Fic: Of Dark And Bright [Part One ] (Sirius/Bellatrix)
This is a few months old. So it's not like you have to read it if you have already, but the original LJ entry had a lot of personal bitching attached, and I wanted a "clean" copy for purposes of my own. That said...
Title: Of Dark and Bright
Author: Argosy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sirius/Bellatrix
Warnings: Darkfic, Blackcest, BDSM
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Sirius badly wants his cousin, Narcissa. He gets her sister.
OF DARK AND BRIGHT
Part One
“KREACHER!”
Crack! The wizened old house-elf Apparated into the drawing room at number twelve Grimmauld Place. He wore an obsequious grin along with his rag-like loincloth, and managed somehow to look both cowed and sly.
“Mistress is calling me?” he croaked, bowing low.
“Mistress has been calling you for hours, you worm-ridden half-wit,” Sirius’s mother snarled. “Is the room ready yet?”
“Miss Narcissa’s bedroom is being beautiful, kind mistress.”
He bowed even lower, his hunchback causing him to teeter precariously. Sirius looked up from the corner where he was vainly trying to pass the time with a book. Kreacher falling over had to be more entertaining than Profiles in Darkness: Wizards Who Dared.
Sadly, Kreacher managed to regain his balance. Sirius sighed. He was desperately bored. And with summer holidays just begun, the only thing he had to look forward to was the prospect of more time spent with the Black family.
If only he’d been allowed to spend the summer elsewhere. He was sixteen. Nearly seventeen. It was utterly unfair he should be forced to live like a prisoner in his dreary family home. Regulus, who was younger, had been permitted to escape.
He’d brought up that point with his mother, hoping to somehow make her see reason. “Darling Reggie,” she’d said, “is doing an Honors program at Durmstrang.” The pride in her voice did not temper the look in her eyes that clearly stated which brother’s company she would have preferred. “Happily, we still have the benefit of your society.”
So here he was. Stuck. When James, or Moony, or any of a dozen friends would have taken him in. The problem, of course, was that his family didn’t approve of his choice of summer companions. The few with the precious blood required of would-be entertainers of the Black’s black sheep were deemed unsuitable for social reasons.
“We’ll see about that, shall we?” His mother’s voice shrilled at the elf, interrupting his thoughts. Grabbing hold of one of Kreacher’s bat ears, she strode purposefully from the room, dragging the house-elf behind her. Sirius could hear his little oh, oh, ohs of pain getting softer as they moved down the hall.
Now his cousin Narcissa, who, at twenty, was apparently too stupid to be on her own while her parents toured Eastern Europe for the summer, was coming to stay. Sirius felt a flutter in his stomach and tamped it relentlessly down. He was relieved that something was finally breaking the monotony of his holiday existence, he told himself. He was not remembering the way Narcissa’s long blonde hair had looked the last time he’d seen her, at Hogwarts, when she was a graduating seventh year, and he was still in third.
“This is unacceptable, you miserable excuse for a magical being.” Sirius could hear his mother’s angry voice all the way from the guest room at the end of the hall. “Do it again. Top to bottom.”
“It is being Kreacher’s pleasure, mistress,” came the cringing tones of the elf.
“Now, Kreacher.”
“Kreacher will be scrubbing the room until his fingers bleed.”
“Now, Kreacher.”
Sirius felt the familiar tingle of magic in the air the moment before he heard the crack of Apparation. The next moment, Narcissa Black stood before him in the drawing room, blinking in confusion.
His throat went suddenly dry. He should greet her, he knew, should say something, but the words wouldn’t seem to come. For her part, Narcissa looked vaguely about the room as if unsure how she’d come to be there.
She was directly in front of him, but Sirius had trouble seeing her somehow. She was too bright; he felt blinded.
He had an impression of yellow hair, and pale skin. His brain stubbornly refused to make sense of the rest. Feeling a sudden need for air, he realized he’d forgotten to breathe.
“Narcissa, darling,” his mother swept in, called by the sound of Apparation, “how lovely you look.”
A shy smile spread over Narcissa’s features. His mother took her hands. “We’re so happy to have you, dear.” She glanced at Sirius. “We were getting rather dull amongst ourselves.” Smiling a genuine smile at the girl, she practically cooed, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you for a nice long --”
CRACK!
Mrs. Black started, glancing around the room reflexively. Sirius reluctantly dragged his eyes away from where they were still refusing to make sense of Narcissa.
And there stood another of Sirius’s cousins, Narcissa’s sister Bellatrix, in the far corner of the room, taking in her surroundings with a look of naked curiosity.
Bellatrix was the oldest sister, the one Sirius knew least well. He’d spoken to her perhaps twice in his life, and seen her only a few times more. She stood unnaturally still, all darkness where Narcissa was light. He could look at her, could take in her black hair and fine features, so like Narcissa, and yet not.
The smile drained from his mother’s face. She looked at the other girl with undisguised distaste for a moment before the mask fell back into place. “Bellatrix. We weren’t expecting you.”
“Hello, Aunt Walburga,” replied the girl, glancing around the room with bright, sharp eyes. “Hello, little Gryffindor cousin,” she added when those eyes fell on him. “I’ll be staying too.”
“We expect one sister and we get two. I call that a fine bargain.” Sirius’s father smiled benevolently at the two girls across the dining room table.
Of the very many things Sirius hated about Grimmauld Place, he hated these mandatory family dinners the most. Every evening he was required to don dress robes and sit stiffly in the formal dining room eating off fancy bone china that was very likely made of real bones -- the bones of Black family enemies, knowing his father. He would have much preferred to take his meals in the downstairs kitchen, as far away from his family as possible.
“I go where Cissy goes. She needs looking after.” Bellatrix’s voice and face were pleasant, and didn’t quite match the look in her eyes.
“Yes. Very commendable,” harrumphed Mr. Black, disconcerted. Mrs. Black smiled a brittle smile.
There was something about Bellatrix that seemed to unsettle his parents. Sirius would have considered that a point in her favor, if he hadn’t felt that same indefinable something unsettling him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. She was rather pretty, and seemed pleasant enough, but she held your gaze a little too long, and it was hard to look away. She kept her body a little too still, then would move quickly and smoothly, like a serpent. For all her silkiness, there was somehow still a sharpness about her and a brilliance, in her eyes and in the lines of her body. She was like silver knives, Sirius mused, you felt you would get cut if you got too close.
She adored Narcissa, that was obvious in the fiercely protective way she would look at her younger sister, and the way she kept a hand on her at all times. She was always touching her lightly somewhere -- her shoulder, her cheek, the back of her hand. Even now she twisted a lock of Narcissa’s fine blonde hair around one of her fingers.
Sirius had once touched that hair. Or rather, that hair had once touched him. He felt a frisson go through him at the memory. He gritted his teeth, annoyed with himself, and forced himself to look away from Narcissa’s yellow hair, from where it twined round Bellatrix’s finger, glinting in the candlelight. Glancing around the table, he was relieved to see his parents had not noticed him staring -- not that they ever noticed anything about him -- and then he met Bellatrix’s eyes.
He felt caught in a snare, powerless to look away until she allowed it. She watched him knowingly, something almost like pity in her glance, before she slowly smiled. Her teeth were bright and sharp.
“I was so pleased when my brother asked us to take you, Narcissa, dear,” his mother was saying. “We do so always enjoy --”
“It was Mummy’s idea,” Bellatrix broke in. Sirius felt himself released. “She thinks Cissy is more likely to meet an eligible pure-blood wizard if she stays in London over the summer.” She laughed, a pretty sound like silver bells. “Mummy’s rather given up on me, I’m afraid.”
His mother seemed at a loss for words, such an unusual occurrence that Sirius had to smile. Narcissa, who was staring vaguely in his direction, smiled back. Her smile was very different from her sister’s. It seemed to Sirius to be lighter, filled with an innocence that was completely foreign to most members of the Black family. He felt the flutter in his stomach again. Then Bellatrix touched her sister’s hand and smiled at him as well. The flutter changed; Sirius felt it harden into something like a cold lump.
Sirius lay in his bed watching the moonlight filter through the ragged branches outside his window. His room was on an upper story, distant from his parents, who had separate bedrooms on the second floor. Narcissa had been given a room adjoining his mother’s. Bellatrix was somewhere up here with him.
