The Tipping Point
Patience was for men without power, for those who could afford to wait because they had no means of making things happen themselves. Lucius had never been one of those men. He took what he wanted, shaped the world to his liking, bent others to his will with charm, with persuasion, with influence. But Narcissa Black was proving to be an anomaly in a life where everything had always come easily to him.
A week had passed since their last encounter. A week of careful silence, of calculated distance, of her continuing to act as if he did not exist. He had tried to outmaneuver her in the way he knew best—by controlling his own reaction, by refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him affected. But it was wearing thin. He was tired of the game she was playing, of the indifference she wielded like a finely honed blade.
Tonight, he would force her hand.
The Slytherin common room was emptier than usual, the fire burning low, casting flickering green light across the stone walls. Most of their housemates had either gone to bed or found ways to entertain themselves elsewhere. Lucius sat in his usual chair, legs crossed, fingers idly tracing the rim of his untouched drink. He was not alone. Rosier was stretched lazily across the sofa, idly flipping a galleon between his fingers, while Severus Snape sat stiffly in the chair opposite, his dark eyes scanning a book with the kind of focus that suggested he was tuning out the rest of the world.
Narcissa was at the far end of the room, seated in an armchair near the window, her posture elegant, untouched by the dimness of the room. She was alone, for once, and that fact alone made something shift in Lucius’s chest. This was an opportunity.
He had already risen from his seat before Rosier’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Don’t.”
Lucius turned his head slightly. “Excuse me?”
Rosier smirked, flicking the galleon into the air and catching it effortlessly. “You’re wasting your time.”
Lucius arched a brow. “And what exactly do you know about my time?”
“I know you’ve spent the better part of a week brooding over the fact that Narcissa Black refuses to acknowledge you.”
Lucius’s expression remained cool, but there was an edge to his voice when he said, “I don’t brood.”
Rosier chuckled. “Fine. Stewing. Sulking. Take your pick.”
Snape, without looking up from his book, muttered, “It’s honestly getting pathetic.”
Lucius’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass.
Rosier exhaled, clearly enjoying himself. “She’s not interested, Malfoy. Maybe it’s time to admit defeat.”
Lucius turned his gaze toward Narcissa, who still sat by the window, her profile illuminated by the glow of the enchanted lantern beside her. If Rosier thought he would walk away from this, he did not know him at all.
He set his glass down with deliberate care. “You mistake my patience for surrender,” he murmured. Then, without another word, he strode across the room.
She did not look up when he approached.
Lucius stood in front of her chair, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, waiting. Seconds stretched into a silence that was just shy of uncomfortable.
“Malfoy,” she said at last, her tone neutral, as though his presence was neither welcome nor intrusive.
Lucius tilted his head. “Narcissa.”
She did not invite him to sit. He did so anyway, lowering himself into the chair opposite hers, stretching one leg out as he regarded her with quiet scrutiny.
“I must say,” he murmured, “your dedication to ignoring me has been admirable.”
A flicker of amusement crossed her face, so brief it might have been imagined. “And yet, here you are.”
Lucius smirked. “Indeed. And here you are. Alone.” He gestured vaguely around them. “I can’t help but wonder why.”
Narcissa closed her book, resting it lightly on her lap. “Perhaps I enjoy my own company.”
“Or perhaps,” he mused, “you were waiting for me to come to you.”
She exhaled a quiet breath, not quite a laugh, but something close. “You assume too much.”
Lucius leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest. “I assume exactly as much as you wish me to.”
She met his gaze then, and for the first time in days, he felt something shift. It was not surrender, not quite—but neither was it rejection. It was the smallest fracture in the wall she had so carefully built between them.
And it was enough.
Horace Slughorn’s private gatherings were always a tedious affair, filled with students eager to impress, with future Ministry officials and influential heirs posturing for attention. Lucius had never particularly enjoyed them, but he understood their value.
Tonight, however, his focus was elsewhere.
Narcissa was here. And she was ignoring him. Again.
It was deliberate, as always. She had arrived in a deep blue dress, her hair swept back in an intricate knot, and had taken a seat beside Regulus Black and a few of the other well-bred Slytherins Slughorn favored. She had not looked in his direction once.
Lucius did not approach her immediately. He let the evening stretch, let conversation fill the room, let her feel his presence even without acknowledging it. She was good at this game, but so was he.
When he finally made his move, it was not toward her—it was toward another girl.
Ophelia Burke was a striking brunette, sharp-featured, quick-witted, with a family name nearly as old as his own. She had been vying for his attention for months, and though Lucius had never entertained her interest before, he did so now. He spoke to her with deliberate charm, let his fingers brush against her wrist when she passed him a drink, let his laughter linger just a little too long. He did not look at Narcissa, but he knew she was aware of him.
And when, at last, he allowed his gaze to flicker toward her, he found her watching.
It was brief—so brief that had he not been watching her, he might have missed it.
But he was watching.
And in that single glance, in that split second of hesitation before she turned away, he knew he had gained back some measure of control.
The evening passed, conversation and laughter filling the air, but Lucius had already won. Narcissa could ignore him, could pretend his presence was of no consequence, but she had looked.
And that meant she cared.
Even if she didn’t want to.
By the time the gathering began to thin, he was content to leave her with that thought. He did not approach her, did not force another conversation. Instead, he bid Ophelia a smooth farewell, made his way toward the exit, and—just before stepping through the doorway—allowed himself one last glance in Narcissa’s direction.
She was watching him.
And this time, she did not look away fast enough.
Lucius smirked to himself.
The game was changing.
And he had no intention of losing.