"I bloody miss the house-elves."
"Language, Draco."
Two heads tipped back, regarding the ceiling and its newest pancake. Half-fried batter stuck better than any sticking charm. And so now there were six. The kitchen hosted these awkward polka dots, complete with a dribble onto Draco's head.
"Truly, to spare us all, you couldn't have gone with a simple casserole bake? Surely, the oven could have better contained disaster." Idly, he flicked the beige sludge off his cheek.
Narcissa scowled at her son, still gripping the frying pan, menace in her knuckles. As always, her voice was calm and frozen.
"Pancakes are apparently a staple."
"And yet, you don't see Bellatrix cozied up to an apron."
Silence was the amusing answer, and they both looked to the backyard, yonder on the property. The bordering woods. Neither was surprised to see their volatile relative stalking a buck with bow and arrow. It was an oddly primitive sight. But a suiting surreal. Cissa tsked, strung between carry-over distaste of muggle weaponry, and approbation. She fell somewhere in medias res, looking forward to venison.
"That's Aunt Bellatrix to you, Dragon."
"Of course, because truly I endeavor to piss off the she-devil that stalks creatures in our shrubbery."
From this, an earlier pancake took cue and fell, squelching and landing on blonde locks with a plop. He sighed. His mother stifled a chuckle, and drew her wand. Clean-up was in order.
"I think I'll name this bugger Bellatrix." He peaked out from under the pancake-hat, which face-sat. "Their inclinations seem similar."
Narcissa's eyes bugged, and you could hear the dirty wheels spin. Accidently or not. Draco blinked, unfortunate associations lending to smutty epiphany. Matching her gutter.
"Are you mad?! Not like that! Ew freaking ew, Mother, that's disgusting." His face stuck between horrid and flushed, and he thought of Blaise. He couldn't decide what exactly put off: the idea of any woman riding his face or the less-than-savory incestual nuance. But then humor in the Black-Malfoy family had always tended toward dark. And he had his suspicions.
In this, she did not disappoint.
"I see that telly-thing of Hermione's has injected oh such lovely Americanisms into your repertoire." Regardless of the awkward subject, her eyebrow hiked, displeased and amused. "And besides, while we're on the subject of belles..." Black ooze pulled her lips into ambiguous smirk, tweaking at gay. She gestured with her wand. "Don't knock it until you've tri—"
A different kind of splat entered the kitchen.
It thudded and kissed pain to the floor. Cissa startled, hair-triggered from the awful years. Reflex, and wand shot stunning spell. It was only Draco's quick hand that knocked it off path and straight out the window, which shattered. The glass was nothing. Snow winds howled their frenzy, taking greedy shelter in the warmth. The resulting draft was chilling. Obscenely, it was accompanied by indignant shouts from the distant wood, creeping closer on the wind. Cissa winced, and grew bad feeling as to the deer.
They stared. Tharn. Uncomprehending of vision, and the floor. Surrealism at its best: the bloody muddy Hermione Black. Broken on their marble. Again.
She'd splinched. The avoidance of such had been improbable, in her state. But Hermione had needed out. And out she took. She flinched at the impact. And understood too quickly that flesh was missing, chunked from her left thigh. Faintly, she approved at the absurd level.
'At least this balances out the shoulder.'
Red spilled out, femoral body ink imbruing jeans in awful dark wash. She bit her lip in mind-fuck, hating the mud that seeped into her wounded body and mixed with her pulse. It cut harsher than the pain. Humiliated and felled, much like Bella's trees, still she sought speech, even as severity crumpled on the kitchen floor.
"C-cissa…"
It was Cissa she spoke. But Bella she begged for. Wild eyes pleaded, dying in too many ways. One of them, being the most pressing. Narcissa knelt. She grasped the girl's hand fiercely, wand already magicking and midway through diagnostics. This sister she had gained. She would not loose another. No comment, as Draco repaired the window. The draft wouldn't do anyone well.
Another pancake fell. It wasn't funny this time.
Apparition crack sounded. And then trompings of feet in the foyer. A distinctive thump: the dulcet sounds of animal carcass unloaded. Most likely on heirloom floor tapestry. Lingering fits of smoke trailed the erratic arrival, and Bellatrix was danger, making way toward kitchen. The lingering snarls were black, front scouts in the corridor. Her threats carried with the ephemeral vapor. Malfoy Manor had an awful acoustic build. Screams tended to echo. Draco heard hunting gloves leather-smack the wall; Bella's retribution ruin. (A vindictive trade: her deer, for Cissy's pristine homestead.) But he was well aware that in retrospect, the resulting bloodstains would have nothing on the ones spilled on marble.
