A Sorta Fairytale With You
DarkSlayer84
-For Nyohah-
ONE: Snowdrop
I am poison; crazy, lush
Built these hands to lift me up
We are servants of our formulaic ways
-Bush, "Greedy Fly"
Narcissa did not push. And certainly she did not shove. That was for boys, and only for the most rowdy sort at that. So it really should not have startled her when James Potter and his gaggle of miscreants bumped past her in a sea of robe and elbow and crackly, voice-shifting teenage boy-laughter.
Why Sirius persisted in hobnobbing with those troublemakers was beyond her. As was how he managed to get himself sorted into Gryffindor.
Gryffindor! Of all places. The antithesis of the great and powerful Slytherin house. It was something of a boy's club, really, Gryffindor. The emphasis therein was on foolhardy stunts--called "bravery" by the more sympathetic instructors--and Quidditch.
She vehemently disliked Quidditch. To her it was a silly game. No, not silly; pointless. Boys and tomboys flew on broomsticks at breakneck pace to get leather balls through hoops on the ends of long pointy sticks. And, out in the larger wizarding world, people frittered away as much as thirty Galleons for a ticket to watch bigger, older boys do the same thing. The idea that grown men delighted in such spectacle was both incomprehensible to her and distasteful.
Lucius played Quidditch.
Narcissa did not stumble, even when the staircase buckled in front of her and swung, fluidly but with a bit much haste, off to the left. It soon spiraled upward, straight toward the homeroom door.
The young, pale woman in the picture frame could not have looked more bored. She glanced down at her nails; the tips were lacquered a seething, poisonous green. Her voice was like paper crinkling.
"Password?"
"Fame and notoriety."
Iris Parkinson was lounging on the couch in the common room, chatting with plain little Mina Green, the honors student who should have been in Ravenclaw with the other social rejects. Narcissa only noticed Iris because Iris was a pretty girl with dark hair, blue eyes, and pure blood who had the nerve to dislike her. Mina she did not notice at all. Iris was the one who reminded her uncomfortably of Bellatrix, and of the way Bellatrix abandoned her, which made Narcissa very angry indeed. Iris, for her part, simply liked ripping pieces out of the fifth-richest girl in school. Narcissa usually won the clawing matches that ensued. She had the resolve. Iris was fundamentally lazy and had no concept of real pain. She did not know what abandonment was. Narcissa did.
The girls fell silent and white when she approached, looking at their laps and smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of their robes. Narcissa paid it no mind. She had neither quarrel nor use for either of them today. In truth, she didn't even notice, gliding straight past them to her room.
And it was her room. As a direct Black, a first cousin in that most ancient and noble house, she was accorded certain special privileges. She certainly should have been; her mother Atropina put enough money into this miserable school to own half of it, this slate-grey heap of spires with its hateful girls and lying boys.
No, that was unfair.
Hogwarts was an excellent school. She adored Hogwarts. It was her classmates she didn't care for.
They hated her. Both for the usual reasons, the expected reasons, and for some that she couldn't define. What exactly was wrong with money and power?
Narcissa considered herself in the mirror. She did this many times a day, both because she had to maintain her appearance and because-it wasn't a secret-she was fond of the mirror. Or, rather, of whom she saw in the mirror. She knew she was lovely, if a little thin, a little long in the face. It pleased her, the way sunlight made her skin glow back at her in the glass. She had no need of Lady Leeds' Erasure Cream (the other girls swore by it; it got rid of test mistakes and skin blemishes with equal efficiency) or Messrs. Johnson's Petal-Soft Powder. She might need something in later years, perhaps, if she took after her mother. Atropina's skin was creased up like parchment, and she wasn't so many years past forty.
Bellatrix had warned Narcissa about the terrible power of wrinkles. They were an ill magic that ages of sorcery hadn't been able to completely cure. She'd explained all that, and how to avoid them, and smiled even though it caused the skin around her eyes to crinkle. That hadn't mattered overmuch. Bellatrix could trade on the power of that smile, a blinding thing that stopped hearts.
Narcissa was secretly intimidated by the thought of wrinkles. She dreamed about them, sometimes, folds in her skin that opened up like cracks in the ground after a hard frost, fissures that split her skin as if it were paper. In these dreams she bled, and her blood poured like ink over her hands, turning green and glittering as it did so. It stuck to her hands, green and shining and hateful, and her hands withered under the weight of it, curling and peeling away at the wrists.
In these dreams the other girls were gathered 'round, pointing, laughing uproariously because here was the great Narcissa Black, here was the loveliest girl of the House of Black, and now she had wrinkles, etchings in her skin that made her unlovely, that made her hideous and foul, and no boy would want to dance with her then.
Lucius would not want her if she were ugly. He had said as much himself.
