Yellow Marigold - Grief, Despair
Chapter One: Yellow Marigold - Grief, Despair
Bordeaux, France
Summer, 1966
***
Narcissa
***
Mother’s skin is cold under her hands.
For some time, they rest on either side of the woman’s chalky face. She isn’t sure how long she’s been kneeling on the hard floor, slipper clad feet tucked under her bum and her nightie getting soaked more and more vermilion as the minutes (hours?) go by.
She hasn’t moved in a very long time, not after peeling back the eyelids and cupping the face.
She just keeps staring and staring into those baby blues, so blank and so void. They used to look like crystals, just like Celestine, but now they’re dull.
She keeps staring, but she finds nothing.
There is nothing there.
Perhaps, she starts to wonder, she isn’t trying hard enough to look. So she stays very, very still and focuses very, very hard, and she stares into those dull eyes. She searches.
And searches, and searches, and searches…
But there is a black hole where an open door used to be, behind those eyes that she matches. Matched. There is nothing where there used to be something.
She is only six, but she knows what this means. Mother is gone. Is she roaming the Elysium Plains now? Or is she in Hades? Or is she nowhere at all? Were all those stories nonsense? Was her cousin right to make fun of her, for believing in tales of gods and heroes and a place where dead people go, where they can still feel and think and run and love you, even though they’re gone from this place, Earth?
Tentatively, she picks herself up off the ground and peers at the body. It's just a body now, not a Mother. Her Soul is gone. She is only six, but she knows.
Her silk nightie is ruined, and she is not convinced that her Elf can charm the stains away. Some parts aren’t even red anymore, but a deep brown.
A shimmer catches her eye. Something is in her mother’s limp hand. She bends and plucks the shiny object out of the cold. Oh, its her mother’s necklace; a golden cameo of the Three Graces that’s adorned that neck ever since she could remember. “My three girls, my own Graces.”
She puts the necklace around her own neck. It sits heavy on her chest. She picks up her doll; she dropped Violette when she walked in earlier. Oh gosh, oh no, there’s a crack in the porcelain above her right eye. She whispers that she’s sorry, so sorry.
She is only six, but she doesn’t cry. Instead, she glances back one last time before leaving the room. There is no one else at home but her Elf, who she finally summons.
Bijou shrieks when she sees her; her small, bony hands race to her mouth and her veiny ears perk up. She thinks it is her blood on the nightie, and searches her girl head to toe for injuries, questions spilling from her mouth like smooth liquid panic.
She tells her Elf that no, it isn’t her blood, it is Mother’s, who is gone. Bijou goes very still and pushes for more. Upstairs, she tells her. Upstairs in Mother’s lavatory, Mother has gone.
Bijou is snapping away, and then she hears more shrieks up the stairs, past the bedrooms, in the lavatory.
She is only six years old, but she sits still and silent on the stairs with her doll in her lap and the cameo around her neck until there’s a storm of people rushing in. She stands then, and immediately locks eyes with her sister. People push past her, flying up the stairs. Swishing robes collide with her face and body. Is Father here? She doesn’t move her eyes to look.
Her sister is moving towards her, and she’s being picked up. She’s wrapping her arms around her sister’s neck and her legs around her waist.
Only then, for the first time that night, does she begin to cry.
She wails as her sister peels off her soiled night clothes and puts her in the bath and touches the necklace with a shaking finger. She wails as her skin is scrubbed clean and as she is put into a fresh set of silk pajamas. She wails as her sister brushes her hair and braids it.
She only stops when they are in her bed, and her sister is holding her and petting her head.
“Why?” She whispers, and her voice is so small.
Her sister says nothing. She just holds her.
***
Amesbury, Wiltshire, England
January, 1977
***
Placing the doll into her trunk, on top of a soft, cream sweater, she whispers a soft, “Sorry.”
The doll doesn’t respond, unfortunately; but to Narcissa, she seems glum. Her glassy eyes hold melancholy, her pink thin lips seem more downturned than she remembers them being.
Frowning, she folds a white button down and lays it over the doll.
The dozens of others seem to yell at her from the shelf above her bed.
“I can’t take you all. There’s not enough room.”
They stare back. She thinks she feels a mournful gaze from cracked Violette.
An embroidered daffodil decorates the pillow she places in the trunk before shutting it. It makes a thud that prickles her ears.
She feels him at the doorway before she sees him. “Nara,” he says, sounding impatient, pointy hip leaning against the frame, “Done?”
