Chapter Text
Does the soul of a body of water reside on its floor like the soles of our feet instinctively know to carry us home?
There’s a study Narcissa recalls reading a few years back when such matters were allowed to be important, scanning how the foot works with signals of the brain to walk closest to what we love, or even only familiarity. An unconscious seek for comfort, the human need for bodily reassurance, an instant lull in the blood of the beating heart. It was an interesting research, wholly detailed and quite profound, but perhaps the scientist just went overkill on the cocaine with his morning coffee.
Narcissa watches the rippling lake before her, the water illuminated by early June's nightly crescent. It’s a beautiful sight, as if painted by nature’s hand with gentle strokes carefully crafting each glittering sapphire wave. She’s currently attempting to tune out the voices flooding behind her by focusing her ears on the crickets chirping in the forest mere feet away. The land goes on for a bit, rows of various trees and plants and bugs and whatever else lives inside of forests. While intrigued on what could be found, she never has been too interested in dirt, uncleanliness. Her older sisters used to chase her with frogs found in the backyard, knowing a baby Narcissa would kick and scream. Andy only stopped when Bellatrix had threatened to harm the creatures, alerting their mother to shut the antics down. She quickly dismisses the thought of Andromeda, resentment coating the pang of her own heart.
She thinks if she were alone, she might try the lake instead. Rising from her lone seat on the bench to sit on damp grass, slipping off her heeled shoes and dipping manicured toes into cool water. She thinks she might submerge her foot, sliding deeper and deeper until the water would swallow her whole.
“Aw, look at her, she's off in Cissy land again,” Bellatrix coos around a shrieking laugh, her voice sifting through the bubbling in Narcissa's ears.
It’s not an uncommon phrase from her sister, the patronizing words used when Narcissa is clearly deep in thought. It started when she was around the age of six, trying to keep up with the grown up’s conversation at the dinner table, inevitably failing when her gaze would catch on the shine of a wine glass and fall into her own thoughts. Of course they were much simpler then, drifting to beginning school, which dress to wear to church, how to make her mother proud.
Then Bellatrix would catch whiff, intentionally embarrassing her by shouting the phrase in front of their family, whether it be immediate or all of their aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins. She succeeded when they were younger, and as much as Narcissa loathes to admit, it still has its effect now. Much less over the years, but a similar shame whispers along the walls of her chest.
“I’m present, Bella,” she assures, resting her chin on her arm that sits against the bench as she slides her eyes over to where her sister and company sit. They’re conjoined on a similar bench directly next to where she is, proof of their claim that there wasn’t any more room for Narcissa. As if she’d willingly sit near those three hyenas.
“Then why don’t you join our conversation, kiddo?” Bellatrix grins around the lolly between darkly painted lips, despite only being four years her elder. Granted, she was married to Rodolphus this past winter at only twenty-one years old, which one would think would be a sign of maturity over Narcissa’s last year of school still looming. Alas, here they are.
“Yeah, sweetie, tell us what you think,” Rita joins in, appearing devilishly delighted. Bellatrix and Rita have been inseparable since they first met in Hogwarts, best friends cut from the same utterly mad cloth. Even after a screaming match they’ll begin manically laughing, practically skipping off into the sunset together. Their family has never quite liked Rita, despite her being raised in the same high society, same religious values. They find her encouraging to Bella’s… eccentric nature, worried she’d never be the perfect wife and nurturing mother.
Narcissa never quite had a solid opinion on her. But despite what her family thought, she felt that if anything, Rita was grounding to her sister. A feat, truly.
Sitting next to the two best friends is Alecto Carrow, watching the scene with an analytical eye. Narcissa doesn’t know much about her, she’s new to Bella and Rita’s little group. They usually cycle a new member or two every few months, only for the girl to run for the hills once she realizes notoriety isn’t worth the insanity. Though, this one seems keen on sticking. Narcissa doesn’t know why, she finds it all rather childish for their age. Most of their peers have children by now, cradling babies at home while these three sit after Friday night church to “decompress” at the lake. Which truly means to gossip about the priest's wife getting fat, dragging Narcissa with them.
She’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel a sense of superiority over the three, honing a natural maturity that they never can seem to grasp.
“Do you mind jogging my memory?”
Bellatrix giggles, Rita grins wickedly, and surprisingly, Alecto is the one to genuinely answer her question. “The new girls football team at Hogwarts. Penny for your thoughts? Afterall, you’d know the most about it.”
An acidic feeling begins to swirl in her stomach just as another wave ripples to shore. The new addition of the girls football team caused quite a stir in both the boarding school and for families back home. Many opposed, Narcissa’s family and those similarly traditional including. Most schools—especially boarding like Hogwarts—added a women’s team ages ago. But this school knew its primary audience, or benefactors, she should say. It's not very Godly for a woman to become aggressive on a field of grass, defying the image of an innocent wife.
Narcissa would not quite have cared if only the boys team remained, if not for Emma. Emma Vanity is Narcissa’s Rita, stuck at the hip since first year. Unlike Bellatrix and Rita, Narcissa and Emma are almost complete opposites. Therefore Emma was outspoken on the issue of a girl’s team, and is now the captain.
