Title: We sew the eyes on dolls
Warnings: 'Intense' prose? Imagery.
Word count: 603
Summary: Narcissa loathed Molly Prewett.
Notes: Written for the HP anonymous kinks meme at karmicsunshine. Prompt: Narcissa/Molly, during their school years, Narcissa is jealous of Molly. (Which was my own prompt, but I couldn't not do it. This is easily my bestest favorite rarepair. Hearts) Beta duties provided by the stalwart and amazing nolagal.
Narcissa loathed Molly Prewett. The particular things she loathed were too many to count, though she tried, and often—the highlights on the girl's hair, her freckles everywhere like spilled cake crumbs, tits that were twice as big as anyone deserved (where were you when they were passing out tits? Bella liked to jibe), a waist and hips and soft cheek to match, ratty passed-down clothes and two—not even one, but two—brothers who'd hex any Slytherin who dared come within a ten-foot radius of their little princess.
It was acceptable that Narcissa loathe her; everyone who'd ever expected anything from Narcissa expected that she'd loathe blood traitors, the Prewetts included and Molly among them by necessity.
The expectation was a relief; otherwise, there would be no accounting for the way Narcissa's' blood boiled every time the girl walked by, or the hand that clenched her gut whenever she heard her laugh at something her insipid ginger boyfriend said.
It would explain why, when Narcissa was walking up the stairs and Prewett was walking one flight above her, she happened to look up at just the right moment to catch sight of the girl's shabby, yellowing knickers with a single hole, and wanted nothing more than to touch—to slide her fingertips over the damp material, tickled by the hair springing out from its native lands, maybe pulling a bit, a tease, and then slipping inside that squalid tear. It was because Prewett was despicable and acted like she didn't know it; she needed to be shown how dirty she was, by a stranger who would press against her back and whisper filthy, horrible things in her ear while icy fingers would stretch that tiny cotton hole and creep into more humid climes.
Narcissa would see to it that Prewett knew how dirty she was. How wrong, how unworthy of her bouncing curls and flushing cheeks, of the insipid ginger who worshiped her every word, of so many friends who hated neither her nor each other. She would know this tonight, all of it and more, worse, because Narcissa would tell her, pull her into the shadows and show her with creeping fingers while her friends' golden laughter receded down the hall, unaware.
Narcissa would take her time and show the girl what she would never be worthy to have, razor-fine pleasures at icy fingertips and teeth that bit. Prewett would understand, in the end, that all her abundance of silken flesh and golden laughter would never make up for what she lacked, and that no-one (not even Narcissa) would (could) ever give it to her.
She would understand this, and she might cry—out of pain, or loss, or an unrefined feeling of injustice—and Narcissa would smile pretty little silverfish smiles, slipping into the gray of the hall and leaving Prewett where the light would never touch her the same again.
What wouldn't happen—Prewett wouldn't sniffle and wipe her eyes on a shabby yellowing handkerchief, and say, you poor thing, you still don't see, do you? and she wouldn't reach out to Narcissa (who wouldn't flinch), wouldn't act like she was the lucky one who had everything, the enviable curves, the friends, the laughter and the red gold evenings, as if Narcissa were the empty husk (matchstick arms and flat chest, and no one to hear when she cried)—no, this time, Narcissa would do it right, none of that would happen. Molly would understand, understand everything and understand it right.
She would see once and for all just how Narcissa loathed her, and there would be nothing, nothing she could do about it.