oh, how the mighty fall

Ursa watched her mother over the rim of her teacup. In her childish hands, the beige porcelain cup was too large for her fingertips to touch no matter how far she stretched. Learning the old skills of dexterity disturbed the poorly-healed wound of reincarnation, leaving behind mild nausea after every etiquette lesson that was growing more and more tiresome to live with. The acts of clumsily wrapping fingers fat with childhood around handles, the ungraceful clink of fallen silverware against fine china and fumbling with sugar spoons had been a time of long past: until now.

If she was someone less intelligent, she might start blatantly regretting deciding to pay attention to her mother’s yapping. For her continued safety and well-being, she kept quiet.  But when her mother’s pinched smile and pinch-ier nails became almost too much to handle, she settled herself with the reminder that it would help her achieve her end goal - her family’s continued sanity, or at least the safety of what remained - if she just deigned to put herself through the mildest of miseries for five hours each week. It was less than a full school day when she’d still attended way back when, and she’d done that for nearly thirteen years without fail.

That did not mean she had to like it. 

Whether her mother cared about Ursa’s opinion on etiquette, she never showed it. Druella Rosier’s opinions were only expressed in one situation: when somebody fell beneath her standards. Though she was perhaps kinder about it, she didn’t spare her children from this rule, especially if it was something she considered absolutely incorrigible like muggles or muggle-borns or plaid dresses.

(Druella Rosier found a lot of things incorrigible. Her children knew this and actively avoided mentioning their ‘incorrigible’ activities anywhere her bat-like ears might hear. It was easier to obscure a crime than listen to lectures about it, they’d learn.)

Andromeda was supposed to have known better - which is, to say, to have known better than to get caught. All Blacks learn that skill at some point, somebody said once, probably. 

Watching your sisters get scolded was only fun if it was for lighting the curtains on fire. They couldn’t fight back, then. They didn’t have a proper, decent defence, then. They didn’t set the carpet on fire mid-way, then. They didn’t leave the dining room with a tear-stained face, then. They didn’t have to face their sister’s grinning face, lips pulled over to reveal slivers of pearly teeth, and eyes full of a terrible satisfaction-

Ursa watched her mother over the rim of her teacup. Her hair was perfectly braided into a low, complicated bun, her eyes rimmed with fine kohl and her lips painted salmon pink. The art of hairstyling was a stranger to Ursa; the innumerable hours she’d spent at her mother’s knee, or Narcissa’s, was far longer than any of her sisters had ever needed to get to grips with the convoluted twists and fancy plaits. Her sister had been kind enough not to mention it. Her mother, on the other hand, had taken to doing her hair so forcefully that it may as well have been an interrogation tactic. Sick of going to breakfast with her scalp stinging, she’d smiled off her mother and been forced to bully her hair into some measure of ruliness before she lost it all.

In retrospect, it had been her mother’s manipulation - one of the few that had worked because Ursa was very stubborn, even unintentionally. When she’d been accidentally injured by one of their many complicated cursed objects and been strictly forbidden from moving her arm, her mother had suddenly regained her soft touch for the duration of the week.

Her mother had gone right back to tearing her hair out by the roots when the healer had declared her medically fit, so her sudden kindness hadn’t really been all that heartwarming. 

(Anna would have called her a bitch. Ursa thought she was intensely irritating and hoped she ripped her favourite petticoat. The same thing in different intensities, for those of you that cluck over that sort of thing.)

Each of her sisters seemed to favour different versions of their mother’s hairstyle. Bellatrix, for instance, kept her hair low and curly; the crown braids linked down her back, pinned with silver and gold as the rest of her fell down her back. It had, apparently, been a point of contention amongst her peers when the style during her first years at Hogwarts had been high and tight, rather than loose and elaborate. Not that Bellatrix had cared. She never did.

Narcissa flowed more freely with the seasonal trends. She took after their mother that way, with a variety of different clips, pins and gemstones embedded in her hair at any one time. Before Hogwarts, she and their mother wore similar hairstyles, if in different forms. Now that she had been introduced to the general populace, she took influence from other sources rather than just her stuck-up Pureblood mother. It showed, in the way she’d started pulling her hair high rather than at the nape of her neck. 

Ursa went with the most convenient, which was typically long french braids, a winding half-up half-down style and a range of plain up-do’s. Attempting to follow current trends would lead to her looking more like she had a lion’s mane; it would be a point of disgrace, rather than superiority. And she liked her scalp intact thanks.

