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Title: Lost Girls
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Bellatrix/Narcissa
Warnings: Emotional anguish, post-Azkaban reunion
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The Bellatrix that has been returned to her is not the one that she remembers. Her sister is lost within her shell, and Narcissa doesn’t know if she can stand it.
AN: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
flyingharmony for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femmefest 2015, and was originally posted to the community here.
Bella is a ruin of humanity. She sits on the edge of the bathtub, rocking back and forth gently enough not to slip, her lips – once full and brightly painted; now bitten and thinned out with emaciation – constantly moving in a mantra too quiet for Narcissa to hear. Narcissa has given up trying to listen. She’s focussed instead on removing prison rags from her sister’s body. The louse-ridden fabric makes her fingers itch whenever she touches it, but she doesn’t dare to use her wand. Not now. Not with Bella’s eyes so bright and so focussed on things that Narcissa can’t see.
Bella has always been the dangerous one; the mad one, but Azkaban has taken what madness there was and made it grow into something more powerful.
The body she carefully reveals is not the one that she remembers. The large breasts Bella was always so proud of have been left sagging against her belly by starvation – a belly that’s perversely rounded by parasites and disease. Every rib, every curve and dip of the bones in her limbs – they’re visible to the naked eye. When Narcissa stands to throw the rags away, she’s granted a birds-eye view of Bella’s shoulder blades and spine. They look like they’re about to tear free of her fragile skin and flap off into the night. She grimaces, unable to stop herself, and she turns away in case Bella looks up and sees. Only the Dark Mark remains the same.
With the rags disposed of and her composure regained, she turns her attention to the water. She makes it warm – not as hot as Bella used to like. Before, her sister had favoured baths almost scalding in temperature. She’d spend hours in the water, topping it up constantly, before emerging red-cheeked and tender. Personal preference aside, Narcissa is quite sure that Bella wouldn’t be able to handle water that temperature the way she is now; besides, if she’s to bathe her properly, she needs to be able to touch it too.
She pours in potion after potion, dredging up knowledge from a long-distant NEWT to make sure that she doesn’t cause an explosion. De-lousing, de-greasing…she pours in everything she dares and she fights the temptation to make the water so caustic that this mockery of her sister dissolves away.
“Bella,” she says when it’s ready. “Bellatrix.”
She pauses. For a moment, she’s not sure that Bella has heard her. She doesn’t know if her voice is loud enough to be heard in the place Bella’s mind has gone to. But then, painfully slowly, her sister uncurls her spine and peers up at her from under long lashes. It’s a familiar look – one that, a lifetime ago, sent heat spiralling through Narcissa’s belly and made her flush and squirm in anticipation. Now, it simply hurts.
She makes herself smile. “Your bath’s ready,” she says, and she helps Bella stand.
For all that she looks like a skeleton, there’s a deceptive strength in Bella’s body. What muscles she has left are powerful enough sink bruises into Narcissa’s arms as pulls her slowly to her feet and guides her into the tub. Bella hisses when the water first touches her, twists, but ultimately allows Narcissa to help her settle.
“Cold,” she says eventually, in a voice that’s mostly a growl, and it’s the most that she’s been herself since Lucius brought her home from Azkaban.
“I’m sorry,” Narcissa says. “You can have a hot one next time.” It’s a lie, she knows. Bella won’t get what she wants until she has the strength to bathe herself and to not pass out from the heat – if she ever gets that strength back.
She’s not sure how long it takes to get her sister clean. She loses count of the things she finds living in the wild tangle of her hair, and the number of times she has to stop herself from snapping that fragile neck or from holding Bella down under the water until she stops struggling. It would be so easy. It’s the thought of the possible retribution more than the knowledge that this is her sister that stays her hand – she’s a Black, after all; the murder of weaker family members is practically a pastime.
Once upon a time, she would never have thought of Bella as weak – let alone weaker than herself. Once upon a time, she was the baby. She was precious little Cissa; the one that stood still and let Bella dress her up like a doll and then undress her all over again. Back then, the bruises Bella left on her were from something else entirely. Back then, Bella was her world.
Now, free from the bath water, Bella is back to rocking; her eyes vacant and her lips moving. Narcissa dries every inch of her and tries to focus on the act and not the memories it brings. There’s no pleasure anymore in cupping Bella’s breasts in her hands or easing her legs apart, and though the act of drying her feet makes Bella twitch, there’s no accompanying giggle or reprimanding kick; just a faint hitch of breath that doesn’t even manage to disrupt the incessant murmuring.
