My Bad Faith

“Hideous.”

“Dora?”

“Too weak.”

“Shasta?”

“Where the hell did you get that one?”

“Then you like it?”

“I will hex myself before I allow a Shasta Malfoy to inherit all that I have.”

Our conversation was leading us in nauseating circles. I was tired of the same beaten path– the scenery was dull. Perhaps the child would be named "Anonymous." Anonymous Malfoy. I almost liked it. Narcissa pinched her lips closed on her sewing needle, as she rummaged through a rectangular silver box that was balanced on her ripe belly.

"'Ur muhher sehz t' nehm da-"

"Pardon?" I looked up from the Daily Prophet, currently reading an article on Muggle Enslavement, and quirked an eyebrow.

My wife rolled her glassy blue eyes skyward and, with nimble fingers, took the needle from her lips. "I was saying that your mother wishes to name the child after her." Her thin, blood-red lips gracefully tucked into a devilish grin. Her hair, gently pulled back with an elegant clasp adorned with pearls and emeralds, fell down her back in golden waves, hesitating at her shoulders where the joints interrupted the consistent flow. Bits of hair stuck out in all directions, though it mostly stayed down, having some concoction applied to her head.

I scowled, throwing my eyes back to the newsprint. "That woman is insane. Marie-Augustina, indeed. That shall never happen as long as the blood of a Malfoy flows through my veins. Besides, that’s hardly a name for our son." I glared at my wife. "Do you hear me woman? A male."

She looked as though she were having fun with the entire situation. She smirked, but a cold look from me put slack in her cheeks, and she returned her attention to the silver receiving blanket that she was hemming. "Yes, m'lord. Anything you wish."

I watched her as the flames in the hearth splashed hypnotic shadows across her regal face like the tide returning from sea. It greatly annoyed me how determined that woman was to give birth to another female. And yet, after close scrutiny of the possibility, at least the girl would have been spawned from the most attractive pure-blooded witch and wizard obtainable. Still, an elegant and attractive man never hurt anything. Myself, case-and-point.

"Cassiopia?"

I was about to sigh out loud when I thought about it. "Cassiopia..." She looked up at me suddenly, so startled that she knocked the engraved silver container from her belly. Surprise glowed in her eyes, mingled with the reflection of the fire. "Cassiopia Malfoy..."

"Cassiopia Margarette?"

I slowly swilled the idea. "I can see it working -- but it is of no consequence, you realize, not even a Weasley would name their son 'Cassiopia'."

She waved her hand impatiently. "Of course not, of course not. But as a back-up plan—should the world suddenly stop revolving, and we should happen to have a girl, would you be agreeable with such a name?"

I shrugged and shook out the paper. Muggle Enslavement regained my interest. The Ministry of Magic has been putting a stop to recent attempts by You-Know-Who supporters to enslave Muggles. Four Ministry of Magic officials died whilst capturing the perpetrators. Junior Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge was quoted to-

"Dear heart?"

I rolled my eyes and folded my paper. I took my time setting the Daily Prophet on the side table. "Yes?"

"What shall he be named, then?"

Lacing my fingers, I studied her; her eagerness to settle upon a specific title for our son was slightly annoying. I didn't think I'd mind if we called him simply, 'Hey, you.' "Cadmus. No arguments."

"Surely I would have thought you'd prefer Lucius, Junior, or Lucius the Second, or the like," she countered. She made to reach over the side of her fainting-couch for her sewing box, but her protuberant belly blocked her access. She reached again, sighed, and gave up. "Have you a middle name so decidedly chosen as the first?"

"No. I care nothing for a middle name. No one really pays attention to middle names as it is," I said, standing from my high-backed chair. She opened her mouth to pose a question, but I was ahead of her. "Yes. Whatever middle name you feel suits." My wife gave a small, rare smile. And- was that a blush of embarrassment I saw tinting her cheeks? I ran my elongated, pristine fingers through my hair. "If you'll pardon me," I said with half a nod, "I believe I need a fresher atmosphere." As I stalked down the red- and silver- marbled area rug, pausing once to whip my wand from its holster to levitate the spilled sewing box back to Narcissa's belly.

"You Malfoys are so stubborn," she said, sighing at my back.

"Your lot's not much better," I remarked, not turning back.

