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“You just signed your death sentence. That's what joining the Order entails. You know that, right?”
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September 12th, 1981
Narcissa finds out over tea.
It’s a Wednesday afternoon in early September—so early, in fact, that the weather is positively August-like. She gathers her usual circle in the still-blooming gardens of Malfoy Manor, far away from the wing where Lucius is meeting the husbands of women she’s expected to call friends.
They settle at the table, seats assigned for years by now, with Narcissa taking the so-called throne—a preposterous thing made out of wood, poison ivy, and wrought iron mixed with droplets of gold and silver. Unnecessarily posh and ridiculously uncomfortable, it still makes Penelope Parkinson cast a particularly nasty glance at her.
Narcissa, as always, takes such insolence in stride. She ignores Penelope and exchanges a knowing look with Evelyn, a silent promise passing between them—she has no doubt they’ll discuss it later tonight, safely locked away in the corner of the Manor that Lucius will never reach, that only two people, other than Narcissa, are privy to.
Their tea party is rather uneventful, for the most part, despite a hefty amount of firewhiskey in each cup. They gossip about other wives, those not elite enough to make it into their little club, and discuss the latest articles in Witch Weekly and their latest shopping trips. Narcissa, of course, leads the conversation as the hostess, entertaining everyone with the tales of a summer spent in France.
Their afternoon tea, usually over within three hours at most, drags on. They watch a glorious sunset as they slowly run out of things to talk about, the awkwardness in the air as heavy as the stifling scent of vintage Ogden’s. Narcissa has half a mind to check what on earth is taking Lucius and his friends so long when Penelope leans forward, unladylike, with her elbows planted right on top of the pristine white tablecloth.
“I'm technically not supposed to say anything,” Penelope almost purred, oddly satisfied, which was never a good sign, “but I simply cannot keep it any longer. I can see that all of you are wondering why, in the name of Morgana, we are still bound by the obligation of this afternoon gathering—not to say you’re not a wonderful host, Narcissa,” Penelope reassures quickly, her smile almost blinding.
Narcissa offers a smile of her own, small and strained as she brings a cup of tea to her lips, taking a small sip. By this point of their afternoon gathering, as Penelope called it, there’s barely any tea left in the cup—instead, there’s the burning pleasure of Ogden’s. It would be perfect, really, if only the bottle had been sealed with a few cinnamon sticks at the bottom. However, even imperfection will do in these circumstances—anything to make sure she doesn’t strangle Penelope Parkinson with her bare hands. That, after all, would be even more unladylike than elbows on the table.
“Don’t keep us waiting, Penelope,” Evelyn drawls. To everyone else, she sounds almost bored. Wealthier than any of them, except for Narcissa, Evelyn Zabini carries the air of lowering herself to spend time with the likes of Penelope Parkinson and Gwendolyn Goyle. Both, of course, hang onto her every word and would do anything she says in a heartbeat.
So would Narcissa, but for a different reason entirely.
“I agree,” Narcissa chimes in, softly lowering the cup. “What is it, Penelope, darling?” Narcissa inquires, barely able to hold back the contempt from her words; even despite her best efforts, the poison coats the endearment easily, a perfect juxtaposition to a friendly, inquisitive look Narcissa gives to Penelope.
“Oh, I thought you would know, Narcissa; after all, Lucius was the one who helped the Dark Lord plan everything…” At the blankness of Narcissa’s expression, Penelope continues. “Aren’t you wondering why we still haven’t been called to join our husbands and our Lord for supper?”
“While the Dark Lord is a welcome guest here at Malfoy Manor,” Narcissa began, quite enjoying the sight of Penelope flinching at the reminder, “neither me nor my husband are foolish enough to question His comings and goings.”
“Oh, Narcissa, I thought you’d like to know what the Dark Lord is doing tonight! Rumor has it that he’s headed to kill the Meadowes girl personally—wasn’t she a friend of yours, back at school? As well as a guest at your wedding?”
