Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They were merely girls when Fate played its hands.

Even with Severus’ help, Lily’s transition into the Wizarding World was not as smooth as she would have liked. It felt like, no matter how many books she studied from cover to cover, no matter how many questions she had asked her professors after classes—wishing to catch up to her classmates who received every piece of information with ease—she continued to struggle with the simplicities of how magic even worked ; she felt like she would have to study the whole library for her to even know enough.

Severus tried his best to teach her what he knew, but knowing how hard his home life was, even his knowledge of magic was limited. And Lily… Lily didn’t like the feeling of not being enough. If she had performed excellently in her muggle schooling, why was this—which was something that would, supposedly, come naturally to her—seem so hard to control? 

It wasn't like Lily didn't try— all she did was try. It wouldn't be too far of a stretch to say she was the most studious in her year, staying up late to practise spells, her bed's curtains drawn as she perfected the wand movements and scribbled notes about magical theory until her hands cramped, her eyes getting blurry from strain. She even had older years pass her their notes or remind her to find time to rest whenever they caught her huddled by the fireplace, reading a book on theory. 

But it wasn't enough. No matter how hard she worked, it did not feel enough. She wasn’t enough.

The other students, especially those raised in wizarding families; those who grew up in the world she was now a part of, seemed to implicitly know so much more than she did. They could talk about Quidditch teams, revolutionary potions, charms used for pranking like it was nothing; like they naturally belonged in a world she tried so hard to fit in.

She wasn’t used to not knowing, of not being the best in every endeavour she attempted. 

Lily needed to know.

Despite all of the rules she had diligently followed upon her arrival at Hogwarts, her desire to be better was far grander than rules on parchment as old as Ancient Egypt. That very night, she snuck out of the Gryffindor common room hours after curfew and headed towards the library.

She had heard earlier that day that most of the facilities within Hogwarts weren't guarded well, the faculty choosing to believe that their students upheld the honour code rather than add simple locks to the doors. Yet, even if they did, Lily was proficient in the ‘Alohomora’ charm as ‘pranksters’ in her year had thought it funny to tease her. She’ll show them who they were messing with. Soon.

The castle was eerily quiet at night, the dimmed torches lining the cobblestone walls flickered freely as the night wind made its presence known through the empty corridors, leaving tall shadows that appear and leave at a moment’s notice. She clutched onto her wand tightly, the glow of the ‘Lumos’ spell offering her little comfort as she made her way to the library. It felt like she could hear her heartbeat in her ears, but it wasn’t just from the nerves of getting caught out after curfew, but the coiled rope around her chest had been present for weeks.

She wasn’t good enough; nothing she was taught was enough for her to fit in.

The library felt like her only hope. She had spent every available moment deep in the aisles of tomes, books, and loose parchment. Her mind soaking up every piece of information she could find, even if certain books contradicted another, and whenever she did encounter that situation, she simply noted it down in a muggle notebook she snuck in, and pushed that issue for another day. 

Lily wanted top marks quickly, even if certain aspects of magic still felt completely foreign in her muggle-born hands. Maybe then… maybe then she would feel like she belonged in this new world. 

She gently pushed the heavy wooden door, wincing as it creaked open, the heavenly scent of old books and ink wafting toward her. She smiled.

The library at night may seem ominous with its looming shelves that seemed endlessly tall, the maze-like aisles that only Madam Pince knew how to navigate through, or how the books almost felt sentient as they beckoned for her to reach for them. Yet, all she could see was the endless well of knowledge she could use to satiate her craving. And, she thought as she peeked around, utterly alone. I never knew peace and quiet was a thing in Hogwarts.

Lily tiptoed through the aisles, the ‘Lumos’ glow hovered near the spines of the books as she scanned them. ‘Magical Theory, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration’, ‘The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1’ —she grabbed whatever she thought could be useful, piling them on top of one another, grimacing as they wobbled precariously in her arms. But… but I need more books. Despite how the pile of books tittered, Lily reached for another, her arms straining to reach high, the ‘Wandwork Wonders: Mastering Magical Gestures’ just a couple of inches out of her reach. 

“Come on…”

“You’re going to drop those, you know?”

Lily nearly dropped the books as a cool and calm voice came out of nowhere.

Her heart hammered as she struggled to keep the books in her arms upright, her eyes wide, whispering, “G-god? Is that you?”

Her question was met with melodic giggles as the books in her arms started to levitate. She stilled, her jaw dropped as her mind whirred over the confirmation that a higher being did exist. However, when the books hovered away, settling on the table nearby, she realised she wasn’t speaking to Jesus.

