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Narcissa clenched her fists and scowled disdainfully, trying to ignore the suggestive nature of the perfume that suddenly wafted all around her when she opened the delicate mauve envelope, and the waves of conflicting emotions that swept over her when she saw the familiar handwriting upon the notepaper.
She would not cry about this, not now or ever. She would not allow herself to shed a single tear for her disgraced sister. In the eyes of the entire Black family, Andromeda was not only as good as dead, it was as if she had not been born at all, and that was the only way Narcissa should think from now on. Never mind that her sister had been more than an older sibling to her, so much more. Never mind the fact that the mere presence of that fragrance meant that Narcissa’s heart had begun to beat faster and that she ached to be held close in Andromeda’s arms, kissing her sister wildly.
It was not a scent that Narcissa would choose for itself – too strong, too intense and evocative of unbridled passion for her liking. Her own taste in perfumes was confined to more ladylike and subtle aromas. Floral and discreet, they floated around her like her finest silken dress-robes, indicating an understated allure rather than a brazen declaration of any sort of desire.
Patchouli, however, was a perfume that had always suited Andromeda. She had the grace and dignity to wear it without making it seem cheap and vulgar. On her, the scent had a mystery as well as sensuality, and sensing its presence always thrilled Narcissa more than she was willing to admit to anyone, even herself.
Andromeda, however, had known from the beginning that her sister loved her to wear patchouli. That was why, Narcissa thought with a sudden frown, Andromeda had daubed a few drops of the oil across the pages of the letter she had sent by owl that very morning – the letter that now lay in Narcissa’s lap as she read it again, her pale brow rapidly creasing with a sudden fury.
Such trite, childish words lay on those frail pieces of paper! Words about how fine a man Andromeda’s new husband was, how loving and kind and overflowing with sheer goodness he was. Words about how Andromeda knew the rest of the family would never understand, but that she hoped Narcissa would – and not only that, but in time, come to forgive Andromeda and love her once again, for the depth and tenderness of that adoration was something that could not easily be destroyed.
“What nonsense!” Narcissa snapped aloud, and crumpled the letter swiftly in her hand, throwing it angrily across the room. Andromeda could easily have found herself a good man amongst the pure-blood wizards. Narcissa herself intended to marry Lucius Malfoy, who was a gentleman in every sense of the word, a true aristocrat amongst wizard-kind. There were others like him – why on earth did Andromeda have to elope with a filthy Muggle-born?
Narcissa sniffed in unabashed scorn as she recalled the Mudblood’s name. Such a ridiculous appellation it was, too – Ted Tonks. It sounded like something from a silly children’s rhyme. The sort of rhyme she would have found hatefully annoying even when she was a child. Something Andromeda would have happily laughed at with her in their blissful pre-Hogwarts days, as they snuggled under the counterpane of Andromeda’s four-poster bed, where Narcissa would have sneaked to giggle and cuddle with her sister until sleepiness overtook her and she would have reluctantly stumbled back to her own bedroom to collapse and dream of the fun she and Andromeda would have when the sun finally rose.
And now Andromeda was married to the man with the stupid name, the dirty Mudblood, and had penned a letter full of Valentine clichés singing his praises.
She had written about him using the sweet words she used to whisper to Narcissa, and that was what hurt the most.
With a sigh. Narcissa stood up and began to pace the floor. She could not help but remember the last grand ball she and her sister had attended, herself on the arm of Lucius Malfoy, of course, and Andromeda had been accompanied by Rabastan Lestrange, brother of the man the eldest Black sister Bellatrix had married, Rodolphus. It had had been a most exciting and glamorous occasion, with fairy-lights everywhere and fountains charmed to shimmer like prismatic gemstones, changing hues every few moments whilst spraying glittering towers of water into the air.
Narcissa had worn brand new dress robes of a regal purple, and a rope of pearls and diamonds around her neck. Andromeda’s ball gown was one she had worn before, but one that Narcissa loved to see her in. It was a deep rich brown, the sumptuous earthy tone of autumn leaves, and her jewels were antique rubies, a looped bracelet and dangling earrings with a teardrop shape. And of course, she was lightly scented with her favourite patchouli oil.
With a hitching of breath, Narcissa recalled how she and Andromeda had managed to quietly slip away from their male companions for a while and flee to the sanctuary of a small gazebo in the garden. There, they whirled breathlessly in each other’s arms to the sound of distant violins, and then kissed passionately beneath the soft light of a crescent moon obscured by clouds as if through a misty veil.
Andromeda’s lips had tasted of wine and cherries, intoxicating and luscious. She kissed deeply and roughly, although lovingly, with a strong hint of possessiveness, making her younger sister whimper into her mouth, both in protest at the harshness and in an unspoken pleading for her to do it again. Narcissa could not get enough of her, almost maddened by desire for more of those exciting kisses.
Lucius was handsome and dashing, it was true, and always kind and gallant to Narcissa – he would make a wonderful husband, and Narcissa was certain that she would be very happy as his wife – but in those glorious moments under the exquisite and delicate glow of the moonlight, there was no other for her besides her sister. For a few brief and frenzied minutes, Narcissa wished that she and Andromeda could run away together and be lovers forever, recklessly disregarding society’s expectation that they find pure-blood (or at least respectable and wealthy half-blood) husbands and produce children who would become a credit to the wizarding world.
Even after marriage, Narcissa had hoped that she and Andromeda could have carried on a discreet affair, using the excuse of sisterly closeness to seek long, languorous afternoons entwined in each other’s arms. Andromeda, however, had wrecked that fondest hope of Narcissa’s forever with her foolish actions, her choice of that revolting Ted Tonks above her family, and especially above the sister she claimed to adore more than all others!
Narcissa closed her eyes hard, struggling to hold back the tears that seemed determined to well up despite her efforts to fight them. She must never think of her sister with love in her heart again – it made more sense for her to regard Andromeda as if she no longer existed. Narcissa knew that she had to resist the temptation that was tugging at her heartstrings, to meet with her sister one final time for one last ecstatic embrace, and one last sweet, unforgettable kiss.
However, she could not help rising to her feet to retrieve the discarded letter, and sitting back down with it in her lap, smoothing it out to breathe in the enticing scent of patchouli one last time.