c a i m

Fred and George Weasley

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oneshot: lucissa

word count: 742

dedicated to my english teacher, for the best teachers are the ones who are fools at heart.

also for @trashmctrashkingofthetrashhills, happy belated birthday maureen!

a series of tragedies and blessings. 

day ii: blessing.

narcissa had never been one to openly show her feelings.

she was told, “only fools wear their hearts on their sleeves.”

her mother had said, “laughing gives you wrinkles—who’d ever want to marry a wrinkled girl?”

she sat prim and proper at the dining table, a minuscule polite smile etched on her face, and her hands folded neatly on her lap. she nodded at the right times, simpered at the right times, and never, ever spoke up as she followed along with the conversation—a conversation she was told that only men could have.

her hair was always perfectly styled, her makeup polished, and her dress immaculate to the smallest seam. she was taught to waltz at the age five, play the piano at six, sing at seven, and by the time she was off to hogwarts, she had learned nearly every skill there was for a pretty, high class, pureblood girl to learn.

she was the image for the black family, the epitome of perfection, with her parents beaming with pride and wide sneers, and her sisters green with envy. she was the image for every pureblood girl—and she couldn’t hate it more.  

“what a beautiful wife you would make,” her mother cooed at her, donned in a silk black dress for a dinner party. her father merely gave her a nod of approval, but it was colossal coming from her father, and she could nearly feel bellatrix’s glare on her back, and she knew why.

she stood with her back straight, her head held high, and her hands resting gracefully at her sides—impeccable, immaculate, the very way every high class pureblood girl should stand.

at eleven, she met lucius malfoy, and she hated him.

he was everything a pureblood boy should be, and she hated it.

at twelve, lucius malfoy was still everything a pureblood boy should be—handsome, smart, and rich, and narcissa still hated it.

at thirteen, lucius malfoy was everything a pureblood boy should be—expect for the fact that he was kind. and he cared.

it didn’t stop narcissa from despising him.

at fourteen, lucius malfoy was still ever the perfect pureblood boy, but he was sad: his mother had passed away last week.

narcissa felt a pang of sympathy for him.

when narcissa was fifteen, she was dating lucius malfoy.

he was the perfect pureblood boy, and had utterly charmed her father over: handsome, smart, and rich. she could feel andromeda’s glare on her back, but she couldn’t figure out why.

narcissa was sixteen when she first kissed him.

it was sweet, kind, and loving—and she thought, i could do this for the rest of my life.

when seventeen, they were at war.

lucius fought.

but for the good or the bad? narcissa wasn’t quite sure.

one night, he came back with a dark tattoo etched into his left forearm.

lucius’ father couldn’t have been more proud, and her parents gave him their congratulations, and narcissa felt like vomiting.

lucius shouldn’t have joined.

she had heard of what happened to those who fail him.

lucius didn’t deserve that.

but she stayed silent, and continued to sit prim and proper at the dinner table, a miniscule polite smile etched onto her face, and her hands folded neatly in her lap.

at eighteen, they were wed, and narcissa’s father was rich with gold.

narcissa demanded they sleep apart: she liked her space. lucius agreed.

at nineteen, lucius came back with deep, red cuts on his back, and his face twisted in anguish.

narcissa didn’t know what to do.

so she told him. told him that he shouldn’t have joined.

told him her thoughts.

he cried, and she held onto him, cleaning and tending to his wounds, and that night, they fell asleep together.

they don’t sleep apart anymore.

at twenty, narcissa came home sobbing: another child lost. lucius spoke quietly—comforting words, but she couldn’t help think: why am i such a failure?

at twenty-one, narcissa had given birth to a wonderful baby boy. when he had grabbed her pinky finger with a surprisingly strong grip, and a giggle that could warm the world—she laughed, and smiled, and lucius never thought he’d seen her that happy.

they leaned in for a kiss, and it was love, and she was sixteen all over again.

only fools wear their hearts on their sleeves.