She rolls onto her side to face him, heedless of the hardwood floor beneath hip, ribs and shoulder, her eyes heavy-lidded and almost entirely pupil, and her head a little heavy on his stomach. Gold curls slide over his hips.

"...p'rhaps you two aren't so bad," she sighs. "Rodolphus taught me where to hurt a man who wanted more from me than I'm willing to give, you're full of compliments and delicious potions and... and escape."

It's not as though her life is terrible, but there's only so long that Narcissa can be what she's expected to be without cracking, and even her mother recognises when the music room fills with melancholy. This, while not sensible in the least, is at least something different. And he treats her with such reverence... it's a heady thing.