The Game of Indifference
For three days, Narcissa had given him nothing—no glances, no cutting remarks, no acknowledgment that he existed at all. She moved through the castle with the same quiet grace she always had, speaking to those she chose, her world carefully curated, and he was not a part of it. It was deliberate, of that he was certain. If she had truly been indifferent, she would have treated him the same as anyone else, would have allowed him the bare minimum of courtesy she afforded acquaintances. But no—this was something else. A statement. A refusal to play into his hands.
He had endured many things in his life. The weight of expectation. The pressure to uphold the Malfoy name. The tiresome sycophants who clung to him in the hope of gaining favor. But being ignored? Being shut out as if he were inconsequential? That was intolerable.
She had walked past him in the Great Hall without sparing him a glance, had brushed past him in the corridor as though he were another faceless student, had carried on entire conversations with Regulus and Rosier mere feet from him and never once turned her head in his direction. He had tested her, stepped into her path once, only for her to glide around him as if he were an inanimate object, some unremarkable piece of the castle scenery. It was infuriating, but worse than that—it was working. Because for the first time, he found himself unsure of his next move.
He could not force her attention without looking desperate. He could not demand it without giving her the satisfaction of knowing she had unsettled him. So he waited, watched, played his role as though the game did not bother him, and yet every passing moment without her recognition needled under his skin, threading frustration through his veins like poison.
The common room was full that evening, the fire casting long flickering shadows over the emerald-and-silver décor, the low murmur of conversation filling the space. Lucius sat in his usual chair, legs stretched out, his fingers curled around the rim of a glass, the firewhisky inside untouched. Across from him, Rosier was watching him with far too much amusement, lounging as though he had not a care in the world, as though he lived for the spectacle of Lucius Malfoy being denied something he wanted.
"She's relentless," Rosier mused, swirling the drink in his hand. "Really, it's admirable."
Lucius did not look at him. His gaze was fixed on the far side of the room, where Narcissa sat with Regulus, her posture impeccable, her hands resting lightly on the book in front of her though she did not appear to be reading it. She was speaking in low tones, something thoughtful in her expression, something utterly composed, as though she had not spent three days carefully dismantling his patience.
Rosier let out a soft chuckle. "You've gone completely silent, Malfoy. That's unlike you."
Lucius shifted his gaze at last, leveling Rosier with a cool stare. "I wonder," he said smoothly, "how much longer you'll find amusement in repeating yourself."
Rosier smirked. "I wonder how much longer you'll let her do this to you."
Lucius did not answer. He simply set his glass down with a soft clink and rose to his feet.
He found her later, alone in the corridor leading toward the Astronomy Tower. The castle was quieter at this hour, the torches lining the walls flickering softly, throwing golden light against the stone. She moved like a shadow, the pale fall of her hair the only thing that stood out in the dim corridor, her steps unhurried, measured, untouched by the weight of anyone else's presence. He did not call out to her, did not announce himself—he simply matched her pace, falling into step beside her as if it had been inevitable.
She did not react.
She did not turn her head, did not falter, did not even give him the barest flicker of acknowledgment.
Lucius did not like to repeat himself, but she was forcing his hand.
"You've made quite a show of ignoring me," he murmured, his voice low, even.
She did not answer.
His jaw tightened, but his expression remained composed, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I wonder, Narcissa," he continued, "does it require effort to maintain the pretense that I don't exist? Or does it come naturally to you?"
Her expression remained utterly indifferent, as though he had said nothing at all.
Lucius exhaled a quiet chuckle, though there was little amusement behind it. "Three days," he mused. "Three days, and not a single glance in my direction. One might think you were avoiding me."
Finally, she spoke.
"You flatter yourself, Malfoy."
His name on her lips was neither affectionate nor cruel. It was neutral, precise, delivered as if she were stating a simple fact.
Lucius hummed. "Not everything revolves around you," she continued, her tone light, unbothered. "You should consider the possibility that I simply don't care."
He tilted his head slightly, watching her closely. "And yet," he murmured, "you've gone through quite a bit of trouble to make sure I know it."
A pause. Brief, but there.
Then she simply stepped around him, never breaking stride, never looking back.
Lucius stood in place for a moment, watching the space she had occupied, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading into the distance. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides.
She was good. Too good.
And for the first time in a long while, he found himself enjoying the challenge.
He turned on his heel, smirking to himself.
This was far from over.