Written for the QLFC, Season 6, Round Ten.
Position: Keeper
Position Prompt: Write about a pregnancy that causes problems for the relevant parties (for example, parents, family, friends, etc).
Word Count: 3007 on GDocs
Beta(s): Aya, CP, Bailey (Thank you so much!)
Go Wanderers!

Warnings: murder, AU, Muggle!AU, somewhat Crime!AU (but not really, since the emphasis is on Narcissa's side of things and not on the investigation). Also, please remember this is labeled as tragedy...

Perfectly polished nails, an exquisitely crafted bracelet around her slender wrist, not a wrinkle on her silky green sleeves—for the hundredth time that evening, Narcissa's gaze scanned every part of her own body. Her eyes lingered on her wedding band proudly displayed on her left hand, catching the light in an almost mocking way.

She was pleased with herself. She was the perfect portrait of a young wife of good family, spending her time with the other dames while the gentlemen had retired in the billiard room for a glass of sherry as they all waited for dinner.

A soft knock interrupted her examination.

"Should I remove Mr. Malfoy's plate setting, Ma'am?" the maid asked.

The innocent question made the ache in Narcissa's back intensify, such was the effort not to lose her composure, but she continued to swirl the amber liquid in her glass, uncaring—those words had not been meant to her.

"Certainly not," her mother replied, her shoulders stiffening. "Mr. Malfoy will—"

Narcissa didn't bother to listen to that lie, nor to catch the barely concealed pity on the maid's face.

It was like a script, after all; everyone had their lines.

Lucius was never there—probably with another woman.

In about a half an hour, another voice, old and masculine, would announce, "Dinner is served," before the man's chin would lower to touch his chest, the exact same spot each time, Narcissa had noticed. And that would soon be followed by her mother's, "Mr. Malfoy sent his apologies, but he's still at the office. Shall we start without him?"

Then, her mother, fast and efficient, would hurry to instruct which gentleman would take which dame to dinner, her voice steady.

Everyone complied with small bows and hinted curtseys.

Narcissa could only consider herself lucky to have her hand rest on her childhood friend Rabastan's arm as he was often kind enough to bring his other hand to rest on her own, the warmth comforting and reminding her she was allowed to feel.

Narcissa, knowing no one would bother with Lucius again tonight, forced her muscles to relax.

It was a well-practiced script, one she seemed to be the only one unable to play.

But how long would she be able to keep on caring for someone who didn't care about her? And yet, when she had chosen Lucius over Rabastan, she had known what she was getting into. The fact that Bellatrix had already happily married into the Lestrange family had played a very little part in her choice. No, Narcissa had followed her heart then, not unlike Andromeda.

There had been something soft in his silver eyes, she had been so sure of it.

But Rabastan was here right now; Lucius wasn't. Her step faltered at the thought. "Slippery slippers." She laughed it away as Rabastan steadied her.

…

Pregnant.

She was pregnant and jealous of the creature in her womb. And that hurt. It hurt so much to feel her body reject the same blood that flew from hers to her baby's veins. It felt like being on fire and forced to fan the very flames that were consuming her.

She didn't know her child, never saw it, couldn't bring herself to speak to it, and yet it was hers to protect and cherish now. No matter how tempted she was to hate it for stealing all of Lucius' attention. For it was clear that the way his eyes softened whenever the two of them were in the same room didn't originate from a renewed regard towards her, but by the promise of an heir, while she was no more than a discardable vessel. It was clear that every brush, every word, every caress of warm air sent her way were meant to go straight through her.

Only once did she catch the soft eyes that had once belonged to a younger Lucius on her husband's face. His left hand twitched, his thumb brushing his wedding ring, as his lips parted. For a brief, glorious moment, her body was light again, the liquid fire in her veins turning into a soothing balm.

The click of the door opening and introducing Rabastan was all it took for Lucius' cold mask to slip into place again, his eyes running to her stomach before glaring at the intruder as he left the room.

A bullet lodged in her skin would have been a mercy in comparison.

She couldn't compete with this. She couldn't risk Lucius despising her, seeing her as even lesser than she felt.

She might not be his beloved wife, but she was still his child's mother.

Just because he loves you, she'd tell her baby, that doesn't mean you'll convince him to care for me, too.

She hated and feared it. Hated it because she found herself facing the same crossroads she had thought to have put behind herself on her wedding day. Feared it because, in front of that choice, she was inexorably growing weaker and weaker.

She was a stray ship, pushed into Rabastan's trail by the tide. His waiting arms, his insinuating words seemed to always be there to catch her, ensnare her, trap her, while the distance between her husband and her turned unbridgeable.

The baby, Lucius' baby through and through—not that there might be any doubt about it—would always kick harder, more viciously every time Rabastan's spicy cologne filled her nostrils. Her mother blamed her hormones, but Narcissa, despite not understanding, knew better. Her husband and her friend had never stood each other, and that feud ran deeply in their blood.

That and her constant headache left her with little choice but to hide out in her room—she had nobody to turn to.

There, tightly wrapped up in her blanket, to the point of choking, she spent her time alone, crying and sighing.

Longing.