A thought ghosted through his mind -- a fleeting wish that it had been the other sister who was given a room on his floor. Sirius clenched his fists, and turned over restlessly, firmly rejecting the thought. His traitorous mind refused to let it go, however, picking at it like a half-healed scab.
While it was true that in pure-blood families distant relations sometimes married -- his own parents were second cousins -- anything closer was definitely not on. Sirius knew the difference between first and second cousins was enormous, the bloodlines vastly separated, the distance far greater than the mere words made it seem. He knew that in Wizarding society it was forbidden to touch a first cousin, hardly better than touching a sister. The thought made him shudder.
But as he finally drifted to sleep, his thoughts overflowed with visions of long blonde hair.
He was thirteen years old. A cocky third year at Hogwarts who was sure he knew more than most of his professors. He resented being forced to revise, when it should have been clear to anyone with the intelligence of a Flobberworm that his gift was natural. Forced study could only upset the delicate balance between instinct and intellect that made magic come so effortlessly to him.
When he’d explained this theory to James, the git had laughed at him and said he was only looking for a way to avoid studying. Best not try that one on any professors, he’d advised.
So here he was in the nearly empty library, wasting time that could have been put to perfectly good use in a pick-up game of Quidditch, or thinking up new ways to torment Snivellus, studying for the end of term Potions exam. What were the five ingredients common to all memory-enhancing potions? Did he look like someone who cared?
He felt a shift in the air beside him. The sweet smell of vanilla and honey made his stomach flip. A posh hair-potion, he knew, and he knew who used it. He forced himself to stay cool, to take his time in looking up, and to make sure a confident smirk was on his face when he finally did.
And there she was, standing beside him -- his cousin Narcissa. She’d only spoken to him a handful of times during his three years at Hogwarts. She was four years older, and had a vastly different crowd. But he’d seen her often. He’d watched her at the Slytherin table across the Great Hall and he’d passed her sometimes in the halls or on the stairs. In his more honest moments, he’d admit to himself that he had no reason to hang about outside upper year classrooms, waiting for them to let out, he was only hoping to catch a glimpse of her as she left, always surrounded by crowds of giggling Slytherin girls. He wasn’t the only one who watched her, he’d noticed. White-hot jealousy flared in his stomach at the way boys of all houses, and all years, stared as she passed.
She never spoke to him as she walked by him in the halls, but she always spared him, and only him, a smile. It was the pure smile of a child; even his thirteen-year-old self could recognize that, it made her look younger than her seventeen years. Narcissa’s smile expressed only joy, kindness, innocence -- unlike the other Slytherins, whose smiles could be sly or conniving and could express much more than happiness. Narcissa’s smiling face had a purity that Sirius had never seen elsewhere, certainly never in members of his own family.
She wasn’t like the rest of the Blacks, he was sure of it. True, she had been sorted into Slytherin, and Sirius wasn’t naïve enough to think that she remained untainted by living with her parents, who were nearly as fanatically obsessed with blood as his own, but she remained above it all somehow. She was an innocent; there was no other way to express it. He would give anything to be able to keep her that way, untouched by the Blacks’ poison. But he was only thirteen.
She smiled down at him now, and he felt his own smirk dissolve into an answering grin.
“Sirius,” she said and her voice was like a warm breeze, “I may not get a chance to say good-bye later.”
“Good-bye?” he managed finally, annoyed to hear his voice come out like a squeak.
She nodded. “The school year ends soon.”
“Oh... Good-bye,” he answered, not knowing what else to say, then immediately regretted it. Now she’d leave.
She didn’t, though. Instead she watched him thoughtfully. “I should have some advice for you. Study hard, I suppose. Make the family proud.”
She leaned over his shoulder to get a look at the book he was reading. And that’s when it happened. Something Sirius would remember for the rest of his life, and replay often in his mind, until he grew ashamed.
She was behind him, and as she leaned over, the vanilla scent grew stronger, and her long blonde hair fell past his face shining like a curtain of gold. It touched his bare arm where it rested against his book and Sirius felt his breath catch in his throat. Narcissa’s hair was soft and whisper-light and tickled his skin. His forearm burned where the yellow hair touched it, and he felt himself growing hard under the table. He had the sudden need to pull away, and the overwhelming desire to get even closer, and he knew he would embarrass himself in a moment, do or say something unbearably awkward.
Then Narcissa stepped back, wrinkling her nose prettily. “Potions.” She made a little moue of disgust and laughed. “Well, cousin, it seems I have no advice for you after all. Good-bye, then.”
He watched her as she walked away. He sat in the library for more than an hour, but didn’t study.
That had been the last time he’d spoken to Narcissa, three years now. And as the time passed, he’d thought about her less and less. He hardly thought about her at all, nowadays, only sometimes waking up in his bed at Hogwarts in a cold sweat, the color yellow running through his dreams, and his arm burning where it had been touched by hair that was like sunlight.
His parents had gone out early. It was Wednesday, their day to pay a round of calls upon their circle of acceptably-blooded acquaintances. By mutual agreement, Sirius was always excluded from these visits, but his mother had hoped to take Narcissa along this time. She wanted to show off her pretty niece.
Narcissa was like malleable clay, willing to follow almost any suggestion, but Bellatrix had looked straight at his mother and said, “We won’t be going, Aunt Walburga,” and that was the end of that.
Sometime during the morning a summer storm had gathered force. The rain now splattered against the drawing room windows, streaking the panes, ringing against the glass like angry bells.
Sirius had ensconced himself in a high back armchair and was trying to derive some entertainment from the life story of the great Dark wizard, Ruddigore the Red, who, according to Profiles in Darkness, used to get his kicks throwing lavish unicorn hunting parties. The girls had been amusing themselves by exploring the house. Sirius had heard them moving about, poking into things, giggling occasionally. Let them, he’d thought, he wasn’t their host. It wasn’t his responsibility if some Dark object suddenly bit off one of Bellatrix’s fingers.
Now, having apparently exhausted all the diversions that twelve Grimmauld Place had to offer, they were occupying the corner of the drawing room furthest from his own. Narcissa was staring at the rain hitting the window, seemingly without a thought in her pretty head. Bellatrix stood behind her, brushing Narcissa’s hair with long even strokes.
Or rather, that’s what he assumed they were doing, because Sirius was definitely not watching them, not drawn by the sight of Bellatrix’s hands moving through the golden hair. He was reading. That Ruddigore was quite a wizard. No one ever actually killed a unicorn, it seemed. It was all about the parties.
Bellatrix had put down the brush and was now plaiting her sister’s long hair. One pale hand held a portion of Narcissa’s flaxen tresses, while she balanced two locks in the other hand. Her two hands twisted rhythmically; the yellow plait grew. Sirius was unaware he was looking, unaware his book had dropped to his lap, until he felt his eyes again snared by Bellatrix’s. He wanted badly to take up his book again, to hide behind it and pretend he hadn’t been staring, but he felt himself unable to move.
The older girl held his gaze and smiled slowly. He felt himself flush, aware he’d been caught at something. Why should Bellatrix smile at him that way? So knowingly, as if they held a secret between them. He had a perfect right to look at guests in his own home if he wanted to. What was this feeling in his stomach that insisted on resolving itself as guilt mixed with a twinge of excitement? How dare Bellatrix make him feel this way, when all he was doing was looking at Narcissa? Let them leave the room if they didn’t want to be seen. He knew where they could get an Invisibility Cloak.
Narcissa still stared at the rain-streaked window, enjoying her sister’s attentions, a peaceful smile playing over her features. She was so different from Bellatrix, so untouched. Sirius felt a brief burning hate for his entire family, himself included, that she couldn’t stay that way. That eventually the Blacks would ruin her.
Bellatrix still smiled. Sirius couldn’t look away.
He passed the dark-haired girl in the hall that night, on the way to his bedroom. She stopped in front of him, and touched his wrist.
Stepping in close, she spoke into his ear. “Little sister needs to be protected,” she whispered.
He could still feel her breath on his cheek as he fell asleep.
“I’m having my portrait painted,” Mrs. Black announced at dinner the following evening.
“That will be nice for you, dear,” Mr. Black replied abstractedly.
“Althea Nott recommended the most marvelous man. His portrait of her is really very clever. He’s managed to make her look nearly human,” Sirius’s mother droned on.
