VENOM

NARCISSA BLACK clever as the devil and twice as pretty.

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[ofnarcissa-blog]

regulusarcturusblackk:

Regulus felt the icy grip on his lungs loosen as Narcissa quickly began packing up her things. “No rush,” he said so she knew it wasn’t anything urgent. Once she appeared ready, Regulus turned on his heel without another word, leading the way out of the common room, first, and then out the castle doors. Both knew better than to ever speak anything even halfway revealing where other students or the portraits could hear.

Outside, Regulus took a grateful breath of cold air, shoulders loosening. He smiled, then, at Cissa, warm and soft and everything he only knew how to be around her. “Thank you,” he said earnestly as they began walking in step away from the castle, shoulders pressed together. “It gets so suffocating in there and I can’t quite make sense of anything-what’s happened, nonetheless what I apparently do in the original timeline.”  Frustrated, he dug into his pockets, pulling out a cigarette. He didn’t miss the tremor of his hands as he brought it to his lips. It was always worse when he was stressed. 

The in-sync clip of their shoes against the stone of the corridors echoed less and less as they made their way up to the ground floor, the comforting familiarity of the dungeons falling away behind them. Eyes skated across them as they passed, some brushstroked and others the ogling sparkle of students but Narcissa did not falter in her graceful gait, chin up and shoulders back. A neutral non-smile on her mouth.  

They cut across the courtyard, to a quiet bend that let the brisk Scottish breeze catch her long blonde hair. Regulus was another boy entirely, every time it struck her how he seemed to unfold from within the cast-iron shell he’d forged. Toujours purher mother’s voice hissed inside her head, her cold fingers poked at the small of her back while the book atop her head swayed dangerously. “I’m trying to... I’m trying to piece it all together but it’s difficult to glean things about myself as I walk by and I try not to engage them in direct conversation.” She openly grimaced, an unfamiliar expression for her in company, unless it was Reg. “I’ve... I’ve met my son. Spiteful thing, however clever. And in a clumsy attempt to hurt me he said that I failed to save you from the Death Eaters, though in what sense I dread to imagine.” She suddenly felt cold at repeating the words, soft hands curling around her elbows and almost cradling herself. 

[nightlock]

the bell jar // sylvia plath

[sorrowsofwerthertheyoung-deacti]

I burn, I freeze; I am never warm. I am rigid; I forgot softness because it did not serve me.

Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless (via qarconne)

[lifelessinthevoid]

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[ofnarcissa-blog]

dracomalfcy:

“And I have no parents. Damn. May as well have let them die during the war.” Whatever game the seventeen year old Narcissa Black wanted to play currently, chances were he was better at it. He knew all about cold and distant, he was all about not letting feelings involved. And he knew that, at seventeen, Narcissa couldn’t be half of the Occlumens he knew his mother to be. He took another slow drag of his cigarette, well aware that she studying him and drawing conclusions while she was at it, and gazed out of the window. He didn’t want to know what she was thinking.  It seemed more than obvious that he was Lucius’ ( he had been the spitting image of his father when he was younger, but when he matured the Black features and traits were starting to show more and more ) so he just nodded and didn’t comment. “I’m sure I do. The ‘emotionless bastard’ thing runs in the family. Not just on the Malfoy side.” And she was allowed to make of that whatever she wanted. He knew things about the future that she didn’t, after all. “Please do. You spoiled me. I’m rotten to the core and it’s a miracle I didn’t land myself in Azkaban.” There was no sign of emotion behind the words, still a matter-of-fact undertone used while he spoke. “Add it somewhere in between your inability to save Regulus from the Death Eaters and not being able to do something when Andromeda got disowned.” That was just rude, but she deserved it since she was being rude as well.  “If you’re bugged my by smoking, you should tell just tell me and I may consider stopping for now,” he said, a little smile playing with his lips then. “You used to say that when I was smoking in the backyard of Malfoy Manor. You hated it then and you hate it now.” Some things didn’t change. He may not have parents, but this was his mother. “I’m not offended, you were just trying to offend me. Unfortunately for you I’m not an easy target.” 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry your parents are no longer here.” She replied sincerely. No matter the guilt that festered in her, she wouldn’t lie and say that she was his Mother. They were not the same women, in any respect but name and the seventeen years of life they’d shared. Not even half of his mother’s life. There had been a strange part of her that had expected to know her child on sight, her magic reaching out and feeling theirs, purely instinctual and while she’d spotted the hair she hadn’t felt anything more than mild curiosity until he’d opened his mouth and revealed his inability to play nicely any longer. A veneer of sarcasm that was cleverly created but to her utterly transparent.