Andromeda used to follow in her oldest sister’s footsteps. Long brown braids from her temples to her waist, the rest left to hang flatly; lately, though, Ursa had spotted a trend more similar to what she could remember the muggle sixties favouring. With the prominent bangs and the slight puff at the back of her hair, like a beehive, she looked like the proto-type for the decade. Now, if Bellatrix had sent the world wondering by wearing her hair loose, Andromeda had all but been banished from formal events for the simple reason that she no longer conformed to the societal standard. Bellatrix, at least, had taken an older, less-favoured hairstyle that gained the respect of the ageing generations; imagine what I would look like if I brought a daughter looking like that to the ball of the summer season, her mother had scolded.

Andromeda-

“You’re going to meet your cousin on the ninth, dear.” Her mother told her. 

“Regulus?” Her mother gave a flat smile. It was unkind, sharpened by the trial of her older sister and despite everything, Ursa felt silly. A flush of hot emotion tightened her hands around the cup. “I don’t know Evan very well, Mother. What would I do with him, other than make awkward conversation?”

“You’re a smart girl. You’ll find something.”

That’s the end of that. Her mother’s curt declaration kills any goodwill in the room with the ease of an adult smothering a child in its crib. A lack of stimulation leaves her eyes to wonder. Her gaze tracks something in the distance. A blob of red and blue and horrid, eye-bleeding, uncomplicated clothing and another racing after, their screaming cheerful, even at this distance. 

Ursa knows better than to linger. She turns to the sky instead. 

The night had long gone dark when Narcissa slipped out of bed. In the bedroom across the hall, her youngest sister slept soundly, but so young and naive, she didn’t dare disturb her for the reasons that she awoke herself for. Nobody dared interfere with her path; the house-elves stayed out of her way, withholding questioning, and her wandering father had only glided past her with a questioning, quiet stare. If anybody else noticed her, they said nothing.

Her parents had organised it so that Narcissa and Ursa shared a wing, whilst Andromeda and Bellatrix shared another. Neither were further apart than a minute's walk, and neither was much different in technical design, though Narcissa had it on good authority that Bellatrix had spelt an extra closet into hers on a whim. Even more, there were a dozen little passageways leading into the actual chamber of each bedroom, and though none of Narcissa’s connected to either of her older sisters, a small, tucked-away alcove led to the lounge room that belonged to Bellatrix.

Another, larger and more comfortable to traverse, led to Andromeda’s bedroom directly. But it was not Andromeda that Narcissa was here to see - and why would she want to associate with a filthy mudblood-lover, anyway? 

Bellatrix was sprawled in front of the fireplace, lounging as languidly as a cat, when she entered. Narcissa had seen her adopt similar poses in the common room, staking a claim of sorts. I’m untouchable, even here, she’d seem to say, though she seldom spoke it, all of you, even together, are nothing compared to me.

She did not take a seat beside her, where the fire roared and raged. It matched her sister’s inner thoughts to the final detail; from how it licked its orange tongue up the walls, attempting to consume anything in its path to the spat-out charcoal dust forming a black ring around the granite. A warning to those who dared venture near it. Instead, she tucked her knees up on the large sofa and rested on the silver, plush cushion one of their many cousins had given Bellatrix.

“Thought you’d be here earlier.” Bellatrix’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, crackling on every other syllable. It matched the snap-crackle of the fire in exact tempo.

“Ursa wanted me to brush her hair out.” Like old times, Narcissa mourned, when she’d tug on Andromeda’s skirt to brush hers. She never did, of course, so consumed by Bella that spending time with her little sister seemed paltry in comparison. “It’s worse than yours, I think.”

A pale, pointed finger curled around a black, twining lock. She did not need to see Bellatrix’s face to know a slow, sad smile was crawling up her face. “Hah. Mother must have a field day with her.”

A terrible silence dawned over them. Narcissa opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. No sound came out. Sacred, it seemed to say; and surely, it would be sacrilege for the person who began all this to inquire stupidly as to how it made the other feel. Some things were simply not done.

Narcissa hated that phrase. 

Her mother had spoken it like a chant when she was younger and still bashing down the corridors of people’s memories with all the naive enthusiasm of one who didn’t know better. Perhaps the years had burned it deep within her skin, penetrating her heart to the core of her being. Perhaps she’d never really been without it, influenced so heavily by the heavy criticising heart of her mother. 

