Bellatrix is spared much in the way of demonstrative affection, partly because of the seriousness of everything else and partly because Narcissa simply isn't the type; she clasps her husband's hand, thumb against his knuckles, and leaves it at that. "I hope you've some idea of where, then," she says, a bit tartly, as she glances back behind her. "But what are the other components, if this is only one?"