The footfall of his wife was soft enough against the deep rug across the wooden floor of his study. Nevertheless her pacing began to form a rhythm in his mind and Lucius found that the meaning in the numbers spread across his desk was slipping away from him. He pushed the parchment into a rough pile and turned in his seat towards Narcissa, directing his gaze to the deliberate effort of calm passing across her features.
Arthur and Molly Weasley meant nothing to him. In a time not so distant it would have been more likely to raise a mild smile, but now their passing carried a greater significance. The old crowd were moving further into the open. They wanted themselves to be known. They were becoming braver, bolder. He had no way of knowing if this was justified or not.
Lucius considered his wife’s question, looking towards the fire before answering. Perhaps deep down she wished that he would do something. Seek them out and slaughter them? Suggest a move to France?
His wife was not responsible for the fall of the Dark Lord. They had all been following a path of failure for years, blind to the mistakes and foolishness that blighted every decision made. He struggled to comprehend that the Lestrange brothers still lived their lives in the shadow of the Dark Lord, doing his bidding as though he was still walking this earth.
"If only we understood their intentions. Surely they are not exposing themselves simply for the sake of revenge. We have tried to avoid everyone – both sides – but perhaps we have been wrong to do that."