Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. The quote 'while there's life, there's hope' is credited to Marcus Tullius Cicero, and the lyric 'Pity comes to late. Turn around and face your fate' is taken from Andrew Lloyd Webber's phenomenal musical The Phantom Of The Opera.
Author's Note: This was written for a challenge on another fanfiction website. Basically, I was given the two quotes mentioned above and had to incorporate them into a one-shot. Enjoy!
Turning To Ash
She stares disdainfully around the once grand room, swallowing the bile that rises. The fine furnishings are covered with years worth of dust, despite the ownership of an elf. Taking a deep breath, she hobbles around slowly, holding onto her black walking stick with arthritic and swollen fingers. Her chest heaves with the effort, and it is not long before she sits down heavily on one of the chaise lounges. With a snarl, she notices that all three of them are moth eaten and damp, the stuffing falling onto the Persian rug with the frayed edges. She wrinkles her nose, frowning, her beady black eyes spitting with fury. This room was once great, known throughout the elite for it's grandeur. Look at it now, she thinks bitterly with a snort. Like us all.
Grinding her teeth, she reaches in her pocket for her cigarette's; a filthy muggle habit which she hadn't the will power to ever give up. She coughs harshly, lighting the end and taking a long drag, ignoring the termite ridden chair cracking with protest as she leans back.
With a roll of her eyes, she notices the chandelier, an ostentatious wedding gift from Druella, was dripping with cobwebs and dead spiders, giving a haunted effect to the ever burning candles. She always hated the bloody thing. But, of course, she had been forced to accept the ghastly light feature with a smile. It was her husband who suggested it be fixed in this room.
A dark shadow crosses her lined face at the thought of him, and urgently puffs on the cigarette, trying to clear her head. He's been dead for years, and has been far more useful in Death than in life. His blasted sneezing has been silenced for good, and she finally burned the horrendous portrait of his mother that used to hang in the drawing room a week after the funeral. She snorts, her tight bodice threatening to break from the sharp movement of her chest. "Bah," she grunts, heaving herself from the chair, as another bought of coughing threatens to over come her. Her jaw shakes angrily as she holds onto the golden snake head of her walking stick, palms sweaty, intent on leaving the God forsaken room.
As she reaches the French doors, she looks back over her shoulder. She scoffs irritatedly, noticing the large windows were coated in grime, and and embroidered green curtains were almost in shreds from years of neglect.
She grinds her teeth, and slams the door as she hobbles away. She can't for the life of her remember why she went into that room in the first place. Surely it was a lapse in judgement on her part, she decides, frowning. A room like that is a disgrace to the manor. She makes a note to tell the ruddy house-elf to strip it bare and give the furniture to her niece - it would be her problem, then. She smirks, imagining the look of horror on the girl's face at such dark, Gothic furniture in her 'white palace'.
A look of confusion crossed the old woman's hard face. She was coming over for morning tea, with her idiotic husband and pathetic child. She rolls her black eyes and looks at the old muggle grandfather clock Alphard had given her many years before. She would be arriving in ten minutes.
"Elf!" she bellows down the halls, her harsh voice cracking. She taps her pudgy fingers impatiently on the walking stick, growing more irritated by the second. If the wretched creature keeps her waiting this long, it can join it's blasted ancestors mounted on the stairwell for all she cares.
"Elf!" she bellows again, her thick cheeks flushing red. Her eyes bulge with irritation as she is overcome with a coughing fit.
Several moments later, she hears running footsteps from the kitchen, followed by the clanging of a saucepan falling to the wooden floor. Disgusting creature, she thinks as the thin elf bows low, it's long nose bending as it hits the floor.
"Yes, Mistress?" it asks, not looking up.
"Prepare tea and cake," she grunts, trying to hobble fast to the reception room, "and for Merlin's sake, do not let the boy out of your sight once they get here. I will not have a stupid little child running around my house. The blasted house of my fathers'," she finishes darkly, a scowl crossing her face as she sits by the dying fire. She takes a grateful drag of her cigarette, waiting irritatedly for her niece to arrive so this ruddy morning tea can be over quickly.
"You've been smoking again."
The young blonde woman stares blankly at her aunt, pursing her lips. Narcissa waits for an answer, taking a nervous sip of tea. Her blue eyes flicker over to her young son, trying to squirm out of his fathers arms. She catches his grey eyes and slowly brings a finger up to her lips, hoping that the young boy quietens down - she knows her Aunt has no patience for children of any sort.
"And?" the older woman snorts, glaring from beneath her heavily lidded eyes. "That's no concern to you-"
"Forgive me, I was merely surprised," Narcissa replies quickly, placing another lump of sugar in her tea. She swallows hard as the awkward silence grows more pronounced. She takes another sip of tea, and smooths her hair, keeping her eyes on the platter of biscuits on the small table in the middle of the room, avoiding her Aunts mocking gaze. Like always, Narcissa thinks.
"You've always been an inquisitive little stick insect," her Aunt cackles several minutes later without a hint of amusement. She glares coldly around the room, pausing on her niece's husband. That mop of white blonde hair was a disgrace, she thinks, eyeing him suspiciously. Heaving herself forward, she takes another scone from the platter the elf had laid out earlier, taking a bite.
She scowls, and throws it to the floor in disgust.