"Dammit, Cissy!" And Bella was ire in kitchen.
The angle was unfortunate, as the bloody floorshow was out of sight; the kitchen island blocked her view. Bella could see her sister busy, with something on the floor. And from the pancake-coated kitchen, she assumed it cleanup of another cooking adventure. Draco shifted, making toward her but hugging kitchen wall. (Less on account for escaping wrath, and more so anticipating what would come.) The witch spared him a brief glance, momentarily confused by his stricken face. She considered him, but her hiss burned remnants of leftover crazy toward Narcissa. It unnerved Draco as her eyes searched his for explanation, yet vitriol painted elsewhere.
"On the head of that whore Circe…Cissa, I swear I'll eviscerate you and make Lucius fuck the entrails in his new lodgings."
Great. Draco took care not to show the shiver he felt. T'was an eerie and rather off-putting mannerism of his aunt's. And always good when necrophilic insults made it into potluck quarrels. Despite the situation, he managed a level of macabre levity, and raised an eyebrow.
"Any way you could manage your venom in another direction?" His drawl was more worthy of the peacocks he'd grown up near.
Draco's head tilted, indicating redirection. That is his mother, who should have, by all accounts, scowled. But he knew her attention was on that limp form. Mutters were silent, but he recognized those lip patterns as her healing forte. Bella's eyes fumed at him, but her restraint persisted. Faintly, he counted lucky seconds. Until he felt a mild stinging hex smart him in the forehead. Then he counted himself amused at what clearly was Bellatrix's awkward brand of affection. Even if it did hurt like a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But she did turn toward his mother, stepping. It was what he wanted. What they needed. His aunt was dangerous to interrupt in such a state. But they didn't have time for their regular ritual of Bella-bomb-disarming. That required, amongst other things (absurdly enough), pudding.
"I fucking had him." Sibling rage was a bicker-some familiarity, as was her colorful art of delivery. Furious, Bella got to point. "Narcissa-fucking-Black, I bloody well had him! That's the third kill you've stolen this week, my kil—" Bellatrix broke off; the sight of her sister crouched over something.
Someone.
At the break, Narcissa finally turned. Bellatrix found haunted eyes. Fear flickering there, in ways she hadn't seen since childhood.
"Bella…" The blonde shifted, her voice low and shaking. Pushing back her personal horror, in a moment of weakness, Cissa let the tear drop.
It was only then Bellatrix grasped terror. Moving from heart on her sister's face to the balled form, battered and curled. Jean-clad. And basted in filth. The deer issue was dead. Her face blanched, but expression blanked. Reaction held in, holding in anything. And Draco held to the island, thinking that the sliced apples upon it were cheery enough to prompt blasting. It was ungraceful, as Bella drop-plopped on the floor. Regal, as she violently kissed Cissa's forehead, her fingertips brushing wetness on the blonde's face. And trembling whispers there. She assessed the situation. Dark eyes holding panic and murderous promise. And Hermione was the draw in her breath, the nails raking her skin.
Three floor goddesses, Draco thought them, had they not been sitting in blood. Or perhaps, because they were.
Hermione felt faint, blood loss making itself known, spilling like ruby piano keys. Concussion, dislocation, and laceration: the proper chords of accompaniment. Her thoughts felt thick, heavy with the wish of sleep and drunk with discombobulation. But she knew the two shadows near her. Slitted eyes were sad honey and barely conscious — they reached for Bella's, speaking volumes they hadn't yet filled. Words still left unsaid. The bruising on Hermione's temple was stark, as was the odd angle of her shoulder…even through smears of blood and mud. The tattered clothing. Bella's lip trembled. Her witch's leg was exposed, jeans having been cut open. She fell into direction, a distraction she knew well.
"Her head."
"Yes I know."
"Cast a full bo—"
"Already done."
"Why haven't you—"
"The mud is magical in origin, no chance of infection. Priorities first."
"Why hasn't she—"
"You very know well what the spell does."
"Her leg—"
"If you'd shut your awful trap, I'd clean it faster."
Sure enough Cissy's wand was trained on the limb. Concentrating, as were the furrows in her brow. Between the sisters, all apologies were offered, understood tacitly. And the silence left Hermione and Bellatrix alone, even in the presence of family. Narcissa moved onto magical stitching of sorts, causing Hermione to cry out. Hoarse shrieks banged, like banshee pots with spoons. Instinctively Bellatrix reached for her wife. But pulled the need at last seconds, her own emotions terrifying in overwhelm. She avoided touch, as if it would make the awful scene less tangible. So the once-murderess settled for flexing fingers, wandless magic exploding all breakable objects in the vicinity.