I made my way down the torch-lit corridor, dark walls dancing in and out of view from the unnatural flames. My destination wasn't exactly aimless, though details needed definition. Cobwebs crept like shattered glass over thresholds and doorframes, indestructible against the servants' constant scouring and dusting- forever part of the Malfoy Mansion- and reputation. I retrieved my travelling cloak from the black mahogany wardrobe at the end of the corridor, flanked in shadows. I Apparated immediately from the corridor to Knockturn Alley- there was a good pub there; dark, confidential, and served the best hard liquor one could desire.

Knockturn Alley, as always, was damp and hazy, as though settled in a constant fog. A thin, brown stream of water trickled down the uneven street, winding through the worn cobblestones. Everything had a fine coat of soot and dirt upon it, highly unhygienic, though somehow I didn't mind it. Shop windows, painted store names chipping and rubbing off the pane, were clouded and cracked in places. The whole alley had a very Victorian-slums feel to it. Drab, dark, and dreary, even for my own tastes. I felt, as I stalked across the grey and brown pavement, that at any moment Jack the Ripper might slip from a crevice and join me in a stroll. Not that I’d mind. It’d make for a very interesting evening, indeed.

A soggy wooden sign creaked in the black mist on rusted hinges, peeling red paint on the warped wood advertised Marsh's Fire Barrel. I encountered none as I travelled the silent nine meters and stepped through the neglected door. The pub was darker than the alley, sparsely lit by a few torches on wall-brackets and sporting a few bubbly table candles. None of the current occupants looked up as I passed over the threshold, too immerged in their own conversations to notice, save one. His frozen eyes caught my attention, sitting on a stool at the centre portion of the bar. He nodded at me, gesturing with his sharp chin for me to sit in the vacant spot next to him.

"Snape," I acknowledged, obliging him in sitting.

The sallow-faced man turned his face forward. "Malfoy." He tipped the last of his drink down his throat, his prominent Adam's apple leaping as he gulped. "Buy you a drink?" Snape set down his glass as a bartender emerged from the darkness: I wished he had stayed where he was; his face was deformed and gnarled, as though he had picked a fight with something much more vicious than himself- and barely escaped with his life.

"I wouldn't say 'no,'" I replied, looking briefly around the room at the other guests. "Fire whisky and gin over ice."

The bartender nodded and immediately began to busy himself with our liquor. Snape strummed his brittle fingers on the warped bar top as his drink was refreshed. The hideous man slid our glasses toward us, napkins under them that looked as if they had been recycled more than a few dozen times. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the rim of my glass before bringing it to my lips. Snape made no hesitation to down his entire drink in a long swallow. The bartender made to leave, but Snape shoved his glass back, forcing the bartender refill it before departing.

I sipped at the alcohol then ventured with a question. "What persuaded you to join, ah, our little association? From what I recall from my school days, you weren't exactly Slytherin's crown student, to say the least. Hardly a Slytherin at all. Perhaps, ah, my memory's gone sour, but I seem to have this thought in my head that you were often the butt of many a joke and bullied relentlessly by that pack of Gryffindors."

Snape followed the bartender with his beady black eyes until we were alone. Slowly, he set down his glass, but did not turn to me. His long, knobbly fingers twiddled the rim of his cup. "Time changes people. Experiences change people," he snarled.

"Indeed," I murmured into my glass as I prepared for another sip. "May one venture to suppose what particular event changed you?"

"I'd rather one didn't." His eyes caught mine. Oh yes, I quite liked this man. So cold and distant, exactly the necessity for His Lordship's most devoted followers. His disposition on everything seemed apathetic and nostalgic, yet, for him, it seemed reasonable.

"Rather elusive, I dare say." Snape raised a brow, daring me. "Oh, my friend, do not get me wrong. I agree most heartedly on such a thing. Good show." I brought the drink back to my mouth.

He turned to me, expressionless, but eyes still as black ice. "So, I hear you're expecting? Hardly fits your character, if I may be bold enough to say." Ah, touché, Mr. Snape, touché.

My upper lip twitched against the goblet. "I'm here for a drink, Snape, not chit-chat," I said, lowering my fire whisky and gin. The air was thicker than a slab of granite. "Yes. My wife is due shortly."

"Congratulations, Malfoy. One can only wish for your son to be graced with your sense and ambitions." He tipped his glass to me, realised it was empty, frowned, and called out, "Barkeep! Top me off!" He slammed his glass down, disturbing the three hooded gentlemen -or whom I believed to be gentlemen- nearest us.

