She immediately turned guard-dog, upon the feeling of Narcissa’s hand over her forearm; a bulldog in black robes, with sharp eyes and a presence that dared anyone to look at the both of them the wrong way. They walked at a leisurely pace, wandering along without much purpose, and perhaps it was for the best. It was almost therapeutic, the simple act of wandering along at her sister’s side; if she weren’t so intent upon jumping down the throat of anyone who so much as sniffed in Narcissa’s direction, it might have been like old times. Were she not so acutely aware of how she hulked over her delicate sister, like a monstrous shadow with claws and fangs, she might have felt like herself of younger years once more.
But even now, even walking arm-in-arm with Narcissa, she was all too aware of how her presence repelled. It was for the best, however – attacking an innocent passerby in the streets of Diagon Alley was no way to punctuate an innocent afternoon spent strolling the shops. Bellatrix had done a horrid job of protecting her sister up until now, and so it only felt appropriate that she overcompensate. Though she held herself like the lady her sister so evidently wanted her to be – a futile effort poor Narcissa seemed to slave away at no matter the circumstance – threat and violence dripped from her shoulders, leaving a trail of darkness in her wake, alongside Narcissa’s light.
Two sides of the same coin, they were; Bellatrix had always known that her mother longed for her to be more like her youngest sister, that Narcissa had been the blessing and Bellatrix the curse. Not to mention Andromeda, who was a black spot in the midst of a tumultuous family line; Narcissa was light, and she was dark. Narcissa was gentle, and she was harsh. Narcissa was a flower, a soft bed of petals – she was all thorns and sharp edges. But she had never been ashamed of her thorns, and she certainly wouldn’t start now. Her thorns kept the gazes of passersby averted, turned down to the street rather at Narcissa, who had endured more than the lot of them combined. She would prick any one of them who tried to ogle her, who made her feel less for her loss; at this thought, she subconsciously tightened her hold on Narcissa’s arm, determined not to let go.
“Oh, come on,” Bellatrix grinned, “He’ll be a master of every sort of racing broom before you even know it. I’m the fun aunt you know –” she had never been described as fun, nor had she ever described herself as such, but in the moment it fit well enough, “– it’s my job to be a horrid influence. And how good I am at being a horrid influence. But, yes, no spiders. No spiders, no gnomes, no kneazles. I’ve got some old trinkets of my own that’ll do well enough.” She’d never been good at giving or receiving gifts; her personal collection was full of dark artifacts and questionably acquired pieces from incomplete collections, but surely she had something that would suit a baby.
The mere fact that she cared so much about earning the favor of a baby was strange enough in itself – relative to that, it hardly mattered what she got him for Christmas.
At Narcissa’s assessment of Borgin & Burke’s, she laughed, a hyena’s cackle, with head thrown back, scattering a small group of witches on their side of the sidewalk. “Mr. Borgin’s hair, and Mr. Burke’s wonky eye – a strange pair of men, aren’t they? I wonder what they were like when they were our age. Reckon Borgin would like you even more than he evidently already does if you brought him some shampoo – something scented and pink to offset his general gloom.” She could mock Mr. Borgin all she wanted, but he knew a great deal about her illicit dealings; it was lucky, of course, that no one dared cross her.
“I can’t remember the last time I was in Twilfitt & Tattings,” she mused, “A bit too much lace and tulle for my liking; and all the saleswitches are so bloody persistent – they all seem determined to laden you down with as much pink as possible, and you know how I feel about pink.” Only half a joke – she cast Narcissa a conspiratorial smile from the side of her mouth, brows quirked cheekily. “I fully intent on behaving, though – roping you into the firecracker scheme and dragging you along to see Borgin’s new shipment would absolutely make the new collection entirely worth seeing. Shall we go there first? We could even go for lunch after, if you’re hungry – my treat.”
The general geniality was broken only momentarily, as a small gaggle of witches by the upcoming shop window gave a nod toward Narcissa, and a whisper amongst themselves; Bellatrix’s lips turned immediately downward, fingers curling over her sister’s forearm, and brows furrowed. “Or perhaps we’ll start by teaching the general public what happens when they neglect to mind their own business,” Bellatrix snapped, eyes upon the group of women ahead, voice loud enough for them to hear clearly, “It would only take a moment, Cissa – and it would certainly clear the air of that foul smell.”
