drabble request #6
for flegmatique | Regulus/Narcissa | implied one-sided Bellatrix/Narcissa
*
The portrait of Mrs. Black screams.
Narcissa holds a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, as if the grime and dust that cover every surface of 12 Grimmauld Place somehow has a smell. Perhaps if she breathes too deeply she’ll transform into one of the ancient relics that still crowd around the corridors of the house. The ceiling-paint cracks, and little flecks of white plaster cover her shoes and her shoulders and leave a fine dust on her pale blonde hair.
“Oh dear,” she says, a little in sympathy, and a little in disgust. “Ma tante. You look simply terrible.”
Mrs. Black stops and unknots her fingers from her hair. She stalks through the portraits, pushing aside other members of the family, a few kneazles sleeping at the feet of masters and mistresses, loyal enough to be immortalised in paint-and-canvas. She stops directly in front of Narcissa and looms down on her, eyes red-rimmed, black silk dress torn and mangy, fingers twisting and untwisting. “Narcissa,” she asks, and her voice is harsh and hoarse. “Is that you?”
Narcissa stands on her tiptoes and kisses the lips of the portrait, and they are no colder and rougher than they were in real life.
“Where is he? That ungrateful brat of mine?”
Pause. A muted rustle as some of the portraits adjust their skirts, smooth down their hats, upright the chairs Mrs. Black knocked over.
“Sirius is dead.”
*
Narcissa can remember: exactly twenty-five years ago when she was maybe eighteen or nineteen and Uncle Alphard Apparated into the Hall, just about where she’s standing right now and fiddled with his lapel for ten minutes straight before coming out and saying, “Regulus is dead.”
The next thing she remembers is clawing into his shirt, shaking him, shaking him. “What do you mean? What the bloody hell do you mean?”
Alphard holds her wrists against him and says, “He killed him,” in a strangled voice and that’s really what changes everything.
Bellatrix wraps her arms around her from behind, and from a few steps away it looks like she’s comforting her, but up close Bellatrix is laughing and smiling against Narcissa’s ear. “He’s gone now, sister.” She kisses her on the cheek, a little too close to the lips and whispers, “Now it is just you and I.” Narcissa knows what she really means.
Mrs. Black, flesh-and-blood, wipes the tears from her face but Narcissa’s eyes are fixed on Bellatrix’s just above her shoulder. She places her chin on her Aunt’s shoulder and mouths, “Never.”
Mouths, “Don’t you love me at all?” when they’re sitting around the fireplace.
Bellatrix holds her hand out and says, “I do, I do,” and those are the same words she says to Lord Voldemort when he comes for her. Narcissa stands at the top of the staircase and doesn’t come down, turns and walks away even though she can feel his red eyes rest so carefully on her.
Lord Voldemort does not forgive, but she wakes up the next morning. Alive; that’s perhaps the first time she really believes Bellatrix in her entire life.
*
She repeats, “Sirius is dead” and moves a little to the right, to exactly where Uncle Alphard and looks up at her Aunt.
Mrs. Black smiles slightly, looking right at Narcissa. “And so dies the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”
The edges of the portrait are peeling, flecks of grey against the plush opulence painted on the canvas. And the frame looks so old, so old when she steps closer. She places her hand on her Aunt’s, trying to feel the smoothness of her gold signet ring emblazoned with the Black family crest- instead the magic woven into the portrait crackles.
“I live.”
Mrs. Black nods. “Indeed you do, Mrs. Malfoy.”
Narcissa smiles at that, and then shrugs, tightening her fingers around her purse. “We won the war, you know,” she says offhand, a side-note in the grand scheme of things.
“Congratulations.”
Another shrug. “Toujours pur, ma tante,” she says, and it’s really a goodbye.
“Toujours pur, Narcissa.”
*
*
The portrait of Mrs. Black screams.
Narcissa holds a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, as if the grime and dust that cover every surface of 12 Grimmauld Place somehow has a smell. Perhaps if she breathes too deeply she’ll transform into one of the ancient relics that still crowd around the corridors of the house. The ceiling-paint cracks, and little flecks of white plaster cover her shoes and her shoulders and leave a fine dust on her pale blonde hair.
“Oh dear,” she says, a little in sympathy, and a little in disgust. “Ma tante. You look simply terrible.”
Mrs. Black stops and unknots her fingers from her hair. She stalks through the portraits, pushing aside other members of the family, a few kneazles sleeping at the feet of masters and mistresses, loyal enough to be immortalised in paint-and-canvas. She stops directly in front of Narcissa and looms down on her, eyes red-rimmed, black silk dress torn and mangy, fingers twisting and untwisting. “Narcissa,” she asks, and her voice is harsh and hoarse. “Is that you?”
Narcissa stands on her tiptoes and kisses the lips of the portrait, and they are no colder and rougher than they were in real life.
“Where is he? That ungrateful brat of mine?”
Pause. A muted rustle as some of the portraits adjust their skirts, smooth down their hats, upright the chairs Mrs. Black knocked over.
“Sirius is dead.”
*
Narcissa can remember: exactly twenty-five years ago when she was maybe eighteen or nineteen and Uncle Alphard Apparated into the Hall, just about where she’s standing right now and fiddled with his lapel for ten minutes straight before coming out and saying, “Regulus is dead.”
The next thing she remembers is clawing into his shirt, shaking him, shaking him. “What do you mean? What the bloody hell do you mean?”
Alphard holds her wrists against him and says, “He killed him,” in a strangled voice and that’s really what changes everything.
Bellatrix wraps her arms around her from behind, and from a few steps away it looks like she’s comforting her, but up close Bellatrix is laughing and smiling against Narcissa’s ear. “He’s gone now, sister.” She kisses her on the cheek, a little too close to the lips and whispers, “Now it is just you and I.” Narcissa knows what she really means.
Mrs. Black, flesh-and-blood, wipes the tears from her face but Narcissa’s eyes are fixed on Bellatrix’s just above her shoulder. She places her chin on her Aunt’s shoulder and mouths, “Never.”
Mouths, “Don’t you love me at all?” when they’re sitting around the fireplace.
Bellatrix holds her hand out and says, “I do, I do,” and those are the same words she says to Lord Voldemort when he comes for her. Narcissa stands at the top of the staircase and doesn’t come down, turns and walks away even though she can feel his red eyes rest so carefully on her.
Lord Voldemort does not forgive, but she wakes up the next morning. Alive; that’s perhaps the first time she really believes Bellatrix in her entire life.
*
She repeats, “Sirius is dead” and moves a little to the right, to exactly where Uncle Alphard and looks up at her Aunt.
Mrs. Black smiles slightly, looking right at Narcissa. “And so dies the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”
The edges of the portrait are peeling, flecks of grey against the plush opulence painted on the canvas. And the frame looks so old, so old when she steps closer. She places her hand on her Aunt’s, trying to feel the smoothness of her gold signet ring emblazoned with the Black family crest- instead the magic woven into the portrait crackles.
“I live.”
Mrs. Black nods. “Indeed you do, Mrs. Malfoy.”
Narcissa smiles at that, and then shrugs, tightening her fingers around her purse. “We won the war, you know,” she says offhand, a side-note in the grand scheme of things.
“Congratulations.”
Another shrug. “Toujours pur, ma tante,” she says, and it’s really a goodbye.
“Toujours pur, Narcissa.”
*