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Narcissa would never dare to call herself an artist. Would never degrade herself in such a manner. Artists are fanciful. Romantics. To label herself one would lower her to the level of a woe-begotten poet, or clown-faced actor in a traveling play.
No, she is not an artist. She does not paint or draw or sketch, although the temptation has often come to her. Left an itch in her fingertips.
She would never pick up a sketchbook. Never stand before a canvas. Would never let herself be observed in the act of…
Observing. Visualisation, that’s what she does. It is purely logical. A memory exercise. An exercise in social navigation. If she has ‘visualised’ the scene at the dining table, then it is quite simple to learn which dishes are preferred. How much has been drank. Who has spoken to whom, or who wishes to speak to whom from the tilt of their head or the lean of their shoulders. If a joke is told, whose eyes dart to whose. Which smile lasts a fraction too long, or flickers too early.
It is a skill she has practiced for most of her life. It entertains her. Challenges her.
Reassures her. Her routine safety measures. Walk through the house in your head. Check that all is in order. Nothing out of place.
Check each person’s face. See the signs early.
She had lied.
She hasn’t played this game her whole life. Not as she should have. She grew lazy. Began making observations for the thrill of it. Knew every personal belonging of every Slytherin, and which they treasured most. First in her dormitory. Then in her year. Then in the whole of Hogwarts. Knew the items so well that she could draw them from memory.
In her mind. Never in reality. She would never reveal her inner workings. Her inner secret.
She then moved from items to people. Who retired for bed early, but joined them at breakfast the next day pale-faced and bleary-eyed? Who professed to have money, but whispered to the house-elves to mend their worn shoes or alter the length of their dresses?
Everyone has secrets. Weaknesses. Laid bare for all to see. If you look hard enough.
If only she had seen her own. Her hubris. Her downfall. If only she had pulled herself in. Focused in. Or expanded for a fuller picture, lost in the tantalising intricacies. More. She’d wanted more.
That is how it went unnoticed. First Andromeda. Then Sirius, not long after.
And Bella, in a way that was entirely different, but utterly the same.
Lost to her. All of them lost to her. Their frozen images trapped in her mind, only to mock her.
Look. Look at us. Look at those closest to you. Look what you did not see. Did you not see my growing misery? Did you not see my growing love? Did you not see my growing madness? Were you too busy looking outward, tired of retracing our familiar faces?
Not so familiar now, are we?
It’s when Bella is in Azkaban that she first begins again. Cautiously. Rebuilds. The house. Her own belongings. Follows the curve of a hand mirror, counts the threads in the sheets.
And Draco. At first, she had feared it, shuddered and almost retched at the very thought, but she observes Draco. Learns him. Recognises every cry. Every movement. Acts on his every whim as soon as it crosses his mind. Knows which clothing he prefers. Which food. If the sun has touched him for too long, or if he is restless. If he needs her. Wants her. Loves her. How she can soothe his slightest discomfort.
If he is in pain.
Bellatrix returns. Lucius leaves. To an island from which he will never return. Not really.
Forever altered. Three images to reconstruct. Piece by piece. Line by line. Especially the eyes. An added layer, now. Some dimmed, some burning and squinting in the light. Light and shadow. Yes. The light has changed.
The house has changed too. The house she walks in her mind does not resemble her reality. And yet she clings to it. Is loath to change it. It seems she is doomed to repetition. If you cannot look, you cannot see.
She doesn’t see. Not near the end.
Doesn’t dare look.
Touch returns to her. Eyes closed and grasping. Here. She’s here. Perhaps if she does not look, she will not see. If they cling together, they might reach the end. Alive. Draco is alive, and in the Castle.
She cannot picture him. Not there. Not now. Not alive.
Her mind is cruel now. What was once a palette knife, a scalpel. The images cut into her. A shield raises too late. A missed step. A falling cabinet. A werewolf’s bite. A giant’s crushing weight.
She doesn’t observe. Cannot observe. Runs. Runs through corridors she does not recognise, past nameless faces.
Promises herself that she will never see again. Won’t look. That touch is enough. If she holds him one last time—
She had lied.
She begins again.
It takes a long time, but she begins again. Rebuilds.
Not with people. People are too fragile. Ever-changing. A blur of motion, there and gone. She knows that now.
She begins in the garden. Her eyes trace the grass, the flowers. Every stone and pebble and puddle of rain. Each leaf, and petal, and stem. Every day.
It suffocates her. She leaves.
Walks the surrounding lanes. The fields. The hills. Learns the hedges and streams and long-trodden paths. Farther and wider. Higher and higher. Draws it in eagerly, relishing every image it pushes further back in her mind. Forgotten faces. Forgotten places. The manor in her mind crumbling to dust and ruin.
High on a hill. Observing the world. Observing nothing at all.