Narcissa had never considered herself a sentimentalist before, but ever since Lucius’ passing she had started to doubt that very much. She had grown prone to clinging to him in any way she could, but with him buried deep beneath the ground and his entire being gone from their house ( or really, his house, as Narcissa still had trouble feeling at home there with him gone ) this was hard. She clung to his clothes and letters he wrote, trailed the spines of books he’d bought for himself, looked at the pictures that had been taken of him on holidays and during his Hogwarts years. She was becoming sentimental of the last bits that remained of the people who had left, and as she walked there with Bellatrix on her side she was reminded of that once again.
Was this what it was like, to be changed by someone’s death entirely? When Andromeda had left, she hadn’t been like this ---- she had, in stead, ignored any reminders of her sister, whereas she was searching for reminders of Lucius in nearly everything. Narcissa had to admit that it petrified her, some days, the way she seemed irrevocably changed already and how aware she was of it. She’d functioned quite well before, after all, and she couldn’t help but wonder if this would get in the way of her functioning the way she ought to. The way she needed to. There was, after all, hardly any place for a sentimentalist in a war.
Still, Narcissa was good at facades and self-control, and knew to not make more of this afternoon than it was. She hid her worries as well as her happiness to see Bellatrix like this under a calm exterior, skillfully crafted by self-preservation and her willingness to appear as okay as she could ( okay she wasn’t, of course ). She was quite certain her sister, too, was not being completely herself, and so she supposed it was okay that she wasn’t either. They’d been raised liars and had grown into deceptive beings now that they were older, and as there was still a hint of honesty among the two of them, she could live with it.
“I’m sure he will be, indeed,” said Narcissa, letting out a soft chuckle. She’d never been quite good at flying herself ( she found brooms uncomfortable, you see ), but Lucius had been skilled and she was certain Draco had inherited the skill. “The fun aunt? Don’t make me laugh --- you’re his only aunt --” Andromeda, after all, had no right to be called Draco’s aunt. “-- and you’re only able to call yourself that due to the lack of competition. Still, I suppose you being his only aunt makes you the worst one, too.” Her tone was teasing and light, and Narcissa gave Bellatrix a small grin. “But I’ve got faith in you, and am sure that you’ll find something appropriate.”
Bellatrix’ laughter might startle most -- Narcissa saw the witches near them look over their shoulders in surprise -- but it did not startle her; in stead, she let out a soft laugh herself. “Some shampoo he could use, definitely. Perhaps I’ll give him some for Christmas, if I’m feeling generous. I’d do the entirety of his customers and his wife --- if he even has one --- a great pleasure by doing so, I think.” She wouldn’t, of course: Narcissa hardly cared about the man’s hair, as she rarely visited his shop, but it was nice to joke around a little. “If only we could do something about Mr Burke’s eye.”
A small smile curled Narcissa’s lips “Lace and tulle never fitted you, but I don’t think anyone should wear tulle unless they’re dancing ballet. Pink, however, would very beautifully compliment your dark hair ----- I personally prefer blue to go with my own hair, but it’d make you a bit ... pale, I’m afraid.” She paused. “I might buy you something pink for Christmas, now that we’re on the subject. Yes, I can really see it working out for you.” A nod of her head followed. “Let’s get the worst out of the way first, yes; I hardly want to end my day of shopping with Mr Borgin’s face fresh on my mind. We can get something to eat afterwards.”
The change in Bellatrix was quick and sudden --- Narcissa hadn’t been bothered too much by the witches’ whispers as it wasn’t the first time it had happened on that day, or any day she had been out in the public since Lucius’ death. Her own fingers soon placed themselves over Bellatrix’, calm and gentle, and she shook her head, “Let them be,” she said, glancing up at her sister with warning eyes. “I want no scene and we’re very much above causing one, are we not? We ought to be better than them, and what better way to do that than by ignoring their rude behaviours?”
