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photograph

Oh, how clichéd, he thought, somewhat cynically, as he gazed at the tattered corner of the photograph peeking out from underneath the old wooden chest. Black ironwood, if he remembers correctly. Olea laurifolia.

The chest didn't matter anymore, of course; it was hers. Andromeda had become a dirty word in this household as of 1971, never mind Narcissa's Astronomy homework. It smelled strongly of musty dampness – and her favourite perfume, but he would not allow himself to acknowledge this forbidden familiarity that crept regardless into his nostrils.

Instead, it was the photograph that caught his attention. He eased it out and brushed off the dust that had gathered on the surface. The little paper rectangle was worn and aged, a few pin holes decorating the top and a scrawled caption on the back reading, '1964: Cissy's 9th B-day'. He flipped it back over to stare at the faded sepia image, his eyes hungrily sweeping over his childhood; Narcissa, reaching down to dance with him in her pristine white dress, Bellatrix, laughing in the background, a hairbrush clutched in her little hands and two front teeth missing, while Andromeda, presumably, took the photograph.

He permitted himself a smile, even a stifled chuckle of delight at the way these three murderers, shown in a moment as the very picture of a happy family, had once been. Not much had changed, it seemed; Regulus, the eternally babied, Andy, always out of the picture, Cissy, dominating the social scene, and Bella, still dancing to someone else's catchy tune.