrated and furious and unused to this kind of difficulty in expressing it.
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This might be marginally more comforting if he didn't come home bloodied about once a week, but he's trying.
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The thought of being put aside for a more fertile wife - she thinks briefly and contemptuously of the Weasleys - had crossed her mind more than once, but now they're merely months away from the security of an heir the rising fear of losing Lucius himself rears its ugly head.
Spitefully and slightly irrationally, she hopes for a girl and a half dozen more years of marking her cycle on the calendar.
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Especially now. Sitting down and intimately, frankly discussing their feelings has not exactly been a part of their marriage. She pauses and looks up, pressing her fingertips against the side of his face and studying him, paying less attention than she otherwise might to the fact that sobbing fits have never been very flattering to her and that the angle of her own observation leaves her easily studied in turn. (Her vanity is no small thing.) "Really?"
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He smudges her wet cheek a little with his thumb, as he smiles. "Certainly not. After all. It's not the quantity of children but the quality, hm? And, honestly, can you imagine me entrusting my child, before or after the birth, to Katerina Flint?"
Poor Katerina has now become something of an inside joke for them, it must be said.
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Her definition of 'help along' doesn't coincide with anyone else's, by the by.
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On the upside, he has successfully made her stop crying.
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The details of Narcissa's past conquests are presumably going to remain between her, them and God; telling one's Death Eater husband about one's sexual exploits in detail just seems like a bad idea.
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Madam.
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Narcissa pauses, suddenly.
"-I wonder how we're going to manage when I'm the size of a small house."
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