Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

“I think we can find one much more… generously suited for your middle.”

The slight dusk of warm yellow lights illuminating lewd posters, the many clinking bottles of a bar, various bodies grouped in a world for what makes them different. A separate society consumed by the conjoined scent of sweet perfume and honeyed deviancy wafting in through warm walls of a cold summer night. A table full of strange to familiar faces, some of few words, others of coming to know. One sticks out, one shines brightly under the slight dusk of warm yellow strobing lights.

A voice sounds from within the colored plaster, its continuous noise audible but incoherent. Slippery, perhaps. Difficult to locate, Narcissa feels as it bounces off of every which wall. Sometimes it sings, rich and buttery and enticing. Other it scolds, the rasp of cigarette smoke coating the words. Most times it morphs into a softer edge, echoing rambles that slip through her catching fingers. She may not have it between nimble fingertips, but perhaps it isn’t that simple. No, not as she feels it wrap around her. The voice a safety blanket, coating her from within the colored plaster.

Questions running through a starved mind fed full of unknown possibilities. What led me there? Where was I, in which wonderland? Why would I stay? How are the packed bodies warm but not stuffy? Which woman was painted on that wall, and does she know where she hangs? Which shade of wanting eyes see her? Is it perverted as the magazines in her father’s cabinet? Maybe less so, or perhaps more? What is the structure of the building, who is it supposed to hold? Why did my hands feel as if clawing out of my stomach when viewing Sturgis and Dolores, then felt at ease with Alice? 

Isolde, Hestia, Charity, Fab, Dolores and Sturgis, Gid, Kingsley, Alice.

Isolde, Hestia, Fab, Dolores and Sturgis, Gid, Kingsley, Alice.

“Narcissa,” her mother barks, causing her to flinch out of her stupor. The tone would make lesser men jump, but Narcissa knows subtlety like a lifelong friend. She has never known a greater man than her mother. “Show me what’s incorrect.”

Suddenly the warm butter becomes a harsh shop’s light, sharp and enhanced to pick out insecurities inside of a minuscule fitting room. She stands on the small velvet risen floor in front of a full length mirror, her mother’s gaze locked onto the satin orange gown hugging her figure. The gowns they wear for events are most always fitted to the bone, but Druella will allow a high-end shop for dresses she deems casual.

Narcissa doesn’t particularly think anything is wrong with her own figure, the dress she has on is simply quite hideous. It crops awkwardly at her ankles, is hardly the best material of satin, and the neckline is simply atrocious. Narcissa doesn’t think she’s ever glanced at a price tag in her life, but the one for this has to be simply egregious. She wouldn’t doubt a bag lady would refuse this absolute monstrosity.

But of course, seventeen years teaches a girl well. Being raised in the tricks eventually adopts one a hand, even if heavy and achingly sore. “The lack of cinch causes my waist to look heavier, along with the color being unflattering for my undertone,” she nods, the very picture of sincerity—as if thoughts of her figure plagues her mind instead of the previous week’s…adventure.

“Mm. Which one should we try on next?”

“The black one.”

“Why is that?”

“Because black is slimming.”

“Good girl.”

Once the black gown has been given the stamp of approval from her mother, then another rather pretty emerald green one after, the garments have been purchased with wooled eyes and endless wallets. If Narcissa’s father were off business and were shopping with them (which he rarely cares for anyway, typically only when dragging his trophies to a business dinner) he’d be carrying the bag. Now Druella holds it in the crease of her elbow, high-end shop label shining like a beacon, delicately painted face donned in black sunglasses—the very picture of aristocracy.

Narcissa inherited the silver spoon in between her teeth from both of her parents, both emitting wealth like an unshakable spotlight following each of their feathered footsteps. But while Cygnus has always evidently been a businessman, Druella holds the aura of a film star. She seems effortlessly gorgeous—despite Narcissa knowing better—in a way that men of all ages drool over and girls reach the stars for. Perhaps Narcissa would admire her mother more so if she had not struggled to grow under her constricting mirrored walls. 

They reach their fourth shop of the day, one just as expensive as the rest—but this one is more tailored to a grown woman’s style than the young. Narcissa was allowed flats for walking, but her feet still carry and ache as she drags herself behind her mother. This mixed with the early day’s summer heat builds a dry thirst in her like no other. Although occasionally enjoyable, sometimes she feels that shopping is more of a sport than fooling around on the field with Emma.

“Mother,” she calls to no avail. She gets her attention after two more calls lightly tapping on Druella’s shoulder as she sorts through the clothing items, “it is horribly warm in here. May I go down to the shop across the street quickly?”

Her mother turns to face her, pulling her glasses down as she peers out the shop’s window. Curling a lip, she turns back to Narcissa. “You would like to go in there? Why?”

“I’m terribly thirsty, and you know my skin will suffer if I do not hydrate.”

“Mm. Alright then. Be careful, do not speak to anyone in there. Lord knows what that shop is doing next to this one,” she scoffs, returning to her search, but holding her arm out without looking behind her. “Hold this for me, will you?”

Taking the bag and exhaling with relief, Narcissa makes her way to the door of the shop, smiling a bit awkwardly at the young employee on her way out. 

It’s a rather sunny day, immediately burning Narcissa’s exposed skin as she crosses the busy street. Almost bumping into someone, she apologizes to the person, only earning a rude scowl. She quickly sneers back, knowing she would flip them the bird if it were deemed publically lady-like, afraid of Druella's watchful eye. The shop’s bell dings as she walks through, quickly disobeying her mother as she returns the cashier’s quick greeting.

Going straight for the case holding cold juice, she almost reaches for her favorite until something catches in her peripheral vision. 

A newspaper stand.

Suddenly she’s a mere week younger, fallen to her knees and rifling through her fathers saved dated papers to no avail. Frantic eyes glued to every headline, every story, every letter written in black and white. She found nothing having anything to do with a very specific club plaguing Narcissa’s mind. Eventually she had to give up, knowing either Bella would barge in or her mother would be home soon. 

But of course her father’s papers would not feature what she had found that night. The paper he frequents is for men of importance, lawyers, businessmen, doctors, and whatnot. It was silly of her to even think she might find what she was looking for, her mind parasitic with unwanted obsession.

But this.

A run-down shop’s rusted newspaper stand. 

This is where she’ll find the answer she seeks.

Realizing she must look rather ridiculous staring while the open fridge door blows a light stream of air onto her sundress—she quickly closes the door and strides toward the stand.

Now in public, she’s a bit more careful as she rummages through the stacks of paper. But only by an inch, feeling almost as if a rat in a maze. This is what the experience has stripped her down to, something she would be publicly shamed for if ever found out. If her mother could have her wish and peer into Narcissa’s mind, surely the woman would never look at her the same. If she sang in the church choir how Kingsley sang that night, she would be shunned. Stuck deep in her search, the thought does not even lead to Andromeda.

Wanting to scream in frustration when she only finds news of the miner’s strike, sports headlines that she’s sure Emma has gone over, television shows that she would be forbidden from watching, and about a million crosswords. 

Nothing.

Grasping at straws, she walks toward the counter. “Excuse me, sir, do you happen to keep the old newspapers in your back room?”

The man blinks at her as if she’s just spoken to him in a riddle. He appears to be in around the middle of his twenties with a five o'clock shadow and sloth-like expression on his face. “Er, I guess. Yeah, why?”

“I’m doing a school project and I need a collection of newspapers,” she says, always quick on her feet. When the man doesn’t seem receptive, she grows frustrated. “I’ll pay extra. Much extra” Another slow blink. “…Under the table.”

Narcissa leaves with about twenty newspapers stuffed in between her gowns in the bag, forgetting her juice in the rising heat.

Later that night, Narcissa spreads each of the newspapers out on her canopied bed. Wearing her silk pajamas, she lights a candle and sets a comfortable atmosphere for what will be a long night. 

It takes hours of sorting through monotonous copies of what she found earlier in the shop. Moments before she's about to give up and call it a night, she nicks her finger on a page. Grunting in pain, she brings the small speckle of blood to her tongue. As she glares at the object that hurt her, a small square in the left corner sticks out.

It’s a faded picture of Kingsley. 

Injured finger forgotten, Narcissa gasps as she brings the paper closer to her hungry eyes. It’s a side by side advertisement, one being the picture of Kingsley mid performance, underneath in bold letters stating: Kingsley Lynx, Britain's greatest male impersonator. Then next to it is The Honey Drop’s sign, address underneath.

Startling of all, is the tiny print that appears as if supposed to go unnoticed. 

Lesbian club

Lesbian. 

The sight of the word makes Narcissa sick, beating heart dropping to her queasy stomach. She feels as if the word floats off of the page, wrapping its hand around her bared throat. And somehow, feeling its touch makes her feel more at home between these four walls than she ever has. Suffocating fingers of the three syllables like a tight hug around imperilled vulnerability. It’s almost instinctual to give away her air, eyes refusing to part with the word on the page. Take it, take all of her being, she doesn’t need it. Not in this minute she allows herself the consuming feeling of all the weight taken away.

Deep in between the walls of her conflicted skin, Narcissa knew. She knew where she was, she knew what she felt. She knew from the flush accompanied by Isolde’s assessing gaze, she knew from the flip in her stomach at the sight of Dolores and Sturgis, she knew from being consumed by Kingsley’s performance, she knew from the string tying her to Alice. Narcissa knew of who she sat among, what it incited within her. 

That does not mean this is who she is.

That is not who she has to be.

That is not who Narcissa Black is, or will ever be allowed to be.

Not with a fate set like sword in stone. Andromeda chose the path astray from their family duty, therefore taking away Narcissa’s right to choose. With Bellatrix as a loose canon and Andromeda gone, Narcissa will be the correct wife and mother that her family needs. She will mirror her mother as she nods along to the dragging oral replay of her husband’s business meeting, careful of what to eat on her dinner plate day in front of a swollen stomach. She will raise her child to uphold the values of the lord and their family legacy, just as she was. 

Perhaps it would be an unsettling thought for a seventeen year old girl, if not having lingered underneath her skin since she could first truly understand. An itch she lives with, anxiously awaiting the day it be replaced with the chains of duty. Narcissa will bring honor to the Black family name even as it withers from her calling, replaced with another burden to carry. 

And honor does not sit among a club such as that one. It does not even dare to whisper its name, knowing it would sit wrong atop its rotten tongue of greed. 

Getting rid of all the other useless newspapers, only the one sit on her bed with her. For only a second, Narcissa is plagued with the bizarre urge to crumple the paper and swallow it. Have it lie in her stomach, take the object of sin with her wherever she goes. Just a footnote of what it felt to have, a spark flaming among what is empty. The thought of tasting what she must give up, just the knowledge of how it would feel on her own tongue.

But the greed for knowledge is what left her here in the first place. She has never understood the term ignorance is blissuntil this very moment. It may not have been bliss, but to not ever have known its warmth would not have felt so cold. It would not have her hands feel stripped down to their skin, ripped of what they held. Starved mouths do not care of what it’s given, but those fed are susceptible to gluttony. 

Narcissa’s stomach growls as she lies her head on her feathered pillow, dreaming of a world where she eats without purging her guilt.

** ** **

Narcissa thinks that she’d rather sit in the wretched seat of Professor Binn’s history class than be here. In which she has flawless marks of course, but only because she’s perfected the talent of sleeping with her eyes open. It’s unnerving, or so Rita said in Narcissa’s tenth year—the former in a class multiple years behind. 

But it's nearly impossible to maintain any sort of rest in this atmosphere with all of the blaring lights, booming music, ringing laughter, and incessant chatter. Narcissa has found a corner to huddle into, nursing a glass (yes, a glass, unlike the cheap plastic cups in films) of increasingly flat cola.

Truly, this is a bit unlike her. She’s never exactly been the social butterfly that her sisters are, (or at least Andy pretended to be) but she wouldn’t exactly call herself an introvert. Especially at either a family gathering, where playing the part of the perfect daughter is crucial. Or at a school gathering, where her social standing is placed rather high. But there, she knows people and usually has a companion at her side. At family gatherings you can find Regulus glued to her side, and at her peers, Narcissa stuck to Emma's.

At this so called party thrown at the Lestrange manor by Bellatrix taking advantage of no adults other than herself being home—the only familiarity she can find is whom she shares blood with among a sea of people Narcissa isn’t even sure Bellatrix knows.

Or so she thought. 

“Are my dazzling eyes deceiving me or is that Narcissa Black hiding from the party?” 

Opening her eyes at the pitchy voice, Narcissa doesn’t even bother to hide her scowl. In front of her glaring eyes is a boy she sits behind in chemistry, the one who makes incorrigible gum chewing noises and always turns like some slimy owl in his chair only to stare at Narcissa. To make matters worse, he flexes non-existent muscles on his seat, even though never having grown out of a stick-like figure. His flat mousy hair shines under the disco-ball light effect, only making it appear more like he has gone without a shower this morning. To make matters worse, he’s not even close to reaching Narcissa’s height.

She doesn’t have the slightest clue where this boy has accumulated this amount of confidence. Christ, he must be aware that he is light years under Narcissa’s league. They look rather ridiculous standing in one another’s proximity. 

Especially with how she’s dressed now—courtesy of indulging Bellatrix. She must admit, it’s the most fun she’s had with her sister in a while. Especially after the lake incident. If she looked deeper into it, this was Bellatrix apologizing in her own way. A makeover from Bellatrix is much more enjoyable than from her mother. It’s almost… fun. Of course, Bella threatens to steal her skin and wear it about three times every hour—but that’s just her idea of a compliment. 

When they were younger, Bellatrix and Andromeda would use their youngest sister as their personal doll. Narcissa never minded, she used to beg for it even, any attention from her older sisters was always wonderful. It only stopped being enjoyable when their mother made it a chore. Another thing to be great at, with consequences for not only failure, but mere decency.

This time around with Bella, it was rather nostalgic. The kind that builds the same home in your stomach for three beautiful seconds, only to leave you with the lingering memory of how it all came crashing down.

Bellatrix has dressed Narcissa in a trendy gown, a solid colored orange in the middle only to burst into a boho material along the long flowy sleeves. It’s not something Narcissa would’ve ever picked for herself, but she enjoys it. Her hair is done into bouncy blonde curls, eyes painted in a high baby blue. 

When looking at the final result in the mirror, Narcissa found her lips curling into a genuine smile.

Very unlike the face she makes at this creature before her.

“Remind me of your name again,” Narcissa drawls, arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Of course she remembers his name, it’s only reprimanded ten times in one class hour.

The boy laughs, only to realize seconds later that Narcissa is not at all joking—well, at least not laughing with him. “C’mon, ha,” he prods nervously. “You know me, we share Slughorn’s class.”

“It does not ring any bells. Refresh my memory, will you?” Or simply piss off, whatever works. Though his dejected expression is rather satisfying, like clapping a fly at the exact right time.

A creeping smile returns to his face, indiscernible whether it’s genuine or not. “Well you can call me anything you want, but the name’s Richard.”

“How inspired,” Narcissa drawls.

“Ha. Well not all of us can be named after cool, spacy stars,” he seems to find himself amusing, head dropping in laughter. Narcissa is surprised he doesn’t fall to the ground with that small head full of rocks.

She almost rebuttals, questioning if the boy even knows what the word astronomy means, until a violent flashback of the club washes over her. Not only the club, but her conversation with Alice. It hits like a gut punch laced with what she left behind, seeping into the longing skin of its target. She feels it tingle from her scalp to each of her toes, fighting the urge to whimper as she recalls Alice’s scrunched nose and endearing rambles. Narcissa doesn’t even know the girl’s last name, but it feels as if she could pull it out of her very soul if she only stuck a hand inside. 

Like a narcissist? Noble like a knight. You’re very pretty, Narcissa. Bus stop is the opposite way, blondie.

The words all but batter through her skull, Alice’s tender voice weaving itself into every wave of her brain, sewing tighter when whispering a picture of the club. It ties itself like a knitted coat, deliciously warm but with an itch that Narcissa feels she’ll go mad if not to scratch. It plagues her skin with an indiscernible cold emptines. But in public, she cannot wrap her own arms around herself. At night in her own bed is an entirely different story, practically squeezing the ache for sanctuary out of her own ribs.

Unfortunately, she is not in comfort of her own company. 

“Was there a point to this interaction, Richard?”

“My, you are feisty aren’t you? It's alright, that's how I like my birds,” he clicks his tongue, Narcissa’s disgusted expression not anymore a deterrent.

“I would rather smash this glass over my own head and consume each and every one of the blooded shards before ever being considered one of your birds,” she spits. At first she managed her calm atmosphere, but his words drip with a slime that genuinely repulses Narcissa. As if his words drip and stick and almost melt into her skin, and the urge to clean herself has never been so strong. 

And at her words, this boy has the audacity to laugh. “Woah, calm down-,”

“Richard,” a new voice booms. When both heads flip to this new person, Narcissa hears herself sigh in a conflicted relief. 

“Lucius,” Richard nods, seemingly seeing himself on par with the other boy. If Lucius’ expression is anything to go by, he is sorely mistaken.

“Rabastan needs your help down in the kitchen, claims you’d know how to assist in fixing an appliance,” he nods faintly, shoulder length blonde hair swishing slightly with the movement.

Puffing out his chest and nodding, Richard thanks Lucius and leaves, not even addressing Narcissa once. For just a second, Narcissa wonders if he’s for a club of his own. Releasing one more breath, she turns to Lucius and opens her mouth.

“You have no need to thank me, it is common courtesy, truly. Nobody would want to be in that situation, specifically not with Richard.” 

Narcissa nods, genuinely grateful. She would have evacuated herself eventually, but this at least made less of a fuss—and she has never been one for scenes. She wouldn’t say she and Lucius are friends per say, but they’re well acquainted. They’ve known one another even before Hogwarts, mingling families of the church and such. Not to mention the tie between them as of recent, but Narcissa cannot let the thought cross her mind without wanting to hurl. 

“I will be sure to do you the same the next time my mother corners you at a family event,” she offers a hesitant smile, mostly plastic, but those are in good practice. Sometimes, Narcissa can’t even tell herself which of her own are feigned. 

“Yes, well," he chuckles, brushing an invisible lint off of his button up. "Druella is a lovely woman, but I appreciate your offer. It all can be a bit overwhelming, especially when the subject of well, you know, is brought up. Not that I'm deterred, of course."

Narcissa swallows. “How has your break been, Lucius?”

They talk for a good half hour, well, Lucius talks and Narcissa listens. He's always been an arrogant boy, she has many memories of him as a child ranting off to adults about his achievements. Luckily for Narcissa, he is not the most boring subject in the world, raving about travels, family, friends, a summer law program he is currently enrolled in—best in the country. The latter Narcissa is particularly immersed in, but Lucius likely mistakes it for an interest in himself. People's buttons aren’t too difficult to figure out, Narcissa has known which ones to press for her way since she could speak at all. And most of the time, she does not even need words.

It’s quite monotonous to nod along to Lucius’ monologue after leaving the program subject, but Narcissa maintains as he drones on about a trip to Italy. Enough so that she barely even notices the shift. “-dress differently. Sort of like you. Speaking of, the look you sport today is quite different, but still absolutely stunning.”

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Not the wing of a butterfly, not even a fire’s lonely spark.

Only the club’s embers rest, coating the walls of her stomach, her caving chest. Narcissa put out the fire, that was not too difficult. But now, she fights not to suffocate on its lingering smoke. Especially when it follows her wherever she goes, enveloping her in a cloud of echoes. She breathes it in like an addict, whispering an illusion of lacking choice. Narcissa is her father with powder, her mother with the bottle, Bellatrix with the man she shouldn’t, Andromeda toeing the front door.

One more time.

Just one more time, and she’ll be done with it for good.

“Thank you, Lucius. You look fairly decent yourself.” She has barely even registered his appearance. Lucius smiles, it holds a shy edge that she isn’t sure she’s seen on the boy before. Unfortunately for him, Narcissa holds no qualms in exploiting this. “Say, do you mind doing me just one more favor for the night?”

“I- yes, of course.  Anything.” 

“Did you drive here tonight?"

“Are you sure… this is where you wanted to go?” Lucius arches an eyebrow, tapping a nervous finger on the steering wheel as he scans the area.

“Yes. I’m afraid Emma is terribly specific, and I wouldn’t want to miss a perfect gift for such an important birthday,” Narcissa responds without missing a beat. Not to mention that her friend's birthday passed in February, but Lucius doesn't pay enough attention to others to know this. And Narcissa knows Emma wouldn’t mind the lie, in fact, the girl once said that in the case of her death, she gave Narcissa permission to use her passing as an excuse to be out of anything. If Narcissa is honest, it frightens her a bit how her best friend would react to the certain aspect of this lie.

“Right,” Lucius contemplates, pursing his lips as his fingers continue to drum on the wheel. It does not help that sirens begin to echo in the back. “Why don’t you let me go in with you? Just to be safe.”

“I already told you that I’m having my driver pick me up. I promise you, I will be perfectly fine. I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know that,” the boy nods, but Narcissa doesn’t believe he truly does. “But it is a dangerous street, Narcissa. Just look at the people who crawl the sidewalk. I’ve seen at least three vicious bagmen stare at my vehicle.”

