Exhaling and setting what's left of her cigarette in the ashtray, Narcissa shuts out the evening air, drawing the door closed behind her before she joins him, one hand still bearing that faint glow despite a good scrub before she went in the kitchen.

"Bellatrix thinks-" not Bellatrix says or Bellatrix knows, "-that there'll be victory." Hers. Theirs. She doesn't know what to call it any more, knows better than to think her sister would be inviting Lucius along with any victory of hers, real or imagined.

She goes on, as she sits down with her own plate and her own glass (of wine, not water), "We arrived in the midst of a plague- I caught up to her in the streets. She told me, then. Alastor Moody - he isn't here, you needn't worry - told me how I died."

These two realities are, she presumes he can conclude, somewhat at odds.