Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Narcissa had never been one for laughter. It was considered undignified, a frivolity that could mar the perfection she was always expected to maintain. She smiled, of course—she had to, for appearances—but her smiles were often cold and calculated, like crystal that gleamed but never warmed. Or they were fleeting, a small, gentle curve of her lips that she tried—often unsuccessfully—to hide. They were the smiles of a woman who had mastered grace but never quite grasped the carefree joy others so easily displayed.

Lucius, ever observant, loved her smile more than she would ever realize. He took pride in causing it, though he understood that Narcissa and happiness were often at odds. There were moments of bliss, to be sure—those quiet, intimate moments when they would hold each other close or exchange words full of tenderness—but mirth, true mirth, was something Narcissa kept at arm's length.

That is, until Draco was born.

The moment Draco’s tiny hand gripped her finger, the soft curl of his chubby fist bringing the first glimmer of innocence to her world, Narcissa laughed. Not the polite, subdued laugh that would have been expected, but a bubbling, genuine sound that surprised even her. Her son, with his infantile innocence, looked up at her face, his eyes wide and trustful, and in his tiny joy, blew the most spectacular spit bubble. Narcissa’s laughter filled the room like a melody, deep and unguarded. She couldn’t stop it. 

Lucius, standing beside her in that instant, watched her with a mixture of awe and adoration. She was radiant, her face full of something so pure and simple that it made her smile seem like a memory of an old life. She laughed freely, uninhibited, as though the laughter had been waiting for the right moment to emerge, and Draco had given it permission.

In the years that followed, Narcissa’s laughter came in tender bursts, often spurred by Draco’s antics. At the age of three, when Draco, after a week apart from his father, leaped from the top of his bed straight into Lucius’ waiting arms, Narcissa’s laughter rang out, rich and warm. Lucius, too, laughed, and the sound was like a soft embrace around the small family. It was a moment of joy so simple and pure that even Narcissa, who had long distanced herself from such uninhibited displays, could not contain her joy.

Then there were the afternoons when Lucius would take Draco out into the gardens. Narcissa, in the comfort of the drawing room, would watch from the window, her gaze softening as father and son played together, their laughter mixing with the rustling of the leaves. Draco would chase Lucius, and Lucius would pretend to stumble, falling to the ground in exaggerated fashion. The sight of their carefree abandon, the sound of Draco’s peals of laughter, would coax a smile from Narcissa’s lips—a real smile, not one designed for the public eye. In those moments, she would feel an unfamiliar warmth, a fluttering in her chest. 

But it was the waltz that truly transformed their world. Draco, at six, had reached an age where he was light enough to stand on his mother’s feet, and so Narcissa patiently, gently, began to teach him the steps. The ballroom was vast and resplendent, with high, vaulted ceilings and rich tapestries lining the walls, but in those moments, it felt like their world had contracted to the space between mother and child. With each clumsy misstep, with each of Draco’s little feet tripping over hers, their laughter echoed through the grand hallways of Malfoy Manor. 

"Encore, Maman," Draco would insist, his face alight with the sheer joy of the moment, and Narcissa would smile, her eyes sparkling, her laughter warm and rich. It wasn’t just the missteps that caused her to laugh—it was the pure delight of teaching him, of sharing a dance that had once seemed so formal and distant, but now felt entirely their own. She marveled at how her son’s laughter, bright and innocent, lifted the heaviness from her heart.

On one such evening, Lucius stood in the doorway, watching them from a distance. His arms crossed, he leaned against the doorframe, his gaze soft and proud. Narcissa didn’t notice him at first, so lost in her son’s laughter, but when their eyes met, Lucius gave her a small nod, as if acknowledging something unspoken. Narcissa couldn’t contain herself—she laughed again, a melodic sound that seemed to fill the entire ballroom. It wasn’t a laugh of politeness or duty. It was the sound of happiness. 

Time passed, and as Draco grew, so did the bond between them. When Draco was nine, and safely tucked into bed one chilly autumn night, Lucius swept Narcissa into his arms, intending to carry her upstairs as he often did, with his usual teasing remark, “You’re not tipsy, are you?” But that night, Narcissa only chuckled, the sound a soft, intimate whisper against his shoulder. She nestled into him, the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips.

"Happy, love?" Lucius asked, his voice full of tenderness, the unfamiliar sound of her laughter still lingering in his ears.

“Mmm,” she murmured, her voice low and warm, with the laugh still humming in her throat. "Truly, Lucius. Truly."

There were days when Draco would return from Hogwarts and speak of his adventures, his tales full of excitement and wonder. Narcissa, though always composed, would find herself captivated by the innocence in his stories. One evening, Draco spoke animatedly about a prank he had pulled on a classmate—a harmless one, of course, but a display of mischief nonetheless. Narcissa’s eyes widened in mock reproach, but before she could scold him, she heard the laughter bubbling up from within her, unbidden. She glanced at Lucius, whose gaze softened in the same moment.

"Draco," she chided, though her voice betrayed her amusement, "you’re incorrigible."

But Draco’s grin only widened, and Narcissa couldn’t help but laugh again, her voice rich with affection. Lucius, who had longed for these moments, for this warmth in his wife, smiled quietly to himself. 

It was no longer a rare occurrence. Narcissa’s laughter had found its place in their home, woven through the fabric of their lives like a thread of gold. No longer an occasional burst, it became a soft hum in the background of their days—a laugh shared in the quiet moments, in the intimate exchanges, in the small, unexpected joys of their lives. 

Sometimes, when Draco was with his friends or engaged in his studies, Lucius would catch Narcissa alone in the library or the drawing room. He would sit beside her, watching her with quiet adoration, and for no reason at all, a simple glance from him would draw a smile from her lips. That smile would sometimes bloom into laughter—a deep, lilting sound, one that had come to mean home, and warmth, and life. 

“Mon petit cœur,” she would whisper softly to Draco, her voice lilting in French as she tucked him in at night. "Tu es la lumière de ma vie." You are the light of my life. 

And so Narcissa, the woman who had never quite embraced laughter, learned to laugh fully. It was a laughter woven from the simple joys of motherhood, from the tiny moments that stitched themselves into the fabric of her life with Draco. She would speak to him softly in French, her voice wrapping him in warmth, and in those words, in those laughs, they found something more—something deeper than mere joy.

Lucius had always loved her smile, but he loved her laughter even more—because it was the sound of a woman who had finally found peace, who had finally allowed herself to embrace the gift of joy. 

Together, they had created a life filled with laughter—laughter that belonged to them alone, a testament to the family they had built and the love they had nurtured, the laughter of a mother and a son, the laughter of a wife and a husband, and, in the end, the laughter of a woman who had found, at long last, her own happiness.