Pushing down the growing frustration, Narcissa paints on a plastic reassuring smile. “Like I said, I have my driver arranged for half an hour-,”

“So why not let me accompany you until then? I just do not like this-,”

“Lucius,” Narcissa interrupts, only managing to not strain her voice by the skin of her teeth. Before he can protest once more, she reaches over the center console to kiss his cheek. His pale skin immediately flushes pink, and Narcissa grins as bile swims in her stomach. “I’ll see you this Sunday.”

“I… yes. Right. Sunday church. Yes.” 

Only feeling impatient while the boy rambles, she nods in finality before exiting the car.

Just like that, Narcissa escapes the hands of the man to whom she will be married. 

She uses the back of her hand to wipe her lips of Lucius’ skin, reaching into her bag to reapply the smudged paint.

** ** **

Somehow, it’s almost surprising that the club looks exactly as she’d left it. Internally, it felt as if she’s shoved the club into a time capsule. But back here, only two weeks later, she pulls it out the very same. It is a bit less busy, perhaps due to it not anymore being the first weekend of summer. Still, the same sight of the various women form in front of darting eyes, still struggling to digest everything all at once. Her ears swallow sound after sound, the clinking of glasses, joyous laughter, scandalous gossip, endless chatter. Nose taking in the familiar gathered scent, immediately recognizable after only meeting it once. Each of the club’s effects on her senses reaches something inside her, holding, taking. It’s a gentle grab, a featherlight touch on her entity. Stripping gently, like taking off a coat when one arrives at home.

Get comfortable, stay a while. There is no need to worry like you would out in the real world. This is safe. This is yours.

Narcissa doesn’t know if she’s ever had something truly to herself. Secrets perhaps, but never one wrapped around her physically. She has held a secret between the walls of her mind, but never been held by one. Maybe that is what feels so different.

Making her way through the pillowed walls, Narcissa walks with confidence despite the lingering fear of what might have changed. She bumps into a person or two, but one look at her and they apologize immediately. It makes her feel powerful, but perhaps that is something to explore another time. For now, she has only one destination on her mind.

And once her peripheral snags on it, she almost falters on the hardwood floor in relief. Now for the most nerving part of all.

The room is too loud for the heels clacking to be an alert of her prescience, the scooting chair however, has five pairs of eyes landing on herself. With feigned nonchalance, Narcissa dusts off the seat she’s brought once again before sitting. Once seated, she looks up to her audience.

“Well would you look at what the cat dragged in.”

Narcissa isn’t shocked that Dolores is the first to speak, accompanied by Sturgis with a hand around her shoulders. However, Isolde’s reply is a bit surprising. “Hell might have frozen over, because for once I might agree with Umbridge,” she arches a glittered eyebrow at Narcissa’s presence.

Clearly waiting on a comment, the group doesn’t take their burning eyes off her. The group consists of Dolores, Sturgis, Isolde, Gid, and Hestia this time around. No Alice, but an empty chair that sparks a childish hope. Narcissa only shrugs. “I was in the area.”

Gid snorts. “Right. Because I’m sure this street screams home to you.”

She is about to rebuttal until Isolde speaks. “Cut the bullshit. I like you, Narcissa, I do. I can also tell you’re used to getting away with vague tellings and your little lies, but not here. Here we are about truth, being and living in the one place we’re allowed. To sit here is to respect that, so earn your seat or leave.”

Narcissa swallows, feeling horribly chastised. Shame floats in her stomach, similar to one of her mother’s scoldings. This time around, she feels the genuine urge to apologize. A minute ticks by in thick silence. “I had someone drop me off.”

“Mm. Did they know where they were taking you?”

“He did not.”

“He?” Sturgis clocks with drawn eyebrows, and Narcissa wants to kick herself.

“Boyfriend?” Isolde asks.

“No.”

“He better not be,” she adds, eyes darting toward the empty chair beside her. Having the answer she needed, Narcissa’s eyes do not leave the space around the chair. 

“Ha!” Dolores barks. “That is ripe coming from you.”

Isolde rolls her eyes, but she does not make a case for herself. Instead, she locks eyes with Narcissa who still stares at the object. “What are you looking for, Narcissa? Or shall I say who?”

Before she can respond, Isolde’s eyes flick beside the girl—and just on cue, Narcissa feels the heat of a body. Looking to her right, she finds what she was hoping to as she stepped through the doors. Except, the girl doesn’t notice her one bit. Alice struggles with six glasses in her hand, passing one to each person.

“Courtesy of Isolde's wallet, we have a Paloma for Charity,” Alice slides the drink as she goes, Charity clears her throat. “Negroni for Dolores, bitter drink for the bitter bitch and an old fashioned for her counterpart.” Sturgis seems to be trying to communicate with warning eyes, but Alice only returns an odd look, sliding a gin and tonic to both Isolde and Fab. Her last is presumably for Gid, who sits nearest to Narcissa. 

“Lastly, a whiskey sour for- shit,” she curses, hand jerking before she slides it to the girl, promptly spilling the drink all over the front of Narcissa’s dress. Narcissa proceeds to yelp, a shiver and slight panic overtaking her as the cold iced drink seeps through her dress. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. I- Narcissa, shit, I am so fucking sorry. Jesus, Narcissa? What are you-? Doesn’t matter, fuck.”

Not thinking, Narcissa frantically holds a hand out for Alice to help her out of her seat—which she does. The touch is almost more shocking than the drink, both making eye contact for the slightest second before looking away shyly. “That’s- that’s alright,” Narcissa breathes. It is certainly not alright, but she does not want Alice to feel any worse than she visibly already does.

The girl runs a stressed hand through her hair as she stares at Narcissa’s soaked dress. “I'm so sorry. Jesus, okay,” she breathes. “I guess… I- come with me. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

Nodding her consent once she realizes Alice was waiting for confirmation, she is led up the stairs with her hand in Alice’s.

“God, I am so sorry, Narcissa,” Alice says again, this time on her knees. Which sounds rather promiscuous, and it might seem, if not for the wet kitchen rolls she slides up and down Narcissa’s dress. She's careful with her hands, dress held away from Narcissa’s skin—and they haven’t touched since parting their initial hold. 

Narcissa does feel a bit awkward standing here while Alice does all of the work, but Alice was the one to initially offer. Which went something like this, after they received some curses and a few whistles when rushing through the line and entering the bathroom together:

‘Oh, let me-,’ 

‘No, please. It’s the very least I can do. I mean- unless this makes you uncomfortable. I can leave if you please.”

Narcissa swallowed and shook her head. ‘No. No, that’s alright.’

“That’s alright.” 

Alice huffs through a shy smile. “You say that a lot, yknow? But I think I might just be cursed to always embarrass myself in front of you.” 

She flicks her eyes up, and Narcissa can’t resist a small chuckle through the flutter in her stomach. “Perhaps just a little.”

Alice fumbles with a roll, almost dropping it on the ground. She appears surprised at Narcissa’s remark, looking up at her with a new twinkle in honeyed eyes. “See, that was where you were supposed to reassure me it wasn’t that bad.”

“I don’t think you would have believed me.“

The girl laughs, the action bright and practically echoing off the wall. It's a bit of a funny sound, the kind that forms an invisible hand to pull at your own lips as if made of mere string. She only refrains by averting her eyes, noticing a mysterious spill on the plastered wall to the side.

“Probably not,” Alice huffs once more. “But maybe if it’s said with enough conviction. Go on, give it a try.”

“You are ridiculous,” Narcissa truly cannot help but grin this time, it even stretches her cheeks from being withheld for so long. She thinks if the girl asked once more, she might just do it. 

Even with only a few quips, this interaction feels different from the last. It still holds its teenage awkwardness of course, but more of an acknowledgment of so than teetering the edge of hostility. This is likely on Narcissa, if she is truly honest. She feels less like she’s struggling to grasp the concept of such a world, now allowing herself to hold on. Even if just sinking her claws into the ground for one night. Selfishly, she hopes they leave an imprint. 

Alice cleans her dress in a comfortable silence while Narcissa watches. Thinking of holding on, she can’t help but imagine reaching out to touch the girl’s hair. To sink her fingers into chestnut strands, nails sifting through and scratching at her scalp. She wonders if it would relax the worrying girl, if she would close her eyes and sink into the feeling. In this position, she could lean forward on her knees and lay her head to Narcissa’s stomach. The thought brings a violent flutter and a blush to her face, suddenly she’s glad that Alice isn’t looking at her. 

Until she is. 

“Narcissa.”

“Hm?” 

“We’re done with the cleaning,” Alice practically whispers, fingers bunching the edge of her dress.

“Oh. Okay,” she breathes as Alice lets go. The damp end brushes against her leg, enlisting a shiver against skin. “Er- what are you doing?”

Alice nods toward the object on the wall near the sink. “We'll put the fabric under the hand dryer. Wouldn’t want you to freeze outside, would we?” 

Unused to this fire in her usual sea of calm, Narcissa is unable to quip back. She doesn’t even protest putting the expensive fabric under layers of blown bacteria, which is practically unheard of. “No. No, we wouldn’t.”

They stand on each end of the hand dryer, Narcissa holding the fabric as Alice presses the button. Narcissa is slightly grateful for this, not sure if she could’ve handled more time with Alice’s fingers hovering her leg. Even if only her knee, but she feels that even her elbow would ache from the ghost-like touch. They stand on each end of the hand dryer, and still Narcissa feels the air around her thin. 

She wonders if Alice’s throat allows her ease, perhaps her stomach or maybe even her mind. Narcissa couldn’t imagine such a feeling, a ship away from the furious, crashing tide. But she can't help but see a sort of ease in the girl. It’s in the mutely bold way that Alice dresses, buttoned trousers and heavy coat atop her waistcoat beneath where Narcissa can make out a pin that reads ‘baby dyke.’  It’s in the way her feet stride between these walls, uncaring if she leaves traceable footsteps in her path. It’s in the way she interacts with the people around her, smiling and joking and laughing as if it all truly is alright. This leads her to wonder if it truly is Alice’s ship, or perhaps the sea she sails. 

Gently pulling her out of her running thoughts, Alice alerts Narcissa that they are done and apologizes once more, which the latter quickly reassures. Narcissa doesn’t realize she was waiting for Alice to move until the girl doesn’t—her eyes locked onto Narcissa’s as she folds her arms atop the machine. The girl swallows, “Why’d you come back here, Narcissa?” 

She sounds genuinely curious, a twinkle dancing in her eye, practically holding a hand out that Narcissa cannot resist lacing the incited words into. “You still owe me a cigarette, Alice.”

A slow grin forms on the girl’s face, then a small snort out of her nose. “Cigarette. God, you’re posh.”

It is a bit less cold than she expected it would be through the back doors, opening to an alleyway different from the first one. This one has more personality, traces people have left behind in their wake. There is cheap jewelry left on the ground, engravings in the concrete, cigarette ends on the ground, graffiti painted on the wall Narcissa sees right as she walks out the door. It paints a bright green, fairly impressive detailed picture of a woman’s soft body. She notices it’s the first thing Alice looks at, smiling faintly at it as she shuffles away from the door and sits crisscrossed with her back to the wall.

After a few seconds of sitting (Alice) or standing (Narcissa) in silence, Alice looks up to Narcissa with confusion in her eyes.

Narcissa gives her a pointed look, scowling at the ground. “Do you know how disgustingly filthy that gravel is? For heaven's sake we’ve just cleaned my dress.”

Alice laughs then rolls her eyes playfully, pulling both a pack of fags and handkerchief out of her trousers pocket. She sets the cigarettes aside and unfolds the checkered handkerchief to its largest size, setting it flat on the ground beside her. “Is that up to your royal standards, your highness?”

“No,” Narcissa grumbles, strutting over and holding her dress down as she sits. Absolutely terrified of a roach crawling upon her, Narcissa scans the ground to be sure she won’t be attacked, only slightly relieved when she finds none. 

But Alice’s further laughter practically dissipates her distress, the sound collecting Narcissa’s worry as it drifts into the cold air around them. She still wears a grin as she grabs the pack of fags, taking one out for herself and handing another to Narcissa. Bellatrix smokes, but always denies Narcissa in the name of health, but is truly only to be greedy. Holding it between slim fingers, she steals a quick glance at Alice to be sure she’s holding it the correct way. Narcissa is never truly frightened of embarrassing herself, practically programmed in the picture of elegance—but somehow, this was not exactly taught neither by her mother nor in the pew.

Alice lights her own first, mouth to the yellow end which Narcissa takes note of. She gets a little distracted there and forgets to study the rest. When Alice holds the cigarette lighter out to the other girl. Narcissa takes it without hand contact, the object small and painted black, unlike the engraved silver zippo her father has. It seems making a fool of herself was rather inevitable, as the wind catches the flame each time her thumb clicks the little wheel. 

A few more fruitless tries, and Alice tsks. “You have to…,” she explains, making a vague hand gesture. “Y’know-,” Alice tries again. Narcissa glares at the girl in response, because clearly she does not know. Alice’s lips twitch upward, and after a few seconds of contemplation, she pulls her own cigarette out of her mouth and turns her head to the side to blow the smoke. Then she promptly takes the lighter out of Narcissa’s hands. Leaning a bit closer, Alice looks at her once for confirmation. When she receives it, Alice lifts the object up to the cigarette hanging out of Narcissa lips, cupping a hand close to her mouth as she ignites the flame. 

Predictably, it lights.

Alice’s thumb comes too close to grazing glossed lips as she pulls away and returns her own cigarette to her bare ones.

Ignoring the flip in her stomach, Narcissa takes hold of the lit cigarette with enough common sense to inhale. Inhaling too much smoke.

Turning her head to cough, Narcissa attempts to make it subtle, but unfortunately, that is rather impossible. She turns back to Alice, who is clearly trying and failing at holding back a smile. Then when she meets Narcissa’s eye, a full grin breaks out. She looks down to the cigarette and back to Narcissa, amusement written all over her face. “First time smoking, blondie?”

“Rhetorical questions are horribly uncouth."

Alice chuckles through the smoke leaving her mouth. “It’s alright. I likely wouldn’t know either if it weren’t for my best friend, Frank—the bloke practically came out of the womb with a pack of fags. Taught me in the grass behind the school building in tenth year after practice and got me hooked, the fucker,” she grins, clearly reminiscent. 

Narcissa smiles too, inhaling the correct amount of smoke this time around, even if the feeling of it in her throat is rather vile. If only Emma weren’t a straight edge sports conspiracist, perhaps she’d have a similar story. Intrigued in the girl’s small spoken window, Narcissa inquires, “Have you already left school then?” She tries to appear offhand as possible, only making casual conversation and not at all grappling for a sight inside of this girl.

“Didn’t peg you as one for small talk,” Alice remarks, earning another light glare which she seems to shake off easily. Narcissa has always been told she has a look that could kill, but no one has ever held a grip on her weapon before. “Year thirteen, but I turn eighteen in just a month or two. Can't wait to wave my identification in Rosemerta's face."

Narcissa hums, assuming this Rosemerta is the barkeep. “I am too. Seventeen, I mean."

"I know, Isolde told me,” she says as her grin softens. “Last year also?”

“Yes,” Narcissa nods slowly, but not without an arched brow. “May I ask why I am a topic with Isolde?” She asks, teasing laced into her voice. 

Alice takes it in stride, her brown eyes gleaming as she shrugs. “You’re very mysterious, Narcissa.”

After rolling her eyes once again, she decides to bite. “And what is so mysterious about me?”

“Well we don’t have too many people stride in with such a visible silver spoon tucked between their lips."

“I do not,” Narcissa scoffs. 

“Narcissa,” Alice huffs, chuckling as she blows smoke into the air. “You speak like you were raised by the bloody queen. Although you’re dressed less posh than the time before.”

There's question laced into her tone, but Narcissa only shrugs, taking another drag of her cigarette. She would explain, but is frightened that conversation would lead to Lucius. For some reason, that is the very last topic she'd like to bring up with this girl. “I still do not understand how any of this makes me oh so mysterious aside from your blatant dramatics.”

“Well you interrupted me before I could finish,” she huffs jokingly, lifting out a ringed hand for an apparent list. She goes on a tangent mostly about the people who frequent the club being unlike Narcissa, sneaking teasing comments and earning multiple glares in between. It lasts for a few minutes until her words catch into a web. “-you’re just different, there’s something so blatantly special about you that anyone would be blind not to,” Alice blinks, tan cheeks going slightly pink. She clears her throat, playing it off well with a hesitant laugh. “Sorry, er- forget it.” Before Narcissa could say anything, she swiftly changes the subject. “What school do you go to? Nowhere around here, I assume."

Narcissa braces herself before answering. “A catholic boarding school in Scotland.”

When Alice recovers from promptly coughing on inhaled smoke, a look of horror paints her face as she looks toward Narcissa. “Oh, you poor thing. But hell, that does not help the posh allegations.”

They talk mostly about their schools, the one stilted moment completely dispersing. Alice takes the brunt of the conversation when she realizes Narcissa isn’t quite as open. Somehow, she gets the feeling Alice isn’t either. And still, she learns about Frank, who is ‘straight as a line,’ both of them becoming fast friends after a shared interest in football—then best friends after Alice came out to him as having the same crush on their young female maths teacher. She learns that they have uniforms, in which Alice mostly wears the trousers, but a skirt on some days as not to raise suspicion, even as wrong as it apparently feels. She learns that Alice is the captain of her school’s girls football team, which encourages Narcissa to tell her about Emma. Alice listens intently, soaking up her every word. 

It’s only when the conversation dies down along with their cigarettes dwindling that they register a familiar music sounding from the wall behind them. And soon enough, Kingsley’s voice. Narcissa can’t help but be happy that the artist is back.

“Do you want to go inside?” Alice asks, nodding a head behind them. 

“If you please.”

“Mm, if I please, she says,” Alice grins. “Well I recall you seeming to be very pleased with Kingsley’s performance the last time you were here.”

Stubbing her cigarette out on the ground, Narcissa rises from the ground and flips the girl off as she opens the back door, earning a chuckling Alice behind her. 

“Jesus Christ, I think Gid was this close to jumping out of her seat when Kings took her coat off.”

Narcissa huffs, grinning as they walk out of the building. Alice greets the bouncer, sending a pointed look to Narcissa when he returns with a grumble. She feels slightly intoxicated from being in club despite not having one drink, her feet almost tripping over one another—and she knows if she did not have agency, they would walk her right back to where she left. It's colder than before, but the abundance of excitement and heat within the club allows her skin to calm instead of shiver. They stride just a bit down the street, stopping right where they did two weeks prior. “Well do you think she’d have a chance?”

“Nah,” Alice laughs, slipping her hands into warm pockets. “Too young. Plus, Kingsley’s mostly into femmes, she’s been trying to get with Isolde for as long as I’ve known the place.”

Narcissa gapes, “Really?” She doesn’t quite know how anyone could turn down Kingsley, almost voices this, but knows she’d never hear the bloody end of it. Not with the cheeky mouth on this one. 

“Mhm,” Alice smiles, seemingly amused at Narcissa’s surprise. But her grin begins to falter as the silence thickens against the air around them, remnants of their past breaths floating in the space between the two girls. Alice exhales a shaking breath, her eyes shifting from the street back to her counterpart. Her voice lowers, “Narcissa.” A heavy pause. “Be honest with me for a moment?”

Narcissa hesitates, not expecting such a blunt question. “I can try,” she swallows. Sometimes it feels like all she can ever do. 

“Will you be back here?”

A minute passes, invisible clock ticking between the sound of her heart beating in her ear. But as Narcissa looks down at brown eyes rippling pleads in their pool of everything Alice is, she doubts she could deny this girl anything. It's almost automatic, that agency slipping as her lips form a singular word. 

Irrevocable words set in the air, an oath tied into this timeline, or maybe just a pinky held promise that carries the weight of the world. Sometimes telling untruths are just their name, something said and undone. But to break the only floor that's ever felt secure under her careful weight, that would become a lie that Narcissa would never forgive herself for. To unravel the vines from this found sanctuary that have seeded, sprouted, and intertwined underneath what she thought might be stone would surely unravel herself along with them.

So, yes.

Yes, Narcissa will return to her seat in this new home. 

** ** **

“And where were you this time?”

Narcissa pauses in taking off her heel, standing straight in the foyer to meet her mother’s eye. For the second time tonight, she does not lie. Oh, the art of omission. “With Lucius.”

Druella grins.

Chapter Text

Sunlight creeps in through the opened curtains whispering a light breeze through her nature lit bedroom. And still, Narcissa prepares her appearance for an evening dinner. Not a typical Friday night dinner with talk of studies and politics and weighing expectation—but extended family dinner between the chilling walls of Grimmauld Place. Narcissa loves her little cousins (even when Sirius is being an incorrigible brat), she respects Walburga, and tolerates Orion—but these dinners have never been favorable.

Still, she has always been the most susceptible to these dinners out of her sisters. Bellatrix is always bored, Andromeda was always angry, and Narcissa simply sits, eats, and tries to listen. Of course they’re a bit of a nuisance and not exactly how she’d rather spend her Friday night, but defiance has never been a necessary part of the question when it is much simpler to comply. It is something she has never understood about her sisters, and something her sister have never understood about her.

So Narcissa slips a hooked diamond earring through her pierced ear, still intact since she was an infant, only struggling just a bit with the second. Her hair is crafted into a perfect updo, done earlier with mounting frustration and a slew of bobby pins. She and her mother went to the salon earlier in the week, touching up her roots and whatnot. She recalls the magazine they gave her, but the third article on the sexy seven ways to get men to notice you and she was horribly bored. After discussing what she wanted with the employee (and much of her mother’s input) they settled on a fluffy, but still regal curtain bang. She's quite happy with the result, even if it is difficult to manage. But there's something she enjoys about the maintenance of crafting her hair the way she likes.

