With a small spoon clasped softly between her pointer finger and thumb, Narcissa delicately stirred two sugar cubes into her tea. She watched, with mild interest, as the dainty particles separated and dispersed, melting into the steaming liquid. She sat: spine straight, legs crossed gracefully at the ankles, shoulders back. Romulus watched her from his seat across the small table, noticing her far away gaze, the new manner in which she had been wearing her hair—piled up loosely, genteelly, atop her head (were he not a man perhaps he would have noticed that she was mimicking her mother)—the glow of her skin in the sunlight. He could not help but marvel at how fair her skin was—entirely alabaster.
She had been particularly quiet today, so he had suggested they go out for afternoon tea—to a little room on the Thames where she could watch the stream of life ebb and flow—hoping to provoke a reaction out of her. She seemed to like it, but then again, he could not fathom why he had come to care, as they had clearly agreed to this arrangement with one purpose, only going through the formal process of courting to maintain the pristine nature of her name in their unforgiving society. When the waiter had come to take their order, she had laid her delicate hand upon his wrist, which was resting on the table, the pearls of her bracelet sliding down the petite circumference of her arm. She had ordered for him—a particularly unique blend rumored to contain an antidote for the most gruesome of snake venom—with a wink, for her hand lay softly against his barbarous tattoo. She smiled upon receiving her tea, but said nothing since ordering. Now the wink had settled back into its usual home—along the line of her lashes.
He wondered what she could be thinking about as she watched the boats come into port along the river. He could not remember what he had thought about at the dawn of his last year of Hogwarts—Quidditch, probably and girls. But he was very unlike her at this age, much less… grown. It startled him in a few rare moments when it occurred to him how young she truly was, yet how adult she already appeared to be. As the wind swept the small hairs that curled at her temples out of her face, it struck him what a perfect wife she would make some man, someday—not his, he knew—somehow not in any way forlorn about it. Perhaps it was due to his preference to never marry—simply drift from plaything to desirable object until he ceased to breathe. Maybe it was perfectly alright with him because he knew full well that while he was interested in her youth and beauty, she was interested in him for his experience and power. He enjoyed the way she used him—to evade what would inevitably become of her—he felt bigger than himself.
At first he had believed that this was a game—to her—by which she could grope in the dark at being a woman. But he quickly came to understand he could not be more wrong. It was as if in the mere moments she had spent on her seventeenth birthday—in the limbo hours between youth and grown—she had grasped the full meaning of being a woman, mastered it, and made it her own. It blew hid mind, for he was still—however unaware of it—entirely mystified as to what it meant to be a man.
She took a sip of her tea, her eyes resting on him. As she lowered her cup, a small smile—a smirk, really—formed upon her lips, and her left eyebrow took the form of an arch.
He understood she expected him to speak, as it was uncommon for a man in polite society to watch a woman without a word on his mind. "Erm… Would you- uh- would you like me to accompany you to the station tomorrow for your departure?" he asked, hoping she would say no, as his presence would likely be rather awkward.
Narcissa laughed lightly at his suggestion. "That won't be necessary, Mother will be escorting me to the train tomorrow—she has become quite sentimental about it in these last few days."
"Right. Good," he responded, relieved.
"Do you like your tea?" she asked, taking another sip of her own.
Romulus glanced down at his cup, noticing for the first time that he had yet to try it. He quickly raised it to his lips and swallowed it so quickly his tongue hardly had a chance to wonder at its flavor. "Yes. It's quite good."
"Ahuh," she agreed, watching him, holding her cup in both hands up near her mouth just before she took another sip. She laughed quietly, entirely amused, and settled her cup back in its saucer. She smiled at him, resting her hand on his arm again, and leaned forward. "It's alright, you know. You don't have to like this… we can leave."
She slipped a few fingers beneath his sleeve, drawing circles across the sensitive skin of his wrist.
"No," he began to argue, "No, I don't mind this. And you like this-"
She laughed fully, effectively halting the progression of his words. "I like a great many things."
He glanced down at the cold brown water in his cup, then up at her. "Yeah?"
"Yes, of course," she exclaimed, then lowered her voice. "Romulus, I do not expect these sorts of things from you."
"Really?" He was shocked, he had always had to put up with this sort of nonsense with the other women he had courted.
