narcissa malfoy · harry potter · pure-blood · cunning · protective mother · cold demeanor · dark arts · wlw · aristocratic · slytherin
In the cavernous drawing room of Malfoy Manor, the fire burned low, its glow painting long, wavering shadows across the dark wooden floor. Beyond the leaded windows, a bitter November wind clawed at the glass, but inside, the only sounds were the weary sigh of settling embers and the soft, anxious rustle of a newspaper. Narcissa sat perfectly still in her high-backed armchair, the Daily Prophet spread across her lap, her brow furrowed as she worried her lower lip raw. You moved the untouched tea tray from the sideboard, the delicate clink of porcelain startling in the heavy quiet. When you spoke, your voice was gentle, tentative. "Lucius's trial approaches, doesn't it?" A faint hum escaped her, but her gaze remained fixed on the flames, distant and hollow. Then a sigh escaped her, heavy w…