She wears a sleeveless high necked black gown, and even though she’ll be indoors, it’s always terribly chilly in their home so she opts for a classy white shawl over her dress. Satisfied with her choice of earring, she absentmindedly hums the tune to Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend that Emma always sings when viewing Narcissa’s collection. She’s seen the American movie thrice with practically a weapon to her head, but she does have to admit there is something quite enticing about this Marilyn Monroe. She remembers once Professor McGonagall saying Narcissa resembled the woman and recalls the flushed reaction she experienced. McGonagall has always been one she's strived to impress, her approval warm like syrup in her stomach.

Spotting the necklace in her drawer, Narcissa’s hum dies down as her thumb caresses the newspaper inside. It’s a conflicting feeling, the turmoil in her stomach and soft smile on her face. But the second she hears footsteps, Narcissa scoops up the necklace and shuts the drawer. Bellatrix dramatically pushes open her door a second later, just as Narcissa expertly clicks the accessory around her neck.

Her sister grins, wild black curls actually styled for the night. She's dressed in a similar but more gothic styled gown than Narcissa. She’s definitely been reprimanded by Druella for the excessive eye paint, but Narcissa thinks it suits her slightly haunting features. Not that Narcissa has often viewed her sisters as a beauty competition (soldiers learning to march delicately in line would be more accurate), but she imagines the uniqueness of Bella's beauty would be particularly striking to the outside view. She had many suitors that Narcissa can't imagine were for a nurturing personality, but still took up with the man she barely knew the first name of. A way to keep the thrill of forbidden escapades, if Andromeda's word is anything to go by. It always was. 

“Well don’t you look just fetching,” Bellatrix grins, strutting over and tugging on one of Narcissa’s earrings as the girl bats her away. “Aw, I’m just admiring our little princess, don’t be a dusty bitch," she sighs deeply, bulging her eyes in emphasis. "Mother sent me to call you out, I don’t know why she couldn’t do it herself. Maybe she’s putting on a few with father out of the house,” Bella clicks her tongue, now picking at her long painted nails.

“Doubtful,” Narcissa drawls, knowing her mother eats like a bloody bird. Sometimes she can’t help but wonder if she reaches into her fathers stash of cocaine with how her collarbones jut out of her wrinkled chest despite the weekly spa days. The Lord's preached replacement of water for wine perhaps.

Bellatrix hums in boredom, plucking out a frizzed curl and twirling it tightly around her own finger. “Well you should hurry. Ugh, are you ready to leave?” Narcissa begins to speak, but Bellatrix drowns her out with a dramatic sigh and flopping onto her bed. “If Orion starts droning on about business trading, I will target my butter knife right toward that fat fucking uvula dangling from his useless throat.”

Narcissa can’t help but grin, used to her sister’s vulgar dramatics. “Get off my bed and let’s go, you psychotic hag.”

Dinner starts off terribly, but predictably drab.

Conversationally speaking, but the food is actually quite delicious. It’s made by the Butler that a cruel child Sirius had nicknamed Kreacher, convincing Regulus it was his real name and therefore stuck. Narcissa likes the man well enough, he’s kind, good at his job, and takes well care of Regulus. The boy sits beside her now, skillfully picking at his plate and managing to make it appear as if he’s listening to the conversation—a skill learned from herself, of course. Sirius on the other hand, has both of his elbows on the table (absolutely horrific manners), purposefully scraping his silver fork across the glass plate while sighing dramatically in between. Regulus glares at his brother, but the older boy only ignores him—something he has only been doing since starting Hogwarts. It’s a rather sad sight, but Regulus only goes back to feigning engagement with a tighter grip on his utensil. He reminds Narcissa of when she was his age.

But now she is older and knows to genuinely listen intently to what the adults have to say. Not only is it dutiful and a show of respect, but it is useful, and one of the only forms of control she's ever known. One slip of the wine-soaked tongue and Narcissa has another sight into the true story of the family. Another tool to tuck into her arsenal. Amother cloud fallen from her eye.

Bellatrix does not make any effort to listen to what her elders have to say. She sits at the end of the table with one of Orion’s business associates who holds a genuine fear in his eyes, which means the girl is likely making crude comments. Even with her husband next to her, Narcissa has not seen her spare him a glance once. She'd feel sorry for the bloke if he ever even tried to hold a conversation with anyone in the family. Alas, Rodolphus is a brooding man-child who doesn't care for the power that comes with being a man and marrying a Black, even if still under his own family name. Pitiful, and utterly foolish. 

Druella and Walburga catch up while Orion takes a quick call (something a wife would be crucified for), which truly means they talk about the newly opened boutique in the city, the many accomplishments of their children (really only Narcissa and Regulus), and Cygnus—all while sneaking snide insults hidden by sharp grins. But from what Narcissa can tell, they like one another well enough. Certainly better than when Narcissa and her sisters were children, where there was an animosity even children could pick up on. 

Walburga turns to ask Narcissa a few questions, which she knew to expect. During each family gathering, Walburga takes a special interest in the girl, asking the same sort of questions every time. She would still engage with Bellatrix and (formerly) Andromeda, but it was obvious she favored Narcissa. Maybe it was her obedience, perhaps willingness to the Black Legacy, or just the picture of everything the mother was denied. Walburga proudly produced male heirs any way she felt needed, but not without a twinge of longing in her eye when she inquires in Narcissa.

She used to be Narcissa’s favorite aunt, until the day the woman raised her arms to hug the girl goodbye, and Regulus flinched. Yes, she respects the legacy her aunt has built. Yes, she understands the cage that surrounds the woman as she looks at Orion with resentment that could kill. Yes, she pities Walburga’s denial of a daughter. 

No, she would not hesitate to jam her fork into the woman’s hand if she ever raised it at the boy next to her in front of her eyes. She asked Regulus about it once and he denied that Walburga ever set a hand on her children. But through many burning questions and the boy's inability to lie to his older cousin, Narcissa learned that she sits and watches as Orion does so. Narcissa does not believe she has ever been angrier in her life. 

Out of necessity, Narcissa answers Walburga’s usual questions of school, where she bought her gown, her new look from the salon, marriage. They go on until Orion enters the head of the table once again and Walburga goes icily silent. The man takes this as incentive to drone on about business and whatnot, longwinded discussions of finance that not even his associate seems interested in. Narcissa shares a look with Bellatrix at this, holding back a grin when her sister looks pointedly at her glinting knife. 

His monologue ends, and taking advantage of two seconds of silence—Sirius speaks up. “Where is uncle Alphard?”

Narcissa raises an eyebrow, it's always a gamble of whether the man will show up to a dinner like this, so it’s not too unusual that he has not tonight. Alphard is a good man, he always brings gifts from his travels that are exactly to his nieces and nephews tastes instead of the usual money thrown in their faces. He is a man, so although it is looked down on, he had the decision and chose not to marry. This is something both resented and admired by Narcissa.

Orion clears his throat. “How should I know? Focus on your meal, son.” 

Dismissal, then. Sirius never has taken a hint, never quite cared to. “Two weeks ago, he told me he’d be here tonight.”

Sirius is the man's obvious favorite of his nieces and nephews, their rebellious nature alike, so it is rather odd that he would fib to the boy. Drifting her eyes between the adults at the table, Narcissa is rather surprised at the shifting. She slows her chewing, returning her fork to the napkin. 

“It is not unusual for Alphard to decline an invitation. Sit straight and wipe the muck off of your mouth,” he says, tone increasing.

Sirius is anything but deterred. He’s clearly angered, slamming his fist on the table. “He wouldn’t lie to me. And he certainly wouldn’t go without responding to my letters, which has been the case for weeks.”

This is unlike the boy’s usual antics, a hint of pain laced into his raised voice. As much as Narcissa harbors aannoyance for the boy and his unprompted extravagance, she will not deny it hurts to hear. 

“That’s enough, Sirius,” his father warns.

“You know. I can see it in your shriveled fat faces, you know something,” Sirius’ voice cracks. Maybe puberty, perhaps a similar fear to the one that builds in Narcissa’s chest.

“Silence, Sirius,” Orion barks loudly, demanding and cruel. His movement shakes the table, an assertion of dominance over his frightened thirteen year old son.

She looks around to see an enraged Sirius, a very still Regulus, an intrigued grinning Bellatrix, Druella with her head down, the business associate finding his food very interesting, but Narcissa’s eyes stop on Walburga. The woman stares straight ahead with a fired glaze coating wide grey eyes, wrinkled mouth into a straight line. Her chest rises and falls, a prominent vein sticking out of her taut neck. It is obvious to anyone who was raised under glass walls.

Walburga is a ticking bomb.

And of course, it is her eldest son to set that off. After volleying back and forth a few times more, Sirius practically folding himself over the table as he growls, “Alphard is my uncle, and I need to know-,”

The boy is silenced by the loud scrape of a chair against marbled floor.

“He is no longer your uncle.”

All eyes turn to Walburga, her whispered voice deafening in the silence.

“What?” Sirius asks, young eyes wide.

“That man is not your uncle, a follower of God, nor my brother,” she says in the same hushed tone. It wracks Narcissa’s core like a warning to heed. Sends chills up her spine as if the steps of her voice crawl up feathered bones. 

“Walburga, do not,” Orion tries, but to no avail. 

“Alphard is a pervert.”

One could hear a pin drop. Or maybe something sharper, something like fallen weaponry after delivering its fatal strike.

And still, Walburga’s steps are silent as she exits the room.

Orions’s swallow nearly screams, adam’s apple bobbing in a display of distaste for whatever sank down. “Alphard has no place in this family any longer.”

“No. You’re lying,” Sirius grits. “You’re lying. He- he wouldn’t. He’s not- he’s not a…”

“Do not stick your nose where it does not belong, boy, that is final.”

The conversation around the table stiflingly continues, but it is only for manners sake. The screaming elephant in the room suffocates every bit of air that Walburga did not take with her. Narcissa feels every memory of her uncle shake inside of her stomach and rise to her throat, almost purging her picture of Alphard along with shaken breaths onto her plate. She turns to her mother as an unconscious comfort, unsurprised to find a blank stare refusing to look her way.

But then she looks at Sirius, and Sirius does not appear distraught. The boy looks down at the table as if solving an invisible maths problem on his dish. Narcissa always thought he resembled his father, but now he appears the spitting image of his igniting mother.

Holding thirteen years of an uncontrollable child-like anger that Walburga does not, the glass shards of Sirius’ plate end up on the wall behind his father. Collective gasps fall over the table, even ignoring Bellatrix clapping at the dramatics as they all turn to Sirius. 

“Alphard told you.”

Orion does not respond, treating his son as if a mere ghost. When the man tries to begin another conversation, Sirius erupts once again, this time throwing his glass at the same wall. “You son of a bitch!”

Orion stands and slams his fists on the table, the scales of his calm facade abruptly falling. “You are making a damn fool of yourself! Quiet your mouth about the man that is already gone,” he growls.

Sirius’ chest rises and falls, standing a head shorter than his father. Narcissa expects him to go off again, but he does not. Suddenly, the boy is larger than anyone else in this room. “Andromeda was right to leave. But at least her departure with a man only titled her a traitor and not a fucking pervert like it did for Alphard.”

And with that, his father drags him out of the room.

Narcissa excuses herself for the restroom, kneeling in front of the toilet bowl and watching her purged ache swirl away.

** ** **

“I feel horribly sick, mother. It must’ve been something I ate at dinner but I feel that I must lie down.”

Druella, who has been uncharacteristically quiet around her daughter once they’ve arrived back home predictably snaps out of it with the few words. If there is one thing the woman despises most in the entire world, it is physical illness. Most of Narcissa’s memories of her father were him tending to her when she was sick, even if his disdain was rather visible. They had nannies and maids here and there until Druella inevitably accused them of stealing valuables, soon kicking them out. Narcissa believed that they genuinely were robbers until Andromeda said differently. She always did get along best with the help. 

Sirius’ last words vertebrate through her skull.

Yes, Narcissa feels sick. But it is not due to the food in her gut.

Druella curls a lip. “Do what you must. And for what it is worth, I am not particularly happy about what happened at dinner tonight. You should not have found out about… that man in that way. But as you know, he and his sickness are better off gone."

Narcissa nods, rushing to her bedroom as quick as possible. Blinking rapidly to cure her eyes of their sting, she scurries up the steps to where her room lies on the second floor. One tear falls down her quivering cheek before she wipes it away, quickly collecting herself so it stays at only the one. Allowing herself to sit here and wallow will only crush herself under this shrinking roof.

She needs to be anywhere but inside Black walls. 

It’s a bit of a struggle to evacuate through her window, but copying the films and climbing down a tree proves to be rather useful. She knows the path well by now, carrying her heavy feet, tense shoulders, and memories of Alphard on her way to the one place she believed he’d be honoured to hold.

Narcissa ends up meeting Alice outside of the club before she goes inside, but not without missing her first. She always stays alert when walking while the night begins to blanket the sky. Taking her jewelry off, eyes assessing every corner, hand gripped tight to her bag. But apparently that alertness does not consider this girl a threat, as she practically jumps three feet in the air when Alice walks into a casual step with her. Part of the scare was likely on purpose, seeing as Alice is a cheeky little shit, evident in the clearly held back smirk. She’s dressed in black belted trousers with a red jumper-like top tucked inside, then of course her denim vest poking out from inside her brown bomber coat. She's always quite layered, like an animal harvesting for winter. Truly, London nights often feel like it.

”Christ, I didn’t expect you to fly away from me,” she chuckles, the noise dying down as she surveys Narcissa’s appearance. Her eyes drag from the elegant dress to her carefully crafted hair then back to her face again. Narcissa is expecting a cheeky remark about the poshness of her appearance, but only meets what looks like muted concern in the girl’s shifting eyes. “You look wound up. Even more than usual.” 

Narcissa only shrugs, ignoring the light quip. But then an accidental quivering inhale is an immediate dead giveaway. Alice takes only a second to process this before nodding toward the alley where Isolde first found Narcissa. “Quick fag before going inside?”

Suddenly grateful for Alice’s perception, Narcissa nods. A weight lifts off of her shoulders, which is seemingly a pattern with this girl. It’s addictive, and Narcissa chases her into the alley like a drug.

They stand this time, Narcissa staring at the wall while Alice retrieves the cigarettes. The wind has picked up in the last few minutes, causing Narcissa to realize that she really is quite underdressed for night time weather. Her shawl was forgotten on bedsheets after her quick moment of weakness, and now she pays the price. Deciding to simply ignore the cold, Narcissa crosses her arms around herself and looks over to see what is taking so long, only to find Alice pulling her arm out of the sleeve of her brown coat. 

Her first instinct is to protest, blinking down at the object with her lips just slightly agape with spilled objection. 

Alice’s eyebrows furrow, looking from the coat back to Narcissa as if looking for a reason why she wouldn’t accept. It's clearly well taken care of, no stain nor tear in sight. Satisfied, she pushes it forward again. “You’re cold.”

“Alice, I couldn’t. It’s yours, you need it.”

“Well some of us know how to layer properly. Cmon, I want you to take it. This is me asking you to take it, Narcissa,” she pushes, voice warm with an edge of sincerity like she genuinely means what she’s saying. Not pity, not because she feels she had to. Then she solidifies this with another look through long eyelashes. “Please.”

A few moments pass, and Narcissa nods. Instead of handing the coat to Narcissa, Alice moves closer to drape it over her goosebumped shoulders. Narcissa does not move the coat from where she placed it. It floods her senses with the warm scent of cinnamon and a light tobacco, something she didn’t even know she associated with Alice. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Alice smiles, taking out fags for the both of them. Mumbling a slight, "Never bloody dressed for the cold," as she does so. She hands one to Narcissa and tucks her own behind her ear as she grabs the lighter. But just like last time, Alice leans over to light Narcissa’s for her like a second nature. 

They smoke in a comfortable silence under a dimmed flickering light and the faint noise of the club behind where their backs lie on the wall. But that comfortable silence isn’t enough, not for Narcissa at least. Last time they were here Alice had called her a mystery, but she cannot help but notice that it is a two way street. Perhaps in the quiet, she can stealthily reach her hand over and plunge it into the girl's chest, coming out with the pages of her story. 

Instead, Narcissa settles for, “Your buttons.” She nods toward the denim waistcoat with patches sewn in and pins attached. Alice looks down at herself then back to Narcissa, clearly waiting for a continuation. Narcissa flounders a bit, but she doubts it’s noticeable. “Tell me about them.”

A fond smile forms on Alice’s face, and Narcissa knows it was the right thing to say in the moment. “This one right here,” she points to a purple pin with a cartoon like insect and the print bug me. “It was a gift from my little brother, Adrian. He’s ten now, but he got me one a few years back when he was around six, maybe. Told me he found it on the street on his way home from school. Anyway, it became a sort of tradition, sibling bonding and whatnot. Frank caught on too, most of the er-,” she chuckles. “Well the dyke ones are from him, not exactly something my kid brother would find.”

Narcissa smiles along with her, taking note of this new information and the stark difference in the pins, some long rusted and others shining new. It’s rather obvious to tell which ones would be from a young child and rambunctious teenager, which only makes her grin further. “Do they all have a story like the first?"

“Most of them, yes. It became kind of against the rules to simply buy them from a shop, although I know Frank cheats all the time. A few of them I found myself, like this one I found after…" She goes on to tell Narcissa a slightly long winded story about finding a pin after coming out to Frank in the park that they eventually were kicked out of. She tells the story fondly, Narcissa listening intently and adding her own input that Alice clearly enjoys. Narcissa would have listened to her explain every one, but Alice clears her through when she’s finished. “Anyway, it would take far too long to explain each one.”

It was like she read her mind, and although illogical, she can’t help but feel slightly disappointed. “Stories for another day,” Narcissa says, maybe even pleading quietly, darting her eyes between each pin and patch before back up to honeyed eyes.

“Stories for another day,” she agrees, nodding softly. “You have any siblings?”

Narcissa pauses, the memory of Sirius’ words burning a hole in her chest. She inhales too much smoke again, but this time contains it, the burn not too different from the ache of memory. Not only dinner, but the painted over figure on the family portrait that sits above the fireplace. On more occasions than one has Narcissa imagine tearing it down and feeding it to the flames. Paint does not erase memories, and neither does turning it to ember. “One.”

“One?” Alice repeats, looking over with inquisitive eyes.

Narcissa nods, taking one more drag before responding. Technicalities don't make family, but the lie still sits on her tongue, "I only have an older sister, Bellatrix.”

“Tell me about her,” Alice asks in the same tone of Narcissa’s earlier inquiry. 

Narcissa smiles around the object between her fingers, “Tell me more about Adrian.”

Alice rolls her eyes knowingly, but still unable to shake her smile as she feigns annoyance. She tells Narcissa all about her little brother, and in return, Narcissa tells her about only Bellatrix. Alice tells her that Adrian likes science, then Narcissa tells her about the lab Bellatrix blew up in their school. Alice tells her how Adrian and her would play with insects in the dirt, and Narcissa tells her how Bellatrix would threaten Narcissa with exactly that. She learns that the boy is the running science fair champion, utterly obsessed with volcanoes, and has a lisp that is hard on his s sounds. Alice learns the digestible things about Bellatrix, she leans into a gothic style, was married last winter, and accosted a film star in the market now with a standing restraining order. It's startlingly natural to volley back and forth with one another with information that Narcissa would not tell a friend after a year. Each of Alice's smiles are a coin slotted into a machine, spilling more of Narcissa's words through the end.

The longer she spends with the girl, it feels like filling in one of the gaps. As if opening a window, even only a crack can gift you a sunny breeze. But with the window agape, you can crawl your way inside the warmth. 

Narcissa didn’t realize how comfortable she was against the wall with her arms now looped into a warm coat and cigarette long put out until Alice checks her watch and notes that they’ve been out here for almost an hour. With a thrumming of excitement she agrees to go inside, heart picking up a beat at the thought of returning to that same table. It feels like how Emma acts around a holiday, anticipation brewing and waiting for the second she allows herself this gift.

But just as they begin walking toward the door, Alice stops her with a hand on her shoulder. Narcissa turns to the girl in surprise but the hand is gone a second later, reaching out quickly to pluck something from her gown.

Alice holds up the small shard of glass with furrowed eyebrows. “What’s this?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

Narcissa sighs, chill air curling the breath in front of her like leftover smoke held between lips. “Let’s go inside, Alice.”

She begins in motion, but Alice drops the shard of glass and stops her with the same hand on her arm. It’s more gentle this time, like a reassurance. The touch burns, and once Narcissa’s eyes flick down to it, Alice moves the hand to her own pocket. “Are you okay, Narcissa? You’re… You’re safe?”

Narcissa swallows, nodding surely. “I’m safe.” 

The lack of answer for the first question rings like an alarm between them. But it’s evident that Narcissa does not want to talk about it. She likes this about Alice, not that she watches miniscule expressions and tells like Narcissa does, but she feels when to let go. An intuition of sorts, spiritual maybe, sensing tears out of stone. “Okay. We’ll go inside then,” she nods, hesitant smile forming on her face. 

