Bituminous
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Last night kept me awake in my bed until dawn.
They say that only the guilty suffer insomnia, but I am not guilty. I have done no wrong.
Things are a jumble, and I can't help but notice its a terribly isolating experience. It is though I am the only one with clarity amidst a mass of ignorant people. Perhaps others have the same dilemma of choosing between blood and impulse, but surely their pain pales in comparison to mine.
Stupid Miranda is taking up my mirror and powdering her face for the fiftieth time. It isn't as if that's going to make her look any better. She picks up her books and primps herself again, picking at her stray hairs and posing every few seconds to check all her angles.
She smooths her brown locks over her shoulders and turns to me.
"Why are you still in bed? We'll be late for Potions!" she lectures.
I dig myself deeper in my bed and blink my tired eyes at her. There are dark circles under them, no doubt.
"I'm not going."
She looks scandalized. "Why not?"
"I feel ill."
Miranda raises her eyebrows skeptically and says, "You Blacks are so over-dramatic, really." That's because we are. To my relief, she hobbles out the door after one last look in the mirror. I push myself out from the covers and venture over to the desk to retrieve my hairbrush. I don't feel much like getting dressed or wearing make up, but taking care of my hair is a must.
The brush crackles roughly as it pulls on snags which have built themselves overnight through endless tossing and turning. I slow down and start from the bottom; starting at the root would break the strands.
Fish are swimming outside my window, disrupting the streams of blue light. It makes me feel as though I were a mermaid on display in an aquarium. But I'd rather have my bit of real water than a fake painting of all the sky. When we first moved in my first year, we had the choice of the lake view or the painting. I paid my roommates ten galleons each to choose the lake. Miranda was the most reluctant, but I sneaked her another galleon under the table, and she relented. People are so hopelessly swayed by gold.
Even the most principled man has a price.
My father makes sure that we'll always have enough gold to persuade anyone. Every wizard has a talent and my father's gift is his Midas touch. It is said that when he was ten, he made his first hundred galleons. When he was eighteen, he'd amassed ten thousand. And when he turned thirty, he'd built an empire of millions in investments. When I was younger, I used to joke with him that he receives gold from anyone who spends more than ten minutes in his company.
Our inheritance is already quite abundant, but he pours over his business accounts day and night still. He never speaks to me, but I know that he's just acquired some new properties in London. At this rate, we'll own half of the city soon.
I have no such gift. I don't think I've ever made a sickle in my life and I wouldn't know how, but it won't matter. People will tell you that Bella and I are spoiled rotten and treat gold like water. It's all true. Price is never an issue, especially with clothing; style is independent of monetary value. If I see something I want, I always get it. Those less fortunate ask if I ever worry about running out of gold, and I can only laugh in response. I only worry about running out of space. Father has earned enough to last us ten lifetimes.
I return to bed and read my Potions text. It would not do to fall behind and let Professor Slughorn whisper disappointments to my father.
Before long, it is lunch time, and I must force myself to put on my school robes. It would be much better if wizards could invent a way to not eat. Eating is such a chore! I long to be like a tree, standing regal and facing the sun for all I need. To be rid of the vulgar acts of chewing, swallowing, and digesting ...the thought is quite poetic.
I braid my hair in a long plait in preparation for the outside world.
Not wanting to speak to anyone, I take my copy of Witch Moda with me.
The Great Hall is loud with the voices of countless hungry students. When I seat myself, I look up at the head table and notice that Professor Slughorn is looking down at me with a concerned expression. Smiling, I wave to him then feign a cough. He seems satisfied with the display. We both know I'm not sick in the slightest bit. My father contributes favors to him often; therefore, he always dotes on me.
I turn my attention to my kidney pie and magazine, flipping through the beautiful photography while I eat. I can't say that this season's offerings are my favorite. Trousers are apparently becoming popular, but it seems such a shame to have to trade interesting skirt silhouettes for leg definition.
Just as I am turning the glossy page, someone plops down beside me.
I turn to my right and see that it's Malfoy. He is much cleaner in the daylight and has parted his pale hair so finely it seems he might have used a knife to do it. How appropriate that it is him who is so rude as to disturb me when I'm clearly occupied. The idiot rests his head on his hand as he slumps his weight onto the table.
He smirks with lips slightly parted, showing his perfect teeth. Corrected, most likely.
"I didn't see you at breakfast."
