Carbonado

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A few years have passed since I left Hogwarts.

I live in a small, but luxurious flat in London that overlooks Canary Wharf, swimming in a sea of canvases and paint.

Not knowing what life has in store for me, I decided to become an artist, painting my desires until they one day show me the way. The city's nightly blinking lights serve as my tireless inspirational muses. My most popular paintings are based on the lingering resonance they etch on the insides of my lids after I have closed my eyes.

Upon suggestion from Professor Slughorn, I tried my hand at being a healer, but the sight of blood makes me faint, and so my stint in St. Mungo's was short-lived. Painting and cooking are far better. It fills a hole in my being whenever I produce a work, be it portrait or plate of food. And when others enjoy said work, they tell me that it fills a hole in their being as well.

The night I got back from my last year, I packed my trunk and went to my father's study. I looked him square in the face and told him I was leaving. He neither looked back nor spoke. Enraged that even at the sight of his last daughter departing, he carried on with his business, I screamed at him. He sighed and finally met my eyes. With a bony hand, he took out a book and wrote me a check for a million galleons.

My father placed the slip of parchment on the corner of his desk closest to me and said, "Stay well, Narcissa."

I tried to coax him into further conversation but he had none of it. In my room, I wept bitterly, lamenting the reality that he cared for me, but not enough to keep me.

I left the next morning.

That was the last time I saw my father.

Samson and I have been together all these years. His shoulders are broader now and his eyes kinder. He says my cauldron cakes are becoming legendary amongst those in the publishing house he works for. Samson has published three novels and claims I am his strength and his muse. I read them and cannot believe for a single moment his art has anything to do with me. His stories are sad and plays the heart's chords. He is truly a beautiful soul.

His hair has grown long past his shoulders now. I joke that it makes him look like a real artist, to have such unusually unkempt hair. Samson merely laughs and replies that it is better to be one than to look like one.

I think I shall marry him one day.

He always complains of Lucius, with whom I have established a grudging acquaintance that borderlines friendship. No matter how much I reassure Samson that Lucius only sells my art, he remains unhappy about our interactions.

"If men were harlots, he would be one," Samson always says.

And it would be unfair to fault him. It is rather true.

Lucius has a way with people. All he needs to do is make a witty remark, smile with his teeth showing, and anything he wants is his. He is not just my dealer; we accompany each other to social events held by the old houses. They are essential to assuring patronage and standing, but I cannot take Samson with me. He is hardly an asset with his long hair and unimpressive name. Yet it would be a lie to say that we are more than professional. Lucius has many other women. I see them on his arm sometimes. Most of them are pretty and slim, dressed in the latest fashions he buys for them. They are the type of women who are at once breathtaking and utterly forgettable. They are not the type of women one uses to garner prestige.

So we require each other, you see.

I spent my year in London, at first, thinking I would grow tired of this city built aorund endless avenues of people, where one can either find themselves or lose themselves. My second year, I only occasionally whispered to Samson of perhaps leaving. And now, the thought has vanished altogether.

Bella and I only speak briefly sometimes, when she is not consumed with the work of her Dark Lord. She thinks I'm playing a game to occupy myself. And perhaps she is right.

Today is a bright and cheery April morning. Lucius has sent word that Bathilda Bagshot requires her commission a week early. The painting is quite large and requires me to purchase more paints. She wants a two meter tall portrait of her pet cat, but only in yellow.

I gather a large quantity of gold into my charm-extended satchel and Apparate to Diagon Alley.

It took me quite a while to become accustomed to the Muggle entrance through the Leaky Cauldron. The brick wall and general area is quite dingy, and I always hold my breath entering. One of these days, I shall write to the Ministry about having it rebuilt to higher standards.

I buy my paints quickly so I can do some shopping before the stores become busy and I must wait in queues to make purchases. The Millinery has new hats in today, and I spend a good amount on one with Golden Snidget feathers. It is simply too exquisite to say no. Dahlia, the shop-girl, knows I never leave without spending my gold and tries to steer me toward other hats.

"How about this brilliant green Fwooper piece," she says as she hands me another. "Guaranteed to constantly whisper in your ear!"

I assure her that one overly stately hat is enough for my summer.

Once outside, I put the hat on and bask in its beauty.

I am on my way to Knockturn Alley in hopes of hunting down some fascinating treasures when I stop dead in my tracks. A woman dressed in light pink robes with long black hair is ten paces from me. She too, stops in surprise. Her right hand is entwined around the chubby fingers of a little girl hiding in the bottoms of her robes.

The woman takes a step forward and I retreat one.

Andie.

My insides are twisting, pulling strength from me like a terrible lie. She picks up the little girl and settles her against a sloping shoulder. Andie walks toward me, and I long to run away, but am frozen by fear and shame. Her every step is a pounding pang of distress.

"Dora, this is your Aunt Narcissa," she says to the girl in a quiet, charming voice.

Her daughter's round face morphs into a smile, and she buries her head into her mother's hair. I swear that this little girl's hair is turning from brown to the dull ash blonde of my own hair. Andie pats Dora on the back and whispers for her to come out again.

I can only stand in silent horror.

"Cissy, this is my daughter Nymphadora."

My mind is moving but my lips are still.

I don't think of how happy they look, how adorable her child is. All I notice is that her daughter is dressed in second hand shoes, scuffed beyond the abilities of such a small child. I linger over the shoddy fabric quality of Andie's robes, the worn and piling fade of her seams. And my eyes dwell on the smallness and muddy clarity of the stone in her wedding ring. It is something that I would be insulted to receive. Ted Tonks is not making a very high salary if his wife and child are living in abject poverty. My father may or may not have something to do with it.

"She's b—beautiful," I tell her with a quavering voice. She isn't my sister and this isn't my niece. I shouldn't care.

Andie smiles, her sunken eyes looking nothing like Bella, who she very much resembles.

Their clear destitution makes me feel ill.

Rummaging through my bag, I gather all the gold I have left, about thirty galleons. I shove the pile into her hand and quickly walk away. The sound of coins falling on cobblestone ring through the air.

I refrain from turning around and seeing if she'd taken my gold.

I pray that I never end up like that.

Samson's smiling face floats in my head, but I push it away.

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