The Art of War
The days that followed their meeting on the Astronomy Tower were different. Subtly. Deliberately. Lucius had spent months strategizing, weaving his presence into the fabric of Narcissa Black’s world, ensuring that his absence would feel like a void she could not ignore. But now—now the game had shifted. Because for the first time, she was playing too. It started with silence. Not the cold dismissal she had mastered, not the pointed disinterest she wielded like a blade, but something far more calculated. She did not ignore him, nor did she acknowledge him. She simply moved as though he did not exist. Lucius was not so easily undone. He let her have her distance. Let her think she was winning. And then, he struck. The air was thick with the sharp scent of crushed nettles and stewed salamander blood, the usual damp chill of the dungeons made worse by the condensation gathering on the glass vials and bubbling cauldrons. Professor Slughorn paced along the rows of students, his rotund figure swaying slightly with each step. “Now, now, careful with that infusion, Mr. Avery—you’ll find that oversteeping the asphodel results in a most unpleasant taste. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Lucius barely listened. His attention was fixed on the girl two rows ahead, on the measured movements of her hands as she diced valerian root with the ease of someone who never made mistakes. Narcissa had always been meticulous, always precise. It was part of what made her so infuriatingly untouchable. He leaned back slightly, letting his gaze wander just long enough for her to feel it. She did not turn. But she knew. Lucius smirked. Slughorn’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Ah! A change of partners today, I think! No use getting too comfortable with the same pair—real mastery comes from adaptation, after all! Mr. Malfoy, Miss Black—why don’t you two work together today?” Lucius had never been so grateful for Slughorn’s absurd whims. There was a flicker of something in Narcissa’s expression—brief, almost imperceptible—but he caught it before she schooled her features into neutrality. She did not protest. He took his time approaching, letting his presence settle before he slid onto the stool beside her. “Try not to look so thrilled,” he murmured. She measured out a precise amount of powdered moonstone, not sparing him a glance. “Try not to be insufferable.” Lucius smirked, resting his elbow on the table. “You wound me, Black.” She picked up the silver stirring rod and dipped it into the cauldron, her wrist flicking with effortless grace. “Do you plan on actually helping, or is this just another one of your appearances?” Lucius watched her, eyes sharp with amusement. “I wouldn’t want to overstep. You seem to have everything under control.” At that, she did glance at him, a single arched brow lifting in challenge. “For once, we agree on something.” Lucius laughed, low and quiet. She returned her attention to the potion, her expression unreadable. But he saw the way her fingers tapped idly against the wooden tabletop, a small, absent movement she hadn’t yet learned to mask. Good. Let her wonder. Let her second-guess herself. Let her feel what it was like to have him in her space, playing by his rules. Dinner passed with excruciating slowness. Lucius had expected Narcissa to return to her usual habits—to remove herself from his presence the moment class had ended, to seek the refuge of her sister or her friends. But she did not. She remained at the Slytherin table, poised and composed, eating in measured bites as Andromeda spoke beside her. She did not look at him. Which meant she was thinking about him. Lucius leaned back in his seat, allowing the conversation around him to wash over his senses. He let his fingers drag idly along the rim of his goblet, waiting—calculating. Then, as if the moment had been orchestrated, a familiar voice cut through the hum of chatter. “Malfoy.” Rabastan Lestrange slid into the seat beside him, his dark eyes gleaming with sharp amusement. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.” Lucius smirked. “Am I?” Rabastan followed his gaze across the table and let out a quiet laugh. “Still?” Lucius did not answer. He did not need to. Rabastan shook his head, picking up a silver knife and spinning it idly between his fingers. “You do realize, don’t you, that she’s Black through and through? You’ll never break her.” Lucius’s grip on his goblet tightened. Rabastan, ever observant, caught the movement and grinned. “Interesting.” Lucius exhaled slowly, schooling his expression into indifference. “She’s already broken.” Rabastan chuckled. “Keep telling yourself that.” Lucius did not rise to the bait. He had nothing to prove to Rabastan. But he had everything to prove to her. It was late when Lucius finally caught her alone. The dungeons were quieter at this hour, the usual foot traffic of students long gone, the torches burning low with flickering light. Narcissa stood near the entrance to the common room, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she waited for Andromeda to finish speaking with a group of seventh-years. She was pretending not to notice him. Lucius did not allow that. He stepped close—close enough that she had no choice but to acknowledge his presence. “Avoiding me again?” Narcissa did not look at him immediately. Instead, she adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, her voice smooth. “You give yourself too much credit.” Lucius tilted his head, studying her. “Do I?” She finally met his gaze then, her blue eyes cool but unreadable. They stood like that for a moment, the space between them charged with something neither of them had the words for. Then—softly, deliberately—Narcissa spoke. “You’re not winning, Malfoy.” Lucius smirked. “Neither are you.” A pause. And then, so quietly he almost missed it— She smiled. It was barely there, the faintest curve of her lips, gone as quickly as it had appeared. But it was real. Lucius felt something shift. The game had just changed. And this time, he was no longer the only one playing to win.