When She Sees Her Reflection, She’s Fulfilled

Harry looked at him, startled; the idea that anything as normal as a wedding could still exist seemed incredible and yet wonderful.

Narcissa looked at herself in the mirror. She was wearing the dress she would be wearing at her wedding to Lucius, veil off and bare feet peeking out from under the skirt. The room was where her parents had slept when father was alive; now it was hers. And soon, Lucius. On the four-poster bed that had been in her family for so long that only the oaken frame had not been replaced, she and Lucius would consummate their vows under the watchful eyes of the countless generations of Blacks represented in hung portraits. Bellatrix had chased those Blacks off so they could be alone. Their frames, hanging empty, and the unwatered daffodils enhanced the room’s bleak feeling. The only real color was the crisp white sheets of the bed, and they were mostly strangled by the dark comforter and bed curtains around it.

Her mind wandered off the dress and off the bedroom and onto the mirror. It was a good mirror, rounded into a teardrop shape with scores of writhing sinners engraved into the frame. No, Muggles. There was no real need to hide what they felt anymore, not with the Dark Lord taking over.

She had heard of magical mirrors that reflected the looker’s deepest desire or greatest fear. This one was mundane, although if it was magical she could swear the enchantment was to reflect not just a moment in time, but the reflected’s entire life. As in life, Bellatrix stood over her. As they had when children, Bellatrix was digging a comb into Narcissa’s pale blonde hair. With each stroke, Narcissa’s hair, once almost white, grew more in luster until it looked like spun gold. Not a hair would be tangled or out of place by the time Bellatrix was done.

“Look at you, Cissy,” Bellatrix cooed in the voice she had always used when mom and dad were around. “You’re pretty as a picture. Lucius will just eat you up.”

For a moment the image of Lucius devouring her, piece by piece, filled Narcissa’s mind. Was reflected in the mirror, as if fork and knife were sectioning away her shoulder even know.

“I don’t want to be eaten up,” Narcissa muttered.

Another tangle was bulldozed through and a loose hair landed on Narcissa’s wedding dress. Bellatrix brushed it away, then brought her hand back. In returning, she let it slide over the lace trimmings of Narcissa’s dress. They had picked it out together.

“Speak up, Cissy, it’s not lady-like to murmur.” Of course. Bellatrix never murmured. She always spoke what was on her mind, often to someone’s profound embarrassment. She had been ardently pro-Grindelwald even when the dark wizard had been at his most unpopular. Now she had the last laugh. Her support of the dark arts was being proven right and she seemed to have a spring in her step, anchoring herself to the Dark Lord’s side every time he made one of his appearances.

“I said I’m not sure if Lucius is…” Narcissa looked at Bellatrix’s eyes in the mirror. A watery but clear blue, they were slanted up in the reflection to surreptitiously meet Narcissa’s. “I’m not sure if he’s the one for me.”

“Nonsense,” Bellatrix said in a chipper way, but her posture had stiffened ever so slightly. She combed through another tangle without care for Narcissa’s yelp of pain and just as easily moved over Narcissa’s objections. “Lucius is a pureblood and a loyal supporter of our Dark Lord.”

Narcissa’s first act upon inheriting the room had been to fill it with wild daffodils, summoned by magic into clay pots and dark soil. But Kreacher shied away from his master’s bedchambers, or was just too hard-worked to find time for Narcissa’s weak order, and so the daffodils often went without water. Narcissa thought she could smell them dying.

“What about us?” she asked, the scent of flowers’ death in her nostrils.

Bellatrix’s fingers dug into Narcissa’s breast, so hard Narcissa thought her wedding dress would tear. Long, graceful fingers quirked around Narcissa’s nipple like a spider weaving a web, teasing it between pain and pleasure. Narcissa gasped, not sure which one she was feeling.

Bellatrix continued, now in the voice she never used when mom and dad were around, the one she reserved for when she and Narcissa were alone… and when Narcissa was bad. “Lucius will wed you today and bed you tonight.”

Her thin lips, curved into an obliviously cheerful smile, hovered near Narcissa’s ear. Bellatrix’s voice jangled the earring hovering from it. “He will pump you full of his seed in that very bed.”

And, helplessly, Narcissa’s eyes followed Bellatrix’s commanding voice to the bed. Already she could see herself there as Lucius bent between her legs, fork and knife at the ready, eating her up and digesting her into his dreams, his ambitions. Narcissa Malfoy, excreted.

“Bella, please…” Narcissa begged, but Bellatrix’s other hand was already at her stomach, coyly rubbing through the fabric of the dress, rubbing ever-downward…

“You will give birth to purebloods,” Bellatrix cackled happily, demanding Narcissa share in her joy. “Cissy, you will raise the next generation of Death Eaters to serve the Dark Lord. They will be the first children to grow up under his regime…”

Bellatrix’s fingers found what they were looking for, pushing up through and aside Narcissa’s skirt until they found a bare leg, a succulent thigh. The digits were cool against Narcissa’s leg and colder still as they moved up, finding Narcissa’s knickers. Narcissa squealed, low and quiet, as two fingers parted her and invaded her.