The hit lands right where Penelope wanted it, but Narcissa doesn’t even flinch.
“She was, yes,” Narcissa replies calmly, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. She carves half-moons into her palms until every part of her is perfectly still.
“Aren’t you just devastated at such a loss?” Penelope inquires, sounding almost even innocent.
Narcissa can’t help but imagine killing her slowly, deliberately, ruthlessly; instead, she arches her brow in a silent question that Penelope is too eager to answer.
“The two of you were so incredibly close during your final years especially. Such a loss, isn’t it?”
Narcissa feels the bile rising in her throat; she swallows it down with practiced ease.
“I wouldn’t know,” she drawls, her heart barely beating and thundering so loudly she’s afraid everybody will know. “Dorcas Meadowes hasn’t been my friend in years.”
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June 1981
To Narcissa, Île-de-France is a breath of fresh air. When she steps into one of the Rosier family properties in Breuillet, surrounded by magic and pastel petals of various flowers, Narcissa feels, for the very first time, like she can finally breathe.
In the grand hallway, sitting on the edge of a third step of the staircase, is Dorcas—unusually shy and almost even apprehensive. Narcissa supposes that meeting each other for the first time in four years will do that to a person, but she hates it all the same. Her fingers twitch with the need to come closer, to make Dorcas hers in all the ways that count, to finally touch her—and yet, Narcissa stays still, stubbornly and selfishly so.
It’s Dorcas who makes the first move, reaching for her in what feels like seconds but could’ve been days. It's Dorcas who wraps her hand around Narcissa and pulls her closer, right into the soul-crushing hug that has Narcissa gasping, begging for tears not to spill (and, as always, failing). It's Dorcas who kisses Narcissa like there’s no tomorrow, like they’re a tragedy in the making, like there’s no getting out of this alive.
It's Dorcas who kisses Narcissa like there’s no war just an English channel away from them, threatening to destroy everything they hold dear. It's Dorcas who holds her like there are endless tomorrows, too many of those to count. It's Dorcas who, after a languid kiss, peppers Narcissa’s face with a litany of never-ending, small ones, until, at last, Narcissa laughs softly, the sound echoing throughout the Manor that stood unoccupied for centuries.
It’s Dorcas, because Dorcas has always been the stronger one of the two of them.
Narcissa, raised for queenship and stardom and rule, is ruined from within and jagged at the edges, in all the ways that count—Mother certainly made sure of that. Narcissa, who can finally love Dorcas in the relative peace of France, was born into a line of lies and cowardice.
So when Dorcas asks, almost reverently, “How long do we have?”, something inside Narcissa breaks.
“Just until sunset,” she whispers, her voice a little too high.
She wishes there was time to explain—that Lucius is so busy with recruitment of Dark French wizards that Narcissa had managed to slip away for a ‘shopping trip’, that Narcissa was finally let out of sight. More than anything, Narcissa prays that her soft touch to Dorcas’ smooth, dark skin riddled with cuts and bruises from the latest raid is enough of an apology for all the times that Dorcas waited for her in Breuillet and Narcissa never showed, year after year until they almost hit the four-year mark.
Nothing will ever be enough, Narcissa knows it quite well. Narcissa is a coward, and Dorcas is the brave one—but she’s also a fool, both of them are.
Perhaps that’s why it’s Dorcas who leans in for a kiss that Narcissa will never forget, and it’s Narcissa who falls apart in her arms, ripping at the seams.
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August 1977
Narcissa stares in the mirror. Cold, frozen, unmoving; a statue made into being by her older sister.
“Chin up, Cissy,” Bella orders, and Narcissa obliges.
She watches, with a strange sort of disconnection, as Bella applies blush to her cheeks, her pale skin suddenly taking on a rosy-red undertone. Despite a relatively cold August this year, the heat of Narcissa’s dressing room is positively stifling; it takes everything in her to not open the windows.
She'd rather boil alive than hear the sounds of the guests gathering, of champagne flutes clinking together in celebration of Narcissa’s newly-built golden cage.
