Summer Bittersweet

The arrival
Bellatrix had shown up on Narcissa's doorsteps an hour before. She looked as haggard as an Azkaban escapee was expected to, and as drained of all energies as someone on the run was bound to. She was also the filthiest eye-sore Narcissa had ever had to look at. That was saying something, since Dumbledore had already been lording above Hogwarts during Narcissa's time, and had thus accepted some rather unfitted people. In Narcissa's mind, not even a Mudblood could fall as low as Bellatrix obviously had, during the years she had spent in Azkaban.

Of course, the Azkaban experience had to have burnt its mark on Bellatrix, but - there were things Narcissa was sure had been droned into Bellatrix since she had been born.

The old Bellatrix never would have allowed anyone to see her in such a state. Never would she have looked for help from anyone, even her sister. Never would she have used that throaty little laugh, when Narcissa, alerted by the house-elf, had shown up, shivering in the winter wind. Narcissa considered it unbefitting of a lady, and she was fuming as to how Bellatrix could have forgotten so much of what had been taught to her.

She hated herself when she realised she was too behaved of a lady to forcefully slam the door into Bellatrix's gleeful face, as was her first impulse. But no, she had to prove she was better than her sister. As if anyone could have appreciated the show, had they even been there to witness it. Anhe had been stuck with her sister strutting around Malfoy Manor as if she owned it, making comments Narcissa privately rated as offensive every once in a while, and even snorting, on an occasion, at an house-elf's squeal. Yes, Bellatrix definitely had lost whatever few manners she might have had previous her Azkaban period.

Now, Narcissa knew, understood, sympathised with everything that could be said about Azkaban, and she even went so far as to admit those things were true - but such things were irrelevant in one's sister's house. Having fled from Azkaban less than a week ago should not be used as an excuse for one's bad manners. Yet she was a lady, and not the vagabond her sister seemed to enjoy being. So she had gritted her teeth, briskly taken Bellatrix to the living room, and ordered for some tea and cakes. They had spent the last hour making small talk, asking all the polite enquiries and mild comments that suited a formal tea invitation.

And it drove Narcissa crazy because it was not a formal invitation at all.

When you looked past everything, the manners, the smell, the laughter, what remained was still that her sister was an Azkaban escapee and that, no matter how much she trusted Lucius to worm his way out of everything, she still had her doubts as to how the Minister of Magic might react if he found his personal adviser's wife having a cuppa, and a bit of chit-chat to boot, with an escaped Death Eater. An hour of thinking up excuses had only led her to the conclusion that she could at best pretend she had been unarmed, frightened in the presence of this madwoman, and that her only chance had been to play along until someone came.

Narcissa did not relish the thought of losing her sister once more.

In fact, she reasoned, the problem wasn't so much Bellatrix's arrival as her breakout of Azkaban.

The paper
She had distractedly looked at the Daily Prophet that morning. It came for Lucius, mainly. Or so he liked to think. Nowadays he spent more and more of his time at the Ministry. Fudge, she had been given to understand, was quite taken with him; the man could not imagine reaching a decision without Lucius's guidance, often keeping him up at night, pathetically grateful. It was fine with Narcissa. She enjoyed being the first to ruffle through the newspaper's great folded sheets. It filled her with a wicked feeling of ownership. It was a small thing, something no one would ever guess or think it could exist - which was all she asked, really.

That morning, she was even gladder Lucius wasn't home. It would have gone really smooth, otherwise, she could tell. Lucius's eyes widening and him dropping all of a sudden that her sister had fled from Azkaban. How could a trustee servant of the Dark Lord learn news that magnitude by the Daily Prophet was at anyone's guess. Narcissa, as for herself, had the sneaky supposition that the Dark Lord himself might have learnt it by the Medias. Press did have its own ways of knowing things, ways that were considered as dark as the Death Eaters in their own ways. Narcissa knew Dumbledore shared this point of view.

Which only served to show how much he knew about the Death Eaters.

Narcissa pitied him. He had been placed upon a pedestal by the rest of the wizarding world, and now he was being thrown out of it. Let the wizards fear him - Narcissa only wanted to make him retire. Then he could read at his heart's content - Albus Dumbledore could not dislike reading - and listen to music. Possibly she could oust McGonagall ande her place. Once upon a time, Narcissa had dreamt of getting Dumbledore as a godfather for her child.

For obvious reasons, it hadn't been done. She had still asked him, though, as a private favour, without telling anyone about it.

Bellatrix was her child's godmother, of course. In her head, above her paper, Narcissa once again replayed her perfect plan. Not telling Bellatrix who was Draco's godfather, possibly implying she was the one - Bellatrix always liked being exceptional. Lucius would have come around, when he'd see it was already done, and what advantages could be taken. Being covered up on both sides.

Alas, it hadn't worked out. Even worse, they had almost been on the losing side.

The revival
There was something mildly off-putting in seeing your husband suddenly scream with pain while you were busying in highly private occupations. It was even more so to be abandoned by said shaking husband who was running back, like a wounded puppy, to his lost master, leaving you completely frustrated. Hopefully the puppy would get more wounded during the reunion.