Including that of the window. Again.
Anticipating, Draco had instinctively shielded them. Startled magic centered on his mother and former classmate. The outer-edge remnants offered his aunt some amount of minimal safety. Glints of external purple mixed with his, blanketing the two women. And he quite suspected Bella had done the same as himself, shielding (excepting herself, of course). Bellatrix, he knew, wanted the pain. Glass slivers glittered in her hair, and sparkled like snow in the chamber lowlights. Her habit of long sleeves and billowing skirts protected most skin, but she hissed as bites made themselves known on exposed neck and décolletage. For moments, Draco had adult eyes, and saw his aunt. He wondered how many times she had turned to self-mutilation, to avoid tears.
But the initial motion had not been lost on the Gryffindor; the pulled touch. And Hermione stared at her filthy hand, misinterpreting the entire exchange. Ron's curse didn't help. Much like a Horcrux, it played on insecurities, twisting them. And this old pureblood curse was perhaps worse. For it kept its evil internal, and the victim confused what thoughts were their own, and which shames weren't real. Her soul shook, thinking that Bellatrix disgusted at the dirt inside her, now displayed for all. With mud paint, and blood accents. It wasn't so far off a possibility, the recent past…case in point. And it wouldn't be the first time her blood status came between them. Tears leaked, cleaning squiggles onto Hermione's cheeks. And she pressed herself closer into the floor, face tasting pancake mix. Marble. The spell wreaked and brought forth past as torture. The drawing room. Bella's breath. Carving. Chandelier. It felt too real, and knives dug into heart, laughing the whole way through. Insides stabbed, folding into themselves, and all she could see was her wife's trademark sneer.
Nothing.
She was nothing.
Nothing.
She was soiled, and muddy. The lowest creature to flop on this earth. Her body shook, for reasons outside blood loss, outside the wand that knit muscle and pulled skin back over her bones.
"Bellatrix, you harpy. Fix that." For once, Narcissa's voice held emotion. Even if her words approached from disconnected mind-set. "Fix it. She's thinking wrong." Admonishment, yes, but mostly affection for the two women who forever communicated with misunderstood hiccups.
The girl refused gaze, and trembled woes beyond physical pain.
Taking in the whole picture, Bella understood. She understood too well, because mudblood scar still reddened the girl's arm, tattooing doubts and their separate worlds of birth. It still stood between them, even if it had damaged both of their psyches, under the cover of double-agency. And the witch, her witch was painted with slur and prejudice. Bella growled, the unpleasantries of plotting revenge. This…particular state was an old style tar-and-feather of the magical world; a favorite during the First Wizarding War. Branding. Shaming. Soul-shaming, down to the most inner of layers. She grasped that muddied and bloodied hand.
Deliberately.
Hermione didn't let her eyes meet glowing orbs; they simply captured her. And the warrior cherished scraped knuckles, pledging fealty, her lips stalking danger and home base.
"Name him. And I'll fillet the bitch. You're no one's muddy. No one's…but mine." Bellatrix was clear, speech her darkest tender. Snarling and promising.
And in a move he thought far out of reach, Draco watched Bellatrix take fully to the floor herself, and make it bed. She slid next to the chit, and cupped the battered face. Kissed the split lip — blood, mud, and all. And on the floor, pressed to each other, the lieutenant made them equal: filth coating her corset. And Hermione finally cried, breaking in Bella's mouth. Howling out soul into the witch's neck. A second tear made its way down the healer's cheek, though Cissa's mien was impassive as the snow outside and the unforgiving marble in.
"Bella…hold her." Clinical.
Blue and Black met. And Bellatrix rolled the girl over, holding the wounded still as big spoon. Cissa attacked and thrust the arm back into socket. Those howls. And from experience, they both knew…a one fell-swoop-course, would hurt less than two.
Hermione didn't realize when black swept her mind and took her consciousness. Only that Black held her safe and everything hurt.
Author's Note: R & R, lovelies.
(Credits for entire story: Counting Crows – A Long December; Edwin McCain – I'll Be; Damien Rice – 9 Crimes; Don McLean – American Pie; Florence + the Machine – Howl, No Light, No Light; Green Day – Longview; Gregory Maguire – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The Harry Potter movies; Idina Menzel (Frozen) – Let it Go; J.K. Rowling – the Harry Potter series, Once Upon a Time, the TV show; Sholom Secunda – Dona Dona; Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,the Disney movie; Sweeney Todd, the movie; Third Eye Blind – Semi-Charmed Life; Walt Whitman – I Sing the Body Electric; The Wizard of Oz, the movie)