As his opinion was unlikely to be required, Sirius was free to struggle with his own thoughts, which were increasingly and disturbingly of long blonde hair. At least tonight he could look without danger of censure from Bellatrix’s perceptive eyes. She was seated at his side, with Narcissa across from them both.
He would have felt this to be alarmingly close, were it not for the fact that with Bellatrix in this position he could avoid her gaze. If he only kept staring rigidly forward, her brilliant eyes could not catch him.
But staring straight ahead meant looking at Narcissa. At her hair, her hands, her soft eyes, so different from her sister’s, so calm and easy. Looking at Narcissa made thoughts rush through his head. Thoughts he didn’t want there; thoughts he couldn’t banish, try as he might. Thoughts of how looking wasn’t enough.
He could close his eyes, but that would draw comment from his mother. It would be useless, anyway, Narcissa’s saffron hair had burned into his vision like the sun; he would see it behind his eyelids.
His mother was still talking, but he could make no sense of it. He heard his name and forced himself to concentrate.
“...be using the drawing room as a background. So find somewhere else to do whatever it is you do,” she was saying. “You, too, girls,” she added in a nicer tone. “The drawing room will be in the service of art for at least a week.”
She paused for an answer, but none came. “Sirius,” she demanded, waiting for him to look at her. He didn’t dare turn his head and risk meeting Bellatrix’s eyes. “I don’t want you underfoot. You’ll have to find some way to amuse yourself.”
Then he felt something, a soft pressure on his thigh under the table, and he knew Bellatrix had placed a hand there. She didn’t move her hand, just let it lay there on Sirius’s leg, light and motionless as a dead spider.
He didn’t dare make a noise, didn’t dare budge. If he yanked away, turned and looked at Bellatrix, she would be smiling that knowing smile at him. He refused to see it.
“Sirius Arcturus Black,” his mother said, in a voice as cool as ashes, “I expect you to answer when you’re spoken to.”
“Yes, Mother,” he heard himself say. He felt disconnected from most of his body. His entire consciousness was concentrated on a light hand resting on his thigh.
He wanted desperately to yell, to shove Bellatrix away hard, but the soft fingers held him motionless. He could only sit there, frozen, enduring the touch of one sister, cold and dry as moon dust, while he stared at the other. If Narcissa touched him, he knew, it would be warm as the sun.
What was Bellatrix playing at, he wondered furiously as he lay in bed, too angry to sleep. Who the fuck did she think she was?
He was Sirius Black, eldest son to Orion Black, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, who traced their bloodline to before the Middle Ages. He would head the entire family someday, if he so desired. How dare this country cousin take such liberties with him? Did she think he would stand for it because he was only sixteen and she was twenty-four?
He clenched his fists. Why did she think she could look at him like that? Like she knew his secrets. And how could she touch him? What did she mean by it?
It had been the lightest of touches, coming when she knew he was looking at her sister, at the golden hair framing a face made even paler by the candlelight. Bellatrix, with the tyranny of her glittering eyes, had made it impossible for him to look anywhere else. She had known that, and then she’d touched him.
Hours later, he could still feel the ghost of her hand on his thigh. He hadn’t wanted it there. It had felt horrible, disgusting. It had felt wrong.
A slow thrill rolled through his stomach and spread unbidden to his cock. He felt himself growing hard, and let out a bitter curse at all Black women, and another at himself.
His hard-on demanded attention. Sirius ruthlessly ignored it. He wouldn’t touch himself; not when he wasn’t sure if it was cornsilk hair that was making him hard, or a sharp knowing smile. Was his cock throbbing at the memory of golden strands, or the vision of an unnaturally white hand moving through them? Which would be worse?
He heard himself groan and realized his hand had moved of its own accord to his aching cock. He looked down at his fist pumping up and down under the sheet and wondered dimly what had become of his self-control. Perhaps he’d never had any.
Perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip, and beaded between his shoulder blades. He stroked himself harder, relishing the warmth that was spreading through his body, and the thrill that was radiating from his groin out to his stomach, his arms, his legs.
He refused to think of a face, concentrating instead on yellow hair -- how it would feel softly brushing against his arms, his chest, his nipples. He bit his lower lip hard to keep in a moan, not caring when he tasted blood.
If the blonde hair had a way of changing now and then to black, and if his cock gave an accompanying jump in his hand, well, he could ignore that. He was still in control of his mind, at least. His imagination could transform raven locks to spun-gold tresses. He would not wank to black hair and knowing eyes. He felt himself gasping for breath.
He did not want Bellatrix, in flesh or fantasy. He wanted her gone from his life, and from his thoughts. Much better to think of Narcissa. Narcissa, who was not perfect, but was at least blameless. Narcissa, with hair like the sun, who couldn’t help being a Black, and who had burned her way into whatever he had for a soul. Narcissa, who he blazed for, who he wanted like he wanted daylight. Who must never, never know.
He came suddenly, straining for air, muffling his cry in a pillow.
The Black house was monstrous. It twisted and turned in unexpected ways; hidden passages traversed bewildering paths connecting unlikely rooms. Staircases took unforeseen turns and often led nowhere. Rooms followed no discernible floor plan, but seemed to have sprouted organically, like toadstools. Sirius had never been able to prove it, but since he was seven he had been sure that the house changed subtly from time-to-time, adding rooms or taking them away, according to its own architectural whims.
Why, then, was he unable to avoid his dark-haired cousin?
He would pass Bellatrix in the halls, on back staircases, in the basement kitchen. Sometimes she would be with Narcissa, sometimes alone.
If Narcissa was there, the younger girl would smile the same way she used to upon passing him in the halls of Hogwarts, and Sirius would feel something tighten in his chest. She seemed sometimes to want to stop and speak to him, but Bellatrix would lay a hand on her shoulder, or on the small of her back, and guide her past.
If Bellatrix was on her own, she would stop very still, forcing Sirius to walk by her. She’d seem barely to notice him, but as he passed, she would always touch him lightly somewhere -- his chest, his arm -- once, the side of his neck.
He’d feel these touches for hours. If he closed his eyes, his skin would remember the sensations, feeling her light dry hand all over him. Each place she’d touched stood out cold as ice, as though she’d left wintry handprints behind. He was sure he’d been marked; he knew Bellatrix would have left signs of herself, even if they weren’t visible to the eye.
“The tapestry must be clearly readable behind me.”
“Sì, Signora.”
“And I must be in three-quarter profile.”
“Sì, Signora.”
“And there will be no Conjuring of that hideous artificial light. I must be bathed in a natural glow.”
The little man sputtered. “But, Signora, this room, the windows, they let in so little --“
“And,” Sirius’s mother continued mercilessly, “I expect a rose undertone to my skin. One hint of olive, and I’ll Transfigure you into something small and unpleasant. This portrait is my legacy. It’s your job to make it exquisite.”
“Ah, but it is so easy,” he bowed low with a flourish. “Signora could never look anything less than beautiful.”
Mrs. Black favored the little portrait painter with a warm smile. Sirius, watching from the doorway, shuddered.
Professor Ludwigo Magia-Magia was round and red as a tomato, and jumpy as a marionette. He’d been flitting through the drawing room all morning, buzzing here and there -- setting up his easel and selecting paints from large cases on the floor.
Sirius suspected he was no more professor of anything than he himself was, but the title seemed to impress his mother. By mid-morning on the day of his arrival, they were ready to start on the portrait, the Professor having told Mrs. Black that his special technique required no preliminary sketches. Sirius assumed he didn’t want to spend any more time at twelve Grimmauld Place than was absolutely necessary.
“KREACHER!”
The elf Apparated with a loud crack directly behind the Professor. The little portrait painter jumped surprisingly high for such a round man, and did -- at least by Sirius’s judgment -- a rather impressive mid-air pirouette before landing several feet away.
“Must he do that?” the artist inquired weakly, fanning himself with one hand.
“Kreacher, the Professor and I will be dining in here. There will be no breaks,” she added, fixing a stern eye upon the little painter. “Make sure we are not disturbed.”
Kreacher, nodded, bowed and Apparated out of the room with an even louder noise than before. Sirius was sure the house-elf did it deliberately. He wished he knew how.
The Professor quivered silently a moment, before gathering himself and attending to his many brushes. Sirius idly wondered what the odds were of the painter surviving the week. He felt a twinge of loneliness. Moony was always good at figuring out that sort of thing. He sighed.