So Narcissa cares. Very deeply, in fact.
And despite this, her question paints the perfect picture of indifference. “What of it?”
“Always a question for a question with this one,” Bella scoffs, clicking her nails noisily on the metal arm of their bench. “We want to know if you agree with the girls thinking they can put on big boy trousers?”
“I don’t know why my opinion matters if the school already implemented the team,” Narcissa shrugs elegantly, sweeping her pure blonde hair to the side in a causal manner, despite the bile rising to her throat at the comment. Emma knows how Narcissa tends to be, but she can’t help but feel her friend would be disappointed if sitting here. The bench beneath her feels oddly colder.
“So you’re supportive?” Rita jumps in, twirling a piece of Bellatrix’s curls between her fingers in a way that one would assume stopped the next sentence from slipping out of her tongue. “I’m sure that makes Vanity happy, doesn’t it? Careful there Narcissa, you wouldn’t want to make her too happy, considering her… proclivities.”
Upon hearing the words, a switch clicks and they don't don’t entice a singular feeling within Narcissa, only a blankness. Her mind blocks it out, an unconscious shift down to where she barely even hears the next words.
“Has she not been dating Edgar Bones for years now?” Alecto’s voice fades in and out, followed faintly by Rita’s, “…surprised…didn’t break up…her… the spot.“
A flick to the back of Narcissa’s head brings her back to the present. She turns to meet her sister’s almost manic gaze. “Deep in Cissy land tonight, aren’tcha?” Bella grins, leaning almost the whole way off her own bench to reach Narcissa’s. “Well if you’re going to be a dragging bore, why don’t you go fetch us some drinks from that poor little shop down the road?”
Arching an eyebrow, Narcissa reluctantly agrees, despite not being familiar with this shop. Rising from the bench, she wordlessly holds out a hand in front of her older sister, lips twitching slightly at the annoyed reaction she receives before a few notes land in her palm. The first rule of staying rich and all else their father taught them.
Ignoring the fading snickers, Narcissa makes her way from grass to smooth gravel, heels clacking against the ground as she struts in the direction Bellatrix pointed toward. It’s a bit windy out, Narcissa’s cotton white dress flaps against her freshly shaven legs, expensive fabric catching on the bumpy texture in a slightly unpleasant sensation.
Daylights curtains are long closed, speckled stars now sparkling visibly in the dusken sky. In between searching the area for a lone petrol shop, she focuses on Regulus’ star. The Leo constellation has always been one of her favorites, but that could easily be a biased feeling seeing as she never truly can make out the lion.
It takes much longer than she anticipated, but eventually Narcissa reaches a shop. It was almost in the complete opposite direction that she was led, but she’s always been rather directionally intelligent. It sits on a slight hill, one car parked between the pumps and the only light flickering from above. Swallowing, Narcissa avoids the vehicle while heading toward the door, the bell jingling loudly as she steps inside.
Knowing her sister prefers cola, she retrieves three of the product since neither Rita nor Alecto specified, then a water for herself. The man at the counter is kind enough, though Narcissa could’ve done without the obvious once over.
She leaves the shop, the cold drinks against her uncovered hands enlisting a constant shiver through her body as she wishes she hadn’t forgone gloves this morning. The cool air gliding with the wind certainly doesn’t help, and Narcissa tries to keep her teeth from chattering.
Now with knowledge of the correct direction, she focuses all of her attention on Regulus. It feels as if she blinks and arrives back at the lake.
The now empty lake.
And suddenly, as Narcissa throws the drinks in the nearest bin next to two barren benches, she doesn’t feel so mature anymore.
Not superior, not smarter, not above. She feels reduced to the youngest child that her body is chained to, the little girl living inside of her, smaller legs running to keep up. She feels five years old, believing Andromeda when she says the moon is made of cheese. She feels ten years old, clutching her ruined dress that Bella thought funny to tear.
The shame that comes with a foolish naïveté floods her chest, it tugs down at her lips, it stings at her eyes. Its devastation so familiar that one might think it has dulled throughout her childhood but the unexpectedness peels at the scab, opening it to a fresh again wound.
Narcissa swallows what threatens to come up and drags her open wound against gravel as she makes her way back home—hoping the wind will freeze it over.
** ** **
Or so she thought.
As it turns out, being reduced to a childlike sense of inferiority tends to addle the mind. This added with an unconscious protective slip into a dissociate state strips Narcissa’s mind of her usual competence of simply moving from point A to B.
And somehow, Narcissa ends up at point Z.
Completely, utterly, wholly lost.
It’s practically freezing outside, a relentless cold seeping through Narcissa’s long sleeves and thin black tights. The night's events along with the weather perpetuate what feels like ice along her veins, every step feeling as if she’s about to crack—or perhaps actually freeze in place. At least her mother would appreciate the frozen display of youth.
She’s reached a place where many buildings and colorful lights shine visible, wacky signs, people passing by dressed in clothing that the church would frown upon. There’s a man dancing rather wildly on the street with a cup by his side, then a smiling woman gives her excited young child money to run to him. Narcissa’s parents wouldn’t have allowed her to touch the man with a ten foot pole. She doesn’t quite know exactly where she currently is, but it certainly isn’t her town nor near home.
