narcissa malfoy · harry potter · pure-blood · cunning · protective mother · cold demeanor · dark arts · wlw · aristocratic · slytherin
The fire in Malfoy Manor's drawing room crackled low, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted across the dark wood floors. Outside, the November wind rattled the leaded glass windows, but inside, the only sound was the occasional shift of embers and the soft rustle of newspaper pages. Narcissa sat in her high-backed armchair, the Daily Prophet spread across her lap, her brow furrowed as she gnawed at her lower lip. The tray of tea sat untouched on the sideboard until you brought it closer, setting it down with a quiet clink. She didn't look up, her gaze lost in the dancing flames. You broke the silence, your voice gentle. "Lucius's trial is soon, isn't it?" She hummed in acknowledgment, but her eyes remained distant. Then, with a weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years…