Narcissa had kept quiet that night—she went to bed, sobbing, knowing what would happen that next morning. She got little sleep, and only slept once she exhausted herself after hours of muffled cries and tears.
She awoke to the sound of screeching. She jerked her head, moving from her damp pillow and pulled on her pale robe, moving her silver hair that stuck to her face. It was time, she knew it. She swallowed a whimper, opening her door. A deafening crash shook the mansion, and a house elf staggered down the corridor, blood spilling from his chest.
"I-I," he began, "Brutus will clean this up, mistr-r-r," the creature’s eyes drooped suddenly, and he recomposed himself. Narcissa, keeping her hands against the wall, slid down the corridor to see Andromeda’s door wide open, and blood trailing from it. A chair flew past the door and another scream.
"That!" Druella Black screamed, "T-That!" she stopped, groaning now. Narcissa stood outside the door—never had she seen her mother this way. Her mother sunk against the bed, sitting on the floor, clutching a letter to her chest. The letter. Narcissa’s heart sat in her stomach—it still hadn’t risen since last night. This was what she feared, but not all of it.
"Mother?" came a voice. Bellatrix strode past, pushing Narcissa from the door. She dropped to a knee, looking her mother in the eye, "For Morgana’s sake, mother, compose yourself." She hissed. She snatched the letter from Druella, uncrumpling it and scanning it. Narcissa watched Bellatrix’s face turn from beautiful to horrific in a matter of seconds, and she waited for the explosion—the anger that would rival her mother’s. But nothing. She threw the letter on to the bed.
"Filthy," Bellatrix said in a clear, strong voice, "filthy bitch. I promise you mother, one day, I shall right this wrong.” Bellatrix’s eyes flashed with intensity, and Narcissa shrunk against the wall herself. Narcissa watched her eldest sister—she clutched her wrist as if it was something of pride, as if it were her wand. Bellatrix snatched the letter from the bed, rushing past Narcissa down the stairs. Both her and her mother followed, Druella huffing between painful sobs that sounded as if they cracked each rib with every cry.
Narcissa could smell smoke as she entered the drawing room. The portrait of the family that hung over the fireplace had one face that spat out soot and sparks—Andromeda’s face. It melted off the canvas, black and now an ugly hole. Bellatrix stood beneath it, almost in the hearth. She sat there, burning the letter with her wand.
"I will right this wrong," she said, "I will prune my tree."
