Sisters Again.

Narcissa was recognisable.

Narcissa Malfoy looked better, healthier, happier, even knelt by her sister’s corpse. She felt freer, cultivated. Trained, proud, pure.

Narcissa’s magic had shifted. The experimental, emotional outbursts that used to steer her were practically non existent, the atmosphere absorbing more of her own magic than her sister’s. It had been subdued, and Andromeda felt barbaric, frenzied as emotions leaked into her power, true sentiments spilling from her against her will.

Narcissa’s long hair was fully white, blonde, practically glowing in the dank grounds, sweeping the grass, charmed to float, repel the crushed guts, entrails. She had not seen Narcissa’s strands so reprieved, so honest since early childhood. Back then Cissa had worn snowy ringlets that shone, virgin wisps of pearl so shocking against Black family black even the most courteous of Ladies could not help but murmur.

Even in third year, when Narcissa was trying to branch out, make a name for herself, the top layers of her hair stayed spelled dark.

She was confident being a Malfoy.

She fit the way Andromeda and Bellatrix once did together. Narcissa’s eyes still pierced, lucent, baby blue, lined in black. Her lips had been painted a deep crimson, ironic, macabre against the bloodshed, red carnage circumambient. Likely deliberate. Then, the sight that gladdened her. Narcissa’s robes were expensive, to say the least, but the girl was no longer a talking wand. That husband of hers was good for something, because the Narcissa she once knew repelled from food like corrosion and her cauldron.

Healthier, happier, confident.

Andromeda was proud, disgust forcibly pushed down. She was still mourning a murderer.

But so was Andromeda.

She had lived the majority of her life terrified, that her sister would come for her, wand drawn, Unforgivable’s at the ready. Azkaban had felt too kind for her. In retrospect, that may have been an overly harsh thought. Bella looked wrecked. And that was putting it nicely.

Where Narcissa looked slightly healthier, the eldest had stolen her habit. Neither of them had ever eaten very much, but this was horrifying. Azkaban could run a weight-loss program, by the looks of things. Bella had looked better than this under severe starvation, days of not eating, hunger strikes and threatening Narcissa.

It was so much worse. Her cheeks were gaunt, collarbone so well defined it might break skin, Gods, the bint looked like she might actually snap if she were to move too quickly. She looked so breakable.

No wonder Molly Weasley did her in.

Andromeda herself would need little energy to decapitate her without magic, she could do it by tapping her neck and her head would fall right off. And her hair, Merlin her hair. Pin straight, sleek and black had turned to tresses, messy, the knots reducing its length significantly, thinned out.

Andromeda resisted the urge to charm it back. The Bellatrix she knew would never allow herself to present so misshapen, especially not in battle. Yes, maybe Azkaban was exaggerative. Then again, the absolute arse had Crucio’d two to insanity, and it was clever scheming on her part to not be tried for the countless deceased that were certainly, unequivocally her.

Still, if she thought of it as the bereavement of who she used to be, she could justify it.

Before Voldemort, not before Azkaban. Still devoted, still obsessed with blood purity, but they all were, and it had made it natural, made slaughter and prejudice normal. They were in the fight together, sanctimonious, recalcitrant, bright, together. They studied, Madam Pince allowing them the library until there were three hours left to breakfast, in which case she would take them to the common room, force them to sleep. They were strong, smart, superior, together. Andromeda had felt nothing could hurt her. As long as they were together.

And then she fell in love.

And her sisters would not talk to her, would not look at her, would not acknowledge her in anyway. Sixteen. A Sixth year, scorned by her family, scorned by every pure-blood in the whole damn school. For falling in love.

And love it was, and love was worth it, because Ted was brilliant. He was worthy, he was kind, he was attentive and appreciative, and he deserved far better than her. They were wrong. She had not been depleted. He had been stripped of a loving wife, with a full family, who knew how to parent, who understood Muggle customs, old traditions. And never once did he complain. Never once did he interrupt or settle a fight by Incarcerating her.

Her sisters used to love her dearly, but so much could not be said for them.

Seeing them like this though, hopeless, helpless, Andromeda’s heart ached. She longed to cradle her, rock her, remind her she was fierce, glamorous, elegant, tenacious, embrace her with inherited hints of magic, innate imitations of Bella, curvature of forces deigned to comfort.

She wanted to bring the batshit butcher back, so Narcissa could thrive. That was fucked up. She would, presumably, be massacred. But she had a sneaking feeling that Bellatrix Lestrange hadn’t found her because Bella didn’t want to.

Yes, she was a blood-traitor, and Bellatrix seemed very vehement about eliminating them, and Bellatrix definitely lost any and all love for her, but her location had not always been as discreet as she would have liked, and Bellatrix was far more perspicacious than most presumed. If she wanted her dead, Teddy would undoubtedly be in an orphanage, if not another cadaver on these floors.

The Black sisters had always understood and agreed with one vital concept.

Minimising the perceptions of their ability aids the calibre of exploitation they could reach.

Narcissa’s containment seemed inspired. Bellatrix did not require a wand for most spells, and the use of it to channel her magic was often a show. Bellatrix could have killed her. It was not particularly difficult, and if she herself could have done it then so could a Death Eater. Bellatrix looked different dead.

Gods, she was weak.

She knew it would be better to stay away. To come back later, or not come back at all.

She doubted Narcissa would risk her reputation by acknowledging her existence if it were her who lay fallen. But, Narcissa seemed so heartbroken, so lost, so imploring. She could not leave her to rot, let her bar the inner conflict alone.

So, she did what she had to do. She walked over, steps loud enough to alert her in case the doe-eyed deer desired to flee, in case she regretted inviting Andromeda at all. Narcissa did not look at her.