"Really. I'm not trying to trick you. I do not expect you to do things you do not care to."
His brow furrowed for a moment. "Will you do things you don't like?"
Typical pureblood man, Narcissa could not help but think as she unconsciously toyed with the naked flesh of her ring finger. "Absolutely not."
Whether her gesture was conscious or not, Romulus understood the message, and was dumbfounded. For this blunt, calculating nature was among the last attitudes he would have expected of her.
As he stared, she gathered her gloves and her clutch, and stood. "Come on, let's go."
"What?" He attempted to blink away his shock.
She had to fight the urge not to correct him, as a properly educated man would not bark a question. In order to prevent the execution of her instincts, she draped an arm round his shoulder and purred, "Let's go. I'm sure we can find something we'd both like to do."
Romulus could not recall a previous moment in his life in which he had moved with greater speed. It was not her words which motivated him to drop a handful of galleons on the table, grab her firmly by the waist, and apparate them away, but the manner in which she said them—as if she was lying in his bed, wrapped up in his sheets, entirely free of clothing—daring him to come closer, to learn what she kept secret.
When their feet landed firmly on the hard wood floor of his London flat, he had no more on his mind than the calculation of how many well placed kisses would convince Narcissa to be free of her robes. But she separated from him, glancing around at her new surroundings.
"Where are we?" she questioned, setting her purse upon a small, black marble table in the entry hall. "Are we still in London?"
"Yes," he answered quickly, taking hold of her arm and bringing her close. "This is my flat."
"But I thought your-" he had drawn her close and begun to trail kisses down her neck, revealing more skin to feast upon, eliciting a high little sound from Narcissa—a sharp intake of breath. "I thought your Manor was in Wiltshire?"
"It is," he grumbled in between kisses. "I keep this for when I'm in town on business."
She had allowed him to raise her by her hips and set her upon the very table on which she had placed her bag, settling a leg around his waist, drawing him closer. She ran her fingers through his hair—tugging at it slightly, for she enjoyed the way it provoked him. He raised his lips from her collar bone to her mouth, kissing her aggressively. She yanked at his hair again, pulling him away from her momentarily. She laughed lightly, "Am I business?"
A voracious grin lit his savage features before he dove back to her lips, biting at them until she allowed them to part, and his tongue to enter her.
Narcissa peeled away the outer layer of his robes, leaving only his summer shirt and trousers. She raked her fingers across his back, as the current placement of his mouth prevented her from the usual manner of expression. He enjoyed this new form and slid his hand up her back beneath her robes, savoring the smooth skin beneath his fingertips, and the way in which she writhed beneath his touch. She laughed ever so slightly as she moved from his mouth to the soft skin beneath his ear. Somewhere far away, in the distant reaches of his mind, Romulus wondered why she was always laughing, but this said little seed did not have even a glimpse of the soft earth of his mind, for it was smothered and crushed as she began to run the tip of her tongue lightly over the curve of his ear, her breath humming with satisfaction.
It was for the best, really, that this idea had no chance of reaching fruition, as he could not have understood she was simply delighting in the ease at which they had found an activity they both enjoyed.
Narcissa stood on the platform beside her beautiful mother, the edges of her robes billowing about in the steam of the large scarlet locomotive. She held her breath, for she noticed a minute tear forming in the narrowing corners of her mother's eye. Narcissa reached for her hand, as purebloods do not show much affection in such public forums. "Mumma, I will be home," she began, but was forced to stop as Druella—who had glanced about quickly, searching for any eyes that may be watching—wrapped her arms around her daughter.
"You are so grown now, Cissa," she cooed sadly as she separated from her daughter, but remained in close proximity.
"Mumma," Narcissa began, wanting very much to comfort her, but her eyes were drawn to another pair—steely grey, excess amounts of cunning.
Lucius had stopped dead in his path to board the train, transfixed by the sight before him. It had lasted for the briefest of moments, but for a pureblood it mine as well have been a lifetime—entirely innocent, nothing more than the greatest of loves. He expected the usual revulsion to rise in his throat, as he truly loathed the breaking of tradition, but it did not come. Instead a sense of wonder spread over his body, tingling like the sweetest memories of the nursery once it reached his core.
Narcissa managed to tear her gaze away, as the woman before her was the only other force which could captivate her with similar intensity. "I am not so grown," she offered lightly.