Narcissa cracked a smile as he continued to speak, letting a small laugh escape that was as rich as dark chocolate. “Goodness, delightful.” He was rather good at deflecting, however, growing up with Lucius as his father had obviously dulled him as an instrument. He was a weapon less subtle than she’d have liked. Her genuine smile wavered slightly but not too much, moving toward contemplative rather than angry or hurt. “People are people, Draco, they’re wont to do as they please and land themselves in the trouble that they see fit. Though if you roll up your sleeve we can talk a bit more about mistakes, I wouldn’t mind apologising for that if you’d like.”

“I was merely using it for effect as I’m sure you would have. Dramatic entrances and exits are in your blood, if they hadn’t come naturally at the very least you would have learned from Severus, I’m sure.” Her head tilted, green eyes watching the smoke curl from the cigarette in question. “Well, the grounds of the Manor are rather lovely or were at least. Cigarette butts don’t really compliment the aesthetic... Though I wouldn’t be adverse to those awful bloody birds choking to death on them.” A private, wry smile curling her lips. She had never gotten along with the peacocks. 

[ofnarcissa-blog]

regulusarcturusblackk:

@ofnarcissa

Regulus slid silently through the door of the common room. He stepped around the creaky spot on the floor, more out of habit than anything else, he wasn’t even certain the floor still creaked in the same place. So much had changed in the blink of an eye. He scanned the room quickly, passing over the faces he didn’t know, ignoring the disquieting feeling that gave him, before stopping on Narcissa. He couldn’t put into the words the relief he’d felt at realizing she was here as well, here in this impossible future. He’d never been good at saying things of that nature but then neither was she. They were Blacks, after all. Emotions were something to be used against someone else, nothing more.

He sat down on the couch beside her, not too close with his back straight as a board. It had taken most of first year for him to readjust to affection, to touching, but in this new place, with all these people he was thrown back to those tenuous months when he hadn’t yet realized he was free of his parent’s watchful gaze. It wouldn’t due to show any sort of vulnerability around these people. He was the one that collected other’s vulnerabilities not the other way around. You know, Regulus, the younger Black, with his black heart, you can’t manipulate him.

“Cissa,” he murmured. “Go for a walk with me?” he asked, jerking his head towards the door. She’d understand, he was sure of that, she always understood, better than anyone else.

Narcissa curled her fingers around the cup of tea in her hands, the fine china warm against her palm and the steam a gentle caress against the curve of her cheek. She sipped at it. If everything else had changed at least earl grey tasted the same. It had been deliberate to at first tuck herself away in one of the armchairs, so aware of eyes upon her that she had taken to scrawling with her quill in her lap. Letters still perfectly looped and sloping gracefully, even if it made her elbow ache unpleasantly. Things had to be just so.

However, as the common room had emptied space had opened up along her favourite sofa and she had taken care to set her things down in a way that was clear she was really rather busy and was not to be disturbed. A small parchment fortress that would only be breached by those she knew. Really knew. She chided herself as the tip of her quill teased her lips, chewing quills was something she’d spent most of her second year conquering. The shadow of someone encroaching caught her eye in her periphery and she turned just as Regulus eased himself down next to her. Back ramrod straight and his legs carefully placed. He had always had posture like the nutcracker that the House Elves put up at Christmas. It pained her that he felt so ill at ease but she understood his trepidation at letting his guard down. There were few others she would wish to be sat beside than her cousin. 

