The Cursed Ones

Chapter Three: Healing Hands

(Context for photo: it is how I envision Narcissa's living quarters to resemble, though in my head it's a different layout and this would be on a far end...the bed wouldn't be there.)

I'm in Narcissa's living quarters, watching the flames in the hearth by the chaise we're both occupying as she tends to my cuts with tender-handed compassion. I wonder in amazement how one person can possess so many sides to themselves. Narcissa has shown night and day and everything in between, and I've only known her now for approximately twenty-four hours. At this time last night, we were wandering the castle together. Now I'm in her private quarters, and she has me practically curled against her in a sort of motherly embrace. What a day.

Narcissa stops suddenly when she's nearly entirely wiped my hand of blood. I look at her, puzzled. She looks up and right back at me, her brows furrowed.

"What's this?" she demands, though it's not unkind. Rather, she sounds worried.

I look down, and it takes me a few seconds to realize she's referring to the generous amount of bruising and swelling across my knuckles and much of the rest of my hand.

"Oh!" I say, as if she's come across a revelation and I've only just realized. "I fell up some stairs and had to catch myself with my fists before I smacked face to stone," I claim, nodding my head in what I hope comes across as somberly.

She tuts at me as she goes back to work, but doesn't press the interrogation further. I'm rather glad she's taking a break from it. It doesn't feel as easy to lie to the mother of my closest friend. I need to remind myself that it's out of self-preservation.

And stubbornness, a little voice taunts in my head. You're protecting nothing but your ego. Anything someone wants you to do, you do the exact opposite. It's fucked up.

I ignore the voice of reason. I will never claim that I'm flawless. In fact, I know I'm kind of a shitty excuse of a person. My world calmed down so suddenly a few years ago, and yet my mind hasn't. It continues its striving for survival. I feel the need to lash out, to win, to rebel. If I'm being honest, it drives me crazy. I wish I could just settle down and let it be. But I know it doesn't work like that. It can't work like that all the time. But I'll be damned if I start considering seeking a therapist. I left those in America along with the rest of my wretched past.

The past is dead, and yet it haunts me every waking moment of every day. And then I do stupid things. It doesn't make sense, and yet nothing makes more sense to my mind than to rebel against every single thing I can. Even when it hurts me.

I just watch as Narcissa wraps my hand with a bandage after applying some sort of potion concoction over the wound. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say, if anything at all. Usually I wouldn't care, but things are different with her. I just chalk it up to trying to be good in front of Draco's mom. The last thing I need is for her to hate me. What would become of me and Draco then? All I want for our last two years is a grand finale. We were going to pay homage to our time spent at Hogwarts. The entrance of Narcissa into the equation has already knocked things off kilter. I'm not sure how many more hits our plan of a fun and carefree year (and the year after) can take.

Narcissa saves me from having to decide what to say and when to say it when she finishes off the bandage with great care, and then squeezes my palm lightly. "There we go. All patched up."

I stand to leave. "Thank you, Prof -"

"Not so fast." Narcissa pats the spot I've just risen from, and obediently I plop back down. She places a palm on my shoulder. "I need for you to know, Noir, that I am here for anything. I am here if you wish to talk, or if you simply wish for company. I do enjoy yours quite a bit, after all." Her eyes are glinting with a warmth to rival the flames in the hearth as she offers me a smile. "Do you understand?"