Fic - "A Duty of Care, Part I" (Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, PG)
Title: A Duty of Care, Part I
Characters: Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy
Rating: PG
Warnings: Very brief mention of smoking if anyone is sensitive to that sort of thing.
Word count: 1006
Summary: Narcissa Malfoy steps in to gather the jagged little pieces and hold them together.
Rehabilitating Bellatrix was not going to be an easy task by any measure. Narcissa had known this from the very second she’d heard about the escape. Her elation and her fear could not errode the stoic practicality she always kept cemented at her core: it was plain above all that her sister needed to be helped. Though Narcissa knew next to nothing about the situation in its entirety, she wasn’t simple enough to believe for a moment that Bellatrix would smoothly enter any routine similar to the one she’d undertaken before, or that she would be stable and healthy in any sense.
That was how, two hours after the news had broken, Narcissa found herself out in the persistent rain, striding up to the reproachful front doors of Lestrange House, hair spilling from its French plait and cheeks whipped pink and raw.
“We cannot do this, we absolutely cannot! And I will not!” Lucius had snapped at her when she brought her simple, determined plan before him in his study. Keenly aware of her husband’s dislike for his sister-in-law, she had been fully expecting this. “I will not have her in my house,” he’d said, “not after where she’s been.”
“It’s Azkaban, Lucius, any one of you could have ended up in there,” she’d countered, ignoring the shadow of a sneer flickering on her husband’s upper lip. “But besides all that, she’s my sister and I am not about to stand by and let her try and adjust on her own.”
“Adjust?” He had gone paler than usual with suppressed anger. “The woman hasn’t been hospitalised for a month, Narcissa. She isn’t just mildly perturbed, you know. You do realise how long she’s been in there, don’t you? She’ll be - mad.” The word appeared to dirty Lucius’s lips, for he licked them sharply, but couldn’t resist adding again in a hiss, “Mad.”
“By ‘mad,’ I expect you mean mentally ill,” said Narcissa with the gentlest hint of venom. “You would be perfectly correct, hence why I am taking it upon myself to keep her here, safe, where she can’t hurt herself or anyone else.”
“And when she decides she’s had enough of not hurting anyone else, she’ll have the very hounds of Hell basking before my fire!”
“She is my sister,” said Narcissa, clipped and final, and turned on her heel to fetch her cloak and boots down in the hallway whilst her husband grumbled and slammed the door to his study.
She considered where Bellatrix might be at that precise moment. It was not improbable that she was with the Dark Lord: Narcissa strongly suspected, if she did not know outright, that the breakout had been his doing; whether he’d been there in the flesh to smash the stone walls was a different matter. No - to have the Death Eaters flock straight to him would be a monumental risk, what with the Ministry as strong as it was. As she pulled on her white kid-gloves, she struck upon the idea that perhaps Bellatrix would have bolted for her old house in search of some kind of territorial security, and decided that was the first place to search.
And so, for the first time in fourteen years, Narcissa was now standing before the portly brass knocker, fashioned in the shape of a thick quill to attest to the Lestrange family’s long and dusty past as Ministry law-writers. “Narcissa Malfoy, family,” she whispered before the quill could issue its query. Deep in the wood, the locks turned and clicked and the door languidly inched open to admit her.
Narcissa stepped inside. She half-expected the house-elf to stand to attention, ready to accept her coat, for Bellatrix’s wicked laugh to drift from the drawing room and for the noxious smell of those horrid little French cigarettes her sister sometimes indulged in to wend its way along the passageway toward her. Instead, there was silence and the clotted smell of damp.
“Bellatrix?”
Her voice echoed, taunting her as she went towards the living room, feeling nauseous with the stench. There was no one here: it was idiotic of her to have thought otherwise. They were with the Dark Lord, of course they were - of course Bellatrix was, she’d be close at his side -
There was a bang and a piercing screeching together at once and Narcissa was grabbed by the arms and forced up against the wall. She screamed in shock, but ceased immediately when the large, angry eyes of her sister flashed two inches in front of her face.
“Bella, it’s me, it’s Cissy,” said Narcissa rapidly. She searched the skeletal cheeks, the mottled lips, the unrecognisable, wasted face, with a frightened gaze, heart fluttering painfully. If Bellatrix failed to recognise her as anything but an enemy, she could be killed at any second.
“Bella, it’s your little sister, Narcissa -”
“What are you doing here?” snarled the crazed witch, slamming her harder against the scabbing wall and knocking the breath from her. “Why are you here?!”
Narcissa tried to slow her breathing. “I’ve come to take you home with me, Bellatrix,” she said clearly. “I’m going to look after you.”
Bellatrix fell to the floor.
For a full five seconds, Narcissa thought her sister had died on the spot. Her brain processed this without fear or repulsion: Bellatrix had fought for long enough. She sank down and pulled her sister against her, not caring whether she was now holding the corpse of her tired, tortured sibling - but no, Bellatrix sighed and trembled, bony fingers finding solace in soft pleats of deep blue. With a long, sick groan, she lurched forward into Narcissa’s chest and cried piteously.
Narcissa closed her eyes. “It’s going to be all right, Bellatrix,” she soothed, rocking the starved woman back and forth. “I’m taking you home.”
