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Have you ever heard the story of Narcissus? The son of a river god and a nymph blessed with otherworldly beauty, he fell in love with his own reflection. In some stories, he withers away at that riverbed. In others, he ends things sooner, broken by the knowledge that he can never have himself.
No matter which version of the story is told, it's a fate ending only in death.
You're careful, as you grow, not to fall in on yourself. To keep looking outward. To observe.
Turns out, there's much to observe around you. The way Bella's outbursts end in reprimand at best. The gleam in her eye that only grows stronger, wilder with time. That wild streak attracts attention, and not always the good kind.
The way Andie sinks into herself as you get older, her spark lost to the pages of her journals you daren't touch, words always poised on the tip of her tongue but never quite said. It leaves a distance between the two of you, one that you don't quite understand how to bridge.
The way mother's smiles and praise are earned through quiet, through obedience, through keeping your head down and not making a fuss. The way your father's pride is shown through his hand on the small of your back as he parades you in front of his friends. You only smile and thank them when they call you beautiful with just a little too much vigor, ignoring the way some of their eyes linger too long in places they shouldn't.
So you watch, and you learn. You learn to straighten your shoulders and keep your mouth shut. You learn to show mother and father the good girl they've always wanted.
That doesn't mean you have nothing to say.
You're eleven years old, and you're surprised by how hard your heart beats when the sorting hat settles atop your head. It sits for a breath longer than expected, murmuring questions you never thought you'd hear. Are you sure? You're quite a clever girl; there could be a home for you in Ravenclaw too, you know.
For a second, you almost consider it - but no. No, no. You can't. Blacks have always been Slytherins. Mother and father would be so disappointed. You've only ever had one option, and it's never been the house of bronze and blue.
No? Alright, then -
"SLYTHERIN!"
You're not sure if you should question the rush of relief as you move to sit between your sisters. Andromeda's arm around your shoulder is familiar; it uncoils the knot that had begun twisting in your stomach.
When Bellatrix's gaze narrows, it coils right back up.
The Blacks are built from cosmos. Bellatrix, Andromeda, Sirius, Regulus; they were all named to burn as bright as the stars in the sky they descended from.
They were forged in fire, and it shows. It shows when Sirius struts over to the Gryffindor table alone, back straight and eyes proud amidst dead silence. It shows when Andromeda takes off one night, runs straight into the arms of a mudblood and away from everything she’s ever known. It shows when Bellatrix brands her own arm and follows blindly in the footsteps of a man promising them all utopia.
It shows when Regulus - sweet, little Reggie, the same boy who used to toddle after all your footsteps - disappears one night and never comes back.
Your family burns around you, but you're made of ice.
Before you’ve even finished your NEWTS, you find yourself betrothed. You don’t think it bothers you - after all, you knew this was coming. You know Lucius Malfoy, you’ve known of his family since you were young. They’re of your kind; of pure, noble blood. It’s a fitting match.
Andromeda’s image invades your mind, then. You know exactly what she would say, were she here: Is that really all you wanted from love, Cissy? Fitting?
But Andromeda isn’t here. She made her choice, and you’re finally ready to make yours.
You try to shake her image away.
Even as you walk down the aisle, she still haunts you.
You grow to love him. Whether that love is bred purely out of circumstance or not, you don’t know. You likely never will.
Besides, it doesn’t matter which is the truth. His grandmother’s ring already sits heavy on your finger either way.
He takes on the same mark that Bella did. It’s easier than you thought it would be, to turn a blind eye to what, exactly, that means. On the nights when he comes home to you with blood splattered across his robes, you only curl your lip in distaste before handing them off to the house elves.
The rest rarely reaches you. Sometimes Bella tells you tales of acts that make you wonder just how much of your sister is left. Sometimes you have to play nice with some less than savory characters, but they only see a pretty housewife, miss the serpent coiled underneath.
No one touches you here, no gaze lingers too long. Not with his hand pressed gently to the small of your back.
Turning a blind eye keeps you both safe. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
Though the two of you try to conceive, years pass before anything takes hold. Once it does, though, you can barely keep your hands off your stomach. It’s all you think about. Whose eyes the child will have, whose hair, whose smile. What their name will be, if they’ll be a boy or a girl. You’ve always wanted a child, ever since you were one yourself, and the Malfoys needed an heir.
For the first few months, everything goes as planned. Until you wake up one night, and -
there’s
so
much
blood.
Despite Lucius’ arms around you, you feel empty when you curl up against freshly cleaned sheets later that night, stifling sobs in his shoulder until the first rays of sunlight peer above the horizon.
On June 5th, 1980, you finally welcome your son into the world.
Draco Lucius Malfoy. The minute you hold him in your arms, you know nothing will ever be the same.
What they never told you in those stories is that stars burn out. They die, just like everything else in the universe. Only with stars, the brighter their blaze of glory, the faster they’re lost.
Where the Blacks are slowly lost to the sky, Narcissa Malfoy plants her roots.