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You Only Say You're Sorry
by Meredith Bronwen Internity
[Today]
You dream.
The first part of the dream of Narcissa; it's nice that she appears outright, instead of lurking vaguely behind some white curtain, indistinct outlines shifting like the word 'ambush'. She knows you have been waiting for her, expecting, and she is always sure to indulge you, when she can.
She's braiding your hair, softly, in the intricate way that requires magic to hold it in place. It's not something you ever learned, this offhanded braiding spell, though of course Narcissa's mother taught it to her as soon as she was old enough to chant. Now she can do it without even thinking about it-- but then, that can be said of a lot of things Narcissa could and did do.
You watch her face in the mirror before you-- part of a vanity, white-- and realize you're in her room. The one that was _hers_, not shared, at Cold Stone. Such a strange thing to call a house, even a 'manor'-- it made you chill, thinking about it. As if you'd touched the name. Her hands are slicked with rosemary water-- to make your hair smell good-- and she wipes them on a satin towel, before leaning forward. She reaches around you, a loose embrace, a very casual touching, in order to grab for the hand mirror.
"What do you think?" she asks, angling reflective pane so you can see the intricate weavings of your copper hair. You aren't looking at that, though it is lovely; you're looking at Narcissa, behind you, pale and perfect, and at her satisfied smile.
"Beautiful," you say. She puts the hand mirror down, and now her face is right next to yours, cheek to cheek. Hands, cool and light, run down along your body, the sides of your breasts. It goes right through you, this touching-- she traces your ribs, as if plucking at a harp. Her eyes are on the reflection, too; she likes to watch both sides. Your skin seems to sigh 'Narcissa', willing and eager, your head tipped back. For the first time, you think there might be something to the Houses, because she is definitely serpentine, twining about you. Snakelike.
Then, just like that-- as was her way-- she is gone. A breeze or a word can displace her, make her slide, leviathan, back into her milky waters. It's not just a dream time mechanism; it's real life.
Maybe you get up to go look for her-- you don't know-- because now you're standing far away, on a high dune. Perhaps this is not so surprising. Like all precious, dangerous things, Narcissa requires questing after. The wind is hot in this impossible, Sahara land, and the sand is actually that childhood crayon-color-- "goldenrod". The sky is blue above you, oh-so impossibly blue; you stand in the sun and the heat, and you hear James screaming.
Where is he? You can't tell. All this endless wasteland echoes, moans, and you can't see him anywhere within the confines of the horizon. But you _can_ hear him; his raw voice is like a claw around your heart, squeezing.
And there is Severus, over there, atop another impossibly high mountain of sand. You call out to him-- he's dark against the sky-- but what do you expect him to do? Help James? Once, he might have, though whether for James' sake or for yours, you don't know. But now? You don't know. He's so far away; even in the dream, he is much closer than in reality. You can't bridge it, this rift-- you don't understand it's dimensions, and when you gained a husband, you never imagined you would loose a friend. After all, those last years at Hogwarts where such a careful high wire act, the cord cutting into your feet. On one side Severus, on the other side James and his friends. You know what they said about you, but this balancing act had not so much to do with love and more to do with friendship. And with betrayal, though you are still trying to figure out exactly who was betrayed, and why.
Here is Severus, now, in your dream world, and he is closer than he has been in a very long time. What will you say to him, to bring him back from the edge-- this edge you sense but can not be certain of? Severus is so precarious, and James is still screaming. He's not watching you, anyway, your old, dark friend. His gaze is off in the distance, on the small and lonely figure of a boy who makes his way with childish, faltering steps through the dunes. He will stumble and fall, this child-- there's really no way around that-- and you are too far away to help.
But Severus is closer, he can make it there in time to aid the child. Somehow, you can see him lifting the boy, at once terse and tender. "Get on with it," Snape would say, giving the little boy strength all the same. Absurdly, this relieves you. They will be okay, Severus and this boy you know but don't, even if you-- turning towards the now dark horizon where James is in pain-- are not.