bellatrix will set the hounds on you; (coldrose) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-05-03 11:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1980-05] may, bellatrix lestrange (née black), narcissa malfoy (née black) |
RP Log: Bellatrix and Narcissa
Who: Narcissa and Bellatrix
Where: Lestrange Manor, ze Master Suite!
What: The sisters Black have a little issue with some post-battle trauma.
When: 3 May, 1980.
Rating: Pretty damn G.
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Narcissa had not felt this terrified since the night of the Masquerade - the recent months had been peaceful and she had appreciated being able to sleep each night without worrying which family member might be injured out fighting next. But this, this was most likely one of the worst jokes she had ever seen - and what if it was not a joke? There was no possible way Bellatrix could have lost her memory. Nothing could happen to her; nothing was allowed to. But terror was the only word that could accurately describe this, and she made her way to the rooms as quickly as possible. Which of course, was not very quickly, due to the fact she was at thirty weeks now and movement was as much a waddle as the elegant glide of the past.
"Bella?"
The woman in question, part of her face still bandaged from the damage Ted had wrought, turned and upon gazing at her very pregnant sister gave a very inelegant (and unBellatrix-like) squeak.
"Cissa!" she exclaimed, making her (slow) way over to her sister to lay ginger hands on her shoulders. "When did this happen -- who did this happen with?" Pause. "You are radiant, of course, like Gaia or Juno or Demeter. Yes, like Demeter."
Narcissa blanched. "I have been pregnant since -- oh, months and months, due in July. And Lucius is the father. My husband. We've talked about this every day, Bella, don't you remember? You are to be the baby's godmother. How can you forget that?" It was the most monumental event to ever happen in Narcissa's life, for one thing. Please, she prayed silently. Please let her be joking.
As Narcissa spoke, Bellatrix arched a single brow. Something (at least something) began clicking with her: fighting, injury, bandage to the head. Memory loss? Her lips pressed ever so tightly as she observed the emotion playing over her beloved little sister's face. She would lie if she had to. In such a condition! "I remember that," was spoken softly, the corner of her mouth drawn into a crooked bow.
Relief flooded Narcissa's face. So she did remember. She was going to be fine then; all this worry had been unnecessary. But there were parts of this that still didn't match up, nagging at the back of her mind. 'Are you telling me I became a Lestrange while I slept?' "What else can you remember, Bella?" she whispered.
"I am two years in service to the Dark Lord," she replied, as if what she was saying was the height of simplicity. Narcissa - so beloved, of such comfort - had a story that was plain, as non-intimidating as the child she was carrying. Those memories - those were easy.
"I received the Dark Mark a year ago. He has developed a fondness for my talents, which I am very proud of. I know you mentioned Lestrange - I have trained with him, before. Indeed, the Dark Lord has paired the two of us for many exercises and missions."
Narcissa swallowed hard and tried to hide her worry. "I don't understand... Bella, that was so very long ago. You have been in service much longer than two years and recieved the Mark when I was in school, I think. Do you know what year it is?" Had there not been a Healer around? Clearly, something was wrong, something hadn't been taken care of. Maybe Bella had hit her head on something - her sister would never keep a joke of this sort going for that long. Especially if it was this terrifying. And what was Rodolphus going to think?
She rubbed her face - where the bandage was not - with her hand, full of frustration and rising anger. Why was Narcissa gainsaying her? "Merlin's boots, Narcissa. What year is it? You do run on ..."
"I am not running on!" Narcissa finally gave up and sat down, practically wringing her hands in frustration. Standing for too long hurt her feet terribly. "It is ninteen-eighty, Bella, and for some reason you are acting as though nothing has happened! What about Rodolphus, and Lucius? And Papa, for Merlin's sake? And my baby?"
Frowning, her heart jumped in her throat when Cygnus was mentioned. Something didn't feel right: though she had no recollection, none at all, she would simply have to act the part. An exhale. "I don't remember, Narcissa. I thought it was 1973." Pause. "Tell me what I need to know.And don't tell anyone I can't remember ..."
Seven years. How could one summarise seven years, let alone what had happened over the last year? "You are married. To Rodolphus. I am married, and with child - though I suppose that is clear. And Papa..." her voice lowered. This was not fair, it was not her job to have to tell such things. Especially if they had already happened. "Papa is dead."
Mortification, clear upon her face, was subsumed by horror, which was replaced with rage. She did not want to know how he died, she didn't care. He was her world and now, barring this strange husband Narcissa claimed she had, that world belonged to Narcissa just as her body was Voldemort's for the using. Cygnus would be avenged with every breath she took. She shook her head. " ... Cissa, don't tell anyone."
Narcissa could not promise that. It was impossible. They were Blacks, of course, and what went on did not leave the family. But Rodolphus deserved to know - and would realise immediately, in any case. So instead, she let the dry sob that had been building up in her throat out, and stood up to wrap her arms around her sister. Who still smelled the same, and felt the same. "We will fix this, Bella."
She wrapped her arms around her sister, laying her chin against the other girl's temple as she squeezed tightly, holding on for dear life. This young woman, full of life. Her Narcissa. "Dearest," she said softly, "I'll try to remember everything -- It's still me. Your same Bella."
"I know," Narcissa wiped her eyes. It was impossible that this would go on forever; surely some Healer would be able to set things right. "I will tell the servants to bring us something to eat, and we should talk more." Seven years.
"I'm sorry, yes. Yes, of course." There would be a great deal of this, she realised, that she would have to to herself. A great deal of life to simply relearn. Without her father, it seemed, she was without a compatriot. Hardly herself.
Shaking her head, she snapped her fingers to bring a House Elf into the room -- "Mrs Lestrange," it said in its tremulous voice, "What can Popsy do for the Mistress?" Her own voice, its tone velvet and regal, took on a commanding air. "Bring me lunch, Popsy, and lunch for Mrs. Malfoy as well."
This did not feel like herself. This was not her life. But, until she could conceive of a way to create change in it, here she would stay.