who: bellatrix lestrange ( @cruciatvs )
when & where: after the event, at the lestranges manor.
EVERY MINUTE WAS EXCRUCIATING.They had to keep appearances, of course, and Narcissa was nothing if not the perfect hostess. It wasn’t her event, of course, Bellatrix was floating around somewhere, putting on the mask that Narcissa wore so well. They shared, these days. Their tricks, their sparkling gowns, their grim smiles. As the event winded down, Narcissa found herself shaking hands and flashing a glittering smile at the way of a few French pure-bloods who were looking to stuff St. Mungo’s pockets. Truthfully, Narcissa had never cared much for the wix who liked to to throw their galleons at a cause they knew nothing about. She, at the very least, picked her events carefully. Her money had the power to go directly to some good, after all. Mostly because they didn’t want Narcissa Malfoy angered if it didn’t.
Usually, these thoughts were enough to keep her mind busy; enough to keep her eyes off the ornate ticking clock in the center of the room. Tonight, though, her mind wouldn’t stop flickering towards getting the hell out. Their friends and family hadn’t been gone long, and as far as she could tell no one was hurt. That didn’t mean that the day had been won. With her whole family in the Death Eaters, Narcissa never expected to get caught. They were far too cautious for that; far too intelligent. Still, the fear that they’d gotten hurt, that she’d lose another sister, was still there. Even as the party filled out, and Bellatrix left to question what Nracissa assumed was hostages, the fear was still in her stomach.
So, instead of going home for the night, Narcissa found her way to the kitchen, and when she was certain no one was around, kicked off her shoes. The house elves were at work, making sure her favorite cuppa was properly warmed. When she heard clicking heels in the silence, Narcissa breathed a gust of air that she didn’t recognize was even trapped in her lungs. With a flick of her wrist, the teapot began to pour a second cup for her sister. “I assume your meeting went according to plan?” she asked, without really looking up from the book in front of her. Really, all she wanted to do was wrap Bellatrix in a hug, but that was not their way. Her heart was still pounding, but at least now she knew. She was safe. She was here. She was within arms reach. That was enough.
The best party is the after party, and tonight, for Bellatrix Lestrange, it comes in the form of questioning their esteemed hostages. Not that she has any interest in finding answers, just yet: no, tonight is simply the first night of an elongated stay at the stables. She goes to unleash hell, to let her inner demons run rampant, to instill the prisoners with a fear of what is to come the next morning. She goes to hear screams rather than incessant gossip and champagne glasses clinking. She goes to paint her gown red with blood. She goes to show them her teeth, the curve of her lip, the shine of her eyes.
And then she returns home, where the house elves work away at cleaning the mess left by tonight’s guests. Let the prisoners lick their wounds as she bathes in expensive bath oils and sleeps in silk sheets, and let tomorrow’s dawn bring more questions. She turns to the kitchen, intending to pop another bottle of champagne of celebration and to fall into a nice state of inebriation, something she can allow now that her home isn’t filled with disgusting little creatures. A surprise, however, awaits her there in the form of her sister and Bellatrix halts for a moment. There is a part of her that does not want her baby sister to see her like this: with her hair disheveled and a look of glory in her eyes, with blood staining her dark purple gown and proverbially dripping from her fingers. There is another part of her that wills Narcissa to see it all. Let it make her afraid, just so she won’t leave as Andromeda had.
“Meeting?” she laughs, head thrown back for a second before she looks at the picture of perfection in front of her. “The guests have left, Cissa. You can drop the bullshit.” She certainly does, no longer playing the somewhat mysterious, alluring hostess but in stead all brutality. “It went marvelously. Regulus did so well, he did the family proud.” And that is what matters, what will always continue to matter: and as Regulus is the last sensible one to bare the Black name ( she having traded her own for another because of some patriarchal nonsense ), he has to do well. “And I got to blow off some steam.” The cup of tea is disregarded as she moves to open the wine cabinet, pulling a bottle of expensive champagne from it. “Want a glass?”