Having come to a somewhat reality, Narcissa grounds into her own body. Unfortunately, this comes with the realization that her feet are being absolutely ravaged by her choice of shoe. In her defense, the white heel was for evening church, not quite expecting her night to end here.
After a minute or two of fruitlessly reading street signs, she begrudgingly decides that her ankle needs a long due break. She tucks into what seems like the least filthy alleyway on the street, directly next to what seems to be a booming pub. Narcissa rests her back against the wall, relieving a bit of the pressure. She’d rather die a terribly gruesome death than dirty her dress on the putrid floor.
A minute or two pass while she lays her head back against the brick wall, feeling the vibrations of music and ensuring that she washes her hair immediately upon returning home.
Until she hears the familiar sound of clacking of heels.
“Mother of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is it terribly nippy out here,” the velvety voice groans, and suddenly Narcissa feels the heat of a body standing next to her. She goes completely rigid against the wall, her body as one with solid brick.
Opening her eyes with alarm, Narcissa takes in the woman’s appearance. She’s clearly quite a few years older than Narcissa, but likely no more than a decade. She harbors soft features, but there's a loud, almost commanding maturity in her rounded eyes. Her dark skin shines with an orange tint under the yellow light, clearly painted in some sort of glitter. A small black afro emits from her head, decorated with jewels that Narcissa finds look real. She wears a green starkly low cut top that crops at her waist, one that Narcissa quickly averts her gaze from, already having taken in the shiny belt and lined trousers hugging curved hips. Even with her tall heels, the woman stands just a bit below Narcissa’s height.
She pulls a green cardboard box and shiny zippo out of her pocket, lighting the cigarette in a weighted silence. The woman is first to acknowledge the other’s presence. “Are you lost?”
“No,” Narcissa quips quickly, straightening her posture and crossing her arms. It’s practically engrained into her, and even if it wasn’t, Narcissa doesn’t quite enjoy appearing weak. Especially not to strangers.
The woman grins, a derisive huff along with a cloud of smoke escaping painted red lips. “So you mean to be here?”
Narcissa knows she’s being toyed with, especially considering the teasing lilt to her tone. That small feeling creeps in from earlier, which she absolutely cannot house again tonight. There would be no room for it without an inevitable collapse. “Yes.”
She doesn’t even know where here is, but as she quickly averts her eyes, a sign that is oddly discreet suddenly comes into view that she hadn’t noticed before. In slightly damaged letters reads, The Honey Drop—an orange droplet taking place of the o, falling from the wooden wand and into a honey pot. It certainly appears… crafty.
Skeptical eyes take in Narcissa’s appearance, eyes dragging from her strapped heels, thin black tights, smooth white dress, then slowly back up and around her now-heated features. An amusement sparkles in the woman’s eyes, shifting them from the building back toward the girl. “How old are you?”
Lifting her chin, Narcissa answers, facing toward the wall in front of her, “Old enough.”
“Right. My guess is seventeen.” The woman’s pursed lips shift into a soft smile when the answer is clearly written on Narcissa’s face. “Gotta shed those cherub cheeks before you try any older, sweetheart. We have a few your age in here, if the barkeep is feeling generous she’ll pass you a drink, but don’t you dare try anything with someone over twenty.”
Ignoring just about every single warning blaring inside of her mind, Narcissa simply blames her next words on the cold air seeping into her brain. “Is there heating in the establishment?”
The woman barks a surprised laugh, dropping and crushing the half-smoked item beneath her heavy heel. “Of course, darling. Even if we didn’t, bat those pretty eyelashes of yours and twenty dykes will be lining up to lend you their coat.”
A fierce blush wracks far too many areas of Narcissa’s skin. Ignoring the fact that she ever heard the statement, Narcissa walks toward the building with the woman chuckling and trailing behind her.
She quickly learns that the woman’s name as the bouncer in front of the bar stops Narcissa upon entrance—then immediately lets them through with a rampant fear in his eyes upon hearing the introduction: “Isolde Zabini. She’s with me.”
Walking through the wooden double doors, Narcissa feels as if entering a new world, one simultaneously alike one the church always preaches and the one they warn. Unconsciously, Narcissa plants in place, a moment to breathe in everything she never knew existed. It looks almost as if a regular pub, like the one Emma dragged her to last summer, but dotted with little details only an eye unscaled will catch. Posters of half undressed pinup girls, framed pictures of girls sitting too close, none dressed in a ladylike manner. Narcissa swallows as she takes in the people dotted across the building, the women.
Some are dressed in colorful outfits, donned in loud makeup that doesn’t focus on their natural features, eccentric clothing hugging shapely bodies. Some in dark clothing, laced and packed in jewelry. Most are very feminine, almost dressed like in a film. They're very pretty, like Isolde, Narcissa thinks as she feels an admiration swell in her chest. Then there are the… these other patrons, those of which Narcissa’s mind would’ve never even thought to conjure. They'd look like men at first glance, but Narcissa finds her eyes looking deeper. Many of them sit next to, or some even with their arm around one of the ladylike women, a select few with their hands on ones like themselves. And these other women—they sit comfortably in blazers, trousers, men’s clothing. Ones adjacent to those that Narcissa’s father wears.. but different.