His mother’s head snapped up from where she was supervising the painter’s color selections. “Sirius! I told you you were not to be in this room. Remove yourself. I don’t wish to see you here again.” She looked murderous.
He felt a small grin start to play over the corner of his mouth. “Sì, Signora.”
He bowed as he slipped out, ignoring his mother’s furious face.
*
Sirius wandered restlessly, poking his head into rooms, then leaving quickly when he found them empty. He felt itchy, unsure what he was looking for, or if he was looking for anything at all. Deciding the empty feeling in his stomach was hunger, he headed for the basement kitchen.
Bellatrix and Narcissa sat at the table, a tea service spread before them. And that was not who he’d been looking for, he told himself. They looked up silently at his approach.
Maybe he wasn’t hungry after all. He was turning to leave when he heard the older girl’s voice.
“I wonder why our cousin has been ignoring us, Cissy.”
Bellatrix was playing at petulance; her voice sounded of little-girl coyness. Sirius ignored her. Then a small sad noise made his heart clench. Narcissa’s sigh.
“I don’t know,” she replied to her sister. “I wish he would stay for tea.”
“Boys are strange creatures, Cissy. So many are afraid of witches.”
Sirius hated himself for swiveling slowly back, for taking a stiff seat at the table. What did he have to prove to Bellatrix? Why did he care?
She rewarded him with one of her sharp smiles. Like silver knives, Sirius thought again. Why couldn’t he look away?
They must have Conjured the tea set; Sirius had never seen it before. Glinting silver thorns twined round the midnight blue china of the cups and plates. The porcelain was so thin, it was nearly translucent, and glowed in the light of the kitchen fire. It looked delicate, ethereal, Sirius thought. It looked breakable.
Tiny sandwiches and dainty cakes with pink icing overflowed from tiered trays. Sugared flowers graced elegant tarts. Candied fruits and nuts spilled over from heirloom silver bowls. Neither girl ever ate much, Sirius knew. They wouldn’t come close to finishing this fairy feast.
Bellatrix nudged Narcissa and she poured him a cup of tea. Sirius took it without flinching, not sure what he was proving, and grabbed a tiny sandwich. Bellatrix looked pleased.
He took a bite, then grimaced, fighting not to spit it out. It had looked like chicken; he didn’t like to think what it might actually be. He forced himself to swallow.
Bellatrix threw him a fond look. “Family should spend time together. Regulus should be here.”
“Regulus is lucky,” he snorted, taking a swig of tea. That at least was drinkable, and tasted faintly of strawberries.
Bellatrix frowned. “And naughty Andromeda. We haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Andromeda is married, Bella,” Narcissa replied. “I wish we were allowed to meet her little girl,” she added wistfully.
“Naughty Andromeda married a nasty, filthy Muggle-lover. Mummy was so angry.” Bellatrix laughed. She looked, for a moment, like a joyful young woman, not dangerous at all.
Sirius felt his head growing light, and wondered vaguely if there was something in the tea. He doubted it; it was becoming all too common around the sisters -- this fuzzy out-of-body sensation. He stared at them, deliberately letting his eyes blur.
One was light, one dark. They were painfully lovely, both of them, with a razor-sharp beauty that hurt to look at straight on. How could they be so very alike in appearance, he wondered, yet so vastly different in their hearts?
“It’s a shame we won’t be seeing Regulus.” The blonde girl gave him a little shrug, then smiled.
He felt warmth flood his body in a rush. She was like a tarnished angel, he thought disjointedly, feeling somewhat ridiculous. Damaged, of course, but in spite of everything she could still be saved; every fiber of his being told him that. His heart quickened at the thought. Could he perhaps be the one to save her?
“It’s too bad about Regulus,” she continued in her clear young voice, with its tones as pure as a child’s. “But Sirius is our favorite cousin.”
The warmth blazed to sudden burning heat. Sirius shook his head, trying to clear it. He knew he couldn’t be the one to save her. If he was wise he’d stay far away.
He passed Bellatrix again that night, in the hall that led to both of their rooms. As he’d known he would.
He’d waited until it was very late, until he was falling asleep standing, before he made the weary trek upstairs to his bedroom. He knew she’d be there, no matter how long he lingered, no matter how late it was.
He saw her, standing near the entrance to his room. He’d have to endure whatever little game she had planned before she’d let him go around. She smiled a slow predatory smile, and he half-considered going back downstairs -- finding some abandoned couch to sleep on, or a floor somewhere. Instead he continued forward.
She stepped in close as he reached her, as he’d expected. Trailing a light hand down the side of his face, she whispered in a cruel, baby-voiced impression of her yellow-haired sister, “Sirius is our favorite cousin.”
She laughed softly, and took a step away. Her touch made him feel disconnected from his body, as it always did, but he could feel his blood rush, and hear a roaring sound in his ears. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he clamped a hand around her wrist and jerked her back.
Her bright eyes shone, and she smiled knowingly, and that’s all he had time to see before he crushed his mouth to hers.
She kissed him back at once, with no hesitation or surprise. Their tongues brushed against each other, rough and hard.
Then somehow he had her up against the wall outside his bedroom, with no clear idea of how he’d gotten there. He put a hand on the doorframe behind her, so he could lean in even closer, kiss her even harder, and rub one hand roughly up and down her side.
A fleeting thought passed through his head -- about how this was wrong, how he didn’t want this, how he should stop now -- but it was all jumbled; his clouded brain could make no sense of it. He didn’t want to think, anyhow. He’d done far too much thinking lately; he’d be happy to never think again.
He kissed her hungrily and fisted a hand in that mass of black hair. A hard yank exposed her neck, and her answering moan reverberated through his body straight to his cock.
He bit down hard and heard her gasp. Good, he thought vaguely, let her lose control.
Then the door was open and she was pulling him into his bedroom. He followed eagerly, furious at himself, furious at the world, furious at his aching cock.
Why couldn’t he stop thinking? He pushed her angrily onto the bed. He was going to finish this, there was no question. He had no use for the part of his brain that kept repeating, this is wrong, this is wrong, in a small insistent voice like a quiet scream.
Bellatrix laughed up at him, and he fell on top of her, kissing her neck, dragging his teeth to her pulse point, tasting her skin. She was pushing his shirt off his shoulders, and that seemed like a good plan, so he sat up quickly and ripped it off before attacking the filmy material of her dress.
There was far too much of it, and his hot fumbling hands couldn’t find the fasteners, and Bellatrix was going to laugh at him again, which could not be borne. But she merely stretched an arm behind her neck and made a quick motion with her fingers.
The silky fabric fell away, exposing her white skin. Her breasts were small and perfectly shaped, with dusky rose nipples he ached to feel between his fingers. This is how Narcissa would look, he couldn’t help thinking, then felt a new flash of revulsion that only made his cock throb harder. He dived forward to banish the thought, cupping one breast and capturing the nipple in his mouth, while working her dress down her hips with his other hand.
He sucked at her nipple, pleased to feel it harden in his mouth, glad to hear her arch and moan. She wasn’t laughing anymore, but shoving his trousers down his long legs. He kicked them violently off, and then his naked body was against hers.
He could feel himself shaking, knew he was out of control, but he was not going to stop. He was going to finish this -- the quicker, the more savage, the better. He found her opening and a fierce shudder racked through him at the feel of her wetness. Barely taking time to position himself, he thrust hard.
And he was inside her, pumping, driving, and she was thrashing against him and making noises that penetrated his skin and raced through his blood. And finally he was no longer thinking -- no longer could think. A buzzing redness swum round his brain, and behind his eyelids, leaving room for nothing else.
He knew he was kneading her breast; he felt himself pressing their damp foreheads together, but his body had left him behind. He had no control of the hips that slammed into the dark-haired witch, or the hot hands that roamed her body, desperate to touch anywhere they could. He was overwhelmed by sensations; the fiery ache that was almost there, and the feel of her cool fingers on his feverish skin.
Much more of this would kill him, and he was so close, and he heard her scream beneath him, felt her shudder. Then he was coming in a rush of heat, and collapsing against her, gasping for air.
He supposed he must have passed out. The next thing he was aware of was the curtain of her dark hair tumbling against his cheek and onto his pillow. She was standing over him, leaning down to whisper in his ear as he lay on his stomach, completely spent, unable to move.
