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It was not a matter of common knowledge that Narcissa disliked her nickname.
She knew already at a young age that complaints from her would only provoke teasing from her older sisters and her cousins. She knew her parents thought the nickname a touching tribute of affection: Cissy a homonym for sissy, as in little sister, baby sister, cherished and adored.
Narcissa knew that wasn't what the other children would have meant by sissy. Her pearl-white milk teeth clenched and ground at the name. If she didn't want to climb trees, or run into places she'd been told she shouldn't go, how did that make her any less brave or good than the others? It wasn't that she was a sissy, it was just that she was prudent. She knew where she shouldn't go, where she shouldn't look. She knew these things because she was quiet enough to listen.
Because she knew better, she didn't complain about being called Cissy. She accepted it and she forced herself to smile. In time she learned to make the smile seem natural. It helped when she got older and her face thinned out. It helped, too, to keep her mouth closed when she smiled. She learned to pretend, which stood her in good stead in situations far more serious (or distasteful) than simply being called a name she didn't like.
Only once did she insist, knowing that the vulnerability thus betrayed would not be used against her. "Don't call me Cissy," she had said to Lucius, early on, when they had first begun to understand they liked one another in a genuine way, beyond what their families wanted them to feel. "That's what my sisters call me."
That was all she had to say, and he understood the rest. And the smile she gave him then was a real smile.
She knew already at a young age that complaints from her would only provoke teasing from her older sisters and her cousins. She knew her parents thought the nickname a touching tribute of affection: Cissy a homonym for sissy, as in little sister, baby sister, cherished and adored.
Narcissa knew that wasn't what the other children would have meant by sissy. Her pearl-white milk teeth clenched and ground at the name. If she didn't want to climb trees, or run into places she'd been told she shouldn't go, how did that make her any less brave or good than the others? It wasn't that she was a sissy, it was just that she was prudent. She knew where she shouldn't go, where she shouldn't look. She knew these things because she was quiet enough to listen.
Because she knew better, she didn't complain about being called Cissy. She accepted it and she forced herself to smile. In time she learned to make the smile seem natural. It helped when she got older and her face thinned out. It helped, too, to keep her mouth closed when she smiled. She learned to pretend, which stood her in good stead in situations far more serious (or distasteful) than simply being called a name she didn't like.
Only once did she insist, knowing that the vulnerability thus betrayed would not be used against her. "Don't call me Cissy," she had said to Lucius, early on, when they had first begun to understand they liked one another in a genuine way, beyond what their families wanted them to feel. "That's what my sisters call me."
That was all she had to say, and he understood the rest. And the smile she gave him then was a real smile.