Instead, with eyes as blue as the sky and hair that looked like spun gold against the flickering ‘Lumos’ , a taller girl watched her with an unreadable expression. “I apologise for disappointing you, but no, I am not a God,” her soft voice quipped, the corners of her lips twitching upward, her eyes lighting up with amusement.

“I—I didn’t know anyone else was in here,” Lily stammered, heat rushing to her face as she pressed her lips together, trying to sound calm despite the sudden flutter in her chest.

The girl stepped closer, a curious tilt to her pretty head. “No students— aside from the Prefects, of course— are allowed here after curfew. You do know that, right?”

Lily’s stomach dropped, words spilling from her lips as she rambled, “Please don’t tell anyone. I just... I really needed to find some books that I could study... I promise to get out of here as soon as possible. I swear! You have my word…”

The girl hummed, her head still tilted, her pale hair like water as it fell, pin-straight, studying her. “First year?”

Lily nodded, feeling smaller than ever. Was it… was it that obvious?

“Let me guess,” the blonde said in a balance of a matter-of-fact tone yet not condescending. How she managed to balance that, Lily did not know. “You’re feeling behind because everyone else seems to know more than you do.”

Lily blinked, surprised. “How could you tell?”

The girl gave a small, knowing smile. “I was the same last year. My sisters were always so... impressive. I thought I’d never catch up.” She reached out and plucked a book from Lily’s stack. “This one’s rubbish, by the way. Too basic. You’ll want ‘Magical Theory and Practice’ instead. It’s over here.” She quickly grabbed the mentioned book before placing it on the growing pile. 

“I studied that…” Lily murmured as she watched the blonde return one of the books to the shelf. 

The older— well, Lily assumed she was older. She had never seen her in any of her classes—dipped her head into a nod, her silk-like hair following every movement like water. It was entrancing. “Well, that was— unfortunately— a waste of your time. The author doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrowed. “But…but his book is published?” Lily was confused. The idea that a book made by academics, went through both editing and publishing, and could still not be correct? That doesn’t sound right.

“Not every book published is written by someone knowledgeable, sadly.”

“That’s…” With the lack of any eloquent way to say it, she simply said, “stupid.”

Another set of melodic giggles left the blonde’s lips, her hair glittering in the lamplight as she shook her head lightly. Lily tried not to stare. “What are you the most confused about? I could help you find a book for it.”

“I… I don’t know…”

She gave Lily an encouraging smile. “Don’t be shy. We are all in Hogwarts to learn.”

“I-I— okay. I don’t really know how magic works, where it comes from, how do we know if we are nearly empty of it, stuff like that…” she rambled, her arms splayed out in exasperation before dropping against her thighs. She sighed.

The older’s eyebrows twitched slightly, almost unnoticeable if Lily hadn’t been paying attention. “You’re muggleborn?”

“Yes.”

“Oh… okay.”

“Is something wrong?” Lily tentatively asked, worried that she was one of those students that judged her for something she couldn’t control. 

The blonde waved a dismissive hand as her other hand hovered over the pile of books. “Nothing, nothing. Now… here are a few books worth your time,” she said, turning around and making her way through the maze of aisle with ease.

Lily followed her, watching with delight as the books hovered and followed them around. “I’m Lily, by the way. Lily Evans.”

“Narcissa Black,” the girl replied, her hand trailing against the spines of the books on the shelf before pulling a thick volume from it. “Here. This should help. And this one—” she added another book to the pile, “—is good for Charms. You are in Flitwick’s class, correct?”

“Yes,” Lily said, feeling a flicker of hope as Narcissa placed the book on top of the floating pile. “Thank you. This is… you don’t understand how helpful this is.”

Narcissa nodded, her expression softening just a little, as though she did understand. “Don’t stay too late. Filch patrols this area around midnight.”

“I will leave as soon as I can,” Lily promised. She hesitated for a moment before adding, “You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?”

A small smile grew on Narcissa’s pale features. “Your secret is safe with me. Just... don’t make a habit of sneaking around. Not everyone here would pass up the opportunity to snitch.” She glanced at the— basically tittering —tall pile of books. “Did you bring a satchel for the books?”

“I…haven’t.” Narcissa quickly slipped her satchel off her shoulder and opened it up. Lily immediately gasped, shaking her head and hands. “Oh my! You don’t need to!”

