the girls who sang into their firsts - narcissa/bellatrix - r
Lucius doesn't come to their lunches after Hogwarts. He doesn't like her.
'Don't say that,' Narcissa reprimands, shaking her cigarette above the crystal ashtray. A thin glowing column descends. 'He's just preoccupied, you know. With everything that's going on.'
Bellatrix laughs. She likes Lucius; she thought about it for a minute, before Narcissa elected him as her prince, this tall, cold, prematurely white-haired man. 'You know I don't care, Narcissa. Don't waste your lies on me.'
Narcissa gives her a look of gentle reprimand. Her perfect nails tug at Bellatrix's dress. 'Where did you get that? It's foul. Have you really given up wearing anything other than black?'
Bellatrix tugs the fabric out of her sister's grasp, irritated. 'I have things to worry about more important than fashion, Cissa.' She hates the nickname, giving it and hearing it from a mouth other than her own. It burns her mouth like acid.
Narcissa's traits rearrange under her scrutiny. 'Well then,' she says, stiff. A perfect cloud of smoke floats out of her mouth, obscuring the cutting azure of her gaze. 'Shall we, if you're so busy?'
Bellatrix hesitates. Just a second, but she's trained Narcissa well; she smells weakness like a bloodhound, the smallest of injuries. Her lips quirk up a fraction.
Bellatrix shakes her head to dislodge the fear; her neck hurts, stiff from craning to discern something in a face so well-known to her it has rounded back to mysterious.
'Lead the way,' she says, as Narcissa slides out of her chair and into the sun.
-
It's a good hotel. There are mints on the pillows, fluffy bathrobes and Narcissa looks exhausted, her skin so pale she might be a ghost, someone Bellatrix could walk through and escape. She reaches a hand towards where Bellatrix is trying to burn her naked imprint into the wall-eyed sky.
'Don't just stand there,' she says, not unkindly. 'People might look up.'
'Let them look.'
Narcissa lights another cigarette. It's another thing she hides from Lucius, another habit she can't shake; filthy things, picked up from childhood. At thirteen there had been a shed and a packet of fags on the ground, left behind by a Muggle in one of the woods that encircle the manor. Days like that make you feel like you've invented fire, Bellatrix remembers thinking: burning your fingers and inhaling acrid smoke, coughing, and Narcissa with her eyes so blue and alight and mischievous, pulling her close.
'I wish you wouldn't make things so difficult,' Narcissa says, her tone slightly pained. She always makes Bellatrix feel like the little sister, the smallest of their triumvirate -no, the smallest of their pair, of their couple.
'It spices up life,' Bellatrix says, 'don't you think?'
Narcissa gives her a long look from under blonde eyelashes. 'Life hardly needs spicing up at the moment.'
This is a gift, Narcissa's gift, those few words in her sharp-toothed mouth: this is where Bellatrix regains her footing, fire and brimstone, the certainty that she is the one out of the two of them with the more talent for panache in destruction, for fire and brimstone, for ash back to ash and all that Muggle vernacular.
She takes a dancing step away from the window, well-attuned to their familiar choreography, and the shadow of her silhouette moves across the sheets, preceding her to Narcissa's lap, her hand now open, palm up, at her side, quietly waiting.
'Ah,' she says, savoring the word, a needed reprieve, 'that's where you're wrong.'
Lucius doesn't come to their lunches after Hogwarts. He doesn't like her.
'Don't say that,' Narcissa reprimands, shaking her cigarette above the crystal ashtray. A thin glowing column descends. 'He's just preoccupied, you know. With everything that's going on.'
Bellatrix laughs. She likes Lucius; she thought about it for a minute, before Narcissa elected him as her prince, this tall, cold, prematurely white-haired man. 'You know I don't care, Narcissa. Don't waste your lies on me.'
Narcissa gives her a look of gentle reprimand. Her perfect nails tug at Bellatrix's dress. 'Where did you get that? It's foul. Have you really given up wearing anything other than black?'
Bellatrix tugs the fabric out of her sister's grasp, irritated. 'I have things to worry about more important than fashion, Cissa.' She hates the nickname, giving it and hearing it from a mouth other than her own. It burns her mouth like acid.
Narcissa's traits rearrange under her scrutiny. 'Well then,' she says, stiff. A perfect cloud of smoke floats out of her mouth, obscuring the cutting azure of her gaze. 'Shall we, if you're so busy?'
Bellatrix hesitates. Just a second, but she's trained Narcissa well; she smells weakness like a bloodhound, the smallest of injuries. Her lips quirk up a fraction.
Bellatrix shakes her head to dislodge the fear; her neck hurts, stiff from craning to discern something in a face so well-known to her it has rounded back to mysterious.
'Lead the way,' she says, as Narcissa slides out of her chair and into the sun.
-
It's a good hotel. There are mints on the pillows, fluffy bathrobes and Narcissa looks exhausted, her skin so pale she might be a ghost, someone Bellatrix could walk through and escape. She reaches a hand towards where Bellatrix is trying to burn her naked imprint into the wall-eyed sky.
'Don't just stand there,' she says, not unkindly. 'People might look up.'
'Let them look.'
Narcissa lights another cigarette. It's another thing she hides from Lucius, another habit she can't shake; filthy things, picked up from childhood. At thirteen there had been a shed and a packet of fags on the ground, left behind by a Muggle in one of the woods that encircle the manor. Days like that make you feel like you've invented fire, Bellatrix remembers thinking: burning your fingers and inhaling acrid smoke, coughing, and Narcissa with her eyes so blue and alight and mischievous, pulling her close.
'I wish you wouldn't make things so difficult,' Narcissa says, her tone slightly pained. She always makes Bellatrix feel like the little sister, the smallest of their triumvirate -no, the smallest of their pair, of their couple.
'It spices up life,' Bellatrix says, 'don't you think?'
Narcissa gives her a long look from under blonde eyelashes. 'Life hardly needs spicing up at the moment.'
This is a gift, Narcissa's gift, those few words in her sharp-toothed mouth: this is where Bellatrix regains her footing, fire and brimstone, the certainty that she is the one out of the two of them with the more talent for panache in destruction, for fire and brimstone, for ash back to ash and all that Muggle vernacular.
She takes a dancing step away from the window, well-attuned to their familiar choreography, and the shadow of her silhouette moves across the sheets, preceding her to Narcissa's lap, her hand now open, palm up, at her side, quietly waiting.
'Ah,' she says, savoring the word, a needed reprieve, 'that's where you're wrong.'
-
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