this took a ridiculously long time. and, um, first time writing these characters, so i'm sorry if it wasn't what you were looking for.
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(it doesn’t matter anymore, really. they’ll never get it right.)
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it starts when he mishears her name and calls her narcissist in fifth year. it shouldn’t matter much, really, except – except he is the boy with the bright eyes and the obnoxious mouth and she’s always had a thing for idiotic bastards. (or so bella had said; she’d held up the example of her first fling, then her second, and when cissy tells her of the reckless gryffindor, bella laughs until her stomach aches and tosses her an apple.)
and it escalates from there.
.
he has to look twice before he really sees her. and even then, they both just stare at each other, and at the hiding space they’ve both claimed as their own. he breaks first, “what are you doing here, black?”
she looks at him, then crosses her legs. her skirt rides up a little (okay, a lot) and james pretends not to notice. “sorry,” she says, “i don’t speak to blood traitors.” but the fight is gone from her voice and she’s thinking of war and the word pureblood and the name malfoy, so it does not come off as sharp as she means it to be. so when james sits down beside her, she is only a little surprised.
“great! i don’t speak to self-absorbed harpies, so it’s all good, then.”
her pale brows rise at the lame comeback, but she says nothing else.
.
she begins to take refuge in the little place she’s (shared with the potter boy) called her own when the word war lingers like smoke over their heads; she begins to take refuge in his lame jokes and brightbrightbright smile (and sometimes she thinks she’s in love with his smile, and this is preferable to the other option); she begins to take refuge in the way he’s stopped looking at her like she’s dirt and scum (and less-than-Evans) and started looking like her like the words gryffindor and slytherin don’t mean anything.
and he doesn’t listen a lot to her, only when it pertains to him, but she likes hearing his voice – likes hearing about something other than marriage.
it becomes a recurring incidence, her and james, in that little place she calls theirs. (narcissa refuses to call it a routine.)
.
“you know, when i said, ‘accio hottie,’ i didn’t expect it to work!”
pause. turn. startled choking noise.
“sh – didn’t know it was you, nar –”
“you must not be a muggle, because you cast a spell on me.”
eyebrows raise. challenging smirk.
“… would you like a butterbeer? it’s a portkey. next thing you know, we’ll be back at my place.”
“hmm, well, a couple nights with me and moaning myrtle will have to get a new nickname.”
james/narcissa; turn me into somebody loved (1/3)
.
(it doesn’t matter anymore, really. they’ll never get it right.)
.
it starts when he mishears her name and calls her narcissist in fifth year. it shouldn’t matter much, really, except – except he is the boy with the bright eyes and the obnoxious mouth and she’s always had a thing for idiotic bastards. (or so bella had said; she’d held up the example of her first fling, then her second, and when cissy tells her of the reckless gryffindor, bella laughs until her stomach aches and tosses her an apple.)
and it escalates from there.
.
he has to look twice before he really sees her. and even then, they both just stare at each other, and at the hiding space they’ve both claimed as their own. he breaks first, “what are you doing here, black?”
she looks at him, then crosses her legs. her skirt rides up a little (okay, a lot) and james pretends not to notice. “sorry,” she says, “i don’t speak to blood traitors.” but the fight is gone from her voice and she’s thinking of war and the word pureblood and the name malfoy, so it does not come off as sharp as she means it to be. so when james sits down beside her, she is only a little surprised.
“great! i don’t speak to self-absorbed harpies, so it’s all good, then.”
her pale brows rise at the lame comeback, but she says nothing else.
.
she begins to take refuge in the little place she’s (shared with the potter boy) called her own when the word war lingers like smoke over their heads; she begins to take refuge in his lame jokes and brightbrightbright smile (and sometimes she thinks she’s in love with his smile, and this is preferable to the other option); she begins to take refuge in the way he’s stopped looking at her like she’s dirt and scum (and less-than-Evans) and started looking like her like the words gryffindor and slytherin don’t mean anything.
and he doesn’t listen a lot to her, only when it pertains to him, but she likes hearing his voice – likes hearing about something other than marriage.
it becomes a recurring incidence, her and james, in that little place she calls theirs. (narcissa refuses to call it a routine.)
.
“you know, when i said, ‘accio hottie,’ i didn’t expect it to work!”
pause. turn. startled choking noise.
“sh – didn’t know it was you, nar –”
“you must not be a muggle, because you cast a spell on me.”
eyebrows raise. challenging smirk.
“… would you like a butterbeer? it’s a portkey. next thing you know, we’ll be back at my place.”
“hmm, well, a couple nights with me and moaning myrtle will have to get a new nickname.”
surprised laughter. smile. repeat.
.