“Of course, Reg. Give me just a minute” Narcissa murmured warmly as she withdrew her wand, banishing the teacup back to the kitchens with a flick of her wrist and scooping her things into her satchel. 

[npeltzsource-blog]

[galgadotssss-deactivated2016071]

[metaphorformetaphor]

What is there to struggle against? Nobody can put the stars back together again.

Henry Miller quotes Patchen in “Patchen: Man of Anger and Light,” Stand Still Like the Hummingbird (New Directions, 1962)

[ofnarcissa-blog]

halfxbloodxsnapex:

Always so poised Narcissa was, it seemed to Severus. A quality that he admired about her but never bothered to fix about himself. Only temporarily would he correct his posture if she commented on it. But, this time around she didn’t, so he kept his slouch for now. “There are people who believe your heart is made of gold? They’re listening to wrong birds, then,” he replied with a small smirk that raised his lips only slightly. An innocent taunt, only jesting as they usually did with one another. It was a nice break from the not so innocent bullying that Severus endured from the gaggle of boys who called themselves the ‘Marauders’. And it was also a pleasant change of pace from the usual dull conversations with anyone else. “It’s a mess out there,” he nodded, “glad to not only see a familiar face but a face that is not soaked with tears and grief.” Draco had stated that most of the students had hardly known the Potter boy and it bewildered Severus for students to be this distraught for someone they barely knew. However, Harry Potter served a beacon of hope of some sorts, so he supposed they were grieving more on the lines of that than the actual person. If Harry Potter couldn’t handle the pressures and personal demons that tagged along after the war he fought, who could? That was most likely the mentality of the students around here. He didn’t understand it. 

Narcissa’s mouth twitched into an answering smirk. Her heart was anything but golden, those that didn’t hold her in contempt had seemingly made her into some kind of whimpering fearful mess who had apparently saved the boy Harry Potter’s life from Voldemort before his careless and recent demise. She knew nothing else and it had taken her days to piece together the meager information she had. Both irked her no end, she didn’t know which was worse the cowed wife of a Death Eater who was actually faithful to the opposing side of a war she had never experienced or the nasty mother of a nasty boy nothing more. “How are the nineties treating you so far, Severus?” She asked somewhat more gently as she opened her books, spreading parchment across the desk. “I hear you were an excellent Potions Master, although anyone that that comes as a surprise to probably took a bludger to the head when they were a child.”

[ofnarcissa-blog]

dracomalfcy:

“Yes.” Short and sweet, because there weren’t more words to waste there, as he wouldn’t be bothered to explain his relationship with his mother to a complete stranger. She would understand that he wanted to be left alone and that rudeness was his way to enforce space. She would get that it was a means to an end, even if she raised him to be polite. His father, on the other hand, didn’t raise him to be polite necessarily. And his mother didn’t have patience for idiots either.  He only bothered to look up to the girl that sat down on the other side of the small windowsill as he took a long drag of his cigarette. Narcissa Black was hard not to recognize, partially because he recognized her from the old pictures and partially because he had seen her many times before already and turned the other way as soon as he did, trying to avoid both her and dad. Of course he heard her remark. “Thank you. A more common nickname is ‘emotionless bastard,’ but brat will do,” he spoke after he exhaled from his cigarette. “Do you talk to your son that way, Narcissa?” Asking the question was answering it in this case. “Word of advice: before you offend, look first.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes, jade green flicking toward the overcast skies that were beyond the window. Pompous gits certainly hadn’t changed in twenty years. 

The knowledge that he was apparently hers sent goosebumps rippling up her arms. She turned to him, eyes a Malfoy quicksilver grey and the bow of his lips too similar to her own to deny. He was beautiful, pointed features and fair hair. “I don’t have a son.” Narcissa replied coldly. Had she coddled him? Defended him as fiercely as she guarded her sisters and Regulus? Spoilt him? She had never felt any particular draw to children, though she knew that would have changed once the baby was born of her own flesh and blood. For now she was seventeen and achingly furious.

