#cemma

Narcissa sat perched on the edge of Emma Vanity’s bed, pale eyes wandering the unfamiliar dormitory with interest. The setup of the seventh year girls’ bedroom was the exact same as her own – beds with indulgent green silk canopies set up in a semicircle, overflowing closets and a bathroom door rounding out the rotation to the other side. This room carried a different atmosphere, however.

Maturity was a poor word to describe it, but she could think of no other.

Leather briefcases were tucked beside bedposts, shoes had been kicked out of sight beneath beds, duvets were smoothed over and tucked in underneath mattress corners. Even the closets, which burst with colorcoded taffeta and satins down in the sixth year girls’ room, were darker and more impressive, laden in blacks and tweeds and sheer blouses. How much of that was credit to Emma and Alecto, similarly stoic in their visage, and how much of it came with the passage of time over one short year?

She considered asking Emma – the blunt girl had never shied away from a direct answer in the whole time Narcissa had known her, despite not knowing her well – but Narcissa held her tongue and continued observing.

Emma was sitting at a nearby dressing table, her hair midnight dark in the low light of the room and her hand – sharply pale only in comparison, but it would be browned next to Narcissa’s own – moving steadily back in forth of the mirror’s reflection, applying makeup without a single shake.

“I changed my mind,” said Narcissa, manicured fingers drumming against her knee. “Pour me a glass of wine. If we’re going to be ruining this party, may as well do it with relaxed senses.”  — @emma-whoisleft​