Five Times Andromeda Hated Bella
For
softlyforgotten ♥ Five Things Meme: #1. Give prompts if you want drabbleness. (Excluding you, Mik! :P)
Title: Five Times Andromeda Hated Bella
Rating: R
Words: 1128
1. When she grabbed the doll out of her hands, so fast and furiously that some silvery-blonde hairs caught in the brush grasped by a three-year-old hand, and tore out of the porcelain skull. Bella stood as tall as she could, looking down her nose at Andie over a chubby chin, almost daring her little sister to complain, to cry, to give in. But she didn’t. She was a good girl, and she didn’t cry, and she just sat on the ground, a bundle of cotton and shaking knees, and stared up as her sister, Bella-who-always-smelled-like-strawberries, planted a big, wet kiss on Rosie’s cold, porcelain face, and flounced off.
(Andromeda never did get the doll back, but she kept the brush, and tore it through Bellatrix’s hair one night, the night before she left, and wound the kidnapped strands tightly over the bristles, so that they sat snugly over the old, yellow locks.)
2. When Andromeda said that the wine had been spilt by Bella (Mother’s favourite, softest penance) (it had been Narcissa - little and soft and useless, she couldn’t keep the tablecloth from pulling off, let alone bear the scathing wrath the would be unleashed on her, and Bella said she had to be nice to her) and Bella had let her, though not without a crook of an eyebrow that didn’t go unnoticed by Mother. Who had slapped her, hard across her face, and called her a little liar, and a clumsy oaf, and a disgrace, and made her stand and cry in front of her sisters, in front of Bella. And Bella had stood silent like a rice-paper statue, and Andromeda hated her.
She had hated her even more the next day, when Bella brought her flowers from the garden and toffees stolen from the kitchen, and said they were the same colour as her hair, and smiled and grinned and sat next to her and snuggled up against her like she had when they were properly little, and Andromeda couldn’t be angry at her anymore, could just feel that boiling little pot of spikes deep inside her.
3. When she kissed her. Bella launched out of the house and its lights into the garden, to the back of the garden where Andromeda stood, where the low, dark branches half hid them and covered cloaked them in green. Like a compass, knowing exactly where to find her, Bella came right up against her, corseted, rising breasts pressed onto her own (soft, sweaty, powdered and perfumed skin), and kissed her soundly, every half-moment pushing up closer into her, so that Andromeda felt she could take her sister right into the deepest, hottest parts of her, right into the boiling pot of spikes. Tasting of sweet liqueur and smelling of Lestrange’s hands all over her, she clung to her, and kept up her assault on her mouth, sucking in a lip and grazing it sharply with her teeth before releasing it, so as to better swirl her tongue over the ridges of her mouth. And Andromeda cried as she did, cried into her sister’s mouth, and felt herself crack into pieces that only strong whalebone and her sister’s arms kept up.
(She didn’t hate her the next time, though. Then, Andromeda tied her down and had her way with her, and by the end Bellatrix was screaming her name and begging her to end it, fully in her power like she never had been. She kissed her on the lips, and then more fully up on the mouth, as for the first time Bella went soft under her, pliant and bittersweet and hers.)
4. When the African Violet died. It was old, and hadn’t flowered very well for the past few years, but Andromeda had still watered it, and trimmed it, and clucked over the few blooms that appeared. It had a turquoise blue pot, and sat on a bright green shawl (Andromeda refused to tell Bellatrix who it was from, and took occasionally to wearing it around the house, just to see her frown, and ruin her porcelain-perfect forehead with lines). When she woke up one morning, and found it brown and dry, she stared at it in shock for a few moments before Bellatrix came up behind her, and, exclaiming loudly, picked up the pot, but clumsily (uncharacteristically), so that dirt spilled out onto the shawl.
“It’s dead then, is it?” Her sister turned the pot almost over, so that earth and shrivelled leaves showered down onto the green silk. “Oh well.” She opened the window behind the shelf, and purposefully stretched her hands out and let go, so that the pot, flower and all, dropped down through the air and shattered on the paving stones with a sharp crack and brown explosion that had the House Elves jump.
Before she had time to think, Andromeda grabbed the ends of the shawl, and flicked, so that the dead dirt flew to cover Bella, sticking to her smooth skin and sneaking down her robes, leaving her gasping as the younger sister strode out of the room.
5. When her child was born. Stomach still rounded from gestation, head pounding constantly from Nymphadora’s crying and breasts sore, swollen, and nothing resembling sensual, she sat down (finally) for a nice cup of tea, thanking all deities that Ted had taken the baby for the day. Just as she was lifting a cup to her mouth, an owl flew in the window, and demanded attention. Andromeda would have been in a fine mood to tell it to bugger off, if she hadn’t immediately recognised the Black crest pressed deeply into the red wax. Sitting straight (old habits die hard) and glancing behind her shoulder, heart hammering, wishing more than anything that Ted would come home and tell her that she didn’t have to open it, she shakily lifted her chin and took the letter in a hesitant but still-proud hand. The owl immediately took off, batting her face with a wing as it flew off, like the whipping of perfumed hair against tear-streaked skin in the middle of the night. Cheeks burning, she cracked the wax, and was almost disappointed by the solitary scrap of newsprint that lay inside the parchment. But when she turned the badly-formed square over, she couldn’t help but moan a little, and feel her heart stop for a moment and fall down to spear itself on the pit of rusty nails she carried inside of her. As she frantically scrambled away from the table, the teacup shook, spilling brown tea over the Dark Mark drawn purposefully over her daughter’s birth notice, with a flick of the quill at the end that Andromeda would recognise until she went insane, or died.