So very entirely, starkly different.
A few sit at the bar, but most are either standing or sitting at the rounded tables, wooden chairs, and cushioned dark booths in front of a currently empty wooden stage. Narcissa hasn’t the slightest clue what the small stage is for, but a simmering in her gut has her anticipating finding out. The scent of many perfumes mix into a floral musk, reminding Narcissa of the forest by the lake. Dim lights dot around the room, coating it in a dark yellow hue giving the illusion of ambience, despite the growing chatter and drifting music.
Narcissa can’t help but imagine the lights shifting to a bold red, illuminating the room just as it feels.
Like sin.
A hand on Narcissa’s lower back shocks her out of her stupor, then Isolde's soothing voice lowered toward her ear. “You’re alright, kid. It’s always a bit of a shock for first-timers at any age. Walk with me and I’ll introduce you to some people I think you’ll like. Oh, I never got your name, darling?”
“Narcissa,” she mutters dumbly, allowing herself to be led through the room. A few heads turn as the two walk with twin heels clacking on the dark wooden floor, some of their watching eyes stick to the pair. Narcissa assumes that they’re only watching Isolde until she makes eye contact with one of the women in suits, swallowing when she winks at her. Narcissa keeps her eyes on the ground until they reach the table.
“Quiet everyone,” Isolde barks at the table they’ve stopped in front of. Well, it seems to be three small tables stuck together as one, drinks littered around the polished area. Narcissa counts six heads that turn, all with arched eyebrows and confusion written on their features. That confusion morphs into assessment when their eyes catch on Narcissa. “This is... Narcissa, was it? Yes, Narcissa is going to be sitting with us tonight.”
After a few grumbles that form a sneer on Narcissa’s face, Isolde begins her introductions. First is Hestia and Charity, two women sitting close together in almost matching dresses. They’re kind to Narcissa, one of the women complimenting her hair. The woman in all pink is introduced as Dolores—who it’s clear that Isolde isn’t too fond of, then ‘her butch’, Sturgis, who Narcissa assumes is.. tied to her. Then two ginger women she assumes are twins, Gid and Fab. The former adopting what she assumes is butch, and the latter in an outfit similar to Isolde.
Sturgis rises to bring a new chair toward the table, despite there already being an empty seat.
“Picked up a stray again, did you, Zabini?” Dolores grins sharply once Sturgis returns to the original seat and lifts an arm around the woman speaking. “Isn’t our last one work enough? Soon we’ll be harboring a bloody school bus.”
“Oh hush, Umbridge,” Isolde spits, but not denying the claim as she turns to Narcissa and gestures back toward the woman. “She’s the most miserable femme you’ll ever meet.”
Despite a smack in the arm from Hestia, Dolores persists, dragging her eyes over Narcissa’s frame with a slow sip of her drink. “Well don’t you look posh? Anything to say for yourself, or do you need your new mummy to speak for you?”
Raising her chin to look down her nose just as she’s been taught, Narcissa curls her upper lip. “I am no more stray than the splitting ends beneath your tired head of hair.”
Forming a reaction that Narcissa would never have expected, Dolores’ smile only grew. “Oh, she bites. I like you, go ahead and sit down, sweetheart.”
Scowling, Narcissa turns to Isolde who simply rolls her eyes and nods toward the seat. Conceding, Narcissa brushes off the chair before sitting, earning a chuckle from Gid seated next to her. Looking up to the girl and prepared for mockery, she only meets a grin and shrug. Narcissa truly wishes her body would quit reacting to the smallest of gestures. “Are you excited for the show?” Gid asks, her voice holding a slight rasp.
“What show?” Narcissa asks, shooting her gaze toward the stage. It’s this second that she notices the lone microphone adorning the stage, wire dragging across the floor connected to what she assumes is the sound box hidden by shadows.
When she looks back, Hestia opens her mouth to answer, but Gid shakes her head, amusement dancing in her green eyes. “Let it be a surprise.”
Narcissa scowls at the girl, then almost on cue, the lights dim and music begins to vibrate in her chest.
The chatter in the room immediately comes to an abrupt halt, except for what seem to be excited gasps and hushed giggles. It feels as if simultaneously seconds and hours until a circular spotlight runs onto the stage right before the microphone, starkly white illuminating the polished heightened wood. Narcissa only blinks, and suddenly a figure appears under that exact light.
Almost like magic.
The figure has their bowed head hidden beneath their tipped classic black fedora. They’re dressed in a classic black and white suit, one far too fancy for a club—almost on par with the ones Narcissa’s father wears to work or an extended family dinner. The spotlight shines brightly down onto deep brown hands lifting to grip the microphone as the music grows even louder.
The very second they lift their head, Narcissa can’t help the slight gasp that draws out of her, easily swallowed by booming sound. One look at the woman’s(?) face on stage makes Narcissa’s heart jump a beat, and her mind swarm with confusion. They wear a tantalizing smirk while scanning the crowd, winking twice at different people. It’s clear that this is a performer, even without the music or spotlight, the presence would likely capture the stage.
