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Draco wipes off her makeup for the millionth time since she sat down at her vanity this morning. Is it even still morning? Probably not. She can’t tell through the sheer panels she drew shut to hide her pitiful self from the world. It’s definitely long past the hour she was meant to meet up with Pansy and Daphne, and even longer since she lost the will to go. Another day squandered.
The sting of failure fills her chest, overflows through her eyes, seeps into her reddened skin. She wants to tear her skin off her bones. Imagine, all the state-of-the-art magical procedures money could buy, all the “striking a fine balance between femininity and individuality” — all that laid to waste in a fit of rage. It would be funny. But Draco has a pretty bad track record for actually committing acts of violence, doesn’t she?
All she can do is drop uselessly onto the table and bury her head in her arms in resignation; run away from her unbearable inadequacy rather than facing it.
Perhaps everything was just a colossal waste from the start. A distraction from the guilt of being free while her father is walled up in prison, a way to pretend her life hasn’t been over since she tainted her body with the one imperfection no Healer will ever erase. A way to pretend she could be someone different.
The mirror vibrates. Draco concentrates on containing her frustation, coiling it up inside her. Mirrors are finnicky to repair, and she doesn’t want to have to explain it to her mother. She sighs. Her mother will inevitably show up any minute now, see her bed unmade, her cosmetics scattered about, see her all dishevel—
Dainty knocks on the door.
There’s no point answering or not answering, she’ll end up coming in either way. It’s just as well, that way Draco won’t have to open her eyes or raise her head.
Narcissa’s heels clack across the wooden floor. “Oh, my darling. Are you alright?”
Draco will not dignify that with a response.
“I thought you were going shopping with your friends today?”
“Clearly I haven’t,” Draco snaps.
“Why’s that?” Narcissa keeps her tone gentle, yet to Draco it still sounds like salt on raw flesh.
“Because I didn’t want to, Mother,” she replies forcefully. “Leave me.”
Her mother doesn’t leave. She perches herself by Draco’s side, on a corner of the narrow bench. She does mercifully stop talking, though, and instead starts tracing circles on her daughter’s back.
The tension in Draco’s tight muscles slowly begins to melt, bit by bit. With the utmost patience, Narcissa massages it all into dissipating, until Draco no longer feels like the very state of existence is intolerably painful.
“Every woman has bad hair days, bad makeup days…” Narcissa says, and Draco is much less irritable to it now.
“I don’t have good ones,” she mumbles. “Can’t even do my stupid eyeliner without Pansy.”
Narcissa clicks her tongue. “You know,” she says, “I was there for the first time Pansy tried to do her makeup, when she was ten. You were out with your father, and she arrived here with an elf. She looked like a frightful little clown, poor thing.”
Draco can’t help chuckling, even as she shakes her head.
“Don’t tell her I said that,” her mother adds.
“‘Course not.”
“I ended up taking her to my vanity and teaching her the basics. Emphasise either the eyes or the lips, place the blush on your cheekbones, that sort of thing. From then on she improved considerably, but there’s no overnight mastery for any of us.”
“She was ten.”
“And you are twenty, my sweetheart. I know it might not feel like it, but your life is just beginning.”
Draco doesn’t even know whether she wants that to be true. She’s always ridden with anxiety about being short on time, but does she really wish she had more of it? More time stuck in a futile loop of trying and failing and never being good enough. It might be better if her hourglass would just run out already.
But her mother’s hand is still on her back. Forcing her not to give up, but also tempting her to think that things might not have to be so bad. Fresh tears spring to Draco’s eyes.
“Come here, love,” as if on cue, Narcissa invites her daughter into her arms, and Draco doesn’t have the energy to pretend she doesn’t want to accept it.
She promptly moves aside, allowing Narcissa to sit more comfortably, and hides her wet face in her shoulder. Narcissa wraps her in a tight hug and lets her cry.
Nestled in warm safety, Draco finds that her sobs are not painful, but calming. Every wave of tears washes away a bit of stress, until she’s left relieved and boneless against her mother. She breathes deeply, taking in the floral scent of Narcissa’s perfume. Breathing feels good.
What doesn’t feel good, however, is when she notices the stain she’s left on her mother’s robes — tears and stubborn remnants of botched eyeliner on fine silk.
With a casual flick of Narcissa’s wand, the fabric is restored to pristine condition, but Draco’s mind is already spiralling. Her mother is elegance personified, and she is an embarrassment. She buries the thought of disappointing both of her parents before she cries again.
“I look a disaster,” she says, knowing it’s true without having to see it.
“Nothing we can’t fix,” Narcissa counters, giving Draco a squeeze that quells her creeping despair.
A few of Narcissa’s beauty supplies come floating in at her call, and she gets to work. Cradling Draco’s face in tender hands, she goes over her skin with an enchanted washcloth, a deep cleanser, and a cream that feels cooling and smells of chamomile.
“This will brighten you up, get rid of any blotchiness, puffiness…” Narcissa explains.
While the cream takes its soothing effect, she tends to Draco's hair. She applies a hydrating potion down its length, raking her fingers from the roots to the ends. Draco hums at the sensation, prompting Narcissa to keep stroking for much longer than necessary.
She takes her careful time with the comb, detangling every snag and knot without any pain. Draco enjoys feeling the comb finally run through in fluid motions, and enjoys it even more when her mother switches to the brush. Soft bristles caress her scalp from the crown of her head to the base of her neck, leaving a trail of tingles in their wake.
Once relaxation has spread down over Draco’s entire body, her mother adds her finishing touches: bejewelled crystal clips, to pin back a pair of strands at the sides.
