A/N: Character Versatility Challenge – Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange
Narcissa's breath caught in her throat at the sight of the body. Laying on the side of the room where the bodies of fallen Death Eaters had been gathered, it was still and perfect in death, looking for all the world like an ancient statue of some highly acclaimed natural beauty. Not even the crowd of people bustling around it, seeking confirmation that she had indeed been killed before returning to their comrades, could take that away from it.
To them, the body was an 'it'; it was a thing to be reviled and then, ultimately, ignored. To her, however, it was much more complicated than that. It was the shell of a person she'd once loved, of someone she would never truly be able to forget or dismiss. It was an it and a she and a regret and a loss.
Her sister might not be there anymore, but the body still, undoubtedly, belonged to the older witch. Dark hair splayed across her chest in long, tight curls, and the hints of a smile still played at her lips. Bellatrix had inherited the traditional Black sense of humour; callous, cruel, and persistent, even in death. Narcissa wasn't sure if it was a good or a bad thing that it was still visible for all to see; it was distinctly Black and distinctly Bella, but most of the passers-by would probably just assume that it was a Death Eater thing, which wasn't fair to the family or to the deceased woman.
A keen sense of loss rushed through her like an onslaught, leaving agonising caltrops of guilt and shame in its wake to twist and prod at her in a torturous dance of retreating feet. Whatever Bellatrix Lestrange had become, however much she may have been perverted and warped until she was naught but a shade of her previous self, Narcissa could still remember the little girl with tangled black hair who used to climb into her bed to comfort her when treacherous bursts of lightning made their garden their battlefield. While Andromeda had peeked out of the curtains to see the brilliant display, ignoring the fact that Narcissa's distress had increased exponentially as she did so, Bellatrix had held her youngest sister tight and whispered a story about three young girls who created a broom that could fly higher than all other brooms and made their way up on it to usurp the malicious sky-pixies that had been causing them so much strife. The story had been far-fetched, but it had captivated Narcissa until the storm died down.
Bellatrix had always been the one to comfort her when she was scared. It might have been her own special brand of comfort-mixed-in-with-a-touch-of-sadism, but it had never failed to soothe the blonde girl. Andromeda had offered pretty white lies, and, years later, Lucius had offered promises of retribution, but Bellatrix was the only one who had ever gotten it quite right. She had delved enough into the land of the fantastic to calm her without ever sounding false.
Narcissa longed to see the woman's familiar brown eyes again, to feel her arms wrap around her as she wove a story of friendship and vengeance. Part of her felt as if, somehow, just having the chance to hold her one last time would make all of the pain go away, as if she were a salve designed to counter this agony. But the body, for all that it seemed like a perfect replica of the woman, was lifeless and cold, and someone had been through to shut her eyes in an attempt to ensure that her unseeing stare didn't scare any of the passing observers.
So, although Narcissa's eyes took her in, she didn't approach her. There was no comfort to be found there, and no respect to be given in a place such as that weary hall. She was well aware that this new world, as safe and judicious as it might purport to be, had no place for tears spilt over one such as Bellatrix Lestrange. Her grief was the kind that wasn't to be shared in public; it was fierce and all-consuming but ultimately forbidden. Everything within her called for her to open up the floodgates she was bravely maintaining and let the tears escape, but she forced herself to keep them in. This was to be her secret sorrow, her own personalised taboo. The battle for political freedom would be brutal enough as it was; airing her anguish in public would only serve to put her family further into the spotlight of public scrutiny, and she knew that none of them had the energy for that anymore.
The next few hours were spent watching the other side rejoice and mourn, neither of which she was permitted to do. Instead, she sat in a corner with her husband and son, under the watchful eye of a Ministry official. Just as the weariness was threatening to overcome her, the official approached them to tell them of the decision that had been made. Although trials weren't to be held until the dust had truly settled, giving the Wizengamot time to process the day's events on both a personal and professional level, they weren't willing to let suspects slip away in the meantime. She and the rest of her – surviving – family were then disarmed and peppered with seemingly endless questions before eventually being taken to some neutral pureblood family's home to be watched over until it was time for their trials.
The Shafiqs opened up one of the side wings of their house for them. It was small enough to convey the fact that they were definitely not to consider themselves guests while still being comfortable enough that the Malfoys would have no cause to complain should their names somehow be cleared. The move was so calculated, was so obviously something that they themselves would have done in a similar situation, that it rankled Narcissa. That evil, charming man was dead, and her sadistic, charismatic sister was dead, yet it felt like nothing had changed. The same processes and protocols were still in place, and the same minds still led the world, and a world without the Dark Lord was supposed to be different.
She knew that it was just how it had to be, especially so early on in the aftermath. Still, the knowledge that people were celebrating under the assumption that it was all finished when it really, really wasn't yet gnawed at the back of her brain as a house-elf gave them a tour of their temporary abode. If she were still in the public's good graces, she would be making sure they knew how perilously close they were to the danger of falling back into old patterns and mistakes.
But she wasn't, so she held her tongue. Eventually, the house-elf reluctantly bid them to call her if they had any questions before, after a pregnant pause, hurriedly disappearing with a loud crack.
It was only then, only when she was alone except for her dazed son and weary husband, that she let herself indulge in her grief for her lost sister.
x-o-x
The funeral was small and low-key. As improper and neglectful as it felt, she had decided not to put a notice in the paper; that, she had thought, would just be inviting trouble from people who had hated Bellatrix in life and wanted to make a point of it to her in death. Snake or not, she had known that she wouldn't be in the mood to deter them, or to hold back her grief once more. Instead, she had owled only those who were able to freely move about and who could be trusted not to attempt to challenge her or the Ministry officials keeping watch over the service.
It was a far cry from the respectful ceremony her sister would have commanded, but it was the best she could do, and Narcissa knew that she simply had to reconcile herself to that. Once upon a time, farewelling a Black would have involved a large service and the utmost veneration for both the deceased and their family. But at that time, and with that particular Black, ensuring a proper and undisturbed burial had been a great feat in itself. The only reason Narcissa had even managed to get permission for her husband, who had once again been sentenced to Azkaban, and son, who had been confined to house arrest for a year, to attend was that Harry Potter had stepped in and personally supported her entreaty. As a compromise, The Boy Who Lived himself was present, looking distinctly out of place in a sea of purebloods and Death Eater sympathisers, and a few Aurors had been sent to monitor her family's behaviour.
She understood their reasoning. Why would the new regime want to mourn – or, worse yet, celebrate – the life of someone who had so gleefully killed so many of their own? Rationally, she got it. But that didn't stop the pain that flared up within her at the reminder of how far her sister had fallen, both in the eyes of society and in Narcissa's own mind. Her sister had once been a brilliant young woman with a future that promised her anything and everything she might ever wish for. To see her die a known killer, who would forcibly condemn her own nephew to a perilous lifestyle, was excruciating.
No. Narcissa wasn't going to think about that; not then. She could reflect on Bella's fall from grace some other time, if she had to, but not then. Memories swirled around in her head like liquids in a centrifuge as she forcibly separated them into positive and negative, appropriate and inappropriate, for-now and for-later. Setting the latter category aside, she forced herself to focus on the former as she tuned back into the minister's carefully phrased eulogy.
Finally, it was her time to speak. She made her way up to the podium and, after giving Harry Potter a tight smile to express her gratitude for giving her this change, she began to present her own homage to the woman who had once been Bellatrix Black.