She looks around their room one last time. It’s too empty. She had packed most of her clothing, jewelry, and hats. All of her perfumes. She’s bringing three dolls, four framed pictures, several books, a few important pieces of her Lady Hecate alter, her pillow, and a blanket knitted by her Grand-mère (or her Grand-mère’s Elf, rather). She stuffed in other miscellaneous items, as well (Sirius calls her a hoarder, she calls herself sentimental).
Sirius had packed most of his belongings earlier. Her dolls will be lonely in the lonely room.
She looks back to Sirius and nods. He raises his eyebrows at her frown but says nothing as he waves a wand at her trunk. It shrinks to the size of a tea cup, and he crouches to pick it up and stuffs it in his cloak pocket. He walks out of the room and down the stairs, his black cloak swishing behind him.
She follows, shutting the door behind her. Her Mary Janes tap, tap, tap down the stairs. She’s starting to feel it; the impending doom of leaving the place she has grown to call home. She’s nervous. She’s fearful. She doesn’t want to leave. She wants to stay with-
A small figure collides with her legs.
“Nara, Nara, Nara!” The little girl squeaks, wrapping short arms around her aunt. “Do you really, really have to go? Why can’t you stay here with me? Maman said you have to go to school, but I don’t want you to! Can’t Maman just keep teaching you here? What if I need my hair braided? You do it so much better than Maman! What if-”
“Nym, let Nara go.” The girl’s mother scolds, walking into the small entryway of the small house in the small town. “You’ll see her soon, and she’ll write you. Won’t you Nara?”
Narcissa smooths back her niece’s hair (inky black curls for today) and nods down at her. Nymphadora gives her a dramatically sullen look and stomps her little foot, her grip around her aunt’s waist unyielding. Narcissa laughs under her breath and takes the little girl’s face in her hands, meeting her eyes (blue for today).
“You’ll be alright, ma petite princesse.”
“Non, non, I won’t!” Nymphadora whines, burying her head into Narcissa’s stomach. She glances at her sister, who is looking at the two younger girls with a small smile while buttoning her cloak. Andromeda is worried.
“She most certainly has zat dramatic Black flare, oui?” Sirius walks in and pries a protesting Nymphadora away before throwing her over his shoulder. Her protests turn to laughter as Sirius spins her into the living room.
Her sister accompanies her by the stairs. “Oh, my Nara,” she says, softly, wrapping an arm around Narcissa’s shoulders, “You’ll be alright, won’t you?”
Worry, worry, worry.
She won’t be, but she doesn’t want to tell the truth, so she just smiles and nods and lies and pretends. As usual. Sometimes, it feels nice to lie to people, especially when people can’t lie to you.
Ted beckons them all to the fireplace. He’s dressed in his work clothes; an old brown cloak over a stripped button down and corduroy trousers.
Ted holds Nymphadora on his hip as he steps through. Sirius goes next with their owl, Claude, in one hand and his broom in the other. Narcissa follows with Andromeda.
She’s only ventured to Hogsmeade a few times before, and never for very long. She didn’t quite like it, to be honest. It was alway crowded, loud, and, frankly, smelly. But the pub is where Ted has worked tending bar ever since he graduated from Hogwarts nearly a decade ago. He practically runs the place with Madame Rosmerta (a strange lady, Narcissa thinks). The Three Broomstick’s seats were always sticky and there were always a handful of drunks at the bar looking her up and down.
Once, a wizard had whistled at her - she was wearing a knee length skirt with a loose blouse tucked into it, nothing provocative! - and told her she looked just like a young Brigitte Bardot. She didn’t know who that was, and still doesn’t, so she’s not quite sure what to think of the comparison.
The last time she had been there, only a few weeks before, a man old enough to be her grandfather grabbed her bottom while she was walking by with Sirius. She had yelped, and her cousin had grabbed the man’s head and smashed it into the bar. It had been a mess, the whole ordeal. A fight had ensued, resulting in Ted banning the man from the pub and making Narcissa take a fuming Sirius home for Andromeda to heal his bloody lip.
So, she didn’t like the Three Broomsticks, or Hogsmeade in general, but being close to it meant she would be close to Ted. This eased some of her nerves. She could visit him practically whenever she wanted to.
“Welcome!” Says a shrill voice as soon as she exits the floo, dusting off her cloak. Looking up, she sees a tall woman in lacy, long robes and a witch's hat. “Mrs. Tonks, it’s lovely to see you again.” She takes her sister’s hands, who repeats the pleasantries back, before landing her eyes on Narcissa. “You must be Miss Black! Edward has told me much about you. Professor Mcgonagall, your new Transfiguration professor.”
Narcissa blushes and shakes the professor’s hand politely. She has to stop herself from leaning in to kiss the woman’s cheeks. Apparently, the non-French don’t do that.
