Whatever they thought of their sister, their niece really was a sweet and beautiful child what Bellatrix did see and know of her. It was even more unfortunate, Bellatrix thought, that youngest her sister made this old-man, weasel-looking child that she doted on and cooed over. Even more bewildering was that her beautiful baby sister had married so far down. They all had, there was nowhere else to go but down from their last name. At least she married higher up in another country, in someone else's culture. But Narcissa, poor, sweet, and obviously lovedrunk Narcissa married this vain, useless, clueless dolt. The lies she must have told herself to be here, to get to a place where she could sit and really be fascinated by her ugly baby. The lies she must tell herself still. Bellatrix glanced side long at her sister filled with genuine confusion.
She had felt nothing on finding out she would be an aunt again and felt only revulsion now. What a short tumble to the relative middle; both of her younger sisters shamed the family name. This child would grow up and look like his rat-faced father. Just a pinched look and countenance, too much slenderness in the proportions. There would be no confusion that he was a Malfoy. What a waste. And yet, in this child's way, he was already doing his mother's side of the family favors.
Lord Voldemort seemed, if not cheerier, less volatile. Maybe that wasn't true. He loved Narcissa in his way, even then. He walked in the garden with her, spoke differently to her and Narcissa, for her part engaged and enjoyed, in her own way, their discussions but, they learned this behavior at the feet of their own mother and father. She thought all of them had learned to shield something and store it away and reveal only a silvery civility. Andromeda just turned her coolness towards her own family but the snootiness remained, the poshness remained, the blackness, as ever, remained. She didn't agree with it but she understood it. She didn't like it but could bear it. It was Bellatrix who acted outside of their upbringing.
Narcissa rocked Draco back and forth in her arms. She could sense Bellatrix' boredom. She did not get it and did not want to and Narcissa didn't care. If Andromeda had been there, she would have understood. She was a great mother, Narcissa just knew. She missed her sometimes in a way that she knew she was not missed. She knew somewhere that when she married the muggle that what Andromeda meant was that all of their family, including her sisters, meant nothing. This stranger meant more than they did. It did not matter that Andromeda was the one who taught Narcissa magic when she came home from school for the holidays. It did not matter that when Narcissa finally got to school that her sisters, both of them, ensured Narcissa was given preferential treatment because one was so feared and the other so dearly loved. She understood Andromeda and Andromeda understood her and that counted for nothing when she left. Andromeda also understood Bellatrix and in a way that Narcissa had not understood then. She had not understood the seething, clenched teeth rows they could get into. Bella had taught Andromeda to duel in more ways than one. Bellatrix wanted the best for all of them. She would claw her way through anything, put up with nothing so that her baby sisters could live with the protection of her ferocity and discipline. How dare Andromeda throw that back in her face! How dare she throw away her gifts, her brilliance, her beauty, her name?
It was not until Narcissa finally sat at the table with all of them that she understood Bellatrix for who she was and what she might have always been. She understood then what it must have meant to carry the burden of your rebellious sister and to watch out for the youngest, sometimes whiny sister. She had worked for them all this time and had nothing to show for it. Narcissa did not know the muggle words but she would have recognized Bellatrix as a general, top brass. Here her focus, her intensity could be put to use for something she believed in if for no other reason that it would benefit her directly, the family name and all the wealth and protections it conferred. It would punish any detractors but Narcissa did not think too deeply about that. If Bella could throw Andromeda away and Andromeda could abandon all of them, she could only trust the family she made. For what it was worth. She placed her hand on her stomach and waited for the introduction she knew was forthcoming. She smiled to herself, to her husband. She answered Lord Voldemort's questions about her pregnancy. She smiled at him, at her sister sitting at his side. She smiled at her cousins Regulus, Evan. She remained gracious to people she attended school with and those she didn't know alike. She nodded and laughed at the right places. Bellatrix was not impressed nor embarrassed but Narcissa could really be a phony. She could really turn on the charm. Pft. They were to start a meeting. She was given the option to remain. She behaved as if she knew nothing, suspected nothing but knew enough to leave. She chose to leave sensing immediately that very few people were ever given the option. There was family at that table. Her sister, her cousins, her husband. She excused herself and the baby she carried with a gentle bow and a warm, sincere smile and walked out of the room without so much as a glance behind her and why should she have?