So, instead, she breathes slowly and stays still as Bella puts a few finishing touches on her makeup, then checks that her hair is still impeccable, the Malfoy diadem firmly in place. Narcissa is fairly sure it’s spelled so expertly that her scalp is bleeding.
“You’re all ready, Cissy,” Bella sing-songs. Her expression is the opposite of her voice—she looks, more than anything, wistful.
Narcissa tries not to think about the sister she had denounced, the sister she was supposed to forget; the sister she knows Bella still thinks about daily. It’s been a little over two years, but the gaping hole left by Andromeda’s absence is far-reaching, and the wound remains open. Both of them continue to bleed quietly, and although Narcissa expects Bellatrix to bring it up—today, of all days—Bella does not.
Perhaps because it’s the day of Narcissa’s wedding. It wouldn’t do well to dirty the purity-white of her dress robes with crimson of blood.
“Well, I'll leave you to it. Don’t be too long.”
Bella escapes the room quicker than usual, and Narcissa’s shoulders finally fall as a wave of pent-up emotions escapes her. She wonders, briefly, if Bellatrix was as absent during this preparation process as Narcissa herself was. She wonders if, as she glanced at Narcissa, she saw another sister, the one who was supposed to be at Bella’s mercy two years ago as Bellatrix prepared Andromeda for her wedding to Rabastan.
Narcissa doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time there’s an insistent knock at the door. She flinches at the sound.
“I will be ready shortly, Bella.”
Narcissa hears the door swing open. She sighs, exasperated, but not at all surprised by Bella’s disturbance.
“Bella, I told you I wasn’t—“
Her words get caught in her throat the moment she catches a glimpse of Dorcas in her mirror. Narcissa doesn’t think she has ever turned around that fast in her entire life.
“Oh—Dorcas.”
“Narcissa,” Dorcas replies in the same breathless manner, only hers is teasing. As she makes her way towards Narcissa in confident strides, all Narcissa can do is gape.
Because Dorcas is wearing one of those Muggle suits she likes so much. She looks beautiful, handsome , the signature emerald-green blazer and pants fitting perfectly with her complexion, complemented by an impressive amount of Goblin-gold jewelry. She's wearing nothing underneath the low-cut blazer except for a black lacy corset. Narcissa swallows every single remark she had about Dorcas’ unbelievable recklessness and audacity just in time for Dorcas to stop in front of her vanity.
Dorcas is towering over her, Narcissa realizes, in a way that even Bella doesn’t dare, not anymore—not since the engagement was announced. Narcissa gazes up at sheer divinity in front of her and suddenly doesn’t care about status or money or Lucius.
All she cares about is Dorcas.
Then again, there’s nothing new about that.
Narcissa doesn’t waste time, rising up from her seat. And still, Dorcas is taller, and Narcissa finds herself on her tiptoes to give Dorcas an impossibly chaste kiss.
Dorcas laughs.
“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me, Cissa,” she clicks her tongue. Her gaze is heavy, loaded as she cocks her head slightly to the side.
“I am, of course I am,” Narcissa rushes to say. “But what, in the name of Morgana, are you doing here?”
“I received an invitation, didn’t I?” Dorcas inquires almost even absent-mindlessly, her hand resting possessively on the small of Narcissa’s back.
“Yes, but I assumed I wasn’t to expect you after you responded you wouldn’t be in attendance.”
“I changed my mind.” Dorcas shrugs, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. And maybe it is, maybe it would be, if only Dorcas didn’t look away mid-sentence, for just a flicker of a moment.
Narcissa has loved Dorcas far too long to miss that, has known Dorcas far too long to simply let it go.
But oh , Dorcas has loved Narcissa long enough to know exactly how to make her fall apart. Before Narcissa knows it, the battle of wills is over, and she has never even known there was one to begin with.