“A boy!” Bellatrix cried triumphantly at the moist heat of Narcissa’s cunt. “A strapping young boy who will grow into a virile young man!” Her fingers pistoned in and out of Narcissa in growing exhilaration, Narcissa’s hips helplessly undulated to match. “He’ll take a wife. He will preserve the bloodlines. You, a mother; me, his loving aunt Bella…”

Narcissa cried out. The sight of herself in the mirror was inescapable. She was wanton prey and Bellatrix was the predator, ravenous, insatiable. Bellatrix’s face was lit up with zealous fervor, a lust that was equal parts religious ecstasy. The reflection stretched beyond the bounds of its hellish frame and took on life. What about us? She saw herself lying on the bed as Bellatrix took her, pale-faced children with supple blonde hair scampering underfoot. Hiding under the bed as Narcissa spooned against her older sister, her hot blushing face cooling against Bellatrix’s alabaster flesh, her pearly breasts. Olly olly oxen-free.

The hand pinching her nipple rode up onto her cleavage, feeling the beat of her heart through her heaving bosom. The cut of her dress left the tops of her breast uncovered; with subtle fingerwork Bellatrix had pulled it open so that Narcissa’s chest was bouncing and sweating in the mirror. Bellatrix groped them fiercely, her crimson-painted fingernails looking for all the world like blood pumping out of where they cut into Narcissa’s flesh.

Narcissa cried out again, louder, but couldn’t eclipse the lewd sucking noises her traitorous pussy was making. It betrayed her, melting before Bellatrix’s fingers to let the witch pump faster. Each stab made the reflection grow, made Narcissa contract around Bellatrix’s fingers like she didn’t want to let her go. But Bellatrix always pulled out and, with a smug grin of supremacy, pushed back in.

“Say it, Cissy,” Bellatrix demanded. Her teeth were clenched around Narcissa’s earring, tugging on it with inexorable pressure. Usually she whispered deliciously obscene things during sex, things only Narcissa could hear even if anyone had been listening (and it had been so long since Andromeda had left), but now her voice was bold and strident. “What will you name your strong, virile son?”

Narcissa’s mind warbled. She had put thought into it, as she had her wedding day, from early childhood. But now, with Bellatrix’s fingers manipulating her like a potion being brewed, all thought had fled her. But all her doubts as well and she saw, in the reflection that was only a fierce waking dream, the stories Andromeda had told her of the night sky and the strange creatures that inhabited it, their bodies poured into constellations. Her son would be strong and fierce, like Bellatrix, not like her. The strength of Black blood coupled with that of the Malfoys…

“Name him! Name him! Who will the Dark Lord call upon to swell his ranks? Who?”

“D-d-draco!”

“Last name!” Bellatrix commanded in a harsh bark, her fingers a blur of frenzied motion. “The boy’s last name!”

“Draco Malfoy!” Narcissa wept. And then her voice deserted her as Bellatrix’s other hand left her breast and rubbed her clit, right through the layers of silk that only added to the sensation. It was like her whole body was being bathed in silken water, water that rushed and surged, sweeping her off her feet, towards… towards…

Narcissa never yelled out or announced her orgasm, but it was plain for all to see. Even herself, from what her dim eyes could make out in the mirror. Her face contorted first, her blue eyes clamping shut and her lips drawing back over her teeth. Then her breathing turned to gasps and sighs. Her body began to tremble and tense. Then, her hands gripped into fists, she threw back her head against Bellatrix’s shoulder, her legs flopped down around the stool she was sitting on, her stomach muscles began rippling spasmodically, and her breathing took on the quality of an asthmatic. She shuddered and gasped at the end, then collapsed. The only thing holding her up was Bella, who still breathed herky-jerky.

After long minutes in which the reflection shrunk and was once more imprisoned within its frame, the Black sisters’ breathing returned to normal. Bellatrix pulled her hand out from between Narcissa’s legs, watching it drip with sickly sweet drools of liquid.

“Oh look, Cissy.” Bellatrix said calmly, the last evidence of her lusty exertions leaving her voice. “You’ve made a mess. Clean it up, will you?”

Shucking off her stained dress, Narcissa licked Bellatrix’s fingers cleaned and happily followed them to Bellatrix’s cunt. Bellatrix’s skirt was likewise stained, in sisterly harmony or perhaps simply sympathy. Narcissa took it off and added it to the rapidly-growing laundry pile which bottomed out in her wedding dress. Nude as the days they were born, they fell on Narcissa’s wedding bed and happily struggled against each other. In short order Bellatrix had Narcissa pinned to the mattress, but Cissy quickly submitted and Bellatrix allowed herself to be pinned down with Narcissa’s hungry mouth and skillful tongue at work in her center.

“I wish I had been born a man, my sister,” Bellatrix said, closing her eyes in obvious rapture. “Then I could give you a son. A son with the purest blood of all.” She moaned in satisfied climax. “Black blood…”