I nodded at his glass, now full. "How many have you had?"

"Does it matter?"

He seemed to be holding his liquor quite well, so I shook my head. "I suppose not." His lip twitched as he returned to his drink. "I was reading in the Prophet today that-"

"I beg pardon, Master Malfoy," said the misshapen bartender. "But an owl has just arrived from the Malfoy estate." He gave a partial bow and handed me a grey envelope. In the proper light, I noted that his disfiguration was genetic, not accidental. I was repulsed, but hid my reaction. Half-goblin? Who'd want to shag a goblin? Certainly if someone had enough to drink, he wouldn’t mind, I supposed... A brief thought as to the blood-alcohol level of Snape flashed across my mind, but I dismissed it hurriedly as I casually looked at the seal.

It was from my wife.

How dare she interrupt my rest! How absolutely improper, for one to receive a letter from one's wife in the midst of discussing highly manly things with an acquaintance. I made to put the letter away in my breast pocket, but I noticed Snape eyeing it.

"Aren't you going to read it?"

I hesitated, certainly wanting to make it known that I never followed the advice of any beside my Lord, yet knowing that I should probably at least look at it. My arm moved past my breast pocket and to my shoulder, where I feigned an itch. "Not so hasty, now, Snape. I was intending to do just that." I broke the charcoal-wax seal, embossed with a loopy 'NM', intertwined with a fluid-looking snake. The letter was short and hurriedly written, my wife 'humbly requesting' my immediate return to the Mansion. She gave no details nor explanations.

I turned it over and examined the back. Nothing. "It seems, Snape, as though I have been requested to return." I stood. "I beg your pardon," I said with a bow. "Perhaps we shall continue some other time. Grateful for the drink."

"Certainly, Malfoy."

With that I straightened my cloaks and Disapparated from the pub. Disapparation is a funny thing. It fells as though one is being stretched in all directions at once, then sprung back together, like the implosion of a star. As my body relocated itself at my home, I realised I hadn't been concentrating as intensely as I should have, and my foot landed unevenly on the top step of the staircase, nearly sending me cascading down three flights of granite. I caught myself on the railing, cursing loudly at myself.

Hearing my curses, Dobby hurried in, apparently figuring that he was the cause of my profanities. A guilty conscious, had he? "Yes, Master?" the sorry-looking house-elf inquired.

"My wife- where is she?"

"The bedroom, Master." He cowered as I strode past him, kicking his sorry hide out of my way as I did. Had I been thinking, I would have aimed down the stairs. "Dobby begs the Master's forgiveness, but the Mistress said it was urgent- should... should not the Master Apparate to the room?"

"Filth! Mind your own business!" Snarling, I struck him with the back of my hand, sending him to a small pile in a corner, where he stayed, whimpering. I continued to my bedroom at a moderately slow pace, only to defy Dobby, if anything else.

Narcissa sat on the edge of the master bed, staring forlornly into space, while wringing the hem of her robes with both hands. Her skin was more pale than was beautiful, and she looked as though she was using all of her might to keep from being sick all over the place. Her handmaid, Abagail, saw me, her plain features on her face forcing an apathetic expression, though I knew she was slightly frightened. I have always frightened her. Her minute fingers finished the loose plait in my wife's fly-away hair. The girl bowed horizontally at the hips, then fled my presence, her pressed white cleaning-smock flapping eagerly at her legs.

When the doors were closed, I looked to my wife. "Why did you call me home, woman?"

She refused to meet my eyes. "I- Well, I was in the lavatory... blood... I'm afraid... there was a spot of... could we..."

Shaking my head, I frowned. "What are you trying to say?"

"There was blood."

"You're the woman. Why drag me into feminine problems?" I quickly regretted having said what I did, though I'd never admit it to a soul. Narcissa snatched a crystal decanter from the bedside table and hurled it at me. It shattered some metres from me, looking like pellets of ice on our floor.

Rising from the bed, she rapidly approached me, eyes wild and vivid, full of disgust and hatred. She grabbed at my cloak and shook. "You fool, Lucius! Women do not menstruate during their pregnancy! How violently ignorant and-!" She took a few deep breaths, closed her eyes, and found her seat again. "Lucius, dear heart." She feigned sweetness in her words. "I need to see a medi-wizard. If you'd be so kind as to grant me such a privilege, I would be grateful."