Because Dorcas doesn’t kiss her softly. She kisses her like it’s a claim, smudging Narcissa’s lipstick, holding her by the waist hard enough to bruise. Narcissa moans as Dorcas lifts her up easily, long enough to deposit her on top of her vanity. Makeup and centuries-old jewelry clatter to the floor, and they’re surrounded by broken perfume bottles and scattered pearls and mistakes six years in the making.
Or maybe everything else is a mistake, and this— them —is the only thing that’s right in all of eternity.
Dorcas kisses her slowly, this time, but not at all gently. She’s possessive, just like Narcissa likes it, and there’s utter recklessness in the way she takes her time—as if Narcissa’s wedding isn’t starting soon. Narcissa is powerless to stop her, for she doesn’t want to, knows that she never will. So she lets Dorcas mark her anywhere she wants, all over her neck and collarbone and chest, hard enough that the hickeys will turn out to be more black than purple.
And when Narcissa walks down the aisle measly twenty minutes later, it’s with the knowledge that Dorcas fucked her against a centuries-old vanity that Narcissa has admired since she was twelve. As Narcissa approaches her future husband, it’s Dorcas her eyes flicker to, sitting unassuming in the third row, blending in perfectly with the rest of the crowd. And yet, it’s her determination that sets her aside, that makes the tiny alarm in Narcissa’s mind come alive. It makes her remember, suddenly, that the hushed “i love you” Dorcas whispered right after she helped Narcissa into her wedding robes sounded like an apology instead of admission.
When Dorcas disappears in the midst of the bonding ceremony, Narcissa tells herself that everything is alright. Perhaps she simply went to get more champagne, or couldn’t handle watching the love of her life marry someone else. But even as the thought appears in her mind, it rings untrue, false; never in her life has Narcissa felt so mistaken. She remembers the confidence in Dorcas’ words and actions as she pledges her life to Lucius and knows, suddenly, what’s to come.
Narcissa knows, without a shred of doubt, that Dorcas is not here for her—she’s here for the Order.
So when the ground begins to shake, Narcissa isn’t even remotely surprised. As chaos descends upon the wedding party, as champagne flutes explode and decorations go up in flames, as Death Eaters appear to protect Lord and Lady Malfoy and fight against the Aurors and the Order members—
Narcissa realizes that Dorcas’ admission was not only an apology.
It was also a goodbye.
(For years, Narcissa will wonder why Dorcas didn’t disrupt the wedding before Narcissa completed the bonding ceremony. For years, she will search for an answer, but she’ll never find it.)
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June 1977
Graduation is a quiet affair, all things considered. Nobody expects a party as the war inches closer, day by day. Nobody expects a party when the graduating class is split so evenly into confirmed Order members and alleged Death Eaters.
Narcissa, torn between two worlds, expects a party less than most. She's used to things being taken away from her, and the engagement ring on her finger is nothing but a reminder of Dorcas slipping away through her fingers.
Throughout the entire ceremony, Narcissa watches her from afar. Dorcas stands in the perfect middle, the end of Slytherin and the beginning of Gryffindor, and even in this, it appears, some find a declaration of where Dorcas’ loyalties lie. Seemingly with both, or perhaps with neither; but it’s Narcissa who knows the truth, who knows that Dorcas is loyal to the Order.
It’s Narcissa who wishes that Dorcas stood by her side, that Dorcas had chosen to be loyal to her .
Narcissa doesn’t expect a party, but there’s one in full bloom by the time they return to the common room, both elated and subdued at the same time. Rabastan dives into the midst of it, worming his way between Gwendolyn and Penelope. They hang onto his every word, and yet, it’s Evelyn their attention turns to immediately as soon as she approaches, making the necessary rounds.
Narcissa doesn’t bother joining the festivities before she leaves—escapes, really, to the relative calm of her Head Girl dormitory, which will cease being hers by the morning.
Narcissa is half-expecting to spend the night in a drunken stupor, drowning the memories of everything that happened in the castle and everything that cannot occur outside its walls. Instead, in her bedroom, there’s a surprise. One and only Dorcas Meadowes, perched at the edge of her bed. She’s smiling, smiling like both of them had made their choices, when in fact Dorcas is the only one who possesses such luxury and still , she had not chosen Narcissa.
