I know, in the end that I made the right choice.that turning to
Dumbledore's side was the right and true and good decision.yet.I long for
the time when I wore my plastic star-shaped sunglasses; when I clunked
around in my sisters' wooden platforms; when I smeared their lipstick
across my lips. I can only wish for the time when we'd pose happily
together, wispy hair flying in the wind, grins stretching our faces.
But that time is gone, as I am reminded everyday when I wake to a quiet house, the silence broken only when my husband returns. I wander around the house, touching and remembering; longing to go back to those lemonade-washed summers spent lying in sun-bleached fields of grass. To go back to the cloudy beaches and rocky cliffs; to the sisterly kisses and hugs given freely-that would be the greatest joy in the world. I no longer desire wealth or status or beauty-petty, meaningless things in the whole of it.
I just want one more hour or even half that time to see my sisters again as we used to be.
Bellatrix-the old Bellatrix-before she was power-crazed, when she was dryly witty and unfailingly patient with me; when she picked me up onto her shoulders so I could see parades. I used to watch as she combed her hair; it was so beautiful and shining and dark and thick and she'd count her hundred strokes. It's funny-the thing I feel the most remorse about when I think of her in Azkaban is how her lovely hair is gone. Childish, I know. I should think of all the people she tortured and all the muggles and friends that she killed. I can't though. Because that Bellatrix isn't my sister; she's a separate entity and it's as though my sister is dead and the new Bellatrix killed the old one.
Narcissa- I get a lump in my throat as I think of her, all coldness and marble now; once our Aphrodite. She used to sail around the fields with her lilting laugh.her sunshine hair pouring over the small of her back. She's with Lucius now and I flinch as I think of him. He never worshiped her as we did.he admired her as you would admire a piece of art- detached and from a distance. She was only another addition to his collection of fine things. She has wilted now, her eyes an empty void, her hair tightly pulled back, appropriately dressed. She doesn't-she doesn't feel anymore.something I thought Narcissa would never succumb to. She was the most passionate of us three, all thrills and giggles and adrenaline. "Full of love and laughter," I believe the muggle saying goes.
I don't really know what happened; that's probably the real tragedy. They left for Hogwarts as my sisters and came back different people. They had their biases then-I can't sugarcoat it, everyone in my family impressed upon us that muggleborns were dirty-but they never did anything.well, before Hogwarts.
They were sucked in, as was everyone around me, into the wild, drugging whirlpool of power and sex and money, never thinking that they were signing away their souls.
No one ever does, realize that you are giving away your soul, I mean.
If they did, would I be here? Would Bellatrix still be my older sister? Would Narcissa kiss my forehead again? If they did, would I be laughing still? Would I be out dancing through the cold waves upon the Cornish coast?
If they did, would we have such good stories to tell?
But that time is gone, as I am reminded everyday when I wake to a quiet house, the silence broken only when my husband returns. I wander around the house, touching and remembering; longing to go back to those lemonade-washed summers spent lying in sun-bleached fields of grass. To go back to the cloudy beaches and rocky cliffs; to the sisterly kisses and hugs given freely-that would be the greatest joy in the world. I no longer desire wealth or status or beauty-petty, meaningless things in the whole of it.
I just want one more hour or even half that time to see my sisters again as we used to be.
Bellatrix-the old Bellatrix-before she was power-crazed, when she was dryly witty and unfailingly patient with me; when she picked me up onto her shoulders so I could see parades. I used to watch as she combed her hair; it was so beautiful and shining and dark and thick and she'd count her hundred strokes. It's funny-the thing I feel the most remorse about when I think of her in Azkaban is how her lovely hair is gone. Childish, I know. I should think of all the people she tortured and all the muggles and friends that she killed. I can't though. Because that Bellatrix isn't my sister; she's a separate entity and it's as though my sister is dead and the new Bellatrix killed the old one.
Narcissa- I get a lump in my throat as I think of her, all coldness and marble now; once our Aphrodite. She used to sail around the fields with her lilting laugh.her sunshine hair pouring over the small of her back. She's with Lucius now and I flinch as I think of him. He never worshiped her as we did.he admired her as you would admire a piece of art- detached and from a distance. She was only another addition to his collection of fine things. She has wilted now, her eyes an empty void, her hair tightly pulled back, appropriately dressed. She doesn't-she doesn't feel anymore.something I thought Narcissa would never succumb to. She was the most passionate of us three, all thrills and giggles and adrenaline. "Full of love and laughter," I believe the muggle saying goes.
I don't really know what happened; that's probably the real tragedy. They left for Hogwarts as my sisters and came back different people. They had their biases then-I can't sugarcoat it, everyone in my family impressed upon us that muggleborns were dirty-but they never did anything.well, before Hogwarts.
They were sucked in, as was everyone around me, into the wild, drugging whirlpool of power and sex and money, never thinking that they were signing away their souls.
No one ever does, realize that you are giving away your soul, I mean.
If they did, would I be here? Would Bellatrix still be my older sister? Would Narcissa kiss my forehead again? If they did, would I be laughing still? Would I be out dancing through the cold waves upon the Cornish coast?
If they did, would we have such good stories to tell?