And she knelt. She knelt by Bellatrix Callidora Lestrange’s body and studied her for Bella Calli Black and found only her features bore resemblance. Her features, and her love for Narcissa. Deep within her, that was all that remained the same.

Her utter dedication to her Lord was spun beautifully, a tapestry of belief in both mind and magic, clear, vindicated. Lies that lured. It was incredible, truly, that she could hold him in such high regard, that she believed what she could not see.

Andromeda had peered too far and saw sights her mind needed more than Scourgify to cleanse, but Bella clearly ate his praise, lapped at it like a sodding rhino. Her devotion was apparently not entirely one sided, so the Rita Skeeter skank had theorised well off. The picture painted was of a desperate housewife, bored and insane. Though, she was rightfully biased. Bella could be a right bitch. It also was not a terrible image, and Andromeda predicted it was more to irritate Bellatrix than decry her. The game those two played affected more than they knew, or more than they cared to know of.

Yet her magic, dark and murderous, clear destructive intent, hinted at a hum that thrummed through her corse, an undercurrent that cried for Cissa. She had not completely lost her sense of self then, because Bella had always doted on the child, assigning her far too much worth, knighting Cissa as her life’s purpose. Joking promises, made as children, that Cissa had not really absorbed the entirety of. Andromeda’s ears rung from the incessant chanting, and slowly, trying not to disrupt anything vital, she worked, removing herself from Bella’s mind, magic.

It was dangerous to use Legilimency on the dead, ridiculous risks of death, being trapped in the labyrinth of a mind, but she felt as if she could. As if Bella would let her. The idiot was well prepared, because Andromeda was enormously wrong.

Blood and Memory(test) Barriers shot up at every turn, impressive for a girl that definitely was not a natural Occulumens. She still remembered the anger, flash of jealousy, that had quickly melted to pride when a six-year-old Cissa discovered she was a natural Legilimens and Bella let her rampage, experiment her skills to expertise with a willing subject. Although, she was not happy about it, and Andromeda got to hear all about it for pretty much her entire first year.

Narcissa was grown. She had missed so much. Nymphadora, Ted, little Teddy, they were infinitely worth it, but her sweet, impressionable sister could have been enlightened. She could have reversed the enforced indoctrination. Maybe. It seemed worth a chance.

And maybe, just maybe, if Narcissa turned, Bellatrix might too. She loved Andromeda, she did. But Narcissa was hers, Narcissa was her sister, her friend, and hers. She would see it as a betrayal, true, but in time, maybe. Narcissa was all she had.

Voldemort had her, Rodolphus had a few of his own, Andromeda left for Ted, she had no lover to claim, no child to care for, no one but Narcissa. So, yes, maybe. In time.

Too late for rue.

Short of a time-turner, what could she do. And she did not repent the choice she made. She would make it again, a dozen times over. There was just a sliver of something that wailed, a tension building, the twisted sorrow of maybe.

Andromeda reached, tentatively, terrified it would be seen as a foray, and clasped outstretched fingers over Narcissa’s folded hands. She retracted, noticeably. Then, she saw her.

And for the first time in decades, the youngest sisters of the House of Black locked eyes, and Andromeda, in her awkwardness, failed to bite back a smile. The tiniest corners of her mouth perked up, and she tilted her head, asking. Narcissa stared into her, absent, forlorn, almost on the brink of breaking. Doe-eyed as ever, lower lip trembling even as Narcissa’s teeth punched into the flesh of it.

Narcissa began to shake the second Andromeda did grip her hands, the pressure of it fixing them in place, and tempting her. She shook, shoulders contracting, neck ticking, so scared Andromeda could be sure she had not had an attack recently.

Perchance, she had no reason to. She relaxed her hold, doubtful if Narcissa trusted her enough to fracture in front of her, let alone rupture. Trying to give her back her eloquence, her prestigious self-control.

Nodded. Narcissa Malfoy nodded because it was all she could do, and Andromeda was selfishly reassured that Narcissa had not changed that much after all, because the child threw temperance to the wind, and it was strong. Narcissa’s nod was frantic, messy and pleading.

What else could she do?

Andromeda slipped back into it, born for this. Her training as a Healer had not covered this, but she did not need it. She knew Narcissa, she knew Black sister panic attacks, and she knew what to do.

And she was not happy her sister needed her, even though she had every right to be. Even though it was nice to be needed. Even though it felt like they were children again. Even though this could be what permitted them to have any kind of relationship.

Even though she wished Bella were here so she could annoy them both with charlatan stupidity until they were bent over with laughter. Even though Narcissa was hyperventilating, and Andromeda had, entirely randomly, instinctually, picked up a phial filled with a potion for just that. No, even though this had some advantages, Andromeda was definitely not happy, because Narcissa was not happy, and Narcissa was their purpose.

Before Ted of course.

And Nymphadora. And now Teddy.

So Andromeda did what Andromeda did. Andromeda worked.

She shifted closer, wrapping her right arm around Narcissa’s slender self, keeping her left hand fixed on top of hers. Then she breathed as loudly as she could, fastening her eyes straight ahead, gifting her privacy.

“One.”

She squeezed Narcissa towards her as she counted, using the opportunity to press on her arm, searching for her heartbeat.

“Two.”

Andromeda felt Narcissa still, but her hands still wavered, jaw still juddered.

“Don’t pretend. Three.”

Then, Narcissa giggled, shortly. She pursed her lips, slow, solemnly returning to her stoic state. Andromeda wanted to grin herself, pleased she could recognise Narcissa’s tendencies so quickly.

“Four.”

The counting continued for a while, and they reached fifty-three before Narcissa stopped shaking entirely. The tick in her wrist continued on, but Andromeda knew that was unconscious, and bringing it to Cissa’s attention would only worsen the situation. Instead, Andromeda took her left wrist, and hid it in her own hands.