***
Strangely, Hogwarts reminds her of castles she’s seen back home (home?) in France. Carcassonne, a city they had vacationed to a few times, had castles that looked just like this one. It’s different than Beauxbatons in many different ways, however.
Most noticeably, they are not surrounded by mountains with snow dusted peaks, or bountiful gardens filled with every plant and tree imaginable. There are no extensively engraved fountains - oh, how she’ll miss seeing the Flamel Fontaine everyday! - with extravagant statues of unicorns and mermaids spewing water from their mouths. Even the air smells different; French air was clean and smelt of grass and something sweet, where this Scottish air feels stiff and reeks of pine and something like ash. And there are no Unicorns in sight, unfortunately.
It isn't that the castle and its grounds are unappealing, or distasteful. Hogwarts is just so...
"Very diff-air-ent, oui Nara?"
She winces at another butchered attempt of English from her cousin and nods her head in agreement, stuffing her mitten covered hands deeper into her fur-lined cloak pockets. Sirius and her stand side by side, looking up at the school with contemplation, Claude squeaking from his cage at their feet.
Professor McGonagall ushers them out of the snow and through the wide stone entrance, Andromeda placing hands on each of their shoulders along the way. It's comforting, warm, tender. Ted and Nymphadora had stayed behind at the pub, as they thought her niece would never let them go if she traveled all the way to the castle with them. It was a very overwhelming goodbye. Narcissa still feels the girl's hard grip on her hand, as well as her despair.
The first thing she notices is the overwhelming amount of Yule decor. Everywhere. Sure, Beauxbatons decorated for the winter holiday. Of course they did. But it was always classy. Ice sculptures all around the academy, authentic diamond snowflakes hanging in the air, greenery delicately placed across furniture. There were no tacky red bows, or glittering ornaments, or - Circe forbid - mistletoe.
Few students are at the school, as it is still holiday, but she spots two or three lingering in the hallways, looking at them with both interest and alarm. She eyes their causal Muggle jeans and brightly colored sweaters with a similar expression. She looks down at herself, mind filling with self consciousness; her velvet black cloak (too big for her frame), her baby pink turtleneck (is this shade too childish?), her necklace sitting between her breasts (which haven’t grown since third year), her fringe (too thick?), her long plaid skirt cinched at her too-thin waist (her Grand-mère is right, she looks like a skeleton), her shiny Mary Janes (“Do you have any shoes that don’t look like they belong to an 100 year old witch?”).
The group of four find themselves in the Headmaster's personal office. He was too busy to welcome them, Professor McGonagall explains as she crosses the office. It is cluttered with all sorts of things; books, artifacts, desks, mirrors, bottles, chairs. She spots a pensive in the corner before her eyes find a large, orange bird in an open cage. Her eyes widen and she grabs Sirius' arm.
"Bébé." He calls her, shoving her off.
“Well, if it isn’t my great-great-grandchildren!” Booms a deep voice from somewhere in the room, startling Narcissa. “Now, what are you all doing out of France?” She locates where the voice is coming from: a portrait of a man, who looks particularly like her Uncle Orion, smiling down at them. “Following in my footsteps, coming to Hogwarts?”
“That’s - That’s Grand-père Phineas!” Andromeda exclaims, confusion evident. Narcissa knows who Grand-père Phineas is, of course. All children of House Black had their family tree memorized by age five.
“That’s right, girl. And you must be Andromeda, disgraceful daughter of Cygnus II, lover of Mudbloods. And you,” he looks down at Sirius and herself, “must be Sirius III, yes? And Narcissa?”
“We don’t use that word here anymore, Headmaster Black.” Professor McGonagall says brusquely.
“What’s ‘e doing ‘ere?” Sirius asks, crossing his arms.
“Remember," says Andromeda, "he came to Hogwarts for school way back when. Something about Beauxbatons being, ah, too accepting. Then he became the Headmaster.”
“That’s right. Mudblo-”
“Headmaster Phineas!” McGonagall scolds, her voice sharp, “Your presence is not currently needed, if you would be so kind as to find somewhere else to be for the time being.”
He huffs. “A woman, telling me what to do!” He grumbles under his breath incoherently in French for a moment, glaring. “Fine, fine!” Standing, he straightens his old-fashioned dress robes, “So be it. Good day, Sirius III, Narcissa. Au revoir.” He strides out of the portrait’s line of sight.
“Apologies about him,” says McGonagall, “He’s a bit-”
“Ov an arsehole?”
“Sirius!”
He shrugs at Andromeda. “Et ez true.”