Sirius sits down next to her in the grass. “Hey, Narcisister.” Falls onto his back, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offering one to her.
She vanishes them with a wave of her wand. Still talking to her. That haircut. Still wearing dress trousers rather than muggle denim.
He must be fourteen at the most.
Sirius’ mouth falls open in outrage. “Bitch! And after I came to sit with you instead of James and Remus.”
For a moment she just looks at him. Watches him. Counts the stripes on his shirt. His breaths.
Looks back out at the view. “You’re too young to be killing yourself. Breathing in clouds of poison,” she murmurs.
There’s a laugh from behind them. “I wouldn’t worry about the odd cigarette then!” Andromeda calls. “We’re probably all immune to poisonous atmospheres by now.”
Still calls them cigarettes rather than fags or cigs. Pronouncing her ‘t’s. And…
Narcissa turns around.
…still carrying the purse she ‘borrowed’ from Bella.
Narcissa smiles. “You’re home for Easter?”
Andromeda jogs over to her. “Of course! I wouldn’t leave you here all alone with grumpy old Mother and Father. Now hurry! Before Bella eats all of the eggs without us!”
Narcissa laughs quietly, standing up. “What eggs? You know we’re not allowed to participate in Christian—”
“Christian?”
She’s spun around by the shoulders, dark eyes staring into her soul and fingers pressing into flesh. “Where did you learn that word? What have you been up to whilst I was gone?” Bella hisses, eyes narrowed. Empty. Face gaunt. Tone and grip biting.
Narcissa flinches. Closes her eyes. Adjusts the picture. Warms skin. Changes the tone. Adjusts the contrast.
Sits back down in the grass. Opens her eyes.
Bella is gone.
They all are.
She counts the trees. Watches the clouds. The way the sunlight hits. A slight shimmer on a distant river. How the shadows fall over the fields. How…
How someone is walking up the hill towards her.
Bushy hair. Muggle clothes. Book under her arm, water bottle in hand.
Narcissa stands up. Brushes down her robes and wipes at her eyes, just in case.
Hermione Granger crests the top of the hill and stops. Smiles at her awkwardly. “Hello. I didn’t mean to…well it seems like our…walking routes cross a little bit.”
Narcissa nods. Of course she has noticed Miss Granger.
She had lied.
Her observations…do sometimes include people. Regularly, in fact. Miss Granger walks from her home, through the woods, along the river, and up the hill every other Saturday evening. She always wears the same shoes. A gift from her parents. The book varies. But it’s usually muggle fiction. An escape. A solitary quest for emotional connection.
Narcissa looks away. Stops observing. Gestures to the hilltop. “Well…it’s all yours.”
Hermione gives her an odd look. Moves closer and sits down in the grass. “There’s room for two.”
Slight smile? Amusement. Nervousness. Conflict. The courage a bit of a cover. Deliberate…
Narcissa sits down next to her. “Is it a coincidence? That our paths have crossed so many times?”
Hermione looks at the view. Tucks her hair behind her ears. “You do walk…everywhere. All the time. It would be hard to avoid you even if I wanted to.”
Narcissa scoffs. “I can hardly walk everywhere. But I see your point. I take it you have recently moved to Hampshire?”
Hermione rests her book on her lap with a nod. Tears out—
Both of Narcissa’s hands reach out in shock. One pressed to her heart, the other capturing Hermione’s wrist. No! No, it’s—
It’s so unexpected. It cannot be. Hermione Granger cannot be ripping paper from…
A sketchbook.
Narcissa releases her.
“I don’t know if you draw, but…” Hermione offers her the paper. And a pencil. “Would you like to?” she asks quietly. “It’s beautiful up here. I thought maybe you might have an appreciation for…romanticism.”
Narcissa absentmindedly accepts the offering. Frowns. Looks down the grassy hill at the stretching view. “I think you mean realism,” she corrects.
Doesn’t get a reply.
Turns to look at Miss Granger instead.
Gets a soft smile. “No. I don’t think I do.”
Narcissa observes. Observes the hair already falling from behind her ear and into her eyes, not tamed for long. The occasional ginger cat hair on her jumper. The shine to her shoes. She must polish them regularly. Care for them.
The awkward way she holds the pencil. The blank sketchbook. “Do you draw?” Narcissa asks instead.
Hermione shakes her head. “I’d like to. But I’m not sure I have the talent for it. Or the patience.”
Narcissa nods. Slowly reaches out. Takes the sketchbook, to lean on. “I…prefer people to landscapes.”
Hermione gives her another odd look. Laughs. “Really? With all the time you spend walking alone out here?”
Narcissa begins hesitantly sketching. From memory.
Lets out a shaky breath as her thoughts spill onto paper. Come into being. Into reality. “I do not walk alone. As hard as I try,” she admits.
