her life is a dream she forgets when she wakes up
Narcissa's porcelain teacup makes a graceful chiming sound as she sets it down. She looks as elegant and cold as the china in the early morning light, her hair a pale cape across her shoulders, her robes neat and flowing. She is still as a statue. She is not thinking— she can't think, can't speak, or she will explode. There is nothing inside her. You can't forget what didn't happen.
She smiles faintly, pushes away the teacup for the house-elves to clean up. Today is beautiful. Maybe she'll play some piano, or finish her homework so it's done early. Then she'll have the whole summer free to— to—
What does she like to do? She can't remember.
words with wings haunt her sleep
She walks the halls restlessly, smiles at angels in crevices and portraits of murderers. She paces. Plays. Practices spells, writes essays, drifts more than a ghost. She finds herself glancing at the window every two minutes, waiting for a letter that doesn't come.
There was no fight. No shouting, no kicking, no angry spells. Nothing happened. It's not like she cared, anyway. She is the ice queen; love is for lesser people.
Still, she paces, and still, no letter.
regret is someone else's nightmare
Narcissa picks up a pen. Her grip is tight enough to shatter china.
A lady never apologizes, her mother's voice whispers in her head. Be the better person, her father echoes back.
She pushes them both out. This is not about her, anymore. Maybe it never was; all she knows is that she does not want to live without Molly. Molly is her everything.
Molly is worth more to her than her pride is.
She begins to write.
she drifts through her dreams and will never wake up
Molly never writes back.