McGonagall looks inclined to agree, but shakes her head and walks behind the Headmaster’s desk. She summons an ugly, tattered hat from a high shelf. “Miss Black," she beckons, waving a hand towards the chair closest to the desk. "Won't you sit? If you are ready to be sorted, that is."
Narcissa looks tentatively to Andromeda with hesitant eyes. Her sister gives her an encouraging smile. Sirius gives her another shove.
She sits, reluctantly, dusting off the seat of the worn chair before doing so. She senses the professor come up behind her, and before she knows it, that grimy hat is on her head.
She protests with a yelp and swipes it off.
"Narcissa!" Andromeda scolds, crouching to pick up the disregarded monstrosity. Sirius is bent over laughing.
"Precious daffodil's 'air can not get dirty, can et?"
McGonagall has wide eyes and is slightly red in the cheeks. "Miss Black, I can assure you this hat is not, um, dirty. The Sorting Hat is necessary to determine what house you will reside in for the next year and a half." Ted had told them all about the houses, but Narcissa still doesn't understand the need or the desire for them. She grimaces as Andromeda comes forward to place it on her head with an amused smile, holding back a gag as she ponders the decades old dirt making itself at home in her neatly braided hair.
"Oh, a Black," the hat says, making her jump. Sirius snorts. "How curious, a frenchie. Haven't had one of you at Hogwarts in quite some time. What a pretty mind you have, young girl. Pretty and dangerous. Bright, yes you are. You could excel in Ravenclaw, couldn't you? Perhaps Gryffindor, where the brave prevail. Courage shines in you, yes. But...alas. What are you with out your heart? Your protectiveness, your caring nature? So unlike the rest of them, aren't you? Heart like a feather, you must belong in HUFFLEPUFF!" It shouts that last bit, making her jump again.
"Like Ted, oui Andi?" Sirius asks.
Her sister looks pleased. "Oui! Oh, Nara, Ted will be thrilled!" She's grinning, grabbing Narcissa out of the chair and pulling her into her arms.
"Hufflepuff is a strong house, Miss Black." McGonagall says with an inviting smile and a twinkle in her eyes, "Strong indeed. House of the fair, the loyal, the hardworking, and the kind."
"That's our Narcissa." Andromeda says proudly, putting her head on her shoulder. Narcissa's heart swells at the utter pride in her sister's voice, and she can't help but grin back. "You next, Sirius!"
Sirius saunters over to the chair, sits down, and crosses his legs as the hat is placed on his shiny black head. "GRYFFINDOR!" It sings after only a few seconds, and disappointment flows through her veins while Professor McGonagall claps and tells him all about his new house.
***
Professor Sprout, a short middle-aged woman with curly brown hair, shows her how to enter the Hufflepuff common room, which is simple enough; tapping in the rhythm of the name "Helga Hufflepuff" on a wooden barrel with your wand. Tap tap, tap tap tap. The entrance, the professor tells her with a wink, is right by the kitchens.
When they step through the entrance, she is immediately overwhelmed with bright walls of soft yellows, a huge blazing fireplace, and multiple large couches all filled with assortments of different colored pillows. There are plants everywhere, which reminds her of the Tonks' living room. Ted has quite the green thumb. Perhaps he developed it here, in this common room. It makes her feel close to him. She smiles, wondering how he took the news of her being sorted into his former house. She hopes he’s pleased.
The entire common room brings her back to the comfort of the house in Wiltshire. What a perfect word to describe the feeling that the room exudes: comfort. Something she constantly craves, as though she is a child and solace is a candy.
"I know." Sprout says with a kind, knowing smile. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
She nods with enthusiasm.
Sprout places a warm hand on her back and steers her up to the girl's dorms. They stop in front of the sixth door on the left, which has little roses painted on it, along with a loopy, purple "M" and a blunt, yellow "A".
"This will be your dorm, dear. Now, you'll be sharing with two other sixth year Hufflepuffs." She opens the door and Narcissa is greeted with the same awe she felt upon seeing the common room.
There are large, four-poster beds in three corners of the large room, each one with soft yellow curtains embroidered with flowers and little woodland creatures.
"Mary MacDonald," Sprout says, waving a hand to the bed closest to them on the left. The bed is unmade and has several articles of clothing thrown across it messily. A small vanity is on its right, and what Narcissa can only assume are Muggle beauty products litter its surface. Makeup, perfumes, nail polish, and things she has never seen before. A small pink rug in the shape of a heart lays on the floor beside the bed, and hanging from each bed post are warm yellow lights. "One of the sweetest girls at this school, I do reckon! Not the cleanest, but..."
Sprout gestures to their right. "Amelia Bones," she says, and Narcissa's smile drops. She knows the surname Bones. "Oh, she makes me laugh!"