Narcissa had of course understood what was going on, and she had fought the urge to kick some inanimate object, or possibly a willing house-elf. All Blacks tended to get angry when worried. And she was worried - though she wasn't sure if it was about her husband or the future. Narcissa had always had a knack for worrying about things to come.

At any rate, there was something to be said about not being a Death Eater. Not having to obey the Master's every whim, to run off the house without so much as a good-bye kiss to your wife, to put on ridiculously black robes - for after all, robes were well and good, stylish and classy, but not exactly practical, unless the Death Eaters intended to do whatever they did in a closed closet at midnight. Which Narcissa hoped for her husband's sake they didn't. Narcissa had a possessive streak, and such a discovery would insure that the burden of continuing the family line rest solely on Draco's shoulders.

Narcissa was not angry, she tried to reasonably deal with herself, as she had when a small Draco demanded the most extravagant things, not-a-dragon-for-your-birthday-but-a-sweet-right-now. She felt about as convinced as she had back then. She wasn't angry because she wasn't worried. No, not at all.

Then, Lucius had returned with some cock-and-bull story. She had paid the requited attention, had poured the requited brandy, had looked requitedly happy at the news of the Master's return, horrified at Potter's antics, and awed at her husband's bravery. Lucius had seemed to have recovered a bit, and Narcissa ought to have received some thanks for this ego boost, but she knew better that to expect some. He was many things, and conservative about s witch's role in society was among them.

As soon as she had put Lucius to bed, barely refraining from snapping at him that perhaps he'd like she read him a story as well, she had laughed her head off.

Those were the worst bits of news since Voldemort's death, but at least then they had known they were in for peace. Narcissa didn't feel young enough to resume her past actions. If anything, it should be the younger generation that should do it, now. Narcissa doubted Lucius would share her point of view, but she had no intention of making her ideas known.

She had thought of her sister that night. How the Dark Lord would never retrieve the lark that had burnt her wings for him.

e="text-indent: -3.12mm; text-align: left; line-height: 4.166667mm; color: Black; background-color: White; "> The trial.
Narcissa had not attended. She knew exactly what to expect. She could have related the trial before it took place. Upon hearing its development and conclusion, she reflected that her sister was entirely too predictable.

She didn't care about the three others, and she'd have put the Longbottoms under Cruciatus again herself for setting all those wards on their house.

She had retired to her room and she had grieved, intending to forget all about her sister, as she had done already with one sibling and two cousins.

More than the Longbottoms for their wards or her sister for her stubbornness, she blamed the Dark Lord.

The fall
Narcissa refused to think about it. It had been the worst time of her life. Her husband had had his own trial, the Dark Lord had vanished and the Potter boy still lived, and everyone rejoiced. Fools. How could they not understand everything Narcissa-and-her-husband-and-her-sister-and-her-master did was for them? For them to live in a better, greater, purer world?... Yet all those things did not disturb her as much as they could have. She was too distraught about her sister to even care about the rest.

The Dark Lord's fall had been hard to Bellatrix. She had not said a word, of course, nor shed a tear, but when Narcissa had went to visit her, a bit worried not to have received any news, Bellatrix was in her bed, almost comatose. Narcissa was out of her wits with worry. She had spent those two months in the room next to her sister's. Lucius and the baby wouldn't die of seeing her twiceek or so, in Diagon Alley, but her sister would. The private Healer a concerned Rodolphus had hired insisted that Bellatrix needed both quiet and constant watch. Narcissa had volunteered, because she could not imagine not doing it.

Slowly, Bellatrix had started getting better, talking again, things that did not always make sense. Narcissa never stopped paying attention to her rants and ramblings, because she was never sure it wouldn't be the last thing she'd hear from her sister.

She learned more about Bellatrix in those two months than she had in the twenty-three years she had known her prior. It was as if the veil that had hidden Bellatrix's reasons and motivations from her had been torn.

Those were things she later pretended had not happened, and that Bellatrix obviously didn't remember. She'd ponder often enough, but only when she was alone - she had been told too many stories about Legilimency not to develop paranoia.

Two months, and those that followed until Bellatrix made her move on the Longbottoms. Narcissa reflected they had been the finest in her life, because they felt like summer holidays, though it was winter. She'd hug her sister, she'd do the most extravagant hairstyles with Bellatrix's cascading locks, she'd chirpily kiss Bellatrix four times, two for each cheek. Everything she had stopped doing once beginning Hogwarts, claiming to be almost an adult. The deliriums had taught her that indestructible Bellatrix missed her baby of a sister. No, more than that. She had been hurt; she had suffered when Narcissa had not needed her anymore. Now she understood it had meant nothing to her, but it had been Bellatrix's world. A world where family ruled and where she was still the leader. To Bellatrix, Narcissa would always be the little one.

She played her role and enjoyed it. She knew it could not go on forever. It was like summer holidays. Bittersweet at worst like at best. Something Narcissa had always , but rendered Bellatrix restless.

When word came out that the Longbottoms had been attacked and that Bellatrix Lestrange was a Death Eater, Narcissa excused herself from the world. She had known something like this would come. She excused herself and went into mourning.