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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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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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