Frowns at a misshapen jawline. Adjusts it. The height. The angle.
“I…How are you doing that without looking?” Hermione asks in a hushed whisper.
Oh.
Narcissa looks up. Is thrown by how close Miss Granger is sitting. Has approached. To watch.
Counts her eyelashes. Corrects the width of her mouth. “I have observed you,” Narcissa offers as explanation.
Continues sketching. Shading. Decides where the light should be. Which face to show.
“It’s…remarkable,” Hermione whispers once more. “I think you’re right. You are a realist. Do you have a photographic memory? Do you remember everything?”
Narcissa huffs out a quiet laugh. “I remember what I have taken the time to study, consciously or otherwise.”
She finishes the eyes. Moves to the mouth.
“Oh.”
Pauses.
‘O’. A sound of shock. Of realisation. Of confusion.
She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t observe. Only remembers.
Continues, pencil scratching over paper.
“You should be an artist,” Hermione says. “You have a real talent. A gift. How long have you been drawing?”
“About three minutes…” Narcissa mutters, trying to pinpoint a certain moment when the light would have hit her hair from the upper left. A windy day? A still day? A day she has recently showered, and the curls are fresh, or…
Hermione laughs. “No, I meant how many years have you been sketching portraits?”
Narcissa puts down the pencil. Raises her eyes to observe.
Today’s hair. She can use today. Adjust the light. It’s evening now. The light is low and warm. “And my answer is the same. This is my first portrait. You are my first sketch,” she replies evenly as she scans her. Hair by hair. Curl by curl. How they fall around her face and shoulders…
The image keeps moving. With the wind. And Hermione shifting in the grass. Touching her hair to play with a stray curl. Bite her lip.
Bite her—
Oh.
Narcissa blinks. Adjusts her gaze. Retracts. Sees the whole picture.
Oh.
Staring and sketching at sunset. Being called a romantic. Looks she cannot decipher. Sitting close. Laughing.
Well that is interesting.
“We’re losing the light,” Narcissa says slowly. “But I would like to finish this, if I may? Perhaps you might…join me for dinner?”
Hermione smiles. “I’d like that.”
Narcissa closes the sketchbook. Moves to stand—
Hermione takes her arm and gently pulls her down. Slides her hand down until it reaches Narcissa’s. Squeezes. “Watch the sunset with me. Study this. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
Narcissa glances at the view. Appreciates it’s beauty.
For only a moment. Her eyes are pulled back to Hermione. To observing. “I prefer the beauty in people,” she says quietly. “It is…more painful to observe, but the reward far greater, and…a tragedy to overlook. Not watching you in this moment would be a tragedy.”
She watches eyes widen. Lips part. A head jerk. A breath taken.
Curls sway back and forth as Hermione slowly shakes her head. “Who are you?” she softly breathes out.
Narcissa laughs quietly. Pulls the sketchbook to her chest. Grips it tightly. “I cannot say that I know. It has been…far too long since I reconstructed my own image. I fear I have been erased completely.”
Eyes soften. A hand reaches out. Gently pries her fingers from the book. Takes her hand once more.
“I can see you,” Hermione says. “I’ve…well, it’s embarrassing, but I’ve been watching you. For a few months now. You…intrigue me. I couldn’t stop myself from watching you. I guess I— You’ve become a bit of a mystery. Every time I saw you, I wanted to find out more. Find out what you were thinking and feeling. And then I thought that if you don’t want to talk about it, you might want to draw it. Express yourself another way.”
Observed. She’s been observed.
She’s not sure she has ever been truly observed.
She reaches out to touch. To bring her inner world into existence. Moves a misplaced curl. Just so.
Leans up on her knees and smiles as she verifies the angle of a cheekbone. A jaw. “Then this may be rather forward, but perhaps I might kiss you? The sun is setting. And think you may have an…appreciation for romanticism.”
Hermione laughs. A quick, shocked, but pleased laugh. Pulls her closer with a shy nod. “Or realism? I’d quite like to make that idea a reality.”
Warm arms wrapping around her. Eyes glowing amber in the light. Quickening breaths but a smiling lip.
Narcissa leans in. “I’ll ensure to study you closely then. It may take some time…”
And she closes her eyes to the world. Touches. Brings their lips together.
She does not need to see. She can still observe. Can draw out, see the whole picture, two witches wrapped in an intimate embrace on a high hill at sunset.
She doesn’t. Focuses in. Becomes lost in the tantalising intricacies.
Rebuilds as she goes. Reconstructs faulty images.
She had lied.
She is an artist. Is a woe-begotten poet. A clown-faced actor in a travelling play.
She has not only observed. She has imagined. Has always imagined. Her images are always warped. Altered. Enhanced.
No. No, Narcissa is not, and has never been, a realist.
She has never dared to admit it.
But she’s quite the romantic.