“Gorgeous,” Narcissa concludes, hand ghosting under Draco’s chin. “Take a look.”
A small pang of anxiety threatens to resurface inside Draco, but she turns to the mirror anyway. It's not bad, actually. Even bare, her face is much better than before, without that air of someone who sleeps both too much and too little. Clean face. Clean slate. Fresh start. If only everything else were that easy.
Narcissa offers, “How about I do your makeup, hm? Something simple, yet tasteful.”
On one hand, Draco doesn't need to witness a display of her mother’s superior competence right now; on the other, she could use all the reassurance that she may be inexperienced, but she’s not hopeless.
“Okay.”
Narcissa selects a single shade of eyeshadow, a sparkly silver, and brushes it onto Draco’s eyelids in a light layer. Draco refuses to let her free eye close; she watches intently in the mirror, trying to follow every skilled move of her mother’s.
“Why don’t you try doing the other side?”
Draco pauses, then finds the determination to go for it. She’s just seen all the steps, it can't be that hard, right? It does indeed turn out quite symmetrical, and a gratifying surge of confidence makes her sit up straighter.
“Now, when your eyeliner is an uncooperative bitch…” says Narcissa, with a sudden bluntness that makes Draco laugh. “...mascara is a life-saver.”
On one side, Narcissa demonstrates the optimal technique for maximum volume and minimum clumps; on the other, Draco imitates it. A spot of blush, a coat of tinted lip balm, and Narcissa is satisfied.
Draco relishes the result. A smile grows across her rosy lips, reaches her shimmering eyes, as she admires herself. At least for now, that’s what she feels like, herself .
Narcissa rubs Draco’s arms fondly. “A great look for the occasion of having tea in the garden with your mother,” she coaxes.
Draco’s smile fades as she groans her reluctance. “I don’t feel like eating.”
“Darling, beautiful flowers need light and nutrients.”
Draco hesitates to succumb to her mother’s shameless flattery. Though it would be unfortunate to get all glammed up and not go anywhere at all… Well, leaving the house is still too daunting, but maybe the garden can be a happy middle ground…
Narcissa interrupts Draco’s considerations, “How about an apple and brie sandwich?”
That does conjure enticing images. “What a low blow.”
Narcissa raises her eyebrows innocently. “Is it effective?”
“Mmm… only if there’s raspberry cake, too.”
“Anything you want, darling.”
“With Italian meringue buttercream?”
“With Italian meringue buttercream.”
Draco heaves an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose I can make the sacrifice.”
“Good girl.”
Draco dons her emerald green robes, her favourite set. She wears them too much, she knows — and every time she does, she hears an echo of her mother’s voice commenting on other witches’ repeated outfits — but today something convenient and familiar is all she can muster to put on.
“You’re lovely in this colour,” is what Narcissa says. “We should get you more robes in it.”
Draco chuckles. Thankfully her mother excels at pushing her agendas with grace, when she wants to.
*
The docile British sun paints the afternoon golden, and the gardens are full of life: blossoms blooming, fuzzy bumblebees flying, the peacocks grazing in the distance. A few years ago, Draco would have found it pathetic to appreciate such things (or to admit to appreciating them), but she’s had to learn the hardest way not to take soft, human joys for granted (although she still sort of hates to admit it).
Going outside feels good. Moving your body gets you out of your head. Draco tries for the millionth time to commit that to memory, despite anticipating she’ll forget it again as soon as the next dark mood clouds her mind. But until then, she basks in the tranquility of feeling like the world is much bigger and brighter than the labyrinthine traps of her brain.
Draco lets Narcissa hold her hand as they walk to the patio table, even lets herself giggle when a butterfly tickles her nose as it flutters by. She catches her reflection in the fountain pond on the way, and doesn’t shy away from it. On the contrary, Draco lingers, pleased with how the crystals in her hair glitter in the sunlight. She turns her head from side to side…
“Living up to your middle name?” her mother jokes, but there’s affection in it, even a hint of pride.
They sit amidst flowers: branches of wisteria hanging over their heads, wildflowers blooming all around them. The fountain babbles serenely, interspersed by the occasional chirp of a songbird.
Draco discovers that she is, in fact, starving. When at long last her sandwich appears before her, she sinks her teeth into it with a tenacity that, under different circumstances, would get her scolded. As it stands, though, Draco makes use of her depressed daughter privileges to indulge with abandon.
The buttered bread is perfectly crispy, the melted cheese is perfectly gooey, the green apple is perfectly crunchy. The raspberry cake provides a burst of sweet cream, balanced by the energising tartness of fresh fruit, and Draco delights in every mouthful.
When she’s halfway through her third slice, she sees Bartholomew walking over towards her, his white feathers trailing behind him. Ever the glutton. Draco knows to placate him before the spoilt brat starts screaming, so she offers him a few berries. Beady eyes twinkling in contentment, Bartholomew laps them up, then sits by Draco’s side.
By the time everyone’s done eating, the sun is nearly set, and a chilly evening breeze is blowing. Narcissa pours a steaming cup of Earl Grey for Draco and one for herself, a welcome comfort to complete their meal.
Watching the sunset with her mother, with the hot tea warming her hands and the fluffy peacock resting at her feet, Draco starts to believe that things might not have to be so bad. She still doesn’t know how to fix her whole life, but maybe she can just take life one tiny moment at a time.
“Mother.”
“Yes, dear?”
“We should go shopping together.”
Narcissa beams. “It would be a pleasure.”