Still, the show’s addition comes with its enhancements. Especially so as lyrics start, buttery sung words beginning to float through the air in the room. Even more so with the performer encapsulating the song—Narcissa would think they were the one singing, if not the voice so entirely male. The full lips move around every lyric, as if swallowing the words and taking them for themself.
If you ever change your mind
About leaving, leaving me behind
Baby, bring it to me
Bring your sweet loving
Bring it on home to me
Narcissa vaguely recognizes the song, but not enough to put a name to, and clearly not as well as the people in the room humming along. She feels oddly… safe within this group of people. As if their conjoined low voices lift into the air as a barrier around herself, despite never having met the majority.
Throughout the first song, this performer manages to make it feel as if they're singing to each individual soul in the room—despite the voice not even being their own. Somewhere in between, she hears the drag of a chair, but pays it no mind. Narcissa feels hypnotized, as if the lyrics were to ask her anything, she’d immediately comply. It’s a bit jarring, to have something so new loosen her control. It’s somewhat freeing. Then it ends, and still Narcissa feels sunken into the bedded ground of this new world.
“Alright, Honey Drop,” the performer laughs into the microphone as cheers echo the room, her voice a velvet silk wrapping around the crowd. “You all liked that one didn’t you?” More hollers and hoots, earning another deep chuckle. “Thank you, everyone, thank you. And to those new,” she begins, and Narcissa could be simply imagining things, but her addled mind sees their eyes locking for just a second. Heat begins to crawl lower than ever before, only a second before the performer turns back to the microphone.
“Welcome to tonight’s performance, I am Kingsley Lynx, male impersonator by evening, charming stud by late night,” she winks again, earning whistles this time around. “Enjoy the show, folks.”
Deeply immersed in the next three songs performed, Narcissa almost doesn’t even notice the shift for the very last. It’s the light groan from what she assumes was Gid next to her that alerts her of the change.
Kingsley sings with her own voice.
When a man loves a woman
Can’t keep his mind on nothin’ else
He’d change the world for the good thing he’s found
If she is bad, he can’t see it,
She can do no wrong,
Turn his back on his best friend if he put her down…
If she thought she were entranced before, that did not even hold a flame to this heated blaze of utter magnetism. Her singing voice raises multiple octaves from her speaking even with the low sound of the song, contrasting the broad masculinity she exudes easily as breathing. It reminds Narcissa of the siren figure written in Andromeda’s old plethora of fantasy novels, a creature made to lull with her song of desire.
Narcissa's stomach flips with every dripping word, her heart racing with every glance to calloused ringed fingers gripping the microphone. The simmering laced into the workings of her gut can only be described as entirely foreign. Watching the performance feels as if on one of the amusement rides Emma dragged her to, but not without part of her still stuck in the house of mirrors. She knows this should not entice her as much as it does, that she should not find Kingsley’s presence on stage so beautiful.
Still, she cannot bring herself to look away from the apple dangling on the tree. How it sparkles under the spotlight, how it envelopes the room around her. Have the people in this room already plucked their fruit of sin? How do they deal with such a consequence? Does their God not strike down on them? Can they look their mother in the eye without turning to stone?
This wholly consuming conflict of desire and heeding swims in her head enough to make her dizzy, barely even registering when Kingsley announces a half-show break.
“Christ, if I wouldn’t take a bite out of that dyke,” Gid groans from beside her, causing Narcissa to jump slightly in her seat. Luckily no one seems to notice, all a bit dazed and murmuring their joined agreements.
“Where did Isolde go?” Fab asks, gesturing toward her empty seat. Narcissa pulls her heavy head over to glance, finding that Isolde has left. This does not help her unease.
”Probably off convincing her new lady that she’ll split with her current husband,” Dolores quips with a barking laugh, apparently finding herself quite amusing.
"Ha, right, like this isn’t already her third one,” Hestia answers, rolling her eyes fondly as she rolls her sleeves up to her elbows. It has gotten considerably warmer in the room.
Charity smirks, “Third lady or third husband?”
“Both,” a new voice huffs, a bit softer than the rest.
“She needs to try a butch, femmes are too sensitive,” Gid shrugs, lifting a bulky arm to down the drink in front of her, although Narcissa noted earlier that it was only bubbling cola.
“Oh do shut up, we’re all women here,” Fab smacks her sister in the arm, earning a petty flick to the head.
“Speak for yourself,” Sturgis smiles, hand playing in a very content Dolores’ hair. “I’m only a woman on Wednesdays.”
Narcissa’s entire world is spinning in place, twisting in her gut and blurring her vision. The chair burns beneath her, the wood creaking in screams and alarms and warnings and Narcissa needs outoutout.
“I need the loo,” she blurts, practically gasping out the breath of air she didn’t know she was even holding. All eyes shoot to Narcissa’s outburst, she registers a twinge of humiliation under the layers of burning dishonour.
“It’s up-,” Gid begins, only to be interrupted.
“I can take you,” the new voice blurts. And as Narcissa turns her head, she finds the new face. The sight is almost thrown like a glass of water, causing her to blink out of her stupor as she takes in this new figure. Some of the weight releases from her body as she realizes this girl seems to be as young as Narcissa, and if not, then close enough.
