Her fingers trembled as she pressed the flower gently to the parchment
Her fingers trembled as she pressed the flower gently to the parchment. She stopped for a moment and leaned forward, breathing in the heavy scent that radiated around the crushed blossom like a corona. She tried to smooth out the creased petals, frowning a bit at the dark lines that crisscrossed the thick white tongues, she bit her lip as she adjusted the hair-thin pistils to radiate from the center of the bloom.
Her hand slipped and a tiny stalk snapped off. Her fingers twitched for her wand, on the table next to her, but she curled her hand into a fist and rested it in her lap. She would do it without magic. She shook her hair back to keep it from spilling into the light and took a deep breath. With excruciating slowness she repositioned the stalk and sat back.
It was beautiful. It was perfect. Just like her.
Narcissa sighed and stared at the flower. She had wanted an orchid so badly at the beginning, thought it would be exactly right, but now it seemed flashy and melodramatic. It seemed obvious.
If there's anything she can't stand, it's obvious.
She closed her eyes and when she opened them the orchid stared mutely up at her from the table. It was too late now. The flower itself was perfect, except for a few tiny wrinkles, it was perfect. Her intention was the same as always. She was afraid, though, that Bellatrix would laugh in the cruel magisterial way she had, dismissing her gift as both sentimental and worthless.
But she won't. She won't. Because she won't know it's from me.
Narcissa moved to the shelf and pulled out a heavy book, its cover worn and cracked. She opened it to a page near the back, something about goblin wars and a certain silver tiara that had caused a century-long battle. Her eyes flicked idly over the page, and she slid the sheet of parchment bearing the blossom carefully across the table, then held her breath as she lifted the page and set it carefully in the book.
I love you, Bella.
She closed the book with a thud, half-hoping to startle the flower into utter stillness so that its composition would not be destroyed. She resisted the urge to check on it, then slid the book back onto the shelf, her fingers dry from the pages, her breath perfumed from the scent.
Narcissa sat back at her desk and picked up her wand. She twirled it idly for a few moments, then suddenly stiffened. She was coming.
She tried to clear away the broken blossoms and bits of parchment that littered her desk, but was still holding a cluster of bruised orchids when Bellatrix threw the door open.
"Cissy?"
Narcissa swallowed hard. The nearness of Bella made her pulse race. "Yes?"
"Mother wants to know if you're ready for supper."
"Why—why didn't she just send one of the elves?" Narcissa didn't want Bellatrix to know how much she wanted her presence, didn't want her to know how much she ached for her.
"They were taking too long in the kitchen. They'd probably get lost trying to find you anyway, the stupid things."
The icy contempt in her sister's voice made something hot and dark open inside Narcissa. She didn't understand why Bellatrix's cruelty made her feel so utterly powerless, so wracked with desire. It was a secret thing, the darkest inner workings of magic. She wanted, wanted Bellatrix to speak to her in that same voice, heavy with disdain, not to insult her but to let her in. Narcissa wanted to know what Bellatrix despised so she could know what Bellatrix loved.
I love you, Bella.
"Are you coming or not?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"What?"
"I'm coming."
"Why do you have those flowers?" Bellatrix's luminous eyes flicked down to the handful of broken blooms.
"I was just--"
Bellatrix didn't wait for an answer. A half-sneer crept across her face. "Well," she said haughtily, "just don't let Father catch you with them. You know how he hates Muggle things."
"Yes," Narcissa said softly. On her way out the door she threw the orchids into the fire.
The table was set with calendula and Chalcedonian lilies. Narcissa sat across from Bellatrix, turning her head slightly to see her sister's profile through the heavy red baskets of the blossoms, their curled petals making soft crescent moons through which to view Bella's face. She had left a pale lily on Bellatrix's favorite path the day before, its papery petals almost translucent, like a thin cotton robe dyed deep crimson. Narcissa had held it up to the sun before placing it in the path, feeling the warm blush of diffuse light spreading across her face. She had hidden herself behind a bush and watched, suffused with a different kind of light, as Bellatrix discovered the flower and lifted it in the same way, its shadow spilling across the plane of Bella's cheek.
Narcissa watched Bellatrix closely, hoping for a sign of recognition. It had been foolish, dangerous to take a flower from the grounds, something so common and recognizable. But she had been desperate. Bellatrix's gaze settled on the centerpiece briefly and Narcissa thought she saw a flash of understanding flit across her sister's dark eyes, but they just as quickly flicked away.
I love you, Bella. Not in the way he loves you.