“I’m not letting a first-year drag walk all the way up to Gryffindor Tower with a pile of books this tall,” Narcissa said with a pointed look before continuing, “hopefully, the next time you pull an academic heist like this, you bring something for the goods, yes?” she teased, a twinkle in her eyes as she placed the books within the leather bag. 

Lily huffed out a laugh, her cheeks warming under her gaze. “I will.”

“Good.” As Narcissa turned to leave the library, heading towards the entrance, Lily felt a strange warmth spread through her chest. Her hands caressed the smooth leather of the satchel as she watched the girl turn the corner, her silken hair floating in a fan of starlight. 

She ignored the flutter in her belly, or how warm her face felt, as she turned in the opposite direction, her feet leading her to Gryffindor Tower.

It was a nice feeling, she thought, having someone understand.   

She smiled.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ──────── 

Over the next few days, Lily found herself noticing Narcissa more and more. Infatuated Entranced.

At first, she rationalised to herself that it was to return the satchel (it was tucked in her trunk, between two sweaters to protect it) but it was starting to be something more.

Lily started to learn more about the other.

She was a year older, a Slytherin, and everything Lily wasn’t. The blonde was poised, elegant, and moved with no reluctance, as though the world would alter itself to accommodate to her than to sidestep. However… there was something else about her, something Lily couldn’t eloquently put into words. It wasn’t just admiration— though that was certainly part of it, Lily thought to herself, it was stupid to ignore that —it was the way Narcissa carried herself, as though she were untouchable, yet there were moments when she seemed... lonely. Like a lone daffodil in a field of grass.

Another thing she had learned recently was the importance of last names. ‘Absurd,’ she once commented. ‘Absolutely,’ Severus had replied, ‘but it is the way this world works.’

Narcissa was also a Black.

When Marlene caught her staring at the Slytherin, she scoffed. “Don’t bother with her. She’s a Black ,” she spat the name out with vitriol. She didn’t continue, as if that was all that had to be said to warrant such anger. Mary just watched the interaction over her teacup, her eyes wide.

Lily tilted her head. “Meaning?”

Marlene slammed her quill against her parchment, small splotches of ink ending up on her uniform. “ Meaning,” she hissed, leaning closer in a poor excuse of a whisper as she said, “the Blacks are rotten. Every last one of them. Everyone knows it,” her voice still at the same, loud register. 

Mary dropped her head onto her hands in embarrassment, 

“Sirius is alright,” Mary pointed out. “A bit loud and rowdy, but alright , nonetheless.”

“That’s different!” Marlene’s braids swung as she whipped around, her eyes wide and passionate. The sight made Lily’s stomach turn uncomfortably. She jabbed her thumb toward the table Narcissa was at. “Sirius got sorted out of the snake pit. She!” she spat out, “ didn’t. ”

Lily’s gaze followed the gesture, met again by the pretty sight of the pretty Slytherin. Narcissa was sitting perfectly upright, her pale blonde hair catching the afternoon light like starlight, gilding over her frame, making her look like one of the silver-framed portraits that lined the halls of Hogwarts— beautiful, untouchable, then, her mind quickly supplied: trapped. She looks trapped.

She was writing something, her quill moving quickly and with no reluctance. She had an assortment of books placed in a deliberate order, piled by the corner of the table, but a well-worn book was placed in front of the blonde, her quill scratching into it. Annotating, Lily thought. She sat alone, her table empty, her expression perfectly content in her little bubble. 

Lily couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly she seemed to belong in the space, as if the library was designed with her in mind. A living portrait. 

“Sirius says she’s different,” Lily countered, a scowl on her face.

Mary choked on her tea.

Marlene’s laugh was sharp enough to draw a glare from other students. “Oh, brilliant! Trust a Black’s opinion on another Black. ” She flicked a chocolate frog card toward Lily—the Black family crest glared up at them, the words ‘Toujours Pur’ scrawled in perfect calligraphy, the English translation written underneath it. Always pure . It didn’t take much to understand what they meant by pure. “They're all the same under the silk and good manners.”

Lily’s fingers itched to show Marlene the pile of books Narcissa helped her with, the thick compilation of notes she got from everything she learned, the way her assignments were graded higher than ever before. All through Narcissa’s assistance. 

But Lily doesn’t think that was necessary. She wanted to prove it through actions rather than words.

Mary, ever the peacemaker, slid a sugar-coated biscuit towards Marlene. “ Come on, Marls. Even you have to admit Mulciber is worse.”