I blinked twice, then raised my chin. "Any but that Toychen chap. Something about him didn't settle right."

"Fine, whatever."

"Had no respect."

"Lucius, that's fine- Just get me a damned doctor, you insufferable git!"

I felt no remorse in back-handing her. She went silent and motionless, not even raising her hand to touch her cheek where I had made a mark- not even to right herself into a full, upright position. I promised that I would speak to her about her behaviour once the medi-wizard left. As I left the room, I noticed that she didn't straighten herself, even as I closed the doors behind me.

The medi-wizard that arrived was similar to the last in that he was inhumanely decrepit, but at least this one knew where his place lies. I was again asked to wait outside of the room as he preformed some simple tests. I retreated to my recreation room to pass the time. Gathering up my set of silver gilded daggers, I aimed each for the centre of my target board. My first throw struck the wall an arms length from the target. I wasn't thinking straight. I shook my head and tried again. Miserably missed.

Four rounds of daggers later, I was able to strike the board.

By the time I actually connected with the centre, the medi-wizard was being shown in the room by Abagail. He stood at the door while I finish my set. "Mister Malfoy, a moment of your time? I'll be brief," he said tonelessly.

"You have my attention." I crossed my arms across my chest and leaned up against the cabinet which held my fencing foils and sabres.

"Your wife had some very minor complications. The amount of time she spent of her feet put a little stress on her uterus. Nothing to cause alarm, really. If your wife stays off her feet for the rest of the pregnancy, your son and wife will be fine. Now," said the medi-wizard. "As to my payment, nine Galleons should cover the charges. Shall I be accepting direct payment from you, or shall I wire it from your Gringotts' account?"

"Pardon?"

"Nine Galleons."

"No," I snapped. "Did you say son?"

"I did, indeed. Now, my money-"

"Here." I tossed him a small satchel of money. I wasn't sure exactly how much was in it, but it didn't particularly matter. It was far more than nine Galleons, I'm sure. "That should cover it, I believe." He pocketed it and bowed himself out of the room, hurrying as though afraid I would realise my error and demand it back. I didn't bother to suppress my laughter. Oh, how good it is to be me. Born Malfoys have a natural instinct about them- they are always right.

Returning to my bedroom, I pushed open the looming doors and found Narcissa sitting upon the bed sheets, almost exactly where I had left her. Everything was silent, save for my own breath, echoing hollowly off the stone walls. As I approached my wife, I became aware of the thick stillness surrounding her; her very presence seemed to vacuum out the noise.

I took up a seat on the bed beside her, taking her fragile right hand in both of mine. "Ah, my darling-"

She snapped her blonde head around to glare at me. "Don't you start with me. I won't have any of it."

"And I won't have any of yours. Mark my words, next time I shan't be so kind."

She smirked suddenly, pleased about something. "That's alright, it didn't hurt." She was a horrible liar. There was a pink mark on her cheek from where I had struck her. I smirked as I leaned forward and kissed her lightly on her tender, ripened skin. "Damn you," she whispered breathily. I kissed the tiny nook where her perfect earlobes met her slender jaw. "Damn you to hell, Lucius."

"My dear woman, I have told you that I would have a male heir and nothing else. I've said it on multiple occasions, to be sure. And a shame, really," I said slowly in her ear as I sat up. "The name of Cassiopia was growing on me." I brushed a fleck of dust from my black sleeve.

She furrowed her brows in disbelief. "You're such a hideous liar." She turned from me.

"Oh, be a nice sport, Narcissa. I had nothing to do with the outcome," I countered.

My wife laughed shrilly, yet somehow it seemed elegant when poured from her throat. "Nothing to do with it? Medically speaking, you had everything to do with it, my good sir. I'm not exactly the Virgin Mary."

"Oh, no indeed. Far from it, my little vixen." I ducked, frowning, as she hurled her silk pillow at my face. "Case and point."

She shrugged. "Point taken." My wife studied her fingernails. "Cadmus?" she said as she inspected her ring-finger more closely.

"Yes."

"Well, I'll think about that middle name. Strong, yet romantic; powerful, yet sophisticated..." She bit her lip. "Hmmm..."

"You think about that." I stooped to unlatch my boot. "Shall I call up for dinner?"

She gave me her unique, genuine smile that she reserves for only special occasions. "Dinner in bed? I think that would be appropriate. To celebrate our son."

"Yes- to our son."