Unspoken Declarations
The shift between them was subtle—deliberate, careful, but undeniable.
In public, Narcissa still carried herself with the same quiet elegance, her expressions unreadable, her demeanor composed. Lucius still exuded effortless control, his charm as sharp and calculated as ever. But beneath the surface, in the spaces between glances and unspoken words, something had changed.
It started in the Great Hall.
Lucius took his usual seat at the Slytherin table, surrounded by his usual crowd, but his attention was elsewhere. He didn’t have to search for her—he always knew exactly where she was. Across the hall, at the table where Andromeda sometimes insisted they sit, Narcissa moved with measured grace, slicing into a piece of fruit, listening as her sister spoke beside her.
Then, as if sensing his gaze, she looked up.
For the briefest moment, their eyes met. And unlike every time before—when she would look past him, pretend not to notice—this time, she held his gaze. It was a flicker of acknowledgment, a silent confession only he could read. Then, just as quickly, she turned back to her plate, the moment gone before anyone could see it.
Lucius smirked to himself. It was enough.
It continued in the corridors.
They never walked together—too obvious—but when their paths crossed, their fingers would brush as they passed, the touch featherlight, barely noticeable to anyone else. It happened in the common room as well. Narcissa would sit with her books, her posture effortlessly poised, while Lucius would lounge nearby, one arm draped lazily over the back of the chair. When he stretched, fingers grazing the bare skin of her wrist beneath her sleeve, he swore he saw her inhale just a little deeper.
But it was the library where they tested the limits.
Narcissa sat at their usual spot, a thick tome spread before her, her quill poised as she took careful notes. Lucius leaned in slightly, his arm resting on the back of her chair as he peered over her shoulder. No one would think anything of it—after all, he had done this before, many times, under the guise of needing something from her work.
But this time, his fingers brushed the back of her neck, the touch barely there. A shiver ran through her, though she did not look up.
Lucius smirked, pleased, and leaned in just a fraction more, close enough that his breath fanned against her ear. “You’re tense,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
Her quill paused mid-stroke, her lips parting slightly.
Then, in the smallest act of defiance, she tilted her head just so—just enough to let his fingers trail from the nape of her neck to her shoulder before she pulled away entirely, returning to her work as though nothing had happened.
Lucius shifted in his seat, letting his hand slide under the table, fingers settling against Narcissa’s thigh as though they belonged there. His touch was casual, effortless, the kind of thing that should have startled her once—but now, she didn’t even flinch.
Her quill never stopped moving, the steady scratch of ink against parchment the only indication that she hadn’t acknowledged him. But he felt the way her leg tensed beneath his palm, the faintest reaction, just enough to amuse him.
“You’re very distracting,” she murmured, still not looking at him.
Lucius smirked, his thumb stroking slow circles against the fabric of her skirt. “Am I?”
Narcissa dipped her quill into the inkwell, expression composed, but her lips pressed together in a way that told him everything he needed to know.
“Annoying, more like,” she corrected.
He chuckled under his breath. “You don’t seem particularly annoyed.”
She finally turned her head then, her gaze level, unimpressed. “Because I’m used to you.”
Lucius tilted his head, fingers flexing slightly. “That almost sounded fond, Cissa.”
“It wasn’t.”
He chuckled again, dragging his hand up just a little, enough that he felt the warmth of her through the fabric. “Mm. I think it was.”
She didn’t answer, but the way she shifted—just a fraction, just enough to let him stay exactly where he was—told him all he needed to know.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of parchment and the distant murmurs of other students. Lucius let his fingers continue their slow, idle strokes against her thigh, watching for every tiny reaction she tried to suppress. He knew her too well by now—the way her breath deepened ever so slightly, the way she pressed her lips together, as if keeping something from slipping out.
Then, with the same casual ease, he let his fingers slip beneath the hem of her skirt.
Narcissa inhaled, sharp and quiet, her posture going rigid for a split second before she caught herself.
Lucius smirked, dragging his knuckles lightly along the bare skin of her thigh, his touch featherlight. “Still used to me?” he murmured.
Her fingers clenched around her quill, but she didn’t move, didn’t push him away. If anything, she seemed rooted in place, as if caught between stopping him and waiting to see what he would do next.
“Lucius,” she said, her voice lower than before, quieter.
“Hm?” His fingers ghosted higher, tracing slow, lazy patterns against her skin.
She exhaled, long and controlled, setting her quill down with deliberate precision. Then, without looking at him, she reached under the table, her fingers wrapping around his wrist.
For a moment, she didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she guided his hand back down to her knee, her touch neither forceful nor hesitant—just firm. Just decisive.
Lucius let her. He allowed the retreat, let her set the boundary, but he didn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.
“Shame,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing her skin before he pulled back.
Narcissa picked up her quill again, her expression unreadable. “Focus on your studies, Malfoy.”
Lucius smirked, resting his hand where she had placed it. “As you wish.”
But neither of them focused after that.