Slightly rounded cheeks adorn her tanned skin, a bit stretched by a seemingly nervous close-lipped smile. She’s not as dressed up as some others in here, wearing an open waist coat layered atop a heavy long sleeved shirt. A few pins scatter her waist coat, Narcissa makes out an orange one with the print: homo radio. Her chestnut hair flows layered just above her shoulders, somewhat longer than the other people…of her style. Her face heats under the assessing gaze, bringing Narcissa an odd sense of satisfaction—despite her rapidly drying mouth.
“To the loo, uhm, I can take you. I just got back, well not just, probably a while ago by now. But that’s why you probably haven’t seen me, because I was… well I was there,” the table jostles a bit, startling the rambling girl. She whips her head to Sturgis, and Narcissa pieces together that it was a kick to the leg that startled her. Then, just as quickly, widened amber eyes meet piercing blue. “Alice. I’m Alice.”
Narcissa nods, losing a battle with a slight upper twitch of her lips. Ignoring the growing snickers across the table, Narcissa abruptly rises from her chair, shutting the voices up rather quickly. Only when she begins walking in the direction that she hopes is the loo, is that she realizes she is alone.
She turns around and arches an eyebrow as she finds the table’s eyes on her, just as Sturgis claps Alice on the shoulder who quickly scrambles out of her chair.
** ** **
“It’s just up here,” Alice nods toward the stairs that Narcissa hasn’t even noticed were at the corner of the room. Now that they stand, Narcissa finds with slight amusement that she's over half of a head taller than the girl.
It’s surprisingly easy to let her take the lead, as if some sort of invisible tether roping Narcissa in her direction. They make it through the crowd, one girl stopping to wave at Alice, until scared away by Narcissa’s deep glare. Alice appears confused as to why her friend ran so quickly, but her time is currently Narcissa’s.
The two make it up the creaking stairs with the club’s music beginning to slightly fade, only for Narcissa to pause when she takes in the longer than average line spilling out of the bathroom door. She turns to Alice, only to find the girl already leaning against the wall of the narrowed hall.
“It’s usually like this. Be about a five minute wait or so, don’t be afraid to get comfy,” she smiles reassuringly, a bit more relaxed than at the table. Her arms become larger pressed against her chest, something that Narcissa makes a point to look away from. Not at all ‘getting comfy,’ she stands straight as stone. “So what’s your name, blondie?”
Scowling at the nickname, Narcissa pays her one glare before locking her eyes on the line. “Narcissa.”
Sensing an odd silence, Narcissa shifts her eyes to a slightly grimacing Alice. Scratching her scrunched nose, she asks, “Like a narcissist? Did your parents anticipate on a destined self obsession?"
“No,” Narcissa sneers, the Black blood trickling through her veins screaming offense. “Titled like the flower.” It never bothered her too much to be the outlier in her family full of stars. But sometimes she can't help but think it should have gone to Andromeda or maybe even Sirius—the ones unafraid to stand out.
“Oh,” Alice nods, and Narcissa has an inkling she’s still lost. But she doesn't seem completely daft, most people don't even know basic constellations—let alone a rare flower. “It suits you well, a unique name. I’m named after my grandmother, so I suppose it just means Alice, face value and whatnot.”
“Noble.”
“Hm?”
“Alice. It means noble.”
“Oh. That’s actually quite cool,” the girl grins, seemingly quite happy at this. Narcissa is surprised nobody told her, her family had their children charting their stars as toddlers. As for Narcissa, her flower before she could even talk, the s sound hissed in between missing teeth. “Noble like a knight. I always wanted to be one of those when I was younger, being rather infatuated with Camelot and all. Everyone thought I had a crush on King Arthur, when I really just wanted to be him,” she admits with a light chuckle.
But you’re a girl, Narcissa wants to scream. Knights are boys. Your clothes are for boys. Why do you look like a boy, but unsettle me like a boy never has? I don’t want to be like you, I don’t want to look or dress like a boy, so why do you intrigue me so? But questions are dangerous. Understanding is dangerous. She shouldn’t want to understand, she shouldn’t crave this knowledge. Shouldn’t thirst to crack open this new world, shouldn’t drink what treasure she finds inside.
Two minutes or so pass, and Narcissa feels a burning in the side of her skull. Just thirty more seconds of feeling the heating gaze, and Narcissa whips her head back toward the girl. “Why are you staring at me?”
Alice shrugs, both a shy smile and slight pink dusting her cheeks. It highlights an array of freckles that weren’t visible in the downstairs lighting. “You’re very pretty, Narcissa.”
Fast as lightning, the earlier reaction to Kingsley on stage courses through her. And just like lightning, she feels entirely unlucky for this to have struck her. Narcissa opens her mouth, only for a shaking breath to release. Saved by the bell, or perhaps, saved by the seemingly coked out woman dragging herself out of the loo. Being the first one in line, Narcissa pushes open the restroom door.
Wasting about half of the room’s supply of toilet paper to cover the seat before swiftly doing her business, she soon finds herself in front of the room’s mirror. There’s a smeared lipstick mark painting the corner, carved initials in the wall behind it, everlasting marks of devotion. The mirror is long due for a cleaning, and still, Narcissa can see her own face clearly.