“I presume you’re Lucius’?” She questioned, though it was hardly as though she needed any actual confirmation. “You act just like him, you know.” Narcissa let that fall, no real intention behind the words. She wanted to measure how they landed, to measure... To know her own son. Her nose wrinkled as he deigned to offer advice as though she were some sniveling Hufflepuff second year. “I’ll add incapable of raising tolerable children to my list of failings just as soon as I can. Offended? Would you like to make a dramatic exit with your cloud of smoke, or should I offer you my handkerchief. By all means.”

[larmoyante]

I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself.

Simone de Beauvoir, Tête-à-Tête (via larmoyante)

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[ofnarcissa-blog]

halfxbloodxsnapex:

Even though Severus was a year older than Narcissa and not having many classes together, they were relatively close with one another, basically having a brotherly/sisterly bond. He knew not to anger or upset her, but still able to jest around her and take insults that he allowed no one else to make. Not like Narcissa was someone he had much trouble getting along with, she was one of the few people that he could tolerate being around and could actually make him crack a smile. Maybe even coax out a chuckle. “I see you’re unquestionably heartbroken. My condolences, Narcissa,” the sarcasm just dripping off of his words, but also making the reply more of jesting one than a bitter one. “Were you looking for me? Or just looking for an escape from all of the snot ridden kids crying everywhere they go like I am?”

There was no hidden razors edge to their banter, no instinct to hurt and demean, a conversation with not an ounce of obscured motive. A rare delicacy for Narcissa. An odd little solace in a boy her senior with the hooked nose and flair for potions that at once reminded her that it was an art. “Haven’t you heard the little birds, Severus? The stories say that my heart is golden or that it doesn’t exist at all.” The sarcasm was laced with bitterness, she was not immune to it all no matter how she tried to be. “The latter, however, the former is certainly a welcome coincidence.” She murmured as she swept forward to his side, the urge to chastise his posture itched at her but she held her tongue. When he sat up straight he was almost taller than her, perched on his chair, even the slight heel to her shoes hardly assisted her where she stood. Narcissa drew the seat to his left, carefully smoothing her skirt beneath her as she dropped into it. 

[wnq-writers]

She’s something odd and uncertain, half of her was made of stars, full of death and filled with light; her other half was made of scars, full of life and filled with darkness.

VàZaki Nada (via wnq-writers)

[ofnarcissa-blog]

dracomalfcy:

It had been a week since Potter’s unfortunate fall and Draco felt like he was counting the five steps of grief as the days went by. Denial? That stage was over by now. There had not been much denying it and he supposed that phase never lasted long to begin with. Anger? It seemed like most people were over getting angry as well. No, they seemed to be in stage three or four, bargaining and depression. He was pretty sure he was stuck in the fourth stage since the end of the war and may not ever actually get out of it. Acceptance?  No such thing.  It was late evening and he was sitting in a windowsill nearby the Slytherin common room, cigarette between his lips and a book on his lap. Every now and then he exhaled from the cigarette through the open window and turned a page, but that was more to keep pretense that he was reading. He wasn’t, he just didn’t want to be disturbed. Unfortunately someone sat down in front of him, on the other side of the windowsill. “No, I won’t stop smoking because you’re asking very nicely and no, I don’t have a book from the library that you’re looking for. What else?” 

It was if the magic of the time didn’t want her here, sensed the disturbance, the ripples across time, she was sure of it. Recently her skin had felt less like home than usual. The visceral reaction her name seemed to draw from some, the knowledge that these people were familiar with what had once been her future to own and now a young girl in place of the woman they had known was shown no empathy and neither did they seem to have time to let her speak. Maybe their scorn had been hard won but she supposed these people were tired of listening. Tired of a great many things. 

The back of the boy’s head had shocker her, a highly strung question almost shot from her mouth. Lucius? What on earth have you done to your hair? Her jaw snapped shut with a nearly audible click. At least the windowsill hadn’t changed, although the occupants most definitely had, she would not be cowed by someone she did not know in spite of the familiar shade of blonde hair. A great many years had passed after all. “You talk to your mother that way?” She snapped, her tone shifting to a whisper as she made herself determinedly more comfortable, refusing to look him in the face. “Brat.”