Red Stilettos

Summary: Twenty years and her favorite shoes, they're all she has left of her childhood. A Narcissa fic.

Disclaimer: Characters belong to JK, inspiration belongs to Liebling and to Sticky, for talking to me on MSN last night when I was obsessed with stiletto heels. Who knows why. My LJ has a pic for this story, so go look at that if you wanna. I wrote this Saturday night at midnight, just so you know.

They're the only red shoes she had anymore, and it's a small measure of pride that they still fit. "I can still wear shoes I had when I was eleven," she remarks in casual conversation. Just to show off. But then again, they're red stilettos . They're made to show off.

She bought them when she was ten, so little, just to play dress-up with. She secretly thought that they were the most beautiful shoes in the world. Shiny red leather arched in the perfect curve, the pointed toe, the long spike on the heel. She tried them on in the store and couldn't walk a step, stumbling and falling as she flailed to grab hold of something, and her mother laughed and bought them for her anyway, bought them for her little Narcissa who loved to look so beautiful.

She would play dress up when she was ten, wearing her pretty red dress with the sunflowers on it and her red dress-up high heels, standing in front of the mirror, trembling and tripping as she walked across the carpet, trying to keep her balance. She loved being tall, loved the arch of her foot, loved the little click they made on hard floors. She loved red lipstick and a red bow in her hair, learning how to sashay instead of walk, using her whole body. She loved feeling so much older than ten.

Ten. They were too big for her then, and she had to push her toes against the fronts to keep them on. Now they pinch her toes, and if the leather weren't already worn in they would give her blisters. But she's had them forever, worn them forever.

-

She is eleven, and wears them at school, too young to know that eleven year olds do not wear red stiletto heels or red lipstick or red bows or bright red toenail polish. She loves red because it is bright and pretty and alive...red makes her laugh. Red is too old for eleven year olds that are learning how to do all sorts of things like magic and boys and most girls her age have never worn high heels...and she says, sort of snobbishly, that she loves her high heels. Red stilettos...who doesn't have red stilettos?

And she wears them when she is twelve. When you're twelve you want to be old, and red stilettos make her feel old. She doesn't wear red bows now because they are childish—she wears red lipstick and red stilettos and smiles at the Malfoy boy who she kind of likes. Twelve, she loves walking in those shoes, in her black schoolgirl skirt that twirls when she twists on her heel, her white collared top all pressed and pretty for the first day of school. But Mummy, donchaknow...I like my clothes messy and comfortable. And my shoes can be uncomfortable...because they make me feel beautiful.

Thirteen, red is not so pretty. Thirteen, she is sad and she is angry and she wears the shoes because her father doesn't like them, because she likes the way she can stalk off angrily, her heels clicking and resounding on marble floors that are everywhere in the castle, Hogwarts is paved in marble floors just for Narcissa. She likes low red tops and red stilettos and flirting with all the bad boys. Narcissa, it doesn't matter, everyone is a bad boy...and she smiles. Red is vicious and kicking and red is thirteen.

Fourteen, she's tired, tired of being just like them, tired of boys and looks and wearing Gladrags new season...fourteen, she's mature. She doesn't press her clothes and her shirts are wrinkled, her skirts aren't pleated. She draws in the library and reads and spills hot chocolate on her favorite books. She stays up all night and watches the fire, draws the chandeliers in the Slytherin common room...and she wears the shoes. Because they're not cool, but they're still beautiful. Like her.

Fifteen, she falls in love, she thinks. Fifteen, she wears the red shoes to impress him, because they make her tall and beautiful and sexy. Fifteen, she flirts and smiles and goes too far, and fifteen, she gets her heart broken. She moves back into her loneliness, back to her drawings and her favorite armchair with her shoes kicked off on the floor as she draws them. Bright red is the only color in the picture.

Sixteen is sweet, sixteen is always sweet. Sixteen, she meets a boy, a boy she always sort of liked. Lucius Malfoy, and isn't he that cold boy with the strange sense of humor? ...yes. He's beautiful and cold and sarcastic and makes her laugh, Lucius Malfoy who thinks her shoes are sexy. She knows even though he doesn't say. She's not in love...she doesn't like love, doesn't like giving her heart away. But she likes him, likes him enough. She wears her shoes because they are her favorite, and dances with him all night long.

Seventeen, the last year of school, and isn't it sad? Yes, I'll miss everyone, even silly Narcissa with those red shoes. Seventeen, she's more grown up and wears the shoes because she wants to. Not all the time, not enough to wear the magic out. Seventeen, she's wiser...she knows that her shoes are magic and she wears them with red lipstick because she likes them. She might even put a bow in her hair, to make her young again. But she doesn't miss eleven much...after all, she's still got her shoes.

Eighteen, she gets married and ohmygoshawedding. Everyone fusses, even her, over dresses and flowers and what color and invitations and who should we invite and food and cake and what wine to serve, and...surely you're not going to wear those shoes? My goodness, Narcissa darling, don't be silly, they're practically falling apart...but she insists and they agree and fix them with magic because the dress will hide them...and secretly because she wouldn't be Narcissa without her red stilettos. And between Lucius's small smile and her favorite red stilettos, she's not very afraid when she says 'I do' in that great church and her voice echoes round the windows.

Nineteen, the shoes are falling apart, and all the spells she's cast to preserve them over the years have fallen apart. She's got money now, buy new ones, everyone says, but she calls that nice shoeman—what's his name?—to fix them. When he's done they're as good as new and the leather is shiny again and she hugs him. Nineteen, she feels eleven again.

Twenty, twenty. Narcissadarling, do be serious, it's a war and you're pregnant. Mothers don't wear red stilettos, you could twist your ankle and hurt the baby, oh do be careful, and don'tyouknow? Black is the thing, we're in a war...Twenty, she does not wear her favorites much, and she puts them carefully in her closet and kisses them, promising that someday she'll wear them again. After the baby.

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twentyfour, twentyseven twentynine...

And she's thirty.

Honestly, Narcissa, thirty year olds don't wear red stilettos and where did you get them, anyway? Didn't you use to have a pair like that? They're so silly, you're too old for shoes that flashy. Thirty, they say a lot to her, and when she wears the shoes she realizes that she feels like a child because everyone is telling her what to do...and they are still her favorite shoes. And she laughs...Why does it matter what they think?

And so she wears the shoes.

-

She's gotten them fixed a lot now, and spells don't work on them. They're falling apart and she needs to get them fixed again...how many times now? She doesn't even remember. Next time, the shoeman says, it'll be easier to make a whole new shoe. But she doesn't want new shoes.

So she slips them on last, red bow already in her hair and red dress smooth against her skin, neck to knees. She wriggles her toes a bit and stands up. And for just a moment, when she stumbles, she feels like she is ten years old...