See, I said four and five needed to be typed. Not this one.

He walked into the bedroom, biting his lip and glancing toward the bed. Narcissa's sleeping form was visible beneath the blankets.

He passed it, and pulled open the doors to the closet. It took him a minute to get his bearings. Which clothes were his, and which were hers?

There was another miniature chandelier in this room too, and he lit it with a Non-Verbal spell.

He looked around.

The small entry part seemed to be all Narcissa's accessories. Dozens of pairs of shoes and slippers, shelves of bags, scarves, and belts.

It split into two wings in the back, and he went left. It was a small room of its own, but it seemed to be all Narcissa's clothes.

He turned and wandered into the other half of the closet. These were his.

**
He buttoned up the dark green pajama shirt with shaking hands, his numb fingers slipping on the tiny buttons. It took him about five minutes, because he kept missing buttons.

He made his way out of the closet, the carpet tickling the soles of his feet. He bit the inside of his cheek, and paused beside the bed.

He didn't want to get into it.

Lucius couldn't bring himself to even touch the blankets. Not after the vision on the Green.

He turned away from that bed, looking down at the carpet. He realized for the first time all night that he was shaking, his breathing shallow once more. The silence in the room was defening, almost resounding. He shut his eyes and covered his ears, trying to block it out. All he did was bring on another vision.

Not Narcissa this time, but Draco. He held the boy's head in one hand, gripping it by the hair and gazing into the face.

The eyelids had been torn away, but the dead eyes that looked back at the wizard didn't belong to the boy. They weren't mirror images of the steel eyes staing into them, no.

They were Narcissa's ice blue ones.

They bulged from the boy's sockets, as if they'd been forced in. His mouth hung open, and his tongue was completely gone.

His eyes snapped open again, unable to draw breath now.

**
Five minutes passed before he could, and he turned back to the bed. Narcissa had turned over, her sleeping face almost angelic, peaceful as she dreamed.

He pulled the comforter and sheets back with one shaking hand and climbed carefully into the bed. It felt odd to sleep on a mattress after the cold, stone floor in the Azkaban cell.

He didn't touch the sleeping woman. He couldn't.

He pulled the blankets over himself and chewed the inside of his lip. The warmth was strange to him. All of it was, really. It should have been a return to normalcy, but it could never be. Things were too different. They would always be too different.

He turned his back to his sleeping wife. He couldn't fall asleep himself, not if he wanted to keep the nightmares away. He didn't keep this mindset long, for his body succumbed to the warmth of the comforter.