The bouncer glares at the two, reluctantly letting them in with an antagonistic wink from Alice that Narcissa can’t help but smile at. Just as they enter the doors with the tension long gone, she starts on again. “Now that I think about it, it makes a lot of sense that you’re the youngest child.”

“Does it now?”

“Mm, with your whole spoiled attitude and all- Hey!”

“You are ridiculous with these assumptions about me,” Narcissa scoffs after shoving Alice lightly in the shoulder. The shard of glass lies forgotten behind them, and so do the earlier events of the night. 

“Look who I found,” Alice announces in lieu greeting and pulling the attention of the group, simultaneously pulling out her and Narcissa’s chair. It’s what Sturgis did for her the first night, and while chivalrous, she can’t help but like it better when Alice does it. Most of the group seems to be here, sans Charity, who was usually quiet anyhow.

Isolde raises a curious eyebrow, nicking Hestia’s cigar and taking a quick drag. She looks quite nice, donned in a sparkled emerald dress and midnight hair that curls and swoops along her scalp all the way to her forehead. It's almost unreal, the kind to only imagine in a novel or gape at in a film. “What took you two so long?”

Alice nods to the object in the woman’s hands, settling herself in her own chair. “Quick fag, S’all.”

The woman nods, seemingly accepting the answer. But Gid however, “Posh girl smokes?” 

“Might’ve converted her,” Alice shrugs with a slight smirk at Narcissa who glares pointedly. 

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Dolores snorts, sipping both on Sturgis’ drink and toying with a hem on their checkered top. “Nice coat,” she nods at Narcissa.

Alice begins to speak in her defense, but Narcissa rebuttals before she gets the chance, arching an eyebrow at the woman’s neck. “Aren’t you a little old for blatantly displayed love bites?”

She can’t help but feel proud as laughter echoes the table. The rest of them say their hellos, a much more casual ordeal than the time before. As if Narcissa is less of a stranger in their home, almost as if it’s becoming hers too. Perhaps unconsciously, she slouches a bit back into her earned seat. Isolde winks at the girl, and Narcissa smiles in appreciation.

A few moments later, Fab and Hestia run off to dance, along with Isolde rising to get drinks (seemingly a pattern, along with the real jewels and extravagant clothing, Narcissa wonders of what she's made a career or if she comes from money), she goes around the table and asking what they’d like. Everyone orders what Alice brought the time before—the girl herself even requesting a vodka soda in which she seems happy that Isolde accepted, promising just the one. Once the woman turns to Narcissa, she blinks like a bloody deer in headlights, but Isolde only laughs and promises her the same as Alice. 

She returns with the drinks and places them in front of each person elegantly, sitting down and immediately beginning to bicker with Dolores about something that not even Narcissa who grew up with two older sisters can comprehend. Sturgis sends a pointed sigh and help me eyes to the younger ones of the table, the three snickering at both the gesture and the argument. 

“Careful there,” Narcissa remarks slyly as Alice reaches for her drink. 

Alice tilts her head in confusion, but when Gid barks a laugh at the comment, she gapes in betrayal. “That wasn’t my fault! How was I supposed to know you’d bloody teleport at the table after not showing up for weeks? Surprise of my damn life,” she huffs.

In the midst of laughing at the girl’s weak defense, she’s soon fed a taste of her own medicine as the deceptively translucent drink in front of her is much more bitter than expected. After a not-so-subtle cough into her elbow, Alice’s expression is the very epitome of mischief—but her hands up in defeat which only makes it worse. “Oh, hush.”

“Mm, wasn’t gonna say anything.”

“I’ve drank before.” Granted, it was either champagne (which does not taste how it looks, especially not in the films), or just a bit of wine (which is practically glorified cough syrup.) 

“Blacking out at ragers, blondie?” Alice grins around her minuscule black straw.

Narcissa rolls her eyes. “No. Not all of us can be delinquents like you.”

Barking a laugh, Alice checks her wristwatch and gasps dramatically. “Oh, that reminds me, I’m due for my sentence at the juvenile detention center next week.”

Narcissa’s first instinct is to laugh, but then again, she’s only met this girl thrice. After studying her expression intently, “You’re taking the piss,” she decides through squinted eyes. “Right?”

Alice shrugs cheekily, but Gid has no issue answering for her. “Ha! Worst thing Fortescue’s done is stay up past her bedtime getting her rocks off to a Jane Fonda film. Call me if you want a real crazy time,” she winks exaggeratedly, then pointedly grins smugly toward Alice. The two are friends but seem to have a sibling sort of dynamic. 

Pointedly ignoring the crude sentence, Narcissa raises a questioning brow toward the girl. “Fortescue?”

“Alice Fortescue,” she nods, clicking another piece into place.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Narcissa Black.”

“Well nice to meet you, Narcissa Black.” Alice smiles, tipping her drink foward and taking a sip without breaking eye contact. 

A throat clears from across the table, and Narcissa turns her head to see Sturgis leaning onto the table. “Hate to break up your little moment, but… Black? Jesus Christ, as in one of the wealthiest families in the entirety of Britain, Black? Fucking family of bigotry, exploitation, and incest?”

Stilling with her head down, Narcissa feels the table’s eyes singing holes into her scalp. She’s afraid they’ll burn through the matter of her brain, spilling each bigoted word she’s agreed with, every picture of compliance, her own future pertaining to the legacy. Narcissa is typically proud of where she comes from, she does take pride in being a Black. But at this very moment, she feels none of that righteousness at this table, no superiority for being raised in dripping diamond elegance. 

“Let it go,” she hears Alice speak firmly. 

Ignoring Alice's words, Isolde clears her throat, “Narcissa.” The girl lifts her head, heart beating and prepared to be told to leave the seat and never return again. It clenches like a fist in her chest, squeezing with anticipation of taking, ripping the one comfort she held. But Isolde softens her gaze, and the fist promptly lets go. “It does not matter where you come from, we know better than anyone else that you cannot help what you are born into. You’ve proven that you belong here, alright?”

You belong here.

Words that Narcissa would have thought a depraved insult mere months ago.

Words that now simmer warmly in her stomach like warm tea after an everlasting winter.

Narcissa nods, the dizziness of relief making her movement slightly erratic. Sturgis offers her both agreement and an apologetic smile.

Not even a second later, Fab comes barreling into the seat next to her sister. “Why does nobody know how to bloody dance? Not that Hestia cared, she found a bloody replica of Charity and took her up to the bathrooms. But no, it’s still ‘of course I don’t have feelings for her, she’s my best friend.’ Hell, I’d shag her just to stop her excuses, show her a damn good time too. Anyway, saw Kings on my way here to do a surprise set. Shit, well, not a surprise anymore. Eh, you’ll all be fine.”

Gid turns to her sister with amusement, “What the hell did you take?”

“Sexual deprivation,” Fab sighs, stealing and downing Gid’s drink.

The table goes back to a flowing conversation, but Narcissa catches Isolde’s eye again, mouthing the words thank you.Isolde smiles, and they both know the gratitude isn’t only for today.

Narcissa experiences the lights dimming for the third time, then being lulled under by a darkness that has never brought her so much light. 

Toward the end of her set and surprising them all, Kingsley announces one more song. But instead of starting it—she gracefully jumps off of the wooden stage, dragging her microphone with her. 

Heading straight for their table as a slow music begins.

It’s clearly part of her performance, visible as she half struts and half dances across the floor, snapping rhythmically on her way there. She tries to maintain a humble smirk as she walks, but a big toothy smile takes place right as she reaches the table.

She stops directly in front of Isolde, then lifts the microphone to her own mouth. “How are you tonight, Ms. Zabini?”

Isolde rolls her eyes intensely as it echoes the room, cheers and hollers coming from people all over the building, even their own table. “I’m alright. How are you, Mr. Lynx?”

Kingsley grins, leaning further down and onto the table next to Alice who turns to Narcissa and feigns a ridiculous display of swooning. “Oh I’m just fine tonight, sweetheart. But I’ve been here all week, and this is the first time I’m seeing you sitting on your rightful throne.”

Huffing incredulously, the microphone picks up the sound of Isolde tapping her long nails onto the table. “Some of us have lives outside of the club, Kingsley. I can’t be here every night.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a working lady,” Kingsley says, this time leaving the microphone sitting in between them as if there were no audience at all. “But you have to let a man know when you leave him for days to wonder where his light has gone.”

“Or you could learn patience.”

“Oh patience is my middle name, I’m waiting for you, aren’t I?”

Isolde is clearly a bit taken aback, her next response quieter. “I’m not asking you to.”

“And I’ll wait forever,” Kingsley practically whispers back, something that the microphone doesn't pick up and only the ones at their currently table hear. "But let me tell you, Ms. Zabini,” she speaks loudly, clearly alerting the woman that she’s back into a performance mode. Coincidentally, the music crescendos. “There ain’t no sunshine when you’re gone.”

Once again singing with her own voice rich as a dark chocolate, she makes her way back to the stage, but never taking her eyes off of Isolde.

“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone

It’s not warm when she’s away

Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone too long

Any time she goes away…”

It’s Narcissa’s favorite performance as of yet, but it might be a bias due to the fact that every time she looks at Isolde, the woman has a wet shine over her eyes. Even without, it is an incredibly moving song, lyrics along with Kingsley’s voice spilling an undying love and devotion into the microphone imprinted by two pairs of lips. It’s obvious that the performance isn’t for an audience, but each person is on the edge of their seat as if front row to a real life romance novel. The microphone moves from right hand to left, used from above and below, swung around at different parts of the song. Kingsley moves around the stage left to right, dances with fluid limbs reaching toward, body an art form of its own. And still, her eyes do not leave the woman of her passion’s muse. 

At the bridge of the song, Kingsley drops to her knees. The lyric, I know, must be repeated at least twenty times, and if Narcissa did not know better she would think the lyric were improvised from the way it wretches from Kingsley’s mouth. If words were physical, they would tumble down the stage and dance their way to and inside of Isolde’s open lips. 

The display is beautiful, it is passionate, and it is raw. It is something to be grieved when the music ends and Kingsley exits the wooden stage and brings her microphone back down to the tables, but something to be stored as an everlasting memory. 

When Kingsley reaches Isolde, she sets the microphone onto the table and cups the woman’s jaw—lifting it to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. 

After a few lingering seconds, Kingsley picks up her microphone once again. “And while we wait for our Isolde to come back to us, let us say hello to her royal court.” She turns to Hestia first, who Narcissa didn’t even know returned to the table. “Ms. Hestia, how are you tonight?”

“Refreshed,” she responds to the microphone in front of her cheeky smirk.

Kingsley laughs, catching the meaning like lightning. “You do have that glow about you. Where’s Charity, then? Still recovering?”

“Home,” Hestia responds, grinding her sharp jaw.

“Ooh, trouble in waiting paradise folks,” Kingsley hisses, turning to the couple to her right. “Dolores and Sturgis, our resident lock and key, how are you two fairing?

“Perversely,” Dolores sighs, just as Sturgis responds, “Ready to go home.”

“Same answer, really,” she winks, turning to the feminine twin. “Ms. Fab, how about you, darling?”

“Charging my seventh drink to your tab if you don’t get that microphone out of my face,” she slurs, her mouth missing the straw multiple times. 

“Alright then,” Kingsley snorts, turning to the latter twin, but this time pausing with a hesitant sigh. “…Gid, how are you on this fine evening?”

“Well, Kingsley,” Gid grabs the microphone instead of it being handed to her. “I’m a little disheartened that you’d leave me shaking in the bathrooms after such a passionate affair to sing your love for anoth-,”

“Never happened!” Kingsley interrupts quickly, snatching the microphone back. “Moving on. Let's say hello to our resident mini dyke. How’s puberty, sorry, I mean, how's your night going, Ally?”

“Oh, just awful,” Alice drawls with a glare, “I don’t care if you marry my mum,” she gestures toward Isolde, speaking in an overly dramatic accent, “you’ll never be my real daddy.”

Laughter echoes the room, and a vindicated Alice sits back into her seat. “Cheeky shit,” Kingsley manages in between breathless laughter. But then, turns to Narcissa.  "And who’s this? Do we have a fresh member of the house of Zabini? What’s your name, doll?”

She’d be lying if she said her stomach didn’t flip at the name. “Narcissa," she tries not to answer too hesitantly. Habit and whatnot.

“Ah, Narcissa, bit of an odd one that,” Kingsley comments not unkindly, and Narcissa only shrugs.“Is this your first time being here tonight?”

It’s nerve wracking speaking to someone she saw as an almost celebrity figure the previous nights before, but her tongue is just a bit loosened from the empty glass in front of her. “Something like that.” 

“Ooh, mysterious,” Kingsley winks, and Alice throws her hands up in a ‘thats what I said’ motion. “Well are you having a good time, Narcissa?”

Unlike the rest, she cannot form a cheeky comment, salacious saying, make the crowd or Kingsley laugh. The only thing that comes to her mind is the truth. “It’s been wonderful."

“Cheers to that, kid,” Kingsley grins, displaying both rows of white teeth. Then turning to the rest of the crowd, she gestures toward the girl beside her. “Everybody give a warm welcome to our new face Narcissa!”

The small audience in the room cheers, and Narcissa does not think the rows of her teeth have ever dared to spread a smile so wide. 

Maybe five years or so ago, Narcissa and Emma had discussed family gatherings. Emma had laughed, recalling the chaos of her own. Narcissa had agreed wholeheartedly, opening up to her friend about how she often wished she could duck under a cover and away from it all. Emma had then looked at her in confusion. No, she meant a good chaos, one to be embraced in its madness. What a confusing statement it had been at the time, she had never known there to be a good chaos, only shouted words coated in venom, silence weaponized as punishment, a grueling blend of both steering children to operate in mechanical fear.

Narcissa understands now, this chaos is loud, not in its destruction, but in its color. This chaos is wild, not in its enticing fear, but in its lack of shame. This chaos is fun, even as childish as the word sounds. Narcissa never experienced being a child in a home of chaos to be embraced.

But this loud color, this wild lack of shame, and this fun, it embraces Narcissa in between warm, inviting arms. A secure hold, as if she were to unravel, everything truly would be alright. There is nowhere Narcissa wishes to hide under this roof. Nowhere to duck cover in fear of a storm, and if there were to be trickles of rain, she would not fear a simple nature born to bloom.

For a long time now, Narcissa can no longer differentiate a burning guilt from her own heartbeat. And just like a heartbeat, she has lived with this since the day she was born, an automatic pulse fighting its way through stagnant blood. 

What a horrible thing it is to keep your heart moving, guilt. 

What a wonderful thing it is to be alive at all. 

Perhaps one day the movements of her heart will unlearn this tiring dance of shame. For now, it is the easiest it has ever been to move to a music so proud. When the blood finally rushes to her fingertips, it is not to cover her face being seen in such light, but to snap along to the beat.

Chapter Text

The club was rather slow today. A steady breath, calm heartbeat, whispering music and barren tables.

After a cheeky comment about Narcissa’s current coat, (Alice’s again, which she only wore because she simply forgot to give it back and will absolutely do so at the end of the night) and being refused drinks by Rosmerta because they didn’t have an adult with them (seeing as most of their bloody table is missing tonight), they ended up with Alice gesturing toward the back door. Then directly after sitting down (Narcissa again on Alice’s handkerchief), Alice did not reach into her pocket. Instead, she turned to Narcissa with a contemplative look on her face, sighed, and asked, “Are you hungry?”

Narcissa had smiled at the dramatics, “Are you hungry, Alice?”

As if on cue, Alice’s stomach grumbled. After a moment of laughter with their heads back against the brick wall, Alice had stood, moved a hand out for Narcissa, and said she knew a place. 

With a blink and trust that had been decided just as quickly, Narcissa now follows as they walk side by side on the pavement. 

The street is only a bit busy compared to other nights, tonight filled with the similar lot of people that Narcissa saw her first time walking to the club. Other late nights when she voyages back home it is much later, and toward a direction of a much more… regal area. Narcissa tries not to engage in running thoughts of being above these people, of their filthiness or laziness or inferiority. A part of her knows by now that it is not necessarily true, well, perhaps it is for some of them, which is why she cannot help but steering away from particular people they pass and hoping that Alice cannot see. Or perhaps it wouldnt even cross her mind even with the vision right in front of her, her perception of Narcissa simply would not paint a picture so wrong in color. Because if every one of the people who frequented this city were inferior, that would also include the people inside the club. Narcissa's own mind must be distorted seeing as she would not hesitate to spit on anyone who spoke someone at her table any word of degradation. 

Just when they pass a lively club that is likely not at all similar to the Honey Drop, a group of women stop to stare and sneer at especially Alice, Alice who doesn’t even notice due to explaining why their friends aren’t at the club tonight. Narcissa is half listening, perhaps less than, but she is currently distracted with trying to eliminate the staring women with her eyes. They inevitably pass and Narcissa listens more intently, but not without an eye for judgmental hags who can’t mind their own bloody business. It takes a minute of Alice ranting for Narcissa’s anger to die down, burdened with the knowledge that those women are still alive and that if Alice were in another neighborhood, it would be her mother, her father, her aunts, her uncles, her cousins, or even her sisters. Perhaps even Narcissa only a month ago, the chill air haunted by the ghost of summer’s past, a heavy guilt creeping up her spine.

“You alright?” Alice asks, unable to notice the women sneering at her but picking up a minuscule crack in Narcissa’s stone expression.

“I’m fine,” Narcissa reassures, smiling convincingly if Alice’s nod is anything to go by. “So was Hestia at the event with Charity or her new woman?”

“Oh! Right, so after Isolde sat down with Charity and explained that platonically hooking up with Hestia can only happen one too many times before the waters begin to get murky…”

“Just up here,” Alice nods toward a rather ominous building. It has windows that are quite tinted, only the glint of certain lights and tables visible. It’s a lone stone building, dead plants hanging around a sign that creaks loudly in the wind and only reading, Granny’s. 

“Are you sure it is open so late?” Narcissa asks, slowing her footsteps as they make their way up the two small stairs. 

Alice shrugs, “I think it started off as a diner—maybe even an American one—but people really only ordered their breakfast foods so it socially converted to a café.” Looking back and grinning at Narcissa’s skeptical expression, she holds the jingling door open and nods inside. “Just trust me, blondie?”

“If I get poisoned, I’m telling Isolde,” she warns as she walks inside, having to duck a bit under the door and finding amusement in the fact that Alice has no problem with it, “Who do you think showed me the place?”

Alice leads her to a table in the left corner of the room, the only one with two brown leather booths. They slip into their separate seating, going through the menus placed on the side of the smooth white table. Narcissa immediately decides on the salad, but is hesitant when Alice winces and informs her that it’s practically only soggy ripped lettuce. Alice recommends their pork sandwiches, the ones that look rather… extravagant pictured on the menu. They also come with a side of chips, which Alice spends at least a minute waxing lyrical about. Narcissa ends up giving in, allowing herself to order such junk food for tonight. However, she stops at the milkshake she recommends, which earns her a much offended Alice, with just a bit of curiosity shining in wide eyes. Narcissa only shrugs, there’s nothing wrong with being slightly health conscious. Her mother’s voice rings in her head, ‘Cheat meals are only an excuse for failure.’

The waitress is kind, a plump older woman who takes their orders quickly (Alice asks for their food in a certain way that Narcissa doesn’t catch out of pure unfamiliarity, some special, is what she called it) and brings them out in a similar time frame. It’s faster than Narcissa expected, although there are only a select few other customers in the establishment. 

“So you visit here often?” Narcissa asks, sipping her water while they wait for the food to cool down. It is a horribly uninspired way to begin a conversation, but Alice doesn’t seem to mind.

“Not really, no. Isolde’s taken me once and I went with Gid and Fab maybe two other times,” she shrugs, fiddling with the straw of her dessert.

“Oh,” Narcissa says, a bit confused. “You just seem quite comfortable here.”

Alice smiles, nodding and setting down her glass. “My uncle Florean runs a shop like this one. Well, it’s a bakery, but I practically grew up in a place like this.”

Humming, Narcissa can’t resist a smile at unlocking this new piece of information. “What is it called?”

“Well thanks to the flowing creativity coming from my mum's parents," she huffs, leaning in closer as if Narcissa is about to be let in on a grand secret. “Fortescue’s,” she taps the table lightly, leaning back once again.

Narcissa laughs so brightly that her nose burns in threat of water leaking out. “So you help out there?”

“Mhm, it’s inherited from my grandmother, so it’s a bit of tradition at this point, passing the torch and whatnot. My mum stopped helping when she became a children's teacher, so it's usually just me and my uncle. I’ve worked there since I was twelve-ish, but it’s still a business and pays nicely.”

“It sounds lovely. Feel free to brush this off, but you have your mother’s maiden name?” Narcissa asks, tilting her head in confusion. Obviously she knows that instances like that exist, but she’d never met anyone who lived it. Let alone dined with them. 

“Mmhm. In technical terms, I am a bastard.”

“That’s not funny,” Narcissa deadpans, rolling her eyes. Just as Alice grins around a chip, she lowers her volume, “You don’t have to tell me anything more if you don’t feel comfortable.” 

She shrugs as if it truly is no big deal, but eats another chip or two while collecting her thoughts. “My mum and dad were young when they had me. Daft too, they kept me because they thought a baby could help their relationship, saw it as a sort of marriage I suppose. They saw me as some vow. It never really worked, most of my childhood I remember them always bickering. Then years later they had Adrian when it started to get bad again. He was a difficult baby, different, which my dad wanted no part of. A few years after he was born, the bloke up and split.”