“Our favorite cousin,” she murmured, and laughed softly.
A/N: Continued in part two. Here.
Title: Of Dark and Bright
Author: Argosy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sirius/Bellatrix
Warnings: Darkfic, Blackcest, BDSM
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Sirius badly wants his cousin, Narcissa. He gets her sister.
OF DARK AND BRIGHT
Part One
“KREACHER!”
Crack! The wizened old house-elf Apparated into the drawing room at number twelve Grimmauld Place. He wore an obsequious grin along with his rag-like loincloth, and managed somehow to look both cowed and sly.
“Mistress is calling me?” he croaked, bowing low.
“Mistress has been calling you for hours, you worm-ridden half-wit,” Sirius’s mother snarled. “Is the room ready yet?”
“Miss Narcissa’s bedroom is being beautiful, kind mistress.”
He bowed even lower, his hunchback causing him to teeter precariously. Sirius looked up from the corner where he was vainly trying to pass the time with a book. Kreacher falling over had to be more entertaining than Profiles in Darkness: Wizards Who Dared.
Sadly, Kreacher managed to regain his balance. Sirius sighed. He was desperately bored. And with summer holidays just begun, the only thing he had to look forward to was the prospect of more time spent with the Black family.
If only he’d been allowed to spend the summer elsewhere. He was sixteen. Nearly seventeen. It was utterly unfair he should be forced to live like a prisoner in his dreary family home. Regulus, who was younger, had been permitted to escape.
He’d brought up that point with his mother, hoping to somehow make her see reason. “Darling Reggie,” she’d said, “is doing an Honors program at Durmstrang.” The pride in her voice did not temper the look in her eyes that clearly stated which brother’s company she would have preferred. “Happily, we still have the benefit of your society.”
So here he was. Stuck. When James, or Moony, or any of a dozen friends would have taken him in. The problem, of course, was that his family didn’t approve of his choice of summer companions. The few with the precious blood required of would-be entertainers of the Black’s black sheep were deemed unsuitable for social reasons.
“We’ll see about that, shall we?” His mother’s voice shrilled at the elf, interrupting his thoughts. Grabbing hold of one of Kreacher’s bat ears, she strode purposefully from the room, dragging the house-elf behind her. Sirius could hear his little oh, oh, ohs of pain getting softer as they moved down the hall.
Now his cousin Narcissa, who, at twenty, was apparently too stupid to be on her own while her parents toured Eastern Europe for the summer, was coming to stay. Sirius felt a flutter in his stomach and tamped it relentlessly down. He was relieved that something was finally breaking the monotony of his holiday existence, he told himself. He was not remembering the way Narcissa’s long blonde hair had looked the last time he’d seen her, at Hogwarts, when she was a graduating seventh year, and he was still in third.
“This is unacceptable, you miserable excuse for a magical being.” Sirius could hear his mother’s angry voice all the way from the guest room at the end of the hall. “Do it again. Top to bottom.”
“It is being Kreacher’s pleasure, mistress,” came the cringing tones of the elf.
“Now, Kreacher.”
“Kreacher will be scrubbing the room until his fingers bleed.”
“Now, Kreacher.”
Sirius felt the familiar tingle of magic in the air the moment before he heard the crack of Apparation. The next moment, Narcissa Black stood before him in the drawing room, blinking in confusion.
His throat went suddenly dry. He should greet her, he knew, should say something, but the words wouldn’t seem to come. For her part, Narcissa looked vaguely about the room as if unsure how she’d come to be there.
She was directly in front of him, but Sirius had trouble seeing her somehow. She was too bright; he felt blinded.
He had an impression of yellow hair, and pale skin. His brain stubbornly refused to make sense of the rest. Feeling a sudden need for air, he realized he’d forgotten to breathe.
“Narcissa, darling,” his mother swept in, called by the sound of Apparation, “how lovely you look.”
A shy smile spread over Narcissa’s features. His mother took her hands. “We’re so happy to have you, dear.” She glanced at Sirius. “We were getting rather dull amongst ourselves.” Smiling a genuine smile at the girl, she practically cooed, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you for a nice long --”
CRACK!
Mrs. Black started, glancing around the room reflexively. Sirius reluctantly dragged his eyes away from where they were still refusing to make sense of Narcissa.
And there stood another of Sirius’s cousins, Narcissa’s sister Bellatrix, in the far corner of the room, taking in her surroundings with a look of naked curiosity.
Bellatrix was the oldest sister, the one Sirius knew least well. He’d spoken to her perhaps twice in his life, and seen her only a few times more. She stood unnaturally still, all darkness where Narcissa was light. He could look at her, could take in her black hair and fine features, so like Narcissa, and yet not.
The smile drained from his mother’s face. She looked at the other girl with undisguised distaste for a moment before the mask fell back into place. “Bellatrix. We weren’t expecting you.”
“Hello, Aunt Walburga,” replied the girl, glancing around the room with bright, sharp eyes. “Hello, little Gryffindor cousin,” she added when those eyes fell on him. “I’ll be staying too.”
“We expect one sister and we get two. I call that a fine bargain.” Sirius’s father smiled benevolently at the two girls across the dining room table.
Of the very many things Sirius hated about Grimmauld Place, he hated these mandatory family dinners the most. Every evening he was required to don dress robes and sit stiffly in the formal dining room eating off fancy bone china that was very likely made of real bones -- the bones of Black family enemies, knowing his father. He would have much preferred to take his meals in the downstairs kitchen, as far away from his family as possible.
“I go where Cissy goes. She needs looking after.” Bellatrix’s voice and face were pleasant, and didn’t quite match the look in her eyes.
“Yes. Very commendable,” harrumphed Mr. Black, disconcerted. Mrs. Black smiled a brittle smile.
There was something about Bellatrix that seemed to unsettle his parents. Sirius would have considered that a point in her favor, if he hadn’t felt that same indefinable something unsettling him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. She was rather pretty, and seemed pleasant enough, but she held your gaze a little too long, and it was hard to look away. She kept her body a little too still, then would move quickly and smoothly, like a serpent. For all her silkiness, there was somehow still a sharpness about her and a brilliance, in her eyes and in the lines of her body. She was like silver knives, Sirius mused, you felt you would get cut if you got too close.
She adored Narcissa, that was obvious in the fiercely protective way she would look at her younger sister, and the way she kept a hand on her at all times. She was always touching her lightly somewhere -- her shoulder, her cheek, the back of her hand. Even now she twisted a lock of Narcissa’s fine blonde hair around one of her fingers.
Sirius had once touched that hair. Or rather, that hair had once touched him. He felt a frisson go through him at the memory. He gritted his teeth, annoyed with himself, and forced himself to look away from Narcissa’s yellow hair, from where it twined round Bellatrix’s finger, glinting in the candlelight. Glancing around the table, he was relieved to see his parents had not noticed him staring -- not that they ever noticed anything about him -- and then he met Bellatrix’s eyes.
He felt caught in a snare, powerless to look away until she allowed it. She watched him knowingly, something almost like pity in her glance, before she slowly smiled. Her teeth were bright and sharp.
“I was so pleased when my brother asked us to take you, Narcissa, dear,” his mother was saying. “We do so always enjoy --”
“It was Mummy’s idea,” Bellatrix broke in. Sirius felt himself released. “She thinks Cissy is more likely to meet an eligible pure-blood wizard if she stays in London over the summer.” She laughed, a pretty sound like silver bells. “Mummy’s rather given up on me, I’m afraid.”
His mother seemed at a loss for words, such an unusual occurrence that Sirius had to smile. Narcissa, who was staring vaguely in his direction, smiled back. Her smile was very different from her sister’s. It seemed to Sirius to be lighter, filled with an innocence that was completely foreign to most members of the Black family. He felt the flutter in his stomach again. Then Bellatrix touched her sister’s hand and smiled at him as well. The flutter changed; Sirius felt it harden into something like a cold lump.
Sirius lay in his bed watching the moonlight filter through the ragged branches outside his window. His room was on an upper story, distant from his parents, who had separate bedrooms on the second floor. Narcissa had been given a room adjoining his mother’s. Bellatrix was somewhere up here with him.
A thought ghosted through his mind -- a fleeting wish that it had been the other sister who was given a room on his floor. Sirius clenched his fists, and turned over restlessly, firmly rejecting the thought. His traitorous mind refused to let it go, however, picking at it like a half-healed scab.
