The Edge of Restraint
There was something intoxicating about the way Narcissa Black carried herself.
It was not beauty—though she had that, undeniably, in the sharp angles of her face, in the soft glow of her skin against the cold dungeon torchlight. Nor was it merely her status, though the Black name carried a weight that few could rival.
No, what fascinated Lucius—what unraveled him in ways he refused to admit—was her restraint.
The way she never reacted too much or too little. The way she held herself back from the world, untouchable, as though she knew that the moment she allowed anyone too close, they would take everything.
He understood that kind of control.
But he wanted to break it.
Or, perhaps, he wanted to be the one she chose to break it for.
Lucius had mastered the art of patience. It was a skill cultivated through years of careful calculation, of knowing when to move and when to wait.
Now, he was waiting.
The afternoon air was thick with the hum of students filtering out of classrooms, parchment rustling, voices overlapping as they spilled into the corridors. He leaned against the cool stone wall, arms crossed, watching.
And there she was.
Narcissa stepped out of Professor Flitwick’s classroom with Andromeda, her long, pale hair slipping over her shoulder as she adjusted the strap of her bag. She looked untouched by the world around her, as if nothing could reach her unless she allowed it to.
Lucius smirked.
She had already let him in, whether she realized it or not.
He let her walk past him. Let her pretend not to see him. Let her get almost out of reach—
Then, smoothly, deliberately, he pushed off the wall and fell into step beside her.
Narcissa did not slow. Did not acknowledge him.
Lucius glanced down at her, letting his voice drop to something just above a murmur. “You’re making a habit of pretending I don’t exist.”
She exhaled softly—not quite a sigh, not quite irritation. “I’m not pretending anything.”
Lucius smirked. “No?”
She kept her gaze forward, but he saw the way her fingers curled slightly around the strap of her bag.
And then, as though it was an afterthought, she asked, “Do you always enjoy making a spectacle of yourself?”
Lucius chuckled, low and amused. “Only when it’s for a worthy audience.”
She almost smiled.
It was there—just at the corner of her lips, a fleeting flicker of something she quickly smoothed away.
He wanted to see it again.
He wanted to see what it would take to make her smile, truly, without restraint.
But not yet.
No, she was not something to be rushed.
Lucius let the silence stretch between them, comfortable and charged, before he finally leaned in—just slightly, just enough for his breath to brush against the edge of her jaw.
“I wonder,” he murmured, “if you ever think about me.”
Narcissa did not stop walking. Did not turn her head. Did not react.
But he saw the flicker of something in her eyes, the smallest hitch in her breath before she controlled it, burying it beneath layers of practiced indifference.
Lucius smirked.
She could pretend all she liked. He had spent years mastering the art of reading people—their hesitations, their defenses, the subtle cracks in their armor. And right now, he knew with absolute certainty—
She had thought about him.
The realization settled in his chest like a slow, curling flame.
He let his voice drop lower, threading itself through the air between them. “No answer?”
Narcissa remained composed, her hands perfectly still at her sides. “Some questions don’t deserve one.”
Lucius let out a quiet chuckle, rich with amusement. “And yet you don’t deny it.”
She glanced at him then, just briefly, her blue eyes sharp. “I don’t indulge arrogance.”
Lucius tilted his head slightly, studying her with quiet fascination. “Mm. That’s a shame.”
They walked in silence for a few more paces, their footsteps a measured rhythm against the stone floor. He could have pressed further—could have pushed until he got the reaction he wanted—but something about this moment, about the way she was letting him remain in her space, made him hold back.
Instead, he shifted the conversation, slow and deliberate. “I wonder what you do indulge, Black.”
Narcissa exhaled softly, a ghost of a scoff. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Lucius smiled. “Very much.”
She shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible movement, before pausing at the end of the corridor. Andromeda had gone ahead, leaving them momentarily alone in the dim light of the late afternoon.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Lucius let himself look at her properly—the delicate curve of her jaw, the way the torchlight caught in the fine strands of her pale hair. She was so composed, always, so measured in everything she did.
But he wondered.
If he were to reach out now—just lightly, just enough to brush his fingers against her wrist—would she pull away? Or would she let him?
The thought sent something sharp and almost unbearable through him.
He had always wanted her. That much was undeniable. But this—this was different. This was not just want.
It was fascination.
And fascination was dangerous.
Narcissa met his gaze then, steady and unreadable. “You think you have me figured out.”
Lucius smirked, taking a slow step closer. “Not yet.” His voice dropped lower, softer, just for her. “But I will.”
A beat of silence.
And then—Narcissa smiled.
It was brief. Barely there. But it was real.
Lucius felt something shift.
For the first time, he wondered if she wanted him to figure her out.
And if she did—if she was letting him in, piece by piece—
He would not waste it.