“I’m sorry,” Narcissa says genuinely. It invokes a similar anger to the girls on the street, a large part of her immediately igniting with the urge of wanting this faceless man dead and lying in a ditch. 

“It’s fine, really,” she nods. “Adrian took it the hardest, but I always knew the bloke was a piece of shit leeching off my family's hard work.”

“Still,” Narcissa scrunches her eyebrows. “He was your father.” 

Truthfully, Narcissa has never genuinely known her father, the man always on a trip or holed up in his office. He makes time for Druella, but Narcissa has always been split on if they have ever truly been in a true love aside from push and pull infatuation and solid duty. Her memories of her father consist of the rare sick day, dinners with his gruff voice spewing angry politics, or family events where he’s typically seen in a pissing contest with Orion. Still, she holds a love in her heart for Cygnus, even if neither party could voice the other’s favorite color. Even if her fork slips and clatters on the plate when his voice suddenly raises during a meal. Even if she has seen her mother fill a glass to its rim after one conversation, only Narcissa left to pick up her pieces. 

Her love for her father feels like a whisper along the edges, an ink she dipped her fingers in at birth that stuck to sharp nails. But it is still there, traces of her genetics in everything she digs her claws into, painting it in a rich Black. Maybe Andromeda’s lips were dipped, spewing through her angry cruelties. And perhaps Bella’s heart, doused in a chaotic villainy. But in Narcissa’s mind, she only knows to call it love. Callous, caged, contested love. 

“When he wanted to be, which was rare. I’m happy with my mum and brother, and my uncle is like a father to me. We're happy. The shop is good business and bonds us all together, we’re really better off without him. Especially my mum now that she realizes she never needed him in the first place.”

Forming a slight smile, Narcissa nods, somewhat understanding. It’s a foreign concept, especially when her mother believes a woman’s life should revolve around a man. Eating right, dressing right, and behaving right all for him—all so he keeps you. “So, you have a good relationship with her?" she asks, finally dipping into her chips while Alice is already consuming her sandwich. “Does she know…?”

“Know that I’m a bull dyke?” Alice laughs hesitantly, drumming her fingers lightly on the table. “She… she knows. She assumed it was a phase at first, that I wanted to relate to boys because I liked them.”

“King Arthur,” Narcissa nods, the worry of too much salt on her chips slowly dissipating.

“You remembered,” Alice grins, immediately lulled out of her hesitancy. “Yeah. Yeah, King Arthur. I had a sword and everything, y'know? Indulged by my uncle of course, the bloke has always been a mad history buff. It scared the hell out of Adrian, so of course I chased him with it.”

“Sounds like Bellatrix.”

“Older sister thing probably,” she grins, but Narcissi cannot picture the girl half as cruel as either of her sisters. “Anyway, she accepted it eventually. But now she and my grandma blame it on my dad leaving, some psychological thing instead of what I was simply born with or who I am.”

“Oh,” Narcissa sneers curtly. Unfortunately and despite her running thoughts, she cannot insult Alice’s mother by calling her utterly incompetent and should likely count her stars for ending up with such an intelligent, open-minded daughter. “That… that’s awful.”

“It’s a whole lot better than other people have it,” Alice shrugs. “She’s met Isolde too, they get along well, especially while taking the piss out of me. She doesn’t exactly know where I ride the bus at night, assumes it’s some queer thing, which y’know, she’s not completely wrong. The only problem is that she asks me when I’ll take Adrian along, who has been begging to go.”

Narcissa laughs at this, imagining an energetic boy with his sister’s big brown eyes running around the club. “He seems like a sweet kid.” 

“He’d like you, y'know?“ Alice grins, leaning her elbow on the table and placing her chin on her fist—Narcissa resists the urge to cringe at the table manners, but also finds it somewhat endearing. “You’re a good listener, and believe me, that kid can talk an ear off.”

“Wonder where he got that from,” she smirks slyly. Then yelps in offense when Alice steals one of her chips in retaliation, despite having a whole serving still. When their dramatics die down, Narcissa does not want to leave her first comment unresponded. “I think we’d get along well one day,” she smiles shyly, internally cursing herself for her own wording. 

Alice doesn’t pick up on it at all, even responding with, “Maybe I can meet Bellatrix too.” It’s direct, a rather intense thing to say for someone you’re just beginning to know. She often doesn’t seem to realize this, but stutters embarrassedly the times she does. Narcissa can’t help but prefer the former, wanting a fountain filled with Alice’s pouring unfiltered thoughts.

Narcissa, however, is pointedly silent, promptly contradicting her own thoughts. Alice notices immediately, her expression falling a bit as Narcissa clears her throat. “They… none of my family… know.”

“I’d assumed,” Alice nods sincerely. “Just because I told you my life story doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, genuinely grateful. Shes silent for a bit longer than Alice was while collecting her thoughts. “Sturgis was right. About who my family is. If I’m being completely honest, I never quite thought that it was dirty money. Or that my family was hurting with their views, their social, financial, and political power. I knew, but I didn’t know. I never thought to think twice, to even care. They were just my family, and I wanted to make them proud. I still do, I really do. But I’m learning that they’re… they’re not good people. It’s probably selfish to realize it when I know it affects me,” she chuckles darkly, food turning to tar in her stomach.

Alice waits until she meets her eyes again to speak, her face doesn’t hold a hint of judgement. “You’re still a teenager, Narcissa, despite the way you carry yourself. I think we’re allowed a bit of selfishness, or foolishness, or naïvety when learning our place in the world. When realizing who we want to be after who we were told.”

“I don’t know what after looks like for me,” she swallows, shaking her head. “I’m not… I’m not a good person, Alice. They're who I am. I don't know if I have in me to break from that or if I even care to.” 

After sitting in silence for at least a minute, Narcissa worries that she’s just ruined everything for herself. Alice doesn’t break eye contact, twirling her straw around a nearly empty glass before she says, “I don’t believe everything so black and white, Narcissa.”

“Then what do you believe if not simplicity?” Narcissa huffs. “If not what I’m telling you clear as day?” If not my warnings to heed, if not my tarred hand pointing toward the door before sinking deeper and deeper and deeper.

Alice shrugs, returning her head to her fist, squishing her cheek on ringed knuckles. Then as if she were speaking of the weather instead of coating their table in spewed reverence, simple as the decision to love or leave or kill, she says, “I believe in you.”

Narcissa’s breath comes out shaking, the words like cotton pressed to bleeding ears. The very last thing she wants is to absorb Alice’s kindness until it is ruined. So after a hefty pause she points to a pin, one that she’s been wondering about for a while. It reads Chivalry isn’t dead, she’s a butch. Without needing words, Alice smiles and begins her story. 

Still the words consume her every waking thought. She's never known anyone to store such faith in an empty strength. 

When they finish their food, Alice heads to the restroom quickly. When she comes back, Narcissa is already standing in front of the bills on the table. It is only when they’re already out the door does the girl realize, stopping in her tracks. “Wait, you paid?” She gasps at Narcissa’s smirk. “You sneaky bastard!”

“I thought that was you?” Narcissa jokes hesitantly, earning a barked laugh and proud grin. She shrugs, “It’s what friends do… We’re friends, right?”

This is foreign territory. Narcissa loathes to say that she’s popular (what a bloody cliche), but she certainly is known… and loved… and has a large social following. Narcissa sets ‘trends’ without meaning to, wearing a random updo then having ten people come up to her and ask how she crafted it. She has people drooling in her trail without even knowing their name, following her like a lost puppy dog. She absolutely dreads school dances because of the amount of boys asking her, despises Valentine’s Day because of the amounts of delusional letters and chocolates she receives. Narcissa enjoys her very select few friends at school obviously aside from Emma, but it is a small cirvle that she holds onto that just about every girl in school wants to be a part of. It’s.. it’s flattering, but also quite annoying. Detestable, if she’s honest. If her last name were not attached, she highly doubts anyone would desire her aloof nature, cold words, and tendency to turn social interactions just a bit awkward. 

What she has absolutely never had to do, is ask someone if she is their friend.

“Oh,” Alice scrunches her eyebrows with a confused expression that has Narcissa’s heart dropping completely. “So we’re not sworn enemies? Well, Christ, I’m glad I’m finding out now because I was preparing to bring my sword to our next duel-,”

Honestly, she would have rather Alice said no instead of her ridiculous antics. She rolls her eyes and shoves the girl, chuckling at her offended yelp. “You are so incredibly stupid, I take it back, actually. Forget I said anything at all."

Alice’s laughter echoes through the emptying street, bouncing off of a dusty streetlight, the uneven gravel of the road, the few stares they get for being loud, and each and every star lit in the sky. When it dies down, and they again walk in tandem with their pinkies occasionally brushing, Alice only grins, maybe even wider than Narcissa has ever seen. It feels as if she has a firm grip on the window, sun shining in between the cracks of Alice’s teeth. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re friends.”

That same night right after parting, Narcissa calls out to Alice that she forgot her coat. And just like Narcissa did the very first night, Alice pretends she didn’t hear her. Narcissa rolls her eyes, but can’t resist an upper twitch of her lips at her friend’s clear ploy.

** ** **

“Y’know, the last number was the first song I ever heard Kingsley play,” Alice says as they walk down the stairs from the loo, Narcissa having a famously weak bladder that Alice has now picked up on and of course teased her for. “Jesus, almost three years ago and those first few notes changed my life.”

“I think I can relate to that,” Narcissa adds, remembering the first time she ever heard Kingsley perform, then sing. It is another piece of the club embalmed in her memory, she still finds it utterly mad that she can hold it. That she can enter the doors of these club and strut inside without anyone blinking an eye, that she can sit and watch Kingsley’s performance and allow the flips in her stomach, that she can walk beside the friend she’s made, the one that she trusts. Even wearing Alice’s coat now as they weave through the club feels surreal. She’s always thought it cliche when people titled things like a dream, but Narcissa truly does not ever want to wake up. “Gid would have gone absolutely feral tonight, where is she anyway?”

“Work, I think. It’s horribly stereotypical, but she works construction,” Alice snorts. “Think she’s waiting for the day another muscled dyke comes on board for a picket fence ending.”

It’s quite busy tonight, bodies packed in the building. Isolde went on tonight about another club in the area closing down due to what they're calling alcohol violations, but apparently goes much deeper. Consequently, those patrons are now here. Even if this club were more populated than the bloody castle, there would have been no reason to practically body slam Alice and begin to walk off without an apology. Narcissa backs up only a step to slam her heel into their shoe, redirecting Alice with a hand on her arm when she looks back at the pained screech. Alice jiggles at the stubborn door handle, pulling it open for Narcissa who takes the hand off of the girl to step outside. 

She pauses with a gaped mouth, Alice promptly slams right into her back. “Ow, fuck! What the hell, Narciss… Oh. Well, speaking of the devil.”

There, right against the wall opposite to where the two usually sit, are Isolde and Kingsley.

Kingsley's back almost covering Isolde completely, one large arm risen into her hair.

It’s a bit of an odd sight, seeing both your almost-authoritative-figure and almost-celebrity-figure in such a promiscuous position. On the other hand, Narcissa would be a filthy liar if she were to say that Alice’s coat did not become much, much warmer. They're a bit further down, so she can't exactly see what it is that they're doing, but the contextual clues are not entirely difficult. There’s a flaming instinct to curl up her face in disgust, to point and scream how wrong the display is, how the two women have bought their ticket straight to eternal damnation. If her mother were here, she would yank Narcissa by the scruff of her neck like a child who wasn’t allowed to touch a stray puppy on the street. Not to catch the queer disease, not to give into this sick perversion like Alphard did.

For a split second, she thinks this might have become reality as she is pulled back into the warm room. But when she swallows harshly with her back to the door and takes in the girl in front of her, a wave of serenity washes over and she can breathe once again. Once the oxygen has returned to her brain, she can take in Alice’s expression. She’s looking back toward the door and over Narcissa’s shoulder with a slight furrowed brow and teeth gnawing on her bottom lip (something Narcissa has the persistent urge to stop). But when her eyes flick back up to Narcissa, she melts a bit with a hand through her hair and huffing laugh. Then a snickering begins, seemingly genuine, and considering the gravity of the situation, Narcissa laughs too. 

Once again, Alice leads her out of the club and into the street. 

However, this time Alice brings her in front of a forest for whatever reason. The sight lurches at Narcissa’s stomach, it's rather unlike the forest by the lake Bellatrix left her at. This one does not look so inviting. Honestly, it appears straight out of a horror film that her eldest sister would wake the house watching at ungodly hours. Mostly because Andromeda could never quite stomach the gore, to deprive their mother of her beauty sleep, and because she finds the vein that bulges in their screaming father’s forehead hilarious. Narcissa only finds this a bit funny. However, standing in front of a haunting forest that she’s sure has been a hunting ground for many serial killers, it is not so humorous.

 “Er…” Narcissa blinks, stopping her steps right before a dirt path.

“If I promise not to murder you, will you walk this trail with me? It’s quite peaceful, really, there’s no one ever here this time of night.”

“Probably because their necks were victim to a violent chainsaw.”

Rolling her eyes, Alice places a hand on her hip as if Narcissa is the ridiculous one for not wanting her face to be plastered on a documentary film. “I walk around here all the time, promise. If anything will kill you, it’ll be those posh heels you insist on wearing, probably called some ridiculous brand name.”

Narcissa scoffs, vehemently offended. “Excuse me, François Villon is a very respected brand. Wonderfully high quality and French at that.”

“Oh I’m sure,” Alice raises her eyebrows mockingly, smile plastered on her face as she begins to walk backward into the forest.

Before Narcissa even realizes, she’s following the girl in with storming footsteps. “You’re mocking me. Do not mock me. You would know if you were interested in anything other than chuck taylors and work boots. It is a formal brand with historical context, not just mindless fashion, although top notch in style…”

It actually is quite a beautiful forest on the inside, despite its deceptive entrance. Alice was right, her feet are suffering quite immensely from the walk, but she’s rather used to it after blistering her feet since the age of twelve. It is also easier with Alice’s soft voice ranting a story instead of her mother’s sneering insults. The chirping of birds frame the girl’s words, making her story somewhat like a song. Like in a Disney cartoon film, the forest bending to Alice’s will. “…Anyway, so long story short, a librarian gave the pin to me as consolation for not having the book I wanted. Well, she maybe just wanted me out of there now that I think about it.”

“So you’re a fan of reading?” Narcissa asks and Alice nods enthusiastically. “What book did they not have?”

Alice’s face lights up, clearly excited to speak on this topic. “It’s called the Outsiders, an American story about a group of misfits, gang rivals and whatnot. Frank was the one who told me about it but didn’t want to lend me his because I doggy ear the pages,“ she winces as Narcissa cringes. “I know, bad habit. Anyway, it’s sort of new, so they just looked at me like I was mad.”

“Did you end up finding it?”

“Yeah, Frank caved and christ I’m glad that he did. It’s a truly wonderful novel, I was devastated to give it back. Basically, there’s this kid ponyboy and his brothers-,”

“Sorry, Ponyboy?”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Alice grins, although there is simply no justification for such a vile name, nickname, whoever would do such a thing to a poor person. “Ponyboy, yes, and his brothers Darry and Sodapop-,”

“Sodapop?”

Alice laughs again, goes onto explain the contents of the book. She’s very wary of spoilers (which Narcissa would appreciate if she were ever to read this book which is highly unlikely), so her explanation is very vague and Narcissa is left quite confused by the end of it. Surely it is about a sort of abuse, not only from the violence descripted, but by by the fact someone would name their child Two-bit. She would like emotional compensation through everyone having made fun of her own name to read this book immediately. 

“So this outsiders is your favorite then?” Narcissa asks once her summary has ended, eyes following a stick that Alice throws into the distance.

“Mm, definitely one of them,” she shrugs casually as if her voice has not been laced with such passion and adoration for the novel. “It’s hard to choose just one, but for nostalgia’s sake I think I’d have to go with The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe. God, I was obsessed. I forced my grandmother to learn how to make Turkish Delights, then called her the White Witch when she finally gave me them.”

Losing all tact whatsoever, she looks down to Alice’s arm. “Is she not…?” 

Instead of answering, Alice only turns to her with a face of pure shock. “You’ve never read the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe?" It’s as if Narcissa had just admitted to committing a bloody war crime with her tone.

“I’ve heard of it of course, but I was never allowed. The magic aspect of it is forbidden in religious circles, one should only believe in the lord as a higher power,” she half-mocks, but a shoulder-tensing guilt swirling her mind as she does so. She’s never been sure if she believed in the church’s teachings, but she’s not sure if she’s ever believed in anything at all. Blind faith has never been an attribute of hers and the concept of God has no structure aside from feeding off of fear. But the hard floors of their high society's church have nails to fall back on. Whispers echoing the walls like a name forbidden. 

“Oh,” Alice scrunches her eyebrows, assessing Narcissa’s expression. Her darting eyes are obvious about it, but she’s never truly one to hide. Narcissa admires this about her, but also harbors the urge to scold the girl. A method of protection, but now she just sounds like her mother. “That’s quite sad.”

Narcissa shrugs, softening her expression to reassure the girl. “I prefer poetry anyhow.”

Alice lights up at this, she always does when Narcissa shares something personal. All she has to do is ask and Narcissa would drain everything she has, really. “Who’s your favorite poet?

Pondering for a moment, Narcissa looks at the trees while searching her own brain. “You were right when you said it’s difficult to choose.”

“Yeah but you’re so organized. I’m surprised you don’t have a color coded list,” Alice snorts, picking off a dead leaf to toy with. The crunching noise is quite satisfying.

“For many things, yes, but not poetry,” Narcissa says, eyes following a squirrel running past them, rather cartoonish with an acorn between its teeth. "I’ve tried, but matters of the heart are frustratingly interchangeable.”

Alice hums, nose scrunching along with her smile. It’s first directed toward Narcissa, but ends up also following the same squirrel up a tall tree. “Choose just three then?”

Sucking her teeth, Narcissa takes a few moments to ponder. The path shifts from dirt to rock again in their trail, lanterns again coming into view. “Emily Dickinson, an American author who wrote beautifully. She was rumored to be… to be like us. Belong at the club.”

“Yeah?” Alice smirks slightly at her shyness involving the subject.

“Yes,” Narcissa drawls, promptly moving on in her list. “Then another American author, African American too, his name was Langston Hughes. He passed a few years back, my sister was the one to tell me. She was actually the one who showed me most of my favorite poets now.”

“Bellatrix?”

Her mind reels for just a second, catching up with such a simple mistake. Really, she should have at least some shields around this girl. For safety. “Oh, mm. Bellatrix. For the third, I would have to choose Emily Brontë. I do have a favorite poem, one by her.”

There might have been a snap in Alice’s neck from the speed in which she turned her neck. “The author of wuthering heights?”

“Yes, actually,” Narcissa can’t help the surprise in her tone, “you’ve read it?”

“Course I have,” Alice grins. “It truly is a beautiful novel but I cried for days after. I made Frank read it a week later and he was a worse crybaby than me.”

Narcissa didn’t cry per say, not big on the emotion, but it did leave that sort of empty feeling that comes with the end of a great novel. “Heathcliff’s mental decline and death was quite tragic, yes.”

“Not just his death, but their love story,” she groans, apparently far from over this. Narcissa shrugs, and Alice once again looks at her in terror. “You don’t think it’s tragic?

“I think it’s life.” Tragic as the day ends, perhaps. A simple cycle. You're born, you endure, and then you die. Of course there are happy moments in between, but those will end eventually. Some are lucky enough to love, but the story still ends. Catherine was a lucky one to love, so what if she were the one to end that story?

“Life?” Alice scoffs, “Catherine threw away their love for money.”

“I wouldn’t call it throwing away,” Narcissa argues, “it was simply a better opportunity. And not only for money, but for nobility also. Those things matter.”

“Those things are exactly that, things, superficial. They can’t bring the happiness that Catherine and Heathcliff had.”

“They would have been beggars.”

“They would have been together,” Alice strains, looking toward Narcissa as if seeing her under a new light. “You really believe that social class is worth more than love?”

Narcissa fiddles with the hem of her dress. The weight of Alice’s gaze strains on her argument, but she is nothing if not stubborn. “I believe in logic. I do think Catherine was cruel in going about it the way she did, but at the end of the day it was a realistic resolution.”

Alice hums, her eyes now planted ahead of them. She kicks lightly at a rock in their path, but Narcissa's shin aches as if her foot was pummeled into it. Wishful thinking maybe, she’d take wrath if it meant an end to this silence. But this is Alice, so it does not take violence for her to be kind. “Isolde has married for money, y'know? Six filthy rich husbands and counting.

“Six?” Narcissa gasps, shocked out of her stupor. She knew that Isolde had been married to a man before, especially through snide comments from Dolores. “I- How does that even work?

“I’m not sure on the details, for a long time I thought she er, widowed them,” Alice tries to communicate with her eyes but is only met with a frown. “By her own volition.”

A second later it registers, and Narcissa turns to her with a paled expression. “She wouldn’t, right?”

“Hey, I would understand if she did,“ Alice chuckles lightly, lifting her hands in defense. “But no, I don’t think so. She’s calculated and quite brilliant so I’m sure she could get away with it, but she’s far too gentle to actually do something so violent.”