While it was true that in pure-blood families distant relations sometimes married -- his own parents were second cousins -- anything closer was definitely not on. Sirius knew the difference between first and second cousins was enormous, the bloodlines vastly separated, the distance far greater than the mere words made it seem. He knew that in Wizarding society it was forbidden to touch a first cousin, hardly better than touching a sister. The thought made him shudder.
But as he finally drifted to sleep, his thoughts overflowed with visions of long blonde hair.
He was thirteen years old. A cocky third year at Hogwarts who was sure he knew more than most of his professors. He resented being forced to revise, when it should have been clear to anyone with the intelligence of a Flobberworm that his gift was natural. Forced study could only upset the delicate balance between instinct and intellect that made magic come so effortlessly to him.
When he’d explained this theory to James, the git had laughed at him and said he was only looking for a way to avoid studying. Best not try that one on any professors, he’d advised.
So here he was in the nearly empty library, wasting time that could have been put to perfectly good use in a pick-up game of Quidditch, or thinking up new ways to torment Snivellus, studying for the end of term Potions exam. What were the five ingredients common to all memory-enhancing potions? Did he look like someone who cared?
He felt a shift in the air beside him. The sweet smell of vanilla and honey made his stomach flip. A posh hair-potion, he knew, and he knew who used it. He forced himself to stay cool, to take his time in looking up, and to make sure a confident smirk was on his face when he finally did.
And there she was, standing beside him -- his cousin Narcissa. She’d only spoken to him a handful of times during his three years at Hogwarts. She was four years older, and had a vastly different crowd. But he’d seen her often. He’d watched her at the Slytherin table across the Great Hall and he’d passed her sometimes in the halls or on the stairs. In his more honest moments, he’d admit to himself that he had no reason to hang about outside upper year classrooms, waiting for them to let out, he was only hoping to catch a glimpse of her as she left, always surrounded by crowds of giggling Slytherin girls. He wasn’t the only one who watched her, he’d noticed. White-hot jealousy flared in his stomach at the way boys of all houses, and all years, stared as she passed.
She never spoke to him as she walked by him in the halls, but she always spared him, and only him, a smile. It was the pure smile of a child; even his thirteen-year-old self could recognize that, it made her look younger than her seventeen years. Narcissa’s smile expressed only joy, kindness, innocence -- unlike the other Slytherins, whose smiles could be sly or conniving and could express much more than happiness. Narcissa’s smiling face had a purity that Sirius had never seen elsewhere, certainly never in members of his own family.
She wasn’t like the rest of the Blacks, he was sure of it. True, she had been sorted into Slytherin, and Sirius wasn’t naïve enough to think that she remained untainted by living with her parents, who were nearly as fanatically obsessed with blood as his own, but she remained above it all somehow. She was an innocent; there was no other way to express it. He would give anything to be able to keep her that way, untouched by the Blacks’ poison. But he was only thirteen.
She smiled down at him now, and he felt his own smirk dissolve into an answering grin.
“Sirius,” she said and her voice was like a warm breeze, “I may not get a chance to say good-bye later.”
“Good-bye?” he managed finally, annoyed to hear his voice come out like a squeak.
She nodded. “The school year ends soon.”
“Oh... Good-bye,” he answered, not knowing what else to say, then immediately regretted it. Now she’d leave.
She didn’t, though. Instead she watched him thoughtfully. “I should have some advice for you. Study hard, I suppose. Make the family proud.”
She leaned over his shoulder to get a look at the book he was reading. And that’s when it happened. Something Sirius would remember for the rest of his life, and replay often in his mind, until he grew ashamed.
She was behind him, and as she leaned over, the vanilla scent grew stronger, and her long blonde hair fell past his face shining like a curtain of gold. It touched his bare arm where it rested against his book and Sirius felt his breath catch in his throat. Narcissa’s hair was soft and whisper-light and tickled his skin. His forearm burned where the yellow hair touched it, and he felt himself growing hard under the table. He had the sudden need to pull away, and the overwhelming desire to get even closer, and he knew he would embarrass himself in a moment, do or say something unbearably awkward.
Then Narcissa stepped back, wrinkling her nose prettily. “Potions.” She made a little moue of disgust and laughed. “Well, cousin, it seems I have no advice for you after all. Good-bye, then.”
He watched her as she walked away. He sat in the library for more than an hour, but didn’t study.
That had been the last time he’d spoken to Narcissa, three years now. And as the time passed, he’d thought about her less and less. He hardly thought about her at all, nowadays, only sometimes waking up in his bed at Hogwarts in a cold sweat, the color yellow running through his dreams, and his arm burning where it had been touched by hair that was like sunlight.
His parents had gone out early. It was Wednesday, their day to pay a round of calls upon their circle of acceptably-blooded acquaintances. By mutual agreement, Sirius was always excluded from these visits, but his mother had hoped to take Narcissa along this time. She wanted to show off her pretty niece.
Narcissa was like malleable clay, willing to follow almost any suggestion, but Bellatrix had looked straight at his mother and said, “We won’t be going, Aunt Walburga,” and that was the end of that.
Sometime during the morning a summer storm had gathered force. The rain now splattered against the drawing room windows, streaking the panes, ringing against the glass like angry bells.
Sirius had ensconced himself in a high back armchair and was trying to derive some entertainment from the life story of the great Dark wizard, Ruddigore the Red, who, according to Profiles in Darkness, used to get his kicks throwing lavish unicorn hunting parties. The girls had been amusing themselves by exploring the house. Sirius had heard them moving about, poking into things, giggling occasionally. Let them, he’d thought, he wasn’t their host. It wasn’t his responsibility if some Dark object suddenly bit off one of Bellatrix’s fingers.
Now, having apparently exhausted all the diversions that twelve Grimmauld Place had to offer, they were occupying the corner of the drawing room furthest from his own. Narcissa was staring at the rain hitting the window, seemingly without a thought in her pretty head. Bellatrix stood behind her, brushing Narcissa’s hair with long even strokes.
Or rather, that’s what he assumed they were doing, because Sirius was definitely not watching them, not drawn by the sight of Bellatrix’s hands moving through the golden hair. He was reading. That Ruddigore was quite a wizard. No one ever actually killed a unicorn, it seemed. It was all about the parties.
Bellatrix had put down the brush and was now plaiting her sister’s long hair. One pale hand held a portion of Narcissa’s flaxen tresses, while she balanced two locks in the other hand. Her two hands twisted rhythmically; the yellow plait grew. Sirius was unaware he was looking, unaware his book had dropped to his lap, until he felt his eyes again snared by Bellatrix’s. He wanted badly to take up his book again, to hide behind it and pretend he hadn’t been staring, but he felt himself unable to move.
The older girl held his gaze and smiled slowly. He felt himself flush, aware he’d been caught at something. Why should Bellatrix smile at him that way? So knowingly, as if they held a secret between them. He had a perfect right to look at guests in his own home if he wanted to. What was this feeling in his stomach that insisted on resolving itself as guilt mixed with a twinge of excitement? How dare Bellatrix make him feel this way, when all he was doing was looking at Narcissa? Let them leave the room if they didn’t want to be seen. He knew where they could get an Invisibility Cloak.
Narcissa still stared at the rain-streaked window, enjoying her sister’s attentions, a peaceful smile playing over her features. She was so different from Bellatrix, so untouched. Sirius felt a brief burning hate for his entire family, himself included, that she couldn’t stay that way. That eventually the Blacks would ruin her.
Bellatrix still smiled. Sirius couldn’t look away.
He passed the dark-haired girl in the hall that night, on the way to his bedroom. She stopped in front of him, and touched his wrist.
Stepping in close, she spoke into his ear. “Little sister needs to be protected,” she whispered.
He could still feel her breath on his cheek as he fell asleep.
“I’m having my portrait painted,” Mrs. Black announced at dinner the following evening.
“That will be nice for you, dear,” Mr. Black replied abstractedly.
“Althea Nott recommended the most marvelous man. His portrait of her is really very clever. He’s managed to make her look nearly human,” Sirius’s mother droned on.
As his opinion was unlikely to be required, Sirius was free to struggle with his own thoughts, which were increasingly and disturbingly of long blonde hair. At least tonight he could look without danger of censure from Bellatrix’s perceptive eyes. She was seated at his side, with Narcissa across from them both.
