Author's Notes: Based on the Emilie Autumn song "Gothic Lolita" (which I do not own)
WARNING: Disturbing content. Incest, child abuse, paedophilia and general… eugh. (Note that none of the above are in any way glamorized or sexualized – they're just disturbing)
You have my permission not to read this. I won't be offended. I can't even believe I wrote it. I definitely prefer conflicted, melancholy, good-daddy Cygnus to this.
The only sound in Malfoy Manor was the tinkling of Narcissa's music box.
She watched it, hypnotized, as the tiny porcelain ballerina rotated slowly to the soft, plinking music. The dancer's arms stretched gracefully above her head then fluttered down to her sides, then raised up again, in perfectly choreographed motions, though her tiny china ballet shoes stayed fused to the base.
A gift from her father when Narcissa was fourteen.
She had been too old for such things.
Daddy knew that.
She was older than he'd ever be. But she had only lived two or three years. And she'd been dead inside for a thousand years.
Or, so it seemed.
She couldn't have been more than four when it started.
Narcissa hadn't known what it was, then. She hadn't understood. Her father – Daddy – would take her on her lap and hold her, and then… and then…
And he had always finished by whispering, "Daddy loves you, my little Lolita."
She didn't know it was wrong. Daddy loving her wasn't wrong, surely.
She didn't think any different until she turned twelve. She remembered the day so perfectly – too perfectly – unnaturally perfectly.
The bedroom she shared with her sisters. There was a book hidden underneath Bellatrix's pillow, and Narcissa pulled it out to look at it. Perhaps she had been thinking it might be a diary, she didn't know. It was a slender paperback and typed on the front, the word Lolita.
Daddy's name for me.
So she read the book. And then she understood. Or, at least, understood a little more than she had.
I am Lolita.
By that time, the time that she read the book and was able to cry for little Dolores Haze and realize that perhaps there was something wrong with what Daddy did to her, it was far too late.
Things had escalated.
Where once their interactions had been little more than a furtive hand among the ruffles and laces of Narcissa's dresses, as time went on, Cygnus now demanded more than that. Cygnus had demanded-
Bile rose in Narcissa's throat thinking about it.
I was old enough to love… to love another man the way I "loved" Daddy… but I couldn't begin to…
He had made her what she was today. He had made Narcissa into a bundle of broken nerves, to afraid to speak a word against her daddy.
She had never told. No one knew. Not Bellatrix, not Andromeda, not Druella, not Lucius. Lucius wondered why she was horrified by the mere thought of intimacy, and she didn't dare tell him.
Round and round the ballerina went. Narcissa felt like a child watching it. A dead little girl.
Oh, how she had dreamed of revenge some days. How she would have hurt her Daddy if only she had had a chance – she would have killed him. In her dreams, she led an army of little girls against him, and he screamed for mercy, and she did not grant it.
But that rebellion had faded to nothingness, along with everything else that made Narcissa. As she aged, the pretence of love was dropped – Daddy no longer loved her. Daddy thought she was a whore, and that hurt as badly as anything he did to her body. He would sneer at her whenever he saw her, and on the rare occasion that she tried to protest, tried to say that what he did was wrong, he hissed that he never did anything any man wouldn't do.
So it's my fault.
Narcissa had never run away from him. And she had hidden only once. That image too, was burned more clearly than she could say in her mind – sweet Cissy, curled in the corner of the attic, hiding from Daddy. Bellatrix had been the one to discover her. But she hadn't known – how could she have, when Narcissa did nothing but hide her secret from her sisters? So Bellatrix had called down the stairs, words that destroyed Narcissa's short-lived little hiding place.
Call off the search – I've found her.
And now Narcissa – twenty seven years old – sat in the bedroom she shared with her husband, watching the doll on her music box go round and round.
Cygnus Black would never be arrested.
Cygnus Black would never experience a fall from grace.
Narcissa understood perfectly.