Both squinting at the girl and running her brains a mile a minute trying to calculate this, Narcissa only comes out with, “so, how…?” 

“Like I said, she’s calculated, sometimes scarily so. She chooses the men carefully, the ones with a past. A past she can exploit.”

“Blackmail?” She asks, moving from horrified confusion to quite intrigued. It’s not a morally correct thing to do, but Narcissa has never been too fussed with morality. 

“I think so. It’s a whole legal situation, and her brother is a brilliant lawyer who helps her,” her expression lights slightly when Narcissa clearly perks up at this, but darkens again further into her explanation. “It takes years for each case, but you’ve seen how she pays for all of our drinks. Still, she has to play house with them for a bit, something that her lovers aren’t very fond of. No, that’s too simple, actually. They fucking hate it, if I’m honest. It’s why she’s never kept a relationship, like you’ve probably heard.”

“Then what about Kingsley?”

“I… don’t know,” Alice laughs, it’s an almost bitter sound that she’s never heard from the girl before. “Kingsley isdifferent. She knows about it, but she thinks she’ll be the one to change Isolde. I respect Kingsley, I do. But I think it’s foolish.”

“Foolish how?” Perhaps it’s because she’s formed an attachment to the two, especially having witnessed their relationship form in these past weeks, but she thinks if there’s a fighting chance then Kingsley should go down screaming. They both deserve each other’s love, especially in this world where it is so difficult to find. Isolde already has money, doesn’t she? But now she has Kingsley.

Alice shrugs, wincing at the ground. “Isolde is like an older sister to me, I’ve known her for almost three years now. This is her craft, something she chose young and is dedicated to. She’s given up countless women, countless love for it. I think it’s wonderful to see their relationship, and I truly do hope they make it, but I can’t help but feel there’s a ticking clock attached."

“Oh… that's,” Narcissa blinks. 

“Tragic?” Alice offers a hesitant smile, and Narcissa finally realizes. It’s not often that someone can best her in this way, unheard of for her to admit to such a thing.

“Yes. Yes, it is tragic.”

Alice does not brag that she was right, only locks their pinkies for the slightest second before squeezing quickly and letting go. “Sorry, you said you had a favorite poem? Do you know it by heart?”

Narcissa is lucky that it is only a mind and not body flashback, otherwise she’d have fallen to her knees in the dirt buckled with both consuming love and hatred, a phantom page clutched between gripping fingers. That day forward, Narcissa knew every word as if the ink truly seeped into the back of her hand. “"I'm happiest when most away - I can bear my soul from its home of clay - On a windy night when the moon is bright And the eye can wander through worlds of light - When I am not and none beside - Nor earth nor sea nor cloudless sky - But only spirit wandering wide - Through infinite immensity.""

“It’s beautiful.”

She knew Alice’s eyes were on her, but somehow it is still a shock when she meets the intense, but gentle gaze. Like a deer gazing up at a wolf, headlights being the crescent moon they walk under. It is not fear that coats the glaze in her eyes, but trust. Giving the wolf something so freely, a shining meal to tear apart. A glass to take between claws, a toy to tear, a cycle to end. It’s placed into Narcissa's hand so carefully, as if the wolf is what’s breakable. Right in the center of her palm lies companionship. She does sink her teeth into it, not to ravage, but to hold. Narcissa feels her own eyes burning, but along with an upwards twitch of her lips. “Yes. Yes, it is beautiful.”

Before giving herself the second to think better of it, Narcissa interlocks their pinkies as they walk down the trail. In true Alice Fortescue fashion, she swings their arms just slightly as she tells the absolutely riveting tale that is the inflating summer prices of baked goods at her uncle's shop.

** ** **

Sneaking out has become quite the pattern.  

Not only Fridays, but Wednesdays have been creeping in also, just like tonight. The action of sneaking out is not as hard as she thought it would be, even with Emma’s own cautionary tales of leaving the house late at night to see her boyfriend. Especially with her father gone, her mother hopped up on three glasses of wine and mystery sleeping pills, and Bellatrix spending more time at the Lestrange manor than usual (likely to erase all suspicion of her own late nights.)

When Narcissa would stumble upon the club of a volition entirely out of her own control and desire, that would mean wearing the outfit she was already in. But when this is a decision of her own, something she cannot blame on fate or anything other than her own chosen sin, it’s exactly that, a choice. She chooses when she goes (always after her mother goes to sleep), how often she goes, and what she wears. The past few times she only went in her day outfit, well, including Alice’s coat. In her defense, she truly does bring it with the intention of returning it, but Alice always shrugs it off, or simply puts it back onto Narcissa and grumbles about her continuous lack of warm clothing. 

Narcissa is a very neat person, so while the scene of her sitting inside of her closet is not terribly dramatic as everything is still in its rightful place, she imagines a metaphorical array of clothes strewn across the floor. Only five minutes before, she had stripped herself of her day's clothes. It was not a courageous decision of self-identity, but merely because the material of her top was itchy. After that came off, so did everything else. But perhaps that was a bit brave in its impulsivity. 

Now she sits in her bathrobe, bottom to the heels of her slippered-feet, almost in a praying position as she looks up at the rows of clothing on hangers. After far too many minutes wasting time in contemplation, Narcissa decided to simply go on instinct. Rising from her position, she’s first drawn to a top she bought not too long ago shopping along with Bellatrix. Her sister can be perceptive when she wants to be, so when she saw Narcissa’s eye on it, it was forcefully shoved into her hands. 

It is a buttoned down top, but with certain details to femininize the style. The collar puffs out just slightly, a lace along the edges that her mother would call childish, then the lower-cut accentuating her collarbones whore-ish. Luckily, Druella is now practicing death in her empty bedroom and not behind her in this mirror. It’s designed to hug the waist and flow down her hips, something that she’s always appreciated on her long figure. The top is quite beautiful, really, so Narcissa takes it off of the hanger. 

Next is her bottoms, which she has just about a closet full of skirts. She supposes if she were opting for a slight change, she could go for trousers, which she only has one pair of. And that is only because they were in what Andromeda left behind, part of the selection thrown at Narcissa after Bellatrix happily took her pick. She shakes the thought out of her head and coincidently, her gaze ends up in a packed away school-trunk. It is where her many uniforms sit, and, well, also a rather cropped black skirt that Emma bought for her 17th birthday. ‘Cmon, this is our last year before we’re proper adults! Our last chance to be rebelliously slutty!’

As she picks it out of the trunk (along with a pair of warm black tights, because she doesn’t want to be cold, and slutty isn’t exactly her thing), she can’t help but smile. It does feel rebellious, but not in the way Emma intended, it feels… freeing. 

As she constructs her outfit, she can’t help but feel like something is missing, something barren as she looks in the mirror. Before she knows it, Narcissa is looking down to the other trunk hidden in her closet. Excusing her actions with simply needing something borrowed to complete her outfit, she reaches into the bin in the cob-webbed corner of her closet mentally labeled CAUTION. She hurries, knowing if she stays too long she will end up on her knees and in the trunk, frantically rifling through as if she’ll find the reason why she’s forgetting the sound of her sister's voice.

Narcissa ends up with a simple waistcoat, black and matching the skirt. Somehow, it ties everything together perfectly. Andromeda always was fond of fashion over regality, something that drove their mother up the wall. It’s not exactly the vibrant outfit Bellatrix had her in, but it’s… it’s her. A mix of her mother’s elegance, Bellatrix’s darkness, and Andromeda’s maturity. Aren’t we all a blend of everything we’ve loved most deeply, painted in wounds of what cuts harshest? It’s a pretty color, even if her outfit is a mere black and white. 

Standing in front of the mirror once again, Narcissa can’t help but see her mothers frown. Standing in front of her own mirror, a growing beast inside of her can’t help but want to see that frown turn into a sneer. Smiling slightly, Narcissa unravels her hair from its tight bun. It’s a bit messy (something unnoticeable to the untrained eye), but in a contained sort of way. It surges an energy inside of her, yanking her drawer open and coming out with a black ribbon, and tying it into a bow into the back of her hair. 

And for the final heavy hitter, Narcissa paints red onto her stretched lips. Wires click inside of her brain, like two wild sparks finally connecting. 

Narcissa feels good.

Not only satisfied, not her mother’s smile-crinkled eyes as a shadow.

She feels like herself, for herself. 

Feminine, but in a way that feeds the beast.

It feels silly, childish, ridiculous even, but Narcissa can’t resist a nonsensical twirl as she struts down an empty sidewalk. 

When Narcissa takes her seat at the table, Alice is not there. Her presence does not surprise anyone, everyone present and saying their hello’s. There’s an empty seat that her eyes snag on, and of course Isolde catches this, quickly informing her that Alice went up to the loo. The conversation flows and Narcissa follows it intently, more about the cases of clubs shutting down and queer spaces in London. The club isn’t as busy as last time, but it’s still full of people dancing and talking and drinking. She smiles when Kingsley stops by quickly to say hello and drops a quick kiss on the cheek to Isolde. A sadness echoes her chest when she remembers her conversation last week, but it’s still beautiful to see so openly. Speaking of Alice, the conversation starts up once again and the girl is still missing after ten minutes.

“Are you sure she’s still in the loo?” Narcissa turns to Isolde.

Shrugging while sipping her drink, Isolde answers, “Probably a long line.”

Gid snorts loudly, performatively, and as heads turn to her, she nods to the bar. “Yeah, if long lines are what we’re calling Wilson’s chest nowadays.”

Narcissa follows the direction, quickly spotting Alice. Her stomach gives a happy flip at the sight, well, that is until she processes the sight in front of her. She assumes this Wilson is the one leaning on the bar, speaking to Alice. They would appear to only be speaking if not this other girl shamelessly making eyes at Alice. Her friend doesn’t quite seem to notice, or just simply isn’t reciprocating, but she’s still smiling and nodding.

Others at the table seem to think differently, Fab joining in on her sister's antics. “Huh, looks like Fortescue’s finally building up to popping her cherry.” 

“They’re only talking,” Hestia rolls her eyes with an amused grin.

“Please,” Dolores snorts. “The kid can’t even focus on her face.”

This Wilson is quite… shapely. Especially in such a low cut top and what she assumes is further shapewear, accentuating the figure that is the very opposite of Narcissa’s. She knows it’s her mothers voice calling the girl a whore for wearing such a thing, but, well. Thoughts tend to get away from you don’t they?

“She’s a kid,” Sturgis argues. “You know how much worse I was at her age? Practically tripping over every bird in my view.”

“And Fortescue doesn’t?” Gid intercepts, despite being much closer to Alice’s age than Sturgis’. “You saw her have a damn aneurysm when posh girl showed up.”

“Speaking of,” Charity steps in, and unfortunately, the whole bloody table turns to Narcissa. “You’re alright with this? I thought you two were…”

Narcissa however, does not take her eyes off of the scene at the bar. Even when she answers in a drawled, “We’re friends.”

The table hums, mostly because Narcissa wasn’t lying at all. They are friends. Alice is Narcissa’s friend. Emphasis on Narcissa’s, not Wilson’s. 

Everyone is still silent, the air thick as they all watch the scene like a car crash. But when Wilson laughs and places her hand on Alice’s arm, the sound of Isolde (who has been quiet during this exchange) sucking her teeth is quite audible. “Narcissa?”

“Hm?”

“Aren’t you two due for your little fag session around this time?” 

“Mm. Mhm.”

Not at all, actually. That’s typically much later. Alas, Narcissa rises from her seat. 

Stopping right behind Alice, the girl only looks back to follow Wilson’s gaze as she abruptly stops their conversation. But Narcissa isn’t looking at Wilson, and now, neither is Alice. “Oh hey, blondie,” she grins, wider than the polite smile already plastered onto her face. She takes hold of Narcissa's arm to lead her forward and beside her, Wilson’s arm promptly sliding off of hers with the action. 

“Hello, Alice,” she smiles gently, only slightly disappointed when her wrist is let go of. Even more upset when Alice turns to Wilson.

“Oh! Right, er- Narcissa, this is Claudia. Claudia, this is Narcissa,” she gestures a bit awkwardly, because that’s Alice. It would be endearing, if not Narcissa putting the pieces together. Claudia Wilson. This Claudia dresses peculiarly, not exactly pertaining to ‘butch’ or ‘femme.’ She wears heavy men's trousers with a tight women's top, thick dark hair to her shoulders, a striped tie that’s likely her father’s, and a men's bowler hat to top it off. It's certainly unique, and Narcissa would rather die than admit that it looks rather cool. Even the thought sends goosebumps up her arms.

“Nice to meet you,” Claudia smiles, teeth white and genuine as if she truly is happy to meet Narcissa. She holds out her hand, which Narcissa has just enough dignity to shake firmly with the response, “Likewise.”

“Right,” Alice smiles slightly, scratching her nose. She looks to Narcissa in slight question, which she absolutely does not like. But only a nod toward the back door and Alice’s eyes light up in recognition and a smile. “Ah. Well, Claudia and I were just catching up.” 

She has to fight arching a surprised eyebrow at this, but the last piece clicks. This is the same girl from the first night when Alice was leading her to the loo. Ah, well. She wasn’t quite nice that night was she? Granted, a glare is practically nothing in her book, but it is still rude. Not that Narcissa would care if Alice weren’t here, but Claudia seems to be just right and bloody chipper anyhow. She would think perhaps the girl hadn’t recognized her, but well, Narcissa is very recognizable. “We went to primary school together, actually,” Claudia laughs, glancing at Alice because this is apparently their inside thing. “I thought I was going mad when I saw Alice at a table. But I guess it’s just what people say, small world, am I right?”

“Small world,” Narcissa agrees, teeth laced in plastic. Alice shifts from foot to foot, clearly not knowing how to navigate this small world with both Claudia and Narcissa. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Claudia.” As if they hadn’t spoken two sentences.

“Yes, you too, Narcissa,” Claudia responds. Narcissa respects that she recognizes the dismissal. Realizes her loss and Narcissa’s win. “See you later, Alice?”

“Of course,” Alice responds, but Narcissa is already walking ahead, not even needing to look to know that Alice trails behind her.

Neither of them speak until they’re in their usual position, Alice returning the lighter to her pocket after lighting both Narcissa’s and her own. Intrigued eyes flit down Narcissa’s figure, coming up again with a twitching smile. “You look nice.”

“Thank you,” Narcissa responds with a slight head tilt. 

Alice catches onto her confusion, laughing reassuringly. “It’s just a bit different.”

“What, less posh?” 

“No,” she snorts, grinning around another drag of her cigarette. “Not at all, actually. It just seems more… you. You look comfortable, s’all. I like the bow.”

Narcissa can’t help but smile at the words, her stomach flipping excitedly. “I do too.”

Brown eyes haven’t left Narcissa’s hair since locking in the bow, now sliding up and down the icy strands from where they lie to her chest. “Can I touch it?” Alice blinks as if she spoke before thinking, but then meets her eyes with sincerity. “Your hair?”

“If you want,” Narcissa shrugs, then looking toward the object in the girl’s hand pointedly, “just don’t light it on fire.” 

“I dunno, I think you’d make bald work,” Alice laughs, then throwing away her freshly lit cigarette like it’s nothing. She brings her fingers to Narcissa’s hair, carefully running them through the strands as if breakable. “It’s soft,” she whispers, seemingly entranced. “Very shiny. Is it real?”

“My hair?” Narcissa arches a brow as Alice twirls it lightly around her finger. The only other people who have touched her hair are her mother and sisters, but never with such gentleness. “Yes, my hair is real.”

“No, the color,” she corrects, squinting under the street light. “Were you born with the blonde?”

“…Yes.”

Alice smiles, tugging lightly on the strands she’s collected. “Are you lying to me, Narcissa?”

“Might be,” Narcissa bites at her cheek, caught. 

“And pray tell,” she raises her eyebrows, twisting a few strands into some cocked up attempt at a braid. “Did you think you’d get away with that one because I’m a women's fashion clueless butch?”

“…Perhaps.” She really just wanted to test the girl, but Alice is rather clever.

After gasping in mock offense, Alice falls into a fit of laughter. “Technically you’re right, you probably would’ve,” she leans closer with a grin, “if I didn’t know you by now.” 

The words feed that same beast with everything she didn’t know needed, forming an almost animalistic smile on Narcissa’s face. Alice would never say this to Claudia, because Claudia isn’t Alice’s friend. Narcissa sits on Alice’s handkerchief, her cigarette in hand, her words seeping into skin. Unable to form a response that would not be baring the shadows of her soul, Narcissa simply playfully blows smoke in Alice’s direction. In retaliation, Alice steals the cigarette for the one that she lacks, giggling when Narcissa yelps in offense. There’s a slight red stain on the tip now tucked between Alice’s lips. “What’s the natural color?”

“Hm?”

“Your hair. What was it originally?”

“Ah,” Narcissa huffs with a slight smile, promptly stealing her cigarette back from a compliant Alice. “Ironically, most everyone in my father's family was born with black hair, including me and my sisters.”

As if a candle caught in the blowing wind around their two bodies, Alice’s expression flickers out. Narcissa blinks, watching in tense silence as Alice pulls out another cigarette from her carton, lighting it with a palm covering her expression. When she removes it, her lips twitch down. Three more agonizing puffs of smoke curling into the air until Narcissa realizes her fatal mistake. Alice tilts her head, scrunching her face a bit around a frown. “Sisters?”

Heart plummeting to her stomach, Narcissa stutters around her words for what might be the first time in her entire life. Typically caught in a situation like this, she’d either come up with an expert lie, or even more usually would simply be silent. She has never tripped over a tongue she prides herself on, not until it feels like life or death over a simple slip. Alice’s expression only further furrows, close to the one when Narcissa first explained her opinion on Wuthering Heights. As if seeing something new, the Narcissa that’s reserved for everyone but Alice. 

Both girls turn their heads when a car door slams and voluminous laughter collects at the end of the alleyway. Narcissa’s eyes narrow when she finds the source, Alice sighing in displeasure. They both know what’s coming next.

“Fuckin’ dykes!” One of the boys in the group screams, very original. They laugh like a pack of hyenas as if it were comedy at its peak.

A short one slaps another on the chest, pointing right toward Narcissa. “Other one's a lost cause but I might be able to turn the girly one back around,” he shrieks, thrusting in the air while the other ones laugh and moan theatrically.

“Fuck off!” Alice yells, throwing a small rock right in their direction, just missing one of them.

Unfortunately this only spurs them further. “Aw, it thinks it’s a big boy!” Another laughs, then once again gesturing toward Narcissa. “You really want that thing and not a real man? Bet you’d have a better time with a real- Fuck! My fucking eye!” 

Well, that one didn’t miss. However, this makes them angry. Being closer to the end, Narcissa immediately covers Alice when they begin to lunge toward. The bouncer gets there first, pushing one of them back, pointing and shouting for them to leave or have the police be called. From what Narcissa has heard from Isolde, the boys would likely win that battle, but they’re naïve enough to heed the threat, stalking back with their tails between their legs. The bouncer nods to both Alice and Narcissa, then walking out of view and back to his original post. 

“Imbeciles.”

“Yeah,” Alice huffs.

“No, truly they’re idiots,” Narcissa can’t help a sharp smirk. “They went into the shop and left their car,” she nods to the pizza shop. Alice grins, processing exactly what she’s saying. “Come on, quick.”

They both put out their cigarettes and walk to the end of the alleyway, however, she stops Alice with a hand on her chest. “What’s that for?” She nods to the rock gripped in a fist.

Alice looks down at her own hand, Narcissa’s hand on her chest, then back up with furrowed eyebrows. “I thought we were keying it? But uh, limited resources.”

“No,” Narcissa laughs. She brings another hand to the girl’s chest, palm over a quickening heartbeat. Quickly unclasping one of the newer looking pins, she looks back up to Alice’s parted lips. “I’ll be careful,” she promises with the pin in her hand. 

“What are you…? Doesn’t matter, but you’re horribly wrong if you think I’m not going with you.”

Rolling her eyes, Narcissa nods and they walk over to the baby blue chevrolet, the vehicle in prime condition for another thirty seconds. Alice barks a surprised laugh when Narcissa crouches down and sticks the pin in the tire. Once, smiling back up at Alice. Then about three more times, just to be sure. Alice crouches down with her and holds out a palm, then sticks the tire about five more times. It wasn’t necessary, but certainly a vindictive release. 

But well, collecting food doesn’t take too long, does it? “Oh shit,” Alice says, pulling both herself and Narcissa up when the boys spot them and begin to shout. 

Luckily neither the alleyway nor club are too far, and Narcissa is apparently quite good at running in heels. Both are laughing once they’ve made it inside the club again, only a few near heads turning at their loud entrance. Narcissa stands against the wall smiling with Alice still giggling in front of her, huffing another few breaths of exertion. They both look as the lights dim and the radio music quiets as a softer tune begins to play, a building saxophone playing and an indication of Kingsley’s coming performance. 

Alice’s laughter calms down to a flickering smile, barely easing Narcissa’s earlier worry as it straightens out. The moment clouds over them once again, Narcissa slip whispering in the space between them. “Alice, I…”

Swallowing, Alice nods, the silence holding for only a moment longer. “I meant what I said at the diner, you don’t have to tell me anything until you’re ready. Just…” she bites at her cheek, looking up at Narcissa with almost pleading eyes. Being the reason, shame immediately fills Narcissa’s chest. “When we’re not teasing, please don’t lie to me. If I ask something that you don’t want to answer, just say that and I’ll back off. We’re friends, right?” Narcissa nods quite fiercely. “So I trust you, Narcissa, I really do. I understand you have your reasons, but I’m only asking you to try, okay?”