Even clean, there’s barely any resemblance to the sister she loved – to the sister she still loves, down in the darkest part of her heart. Once glossy hair is dull and flecked with white; already pale skin has been turned sallow, and the glorious bone structure of the Blacks is entirely too close to the surface.
Dry, naked, Narcissa wraps an old robe around her sister’s shoulders. It’s not one of Bella’s. She has those locked away with Bella’s wand and her old jewellery, shut up in a room far from anywhere Lucius and Draco would think to go. She rarely goes herself; only choosing to do so when her bed gets too cold and the darkness sinks so deep into her bones that she thinks she’ll never be warm again. That trunk is all she has left of the sister she worshipped, and even the thought of its contents is enough to make her heart clench for what was lost.
She knows that, now that this shadow is here, she will have to let at least some of it go. Bella’s property must be returned to her. But the thought of the gowns she used to fill hanging from her now skeletal frame is a new level of torment, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to bear the sight.
She must give back the wand. Her husband’s Lord – Bella’s Lord – will demand it. Laces and velvets, diamonds, sapphires, and the fripperies of their childhood – she thinks she will be allowed to keep them if only she can avoid admitting to their presence. She doubts that there is enough of her sister left in this shell to care, and she knows that the Dark Lord does not.
Bella is shivering. Slowly, carefully, Narcissa guides her back to her feet and out of the bathroom into the chamber beyond. Once upon a time, they would make love on the bed she now tucks her sister into. They’d laugh into each other, tease with lips and fingers until they both were breathless. On the day Narcissa had discovered her pregnancy Bella had slipped between her legs and fucked her so hard she’d thought she’d die from it. There’s none of that now. She settles Bella down into a bed that now seems too big for her, brushes her hair back from her face in a gesture usually reserved these days for Draco, and touches her lips to the paper-thin skin of her brow.
“You get warm,” she whispers. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
There are herbs to ease sleeping beneath the pillow and a warming charm on the blankets – she knows that by the time she returns with some broth and Bella’s wand, she will be asleep.
She thinks it’s for the best.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Bellatrix/Narcissa
Warnings: Emotional anguish, post-Azkaban reunion
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The Bellatrix that has been returned to her is not the one that she remembers. Her sister is lost within her shell, and Narcissa doesn’t know if she can stand it.
AN: This was written for
flyingharmony for femmefest 2015, and was originally posted to the community here.Bella is a ruin of humanity. She sits on the edge of the bathtub, rocking back and forth gently enough not to slip, her lips – once full and brightly painted; now bitten and thinned out with emaciation – constantly moving in a mantra too quiet for Narcissa to hear. Narcissa has given up trying to listen. She’s focussed instead on removing prison rags from her sister’s body. The louse-ridden fabric makes her fingers itch whenever she touches it, but she doesn’t dare to use her wand. Not now. Not with Bella’s eyes so bright and so focussed on things that Narcissa can’t see.
Bella has always been the dangerous one; the mad one, but Azkaban has taken what madness there was and made it grow into something more powerful.
The body she carefully reveals is not the one that she remembers. The large breasts Bella was always so proud of have been left sagging against her belly by starvation – a belly that’s perversely rounded by parasites and disease. Every rib, every curve and dip of the bones in her limbs – they’re visible to the naked eye. When Narcissa stands to throw the rags away, she’s granted a birds-eye view of Bella’s shoulder blades and spine. They look like they’re about to tear free of her fragile skin and flap off into the night. She grimaces, unable to stop herself, and she turns away in case Bella looks up and sees. Only the Dark Mark remains the same.
With the rags disposed of and her composure regained, she turns her attention to the water. She makes it warm – not as hot as Bella used to like. Before, her sister had favoured baths almost scalding in temperature. She’d spend hours in the water, topping it up constantly, before emerging red-cheeked and tender. Personal preference aside, Narcissa is quite sure that Bella wouldn’t be able to handle water that temperature the way she is now; besides, if she’s to bathe her properly, she needs to be able to touch it too.
She pours in potion after potion, dredging up knowledge from a long-distant NEWT to make sure that she doesn’t cause an explosion. De-lousing, de-greasing…she pours in everything she dares and she fights the temptation to make the water so caustic that this mockery of her sister dissolves away.
“Bella,” she says when it’s ready. “Bellatrix.”
She pauses. For a moment, she’s not sure that Bella has heard her. She doesn’t know if her voice is loud enough to be heard in the place Bella’s mind has gone to. But then, painfully slowly, her sister uncurls her spine and peers up at her from under long lashes. It’s a familiar look – one that, a lifetime ago, sent heat spiralling through Narcissa’s belly and made her flush and squirm in anticipation. Now, it simply hurts.