And if the moonlight seemed to catch a glimpse of pale blond hair behind the dark curtains, if the breeze brought Lucius' voice to her ears, that had to be a trick of her mind.

Lucius couldn't be here. Not again.

…

His shoulders. After weeks of absence in which even Rabastan had made himself scarce, her husband deigned to come back, and all she could spot in the dark was the broad silhouette of his shoulders, slightly hunched forwards as he tinkered with the desk drawer.

Still half-asleep, her lips moved on their accord to form her husband's name, but no sound came. Her throat felt too dry, her lungs too small.

She struggled, but Lucius' hushed words froze any further attempt of hers to call him.

"If only. If only," he was saying, his voice muffled by hastily moving papers. "—complete bastard—'m helpless—even from afar—" He seemed to be gritting his teeth, which was followed by an intake of breath, too shaky, too sharp.

Narcissa tensed as quiet steps approached her.

"My poor angel."

She must have imagined those words. It had been very clear from the beginning that she was not to be his. Ever.

A tear escaped her as she felt him back away.

"It'll never end," he said, sounding angry again, certainly regretting their marriage.

The rustling continued.

Money. He needed money for his current flame. Why, oh why was she awaken? She pressed her eyes shut in a futile, childish attempt to go back to sleep and forget anything about this.

"Forgive me, Narcissa."

Turning her head, she glanced at his shadow out of the tail of her eye.

He was holding something, ruffling it up. "You didn't deserve this."

No, she didn't. "Lucius!" she managed to call. This had to end, once and for all.

He startled but quickly recovered. "Hello, Narcissa." His tone betrayed nothing. "How are you?"

"Where have you been?"

"Darling—"

"No, I won't forgive you just like that, without even an explanation as to why you behave like a thief in our home."

"I—"

"Can you really love anything?" Had she been standing, she would have stomped.

Casting a cold glance upon her, he turned and locked the door before slowly making his way towards her, silently, tiptoeing.

Her heart was pounding, her breath uneven, but she wouldn't back down. She crossed her arms and shielded herself with the blanket.

His eyes turned sad. "Do you truly think I'm a monster?"

Did she? "If you had a heart—"

He leaned forward, carefully reaching out until his hand was hovering over her shoulder, not quite touching it. "Narcissa." It was pained and soft, and she felt protectiveness swelling in her heart, undeserved as it was.

She should be kicking him out as soon as possible. Before it was too late. But then, it was so rare of him to be looking for her company that she had no heart to reject him yet. Perhaps, they could still sort things out.

"If you do not stop me now—" he whispered. "Tell me."

She didn't wish to. She needed to forget quite a few nightmares herself, and so did he, if his eyes, that not even the darkness could veil, were any indication.

Let etiquette and composure come in the morning.

Tonight was about insanity.

…

It had not been a dream back then—her swollen womb and aching heart proved it—and it was not a dream this time either.

Lucius was here and speaking to their unborn baby, ignoring her. Whether it was because he deemed her still asleep or unworthy of his time, she didn't wonder. She nipped at her lower lip, feeling an intruder.

"—been a coward, ready to run away, but your mum didn't deserve it. And now it's time to face my responsibilities." He passed a hand across his face. "Had I known… If only…"

All of Narcissa's limbs felt too numb, too heavy.

"Pure as the driven snow, and I-I didn't want to stain that. I was foolish enough to think I could keep her. Selfish man."

His hollow, raucous laugh froze the very blood in her veins. Gods, he sounded drunk, and she was scared.

It was not even their child he was addressing. He seemed to be lost in a horror only he could see.

"He'd warned me—Everything you hold dear, he said. And I thought… Last time, it was her freedom—granted. Always. I knew she was better off without me. But it's the child now—it deserves a good father. She deserves a good husband."

She looked at him, then. His eyes were glowering feverishly in the dark. It was like he saw her for the first time. "In this relationship, you've always been Cupid, the one mortals couldn't and shouldn't cast their eyes upon. On pain of death. And I've done much worse—I brought an innocent baby into this mess. It was not fair, but I'll redeem myself in your eyes, Narcissa. It'll never be enough, but you two are worth fighting for. If, when I'll come back, you'll still want me—" He rose, kissing her hand, before leaving. "I'll protect our baby."

She stared after his retreating form for what seemed ages before shaking herself out of her stupor and started chasing after him.

She ran and ran, never stopping. Not even when the asphalt scratched her bare feet. Not even when drool dripped out of her mouth, and her lungs felt on fire. Not even when a loud shot hurt her ears, and she stumbled upon a lifeless body, hot, viscous liquid staining her hands.

Lucius.

"On pain of death," she whispered, shocked. "On pain of death."

No, no, no.

It was their child's fault, Lucius had warned her.

No, not at fault.

A heavy hand suddenly grabbed her shoulder, and she screamed.

"Narcissa—" Rabastan bent over to pick something. "How could you?"

She blinked, without understanding. "H-He was going away. I wanted to s-stop him." His grip was almost painful, but she welcomed it. It kept her grounded.

"You must listen to me, Narcissa," he said, sternly. "You never owned a gun."