Amelia's corner is much tidier than Mary's, with a neatly made bed and organized side table. A large potted plant lives on the other side of the bed. She also has a small rug, one with a colorful spiral pattern. On the wall are dozens of pictures, moving and still, and a few posters of musical groups Narcissa would never recognize.
If Sprout notices her pale face and dropped smile, she doesn't say anything, and instead brings her over to the back, left corner of the room, to another bed. "All yours!" She exclaims brightly.
Professor Sprout bids her a goodnight after helping her unpack. Narcissa lets out a long, hard sigh as she sits on her new bed, now alone.
She had added her blanket and pillow to the bed, and had put her three dolls on the bedside table, her three favorites. Well, she doesn't really have favorites, that’s unfair, but these three called out to her when packing. And they are all awfully beautiful, too. Fayette is in a pink frilly dress and has black ringlet curls. Fleur is in a blue satin ballgown and white lace gloves, her blonde hair pinned up. Ana has on a yellow sundress and a red beret over her brunette waves. Beside the dolls, she placed her jewelry box and her perfumes. She had set up her alter, where she had placed small candles around a small bust of the Lady Hecate. Three candles, to be exact (for those three lost). To the wall, she had charmed a few of Sirius’ drawings that she had packed in between pages of books for safekeeping, along with some photos.
One of the pictures is of her and Nymphadora, taken only days before at Christmas. Her five year old niece sits in her lap, clad in a red night gown with little blue snowflakes adorning it. In the photo, Narcissa wears a matching nightgown, and is kissing Nymphadora's cheek, causing her to squeal and her hair to change from black to red to green to blonde.
Another picture is much older, portrait style and unmoving. She is perhaps twelve or thirteen, sitting in a large chair, wearing a green gown and a tight braid. Sirius stands behind her, one hand on top of the chair, the other behind his back. He has a small smile and short hair. Regulus sits on the floor at her feet, perfectly cross legged in his small velvet robes.
Her aunt had always included Narcissa in things like yearly portraits of the children, but never her two older sisters. Walburga had always doted on her, ever since she was born, and often ignored the older Black girls. Not that they minded all that much. Narcissa knew it was because her aunt had always wanted a daughter, and had been enthralled with her niece's unique beauty and willingness to act as her own personal doll, to dress up in fancy dresses and old family jewels.
The last two pictures are also old. One is a portrait of her young mother, the other of a nine-year-old Andromeda holding a newborn Narcissa. Bellatrix was in the picture, too. But she had cut her out of it months ago.
She wishes she could remember being that tiny little baby in that picture, surrounded by this intense love and oblivious that she one day wont have it like she used to. She wishes she could be held by her sister like that again. Two little girls, pure and sweet, the elder protecting the younger.
Before she had left the castle, Andromeda had whispered in her ear about how much she loved her, how proud of her she was. In that moment, she almost felt like that baby again. She had almost outright sobbed at the unyielding affection and how starved she would be of it until spring holiday.
Sure, Sirius will occasionally hug her, play with her hair, or loop his arm through her own. He will kiss her cheeks when he's happy and hold her hand when he's sad. He can be oh-so sweet - that is, when he wants to be. But, Sirius' affection is different from Andromeda's.
Since her mother died, and both her sisters had left (one by choice, one by force) Chateau Black, she had desperately wished to be coddled in the way only a mother or sister could coddle. Reuniting with her sister, her lovely, lovely, big sister, had given something to her she hadn't even realized she had been dreadfully missing. Her aunt had loved her, in her own way, she knew, but Walburga Black was not the most sensitive or touchy person. And her eldest sister…well, Bellatrix was Bellatrix.
Of course, she still loves Bellatrix, in that animalistic way that sisters love one another. The love that is fierce and ugly and cruel and leaves an ache in her chest and a metallic taste in her mouth, but it’s still there and it will always be. She’s knows that Andromeda does too.
She feels it when they dwell on childhood memories or when they are walking down a street and see their sister’s smirking face with ‘wanted’ in bold red letters above it.
“She’s dead to me.” Andromeda says. But people still love the dead, don’t they? They are mourned and buried and given flowers. A candle is still lit for them.
Something comes over her, standing there, looking at her pictures. Her hand clasps around her necklace, and she feels something (that oh-so familiar something) inside of her crack. She wants to be back at home with Andromeda. She wants Regulus. She wants her Elf. She wants her mother. A part of her wants her aunt, too. Perhaps, even, a part of her wants Bellatrix.
Her grief is as strong as it was in Wiltshire. Only now, she's completely alone.
***