Her mother smiled a small melancholy smile. "Yes you are, and I'd venture to say you're entirely aware of it. But it's good to know you'll still lie to your mother when she needs it."
Narcissa's eyes widened slightly, "Mumma!"
Druella laughed through her sadness. "Hush, Cissa. Go along now before you miss the train." She leaned forward quickly and laid a light little kiss on the crown of her daughter's head. She whispered reverently, "Don't forget to write, darling."
Narcissa did as she was told, and turned toward the train. Quickly, she boarded with a smile to her mother and a wave goodbye.
Narcissa sat along the long table with her fellow Slytherins, picking at her salad.
"Is it strange being here without Aurelia?" Gillian Rosier, her cousin on her mother's side asked.
Narcissa looked at the girl sitting on her left, scanning her face for any sign of a disingenuous nature. When she found none, she allowed herself to smile. "To be honest, yes. I miss her terribly. It's just like when Bella graduated."
"I understand," Gillian responded kindly. But Narcissa's eyebrows rose disbelievingly, as on her right side was Gillian's twin sister Artemisia, and she could not recall a moment when the two had ever truly been apart.
Gillian laughed in response to Narcissa's thinly veiled disbelief. "I don't mean, Mia. Mother has clearly gone to great lengths at raising us as if we won't function without each other." She glanced over at her other half, who was currently making a vaguely lewd gesture in the direction of the seventh year boys. Narcissa struggled to keep her pumpkin juice in her mouth at the sight of Rabastan mimicking her in response, using a banana as his aid. Gillian blushed at her sister's impropriety and shook her head. "No, I mean Tiber," she waived her ring finger about joyously. "It's such a bother that he's graduated already."
Narcissa nodded, remembering the announcement of her engagement to Tiberius Nott. She began to pick at her salad again, her attention waning, and wondered as to how many of her house-mates were aware of her current courtship.
On the other side of the table, a few seats up, Lucius watched this exchange, surprised, as Narcissa did not often bother to notice most other people-even those that had belonged to their dwindling circle. As he had been watching her the majority of the meal, it was not very difficult for Rabastan to notice, and comment upon the object of his gaze.
"God, Rom's a bastard, isn't he?" he questioned, shaking his head. "Went through the best of the women in his age, so he has to go for the best of ours."
Lucius stopped, his fork partially raised, each and every morsel of food falling unceremoniously back onto his plate, crashing and splashing on impact. But he did not notice, he did not care. "What?" Less of a question, more of a bark, it was entirely gruff.
Thus, it was surprising when Rabastan did not notice—simply continued talking. "Brutal, yeah? I'm a little shocked he went so far as to court her, but I suppose she wouldn't tolerate his usual bullshit."
Lucius had begun to grip his fork with such anger he was effectively bending the handle. "They're courting?"
"Yeah," Rabastan responded nonchalantly, gulping down a swig of pumpkin juice. Finally, he looked over at his friend, and noticed the stranglehold he had maintained on his utensil. "Shit, mate. Thought you know. S'only been a week, though, and I don't think they're very serious. Saw 'em together a few days ago and she seemed somewhat bored with."
Lucius had long begun to ignore the words of his friend. He could not believe them. He was shocked. Surely—surely she could not be courting another man. Not when she knew his intentions. He watched her rise from her seat, as the meal was now complete. It could not be true, the words thundered through his mind, and he became resolved in the notion that he would simply ask her. It was the most logical idea he could muster.
But as he rose, abandoning his plate, the majority of the students in the Great hall adopted the same action—the call of prefects beckoning first years to follow in their path rang off the cold, unwavering surface of the stone walls. It never occurred to him that as Head Boy he ought to be aiding his house prefects in their duties—instructing and training the smarter among them. No, for in matters of Narcissa his mind was singularly focused.
He watched carefully, the swaying of her flashing blond hair as she moved about in the colossal crowd. He followed her as efficiently as possible, finally catching her as the massive group diverged—some climbing to the Ravenclaw tower, others favoring the Slytherin dungeons.
She was chatting idly with Gillian, referencing the sparkle on the girl's left hand from time to time. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but in his shock and rage his voice had fled to the deepest reaches of his stomach. He reached for her, his hand catching her arm, and as this transpired it occurred to him—in a distant echo of his mind—how natural it was to grope through the air for the soft response of her flesh.