Malfoy twirls his elm wand in an attempt to look impressive. I draw up my best uninterested look and reply, "Obviously."
"Were you invisible?"
"No, that's an asinine question. I was not present."
"A shame. You were missed," he drones on.
"And pray tell, by whom?"
"Oh yes! Why, by your loyal subjects, Princess." Malfoy whispers and gives me a subtle wink, probably thinking himself clever.
"And what would that have to do with you?"
He places a hand over his heart and returns slyly, "Such ice, Narcissa. You hurt me."
I refrain from making a snide comment about him lacking a heart. The countless girls who end up crying over him in the bathroom all say one thing, that no one ever lasts more than a month. Fed up with his slimy presence, I state simply, "Do you have something of importance to say? Because contrary to what you may think, I'm more interested in my lunch than I am in you."
"Now now, no need for such hostility. I merely want to let you know that I'm serious about the favor." His voice is smooth and low as he speaks, barely moving his lips. He trains his eyes on me and scans my form from top to bottom. "I'd be happy to be of service regarding relief of any—tensions you may have."
How dare he! I shoot him an offended scowl and return my attention to my magazine. The crass nature of his tone is enough to make my skin crawl.
"What?" He sounds alarmed.
I continue to fix my eyes on the magazine images. Malfoy is getting nervous. I can sense it from his tension, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my gaze. The blue topaz ring in Witch Moda is quite interesting. I pretend to be extremely engrossed in inspecting it, tracing my eyes over its square gemstones and silver lines.
"Don't be so uptight!"
I give him a weary glare and snap the pages shut. He's ruined my appetite.
"Good day, Lucius."
He seems shocked to see that I am preparing to leave. Malfoy simply can't fathom that a girl wouldn't want him. And why should I be one of his conquests? I'm better than that.
I can't help but smirk as I turn my back on him.
The halls are crowded as I make my way toward the dungeons. I stay close to the walls to avoid having to come into contact with the many scared first years who are frantically rushing to their first classes. There's just this sort of rankness about them. Leaving home for the first time somehow draws out all the unpleasant odors in people.
"Narcissa!" I hear a deep sandy voice call out for me between the murmurs.
My eyes avert to the source of the sound and are caught on a tall figure behind me. He shakes brown hair out of his eyes as he races toward me. I recognize him as the handsome Ravenclaw boy who frequently sits behind me in Charms. He has very prominent dark features and moves with purposeful grace.
"Narcissa," he repeats, slightly out of breath, "You may not know me. I'm in Charms with you. I'm—"
"Samson," I say, interrupting him.
Samson seems surprised that I know his name. I make it a point to know everyone's names; people treat you much better if they think you care about them. His thick eyebrows arch the tiniest bit as he smiles fluidly. I can't help but smile in return. His mirth is infectious. My classmate swings his large hands forward as if to shield himself from me.
"Oh goodness, I'm mortified that my reputation precedes me," he jokes, pretending to intimidated.
I don't find it particularly funny, but the exaggerated way he is shaking his arms makes me laugh.
"You require something," I remark once my breath has slowed.
"Straight to business! Yes, that's the way to be."
He's blushing.
"Well, don't keep me in suspense." I am very curious.
Samson runs a hand through his long, messy hair and bows dramatically with one arm behind his back. It is the way which gentlemen bow to ladies when formally asking them to dance. With a serious tone, he asks, "Miss Black, may I have the pleasure of your company this weekend in Hogsmeade?"
I narrow my eyes at his request. I know next to nothing about this boy or whether he was good company to be keeping. He smiles at me again, and I feel very taken with his genuineness.
"You're asking me on date," I say, matter-of-fact.
He grins and raises a hand with palm extended. "Well, if you insist on phrasing it that way, I suppose yes."
This lively Samson makes me feel bright with his eternal smiles. I've forgotten the unsavory taste of Malfoy in my head. He takes my hand and places the smallest of kisses on the back, lips barely brushing my skin. I bite my lip to keep the giggles down.
"Where?"
He rolls his brown eyes upward in thought.
"Three broomsticks, two o'clock. What do you say?"
On edge, Samson awaits anxiously for my answer. He attempts to look nonchalant, but is failing miserably as his tapping foot gives his nerves away.
"I shall see you then, Mr. Cohen," I answer with the same formality as his request.
He smiles again and I do as well.
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Footnotes: Samson is, of course, an allusion the legend of the same name from the Nazirite.