Narcissa doesn’t think she has ever hated anyone more. She doesn’t think she’ll ever love anyone more than Dorcas, either.
“Get out , Meadowes,” Narcissa hisses.
“Why so hostile, Black?” Dorcas chuckles, her eyes flickering to Narcissa’s hand. “Or is it Malfoy? I know it’s a little too early—but which one do you prefer, darling?”
“Don’t you dare,” Narcissa whispers, her voice icy-cold. More than anything, she wishes she could descend upon Dorcas with a full force of fury that rattles within her. Instead, she’s frozen in place, barely finding words. “I knew you were an asshole, Dorcas, but I never took you for a bitch .”
“I learned from the best, love,” Dorcas teases, except it’s not their usual teasing. It’s coated in poison and Narcissa is choking on it, and yet she’s too prideful to beg Dorcas to stop. “Don’t like the reminder of who you’re about to become, Cissa? The name of Lady Malfoy holds quite the reputation, I hear.”
“You know I don't want it.”
She hates how weak she sounds, but she’s just—suddenly, she’s so tired. It’s the same argument over and over again, and they never resolve it, not really. They patch it up with pretty words and gentle kisses but at the crux of it, there’s always a wound that they reopen weekly, if not daily. Narcissa is so used to bleeding that she doesn’t really know how to stop. How do you live without a wound that has been there for as long as you can remember? Is there a point in healing a wound when you know that an identical one will eventually appear?
Because, even if pretty words and gentle kisses healed and not just patched things up, they weren’t strong enough to change the circumstances that kept Narcissa prisoner, that made Dorcas so free. More than anything, Narcissa wishes Dorcas could at the very least understand that.
“I know. I—I’m sorry. Fuck, Cissa, of course I know.” Dorcas softens immediately, reaching Narcissa in seconds. She holds her like they weren’t ready to kill each other less than a minute ago, whispers words of love that, Narcissa knows, she means wholeheartedly. Their kiss is tear-stained, and Dorcas tastes of firewhiskey and cinnamon, and everything is perfect until— “You don’t want it, I know, so just—leave. Leave him, leave Bella, all of it. Join the Order. Dumbledore will protect you.”
Narcissa doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry. She pulls away, even though everything in her is screaming not to.
“I can't leave, and you know it. I can't leave Bella just like Andromeda did. It’s—she’s family , Dorcas,” Narcissa pleads, and her voice cracks softly. She wonders how many pieces of her are fundamentally broken, how many more will be destroyed in the years to come.
“And I'm not?” Dorcas shoots back, so quick to anger, so—so unequivocally her . “I love you, Narcissa, and I'm offering you a life together. I'm offering you safety and happiness and love.”
Narcissa shakes her head, laughing softly. “What you’re offering me is losing the only sister I have left, being blasted off the family tree, and being put on the Dark Lord’s personal kill-list. What you’re offering me is a life spent in hiding, serving one madman instead of another. And yes—yes, there will be you, and there will be Andromeda, but—“
Dorcas pulls away, as if burned. Her eyes darken, suddenly, and Narcissa feels a storm coming.
“It's not enough,” Dorcas finishes for her.
“It's different,” Narcissa is quick to correct her. “I offered you to leave the Order and join the Dark Lord, join me not so long ago, and you declined. I was offering you love and happiness and safety, and you said no. And now you’ll condemn me for doing the exact same thing? How is that fair?”
“Even for you, this is one hell of a reach,” Dorcas snarls. “Do you even hear yourself? Narcissa, you’re getting married! You didn’t offer me a life together—you offered me to be your fucking mistress while you and your husband served a blood-supremacist maniac. Excuse me for not wanting to be your eternal second choice!”
“You wouldn’t be! Dorcas, you’re my—you’re my only choice, always . I love you, I'll always love you, you have to believe it.”