"Wretched elf!" she screeches darkly. The scone tasted like a lump of flour, bitter and thick. She flails her arms, looking madly for her walking stick. That elf has to go, she decides, ignoring the cries from the baby as she staggers from her settee, her black eyes wide and volatile.
Quickly, Narcissa places her soft hand reassuringly on the older woman's shoulder. "Auntie, I think you need a rest," she murmurs kindly, guiding her Aunt back to the settee. "Lucius, darling, you take Draco and go home, I'll be there soon." She ignores the crack of her husband disapparating and pours another cup of tea for her Aunt. She's used to the erratic, somewhat violent behaviour by now, but Narcissa's blue eyes show concern as her Aunt grows paler.
"I don't want your pity, child," she spits, turning her back coldly to her niece.
Narcissa freezes, a small frown on her face. She swallows hard, biting down on her lower lip, trying to decide what to do. With a sad smile, she gathers her handbag and goes to the door. "It was lovely seeing you, Aunt," she says, wincing at the coughing fit overcoming her Aunt. "While there's life, there's hope, while there's life, there's hope," she chants softly, blinking away tears. Old age is unkind, she thinks, especially to those who have suffered.
"Life? Hope?" her Aunt demands bitterly, reaching for a slice of cake without looking at Narcissa.
Narcissa watches on, not knowing what to say. "Yes, always. As long-"
The old woman scoffs madly, licking icing off her pudgy fingers. "As long as there's life, there's loss, Narcissa," she barks darkly, not hiding the pointed venom in her voice. She grimaces as she turns her back, a chill seeping into the room. It claws at her weakened chest with sharp talons. She chokes, reaching desperately for her tea to soothe her. After hiccoughing, she regains her straight back stance, glaring at the ceiling. "If you're smarter than your bloody mother and father," she continues slowly, emphasising the words with ice, "you'll realise that once you're my age."
A loud bang wakes her, causing her heart to start racing. She flails around wildly in the dark room, knocking over a glass of water as she searches for her wand. Grunting, she soon gives up and takes in her surroundings; her all too familiar bedroom. She does not remember retiring for the evening, but shrugs it off and slowly gets out of the uncomfortable bed, her joints cracking. The pain was unbearable.
"Damned arthritis...or whatever it's bloody called," she mutters under her breath, making her way to her vanity. She lights a candle, the flare doing no justice for her lined face and puffy eyes. After glancing around the room, she's convinced she imagined the sound that woke her. She snorts, squinting to see the labels on her bottle of medication. Her blasted knee was stiff and giving her grief - she wished arthritis could be cured with magic.
She swallows the bitter pills with a grimace and limps over to the large window. Ruddy muggle street lights, she thinks, glaring at the offending lamp post. She scoffs and drags the curtains shut, before hobbling painfully back to her bed. She blinks slowly in the darkness, and looks up at the moth eaten canopy. It's so old, she realises blankly, fiddling with the collar of her nightgown. Another thing going to dust.
With an exasperated sigh, she realises she's left the candle alight. She wonders darkly as to the whereabouts of her wand as she glowers at her vanity, fuming. "Stupid, stupid light!" she spits venomously, her black eyes flashing dangerously in the feeble light. "Elf!" she screeches to the dark house, knowing full well the elf probably would not hear her. She swears the creature is going deaf in it's old-age. It was the only explainable theory for why it's so disobedient and never appears when called.
Cursing, she throws off the blankets angrily and heaves herself once more from the bed. Her eyes glare daggers as she limps uncertainly to the vanity, sitting gratefully on the chair in front.
She looks over the dusty surface, recognising the many pots of moisturiser and lotions she had owned for Merlin knows how long. None of them have ever been used-she hates being forced to accept other people's 'kindness' and 'generosity' on supposed important occasions. She wonders briefly why she never thought to throw them out, before becoming distracted.
There is a reason this table is covered in dust, she remembers, ignoring the flickering of the candle.
Her face pales as she furrows her brow, running her fingers through her limp hair. "Oh, no, no, no, no..." she mutters, breathing ragged. Her mind swirls, forcing her to remember.
The wand. The burn. The laughing.
The guilt.
She refuses.
Rubbing her throbbing temples, she closes her eyes and reaches out to the curtain covering what she has hidden for too long. Tears fall slowly down her cheeks as she wrenches her hand away, twisting her rings feverishly. Their faces were haunting her, flashing before her eyes, one looking confused, the other full of pride, and the last-
"Kreacher!" she yells desperately, bringing her rough hands down hard onto the marble top. She needs a sleeping draught, it seems like the only way. The walls she has lived behind were growing weak, she realises, and the ugly cracks that had caused her world to become unstable were forcing their way to her mind as well. Everything she has fought against is catching up, chilling her to the core.
She trembles, bringing her heavily lidded eyes back to the material in front of her. She knows what is behind it. Ignoring the voices echoing in her head, she wrenches the black sheet away with a growl.
"Don't do it," she hisses to herself, forcing her eyes down. She's frozen on the chair, her breathing shallow.
"Do it. For once in your life, don't be a coward," she snarls, arguing with herself. "It's just a reflection-"
Crying silently, the old woman faces what years of hatred, loathing and bitterness have done to her. It's taken more than her sons, her family. It has taken the one selfish thing she has never wanted to lose.
She looks in the mirror.
The cracks begin to show for what they truly are - time. The one thing she has always thought she could outrun if she kept it hidden for long enough.