Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 500
Summary: Narcissa wasn't perverted. It was only that it was impossible to say no to Bellatrix....
There was no such thing as true silence. There was quiet, the quiet came with the fall of night, but it was far from silent. The house groaned. Portraits whispered in the darkness. Sometimes footfalls echoed up and down the ancient hallways, doors creaked open and squealed shut. In the House of Black, there was no such thing as true quiet.
Narcissa knew what to listen for. She knew the sound of Bella’s footsteps, light and firm as they came down the hallway from the far eastern bedroom. She knew how Bella opened the door, slowly, like the a lover teasingly untying a nightdress.
Inside her bedroom, the carpet muffled her sister’s footsteps. There was no noise but the noise of the house until Bellatrix slithered onto the bed, stretched out across Narcissa’s slight form. Then it was sounds and sensations and scents. The feel of Bella’s curls brushing against her cheek. The smell of spice and musk that clung to the eldest Black sister like fine perfume. The quick, raspy breathing in her ear.
Sometimes that was all Bellatrix would do, simply lay across her, her firm weight pressing Narcissa into her mattress, the bedclothes separating them. But on the other nights….
On those other nights, Narcissa would lay silent and still as Bellatrix licked along the curve of her neck, smelled her hair, ran her hands beneath the covers and over Narcissa’s slender curves. And Bellatrix would whisper in her ear, tell her how much she loved her, her dear baby sister. And the covers would come down, and then Narcissa’s nightdress, and Bellatrix’s hands would toy with Narcissa’s small breasts, her flat stomach, the sensitive flesh between her thighs. Bellatrix’s hands were thin and narrow, a skeleton’s hands that moved in teasing patterns over Narcissa’s body.
Bellatrix was made of skeletal angles and cold sneers. She was harsh and hard but at night, in the quiet of the night she was warm and hot and she laughed when she teased Narcissa’s slick folds.
Narcissa never responded. She knew it was wrong, to let her sister touch her like that. She knew it was perverse, dirty. But Bellatrix didn’t seem to care. Bellatrix kissed her naked skin and teased her nipples to hardness and stroked skeletal fingers along the pearlescent skin between her thighs until she was slick and warm and closing her eyes against the darkness. Her hips would twitch, her legs would fall open, seventeen years old and spread like a harlot before her sister.
Narcissa never made a single noise. Her moans were swallowed, her screams as Bellatrix licked between her legs died in her throat. She bit the edge of her pillow, afraid to cry out, afraid to let a single syllable past her lips, afraid someone would hear and find them, entwined naked in the darkness like lovers.
She would be ruined for marriage, if someone were to discover what she did with Bellatrix in the dark nights of the House of Black.