Narcissa steps forward, eager to touch, but Dorcas steps back. It's a delicate dance, and Dorcas has always been the only person who could rival Narcissa’s ballroom dancing skills.
“Leave him,” Dorcas begs, and Narcissa wishes she could. Except it’s not a choice between Lucius and Dorcas, has never been; it’s a choice between Dorcas and Bella, love and family, love and love , and Narcissa refuses to choose. Selfishly, she wants both.
She wants, knowing full well she can’t have it. And maybe that’s her family curse, for Blacks have always been made of want and madness. Suddenly, Narcissa feels like she’s drowning in them.
“I can't,” she whispers. “I can't leave her. You know I can't. She's my sister .”
“And I’m your girlfriend,” Dorcas whispers, oh-so-quietly. It sounds almost even like a question, so unsure, and Narcissa watches as tears gather in the corners of Dorcas’ eyes.
“I don't have a choice, Dorcas,” Narcissa pleads, for the very last time, even though she knows Dorcas will never hear it, will never answer her prayers. “I've never had a choice, not after Andromeda. I have to marry him.”
Maybe they were born to be a tragedy, Narcissa muses; maybe it was their destiny—to crash and burn, like exploding supernovas. Maybe they were meant to be too bright too soon, until, at last, there was nothing left. Only an abyss.
“You have a choice. You’ve always had it,” Dorcas says, and there’s so much hope in her eyes, in her voice, in her words, and Narcissa hates it. She hates it, for she knows she’ll destroy it in seconds. “You just have to be brave enough to make it.”
Narcissa inhales sharply. It only takes seconds for the iciness to come back to her voice, for poison to envelop her words, welcoming them home.
“I suppose I’m a coward, then.”
Dorcas stays silent for a long time.
“Yes, Narcissa. You are.”
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April 1976
Dorcas finds out over tea.
It's early afternoon on a Saturday after a particularly difficult Quidditch match between Slytherin and Gryffindor, so the breakfast is extended for a couple of hours. Narcissa has been in the Great Hall since the crack of dawn, of course, accepting numerous congratulations from people so well-connected that they didn’t need the morning delivery of The Daily Prophet to find out the news.
Dorcas is not one of these people. Dorcas is sleeping in, Narcissa knows, which is a travesty. Because Narcissa had it all planned—talking to Dorcas before breakfast in their dorm room, explaining everything, making Dorcas see that it wasn’t the end of the world. Only the plan went askew the second she woke up, as soon as Penelope and Gwendolyn—in the know, by that time—had accosted her, begging for details.
She left the room not to wake Dorcas with their incessant questions. She's been waiting at the Slytherin table ever since, praying to Merlin and Morgana both that Dorcas will make it before the post arrives.
If there's something Narcissa Black has never been, it’s lucky.
Dorcas saunters into the room five minutes after everybody receives their newspapers, cheery and bright-eyed, still overflowing with happiness from securing Slytherin's win yesterday.
Narcissa watches, in slow motion, as Dorcas takes a big sip of her scorching-hot earl gray tea and looks at the cover of The Daily Prophet. Narcissa watches, in slow motion, as Dorcas’ eyes flicker over the headline: Narcissa Black engaged to Lucius Malfoy.
Not in slow motion at all, Narcissa watches Dorcas’ smile fall. She has a front-row seat to Dorcas’ ultimate heartbreak.
More than anything, she wishes she could rewind.
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September 13th, 1981
Dorcas A. Meadowes
14.09.1960 — 12.09.1981
We are sad to announce the passing of Dorcas A. Meadowes of Most Ancient and Noble House of Meadowes. She died at the age of twenty-one on September 12th, 1981. Dorcas was a Slytherin and a proud member of the Order of Phoenix, bravely fighting for the Light ever since her graduation from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was brutally murdered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. Her passing marks yet another life lost to war.
The funeral will be a private ceremony with only close family members present.
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“Cissa, love, believe me—I have no intention of dying. You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”
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