Rodolphus had been mentioned. Narcissa felt a cold tug in her belly pulling her away from her sliver of Bellatrix, refracted red and gold against the lily and the firelight. They were talking of him.
"Comes from a very good family."
"Regarded highly by all the right people."
"And so handsome."
The last cut Narcissa deeply. Bellatrix's mouth had hardly finished forming the words when Narcissa stood up and left the table.
In her room she ran her fingers over the endless spines of heavy, mildewed books. Each one holds a secret, she thought. Each one is precious. She drifted her fingertips across the creased edges of the books, sometimes spilling dust onto the floor. She stopped at a volume bound in green velvet and gilded at the edges and pulled it off the shelf. It opened, she felt, of its own volition to the place where she had set the first flower.
A tiny shudder of embarrassment ran through her as she traced the rose that lay almost flat against a long passage of old-fashioned poetry. A rose. A poem. How meaningless, she thought. How ordinary.
Narcissa dropped the book to the ground and watched as a tear dropped from her cheek to pool in the dust around her feet. Her own insignificant, petty desire made her sick; she wanted to be explosive like Bellatrix, to be violent, fierce, dangerous. But she was not. She was a girl who pressed roses in books of poetry, then cried when they were not beautiful enough.
The thrill of Bellatrix's nearness coursed through her body again. She wasn't sure how it happened, or why, but whenever her sister was close Narcissa could feel her presence like a thin fire in her blood. She wiped at her eyes quickly with the sleeve of her dress and tried to compose herself.
Bellatrix threw open her door in the customary way and stood illuminated by the firelight. Narcissa managed to suppress a gasp at the sight of her, fearsome and lit from below like some avenging creature.
"Why did you leave?" Bellatrix demanded.
"I don't--"
"You do, Cissy. Tell me why."
Narcissa shrank back from the near-fury in her sister's voice. "It was nothing," she whispered.
At the same moment their eyes flicked to the book at Narcissa's feet. Narcissa moved to pick it up but Bellatrix stopped her.
"What's that?"
"It's—just a book, Bella."
"Why is it on the floor?"
"I—I just set it there for a minute."
"Father wouldn't be happy if he saw that, Cissy," Bellatrix warned, and there was a sharp undercurrent of mirth in her tone.
"I know," Narcissa whispered. The tears stung at her eyes again. "I'll just put it up."
"No," Bellatrix said strangely. "I'll do it."
Narcissa felt a cold tendril of fear twisting around her body. What if the book fell open? Bellatrix would see the rose, she'd know, she'd know—
She stared, dread coiling in her belly, as Bellatrix leaned to pick up the book. She couldn't help herself watching the way Bellatrix's body moved, the smooth arc of her back, the tendons in her throat standing out in sharp relief against her ice-white skin, the wild fall of her hair. Narcissa felt herself surging with heat, becoming suffused with fear and desire. Bellatrix was a drop of thick ink falling into the clear water of her body, insinuating itself into her, rushing and spreading until there was no part of her that remained untouched.
Bellatrix's fingers closed firmly around the book. Narcissa thought briefly that she was holding it carefully, tightly, ensuring it would not open. Narcissa thought briefly she saw a look of understanding in Bellatrix's eyes as she lifted it from the ground.
"I am going to marry him, Cissy," she said with a quiet finality. The tenderness in her voice was unexpected, and Narcissa recoiled as though she'd been struck.
Narcissa said nothing, couldn't think of anything to say even if her mouth were able to form the words. She stood, mute and frozen, as Bellatrix slipped the book delicately back onto the shelf and left the room.
Oh Bella. I love you.
After a long time she was able to move again, and breathe and speak. Her throat was tight and her heart raced as she sat down at her dressing table and opened one of the drawers. The dusty scent of dried flowers seeped into the room and made her feel dizzy. She took a deep breath and slipped a translucent, crumbling cluster of violets out from under their protective parchment. She sat for a long moment with the violets in her hand before slowly closing her fingers around them and feeling them turn to powder in her palm.
It didn't matter to Narcissa that Bellatrix would marry Rodolphus. She knew nobody would have a chance against her sister; Bellatrix could marry anyone she chose and the result would be the same. It mattered to Narcissa that Bellatrix would leave her, would disappear, that Narcissa would be left alone with a handful of crushed blossoms and an empty room, that her whole life might pass without ever being so near to Bellatrix as she was now.
Narcissa exhaled slowly and let the remains of the violets scatter across the floor. They hadn't been beautiful enough anyway. The books on the shelves contained dozens, hundreds of fragile blooms, waiting, perfect, easy to give away because they signified nothing except stillness.