"Rabastan…" She shook her head, trying to make sense of his words over the mad thump, thump, thump of her heart. The shot still resounded in her ears, muffling any other sound, included her own voice.

"This—" He pressed something hard into her hand before taking it back. "—is not yours."

"Not mine," she said, hypnotized by his intensity. "N-No."

"You know nothing about this, understood?"

"Rabastan, that's not…" Something wasn't right. If only she could convince her brain to focus.

"Come on. Let's get you home."

It was wrong, wrong, wrong.

As soon as Rabastan's gloved hand found hers, her arm went to embrace her belly, protectively, sensing her baby's nervousness.

Lucius had promised they'd be safe.

No, no, no.

She shouldn't have been here.

She had never owned a gun. Never. Rabastan had said so. He had made it sound so crucial and yet fake, while she knew it was the truth. Wasn't it?

…

Out of deference to their family, the investigation took place behind closed doors, in the privacy of their living room.

So many questions, tumbling over one another, coming both from her brain and the policemen, were making her head twirl.

Her only coherent thoughts were that Lucius had died, and everyone seemed to be blaming her. But they had to know she would never—she was carrying his baby, after all.

"Being pregnant with another man's baby is a good motive," they merely said and continued the interrogation. They were determined to dig any little detail up, forcing themselves into every aspect of her married life, which, according to them, "was very unhappy."

Someone coldly scribbled that down too.

Over and over again would she be made to re-tell anything that had happened as if they expected her to betray herself.

"Mrs. Malfoy, why would Mr. Lestrange think you killed your husband?"

"Oh, that's ridiculous. I never—" Rabastan said, but she interrupted him.

"He found me over his body, soaked in his blood. Too shocked to explain that the shot had come from another angle."

"I'm sorry, Narcissa. I thought—Gods!"

"It's all right, Rabastan. I'd have suspected the same." She was so tired.

They constantly dismissed her words. "Frail mind," they whispered.

It was never enough.

She blinked, her eyes unnaturally dry given the situation.

It never ended.

Until—

"Mr. Lestrange may believe you, but his feelings for you are well-known. I fear we'll have to arrest you on suspicion of murder, Mrs. Malfoy. There's no evidence of what you say, and you're the only one without an alibi." And ample motive for murder was left unsaid.

The last things she knew were a feeling of nausea, the floor vertiginously rising to meet her, and a cry.

…

Bags under her eyes almost as black as her gown, opaque hair stuck to her too thin face, chapped lips—no trace of the usual Narcissa that she had seen reflected in this very same mirror. Her hand hovered over the brush before falling, apparently boneless.

Her parents had obtained house arrest for her, momentarily avoiding the scandal, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

What was the matter with her? She didn't seem to be able to feel anything.

Only dullness. Which might be a mercy—not to find herself hating her baby for unknowingly succeeding in separating her husband from her.

Oh, the irony.

…

When the door opened, she didn't bother turning her head, but something in her mother's "My dear girl" made her eyes crack open. She frowned as the light hurt them, and that only deepened when a bony, rigid arm encircled her waist, the mattress sagging under her mother's weight.

"They caught the killer, and I can promise you, my Narcissa, they're all going to pay. For being so blind, so biased, so… Your father is as furious as me—" Her mother's body spasmed in anger as she crumpled a piece of paper with angry red marks on it. "This is the list of everyone who made you suffer. Policemen, that inspector, Rabastan."

"R-Rabastan?"

"This may come as a shock."

Narcissa nodded.

"He's the one who killed Lucius. He's always hated him."

That, Narcissa knew, but—

"That night when you got pregnant? Rabastan had been blackmailing Lucius for months then, forcing him to stay away from you, divorce from you, claiming you didn't deserve such a black-hearted husband. And Lucius was ready to give you up. But when he came back to gather some clothes and money, something happened—"

Both glanced at Narcissa's belly.

"How did we miss it?" Her mother sighed. "You were pregnant, and that meant Rabastan had lost you forever. Oh, he still tortured Lucius at any turn, threatening to publicly disgrace you, exposing you as a cheater—everyone knew how tense the relationship between you and Lucius was. Lucius' hands were tied. He couldn't divorce from you without risking your baby being abused by Rabastan, and he couldn't stay married to you."

Lucius.

"So he chose the honorable path. He'd pay his debt to society and come back to you, hoping to be worthy of your forgiveness for selfishly putting you through years of undeserving hell."

I'd forgive you.

"Rabastan found him first."

"But Rabastan defended me. He said—" He had pressed his gun against her hand. "Oh."

"Whatever love he may have felt for you withered when you got pregnant. In his eyes, you were damaged goods."

A new light was suddenly shed on Lucius' cryptic words about Cupid and Psyche.

"And finding you over Lucius' body—the perfect chance for revenge was being handed to him on a silver plate." Her mother hesitated. "Narcissa? What Lucius did—"

"I don't care. He tried to do the right thing, and he paid the heaviest price. We both did. As far as I'm concerned, my marriage only lasted one precious, loving, blessed night that the Gods envied us so much they doomed us for it." On pain of death. "The living can't ask for more than death, but sometimes, out of death comes life." Narcissa brought her hand to her stomach. "Doesn't it, Draco?"