Rating: Hard R
Summary: She is telling a story.
Warnings: Infidelity & incest
Author's Note: I sort of went with the Narcissa/Anyone concept and ran with it.
She is telling a story in reverse translation, the future before the past, and the present intermingled somewhere between. Bellatrix doesn't understand the tale, can't grasp the rhyme scheme, the patterns of syllables that fall from Narcissa's pink lips. She shows her in the hidden gap of space in their parent's attic, wedged between moth balls and antiques, the smell of death and age thick, almost visible in the light stream from a solitary window. Stripped bare and on her back, wooden planks creaking with every single move, her legs are spread for her sister who gives a sinister grin as she bows her dark head and laps away at her warmth. They pretend glistening lips shine with the nectar juices of flowers, of honeysuckles damp in the summer heat. Bella's bony fingers are skeleton keys, unlocking each and every secret tucked away in Narcissa's young body.
"We are still young," Narcissa mumbles, the sun setting and casting shadows like monsters hiding on the horizon.
"We are not that young," Bella counters, brushing hair out of her baby sister's face.
It is a year later when Bella stands swathed in ocean foam green, the formfitting dress never giving the congregation a moment's reprieve from the dangerous curves that make Bellatrix Black-Lestrange. White-knuckled fingers clutch a single white lily that matches the wreath in Narcissa's pale blonde hair. A wedding dress made of dreams, she calls it, miles of tulle and silk that make her ethereal and immortal in that shining moment.
"A wedding night," she says very knowledgably to her sister "Is a very memorable thing." Bellatrix, as she is only called now, rolls her dark eyes and is in a foul mood the whole wedding.
The square hands of Lucius Malfoy appreciate the meticulous care his bride put in for this, for him and them. Like unwrapping a gift from the heavens, he slowly undoes every strap, zipper, tie, ribbon, lets it all fall away until she is nude, pale and perfect, tiny and strong and glowing. He finds her a contradiction to herself.
She clings to a shred of naiveté, imagines the slow love-making they'll perform, the silk sheets and lit candles. She endures Egyptian cotton (not the same, she thinks) and a single lit candle from their dinner, finds a subtle charm in his obvious manliness. She will soften him, she tells herself, her form writhing beneath him. His fingers rub circles over her clit and she closes her eyes, almost clamps her legs together from the sheer feeling of it. Domination at its finest, his body heavy on hers, their hips grinding, fingers clutching the sheets, the pale pink mouth forming an Oh-oh-ohhh!
They roll together in the dark and he places a firm hand on her belly, pulls her close, tight enough to suffocate.
Years of wedded bliss change her, mold her. She meets people from her childhood, men who once locked themselves in her father's study, who came out smelling of tobacco, wine, and death, and their now grown-up children who have the same air about them. Lucius wears expensive silks and wools that let the smoke cling to and taint them, and when he is away she wraps them around her nude body. It slides tantalizingly over her breasts, the material softly tickling sensitive flesh, and she clamps her legs together, lets the silk grow damp between her thighs.
These are the years she lets Lucius fuck her in his study, bent over his desk, his beautiful hands tangled in her golden strands, pulling her back unto him until she feels like she can't breathe. Long summer days, in which he'd rush home from his work to rub ice in small circles over her navel, lower, letting it melt on her clit. Her impatience boils over at dinner parties in which she breezes excuses to lock him in the adjoining kitchen, and drop to her knees in front of the house elves, mouth and hands working his length until he came, a pink tongue licking every drop of come from her lips. They stay like this until the day she feels a shifting in her body, verifies, and yes, it's true, the Malfoys have an heir.
Pregnancy swells her body and she feels hideous even though everyone tells her she's glowing. She misses Andromeda then, her slender arms that once would wrap around her, hold her close when Bellatrix raged. Her lips that smoothed red indentions from Bella's indiscretions and her breathy words hot on Narcissa's neck. Lucius' hands feel too heavy, his breath too hot, and every touch feels stifling, almost painful. It is two months to the day after Draco's birth (almost exactly) when Macnair comes round for dinner.