Things always were spoilt when Bellatrix was around.
softlyforgotten ♥ Five Things Meme: #1. Give prompts if you want drabbleness. (Excluding you, Mik! :P)
Title: Five Times Andromeda Hated Bella
Rating: R
Words: 1128
1. When she grabbed the doll out of her hands, so fast and furiously that some silvery-blonde hairs caught in the brush grasped by a three-year-old hand, and tore out of the porcelain skull. Bella stood as tall as she could, looking down her nose at Andie over a chubby chin, almost daring her little sister to complain, to cry, to give in. But she didn’t. She was a good girl, and she didn’t cry, and she just sat on the ground, a bundle of cotton and shaking knees, and stared up as her sister, Bella-who-always-smelled-like-strawberries, planted a big, wet kiss on Rosie’s cold, porcelain face, and flounced off.
(Andromeda never did get the doll back, but she kept the brush, and tore it through Bellatrix’s hair one night, the night before she left, and wound the kidnapped strands tightly over the bristles, so that they sat snugly over the old, yellow locks.)
2. When Andromeda said that the wine had been spilt by Bella (Mother’s favourite, softest penance) (it had been Narcissa - little and soft and useless, she couldn’t keep the tablecloth from pulling off, let alone bear the scathing wrath the would be unleashed on her, and Bella said she had to be nice to her) and Bella had let her, though not without a crook of an eyebrow that didn’t go unnoticed by Mother. Who had slapped her, hard across her face, and called her a little liar, and a clumsy oaf, and a disgrace, and made her stand and cry in front of her sisters, in front of Bella. And Bella had stood silent like a rice-paper statue, and Andromeda hated her.
She had hated her even more the next day, when Bella brought her flowers from the garden and toffees stolen from the kitchen, and said they were the same colour as her hair, and smiled and grinned and sat next to her and snuggled up against her like she had when they were properly little, and Andromeda couldn’t be angry at her anymore, could just feel that boiling little pot of spikes deep inside her.
3. When she kissed her. Bella launched out of the house and its lights into the garden, to the back of the garden where Andromeda stood, where the low, dark branches half hid them and covered cloaked them in green. Like a compass, knowing exactly where to find her, Bella came right up against her, corseted, rising breasts pressed onto her own (soft, sweaty, powdered and perfumed skin), and kissed her soundly, every half-moment pushing up closer into her, so that Andromeda felt she could take her sister right into the deepest, hottest parts of her, right into the boiling pot of spikes. Tasting of sweet liqueur and smelling of Lestrange’s hands all over her, she clung to her, and kept up her assault on her mouth, sucking in a lip and grazing it sharply with her teeth before releasing it, so as to better swirl her tongue over the ridges of her mouth. And Andromeda cried as she did, cried into her sister’s mouth, and felt herself crack into pieces that only strong whalebone and her sister’s arms kept up.
(She didn’t hate her the next time, though. Then, Andromeda tied her down and had her way with her, and by the end Bellatrix was screaming her name and begging her to end it, fully in her power like she never had been. She kissed her on the lips, and then more fully up on the mouth, as for the first time Bella went soft under her, pliant and bittersweet and hers.)
4. When the African Violet died. It was old, and hadn’t flowered very well for the past few years, but Andromeda had still watered it, and trimmed it, and clucked over the few blooms that appeared. It had a turquoise blue pot, and sat on a bright green shawl (Andromeda refused to tell Bellatrix who it was from, and took occasionally to wearing it around the house, just to see her frown, and ruin her porcelain-perfect forehead with lines). When she woke up one morning, and found it brown and dry, she stared at it in shock for a few moments before Bellatrix came up behind her, and, exclaiming loudly, picked up the pot, but clumsily (uncharacteristically), so that dirt spilled out onto the shawl.
“It’s dead then, is it?” Her sister turned the pot almost over, so that earth and shrivelled leaves showered down onto the green silk. “Oh well.” She opened the window behind the shelf, and purposefully stretched her hands out and let go, so that the pot, flower and all, dropped down through the air and shattered on the paving stones with a sharp crack and brown explosion that had the House Elves jump.
Before she had time to think, Andromeda grabbed the ends of the shawl, and flicked, so that the dead dirt flew to cover Bella, sticking to her smooth skin and sneaking down her robes, leaving her gasping as the younger sister strode out of the room.
5. When her child was born. Stomach still rounded from gestation, head pounding constantly from Nymphadora’s crying and breasts sore, swollen, and nothing resembling sensual, she sat down (finally) for a nice cup of tea, thanking all deities that Ted had taken the baby for the day. Just as she was lifting a cup to her mouth, an owl flew in the window, and demanded attention. Andromeda would have been in a fine mood to tell it to bugger off, if she hadn’t immediately recognised the Black crest pressed deeply into the red wax. Sitting straight (old habits die hard) and glancing behind her shoulder, heart hammering, wishing more than anything that Ted would come home and tell her that she didn’t have to open it, she shakily lifted her chin and took the letter in a hesitant but still-proud hand. The owl immediately took off, batting her face with a wing as it flew off, like the whipping of perfumed hair against tear-streaked skin in the middle of the night. Cheeks burning, she cracked the wax, and was almost disappointed by the solitary scrap of newsprint that lay inside the parchment. But when she turned the badly-formed square over, she couldn’t help but moan a little, and feel her heart stop for a moment and fall down to spear itself on the pit of rusty nails she carried inside of her. As she frantically scrambled away from the table, the teacup shook, spilling brown tea over the Dark Mark drawn purposefully over her daughter’s birth notice, with a flick of the quill at the end that Andromeda would recognise until she went insane, or died.
Things always were spoilt when Bellatrix was around.