He would have felt this to be alarmingly close, were it not for the fact that with Bellatrix in this position he could avoid her gaze. If he only kept staring rigidly forward, her brilliant eyes could not catch him.
But staring straight ahead meant looking at Narcissa. At her hair, her hands, her soft eyes, so different from her sister’s, so calm and easy. Looking at Narcissa made thoughts rush through his head. Thoughts he didn’t want there; thoughts he couldn’t banish, try as he might. Thoughts of how looking wasn’t enough.
He could close his eyes, but that would draw comment from his mother. It would be useless, anyway, Narcissa’s saffron hair had burned into his vision like the sun; he would see it behind his eyelids.
His mother was still talking, but he could make no sense of it. He heard his name and forced himself to concentrate.
“...be using the drawing room as a background. So find somewhere else to do whatever it is you do,” she was saying. “You, too, girls,” she added in a nicer tone. “The drawing room will be in the service of art for at least a week.”
She paused for an answer, but none came. “Sirius,” she demanded, waiting for him to look at her. He didn’t dare turn his head and risk meeting Bellatrix’s eyes. “I don’t want you underfoot. You’ll have to find some way to amuse yourself.”
Then he felt something, a soft pressure on his thigh under the table, and he knew Bellatrix had placed a hand there. She didn’t move her hand, just let it lay there on Sirius’s leg, light and motionless as a dead spider.
He didn’t dare make a noise, didn’t dare budge. If he yanked away, turned and looked at Bellatrix, she would be smiling that knowing smile at him. He refused to see it.
“Sirius Arcturus Black,” his mother said, in a voice as cool as ashes, “I expect you to answer when you’re spoken to.”
“Yes, Mother,” he heard himself say. He felt disconnected from most of his body. His entire consciousness was concentrated on a light hand resting on his thigh.
He wanted desperately to yell, to shove Bellatrix away hard, but the soft fingers held him motionless. He could only sit there, frozen, enduring the touch of one sister, cold and dry as moon dust, while he stared at the other. If Narcissa touched him, he knew, it would be warm as the sun.
What was Bellatrix playing at, he wondered furiously as he lay in bed, too angry to sleep. Who the fuck did she think she was?
He was Sirius Black, eldest son to Orion Black, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, who traced their bloodline to before the Middle Ages. He would head the entire family someday, if he so desired. How dare this country cousin take such liberties with him? Did she think he would stand for it because he was only sixteen and she was twenty-four?
He clenched his fists. Why did she think she could look at him like that? Like she knew his secrets. And how could she touch him? What did she mean by it?
It had been the lightest of touches, coming when she knew he was looking at her sister, at the golden hair framing a face made even paler by the candlelight. Bellatrix, with the tyranny of her glittering eyes, had made it impossible for him to look anywhere else. She had known that, and then she’d touched him.
Hours later, he could still feel the ghost of her hand on his thigh. He hadn’t wanted it there. It had felt horrible, disgusting. It had felt wrong.
A slow thrill rolled through his stomach and spread unbidden to his cock. He felt himself growing hard, and let out a bitter curse at all Black women, and another at himself.
His hard-on demanded attention. Sirius ruthlessly ignored it. He wouldn’t touch himself; not when he wasn’t sure if it was cornsilk hair that was making him hard, or a sharp knowing smile. Was his cock throbbing at the memory of golden strands, or the vision of an unnaturally white hand moving through them? Which would be worse?
He heard himself groan and realized his hand had moved of its own accord to his aching cock. He looked down at his fist pumping up and down under the sheet and wondered dimly what had become of his self-control. Perhaps he’d never had any.
Perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip, and beaded between his shoulder blades. He stroked himself harder, relishing the warmth that was spreading through his body, and the thrill that was radiating from his groin out to his stomach, his arms, his legs.
He refused to think of a face, concentrating instead on yellow hair -- how it would feel softly brushing against his arms, his chest, his nipples. He bit his lower lip hard to keep in a moan, not caring when he tasted blood.
If the blonde hair had a way of changing now and then to black, and if his cock gave an accompanying jump in his hand, well, he could ignore that. He was still in control of his mind, at least. His imagination could transform raven locks to spun-gold tresses. He would not wank to black hair and knowing eyes. He felt himself gasping for breath.
He did not want Bellatrix, in flesh or fantasy. He wanted her gone from his life, and from his thoughts. Much better to think of Narcissa. Narcissa, who was not perfect, but was at least blameless. Narcissa, with hair like the sun, who couldn’t help being a Black, and who had burned her way into whatever he had for a soul. Narcissa, who he blazed for, who he wanted like he wanted daylight. Who must never, never know.
He came suddenly, straining for air, muffling his cry in a pillow.
The Black house was monstrous. It twisted and turned in unexpected ways; hidden passages traversed bewildering paths connecting unlikely rooms. Staircases took unforeseen turns and often led nowhere. Rooms followed no discernible floor plan, but seemed to have sprouted organically, like toadstools. Sirius had never been able to prove it, but since he was seven he had been sure that the house changed subtly from time-to-time, adding rooms or taking them away, according to its own architectural whims.
Why, then, was he unable to avoid his dark-haired cousin?
He would pass Bellatrix in the halls, on back staircases, in the basement kitchen. Sometimes she would be with Narcissa, sometimes alone.
If Narcissa was there, the younger girl would smile the same way she used to upon passing him in the halls of Hogwarts, and Sirius would feel something tighten in his chest. She seemed sometimes to want to stop and speak to him, but Bellatrix would lay a hand on her shoulder, or on the small of her back, and guide her past.
If Bellatrix was on her own, she would stop very still, forcing Sirius to walk by her. She’d seem barely to notice him, but as he passed, she would always touch him lightly somewhere -- his chest, his arm -- once, the side of his neck.
He’d feel these touches for hours. If he closed his eyes, his skin would remember the sensations, feeling her light dry hand all over him. Each place she’d touched stood out cold as ice, as though she’d left wintry handprints behind. He was sure he’d been marked; he knew Bellatrix would have left signs of herself, even if they weren’t visible to the eye.
“The tapestry must be clearly readable behind me.”
“Sì, Signora.”
“And I must be in three-quarter profile.”
“Sì, Signora.”
“And there will be no Conjuring of that hideous artificial light. I must be bathed in a natural glow.”
The little man sputtered. “But, Signora, this room, the windows, they let in so little --“
“And,” Sirius’s mother continued mercilessly, “I expect a rose undertone to my skin. One hint of olive, and I’ll Transfigure you into something small and unpleasant. This portrait is my legacy. It’s your job to make it exquisite.”
“Ah, but it is so easy,” he bowed low with a flourish. “Signora could never look anything less than beautiful.”
Mrs. Black favored the little portrait painter with a warm smile. Sirius, watching from the doorway, shuddered.
Professor Ludwigo Magia-Magia was round and red as a tomato, and jumpy as a marionette. He’d been flitting through the drawing room all morning, buzzing here and there -- setting up his easel and selecting paints from large cases on the floor.
Sirius suspected he was no more professor of anything than he himself was, but the title seemed to impress his mother. By mid-morning on the day of his arrival, they were ready to start on the portrait, the Professor having told Mrs. Black that his special technique required no preliminary sketches. Sirius assumed he didn’t want to spend any more time at twelve Grimmauld Place than was absolutely necessary.
“KREACHER!”
The elf Apparated with a loud crack directly behind the Professor. The little portrait painter jumped surprisingly high for such a round man, and did -- at least by Sirius’s judgment -- a rather impressive mid-air pirouette before landing several feet away.
“Must he do that?” the artist inquired weakly, fanning himself with one hand.
“Kreacher, the Professor and I will be dining in here. There will be no breaks,” she added, fixing a stern eye upon the little painter. “Make sure we are not disturbed.”
Kreacher, nodded, bowed and Apparated out of the room with an even louder noise than before. Sirius was sure the house-elf did it deliberately. He wished he knew how.
The Professor quivered silently a moment, before gathering himself and attending to his many brushes. Sirius idly wondered what the odds were of the painter surviving the week. He felt a twinge of loneliness. Moony was always good at figuring out that sort of thing. He sighed.
