Red

There were rose petals and empty wine glasses stained with lipstick
-from With a Kiss, by She's a Star

She hated black. Black and death and anguish and pain and heartlessness and everything that her husband thrived on. She wanted red roses; she wanted to see colors again, to feel passion and anger and true emotion.
-from Mrs. Malfoy, by She's a Star

Live fast, die young
-motto of Sirius Black

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Narcissa's lips curled upward in a soft, sad bitter smile. Lucius studied her face softly. "What do you have to smile about, dear?" he asked softly, his voice the ice he was.

Narcissa did not answer. She had learned long ago that all his questions were rhetorical; her answer was irrelevant to anything he would ever think, say, or do. She meant nothing to him, and equally he meant nothing to her. So of course she had married him.

She could remember more, remember those days when she had worn scarlet dresses and scarlet lipstick, when she had taken red roses the shade of her lips and kissed them, smiling coyly as she gave them away as flirtatious tokens to those she favored--those who were young, passionate, fiery, full of life.

How in the world had she ended up with him? He was the antithesis of all she had ever wanted--black where she had wanted red, cold where she wanted heat, icy coolness where she had needed passion. There had never been passion with Lucius. There had been ice, chilling touches that froze her blood and made her cry out in the night, but it had been long since she had cried out.

She sat straight in the chair, high-backed, silver, cold, the embodiment of all her husband stood for, with black velvet cushions, cusions that gave no comfort. For all their wealth, their gold, their silver, there was never comfort. She always sat straight in the chair. To slouch was to show a sign of weakness, and she'd be damned if she was weak for him.

Once, she had slouched. She could remember herself as a girl, when she had played outside in the afternoons, those long summer days, a small beautiful child with flaxen hair in a pink checkered sundress, making crowns of daisies beneath the trees in the late-afternoon sunlight, streaming down as liquid gold, warm, living, around her.

"The Ministry expects me. You will be at the dinner tonight in London, at the Ministry, at seven o'clock exactly."

She blinked, realizing slowly that he was still there, ignoring Narcissa still trapped in her reverie. Of course. Why should things be different this time? She realized the smile was still on her face, and she kept it there, just to spite him. She did have things to smile about.

What a joke this all was, her life, what an utter and stupid twist of fate, pulled together just to amuse the gods. If anyone had told her twelve years ago that she would be married to a cold-hearted Death Eater, she would have laughed in their face. Then, she was scarlet, crimson, she was red, and she was life itself. She had partied like there was no tomorrow, kissed and flirted, danced and lived, dammit, and now she missed the living most of all.

Live fast, die young

She vaguely remembered that from somewhere. Yes, that had been her, her twelve years ago before everything had overtaken her and she was thrown into this pit of Hell that was her life now. Twelve years ago, this very night, she had stood in the mirror smiling to herself, her naturally straight hair curled to perfection, still so pale it was almost white, golden silver around her head, framing sky-blue eyes and red lipstick, wearing the same secretive, seductive, lively smile on her face then. But then she had worn a dress red, red as the single rose tucked behind her ear, all thorns carefully removed. But she had not given that rose away--all the roses she had given had thorns. For she had thorns.

Then.

Now she had nothing. Nothing but an empty house, nothing but black and grey and white and barbed wire and steel surrounding a silver-gilded table, a table set with lipstick-stained wineglasses and rose petals. But all of the petals were black, and all of the lipstick was frosty silver, and the barbed wire and spikes kept it unable to change.

She was still smiling, the same full-lipped, secretive smile she had worn then, her back erect, refusing to bend, dressed in black to her neck, eyes more gray than blue, hair straight falling down her back, wearing flat black shoes rather than red-leather strapped high heels that sparkled.

She blinked, slowly, closing her eyes lightly, and when she opened them they were baby blue. She realized dimly that Lucius was gone, but still she sat there, laughing hysterically inside, her lips curved in that same smile.

She would be red again if it was the last thing she did.

She would bleed her heart out to make this narcissa red.

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