'til tomorrow I'll be holding you tight
and there's no where else in the world
that I rather be... that here in my room,
dreaming about you and me...
Sometimes, she allows herself to dream. Not always: A Black should never dream, because dreaming are for fools: it's to remember what you wanted to do and couldn't do it. But sometimes, with Bellatrix' kisses still lingering on her body as old memories, she dreams.
She dreams that she's like Andromeda. She allows herself to think that, just like her, she could be brave and that she could deny to marry Lucius, that she can say no; that if she ever marries, she wants to marry because of love.
She won't say it, of course. Her mother, Casiopea, would laugh in that ladylike, correct and hateful tone, telling her not to be a fool. In a marriage the least important thing is love: pureness of blood, heritaje, money... everything is more important than love.
Sometimes she'd like to cry while she's in Bella's arms. Cry for something different than her older sister's harsh and possesive caresses on her soft ivory skin. She cries arching her back, her tender, wounded breasts erect while the older woman kisses a road of tears and blood down her belly, between her legs.
And sometimes, during those brief interludes when Bella is gentle, she allows herself to dream. She lets her mind to wander like a sea gull over the ocean, and she imagines that the long hair that is caressing her skin and her legs is not like molten obsidian (if something like that ever existed) but like rubies instead: those hands that can provoke so much pleasure and tears from the pain –hands like her own- transforme to softer, kinder hands that wipe tears (even if they are happy tears) away with care and love.
She dreams, with the eyes clouded with the remnants of an orgasm that shook her soul, that the body of such generous forms of Bellatrix is softer, more delicate, not so artificial, without the dangerous sensuality that the body of her older sister emanates, but a sweet tenderness that none of the remaining Black sisters has: inocence that would pour out of green irises, an inocence that she never, not even in her more tender years, she knew. She dreams of being able to protect that inocence, and to comb her fingers through that soft hair – mix of fire and blood- and bring her lips to hers, and that the pureness of that soul that doesn't even imagine the true deepness of the darkness could embrace hers, that does know it and is forever chained to it.
She bites her lips (harshly, they bleed) to stop moaning Lily's name, waking up from her dream while Bellatrix hugs her trembling body to her, whispering promises. She hides her beautiful face against her older sister's neck and closes her eyes to stop the gathering tears from falling; pretends that the trembling of her shoulders is not because of sadness.
- No one loves you as I do. – she says, and the blonde knows it's true, but she envies Andromeda, that was brave enough to break her chains; she envies Sirius, that broke the barrs of his golden cage and escaped.
When she says "I do" on her wedding day, dressed with silks and lace, her eyes strangely clear, Narcissa knows she quited to dream.