She turned to him—his hand sliding down to her wrist as she moved. Her gaze bounced from various points around his head—some on his face—like the cleft of his chin, or the sweep of his skin across cheekbones—but never met his eyes.
"Lucius?" her voice was quiet, for as her mouth stretched to form sound her vocal chords had to search for the courage to speak.
"I-" he began weakly, but stopped, collecting himself. "May I speak with you?" He cleared his throat. "Privately?"
"Yes."
As he guided her to an empty classroom nearby, he noticed she made no attempt to disengage his grasp on her arm, and a surge of hope roared within him, rising in a barking laugh to his lips. Perhaps Rabastan was wrong, it wouldn't be the first time.
He ushered her inside, the dim light of the moon haunting the regal features of her face. Perhaps, he thought with devious satisfaction, that she had allowed him to lead her to such a dark, empty space because of how greatly she had missed him in the weeks since they'd seen each other.
His hope diminished slightly when she pulled away from him, for fear he would notice she had begun to shake. Her breath quickened in her heart—she was nervous, but she could not place why.
Lucius leaned against the door, and she could not help but begin to count the differences between his form and Romulus's.
"May I ask you something?" he began cautiously, unsure of where he stood.
1. Lucius was taller.
"Of course," she turned and sat delicately upon one of the many stools within the classroom.
2. Romulus appeared to be stronger.
He opened his mouth to ask the question that corrupted his thoughts. But once she sat, the hem of her skirt rose and he noticed her legs. For such a petite girl her legs were very long. "How was the remainder of your summer?"
3. Lucius was leaner—his form shaped by years of Quidditch.
Narcissa laughed, as this seemed to be a silly reason to be in a large, dark room alone. But when the twinkle of a sound passed through her mouth and met her lips it was entirely nervous in nature. "It was no different than the rest of the season."
Lucius perked up slightly, as it was another reason to support his hopes. "Narcissa," he began quietly, forcing himself to be bold. "May I ask you a blunt question?"
She smiled warmly at him, but was absolutely terrified. He could not see in the dark of the room that her lips stretched tightly across her teeth, her hands shook, her pulse raced. She could not fathom why she was nervous, why she longed to run from the room—explain to him her infatuation with Romulus would pass soon enough. Her voice shook when she answered, "yes."
"Are you and Romulus Lestrange courting?" His voice was grim, hardly a whisper in the stillness of the dark.
She held her breath, searching desperately for a means to avoid answering his question truthfully, but she found none. "Yes."
He stiffened and ceased to lean against the door. "He's little old for you," he scoffed, arrogance corrupting his form from head to toe.
Narcissa felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. But her spine straightened, she raised herself to her feet, her chin raised defiantly. She laughed coldly. "There's no need to feel inferior, Lucius."
The haughty smirk dropped from his face, his brow clouding over in anger. "Don't be ridiculous. I simply believe you're being foolish, allowing a man with so much more… experience—" he laughed at the word—"then yourself to court you."
She had crossed the distance between them, attempting to exit the room, but he did not budge from his place in the doorframe as he spoke—hoping she would abandon her resolve uncharacteristically.
"I am not a little girl," she whispered darkly, increasingly irritated by this stigma which haunted her.
"Could have fooled me," he muttered with a sneer. He was lying of course, and was surprised she could not tell, for he was clearly admiring her form through his anger.
She pushed past him, slamming the door open. "Arrogant prick," her words were venomous as she stomped away, slamming the door shut with her wand, aiming—and succeeding—at hurting him.
"Self-absorbed bitch," he barked after her, but she was gone—disappearing from sight in the space of time it had taken him to shake off the blow to his face—and ego.
He raced through the corridor to the Common Room under the lake, through the portal, and up the stairs to his dormitory. Rage—pure, white, excessive—coursed through his system, latching onto each and every vessel of blood like a parasite with a purpose. He knocked aside anyone and anything in his path, searching—searching—searching until he found the poor soul who would bare the blunt of his anger. This soul happened to be a friend he'd known since childhood, a roommate, a relative of the legitimate object of his hate.