What had they called themselves? Death Eaters? It was meant as a joke, the way it was said, the way they reacted to the name but, if it was the pregnancy, the name or both, it made her stomach turn. It was not until she saw the way her sister looked at him, Lord Voldemort, that she finally understood completely. She would lose both of her sisters, she already lost both of her sisters. It must be difficult to not have an equal, a match. When she met Lucius, she knew. Yes, he was vain, pompous. But he loved her, treated her well and gave her the best of everything he could, which was no small task, but it wasn't like the Malfoy vault was filled with cobwebs. Nor were the Lestrange vaults (plural) and coffers (also plural). Bellatrix had looked bored at her own wedding. And here she sat in between her husband and Lord Voldemort. And while Bellatrix signalled nothing of any great significance, Narcissa sensed the changed. She could see Bellatrix eyes sparkle and she was even lovelier. She, at the very least, respected this man a great deal. Bellatrix would not follow a fool of a man for anything and that would have been enough for Narcissa. She might have followed too but she had seen a small part of what he had done to Bellatrix. Narcissa knew, but not how, that this man, this Lord Voldemort, was not who he said he was. Her own family vouched for this man, all well-bred, good families. He said the right things the right way. He knew the customs. She knew that he must be a quick study but pedigree could not be bought or faked and she would know just as Bellatrix should have also given what she would end up fighting for.
It was not long after the first meeting she attended but the light of Narcissa's presence dimmed eventually. Narcissa could not understand why her sister would allow anyone to-nevermind. If she could turn on the charm, she knew Bella could and why she didn't could not be helped now. Whatever the reason was, Narcissa would not be able to talk her older sister out of it. Bellatrix sat silently. The side of her face bled into the collar of her dark purple top and vest and stuck her black hair to her skull. The silk of the vest, like her hair looked only shinier and slightly darker for the wetness. Whatever happened she wouldn't say. Narcissa held a cool cloth up to her sister's face. It took longer than Narcissa thought it would but Bellatrix finally swatted Narcissa's hand away. Narcissa, pregnant and maternal and a little confused and very scared sat with the idea long enough to know that Bellatrix wouldn't dare anything more than that. Narcissa sat with the tea towel knotted in her hands staring forward and let her rage build-up in her heart. She turned, slapped her sister's arm and sighed heavily. She then set the cloth back on Bellatrix' face, gently as ever. She wanted to kiss Bellatrix on her cleaned, throbbing temple but thought better of it. Bellatrix for her part wanted to hold Narcissa's hand but thought the better of it. They weren't children and couldn't or wouldn't protect each other anymore if they ever even could. Bellatrix did not know about Narcissa's walks through the garden and could not imagine that Lord Voldemort could be that way, that he had it in him to be so solicitous. Narcissa did not know what exactly went on at those meetings and did not want to. She did not want to know. She knew it was bad, that her sister carried one hurt from long ago and could amplify it to an extreme and sought out a type of affection that Narcissa found poisonous and destructive even as a child. She had to see for herself after being summoned to the table not too see who Lord Voldemort was but who her sister was. Bella had not had an older sister; Bella had not had herself to protect her.
The garden walks with Lord Voldemort would continue, if only to find a way to maneuver gently over time, over the span of her life if she had to. She did not know then what he could be like, she only had ideas. One of those ideas was sitting next to her, bleeding. One of those ideas was her sister. Narcissa patted the towel across her Bellatrix' forehead and did not need to see tears to know that somewhere deep inside Bellatrix was crying. This she discovered much later was uncommon and odd. Other people did not marshal all their hurt, roll it into figurative small plugs and jam them into their own tear ducts. Narcissa wiped Bellatrix' face and held the now warm towel like she was cleaning a delicate and historically significant statue. Bellatrix moved her open hand towards her sister's lap as her sister reached for it without looking and they held hands under Narcissa's big belly. Another generation. If you had seen them from far away, you would have seen two people who looked the same and yet not anything alike and how kind of the one to care for this sick looking, dying one. And on closer look, you would wonder why you thought she was sick at all since she seemed full and vibrant, even striking, and it was in fact the sick one taking care of the healthy one. This might be a rehearsal, a form of mimicry or therapy to reverse roles. You might have thought 'how lovely and strange and sad'.