The light curl with mascara applied to her eyelashes this morning has now wilted, faint lipgloss barely even visible anymore. Practically whining another dejected breath, Narcissa distracts herself with fixing the stray hairs that have fallen out of place. Still, her mind runs back to the mix of knowing wrong and feeling right—feeling the turmoil mix in her stomach.
When Narcissa was small, her mother would often stand behind her in the mirror. It started when she was old enough to start fixing her own hair, pulling previously raven black strands into an updo for church. She and her mother would simply stand in front of their reflection, twin sets of ice blue eyes watching a baby-faced Narcissa point to what she did wrong. They would not leave until achieving perfection.
Soon enough, it was bible verses. After waiting for Bellatrix and Andromeda to finish their turns, Narcissa and her mother would stand in front of the mirror—reciting memorized words like the soldiers of God they were raised to be. Once satisfied with the monotonous repetition, she would be released.
Eventually, it became cosmetics. Narcissa would apply her own makeup at the ripe age of twelve, crafting herself ready for society’s plucking. As the two stood in front of the mirror, Narcissa would address which powder didn’t fit her features, which lipstick was the wrong color for her complexion, what tools to use to not make it so messy. With some time, her mother proposed an ice blonde for her hair—practically changing her appearance completely. Narcissa didn’t mind, she even grew to prefer the blonde over their familial black.
And when they had left the salon, Narcissa’s mother had said it looked perfect.
Watching herself now, she can almost see her mother behind her. The disappointment laced into every feature of her face. Narcissa is plagued with the urge to spill her sins of the night, every little action that was wrong. Allowing Bellatrix’s actions to affect her so, wrong. Engaging with Isolde, wrong. Stepping foot into the club, wrong. Sitting with these sort of people, wrong. Watching Kingsley’s performance, wrong. Feeling Kingsley’s performance, wrong. Allowing Alice to lead her to the loo, wrong. Immersing herself in this new world is nothing but a stark sin, to willingly sinking herself under its muddy claws.
Wrong.
She feels caked under its dirt, sees it smeared across her face.
Imperfect.
Impure.
…Inevitable.
It almost feels as if a ticking bomb finally went off, with Narcissa left to deal with its tragic aftermath. And hidden somewhere under all of this dirt is a sense of relief. Falling off the edge after inching closer for seconds, minutes, years. And for a few wonderful moments, it felt like flying.
Unable to bear her reflection for a second longer, Narcissa walks out of the room. It’s quite surprising to see Alice still waiting for her, both arms and legs crossed as she picks at a stray hem on her denim trousers. Her head is ducked, but stressed teeth gnawing on her lower lip are still visible, almost as if in worry. Or perhaps regret.
Alice brings up a hair to scratch at the back of her head, and when she begins to pull lightly at the strands, Narcissa decides to intervene. Walking heavy-stepped so that her heels clack on the ground, she makes her way toward the girl whose head whips up at the sound.
“You waited.” It’s not a question.
“Course I did,” Alice’s face twitches in a confused smile, then in the next second, turns apologetic. She scratches at her nose again, seemingly a habit. “Hey, I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything. I wasn’t trying to-,”
“You didn’t.”
“What?”
“Make me uncomfortable. You did not.”
“Oh,” Alice breathes. “Oh, okay. That’s good. That’s really good. Hey, er, say you want to catch a breather outside? It can be a lot in here and I have a fresh pack of fags we can make our way through, if you’re into that kinda thing.”
If it were Isolde, Narcissa would have said no.
If it were Dolores, Narcissa would have said no.
If it were Gid, Narcissa would have said no.
She thinks if it were anyone else other than a mere ten minutes with this bewitching girl, Narcissa would have said no.
She’s standing with her mother behind the wind-up of her back, pointing to her own moving lips. I should have said no.
“Yes.”
Alice beams, the slight gap in her front teeth shining. She nods her head toward the stairs before striding down the narrow hallway, stopping beforehand to allow Narcissa to go down first.
They’re almost out of the back door until they bump directly into Isolde. “Watch where you’re fucking- Oh, Alice, hell, I was looking for you! It's already- Narcissa?” A sly smile begins to creep onto her face as she looks between the two. “I see you’ve met our resident baby butch.”
“Isolde,” Alice grumbles, clearly embarrassed. Though Narcissa didn’t miss the slight smile at the nickname.
“Oh hush, I’m only proud of you. I was going to introduce you two after you could barely even keep your eyes on the stage, but you know… Lucinda problems. Though it looks like you’ve got it handled,” she gestures toward them. It reminds Narcissa a bit of when Andromeda used to tease her like this. It has the same awkward effect seeing as she has to resist squirming in place.
Alice’s face heats so fast that Narcissa is half worried she’ll implode. “Right,” she turns to Narcissa without meeting her eye. “We’ll be on then.”
“Ah, not so fast, babe. It’s half past midnight and if you still want that ride, I'm leaving in the next few."
“It's already late? Jesus Christ,” Alice gapes, grimacing slightly as she faces Narcissa again. An almost pained expression flits between her and the back door.
“That’s alright,” Narcissa interrupts, forming an expression of blank indifference. “I should be getting home anyhow.”
