They fought a lot, back then: more than ever. When they were children Narcissa was Bellatrix's ally, her translator to the world, the sharp-eyed intelligent child who interpreted Bellatrix's gibberish, her accesses of anger, her day-long disappearances in the labyrinthine gardens; Narcissa who would appear in her hiding places just before sundown, her little white shoes tarred with mud and grass-green, to bring her home. But at Hogwarts they fought. It wasn't enough to find different factions, different friends, different lovers; they would catch each other by the arm, drag each other away in nooks and hiss, 'what are you doing,' 'you know I don't like him,' 'don't say this so loud.'
Now Bellatrix suspects it was just so they wouldn't forget. She has seen other siblings, the way they detach. But Narcissa would never let her go, and for what it's worth- well, it's obvious.
Their parents used to like it, this closeness. They dressed them in the same color, pastels and golds, and Andromeda, Andromeda whose face Bellatrix helped burn off the tapestries, Andromeda would get the browns and the lavenders and not care at all, always in her books, so quiet, so gentle, so unworthy of the ancient name of Black. Bellatrix wears it a little too well, but everybody's got their crosses to bear.
They don't fight now. There are other wars that require their attention. Days like this, when they meet, the Black lunches in a part of the city that doesn't bear naming, they content themselves with a blanket rage, the kind that doesn't need a target. Or perhaps the whole world is a target. In any case they know how to engineer pain to make love an impossibility: Narcissa orders white lilies to be brought up to the room before they arrive, primps herself up too much, wears Lucius's locket under her clothes, her wedding ring shining its outrageous gold; and Bellatrix makes sure to be unkempt, dark hair limp, to wear her untidy allegiance on her sleeve, visible to all. They enjoy this, the Nietzschean archetypes. It is easier, certainly.
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No, it shouldn't have started. But it was a long time ago, too, during a vacation in Rome when they were children; so they can be pardoned, excused-absolved, if anything. Or maybe it was later, at Hogwarts during one of those shouting matches, in the damp Slytherin rooms that Narcissa has always hated; unless it was before that? Unless it was the day Narcissa was born, the exact spark of her soul, its perverse nestling in the corners of everything Bellatrix was, even then, the slow wearing down of her childish defenses unless she was there always, indispensable.
Maybe it is now. Maybe there is a way back from this, and it is now, and turning her cheek on Narcissa's thigh is the mistake that tips the scales, heaven or hell, what write-up one gets in the annals of the Noble Family Black.
Now Bellatrix suspects it was just so they wouldn't forget. She has seen other siblings, the way they detach. But Narcissa would never let her go, and for what it's worth- well, it's obvious.
Their parents used to like it, this closeness. They dressed them in the same color, pastels and golds, and Andromeda, Andromeda whose face Bellatrix helped burn off the tapestries, Andromeda would get the browns and the lavenders and not care at all, always in her books, so quiet, so gentle, so unworthy of the ancient name of Black. Bellatrix wears it a little too well, but everybody's got their crosses to bear.
They don't fight now. There are other wars that require their attention. Days like this, when they meet, the Black lunches in a part of the city that doesn't bear naming, they content themselves with a blanket rage, the kind that doesn't need a target. Or perhaps the whole world is a target. In any case they know how to engineer pain to make love an impossibility: Narcissa orders white lilies to be brought up to the room before they arrive, primps herself up too much, wears Lucius's locket under her clothes, her wedding ring shining its outrageous gold; and Bellatrix makes sure to be unkempt, dark hair limp, to wear her untidy allegiance on her sleeve, visible to all. They enjoy this, the Nietzschean archetypes. It is easier, certainly.
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No, it shouldn't have started. But it was a long time ago, too, during a vacation in Rome when they were children; so they can be pardoned, excused-absolved, if anything. Or maybe it was later, at Hogwarts during one of those shouting matches, in the damp Slytherin rooms that Narcissa has always hated; unless it was before that? Unless it was the day Narcissa was born, the exact spark of her soul, its perverse nestling in the corners of everything Bellatrix was, even then, the slow wearing down of her childish defenses unless she was there always, indispensable.
Maybe it is now. Maybe there is a way back from this, and it is now, and turning her cheek on Narcissa's thigh is the mistake that tips the scales, heaven or hell, what write-up one gets in the annals of the Noble Family Black.
Oh, well.
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