#toujoursandy

Andromeda is not good for you. The hairbrush pulls hard; her head jerks back. Mother's reflection is serene, but painted, as if she unclipped her mask each morning and smoothed it over the cracks like day-cream. Narcissa's nails bite into her palms. Somewhere downstairs, distant, there is the lazy tinkle of piano keys. She's a wicked girl. Too willful. Too much like your father. Druella tilts her head like a watchful bird; Narcissa is captivated. The cords stand out in her mother's neck as a curl of hair rests against wingtip collarbones. This is nothing she has not heard before: Andromeda is a popular topic of conversation; Bellatrix is next. At the bottom there is Narcissa. She does little to warrant comment. Bristles scrape her scalp. Waterfall of gold flexes and releases in time to the grandfather clock in the hall. Beyond the glass, in the cool street, there are the sounds of children playing. You must not listen to her, Cissy. The warning tone makes her look up, distracted. She catches a glimpse of her expression poised beside her mother's: gentle and sharp, smooth and brittle. Druella's gaze is heavy as stone. Her mouth is pinched. You're not going to be like that at her age, are you? She shakes her head, no mother, and this prompts a soft smile. Good. It is times like these that Narcissa sees echoes of her mother's youth, and as she watches those shallow blue eyes look away and the brushing resumes, there is a sense of being a hundred miles away. Instead she is downstairs, sitting beside Andromeda, the piano seat too small for the both of them. Keys trailing in this empty house. The warm sunlight and gentle press of Andromeda's hand on hers. Your fingers are too small. Crinkle-cut smile, eyes like glass. Here. Like this.

Of course. When you've grown up having to darn your own socks, or else go without, you learn how to use a needle and thread. What, did you think my wretched mother mended my clothes for me?

How else do you expect me to eat? Look at me – my robes are third-hand and my shoes are practically worn through. Do I look like the sort of man who can afford to have others cook for me?

Life as a potioneer is rewarding, but hardly glamorous.

No, wait. Once, in my sixth year, somebody spilled a particularly noxious and corrosive concoction on me, and I was forced to momentarily disrobe to prevent being severely burned. Once I'd spelled my shirt clean, of course I immediately clothed myself again, but Professor Slughorn and the few students in the classroom were graced with the sight of a shirtless Severus Snape.

Those tobacco sticks Andromeda smokes.

ooc post