“Right. Yeah, er-,”
“How are you getting home?” Isolde intercepts, one manicured eyebrow raised with her arms crossed, acrylics dancing against smooth skin. “If how I found you this evening is anything to go by.”
Refusing to break under the two pairs of assessing eyes, Narcissa holds her chin high—only faltering slightly when she hears the muted sound of Kingsley’s voice echo the room. “The bus.”
Isolde huffs, giving her a calculated once over. “Is that right?” Not at all. Truthfully, Narcissa has only been on a bus once with Emma, and a time or two on a school trip. Her family has multiple drivers ready to take wherever needed, taught to look down on those who take pedestrian routes. “I can give you a ride, if you'd like. I’m already taking Alice over here home so it really isn't any trouble,” she nods toward the girl who offers a weak smile.
“I will be alright,” she declares, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Narcissa and Isolde simply stare one another down for a heavy minute until Alice is the one to break it. “C'mon then,” she raises a hand to touch Narcissa’s shoulder until thinking better of it. “I’ll walk you out.”
Nodding in approval, Narcissa allows herself to be led out of the front door, stealing a glance or two at the stage while they walk. Only Dolores and Sturgis remain at the table, only Sturgis’ head is ducked into the former’s neck. Watching something so… intimate, feels invasive, illicit. A shiver takes over Narcissa as she looks away.
The pair make it outside, the abrupt change in temperature immediately dots goosebumps over slightly shivering skin. It’s somewhat grounding, maybe a reminder, perhaps punishment.
Turning to Alice, Narcissa suddenly hasn’t a clue what to say. Luckily, the girl seems to know how to navigate this situation better than she. “I guess this is goodbye for tonight,” she smiles softly, digging her shoe into gravel.
“I suppose it is.”
“Yeah,” she breathes, once again scratching at her nose. Despite the acknowledgement of departure, neither move for a frozen moment. Surprisingly, Alice is the first to break it by clearing her throat, “Yeah. Until next time, Narcissa.”
Narcissa nods curtly, knowing this 'next time' is not a possibility. Even if Narcissa wanted, which she will not allow herself to. Something in Alice’s expression tells her that she knows this too.
Turning her back to the girl, she uses her directional abilities to assume where to go. She recognizes a singular street sign, knowing Bella has clutched her purse once or twice walking down. Only a few people scatter the street at this time, Narcissa's heels clacking along with the roaring wind. Only a mere thirty seconds into her trek, a familiar voice booms from behind her.
“Bus stop is the opposite way, blondie!"
Narcissa does not turn back, but loses the battle with something perhaps akin to a smile stretching at her lips.
They both know she was never going to take the bus.
** ** **
“Narcissa! Where exactly have you been?” Druella demands, donned in slippers and a silk robe as she slides off of the sofa. Only a lamp illuminates the large room, various portraits, grand piano, and a nearly empty bottle of wine on the glass table. As Druella walks toward Narcissa, the girl notices purple circles have formed under her eyes. Her mother is never up this late, typically in bed by nine o’clock, especially while their father is on a long business trip—but here she is, pulling Narcissa into a rough embrace.
It’s certainly jarring, it has to have been at least two or three years since her mother hugged her, much longer since than in a room by themselves and not an affection on display. It’s a bit awkward on Narcissa’s end, like receiving a gift one hasn’t the slightest clue what to do with. The touch hurts, almost. Like rubbing an ignored kink in your neck or maybe punching a sure hand directly through a sharp ghost. And this close, the blaring scent of alcohol floods her nose. If they were in the cold, she imagines her mother's breath would curdle in the air a deep maroon. She hesitantly lies her chin on the frail shoulder as confliction paints her features, hidden for only the haunted walls to see.
Druella pulls her back by her shoulders, hands flying to her jaw to check for any injuries. “I was worried absolutely sick,” she hisses, face hardening as she finds not even a scratch. “Where were you?”
Perhaps a childish dream, but Narcissa used to be rather interested in the theatre. And simply speaking to her mother is easy as playing a character, liquidating herself into the edges of the mold, softened by a pool of cold distance. “I was lost, Maman,” a name she hasn’t called her mother in years. “Bella, she and her friends had left me at the lake, her idea of a cruel joke. I tried to find my way back home, but it was just so late and dark and I was only frightened.”
With a dejected sigh, Druella releases the girl, rubbing at stressed temples. “May the Lord give me the strength to deal with that girl. That is likely why she stays at the Lestrange manor for once.”
That’s when Narcissa clicks the pieces together. Druella was alone in this house, solitary between cavernous walls. With Andromeda’s betraying departure, Bellatrix using an arranged marriage to hide from her actions, and Narcissa tucked in a room of depravity, their mother sat coldly on the barren sofa. Only a year ago, she had all three of her daughters. Tonight is not the first she has sat in a house with none, but it is the first that she did not know where they were, only that it was away from her.
Guilt tugs at Narcissa’s stomach, knowing exactly where she was while her mother was here collecting bags under tired eyes. Like the night’s chill, it’s a swirl of punishing and harsh reality. That final click into place, vanishing all thoughts of returning to the club.
“I’m sorry, mother.” I will not go back.
“That is alright. It's late, we should both be off to bed.”
Narcissa nods. I will put the Honey Drop to rest.