Narcissa coiled both hands 'round the mirror frame and clutched it until they stopped shaking.
She tilted her head. Her hair was not what they called "spun gold curls". Those were for children and innocents. Narcissa's hair was white, burned white, with the suggestion of yellow in it. It was brilliant as ice.
Iris had torn it, just over her left temple. She smoothed it, and her reflection winced. Hiding the bruise was easy enough. Ignoring the pain was not. Pretending it wasn't there would simply have to do.
She had to be presentable. That was so very important to Lucius. The girl in the mirror looked wonderful when she smiled, after all. Even if she showed a bit much teeth.
Creating the appearance of makeup was easy enough, a series of minor illusions she'd learned in third year. Dresses she could not manage magically. That didn't matter. She had a closetful. More than that, truth be told, though the rest of them were at the house in Grimmauld Place. She was fond of dresses, though not as fond as she was of the mirror.
Boys who wanted her to think well of them tended to bring her dresses. This made the other girls whisper foul things, not the least of which was "harlot". Nonsense. Narcissa would never defile herself over something as meaningless as a few yards of cloth, no matter how nicely it was arranged. It was one more proof of her theory: Hogwarts students were small-minded and dirty and cruel.
And she was one of them. The paradox wasn't lost on her. She wondered how long it would be before someone pointed this out and flung it back in her face. They always did, sooner or later. It was one of the main reasons she kept quiet. She would rather remain silent. Silent, and superior.
She was exceptional. Her Herbology instructor said so. And the other girls did not get dresses from their admirers.
Narcissa wouldn't wear any of those gifts to the dance, of course. She didn't want to be wearing an obligation. She wanted to have a nice time. And to look thrilling on Lucius' arm. They were going to be married—there was no question of that. There had not been for several years. Their families were an excellent match. The Malfoys needed the status of the Blacks, and the Blacks needed the money of the Malfoys.
Bellatrix had accomplished the same thing in smaller measure by attracting the attention of the Lestranges. They'd had money, yes, and credibility, but not enough of either. Atropina lived like a lady and had a lady's expenses, and, as she was fond of pointing out, "little girls do not feed, clothe, or educate themselves."
Soon most of the money was gone. Not because Bellatrix's husband had run out, but simply because he was tired of catering to Atropina. Bellatrix had done her wifely duty and sided with him. Only Narcissa knew how happy Bellatrix was to close ranks. She had a letter—a note, really, scribbled and fervent and suspiciously water-stained in places—saying as much.
One that began, "Dearest. We will never see each other again."
Narcissa kicked the armoire on her way to the closet. It offended her. She'd had it since she was a child, and shared it. It was old. She had her own room now and should have had her own things. New things. Things without a history. Lucius would get her a new one; they were going to buy entirely new furniture when they were married. He'd promised. She had only to wait.
The closet door was darkly stained oak—she'd changed it to match the cherry tone of her own furniture ages ago—and slid aside easily. The dresses took up most of it. The gift dresses were in the back, and her newest personal finds were in the front. She'd been shopping for this event since she'd first heard rumors of it in August.
Choosing the right gown would not take long. As much as she enjoyed admiring the changes different colors wrought in her face and eyes and figure, most of that wore off after she purchased them. The happiness of buying things did not last long. The allure of change existed mostly in the store.
She found the perfect dress in less than two minutes.
It was the color of mist, crisp and shimmering. It settled with less weight than the wings of a butterfly. The closures were no trouble; there was real convenience to the Muggle concept of the zipper, and the wizarding world caught on swiftly. She looked at herself in the mirror, and adjusted her makeup to be just a little cooler in tone, a little darker; her eye shadow went from fashionable turquoise to a more lapis shade. The lipstick was as red as she dared; red did not suit her, but leaving the lipstick too dark would make her sallow. Jaundice victims did not get their choice of dancing partners.
Lucius was a competent dancer, if not especially imaginative. He led with assurance through all the requisite steps. A dance with Lucius was hardly the waltz with Prince Charming that every girl was supposed to want, but damned if she would play Cinderella for anyone. The very concept of scrubbing anything made bile rise in her throat. That was for house-elves and Muggles. She was neither, and if Lucius was not particularly dashing, at least he did not expect her to slave over him.
Once she finished with the gown, Narcissa pinned up her hair up and went to get her shoes. The silver ones with the long straps and glass heels. They made her calves a little slimmer and brought out the strong, perfect lines of her ankles. They really were perfect. Ideal for any princess courting her fairytale lover.
Lucius was devoted, in his way. He told her often how much he loved her, and in moments when he was being more honest, how much he loved having her with him. He was beautiful and rich and intense. And if that intensity sometimes left marks, if the strength of his grip bruised her wrists, well. It was proof of his regard.
She did hope that his regard might lessen after they were married.