The Estranged

    We are the estranged, the alienated; we are at odds with the wizarding world. The wizarding world at large, I correct myself. A rare thing, self-correction.

    We are local deities to some. The inner circle, and those loyalists that remain removed from the close knit group I tend to refer to as family, would praise us and do, bowing down to his most devoted followers. No, his most devoted family, heirs to the throne. For we have passed from pathetic servants, scrambling to survive intense hatred, to break into the inner ranks. We have made it.

    It is our dream, but we are estranged, the estrangers, the people of him.

    They hate us, most of the wizarding world. For to them we are but filthy mongrels, ravaged in evil, darkness, despair, followers of evil. They do not see the purity of blood, only twice broken, broken through two people whose names I will not speak. Traced back to Salazaar himself and the faith we have immersed ourselves in, our blood whispers power, breathes strength, intellect, supremacy. They do not see the mountains we have scaled, the oceans we have swam, not sailed, the lines we have crossed. They do not see, and it could almost be heaven on Earth, a heaven they can, should, would not see.

*

    My childhood was wonderful, far more so than people would suspect. Abused, the tangles in my hair sigh. Hated, heartbroken, the lidded eyes cry. Ah, but they are all wrong.

    I was happy, so much so it twists my stomach into knots to remember. We lived peacefully, my sister Narcissa and I, even with our Andromeda. Not our sister; no, she is but a remnant of dirtied blood, a piece of filth on the otherwise untarnished family name.

    We were perfect, they said. Narcissa was an angel in her impenetrably pure beauty, the blond hair, ice blue eyes, moon bright skin. An angel that walked on Earth, they called her. Oh, but it was a mask for what lie beneath. She was cold, they said, perfectly and utterly frozen from the world, brutally unfeeling but so absolutely so.

    I was her opposite, I was told, an exact opposite but so equally brilliant. Olive skin, like finely polished holly, shone falsely warm in the summer, my hair, as dark as coffee before the creamer has been added, once brushed sleek and shiny, falling in harsh, razored edges to my shoulders. And my eyes, the best feature on my deep face, they said. Rich mahogany, gleaming cunning, shining sarcasm. We had the same voice, Narcissa and I, though it has been so long since I heard hers that I can barely even attest to this anymore. They said it was a beautiful voice, cultured and smooth. They were wrong, even then.

    Our voices dripped sweetness, oozed sensuality, bespelled all men in our path with it’s saccharine taste.

    I wonder despite myself if her voice has changed as much as mine.

    I have replaced the sickly sweet of my voice with harsh sarcasm, shrewd resourcefulness, and biting cynicism. It drips pain, oozes old memories.

    Hers must still be the same, I imagine. I cannot decide how I would rather have it, as coarsely callused as my own, or as syrupy and spellbinding as before.

    I content myself with not knowing.

    And Andromeda. People will always get the wrong idea about Andromeda. She was not hated, not until she married into that foul mudblood’s family, anyway. She was not beautiful, she was imperfect, but she was loved.

    I have tried for years to forget her face. But, some memories go far too deep to be lightly thrown aside, and I remember…

    I remember her hair, reaching halfway down her back in gentle waves, it’s plain russet color, with the brassy highlights. Instead of sarcasm, cruel intellect, her eyes were deep wells of hazel, a cool grey color flecked with brown and ringed in deep denim blue. They dripped real tears, oozed sadness. And her voice, so different from mine and Narcissa’s; perhaps that is what I remember most.

    It was a calm voice, never as ‘cultured’ or as ‘smooth’ as ours but so light. Her laughter was like bells, easy-going silver bells, and when she spoke, time seemed to stand still.

    I envied her; for she personified pure intelligence, deep beauty, richness of quality.

    I could never let anyone know how I envied her. For she was, from the day she was born, somehow estranged from the family. I think it was her disposition, her giving personality. I remember my parents getting angry when she willingly shared her crayons with me when we were little. She was rarely spoken of once she went to Hogwarts, and the silences were long and awkward when she did visit.

    I remember the say she left, left not four days after her graduation for the mudblood’s house.

    She was standing at the bottom of the staircase holding some suitcases and boxes, her owl under her arm. Her eyes were shining, and I had to look away.

    “Bella,” she had said. I looked up for a moment but now the tears were spilling down her baby-soft cheeks. I glanced away.

    “Bella,” she repeated, louder this time, and I looked up and held her gaze.

    “I’ll miss you,” she whispered, reaching out to take me by the arm.

    I didn’t say anything. She’d miss me? But…didn’t we hate each other?

    She ran her hand up my bare arm, fingers lingering on my forearm. I turned to see Narcissa and my parents standing behind me at a distance, all scowling with annoyance.

    I took a step back, and her hand fell. She nodded slightly to my parents, met my gaze with antipathy, and with a single Pop! she was gone. As she disappeared, I could have sworn I heard her say, once again, “I’ll miss you,” but I did not understand this ‘miss’, or how she could ever feel that way about me.

    I was the last to marry. Narcissa held up an extravagant affair at Malfoy Manor; all silks, satins, and white roses. It was beautiful, but even as I watched her kiss this Lucius, I could not bring myself to believe they loved. For no true Slytherin loves, cries, feels.

    The day after the wedding I received a birth announcement from Andromeda. Did I care? I wondered. Was this important to me? I did not know then, and I do not now, but somehow the importance has faded for me.

    And then, a year later, I married, and became one of the estranged.

*

    It is heaven on Earth, if nothing else is. Supremely protected in darkness, though I would like to think that I do not need protection. We are gods and goddess, beautiful to all in his circle. We are close enough to be his family. We are the ultimate behind him.

    And yet, somehow I cannot help but wonder. I remember seeing Andromeda at the Ministry this year, inside the Department of Mysteries. No, not Andromeda. The hair was far too dark, the face finer boned, the eyes bigger. Her daughter, though now I do not remember the name on that birth announcement. I remember too the pain this caused me, the anguish, and for a moment, a mere millisecond, I wanted to fight with her. A mere millisecond.

    I do not see my Narcissa anymore, and I do not know why. She writes, sometimes, on her beautiful rice paper in her wonderful flowing script. Where am I? Am I alive? We should get together again, would you like that?

    Perhaps I am afraid of what she would see if she saw me again. For I have changed more than I imagine I know. So I content myself with letters back, letters in my own curving hand. I’m out of the area, alive, but too busy to get together. Perhaps some other time? But she knows as well as I do that there will probably never be another time.

    More than anything, I am afraid to hear her voice. I have almost forgotten how mine was before it is now, harsh, grating, pained. I cannot decided how I would rather have it, have her, have her life and mine.

    I content myself with not knowing.

*

    For we are the estranged, the estrangers, le estranged, le estrangers. I do not know which, and I do not know how I would have it.

    I content myself with not knowing.