Lucius is still at work, won't be back for hours. Macnair's fingers are thick like his accent and dark curly hair, his cock, and fucking him is rough and beautifully violent. She finds a sick pleasure in the roses of blood on her hips and thighs, one on her neck, wears them like charms. Rumors spread, bury themselves in her husband's ear, but she doesn't care; she's heard he's found her sister, her cousin, and his filthy lover. She plans her dinners and cares for little Draco and no one is the wiser as she fucks Mulciber in the laundry room.
Years pass like this, the terrible game of secrets and lies (which, she has found, only makes her crave Lucius more, letting him touch her after the executioner has ravaged her against a wall) that seems to have no end. Her attentions waver only slightly as she dotes on her son, hopes she is shaping him into a spectacular man, until finally the flames extinguish out and she is the perfect, faithful wife once more. Draco is in his third year when it happens again, an unexpected twist of fate like a knife to her stomach to see him standing there, dark and dirty, his skin gritty under her smooth palm.
"Hello, cousin," she almost mouths, voice distant and echoing, as if she is shouting down a long hallway. She can see the marks from her sister already on his lithe form and in that moment, she feels ethereal next to him, her dressing gown floating out around her body. Their lips meeting hurts her heart somehow, shatters it into a thousand pieces. I missed you, I missed you… Like Sirius being back, blood traitor or not, rights all the wrongs, brings her Andi back, her Andi, she needs to be held right now…
He carries her into the bedroom and this is the first time it has ever been done in her marriage bed. The stench of years of neglect hit her nose, but it is too late, she tumbles down, down, down, and soon that beautiful sheer nightdress is up over her head. Her chest burns with every thrust, the knowledge of what she is doing, the years she has just tossed out the window…
He leaves her crying.
For two years, she is clingy, desperate for the praise of her husband and wishes Draco could be near her always, her guardian she calls him. It is in the middle of a dark night when her gut wrenches and she feels a pain she cannot described, fears the worst.
Lucius will be taken away from her, she knows it.
She walks the floors of her manor, sobbing. Her face is pink when Bellatrix arrives.
"You," her sister sneers, voice throaty, a few wounds. She presses the younger against a wall, pins her wrists high above her head. "Filthy little bitch. You and him-" And she knows then that she knows about Sirius. Her skeletal hands are still experts at the woman who is Narcissa Malfoy, sliding up her inner thigh and in, never groaning at how wet her sister is. She remembers the attic, the dust in her throat as she came from Bella's knowing tongue lapping at her folds, and she trembles in anticipation.
Bellatrix does not fall to her knees; she shoves Narcissa down instead, opens her robes and slides a slit in her skirt to the side. Eagerly she tastes, those thin fingers pulling her hair painfully, her own fingers inside her sinfully wet panties, playing over her clit, curling inside herself to draw a whimper from her throat. She hums against Bella's flesh, makes her squirm a tiny bit, but it is enough and Narcissa smiles, licks her lips.
A hand slaps her across the face before wrenching her head back. Bellatrix doesn't come but waits for Narcissa to finish, shuddering around her own fingers. She leaves her there in an abandoned heap of dried sweat and tears.
Months alone make her jittery, the Healers telling her she has developed a mild heart condition, so she drinks herbs to settle herself, make her bones stop rattling around.
She has always wondered when he'd come.
Tattered clothes and wild eyes, unshaven, Remus looks like she feels; that devastation that comes with your world being pulled from beneath your feet, your heart torn from your chest, the beating that remains weak and faulty. Today she tried to go on, a proper sundress, tea sat out, untouched. They stand; locked in a staring match before her fingers delicately rest on a cup, hold it out to him.
The tea is cold and he slaps her arm, the cup shattering against the wall as he picks her up. Slender legs wrap around his torso and she bites at flesh, hard, red welts breaking out across his neck. His hands roam all over her, cup her breasts through the dress, roughly pinch at the swell of her breasts.
The sex is fast, and she feels him go deep enough to tear her in two; she shreds his skin with her nails. He murmurs words into her ear, tight and hot and oh yes, and she writhes at every single syllable, wanting more. They stay together after climax, her legs holding him inside her as she shakes, sweat rolling down her spine.
"Leave please," and Remus Lupin is the first man who ever listens to her, gathering up his clothes and Apparating.
She is telling a story in reverse translation, the future before the past, and the present intermingled somewhere between.
She is scared of the future.