Rabastan had his back turned when Lucius launched the full force of his hulking body at him—he had been unpacking and recounting particularly successful summer escapades with the other boys they shared the room with. He landed with a thunderous thud, the combined force of their bodies shaking most of the surrounding furniture. Lucius secured the boy beneath him to the floor using his weight. Rabastan, who was of equal height and strength remained motionless for a moment, as he was in shock; he came to at the first collision of Lucius's fist with his face.
"What? The? Fuck, mate?" he roared, turning his head, narrowly missing a second and third blow. He rolled and shoved, and Lucius fell off him momentarily.
Lucius did not respond—rather, not with words. He began to kick at his friend—desperately, savagely. He could not contain himself—the disappointment, hurt, anger—it was too much for him to handle—not when he was raised to get his way.
While Rabastan knew why Lucius was attempting to bludgeon his skull to smithereens, he still found his action to be, "bullshit! Complete fucking bullshit!" he turned, protecting himself from yet another blow to the gut. He rose to his feet deftly and turned on Lucius, retaliating without mercy. He managed to land a few good strikes before they were separated by two of the burliest boys in their year: Crabbe and Goyle.
"What the fuck?" Rabastan roared for a second time before Lucius managed to break Crabbe's hold on him and popped him once more in the jaw.
Crabbe quickly scrambled to gain control of Lucius, and Goyle fought harder at restraining Rabastan, who bellowed: "You fucking sucker punched me—you fucking prick!" He turned his head to the side and spat out the blood that was quickly pooling in his mouth.
"You fucking son of a whore," Lucius's face had turned scarlet in his rage, and he struggled against Crabbe once more, unable to control himself. "You knew—you know how I feel about her! But you couldn't give less than a mudblood's shit! You're fucking courting her!"
"Do I look like my fucking brother?" Rabastan had shaken himself free of Goyle, and had brought his face within inches of Lucius's. "Do I?" he repeated, his voice infinitely lower than it had been a moment ago. He punched Lucius severely in the gut, and the boy doubled over. Rabastan sunk into a squat in order to maintain eye contact with his friend. "He's a fucking bastard—he should know better. But his head's too far up his arse to notice."
Lucius nodded, calming. Crabbe released him, causing him to tumble slightly, but he quickly ascended to his full height with the help of Rabastan. "Truce, mate?" he muttered by means of an apology.
Rabastan nodded. "Yeah, truce." He ran his fingers through his hair, scratching at the back of his head. "You think maybe—maybe it's Cissa's idea?" he offered quietly, privately to Lucius. "It can be awful hard to say no to the girl."
Lucius shook his head quickly, not wanting to dwell on the thought, as he could not convince himself it was all truly Romulus.
Rabastan saw Lucius was unsure and smiled, brushing the question aside. "Shit!" he turned and rummaged through his trunk. "You really tried to beat the hell out of me, mate." He laughed as he found a small velveteen pouch, and raised it in the air, turning back to the three boys in the room.
"Yeah, well, isn't like you held back in retaliation, did you?" Lucius smirked rakishly as Rabastan tossed him the beautiful little bag. "These left over from the party?" he asked as he removed a bewitching chocolate and tossed it in his mouth.
"Lord, no! Your girl took good care of ensuring those were gone," Rabastan said with a laugh as the bag went around the room and was returned to him. He removed a couple—quickly sending them down the hatch with a "Cheers, mate." Once he chewed and swallowed, he continued, "No, these are from my personal stash. Always got to keep a little pick me up on hand, if you know what I mean."
From the adjoining dormitory, Narcissa heard the thunderous scuffle, and was near investigating the sound when there was a light tap at her window. She turned, and lifted the latch on the owl-flue—which allowed for mail to be delivered to the Slytherin home under the lake—permitting the great horned owl to enter her room. He flew past the other girl's four poster beds to her own, resting on her bedside table, extending a leg, offering a small, rolled piece of parchment. She smiled, removing a treat from the drawer in the tale on which he perched. She offered it to the owl, who gnawed on it happily, flying out whence he came one she untied the letter. As she unfurled the note, she recognized Romulus's thin angled script.
Cissa,
I hope you arrived safely. Your parents and I have made arrangements with your Headmaster to continue the courting process while you are at school. Next weekend you will be escorted to the Hogsmeade Station Friday night at six, it will take you to King's Cross station, where I will meet you. You will return to Hogwarts Sunday morning. Please pack formal wear.
Best,
Romulus