“Mulciber is the human equivalent of a flobberworm’s arse,” Marlene conceded through a mouthful of crumbs. In Lily’s peripheral vision, Mary grimaced. “But Blacks are worse. They don’t get their hands dirty. Ever. They simply whisper and hundreds scramble to do their bidding, their wishes turning into curses.”

As if sensing their gaze, Narcissa glanced up to look at them. Her eyes, her really pretty eyes, met Lily’s for a suspended heartbeat before they flicked to glance at Marlene, a subtle twitch in her eyebrow before she returned to her book. A perfectly practised dismissal.

Lily felt something hot and defiant uncoil in her chest, her scowl deepening. 

“People aren’t their families.”

Marlene groaned, rolling her eyes. “ Merlin, you’re exactly like Sirius.” She shoved the biscuit tin toward Lily. “Eat something before I hex that insane crush out of you.”

Mary giggled into her tea as Lily’s cheeks tinged pink. “Shut up.”

“How eloquent.”

Lily tossed a ball of crumpled parchment at her friend, ignoring her loud gasp as a resounding “Shhh,” came from Madam Pince.

With their tails tucked, they dipped their heads in a silent apology before returning to their assignments. Or at least Lily and Mary were, Marlene had settled her head over her folded arms, her assignment long-abandoned, coated in biscuit crumbs, easily slipping into a nap. 

It took everything within her to keep her gaze downward, on the barely-written-on parchment, instead of staring at the blonde that she knew looked like living artwork by the window. Luckily for her, she didn’t have to wait long before she had her wish granted.

“Excuse me?” 

At the sound of Narcissa’s soft, melodic voice, Marlene’s head whipped up, a preemptive glare on her face. Lily avoided the flutter that erupted through her. “Ms Evans, right?” she asked, her tone casual.

Lily glanced up at Narcissa, who stood by the table, a couple of books in her arms. She had a blank expression on her face, the only hint of familiarity was the twinkle in her eyes. “Yes?”

The blonde leaned forward, placing a well-worn book in front of Lily. Isn’t this… isn’t this what she was annotating earlier? Narcissa, at the sight of Lily’s questioning gaze, explained, “Madam Pince asked me to pass it to you as soon as I was done.”

Lily slowly nodded. “Thank you…”

“No worries. I will be going now.”

Lily watched as the blonde headed toward the doors of the library, a couple of students subtly watching her as she passed, whispers erupting as soon as she passed their table. Lily bristled at the sight, irked at the idea that Narcissa’s simple existence was worth gossiping about. 

She glared at those who stared. 

What they thought about a random, first-year Gryffindor glaring them down, she did not know. She continued to do it anyway. 

When she glanced back to where Narcissa was headed, she was pleasantly surprised to see the blonde still standing by the large, ornate doors, watching her. Her pale, blue eyes glanced down at the book in Lily’s hands before fluttering back to her eyes, expecting.

With careful fingers, Lily gently flipped the cover of the leather-bound book open, her other hand supporting the cracked spine. There was a parchment slipped between the cover and the title page. The note was written in a looping, elegant script. It said:

‘Tomorrow night?’

With a small smile on her lips, she glanced back at the blonde, before dipping her head into a nod. Narcissa’s lips twitched into a small smile. Lily’s heart nearly soared at the sight.

Marlene sent Lily a questioning look, Lily ignored it. 

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ──────── 

In the privacy of her bed, hidden from Marlene’s curious gaze by the drawn curtains, she brought out the book Narcissa had passed to her.

It was a slender book, bound in peacock-blue leather, the spine showing the wear and tear of constant usage, its title embossed in fading gold: Magyckal Hieroglyphs and its Uses. It was easily recognisable, an elegant scrawl was written within the margin of the first page: ‘the black’s little flower.’

Lily traced the words with her fingertip, a soft smile on her face at the thought of a much younger Narcissa excited for her new book. In the back of her mind, the image shifted to a chubbier, green-eyed girl when she received her first book. Me, she thought, she’s just like me.  

When she turned the page, her breath caught—the margins were alive.

What she had expected to see were simple notes, corrections. Yet, painted along the margins of the text were neat diagrams of runic linkages, corrections to the author’s dubious etymologies, even the occasional dry aside ("Ridiculous. See pg. 217 for actual Assyrian precedent"), down to reminders to study its theory outside of the book.

Lily’s chest did something peculiar.

