thedressingroom | (no subject)

(no subject)

[It's snowing, but only gently - enough to have the odd flake settle in Narcissa's hair and on her scarf, but not enough to obscure her vision. The wind carries most of the icy crystals away from her, anyway, swirling in barely-there flurries over the edge of the cliff and out into the nothingness and clouds beyond. It captures the edge of her cloak, causing the sturdy wool to cling momentarily, outlining her leg before whipping away to reveal leather boots and a divided skirt. Narcissa holds a broom in her left hand, a single iridescent feather tied to the handle with a scrap of ribbon.

In a moment, she's going to step from the edge.]

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Muggle mindset, I suppose. Cliffs and all.

I promise you I'm not that bad a flier that I'd plummet to my untimely death.

[But she sets the broom aside all the same, folding long legs underneath her as she sits on the ground. The room obligingly stops snowing.]

[Leif gives the room an approving nod, starting to push some snow into a little pile with his feet.]

...can you really fly?

Mm-hmm.

I don't do it particularly often, but I am perfectly capable.

Hm. That sounds...it sounds like fun, actually.

My cousin adores it, and-- and Lucius, did, too. Does. Either way, it's a popular pastime.

Huh. I always thought...well, I assumed, ah...it was a myth.

I don't follow.

[Because it truly is commonplace, for her.]

That, ah...that witches flew on brooms.

Well, what else did you suppose we flew on? Carpets? That was outlawed years ago.

...I suppose I never thought of it.

[Gloved fingers tug-tug-tug on the ribbon holding a single white feather to the handle of her broom. The wind picks it up immediately, carrying it in swirls and eddies over the edge of the cliff and away.]

Well. We use brooms to fly, since we can't do it any other way.

Ohhh. That sounds lovely.

It can be.

Shall we find somewhere out of the weather?

Mmm, yes please. It's positively frigid, isn't it?

I'm a little chilled.

Then come, come, come, by all means, out of the coldness.

[Standing gracefully, Narcissa holds out her arm and carefully balances the broom on her palm. The room snatches it away in a trice; the ribbon she releases into the wind, where it follows the feather over the cliff to be lost amid snow and nothingness.]

I think we ought to have hot chocolate.

[It's a comforting sort of thing.]

[Leif inches forward, watching the ribbon float away, then shivers and scoots back.] I second that.

[Her mouth quirks in not quite half a smile.]

Tell me how you are, darling boy.

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