[narcissa malfoy]
scarlet is the colour of many things —
the lipstick she is so fond of, that perfects her mask of ice, sealing everything into place before it melts,
the banner of the house she used to watch so forlornly, envy evident in her cold, cold eyes
(the blood that stains her husband's hands, dripping and cold, it seeps onto her own as their fingers intertwine)
vivacious and bright, stark against the paleness of her skin, she's become accustomed to thinking the whole world can see it
to thinking the whole world can see her for who she is.
what she is.
she has to remind herself now that it all is hidden —
that all the world sees is another pretty face, another demure smile
that what happens behind closed doors, that what secrets are exchanged are just that —
hidden.
for behind that vivid scarlet lies nothing but a shadow
paper-thin, the truth long gone.