Lyrics echo the room, not Kingsley’s personal voice, but just as rich.

Said I don't understand it baby

It's so strange sometimes

Ain't it peculiar, darling?

“Okay,” Narcissa nods. 

“Yeah?” That famous smile begins to creep back in.

“Yes.” Anything.

“Thank you,” Alice exhales, promptly clipping her pin back in and nodding toward the middle of the room. “See if they saved our seats?” 

Two empty seats greet them when they return, along with a content smile from Isolde.

Chapter Text

“God, okay, we have so much to catch up on,” Emma says, taking her double scooped mint ice cream cone from the employee at the stand and slurping at the already melting side. It is quite sunny outside, but that is predictable seeing as it is currently the middle of the day. 

Narcissa snorts inelegantly at her best friend’s shamelessness, thanking the worker when she hands Narcissa her single scoop in a small cup and placing three quid on the shelf, one in the jar which earns a smile. Her father would disapprove of the action, but he won’t be back for another two weeks. Emma, however, has returned this morning and immediately accosted Narcissa’s place of residence. Druella greeted the girl happily, calling Narcissa down who accepted a fierce embrace. While not meeting often, Narcissa’s parents have grown to like Emma after all of these years, even if her family not placed in their high society nor church. 

They find a secluded small table to sit at, both on opposite sides of the old wooden chairs, a large fountain directly next to them surely filled with rusted coins and swimming diseases. After one wary look, Emma rolled her eyes and sat in the chair closest to the offending water. After another dragging lick of her cone and one long sigh, Emma begins, “Edgar broke up with me.”

“Oh,” Narcissa grimaces, quickly fixing her expression in an attempt to appear apologetic. Though mostly a strong disgust blended with muted anger fills her chest for such an action from the homely boy. “I’m sorry.”

“It's fine,” her lips twitch upward at the response, kicking her playfully under the table. “I know you didn’t like him.”

Narcissa dips her spoon into her treat, taking a bite while collecting her words carefully. “He was less than what your standards should have been. Inadequate, to put it shortly. But, you liked him and so for that, I truly am sorry.” 

It shouldn’t be unexpected that Emma laughs at this, but Narcissa would have expected her to be more upset seeing as they were together for a while for teenage standards. “Inadequate and a tiny-dicked bitch.” she snorts, causing Narcissa’s eyebrows to fly up and laugh in surprise. Emma shrugs, still grinning proudly. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m not, I’m just angry, really. I was going to break up with him but the bloke beat me to it and now I’m the breakee."

“When did he even find the time?” Narcissa asks, eyebrows furrowed as she contemplates the situation and digs further into her cup. 

“Oh get this,“ Emma chuckles darkly, “it was in a fucking letter.”

Mouth agape, Narcissa nearly does not believe it from the sheer absurdity. “You’re taking the piss.”

“Nope,” she pops her lips. “I was going to have the human decency to wait until I got back, but he sends a fucking letter to Milan telling me that he’s leaving me for Kathy Santoni.”

“Kathleen? As in the leader of the school choir?” Her open mouth quickly forms into a closed lipped sneer, eyebrows furrowed in disgust. “The one who looks almost exactly like…”

“His sister?” she confirms and Narcissa nearly gags. “Yup. And that’s not even the worst of it…”

“Anyway,” Emma sighs deeply after spewing many things probably best not said in public, but she’s never been too worried about stares, something that Narcissa has always admired about her. “Enough about my dumpster fire of a love life. How have you been fairing here without me?”

“Fine,” Narcissa shrugs, purposely vague, but that has never been out of her character. However, Emma has known her since they were eleven years old.

“Fine?" She arches an eyebrow, biting at her sugared cone. “How’s Aurora? Surely you’ve seen her?”

“Only once,” Narcissa says, the slight memory of visiting their closest friend aside from each other at the very beginning of summer. She’s a sharp girl with odd interests, nobody would have expected her to fit into their little group but the three of them have worked well for years now when Aurora isn't off with others or simply alone as she often likes to be. “She’s going through the situation with her father, remember?” 

Emma nods, sympathetic through her own experience. She folds an arm onto the table, peering at Narcissa with squinted eyes, but not from the sun above them. “So what have you been doing all these weeks then?”

“Summer studies, reading mostly, school and personal, then of course church,” she shrugs for what feels like the millionth time. Building cars pass as they sit in a slightly tense silence.

Tapping her clumsily painted nails onto the table, Emma sucks her teeth. “You hate church.”

The words spark a wire in her brain, defense immediately sitting on her tongue. It tastes like shame, spits like vitriol. “I don’t hate church,” she snaps. “I worship just like everyone else.” 

She feels guilty for getting snippy, but it feels like a statement that needed to be corrected immediately. Even in her own brain, she can barely be truthful with herself without the fear of consequences. As if Emma or if her parents suddenly appear inside of her head, Narcissa fills her own brain with any biblical verse that she can recall. They flood her brain like stepping onto the Ark, a way to save herself from damnation or wrath or her mother’s disapproval. Heart beat increasing, Narcissa takes another bite of her dessert. 

“Right,” Emma raises both eyebrows, pointing at Narcissa with her half-demolished cone. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” she denies quickly, too quickly.

“Is this a family thing? Your mum seemed a bit strung up, even more than usual. How has everything been without…?”

The name sits between them as if another presence at the table. 

Ice cream suddenly turning to tar on her swollen tongue, Narcissa pushes her cup aside. Emma follows the motion with her eyes and swallows guiltily. She’s never ashamed at her lack of tact, which only makes Narcissa feel worse. Emma was there for Narcissa when everything went down last summer, one singular day after Andromeda’s graduation and five months after her eighteenth birthday. Holding the stiff girl in her arms, she murmured how it was okay to cry, along with music and films and even reading poetry in attempts to get her to speak. Narcissa did neither, not for a month after. Her mother even considered taking her to a shrink, shot down by her father who suggested the priest instead. Narcissa spoke that night, rasped her rusted voice only to deny the suggestion, along with pretending that nothing had ever happened. In some ways it felt that it didn’t, even if it also felt as if the furniture was on the ceiling or the sky always looked just slightly purple or a gaping hole burned through the middle of her chest. 

“It’s normal now, isn’t it?” Narcissa shrugs once again, but it feels convincing enough, Emma’s content nod confirming this. “Druella is on edge because my father is returning soon. You know how they are.”

Emma nods again, cringing slightly as she always does when Narcissa addresses her parents by their first names. “Alphard get me anything new?” she grins cheekily. Alphard always bought Emma and Rita a gift along with Narcissa and Bellatrix’s, because that’s the kind of man he was. It’s hard to think of him in present tense even if the man is alive, but does that truly matter if Narcissa will never see him again? Sending the change of mood again, Emma winces. “Fuck, that was the wrong thing to say again, wasn’t it?”

“Alphard is gone,” Narcissa swallows. "He’s left.”

“What? Why?”

Emma’s eyebrows only furrow further as Narcissa contemplates how to proceed. Never in their nearing seven years of friendship have they breached this subject, only because it simply never came up. It’s a complete shot in the dark, feeding her naked hand to a foreign rippling water. She could leave it completely, shrug and profess that nobody knew why. Except they do. “Alphard isn’t welcome in the family any longer." She pauses, leaving the anticipation of an explanation going stale in the hard air. But she wants to breathe, she needs this weight off of her chest. "Alphard… He never married, but Sirius said that he had a lover.”

“How could he have a mistress if he wasn’t married? Isn’t that just a girlfriend?”

“He never married, Emma. There was a reason for that. It wasn’t a mistress, there never was. Not for him. He'd never want her, he'd always want… somebody else." 

Moments later, the realization sets in and Emma pales. “Oh shit.”

Narcissa hums. Such a small, common comment somehow wraps her every thought into the two words. Oh shit, indeed.

“Oh shit,” Emma repeats, jaw dropping. “So they kicked him out? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Emma’s jaw slowly rises back to its original face, but her eyebrows furrowing and eyes holding a fraction of the sadness Narcissa frantically shooed away that night. After a few moments of a silence that has Narcissa’s heart beating as if trying to claw up her throat and out of her sealed lips, Emma speaks slowly. “That can’t be… right.”

“The Black family is not exactly known for their morals,” Narcissa spits bitterly.

Emma is visibly surprised at the comment, and so is Narcissa herself for allowing herself to speak without thinking. She digs a sharp nail into her arm under the table as a self inflicted punishment. Emma once again speaks slowly, carefully, picking apart this new subject as if gently stripping the packaging to glassware. “What about you?” What about your morals, goes unspoken, but they both hear it like a banned novel dropped onto a dusty wooden table, the particles ripping the pages open to its most forbidden page. The rest flies into her lungs as she gets a sense of Deja vu, but dust is lighter than tobacco and the subject heavier than simple infatuation. Still they stand equally tipped on a judicial scale. "Do you think it’s right?” 

Narcissa doesn't hold the power of a judge. But thinking of every single face that welcomed her with open arms and gentle smiles in the club, of the betrayal it would be to deny their right to exist even under a falsity, she is helpless to do anything other than shake her head. 

Emma smiles sadly. “Me neither.”

Narcissa exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding, a relieved smile helpless but to flutter onto her face. But she shouldn’t be surprised, really. 

This is Emma Vanity, the girl who threatened people into signing her petition for a girl’s football team, who stood in front of a traditional school board and made her case that managed into their ears as reasonable. And that wasn’t a random spout of wild courage, Emma has never truly cared to stand inside of the binaries, even less so when she’s ordered to. Narcissa hadn’t even stepped foot in Hogwarts for the first time before Emma had declared them best friends, simply stating it as they sat in a restricted empty compartment. The memory washes over her almost involuntarily.

At eleven years old, Narcissa entered the train to Hogwarts holding tightly onto both of her big sister’s hands. She wasn’t much smaller than the both of them, but her chest felt as if shrinking into itself. The stability helped her steps ease, less like walking onto a foreign planet without gravity.

But Bellatrix was the first to drop her hand, an intentional action planned from the start. The minute they stepped onto the Hogwarts train, Bellatrix practically threw Narcissa’s hand to the air, wiped the sweat produced from the nervous girl onto her tense shoulder and shrieked, laughing all the way to her compartment with Rita. It still stung a bit that her hand was so easily disposable, though not uncommon for Bellatrix. But Andromeda didn’t have a best friend, she was never too good at interacting with the girls around her. She even had her dorm switched after a fight, or so Narcissa heard from her angered father for receiving the embarrassing letter. Narcissa held on tighter in assumed safety. Suddenly a boy’s voice boomed from a further compartment, yelling something that Narcissa didn’t quite catch other than her sister’s name.

Andromeda had laughed lightly, rolling her eyes and muttering something like ’boys’ under her breath. She was already thirteen, so Narcissa figured it made sense that she knew about those things. Then the boy yelled again, but Narcissa was listening this time, alert. “Brought the little one with you, I see. Aw, does she needs her big sister to lead her?” 

“Oh hush, Matthew,” Andromeda shouted, but an amused smile still on her features. Narcissa frowned when her sister’s hand loosened. 

“Just come over here!” Matthew shouted. “If she’s smart like you, she can find her way around.”

Rolling her eyes playfully, Andromeda looked down to Narcissa with an apologetic smile. “Annoying, aren’t they?” she asked. Narcissa nodded, but without the smile that seemed stuck on Andromeda’s features. Annoyance never made Narcissa smile, it only made her angry. This was utterly confusing, because Andromeda was always angry, seething in silence ever since they were small children. Why not this time when she explicitly had stated so? Her hand loosened further, and Narcissa's stomach dropped. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Andromeda dropped her hand completely, and unlike her word, never came back. Narcissa stood in the middle of the train, staring at the floor frozen in place as people shoved around her, cursing and muttering at her obstruction. She didn’t know how long it was with the patterned carpet burning into her eyes until a quite loud throat-clearing boomed in front of her, surprised when Narcissa lifted her head to find it came from such a small body practically swallowed by her head of loose curls. Instead of cursing or asking her to move, the girl only asked, “Why are you just standing here? Trains are for sitting. I’d know, I’ve been on three already.”

Narcissa only scowled at the girl, shifting from foot to foot. 

The girl hummed, pursing her lips as she surveyed Narcissa’s appearance. “Are you one of those people who can’t speak? I have an uncle like that on my dads side. But he got into an accident, were you in an accident?”

“No,” Narcissa sneered on instinct, but truly just puzzled.

“Great!” she smiled. “Since you can talk, do you happen to know which section the first years go in? I asked the man up front but I was too distracted by his missing teeth to know what he was saying.”

Narcissa only shook her head.

The girl sighed fiercely, sagging and crossing her arms. “So we’re the three blind mice, but worse since there’s only two of us. At least we still have our tails.”

“You are weird,” Narcissa curled a lip, barely retaining a word this girl speaks. 

The girl only smiled, seemingly proud of her oddity. “You looked weird staring at the ground, so maybe we both are.” Before Narcissa could retaliate, she held her hand out. “I’m Emma.”

“Narcissa,” she returned suspiciously, refusing the hand with another scowl. 

Emma didn’t seem to mind, simply dropping her own hand and staring at something over her shoulder. “So Narcissa, odd name by the way, what do you think the chances are that we flip that do not enter sign and slip in that one?”

“That’s against the rules,” she frowned, looking back toward the no entry sign. 

Emma shrugged. “We’ll just say that we were blind.” 

Before Narcissa could protest, a hand latched onto her arm and pulled. It was a secure grip, surely to not let go.

Here they are seven years later with Emma locking her foot with Narcissa’s under the table. Sufficiently pulled out of her memory, Narcissa looks up to find a grinning Emma. “Come back to mine and see how rusty your football skills are?”

The Vanity estate is about half the size of Narcissa’s, which makes sense due to the fact that her family is about half as rich. Which is still significantly wealthy, resulting in a much larger than average home. Rather extravagant too, holding an entire football field in its backyard. Mr. Vanity greets Narcissa as they walk inside, first tricking her with a firm handshake that pulls the girl into a surprise hug. Narcissa is here often during the summers, therefore quite familiar with the older man. He’s a bit grumpy, the type to yell at children to scurry off of his lawn but still purchase from their lemonade stand. It’s another reason why he’s always liked Narcissa, her maturity evident even at a young age. Ever since she was twelve years old and assisted him with a crossword he’d been struggling with, the man held respect for the girl.

From what he’s told her, he used to run in similar circles to Narcissa’s family until Emma’s mother died of cancer shortly after giving birth. After that he only cared about raising his daughter to the best of his ability, especially as the handful that she was. Narcissa appreciates the high society that she was born into, the elegance and extravagance of the clothing and ballroom dancing and the privilege of sparkling notoriety. She likes it even, it’s always been a goal of hers to hold an event one day, to orchestrate it all. But she respects Mr. Vanity for his decision, a simultaneous envy creeping in when Emma goes to hug her father not for any particular reason other than coming home for the day.

It disperses quickly, especially when Emma drags her onto the field. While not on the team, Narcissa always enjoyed football since being introduced to this very field. She didn’t want it to get back to her parents that she was doing a boy’sactivity instead of dancing or swimming or horseback riding like all the other girls, so she primarily played either here or in the park. She’s quite good at it too, managing a natural agility that only increased with practice. Well, practice that includes Emma who has been playing since the womb and refuses to go even the slightest bit easy on her. It’s the messiest Narcissa ever allows herself to get, the roughest activity that didn’t include fighting with Bella for stealing her clothes. This was always her little bit of rebellion before the club, and it’s nice to still have. A release maybe, somehow similar to going to the spa even in their dichotomy. 

After about two hours and Narcissa collapsing into a lawn chair (still making sure to dust it off), Emma joins her while being annoyingly not out of breath and they declare their session to an end. There’s a large stocked cooler outside—because of course there is in this home—in which Emma retrieves them both chilled water. 

“Are you sure you can’t join the team? We could really use your speed for offense over Julia who only joined for her sister anyway. The girl can’t steal a damn ball to save her life.”

“Emma…"

“I know.”

Narcissa showers in Emma’s extravagant bathroom that is almost as large as her own, tying her hair up in one of her friend’s many, many shower caps and using the soap saved in a corner just for instances like these. She dresses in her own clothing collected and saved in a drawer after all of these years, falling back onto the canopied bed next to Emma who is flipping through a magazine. They go through it together until an inevitable boredom starts to creep in after one too many columns on how to dress for your body shape and they simply lay on the covers bathing in the sliver of sun cracked through the window. It illuminates a strip of sky fuzz, or so Emma softly calls it as she sifts her fingers through the still air. The faint chirping of birds sing in lieu of the record they were both too tired to rise and change after stopping. Dropping her hand with a huff, Emma turns over to face Narcissa who knows it’s a cue to do the same.

“Not to beat a dead sheep-,”

“Horse,” Narcissa corrects. Believe it or not, the girl is right behind Narcissa at the top of their class.

“Whatever cruelty against farm animals, but I just find it hard to believe that you’ve spent half of the summer alone.”

Shrugging casually, neither denying nor confirming the claim, Narcissa responds, “Well, I’ve never exactly been a social butterfly.” They both know this is putting it lightly, as much as her mother tried to ingrain such congeniality in her.

“Yeah, but you’re miserable in that house,” Emma argues, tutting when Narcissa begins to retaliate. “Ah, ah, don’t start with your proud to be a Black bullshit. Trust me, I know, but those walls make you sad, as simple as it sounds. Why else would you have a drawer here?” 

“Because you’re my best friend and I cherish our relationship deeply therefore relish in our shared time together.”

“Don’t be sweet to get out of this, it’s unnerving,” she deadpans, both knowing full well that Narcissa holds the emotional range of a wooden chair. “Unless that house had sudden a change of heart, you’d be way more strung up. You just look different, relaxed maybe. It’s weird actually, I’ve never seen you like this in either of our lives.”

Sighing deeply, Narcissa turns over again to stare at the slightly chipped purple paint on the ceiling. “You’re annoyingly perceptive, did you know that?”

“One of my many talents,” Emma hums, never one for humbleness. "Just as diversion is one of yours. However, I am immune to your little tricks, so spill.”

She can’t help but be reminded of Alice yet again, that little smirk she does when she almost falls for one of Narcissa’s ploys, even when Narcissa doesn’t even know she’s doing them herself. It highlights a freckled dimple in her cheek, only slightly overshadowed by the glinting mischief shining like a rising sun pooled in deep brown eyes. Suddenly, denying who has been gracing her time feels so utterly, wholly wrong. “I… made a friend, is all.”

Instead of mischief like Alice, an almost manic gleam coats Emma’s widened mossy eyes, the ones she swears turn green in the light. Ironically, Narcissa can now see it from the pure delight. “A friend, huh? Who is he? Does this mean Lucius is out of the picture?“

Stomach dropping, Narcissa swallows, but the bile doesn’t quite make it down. It spews into her words, harshly coming up with, “Lucius was never in the picture. Not until it’s beneficial for us both or simply due time.” The hourglass will eventually spill over, each grain of sand dropping under her feet where she's trapped in the restrictive glass. Time as Narcissa sees it has always truly just been inevitability hidden under the illusion of living in free moments. It will always pass.

Emma pouts even if Lucius has never been her favorite, or perhaps because so. She sighs before speaking, unknowingly making this invisible illness in Narcissa spread. “That’s morbid. Then who is this mystery man? Why can’t you just marry him to satiate your parents' demonic needs? Clearly you’re infatuated seeing as you spent the whole bloody summer with the bloke. Do you remember how long it took to get you to stop running away from me?”

Alarm bells that sound suspiciously like the ones at Bella’s wedding blare inside of her brain, the word marry like the trigger of a gun. “They’re just a friend, Em. It’s not like that.”

“You really expect me to believe that?

Unable to hold in a slightly bitter laugh, Narcissa uncharacteristically wipes a frustrated hand across her face. “Seeing as she’s a girl, yes. She is just a friend.”

“Oh,” Emma breathes, face apologetic. Narcissa knows she doesn’t mean to go too far, but it’s the price to pay for an eccentric personality. The girl huffs, turning toward Narcissa with a slight frown. “Well that’s a bit disappointing.

If only you knew. “Mm.”

“Found a new best friend then?“ She sighs dramatically, forcing her pout even further. ”Is this you cheating on me? I will sign the divorce papers, don’t you test me, Black.”

“You’re so stupid,” she rolls her eyes, an amused smile still building on her face. For what feels like the hundredth time, Alice rises to her mind, or maybe she just never left. This time it’s the specific protest along with unapologetic laugh when Narcissa says those exact words. ‘You’re ridiculous.’ ‘You like it.’ 

Emma contemplates, squinted eyes searching Narcissa’s features. “I really thought you’d met a boy. You just had this look on your face…”

Expression going blank as if pulling shutters to a window, Narcissa sighs, waiting another minute before speaking, her voice holding a softer edge despite the weight of the words. Soft like the pillow she hits at night as she allows herself to dream, gentle like the subtle weight of Alice next to her as they talk about nothing at all, muted like the fight caged in her throat. “Well I didn’t meet a boy, Emma. Nothing of that sort is going to happen until marriage with a respectable man coming from a respectable family.”