His mother’s head snapped up from where she was supervising the painter’s color selections. “Sirius! I told you you were not to be in this room. Remove yourself. I don’t wish to see you here again.” She looked murderous.
He felt a small grin start to play over the corner of his mouth. “Sì, Signora.”
He bowed as he slipped out, ignoring his mother’s furious face.
*
Sirius wandered restlessly, poking his head into rooms, then leaving quickly when he found them empty. He felt itchy, unsure what he was looking for, or if he was looking for anything at all. Deciding the empty feeling in his stomach was hunger, he headed for the basement kitchen.
Bellatrix and Narcissa sat at the table, a tea service spread before them. And that was not who he’d been looking for, he told himself. They looked up silently at his approach.
Maybe he wasn’t hungry after all. He was turning to leave when he heard the older girl’s voice.
“I wonder why our cousin has been ignoring us, Cissy.”
Bellatrix was playing at petulance; her voice sounded of little-girl coyness. Sirius ignored her. Then a small sad noise made his heart clench. Narcissa’s sigh.
“I don’t know,” she replied to her sister. “I wish he would stay for tea.”
“Boys are strange creatures, Cissy. So many are afraid of witches.”
Sirius hated himself for swiveling slowly back, for taking a stiff seat at the table. What did he have to prove to Bellatrix? Why did he care?
She rewarded him with one of her sharp smiles. Like silver knives, Sirius thought again. Why couldn’t he look away?
They must have Conjured the tea set; Sirius had never seen it before. Glinting silver thorns twined round the midnight blue china of the cups and plates. The porcelain was so thin, it was nearly translucent, and glowed in the light of the kitchen fire. It looked delicate, ethereal, Sirius thought. It looked breakable.
Tiny sandwiches and dainty cakes with pink icing overflowed from tiered trays. Sugared flowers graced elegant tarts. Candied fruits and nuts spilled over from heirloom silver bowls. Neither girl ever ate much, Sirius knew. They wouldn’t come close to finishing this fairy feast.
Bellatrix nudged Narcissa and she poured him a cup of tea. Sirius took it without flinching, not sure what he was proving, and grabbed a tiny sandwich. Bellatrix looked pleased.
He took a bite, then grimaced, fighting not to spit it out. It had looked like chicken; he didn’t like to think what it might actually be. He forced himself to swallow.
Bellatrix threw him a fond look. “Family should spend time together. Regulus should be here.”
“Regulus is lucky,” he snorted, taking a swig of tea. That at least was drinkable, and tasted faintly of strawberries.
Bellatrix frowned. “And naughty Andromeda. We haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Andromeda is married, Bella,” Narcissa replied. “I wish we were allowed to meet her little girl,” she added wistfully.
“Naughty Andromeda married a nasty, filthy Muggle-lover. Mummy was so angry.” Bellatrix laughed. She looked, for a moment, like a joyful young woman, not dangerous at all.
Sirius felt his head growing light, and wondered vaguely if there was something in the tea. He doubted it; it was becoming all too common around the sisters -- this fuzzy out-of-body sensation. He stared at them, deliberately letting his eyes blur.
One was light, one dark. They were painfully lovely, both of them, with a razor-sharp beauty that hurt to look at straight on. How could they be so very alike in appearance, he wondered, yet so vastly different in their hearts?
“It’s a shame we won’t be seeing Regulus.” The blonde girl gave him a little shrug, then smiled.
He felt warmth flood his body in a rush. She was like a tarnished angel, he thought disjointedly, feeling somewhat ridiculous. Damaged, of course, but in spite of everything she could still be saved; every fiber of his being told him that. His heart quickened at the thought. Could he perhaps be the one to save her?
“It’s too bad about Regulus,” she continued in her clear young voice, with its tones as pure as a child’s. “But Sirius is our favorite cousin.”
The warmth blazed to sudden burning heat. Sirius shook his head, trying to clear it. He knew he couldn’t be the one to save her. If he was wise he’d stay far away.
He passed Bellatrix again that night, in the hall that led to both of their rooms. As he’d known he would.
He’d waited until it was very late, until he was falling asleep standing, before he made the weary trek upstairs to his bedroom. He knew she’d be there, no matter how long he lingered, no matter how late it was.
He saw her, standing near the entrance to his room. He’d have to endure whatever little game she had planned before she’d let him go around. She smiled a slow predatory smile, and he half-considered going back downstairs -- finding some abandoned couch to sleep on, or a floor somewhere. Instead he continued forward.
She stepped in close as he reached her, as he’d expected. Trailing a light hand down the side of his face, she whispered in a cruel, baby-voiced impression of her yellow-haired sister, “Sirius is our favorite cousin.”
She laughed softly, and took a step away. Her touch made him feel disconnected from his body, as it always did, but he could feel his blood rush, and hear a roaring sound in his ears. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he clamped a hand around her wrist and jerked her back.
Her bright eyes shone, and she smiled knowingly, and that’s all he had time to see before he crushed his mouth to hers.
She kissed him back at once, with no hesitation or surprise. Their tongues brushed against each other, rough and hard.
Then somehow he had her up against the wall outside his bedroom, with no clear idea of how he’d gotten there. He put a hand on the doorframe behind her, so he could lean in even closer, kiss her even harder, and rub one hand roughly up and down her side.
A fleeting thought passed through his head -- about how this was wrong, how he didn’t want this, how he should stop now -- but it was all jumbled; his clouded brain could make no sense of it. He didn’t want to think, anyhow. He’d done far too much thinking lately; he’d be happy to never think again.
He kissed her hungrily and fisted a hand in that mass of black hair. A hard yank exposed her neck, and her answering moan reverberated through his body straight to his cock.
He bit down hard and heard her gasp. Good, he thought vaguely, let her lose control.
Then the door was open and she was pulling him into his bedroom. He followed eagerly, furious at himself, furious at the world, furious at his aching cock.
Why couldn’t he stop thinking? He pushed her angrily onto the bed. He was going to finish this, there was no question. He had no use for the part of his brain that kept repeating, this is wrong, this is wrong, in a small insistent voice like a quiet scream.
Bellatrix laughed up at him, and he fell on top of her, kissing her neck, dragging his teeth to her pulse point, tasting her skin. She was pushing his shirt off his shoulders, and that seemed like a good plan, so he sat up quickly and ripped it off before attacking the filmy material of her dress.
There was far too much of it, and his hot fumbling hands couldn’t find the fasteners, and Bellatrix was going to laugh at him again, which could not be borne. But she merely stretched an arm behind her neck and made a quick motion with her fingers.
The silky fabric fell away, exposing her white skin. Her breasts were small and perfectly shaped, with dusky rose nipples he ached to feel between his fingers. This is how Narcissa would look, he couldn’t help thinking, then felt a new flash of revulsion that only made his cock throb harder. He dived forward to banish the thought, cupping one breast and capturing the nipple in his mouth, while working her dress down her hips with his other hand.
He sucked at her nipple, pleased to feel it harden in his mouth, glad to hear her arch and moan. She wasn’t laughing anymore, but shoving his trousers down his long legs. He kicked them violently off, and then his naked body was against hers.
He could feel himself shaking, knew he was out of control, but he was not going to stop. He was going to finish this -- the quicker, the more savage, the better. He found her opening and a fierce shudder racked through him at the feel of her wetness. Barely taking time to position himself, he thrust hard.
And he was inside her, pumping, driving, and she was thrashing against him and making noises that penetrated his skin and raced through his blood. And finally he was no longer thinking -- no longer could think. A buzzing redness swum round his brain, and behind his eyelids, leaving room for nothing else.
He knew he was kneading her breast; he felt himself pressing their damp foreheads together, but his body had left him behind. He had no control of the hips that slammed into the dark-haired witch, or the hot hands that roamed her body, desperate to touch anywhere they could. He was overwhelmed by sensations; the fiery ache that was almost there, and the feel of her cool fingers on his feverish skin.
Much more of this would kill him, and he was so close, and he heard her scream beneath him, felt her shudder. Then he was coming in a rush of heat, and collapsing against her, gasping for air.
He supposed he must have passed out. The next thing he was aware of was the curtain of her dark hair tumbling against his cheek and onto his pillow. She was standing over him, leaning down to whisper in his ear as he lay on his stomach, completely spent, unable to move.
“Our favorite cousin,” she murmured, and laughed softly.
A/N: Continued in part two. Here.