She loved her quilt.
Her mother had made it for her, when she was only three, and it was the only thing her mother had ever made for her. It was white, with patches in the shapes of animals, all brightly colored, blues and greens and pinks and reds and yellows. It had her name, embrodiered in the lower left-hand corner, her mother's own precise stitching in shimmering silver thread she had thought beautiful as a child, next to a white embrodiered flower. Naricssa.
She had taken it to school with her, always neatly folded at her bed. Her roommates thought it was childish but she didn't care, and she had wrapped up in it at night. It smelled like her mother; the perfume her mother used, a mysterious scent that reminded her of the night, like silk and elegance and beauty, and secretly she wanted to be just like her mother. She would wrap up in it when she was homesick, burying her face from the world, and it reminded her of home, the cool house filled with candles and silk and long smooth hallways.
Her mother had loved all of them, to start with. Her three daughters, Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa--the night, the dusk, and the day, the good little girls. Her sons, Regulus and Sirius, the good little boys. All of them named after stars, stars that shone brightly in the dark sky, gleaming in the midnight blackness--all but her. Youngest, the day-flower. Her mother had smiled and taken her into her lap, telling her that she was tired of stars when she had her, that she wanted a beauty on earth as beautiful as she was, so she had named her Narcissa. Little flower.
The quilt was getting worn now, around the edges--the material wearing down so that the cotton inside and the lining were showing through. Some of the seams around the animals had come unpicked, and some of the colors were fading, but still she wrapped up in it in the cold, huddling inside her magic world, still a child sitting in Mummy's lap. She had taken it when she had gotten married, packed safely at the bottom of her trunk, and she had hidden it from Lucius. She knew that he would not understand.
Things are getting worn, now. Her mother's heart was broken, and now she just screams, screams and rants and cries, but she doesn't show her sadness, only her anger. And the boys are not so good anymore, and the boys are not very good at all, for both of them are dead now, and both her sisters have left.
The stars have faded and the flower is withering.
She is the only one left, really. Andromeda is gone from the family and Bellatrix is lost in the darkness; but they share blood. And blood means things. Blood is always used in magic, used to bind things together, sometimes against their will, sometimes against their knowledge, but it is always the same. And she knows--she has seen her blood, and theirs, too.
The quilt is getting old, now, and she knows that someday it will have to be thrown away, because it is worn down to nothing. The threads are gone, the colors are fading, and it is stained with years of dirt and tears and blood. But somehow, she can't bring herself to throw it away. It still smells like her mother, the mother she knew as a child, the quiet mysterious perfume and the feeling of candlelight hallways, long and cold and smooth.
She knows she will have to throw it away.
She must grow up eventually.
Stolen Ideas: Inspired by Proud,. The day-night-dusk comes from Proud-. Short, inspired by my quilt as well, which is going on ten but I still love it. On another note, I had That's The Way I've Always Heard it Should Be by Carly Simon in my head while I wrote this. Good song.