“Alright,” she whispers between them, knowing the delicate subject. Despite the girl’s occasional insensitivity, she's learned over the years how to pull Narcissa out of a mood like this. “What’s her name then, this friend?”

“Alice.”

“Hm, decent I suppose. Where’d you meet this Alice?”

“Out.”

Emma snorts, saying a quick apology quickly contradicted by another disbelieving laugh. “You? Narcissa Black. Went… out?”

Promptly kicking Emma’s shin (although made of steel at this point), Narcissa rolls her eyes and does what she spills best, half truths. She managed to get the story of Bellatrix and her friends abandoning her at the park through her lips, even if struggling to admit the foolishness on her part. Pity has never been something to worry about with Emma, but even her friend's spewed wrath toward Bellatrix curdles in Narcissa’s stomach. It's only further proof that she needs someone to stand up to her own blood in place of her lacking ability. It makes her wonder how she’ll live up to the Black name if she cannot even face it, even to those who have shed. But once a Black, always a Black—destiny and curse wrapped into one legacy. This legacy that wraps like a serpent around a bared neck, gifting either a bite or kiss depending on how you play your chessman. But the snake’s mouth is still filled with venom and the pawns still cower under the King.

In telling the latter half of the story is where she begins to twist the truth. Narcissa daydreamed often as a child before learning to shed herself of the bad habit, a matured skin slithering with thick lies in its place. Stories are easy, fabricated like a woven silk. Master the hand and you might begin to believe them yourself. With a phantom itch on her nose, she tells Emma that she was lost and simply ran into Alice on the street, a good civilian who pointed her in the direction of her street. Then apparently they ran into one another at a diner, Narcissa paying for her meal in gratitude.  “Then we just… kept running into each other, I suppose.”

Emma hums and processes the story with pursed lips, her expression isn’t disbelieving per say, just… processing. Until she jumps upright in offense, likely while trying to picture the girl. “Is she cooler than me? Please don’t say yes, oh, I couldn’t bear it,” she groans dramatically, thought overtaken and the lie soon forgotten. 

“Not really, no,” Narcissa chuckles, one too many memories of Alice tripping over absolutely nothing before playing it off exaggeratedly flooding her mind. She thinks about how Alice would gasp in offense at her words despite the growing smile on her face, protesting how she was very much cool and has a story to prove it, then her spiel only digging the hole further. Narcissa wouldn’t have her any other way.

“She collects pins, the graphic kind you put on clothing. She likes books, the drama sort although being a calm entity herself. Well, that's until you get her talking, then she’s quite the chatterbox but never truly interrupts or doesn’t listen. She listens quite well actually, could probably repeat every word you’ve said back to you. She’s kind, probably too kind, the sort to give anyone a chance even when they don’t deserve it. I suppose that’s what she did with me, and although it may be selfish, I’m happy that she did.”

Narcissa does not often speak without thinking, or thinking out loud, a phrase that she struggled to grasp for a long time. For seventeen years her words were her greatest arsenal, tucked and sifted through carefully before selecting which ones to draw and wield. They’ve protected her, sitting on her tongue as both defense and weapon. 

Lately, she's found her hands sweaty and tongue slippery. 

“Narcissa?” Emma’s eyebrows are drawn together, gazing at Narcissa with that mystery glint in her eye, looking at something utterly new. Narcissa knows that it is her own fault that she is faced with this look so often, she knows that the parts of herself she has guarded would not shine through with such shock if she simply never kept them locked away. But that foreign squint of the eye is far too familiar. One as if she were growing another nose, one still perfectly intact and safe from cutting spite. In Alice, in Emma, in her reflection looking down walking in pouring rain.

thump, Thump, Thump. “Hm?”

“It wasn’t right what your family did to Alphard.”

“No, no it wasn’t.”

“I’m glad you have your new friend.”

She only hums knowing that Emma is expecting something further, a long conversation down this new road. Narcissa will not walk that tightrope even in an empty circus, the audience built into her mind sitting too loudly on the edge of their seats to watch her fall. She asks Emma about her trip.

** ** **

Tonight, Narcissa is happy.

Managing the usual routine of sneaking back into the house through the front door, taking off her heels down the foyer so they don’t clack against marble floors and up the stairs back into her room, she can’t help but smile to herself once she’s closed the door. Being a cliche is the very last thing on her mind as her back lays against the sturdy painted wood supporting her joy without a creak. Closing her eyes with the light grin still present on relaxed features, she presses her fingers to her lips. She can’t tell if the heaving chest is from her walk back or simply excitement, taking air in long breaths that trickles down to the jumping joy dancing in her stomach. 

It wasn’t even a spectacularly different night at the club, arriving in an outfit she’s picked out in her own definition of femininity. It’s a slightly new thing for Narcissa, discovering what she genuinely likes. It takes a few moments to differentiate the sticky thoughts laced into her brain from what unconsciously brings a smile to her face. It’s not that she dislikes the clothes she’s always worn, but it’s a bit as if she’s been wearing them backwards this whole time, clicking the pieces into place when she turns them back around. Now she brings her fingers down to fiddle with her same cropped skirt (it’s become a favorite, sue her), with the feeling of just needing to do something with her hands to expel energy.

She already wishes she were back, the walls an endless space to finally breathe. The second she sat down earlier tonight, Alice greeted her with a smile and sliding drink, one already prepared for her appearance. Charity had her arm around Hestia which took a moment for Narcissa to realize, which Alice later confirmed during their cigarette session that the women were figuring things out. They went a bit earlier than usual, simply because they were promised a big performance that night. Alice pulled a new collected pin out of her pocket which was an immediate tale, raving about how she knew Narcissa would like it too, a pin designed with the scales of justice ironically enough. Before she could question this, Alice went on about her other half of the story. But the girl was right, Narcissa did like the pin. When Alice gave it to her to stick onto her coat, Narcissa placed it right over Alice's heart.

When they went back inside, it was with shared looks and thrumming excitement. They sat down in their chairs to be met with a similar anticipation from the rest of the table, particularly both Gid and Fab. Minutes later, they watch enraptured as Kingsley performs every last song with her own voice. This might not seem as big of a deal in itself, but each soul in that room was sucked into her performance as if simply offering them up. Take everything I am if you’ll sing this melody until my ears can echo it back to the insects crawling in my grave. 

Even as Narcissa’s head still feels slightly dizzy with the engraved performance, that’s not what has her body feel as if coated in firecracker. It was the very last song, every eye in the room tracking Kingsley’s movement as she stalked down the stage. Captivation took the room but without surprise as the performer took Isolde in her hand, bringing the woman up onto the stage.

Kingsley brought Isolde up on stage, serenaded her with a song, then at the end, Kingsley kissed her.

Two women on the stage, one in a man’s persona and the other draped in femininity of her own rule. They touch one another in a way that the world would gasp, only for the alien viewers in the room to cheer. So they continued, touching and touching and touching until their lips were no better than sewn intertwined. Watching such a salacious show embedded what feels like a permanent fire in Narcissa’s belly, inflating and sparking and burning like a feeling she doesn’t know how her lungs have ever worked without. Even in her slight panting it feels easier to suck in air than ever before, oxygen on her tongue tasting ever so sweet. It only became more when an unconscious pull turned her head to Alice, whose amber eyes were already locked onto her, parted lips growing into a smile tender enough to pull apart with bare fingers.

What made tonight so different is what she only imagined a fantasy to come to life and unfold in front of her naked eyes. 

Pushing herself off of the door, she removes her day clothing with electricity running down her fingers to replace them with silk pajamas, laying herself out on her canopied bed with a content sigh. 

Later that night when she had just replayed the scene for what was likely the millionth time and begun to be lulled by sleep, a loud commotion makes its way to her ears. It’s very faint seeing how thick the walls are, but enough for the sound to wiggle its way through. Assuming it’s simply Bellatrix making a midnight entrance, Narcissa does her best to ignore it. Minutes later when it still incessantly continues, she knows Bellatrix absolutely would have made some grand entrance by now. Narcissa has never been one for paranoia, but the next thirty seconds finds her creeping down the stairs. She highly doubts it is a break-in, in which she would’ve likely hid in her room until someone else took care of the offender.

And maybe there was a slight itch in the back of her mind that already knew what she would find.

Following the sound through the archway into their grand kitchen area, there sits her mother beside the kitchen island, on her knees and struggling with a large metal bucket. Once she spills half of its contents and manages to wrestle it back upright, the woman begins scrubbing the floor which already has bubbled streaks from many times before. The second thing Narcissa takes note of is the open wine bottle on the counter. She’d be willing to bet that the bottle would be knocked over if she opened a window.

It’s an odd sight to see her mother doing any sort of labor. Especially on the ground, considering how often Druella looks down on others with a scowl. If she were in her right mind, she’d be humiliated to be seen like this. But she doesn’t even seem to have heard Narcissa slip into the room, too focused on her overly aggressive movements on the polished tile.

Stepping further into the room, Narcissa hesitantly calls out, “Mother?” 

Druella does not even look up, continuing to violently scrub the floor and likely injuring her arm doing so. Coming closer, Narcissa ends up directly next to her mother, but still receiving nothing that indicates she's heard. Crouching down lightly to tap her on the shoulder, Narcissa calls again, “Mother?”

Lifting her head as if it weighed a million pounds, Druella squints with open and slightly scowling lips as if her daughter’s mere presence is disruptive. “Can I help you, Narcissa?”

Blinking a few times, Narcissa exhales a quivering breath, her heavy stomach filled with dread at the slurred speech, Druella's head lulling around while waiting for a response. “Are you… alright?”

“No, I am not alright,” she grunts, giving the floor another harsh scrub. “I come home from a relaxing night at the spa to find that wretched woman with her egregious sticky hands pawing at our fine silvery instead of doing what I explicitly hired her for.”

“Bertha?” A kind woman, sweeter than the lemon pie she made that Narcissa liked. The woman promised her just a few days prior that she would make more this weekend, just for Narcissa. In her employment description was polishing the silverware.

Scoffing, Druella answers, “Whatever her name was, she was a greedy,” scrub, “cheap,” scrub, “filthy,” scrub—

“Mother,” Narcissa tries to intervene, utterly helpless as her mother yanks her frail arm in frantic movements. “I think it’s clean. Mother-,”

Stilling suddenly, Druella turns to Narcissa with cold eyes. “Do I not do enough for this house? Tell me what I could possibly do more to make this house perfect, tell me.”

The question sounds rhetorical, but the woman pauses in speaking until Narcissa answers. “I don’t…”

Her eyes are nearly glazed over, gritting her teeth and shaking her head as a battered mind collects words to spew. “I push three babies out of myself, and he still wants a son. I raise those three daughters for honor and marrying off, he barely even looks them in the eye. Hell, he can’t even look at me if it’s not at the figure I’ve worked my arse off to maintain. Do you know how difficult it is to keep your body fit after three children, Narcissa? How much discipline for their desire?"

Narcissa swallows. “Mother, you should go to sleep.

Druella rises from the floor almost automatically, and for a moment, Narcissa thinks she’ll go up to bed. She realizes she’s sorely mistaken as her mother instead struts toward Narcissa who is fighting the urge to step back, stilling as Druella takes one of the blonde strands of her hair in her fingers. “You’re a beautiful girl, Narcissa. It’s good that you’re perusing Lucius, flaunting it while he still appreciates it.” She pulls a bit on the strand, enough to sting at Narcissa’s scalp. “Long, blonde hair. I loved mine at your age, you know? The Rosier blonde ringlets. I dyed it even before marrying your father to fit the perfect picture of the pure Black image, I knew he wanted me to. And he was right, your grandfather looked pleased. But perhaps I should dye it back to my natural color, perhaps if I look young again he’ll bother to give a damn. Care for me, not another whore on the side of the road.”

“You’ve had too much to drink, Mother.” The second Druella lets go, Narcissa has to resist simply curling up onto a ball with her eyes in her knees and hands on her ears. But she is not seven years old at the top of the stairs anymore, so she moves to throw the bottle in the pin then onto the floor to begin cleaning the mess. 

“You’ll understand when you’re older, I assure you,” Druella slurs, practically slamming back onto the wall and watching Narcissa’s ministrations. “You’ve always been my favorite, Narcissa.” 

It is all she would have wanted to hear in her earlier years, when she looked up to her mother like a deity. Hungry young eyes locked onto the assessment in the mirror, starving for the nod that made the tearing worth the bandage. She would have slashed herself open if it only meant her mother’s smile while sewing her skin back whole, precise and neat laces. If she was lucky, the stitches under her throat should come with a pretty pink bow.

But each year she grows older is another scale falling from crystallized eyes, removing the rose colored tint and blurring to a bloodthirsty red. It paints over the gates of a Black residence, stuck in between the letters of Toujours Pur. It feeds the bellies of those who sit at the table, eating and eating and stuffing themselves full until a smile only sits among sharp teeth, the eyes too far out of reach. It weaves beneath the porcelain skin, peel the first layer and find a seething sticky darkness with the distinct smell of immorality, immortality. 

It is home.

“You take after me, we’re clean women, purity an utmost importance in our world.”

And she is her mothers daughter.

”But you’ll learn that is not always enough,” Druella continues, her words taking on a sharper edge as Narcissa returns the bucket to the cupboard. “I do everything I can for my husband, for my children, and under the God I have worshiped since I was a girl in the pew, scrubbing and washing and cleaning the dirt until perfection. Sometimes I cannot differentiate him from Cygnus. I speak to his associates, I attend working events, I’m even a better secretary than the one he took on his trip to fuck."

Disgust floods every crevice in Narcissa’s veins along with an onslaught of grief pooling in her waterline. It's not true, none of it is. She knows it's Druella's strung-out brain grasping at straws of insecurities. Narcissa knows her father's assistant, she's newly married and planning for her first baby after this trip and always asks about Narcissa's studies. She knows that Cygnus would not stoop so low, that her parents still care for each other no matter how sick and tainted their love may be. And still, the words from her mother's mouth curdle like expired milk forced down her throat. 

With her back tuned to Druella, she takes ten seconds to grip the counter with her eyes squeezed shut. After tapping each one of her fingers on the granite, Narcissa turns around and places a shaking hand onto her mother’s shoulder.  “Let’s get you to bed.

Druella complies, only stumbling every three steps or so with Narcissa’s assistance. The grand bedroom is on the first floor, which her mother and father share on most nights. “I’ve come to accept it after the first time," she mumbles, "but my husband will always be back, returning to his throne next to mine. He'll always come through the door again, he knows when to come home” Right as they reach the door, Druella stops, refuting Narcissa’s further attempts to drag her along. After moments of contemplation staring at the patterned carpet, Druella raises her head to look at her daughter. “Am I not a good enough mother, Andromeda?”

A wounded sound accompanies the breath punched out of Narcissa’s battering lungs.

But her mother does not seem to hear it, only staring at Narcissa with wet, questioning eyes. The mirrored colors stand in a battle of labored breaths until Narcissa gives in, opening quivering lips. “You are, Maman. Come into bed, now.”

Druella is tucked in with a content smile. 

** ** **

The following Friday two following that night and much to Narcissa’s disdain—it is quite obvious that she isn’t exactly up to her usual quips and engagement in the club. The rest of the group does not notice, tied up in discussion and their partners and the room. Alice, however, would never miss something so clear when it comes to Narcissa. Alice drags her out quite early for a fag, and of course, the air is easier to breathe in around the obstruction in her lungs. They stay out longer too, Alice lighting about six fags between the two of them while rambling about whatever she could, mostly. The topic eventually leans toward football, which Narcissa does find the energy to engage in, along with her body lightening up the longer she breathes in smoke and the calming scent of cinnamon. 

“You said you wouldn’t judge!”

“Well I didn’t expect the team that’s been losing for the past ten years to be your favorite. Out of every team in the country, Alice, really?”

“And they won the year before that! Ten years is really nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

Narcissa pointedly blowing a waft of smoke toward Alice who has defensive hands flying toward the air. She drawls, “Ten years ago I still had missing teeth.”

“Aw, baby Narcissa. That’s actually cute, do you have pic-,” Alice begins to say, until her head whips around to the end of the alleyway. “Did you hear that?” she asks, turning back to Narcissa who only furrows her eyebrows.

“Hear what?”

Alice only hums and shakes her head in dismissal, carrying on in her argument about how it’s perfectly reasonable to continuously purchase merchandise from a team known for pathetically losing. But five minutes later when the topic has somehow changed to who of each other would win a football match until Alice turns her head again. Muttering a hold on to Narcissa, she rises from her seat on the ground and begins walking down the path. Of course following immediately, Narcissa rises and takes the handkerchief with her. 

The least thing she would have expected to find is Alice crouched down behind the pizza shop with her fingers caressing a small feline’s chin.

She blinks at that exact sight directly in front of her.

Alice coos at the animal, eyes flickering to Narcissa with a sad smile, her voice lowered when she speaks. “Poor thing is shivering, looks like he’s been caught in the rain.” She chuckles lightly when the kitten rubs its body on her knee, caressing it more on its head. ”We’ll get you back home, baby.”

“How… How do you know it isn’t a stray?”

“He’s kind, for one, came right up to me. Small for what looks like his age too, so he’s likely the runt and wouldn’t have lasted this long by himself. These usually have a defect of some sort, the kind hearted people usually take them in. But most blatantly, he has a collar right here,” she takes the chain in her hands, a small blue circle in the middle.

“Oh,” Narcissa blinks, entirely out of her depth.

“Can you hand me the handkerchief slowly? Just be careful not to scare him.”

She leans down slightly to give the object to Alice, and to her surprise, the girl stands and lifts the animal, wrapping it in the fabric. “There we go, hi Jonathan. Bit of an odd name for a cat but I’m sure your parents love you.” She speaks to it like it’s a human, Narcissa would note with amusement if there wasn’t a strange fear building in her chest. Alice turns back to Narcissa, the girl swallowing a mounting guilt. She shouldn’t have just stood here while Alice did all the work, the feline would have likely been dead if it were only Narcissa.

”The address should be close if I’m recognizing the street correctly so I’m going to take this little guy home. You wanna walk with me or are you too frightened of the stray bullets?”

Usually she would laugh or roll her eyes at the quip, but she only nods jerkily. “Of course I’ll go with you.”

Alice’s eyes flick toward the building and the kitten. “Do you mind holding her for a second while I tell Isolde we’ll be gone?

Shoulders tensing, Narcissa manages to stutter through, “Alice, I can’t…” Her eyes flicker down to the animal, it’s tiny head peeks out of the fabric, sleepily blinking once, twice.

“He won’t claw your face off, I promise, he’s a sweetheart.” For proof, she goes to pet its head and in surprise it lets out a small squeak, the sound so frighteningly fragile.

“The animal isn’t the problem. I wouldn’t know how…”

“How to hold him?”

Swallowing, Narcissa shakes her head. “Not like you do.”

After a moment or two of burning assessment, Alice’s lips part as she nods in what looks like understanding. Narcissa only tenses further as the girl walks closer toward her, heartbeat racing as she looks both at Alice and the kitten. A nudge on her stiff forearm locks her gaze onto Alice's face, her amber eyes soft and still as she whispers, “gently.” 

Alice adjusts her arms with one hand, moving them to a cradling position. Narcissa’s heart beats and beats and beats against her flesh that she’s half frightened the organ will jump out and suffocate the animal being placed against her chest. But when her hands wrap around both fabric and soft wet fur, the animal only closes its tiny eyes. For just a second she’s afraid that only her touch wilted the baby creature, until she feels the kick of a small pulse on her ring finger. Her next breath comes out in a relieved shake, looking up to Alice with burning eyes.

Grinning, Alice’s eyes almost sparkle as she looks before her. “There you go, you’re a natural.”

Blinking in disbelief, Narcissa opens her mouth to respond, only for nothing to come out. Understanding, Alice disappears into the club.

Alone for the next minute, Narcissa looks down to the sleeping body in her arms. It’s head lies against her chest, air puffing out of its mouth every few seconds that tugs at Narcissa’s heart, unconsciously bringing a smile to her face.

“Hi,” she can’t help but whisper softly. She mouthed the word more than anything, syllable in a breath swiftly taken by the wind. Still, the small animal begins a soft rumbling sound vibrating against her arms. 

When Alice returns, she gives a questioning look to the girl and nods down toward the sound. Alice huffs a breathless laugh at the sight, edging on something that sounds slightly akin to disbelief. But as she looks up, Narcissa doesn’t think that’s quite it. “That means he likes you,” she practically rasps. “I don’t want to wake him, are you alright with holding him while we walk?”

Narcissa nods quickly.

Alice was right, the owners were a very kind older couple who cried tears of joy when they received their pet back. It felt good to hand them what was practically their child, the elation that comes with doing a good deed. But as they walk back to the club, an emptiness in her stomach gnaws further and further and shakes inside of her with every step. She has to instruct Alice to talk, the girl happily doing so but not without her own sadness creeping its way into her voice. 

They have a silent agreement to go for another fag before going back in, Narcissa simply dirtying her dress instead of sitting on the fabric the kitten was wrapped in. In the end, a cigarette does not hit either of their lips. Narcissa’s head however, makes its way to lie on Alice’s shoulder, the girl immediately lifting a hand into Narcissa’s hair.

“I was good with him?”

“You were beautiful.”