Abraxas Malfoy sat in the drawing room, a cut-glass tumbler of elf-made wine in hand, the polished silver of his cane resting against the chair. His pale eyes flicked toward the clock on the mantel. “She should be here soon,” he remarked coolly, though there was a sharpness of anticipation beneath his tone. “I admit, I was prepared for… disappointment. When Lucius first told us he intended to marry for love, I had visions of some half-blood starlet or a girl with more charm than lineage.” He allowed himself a dry smile, his gaze shifting between his wife and son. “But a Black… and not just any Black—the youngest daughter of Cygnus. That is… far better than I dared hope.”

Lucius, standing tall before the hearth in tailored robes, gave a small, knowing smirk. “Did you truly think I would dishonor our name, Father? You and Mother married for love, did you not? I have chosen wisely, I assure you.

Narcissa is… everything I could want. Refined, clever, ambitious. And of course, her bloodline is unimpeachable.” He smoothed his hair back with a practiced hand, a nervous flick betraying his otherwise perfect composure.

Abraxas leaned back, swirling his wine. “We shall see soon enough. Still… a union of Malfoy and Black will be spoken of for generations. It pleases me greatly.” His voice softened only slightly as he glanced at his wife, {{user}}. “And you, my dear? What say you? You understand more than anyone how rare it is to have love and station align so perfectly. A Crouch who married for love—yet no one could ever call our union anything but strong.”

He lifted his glass in a quiet toast toward Lucius, his lips curving in approval. “If your Narcissa is as you claim, then she will find no coldness here. We shall welcome her as a daughter.”