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The pyres burn bright, lighting the black night and filling the air with the scent of pine cones and sage. The sunflower crowns are like miniature suns around the table, magic keeping their yellow petals vivid and soft. Not many wixen join the Mabon feasts anymore, and there is no one else here to enjoy the bonfires and food.
No one, but the hostess herself.
Narcissa Malfoy sits at the head of a long table, as regal and cold as ever. Her ice-blonde hair is braided into an intricate pattern, and the flaming pyres surrounding her dance against her black silk robes. From this distance, she strikes as otherworldly, a goddess of death returned to the mortal plane to partake in the pagan festivals once more. There is a beauty about her that is difficult to pinpoint, and she does not look her age.
Lily Luna Potter’s own father never seems to age, but this is different.
The only reason she’s here tonight is because Scorp and Al were supposed to be here too. She has been to Malfoy Manor often enough to know her way around, but there is wild magic in the air, and she is not sure how she got to this part of the gardens. The white peacocks and the legendary Malfoy Maze are nowhere to be seen. The table where Narcissa sits is covered with vegetables, apples, and stone goblets that seem to have been carved from the earth itself. The older woman sits in a high-backed chair — a throne, really. Her lips are stained red from wine.
“Join me.”
Lily starts at the sound of Narcissa’s voice. Never one for impoliteness, Lily inclines her head and sits at the only other chair available at Narcissa’s table. They sit across from each other, but the distance feels both too much and not enough. There is a strange sort of yearning in her chest, in her belly.
Narcissa observes her for a long moment before gesturing to the food on the table. In its centre sits a pair of antlers, crafted right from the same piece of wood as the table. Thistle and marigolds are woven through the antlers in complicated wreaths.
“Eat, child. Give thanks to Mother Magic for a bountiful harvest.” Narcissa’s lips curl in a delicate smile. Her wine-stained lips part as she bites into an apple, juices running down her chin.
It’s obscene, yet Lily isn’t sure why. She also can’t quite look away. It’s a miracle that she can tear her eyes away from Narcissa in order to fill her plate. Salmon, corn, parsnip, sweet onion. She fills her glass with cider instead of wine.
“I’m not a child,” she says when she finally glances back up at Narcissa, who takes another indecent bite into her apple. “I’ve graduated from Hogwarts.”
When Narcissa smiles, it’s indulgent. “Of course.” A wand flick later and the table resizes so they are much closer than before. The air between them is heavy and tastes sweet on Lily’s tongue. “What brings you here, my dear?”
Lily picks at her food but doesn’t touch it yet. Something feels… off. Her father has always told her to listen to her instincts, and that telltale murmurs of doubt coils heavily in her stomach. Old tales about strange food and stranger beings fill the back of her mind.
“Albus told me he would be here with Scorpius. Have you seen them?” She glances up from her plate hopefully.
“They would not know to come here, no,” Narcissa replies. She summons a bottle of cider and fills a new stone goblet with it. “Have you tasted the cider? It is delightful.”
“Not yet…” Lily studies her own goblet, then regards Narcissa as she drinks healthily from hers. “What do you mean, they wouldn’t know to come here? Isn’t this Malfoy Manor?” She arches an eyebrow and gestures around them. The pyres continue to burn high and bright. The scent of pine cone and sage is pleasantly lulling; it soothes a deep, sorrowful part of Lily’s chest that she would rather ignore. It also makes her wonder where, exactly, she is.
Narcissa hums in response, cocking her head as she continues to observe Lily. “It is a part of the Manor, yes. The magic is stronger here during the festivals.”
That makes sense. Lily can feel the tendrils of wild magic in the air, in the pyres burning around them. The sunflower crowns sway gently in the cool autumn breeze. Even the food is mouth-watering despite its simplicity. There is no reason for her to hesitate in joining the equinox feast, and yet…
“What will you be leaving behind, my dear?” Narcissa asks, head still tilted just so.
Lily does not intend to respond truthfully, not at first. It is none of Narcissa’s business and no one knows about her past relationship. Yet—
“Men.” She blinks and flushes in embarrassment.
“Ah, yes. Men are such demanding creatures, are they not?” The older woman’s voice sends a powerful shiver down Lily’s spine. “Women, on the other hand…” She sighs and smiles in that indolent way aristocratic pure-bloods do.
Lily finds herself nodding. If there’s someone who might understand her plight against wizards, it may as well be Narcissa. “Yes.” She picks at her salmon but doesn’t bring the fork to her mouth. There’s magic in her food, but she is unsure why Narcissa would bewitch the autumn equinox feast.
The hand on her shoulder makes her jump, and Lily turns in her chair to level her eyes with Narcissa’s. Up close like this, she looks so young. Her stormcloud eyes are shadowed, betraying her true age, but her skin is flawless. White strands mix seamlessly with her silvery-blonde hair, and her hands are free of any signs of age. She remembers a Muggle saying that a woman’s hands will always betray her age.
But nothing betrays Narcissa Malfoy. She appears ethereal, ageless, beautiful. The most beautiful witch Lily has ever seen. It takes her by surprise, even if she’s known Narcissa her entire life. Maybe it is the magic of Mabon that blinds her to everything else. It certainly robs her of her worries about Albus and Scorpius’s whereabouts.
“Why are you not eating, my darling?” Narcissa asks in a voice meant for lullabies, or perhaps one which keeps spirits deep into slumber in the underworld . Lily wishes she could sleep with it gracing her ears.
“I do not know.” The hand on her shoulder moves to cup her cheek. Lily expects the fingers to be cold, like thawing ice, but they are not. Narcissa’s fingers are warm, so warm. Lily cannot help leaning into the tender touch.
This hand, stained with blood and fragrant with death, beckons her somewhere she has never been.
Narcissa’s thumb traces Lily’s bottom lip, inviting her mouth open. Beguiled, Lily admires Narcissa with parted lips.
“Eat, my darling.”
Narcissa holds a red fruit before Lily’s mouth. Its scent is enticing, more enticing than anything else on the table. Nearly as enticing as the sight of apple juices running down Narcissa’s chin. The red seeds reflect the flames surrounding them.
“Eat,” she whispers, fey and unyielding.
Lily should step away; she should not eat anything here. It feels wrong, deep in the marrow of her bones. Her heart beats right against her breastbone, and the wild magic slithers between her ribs. If she does not bite into the fruit, the magic will tear her apart. It will be an insult to Mother Magic; it will make Narcissa move away. Lily does not want Narcissa to leave her. Soft hands are everything she needs.
“Yes, thank you.” She does not recognise her own voice, but it does not matter. Nothing matters, and she knows she has been bewitched much like everything around her.
Lily locks her eyes with Narcissa’s, those eyes full of thunder and lightning, and bites into the cluster of pomegranate seeds. The fruit is bitter but sweet, and red juices run down her chin. After the first bite, she cannot stop. Lily presses her tongue into the fruit, searching for that maddening sweetness.
“Good girl.” Narcissa continues to hold the pomegranate for Lily. Her thumb moves to Lily’s chin and spreads the red juices across her face.
Everything smells like pomegranate juice, death, pine cone, and sage. The pyres burn bright, and Lily is consumed from within.
She is never going back.
Narcissa drops the seedless pomegranate onto the table and leans down to lick the juices off Lily’s face. Her tongue is sharp, and it carves her name right into Lily’s flesh. But her lips — her lips are soft like petals. Soft like the promise of forever when Narcissa kisses her way to Lily’s ear.
“Welcome home, my love.”