All her early memories are tainted by her, in some way. Before this, before she’d stepped beyond the world of the childish plane, it’d been a cause of celebration as she relished in their natural closeness, the way that responsibility was passed to her with ease that her mother passed it to an adult, the ability to predict what she’d do and when she’d do it. How she’d clung to her mother’s words, her natural confidence and charisma, even when they bit like thorns into her palms.

Had she known then, that it’d gone too far? 

Maybe, when she’d begun to mouth her mother’s words before they were spoken or walked with the same arrogant sway without the training and experience given to either of her sisters. 

But, then, if that was true and if it was all her mother’s influence, did that make her actions not her own? Those who were bound by the manipulation of their past cannot be judged by the actions of the future; and if that held true, then Narcissa’s innocence was clear. 

With that came another conundrum. If it was true, and it was Mother, and not Narcissa, then did Narcissa not have a right to resent her for inadvertently ripping their family apart? Or did she simply lay the blame at her own feet, and call it a day?

“Do not.” Bellatrix’s narrowed eyes glared at her over her shoulder. “Nobody has any blame in this, apart from her and that filthy mudblood who seduced her.”

But if only… had Narcissa not prided herself on her ability to know people, and turn them the way she wanted them to? Was her sister exempt from this rule? Or was it only her ability that lacked definition? 

“Look, she’s still got a chance. Though, mind you, I won’t be as forgiving as father and mother, even if she repents and drops that mudblood boy for good. In fact - what did you say his name was again-?”

“...Ted.”

Bellatrix stared expectantly.

“Ted Tonks.” 

“Yes, well,” she puffed up, a cruel, canny gleam in her eyes. Whatever melancholy had infected her in the moments before her entrance was absent now. “Ted Tonks - he’ll be receiving a personal visit from yours truly. A long one, too, so he really understands. Perhaps I’ll bring my fiancee. He’s a bit bland, and rather too fond of plucking out fingernails but it might make this marriage tolerable if we have a common interest.”

“Bella… maybe it’s better we leave him alo-”

“What?! Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him?”

Narcissa shook her head violently. “No! Of course not. He’s a- a mudblood-”

“So you feel sorry for Andromeda, do you?”

“I don’t understand-”

“Ah,” Bellatrix said slowly - kindly, almost. But her sister was not capable of kindness. “You feel sorry for yourself. Do I have to tell you again, or must I get Mother to assure you? If she thinks that wretch is a worthy partner, she debases herself to the same level and is therefore no longer a Black. Such is the way of things.”

“Yes.” She murmured somberly. The memory of salt and tears and tragedy was too heavy on her heart. The silver, diamond-studded engagement ring glimmered on her finger. “Such is the way of things.”

They were talking in the opposite room. Andromeda pretended that it was her sister muttering angrily to herself, but she knew better. She’d always known, somewhere, that this would happen. All her clinging and cawing and crying could only keep her wild sister tamed for so long. All her discreteness and over-the-top threats could only withhold the tidal wave for a while.

She hadn’t known that the news would spread so quickly, or that it had at all, until her mother had dragged her roughly by the shoulder into the Floo and yelled herself hoarse, took a long drink of sherry, and continued yelling again. Neither of her sisters had so much as visited her on the train ride back, but that had been normal - the years between them had made a ravine so perilous that they all took to waving along the ridge instead of attempting to cross it. We have our own friends, Andy, Bella had said to her, once.

She’d thought a lot of things. Wrong things, but had they been right? Or always been some sort of convoluted dream that she’d trapped herself in?

Your grandfather would never listen to you, you stupid girl! Her mother had shrieked; and in one fell swoop, sent her dreams crashing. This loophole you speak of was only so that I could have my great love, and him, a viable heir! I am his only remaining daughter, his pride and his joy, and he wished me all the happiness in the world, if only I do this - and yet, here I am, with a wretched husband and a daft daughter who seeks to out-plot by using that which she does not understand! Do you honestly not think that it’s de facto that I choose? He signs the paper, but that is all he does. It is me who writes the contract. 

What had she said in return? Andromeda cannot remember, only that it had been something about returning the favour. 

Return the favour? I - who married the scion of one of the greatest pureblood houses, and you, who wish to debase yourself with filth, who I would rather be marrying a pig, are not comparable!

