Which Quidditch team do you support?

I’ve never been fond of the sport.  If Lucius takes me to a match, I’ll support whomever he chooses.  The actual team escapes me at the moment.  

♆ : body headcanon

For the entirety of Narcissa’s life, her mother had been grooming her to succeed in her post: that of a Pureblooded housewife.  This of course, included making sure that she was physically presentable.  She endured years of corset training at a very young age, which now resulted in her extremely slim figure with only slight curves.

Though her mother made her endure countless diets with her to ensure that she would never become unseemly or unsightly, Narcissa had never thought anything of it until she began to mature and noticed how the thinner girls were the ones who had the boyfriends, how the thicker girls, though Pureblooded, were regarded with disdain from the others.  It was then that Narcissa began to notice the power that beauty had on people.  She had already learned from some of the other girls who bullied the smart ones not to be smart - or at least give that appearance.  Now she learned to preen and groom.

Her beauty had always been important to her - she had been complimented on it always.  It was at a very young age that she learned to equate beauty with the amount of love one receives.  As she got older and older, she had more boys tailing after her, at her every beck and call, doing whatever she said to.  This was a heady combination when her masked intelliegence was taken into consideration.  She basked and revelled in it.  Her impeccable form, her beauty… it was all a mode.  She knew she had to maintain it.

Without it, Narcissa would be a very different person.  To this day, she still uses her natural beauty to her advantage, knowing that many men will do anything for the slightest bit of attention from her.  Her father taught her to be intelligent and clever, ambitious and powerful.  Her mother taught her that her beauty was everything, a vehicle for her success.

With the war, she’s had trouble maintaining the balance, the fragile control that she had over her body.  She’s begun to disconnect her mind from her body, coping with the war in whatever way she can.  Her feelings of inadequacy fuel her desire to be more beautiful.

How's your heart lately?

Haha, you’re funny.  Shut up.


It’s perfectly fine, thank you.  There’s no reason that it shouldn’t be.

  · I think I need a drink…


Bloody paranoid, all of them, aren’t they? Kind of sad, really. 


Hell, at least it’s blown over now. Surprised Lucius didn’t kick up a bigger fuss, considering.

They wouldn’t know if someone was guilty if it bit them in the ass.

[She exhaled the smoke from her cigarette, a habit she seldom indulged in, but given the circumstances, she figured that she would be allowed this - as long as her mother never found out.  As far as Druella Black was concerned, this was unladylike behavior and Narcissa was never, ever supposed to indulge in anything of that sort.  Nor would Druella have let her speak such words, but Narcissa no longer gave a damn.  Her mother hadn’t been to Azkaban.  One night had been terrible enough - she never wanted to go back.]

Oh, he will.  I’ll make sure of it.  I suppose one could say that he’s been a bit busy lately.  Distant too…

(Source: forever-toujourspur)

  · I think I need a drink…

Or another life.

I am so done with all of this…

One would think that the Ministry would assure their suspects guilt before incarceration.  That is apparently not the case.  I would have put such incompetence past them.

  · Whispers of the Walls // Self-Para: Azkaban Prison // January 1st 1979

Narcissa sat in the dark, completely alone.  She didn’t know how long it had been - one hour or one hundred.  She had not gone gracefully - she went crying, kicking and screaming.  Mary, that journalistic bitch, had handed her over to the Aurors.

She had lost her wand in the struggle - presumably it was picked up for investigation by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.  She was defenseless against the Aurors, the judges and most of all, the Dementors.  

She was sitting in the corner of the pit they called a cell, hoping not to attract the attention of the Dementors again.  Even without a wand, she would have been a lost cause against them, unable to produce a happy enough memory to fuel the Patronus.  

The only sounds that could be heard were those of the water leaking through the ancient rock, the slight swishing of the Dementor’s cloak.  It was eerily quiet; she supposed everyone was asleep, but she couldn’t be sure.  There was no way of telling.

She thought about what it was that brought her here, the myriad of circumstances that culminated in her unjust incarceration.  She wasn’t a Death Eater.  They had to know that!  She had no mark!  She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Instead, she was caught and taken here, a presumed Death Eater, cowering in a corner, stuck in her own worst nightmares.

To say that the cell was dingy would be a massive understatement.  The entire floor was concrete, cold and covered in dirt, dust and Merlin knew what else.  She didn’t want to think about it for long enough to figure it out.  The only light that filtered in was the light from the hallway, the dim orange of a dying flame.  

Narcissa could feel the sobs coming before they did and she didn’t bother to fight them like she normally would have.  Instead, she let them come, wracking her body, silently at first and then she gave up and let them come.  She wanted it to stop, but it wouldn’t and she couldn’t control it.  The tears flowed freely as she cried, hands grasping at the roots of her hair, curling into a ball and wishing it would all go away.`

She didn’t know how long it went on for or when she fell asleep, but when she woke up, wiping the residue from her tears away, she heard the yelling that had resumed.  The screams wouldn’t stop now that they had begun.  She didn’t know what she was going to, how long she was going to be here.  Wouldn’t Lucius come to save her?

What followed was a raw scream, full of desperation and hopelessness as she banged her fists against the wall.  She’d lost all sense of time, didn’t care that banging at the wall until her knuckles and nails bled would not break them down.  She had never felt more helpless or more hopeless and there was no end to it.

She was shaking, sweating, head pounding.  She was going to die here - she knew it.  She would never be let out, not if the Ministry had anything to say about it.  They would want a scapegoat and even though she was not technically a Death Eater, she was a good as they were going to get - or so they thought.

In her frustration, she cursed her name, cursed her husband, cursed her lineage.  She would damn it all if it meant she could be free.  And damn it all she would.


Ladies of A Pyrrhic Victory


History repeats itself.

Bella was the Elder Wand. All she ever wanted was power, control, to inspire fear in those beneath her. All she got was a shameful death at the hand of a blood traitor. No glory in it at all. He had promised her glory.

Andromeda was the Resurrection Stone. A life lived mourning the dead, hoping they would walk through the door. Staring into her grandson’s eyes, knowing they died so he could live. Was it worth it? It had to be worth it.

Narcissa was the Invisibility Cloak. She hid in plain sight, the traitor amongst his most loyal followers. She lives where her sisters die, move on as they stay frozen in the past. But the cloak only has room for so many under its folds. She chose. She never looks back.

History repeats itself.

(Source: www.gizjets.com)