A game of patience
He had spent the entire day waiting, watching, calculating. Narcissa was unlike the other girls at Hogwarts, those who fawned at the mere mention of his name, who glanced at him beneath their lashes as if hoping for a scrap of attention. No, Narcissa Black did not fawn. She did not glance. She did not play the game.
And that was exactly why he had to win.
He had learned her patterns. He knew that every evening, just before curfew, she spent precisely one hour in the library. Always alone. Always seated at the same table near the back, where the candlelight flickered low, casting soft shadows over her features. It was in this quiet, isolated space that she allowed herself to exist without performance—just a girl, wrapped in the hush of parchment and ink.
Tonight, he would join her.
And he would ensure that she did not forget him.
The Library – Late Evening
The library was nearly deserted at this hour. The usual clamor of the castle had long since died away, leaving only the faint scratching of quills against parchment and the occasional whisper of pages turning. The lamps had been dimmed, bathing the towering bookshelves in a subdued golden glow.
Lucius stepped inside, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor as he surveyed the room. A few students lingered near the front, absorbed in their studies, but the back of the library—the space he was interested in—was nearly empty.
Nearly.
There she was.
Narcissa sat alone at her usual table, a book open before her, one elbow resting lightly against the wood as she absently twirled a quill between her fingers. She looked untouched by the world around her, untouched by him.
Lucius allowed himself a small smirk. Not for long.
He approached without hesitation, lowering himself into the seat across from her with practiced ease. He made no effort to announce his presence, no greeting to offer. He simply sat and let the silence stretch between them like a drawn wire.
He wanted to see how long it would take her to acknowledge him.
Narcissa, to her credit, did not react immediately. She continued reading, her expression unreadable, her gaze steady on the words before her. The quill in her hand twirled once more between her fingers before coming to a graceful stop.
Then, at last, she looked up.
“Malfoy.”
His name on her lips was not a question, nor a welcome. Just an acknowledgment of the inevitable.
Lucius leaned back, a smirk playing at his mouth. “You spend an awful lot of time here, Narcissa. One might think you were avoiding something.”
She didn’t blink. “And one might think you had better things to do than stalk my reading habits.”
Lucius exhaled a quiet laugh, unbothered. “Stalking is such an unpleasant word. I prefer to call it… taking an interest.”
Narcissa hummed, unimpressed, and turned another page. “Is that what you do? Collect interests?”
Lucius tilted his head, watching her with keen amusement. “Only when they’re worth my time.”
Her gaze flickered to his, something sharp behind those ice-blue eyes. “A shame, then. I have no interest in being one of your little amusements.”
A low chuckle drifted from the next table.
Lucius did not have to turn to know who it belonged to.
Evan Rosier lounged in his chair, his boots carelessly propped against the table, a lazy smirk curling his lips. Beside him, Regulus Black sat with his arms crossed, his sharp, youthful features betraying a flicker of amusement.
“My dear Malfoy,” Evan drawled, “I do believe she’s bested you already. And you’ve barely been here a minute.”
Lucius did not look away from Narcissa. “Rosier,” he said smoothly, “if you’re so fascinated by my failures, one might think you’ve never had a success of your own.”
Evan grinned. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I’m quite enjoying the show.”
Regulus, though quieter, let out a soft chuckle. “You do realize she’s never going to make this easy for you, right?” he remarked, his dark eyes gleaming.
Lucius ignored them both, keeping his focus where it belonged.
Narcissa had not looked away from him.
Good.
Leaning forward slightly, he rested his forearm on the table, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear. “Tell me, Narcissa. Are you indifferent to all men, or just me?”
For the first time, something flickered across her expression.
It was quick—so quick that if he hadn’t been watching her so intently, he might have missed it. A hesitation. A brief, almost imperceptible shift in her gaze.
It was the smallest crack in her armor.
And yet, it was there.
Then, just as swiftly, she composed herself.
“I don’t indulge men who see women as conquests,” she replied coolly, closing her book with an elegant snap. “And I certainly don’t entertain those who mistake persistence for importance.”
Lucius exhaled slowly, his fingers curling slightly against the tabletop.
Damn, she was sharp.
From the next table, Evan let out another low whistle. “Oh, Malfoy. She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she?”
Lucius did not move, did not look away. He simply smiled.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “But she will.”
Narcissa regarded him for a long, unreadable moment.
Then, without a word, she rose from her seat, gathering her books with practiced grace.
Lucius stood as well, his movements deliberate, measured. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path with effortless ease. “More important than me?” he mused.
Narcissa did not back down.
Instead, she stepped closer—just enough that he could smell the faintest trace of jasmine on her skin, just enough that the space between them became something taut, something fragile.
“Far more,” she murmured.
And then, with the same quiet poise that had driven him mad for months, she stepped past him and disappeared into the corridor.
Lucius remained still.
Evan laughed under his breath. “You’re in trouble, mate.”
Lucius ignored him.
Because despite everything—despite her words, despite her indifference—he had seen something in her eyes before she left.
A hesitation. A moment of pause.
She wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted him to believe.
And that meant one thing.
This game had only just begun.