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She’s laughing and you can’t help but stare. You’ve never seen her laugh so freely, so delightedly, so honestly. You’ve seen her smirk, you’ve seen her chuckle, but there’s always been this sense of detachment, of cool disinterest, as if she was merely doing what was expected of her, but without any feeling behind her actions.
It’s the weight of expectations, you think. She’s the daughter of a noble house, and not any noble house, but the Most Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and that gives her certain responsibilities, certain tasks that she must perform in order to keep her status, keep the pride of her family intact.
You thought her cold, when you were in school. She was starting her sixth year when you were being sorted, and you didn’t actually pay attention to her until she was graduating. Even then, it was barely a passing glance, a mere recognition of her beauty, and the knowledge that she’s one of the elite, a woman who barely speaks with people outside her house, outside her status. Beautiful, yes, but like an ice statue. Magnificent but untouchable. Arctic.
That’s not so.
It took a war and hundreds of deaths, it took challenging opinions and breaking stereotypes and smashing the status quo into smithereens before you realized, but you did.
The mantle was weighing her down; the head of her house and her marriage contract and the pressure of her peers, but once she was finally able to take it off and let it fall, it was like she was reborn. The ice melted and left behind the warmth of spring in her blue, blue eyes, rose-bush cheeks, wind-chime laugh.
She’s much more beautiful now than she ever was, and you just want to capture that beauty and pour it into a flask, turn that flask into a necklace so that you’ll be able to wear it around your neck, close to your heart. You want to take her laugh and make it a song, take her warmth and knit mittens and scarves and socks. She’s a work of art in every way you think of one, and your eyes just can’t look away.
Your breath catches in your throat when her laugh stops and she looks at you with those clear blue eyes, affection glinting in them like morning dew.
“Lily,” she says, and offers a delicate hand that you immediately take. Her smile is soft. “Lily, love, where has that brilliant mind gone to?”
You laugh, a small, breathy sound. “Just thinking how lucky I am,” you say, “to have you choosing me every day.”
Narcissa’s smile grows, and she tightens the grip on your hand for a second, softly.
“I’m the lucky one,” she says, “because you chose me back then, instead of letting me fall. You saved me. Thank you.”
You blush, but there’s a bubble of happiness in your chest and your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
You don’t know what would have changed if you hadn’t stopped and offered a hand to this magnificent woman; you don’t know what the future could have been like. But the truth is, you don’t really care. You’re more than happy with the way things have turned out.
You are happy. Happier than you ever thought you'd be, once the war broke out in earnest, and you are loved. That's enough.