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'Wisteria.' He replied bluntly without realizing what mistake he had just made.

Narcissa goggled her eyes at him and propped herself up on one elbow. She glared at her future husband, her eyes filled with contempt and resentment, and he immediately felt pain sting his left temple. To say such a thing after their first night together was unthinkable and plain stupid. 

'What did you say?'

'I said... No matter what I said. I'm sorry. I thought your question was about a real flower: with roots and leaves, you know.' 

Narcissa pouted.

'Yes, of course. I meant a real flower. And what did you think?'

'Well... I think it was a trick question.' 

'Indeed, it was. And now you're in trouble, Mr Malfoy. So, who is she?'

'What do you mean?' Lucius tried to play innocent but his forehead was already all sweaty. 

'I mean "Wisteria". It's not JUST a flower, is it?'

'But it is! I was talking about the flower, I swear.'

'And I think you are lying through your teeth, Lucius.'

'What makes you think so?'

'Your guilty look.'

'I might be looking guilty just because I told you the truth but it's not good enough for you. You expected something else, didn't you? And now you think that I'm gonna pay for it.'

'You're quite right. And I strongly regret what happened between us last night.'

She sat up on the bed with a clear intention to leave but Lucius stopped her by gripping her wrist. And then he spoke and there was a plea to his voice.

'Narcissa, don't go. Don't make snap judgements about me. If you're feeling jealous, you shouldn't be. Just think about it: have you ever heard of anyone with such a name? We've known each other since we were born. We have the same friends and acquaintances. Is there anyone whose name would even slightly resemble the name of that damned flower?'

She pondered over it for a minute and then, slightly more relaxed, leaned back to get closer to her future husband. She turned to give him an intent look. 

'You're right: I don't know anyone with such a name. Even the word itself is new and exotic to me. What does this flower look like?'

Reaching out, Lucius put his arm around her waist. 

'I'll show you, if you forgive me and give me a hug. As for the flower, it's really beautiful.

______

The flower was very beautiful indeed. Imprisoned in a separate cell, Lucius conjured up vision of it quite often: its sweet-scented purple inflorescence, lush and heavy. The most beautiful of flowers but the memory of it was one of the worst, if not the most gruesome. A beautiful flower... and a beautiful girl. A girl that should have grown up and matured into a beautiful woman. She should have but she had never been given that chance. Instead she turned into nothing and who was to blame? That stupid, filthy muggle who should have minded his own business and should never have made a pass at her for he was simply not worthy. As for Lucius, he was just... too desperate at the moment. Desperate situations demand desperate remedies. So, he had to take action and the consequences turned out to be desastrous. His feeble and near-dead conscience pronounced him guilty as well but not nearly as guilty as was the muggle. Or perhaps Lucius had been deceiving himself all this time. Perhaps he was to blame and the muggle was just a catalyst. A victim in a way. Maybe it was Lucius himself who was the real monster in that situation and nothing could change that. He would have done what he did under any circumstances. He would have become what he had become anyway because it was in his nature.

He closed his eyes and gave in to despair. Suddenly his hearing was filled with a high pitched, ringing sound and his head – with thoughts of suicide. No doubt, that was one of the dementors who had come too close to his cell. His only desire now was to bang his head against the wall until it, the head that is, became cracked open and until Lucius lost his very ability to think and to recall things. To bite off his tongue was also an option: he would bleed to death then. Or starve himself to death. He would have done something of these long ago but for thoughts of and his worries about his family. In prison he had visions of them: of Draco and Narcissa, and those were far from pleasant, of course. Sometimes he saw them sentenced to life, just as he had been. At other times he saw them tortured to death and their bodies, unburied and rotting. But the worst of the visions was one in which his son Draco had followed in Voldemot's steps and eventually took his place.

Lucius felt a dementor come closer and forgot how to breathe. Tears started to trickle down his sunken, unshaven cheeks and with his mind's eye he beheld a purple branch of the wisteria flower, shaking in the wind. It suddenly turned black, all wrapped up in gloomy shadows, and reached out for his throat. "You will always remember me, Lucius Malfoy, until the day you die. And after you've drawn your last breath, I will not let you be, until your soul withers, just like my soul withered and faded away.'

The dark wizard fell on the floor of his cell and wept.