Characters: Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy
Rating: PG
Warnings: Very brief mention of smoking if anyone is sensitive to that sort of thing.
Word count: 1006
Summary: Narcissa Malfoy steps in to gather the jagged little pieces and hold them together.
Rehabilitating Bellatrix was not going to be an easy task by any measure. Narcissa had known this from the very second she’d heard about the escape. Her elation and her fear could not errode the stoic practicality she always kept cemented at her core: it was plain above all that her sister needed to be helped. Though Narcissa knew next to nothing about the situation in its entirety, she wasn’t simple enough to believe for a moment that Bellatrix would smoothly enter any routine similar to the one she’d undertaken before, or that she would be stable and healthy in any sense.
That was how, two hours after the news had broken, Narcissa found herself out in the persistent rain, striding up to the reproachful front doors of Lestrange House, hair spilling from its French plait and cheeks whipped pink and raw.
“We cannot do this, we absolutely cannot! And I will not!” Lucius had snapped at her when she brought her simple, determined plan before him in his study. Keenly aware of her husband’s dislike for his sister-in-law, she had been fully expecting this. “I will not have her in my house,” he’d said, “not after where she’s been.”
“It’s Azkaban, Lucius, any one of you could have ended up in there,” she’d countered, ignoring the shadow of a sneer flickering on her husband’s upper lip. “But besides all that, she’s my sister and I am not about to stand by and let her try and adjust on her own.”
“Adjust?” He had gone paler than usual with suppressed anger. “The woman hasn’t been hospitalised for a month, Narcissa. She isn’t just mildly perturbed, you know. You do realise how long she’s been in there, don’t you? She’ll be - mad.” The word appeared to dirty Lucius’s lips, for he licked them sharply, but couldn’t resist adding again in a hiss, “Mad.”
“By ‘mad,’ I expect you mean mentally ill,” said Narcissa with the gentlest hint of venom. “You would be perfectly correct, hence why I am taking it upon myself to keep her here, safe, where she can’t hurt herself or anyone else.”
“And when she decides she’s had enough of not hurting anyone else, she’ll have the very hounds of Hell basking before my fire!”
“She is my sister,” said Narcissa, clipped and final, and turned on her heel to fetch her cloak and boots down in the hallway whilst her husband grumbled and slammed the door to his study.
She considered where Bellatrix might be at that precise moment. It was not improbable that she was with the Dark Lord: Narcissa strongly suspected, if she did not know outright, that the breakout had been his doing; whether he’d been there in the flesh to smash the stone walls was a different matter. No - to have the Death Eaters flock straight to him would be a monumental risk, what with the Ministry as strong as it was. As she pulled on her white kid-gloves, she struck upon the idea that perhaps Bellatrix would have bolted for her old house in search of some kind of territorial security, and decided that was the first place to search.
And so, for the first time in fourteen years, Narcissa was now standing before the portly brass knocker, fashioned in the shape of a thick quill to attest to the Lestrange family’s long and dusty past as Ministry law-writers. “Narcissa Malfoy, family,” she whispered before the quill could issue its query. Deep in the wood, the locks turned and clicked and the door languidly inched open to admit her.
Narcissa stepped inside. She half-expected the house-elf to stand to attention, ready to accept her coat, for Bellatrix’s wicked laugh to drift from the drawing room and for the noxious smell of those horrid little French cigarettes her sister sometimes indulged in to wend its way along the passageway toward her. Instead, there was silence and the clotted smell of damp.
“Bellatrix?”
Her voice echoed, taunting her as she went towards the living room, feeling nauseous with the stench. There was no one here: it was idiotic of her to have thought otherwise. They were with the Dark Lord, of course they were - of course Bellatrix was, she’d be close at his side -
There was a bang and a piercing screeching together at once and Narcissa was grabbed by the arms and forced up against the wall. She screamed in shock, but ceased immediately when the large, angry eyes of her sister flashed two inches in front of her face.
“Bella, it’s me, it’s Cissy,” said Narcissa rapidly. She searched the skeletal cheeks, the mottled lips, the unrecognisable, wasted face, with a frightened gaze, heart fluttering painfully. If Bellatrix failed to recognise her as anything but an enemy, she could be killed at any second.
“Bella, it’s your little sister, Narcissa -”
“What are you doing here?” snarled the crazed witch, slamming her harder against the scabbing wall and knocking the breath from her. “Why are you here?!”
Narcissa tried to slow her breathing. “I’ve come to take you home with me, Bellatrix,” she said clearly. “I’m going to look after you.”
Bellatrix fell to the floor.
For a full five seconds, Narcissa thought her sister had died on the spot. Her brain processed this without fear or repulsion: Bellatrix had fought for long enough. She sank down and pulled her sister against her, not caring whether she was now holding the corpse of her tired, tortured sibling - but no, Bellatrix sighed and trembled, bony fingers finding solace in soft pleats of deep blue. With a long, sick groan, she lurched forward into Narcissa’s chest and cried piteously.
Narcissa closed her eyes. “It’s going to be all right, Bellatrix,” she soothed, rocking the starved woman back and forth. “I’m taking you home.”