Andromeda tucked herself tighter into the silk sheets. They smelt fresh; of lilacs and ozone, magic distantly dripping on every thread. She’d loved that smell as a child, and her parents had doted on her so severely that they’d ordered it to be made as such every night. It was a hard mixture for the house-elves to master, achieved firstly by mistake, though she’d thought it was simple as a child. A foolish, foolish child.

When I leave, will it be the same? She wonders. And then stops. 

When had she made up her mind, and decided that Ted was right? God, how she loved Ted and his gentle nature and easy words and ways, but how she resented that he would never understand - to leave everything she’d ever known, and face in casual public with steely face those who once cradled her tightly and held her hand as they snuck around their parents, who shared Yule cookies and danced in dresses they all found horrendous with bad, outdated music creakily playing in the background, to go without a goodbye, would break her heart so utterly.

The silver ring did not glimmer in the faint magelight. Plastic did not shine, was worth nothing, and would never be awed as her mother’s jewels were, but the promise in its giving was worth a thousand million diamond rings and then some. 

You were right Ted. She thought mournfully and slipped out of the bed.

Druella did not like the accusation that she did not love her children. She did. From the moment that Bellatrix had slipped from between her legs in a whirl of red and hot, blazing agony, she’d never been free from it. It was a pretty, adorned cage that she was happy to reside in. Resentment was hard to find when you looked at your girls and found only the shards of your heart glittering like stained glass, but like glass, it sliced skin when handled wrong.

She lingered in the front room. The night verged on dawn, and her eyes stung with exhaustion and smoke. Hanging out the window with a cigarette in hand was not an example she liked to set for her daughters, but they were not here; awake, yes, but not here. 

The stairs creaked, but she did not turn from the cool, morning air. Her husband’s penchant for late nights had persisted since they were young, and more than once, as a girl fresh into the world of womanhood, she’d taken to sitting up with him for more… delinquent activities. The last time he’d touched her was when Ursa was conceived and he’d been pressured into trying for another boy, but the act was stiff and cold, nothing like their languid lovemaking in the years past. Then, when Ursa had been a girl and the pressure had not relented, she’d simply locked the door and told him to leave her alone. 

Do you not desire me? She’d beg, still grieved by the loss of her first babe. It had been a quick pregnancy, lasting all of two months and three weeks, and so they had little to cry about when it had only been uncovered when the malformed thing slipped from between her legs, but he had never looked at her the same. 

I do, he’d promised, and started sleeping in the spare bedroom. That she’d had two more children afterwards was something of a surprise, considering they shared no more than two kind words with each other from that moment onward. 

For a time, she’d considered returning to live with her father and mother. But three young, fatherless children were no reward to return with, no matter their blood or their breeding.

“Leave me be, Cygnus.” She murmured, but she knew her voice carried further into the front garden than behind her. Ash gathered on the windowsill.

“...mother?”

She turned, then. The shadowy halls had not yet been lit by the elves, beyond the own she cared to light herself, and thus, they cast shadows over every being that dared cross through their threshold. Her daughter looked older within their grasp, face pointed as the last of her youth fell away; something niggled in the back of her mind, a memory of a similar girl in a similar, shadowy hallway.

What are you doing, Druella? Her father had asked, sleepy, tired, smoking as he hung out the front window.

Her mouth moved. What are you doing, Andromeda?

“So this is it, then.” She said instead. 

“If you won’t let me be happy, I’ll take it myself.”

If you don’t let me, I’ll do it myself.

Oh, my girl, her father had sighed, do you even understand how much I love you? 

Do you not know what I’d have given for you? Her mind stutters- “Go on, then. Ruin everything.”

I do not understand.

“I understand perfectly well what I’m doing - and if it leads to ruin then so be it.”

There is a compromise to be made everywhere, her father had taken her in his embrace as she clutched the fine, downy-soft sleeves of his sleeping gown.

And she stood, heart breaking, one less shard to be fitted into the puzzle of her being, and enveloped her daughter in a hug. Andromeda went stiff, as she was when she was born; cold and breathless, with little life left to give. “...goodbye, my love.” 

Her daughter did not cry when she left, and for that, Druella was grateful. The wailing of her sudden revival as the midwives near broke her ribs with the force of the spell had been enough for her lifetime, though what remained of it, she did not know. In the ashy, smoke-covered world that was blossoming after Grindelwald’s defeat and Dumbledore’s rise, new times were arising and new dangers came with them.