She makes herself smile. “Your bath’s ready,” she says, and she helps Bella stand.
For all that she looks like a skeleton, there’s a deceptive strength in Bella’s body. What muscles she has left are powerful enough sink bruises into Narcissa’s arms as pulls her slowly to her feet and guides her into the tub. Bella hisses when the water first touches her, twists, but ultimately allows Narcissa to help her settle.
“Cold,” she says eventually, in a voice that’s mostly a growl, and it’s the most that she’s been herself since Lucius brought her home from Azkaban.
“I’m sorry,” Narcissa says. “You can have a hot one next time.” It’s a lie, she knows. Bella won’t get what she wants until she has the strength to bathe herself and to not pass out from the heat – if she ever gets that strength back.
She’s not sure how long it takes to get her sister clean. She loses count of the things she finds living in the wild tangle of her hair, and the number of times she has to stop herself from snapping that fragile neck or from holding Bella down under the water until she stops struggling. It would be so easy. It’s the thought of the possible retribution more than the knowledge that this is her sister that stays her hand – she’s a Black, after all; the murder of weaker family members is practically a pastime.
Once upon a time, she would never have thought of Bella as weak – let alone weaker than herself. Once upon a time, she was the baby. She was precious little Cissa; the one that stood still and let Bella dress her up like a doll and then undress her all over again. Back then, the bruises Bella left on her were from something else entirely. Back then, Bella was her world.
Now, free from the bath water, Bella is back to rocking; her eyes vacant and her lips moving. Narcissa dries every inch of her and tries to focus on the act and not the memories it brings. There’s no pleasure anymore in cupping Bella’s breasts in her hands or easing her legs apart, and though the act of drying her feet makes Bella twitch, there’s no accompanying giggle or reprimanding kick; just a faint hitch of breath that doesn’t even manage to disrupt the incessant murmuring.
Even clean, there’s barely any resemblance to the sister she loved – to the sister she still loves, down in the darkest part of her heart. Once glossy hair is dull and flecked with white; already pale skin has been turned sallow, and the glorious bone structure of the Blacks is entirely too close to the surface.
Dry, naked, Narcissa wraps an old robe around her sister’s shoulders. It’s not one of Bella’s. She has those locked away with Bella’s wand and her old jewellery, shut up in a room far from anywhere Lucius and Draco would think to go. She rarely goes herself; only choosing to do so when her bed gets too cold and the darkness sinks so deep into her bones that she thinks she’ll never be warm again. That trunk is all she has left of the sister she worshipped, and even the thought of its contents is enough to make her heart clench for what was lost.
She knows that, now that this shadow is here, she will have to let at least some of it go. Bella’s property must be returned to her. But the thought of the gowns she used to fill hanging from her now skeletal frame is a new level of torment, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to bear the sight.
She must give back the wand. Her husband’s Lord – Bella’s Lord – will demand it. Laces and velvets, diamonds, sapphires, and the fripperies of their childhood – she thinks she will be allowed to keep them if only she can avoid admitting to their presence. She doubts that there is enough of her sister left in this shell to care, and she knows that the Dark Lord does not.
Bella is shivering. Slowly, carefully, Narcissa guides her back to her feet and out of the bathroom into the chamber beyond. Once upon a time, they would make love on the bed she now tucks her sister into. They’d laugh into each other, tease with lips and fingers until they both were breathless. On the day Narcissa had discovered her pregnancy Bella had slipped between her legs and fucked her so hard she’d thought she’d die from it. There’s none of that now. She settles Bella down into a bed that now seems too big for her, brushes her hair back from her face in a gesture usually reserved these days for Draco, and touches her lips to the paper-thin skin of her brow.
“You get warm,” she whispers. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
There are herbs to ease sleeping beneath the pillow and a warming charm on the blankets – she knows that by the time she returns with some broth and Bella’s wand, she will be asleep.
She thinks it’s for the best.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-05-18 10:50 am (UTC)From:It is amazing how you mix Narcissa's actions, her emotions and memories, and all the time this bitterness paired with longing for the old days.
Tragic, really tragic ...
You stunned me once more ... simply wow <3
no subject
Date: 2015-05-18 09:54 pm (UTC)From:I was given some great prompts for this fest. Really, seriously great. But the one that stood out to me was: "Ophelia's mind went wandering, you'd wonder where she'd gone; through secret doors, down corridors, she'd wander them alone" (Ophelia - Natalie Merchant), and this is based heavily on that.
I had such a lot of fun exploring the side effects of Azkaban - physical as well as mental - in this. It's always something I thought Narcissa must have struggled with in the books, and the opportunity to put it into words was something I couldn't resist <3