The silky fabric of the dress slipped through Narcissa's fingers as time itself. Not even Lucius's squeeze on her shoulder could fill the emptiness that threatened to fill her up. There was no blood on the dress, only the stench of curses and hexes gone horribly awry, and the electric singes from the energy that had once emanated from her sister's body as she delighted in her favourite sadistic spells.

Silent tears fell from Narcissa's eyes, staining the dress where she would imagine the blood would be. Seeing that there was nothing he could do, Lucius kissed the top of his wife's head and quietly left the room. Narcissa continued to caress the fabric tenderly, feeling almost as if it would somehow bring her closer to the strong-willed woman that had once worn it.

A part of her felt guilty. Things had ended miraculously well, considering everything that had gone so very wrong leading up to the end. The Potter boy had had a remarkable streak of forgiveness, attesting to her family's change of heart, and giving her a second chance to live the quiet life with her family that she had always wanted.

Even as the days frolicked on without her, the hideous black mark that marred her husband and son's forearms began to fade. Neither of them would speak of it, but Narcissa could tell when Lucius reached behind her ear to tuck away a stray strand of hair, the visage of the skull and serpent that had sickened her for so long was gradually losing its potency.

At last, her perfect pureblood family could exist in relative peace. No more 2:00am missions that tore her husband from her bed and left her cold when there should have been another warm body next to her. No more nightmares that the Dark Lord would kill, or destroy, everything she held dear. No more dizzying adrenaline rushes every time an owl tapped at the window. No more screaming that her son was only a child; it was all over and he would finally get his chance to be the child he was supposed to be.

No more Blacks.

Yes, the bloodline had come to an abrupt halt with the death of Sirius two years ago, and yes, it may has well have been twenty years ago for the way Sirius had treated the matter, and yes, her sister's last name had been Lestrange since before she had been trapped in prison for a quarter of her life. But she had never really been a Lestrange. Rodolphus had only been a stepping-stone on her sister's path to what she really wanted. A Dark Mark of her own. The pride and glory that came with actively pursuing the cause, rather than wasting away complaining about it, as Narcissa had been content to do. No, her sister had always been a Black.

Had.

Narcissa bit her lip, tasting blood as she fingered the seams of the dress. It almost seemed wrong that her wild sister had been buried in something so dignified. Of all the admirable things she had been, dignified was hardly the first one that came to mind. But this way she had the dress. The thing the warrior had worn as she fought to the last seconds of her life and finally fell.

Of course the dress was black. Black like her hair, like her eyes after enduring years of insanity. Black like the varnish on the wand, the vector for her passion. Black like the mark on her arm that symbolised everything she stood for. Black like the empty space she left behind. Black like her name.

Through her shaking fingers, the dress slid to the floor, and Narcissa wept for Bellatrix Black.