It wasn’t just the book’s rarity (though, Lily wondered where Narcissa even got it. The library didn’t have it) . But it was the… intimacy of those notes, the way they revealed a mind as precise as it was playful, unafraid to be snarky to academics much older than she was, a stark contrast to the way her classmates perceived her. For the first time since she had arrived at Hogwarts, thrown head-first in the wizarding world, Lily didn’t feel like an outsider fumbling with borrowed knowledge.

She felt… seen.

Tucking her feet under her comforter, she placed the book against her pillow and leaned against the headboard. With a smile on her face, her muggle notebook and pen placed next to her for her own notes, she flipped the page.

Chapter Text

When the next day came, Lily had barely slept, overcome by the persistent flutters in her belly. 

She rationalised, telling herself that it was because of the revelations that came from the annotations— It was annotated! She thought with glee—from the book she stayed up reading the whole night had uncovered, but then she would be lying to herself. 

It had barely been twenty-four hours since their last interaction, but she couldn't quell her excitement for their arranged meeting. A private meeting. She could do without the gossip-laden stares from the other students, or the unyielding, questioning look Marlene had in her eyes ever since she nodded at Narcissa in the library. 

Lily simply wanted to talk about the proper ways to learn magic. That's all. Marlene should know her enough to understand that. 

The lessons being taught by Narcissa were just an incredible bonus on her end.

To be taught by a Black, who she had learned to be one of the oldest pureblood families, seemed fitting. Smart, even. To learn magic from someone who only ever knew a life with magic was smart .

That was what she rationalised to herself, even if the thoughts that surrounded Narcissa weren't blended with the knowledge of magic Lily lacked, but with colours of pretty pale blues, starlight locks, and an upward twitch at the corner of her lips. Lily took the baby crush in stride. Despite what her sister would say, there was nothing wrong with having a crush on someone as pretty and smart as Narcissa. 

It felt inevitable.

Yet, no matter how resolute she was with that thought, she couldn't pen down her first interaction with Narcissa in any of the letters she sent Petunia in the last week, even if she had never kept anything from her older sister ever since she was a kid. That was her sister. They would love each other forever.

However, whenever she did try to write it down, it always felt wrong, as though her body recognised that it was a secret she wanted to keep to herself first and not something she could admit out loud yet. It made it feel too real.

Just for a moment, let herself relish in this feeling for just a moment.

After avoiding Marlene's insistent questions and Potter's incessant need for attention, Lily managed to sneak out of Gryffindor with the help of Remus and Mary. Both of whom greeted her with ‘Good luck!’ as she bounded out of their common room with a skip in her step.

She had Narcissa's satchel slung across her body, the book the blonde lent her tucked neatly inside. She was pleased to find out that the bag itself was enchanted with books in mind. Multiple slots made for any-sized book lined the sides of the satchel, a self-updating list that featured the titles of the books within, and a Feather-light charm to string it all together. It was a great product, she could confidently say, and Narcissa willingly letting it go to help another student in need made everyone's opinion on the blonde blend with the shadows.

Narcissa had been the sole person in Hogwarts who had taken the time to explain things to her without making her feel like she was daft for not knowing. It spoke a lot about her character.

Despite the warnings Marlene had made sure to drill into her in the past twenty-four hours, Lily found herself smiling as she rounded the corner, her eyes caught by the blonde who stood by the entrance of the library.

As though she could feel the redhead's stare, Narcissa's head glanced up from the book she had in her hands and caught her gaze, the usual cold look she had in her eyes melting away in the familiarity of Lily's visage. Narcissa watched her quietly, with a small smile on her face, as Lily moved to stand in front of her. “Good evening, Evans.”

Lily, without thinking much of what she was doing, immediately scrunched her nose at the mention of her last name. “ Ew. Please just call me Lily.”

Narcissa breathed out a soft, melodic laugh as she dipped her head in a nod. “Of course, Lily.” The way her lips formed her name made Lily's face redden, she hoped the darkness of the night hid her from the soft light of the flickering torches that lined the Hogwarts corridors. “You may call me Narcissa, then.”

“Narcissa.” Lily couldn't say it then, but she loved how the other's name rolled from her lips. Without wanting to seem like she was staring, she glanced down at the bag slung across her body and quickly took it off. “Oh, here!” she said, presenting the bag to the other, “Thank you again for letting me borrow this. It truly was a big help.”

“I’m glad.” Narcissa’s gaze dropped to her hands, Lily’s attention followed: the blonde’s fingers were wrung tight, bone-white. “How about the book? Was it…was it adequate?”

Lily beamed up at her. “It’s brilliant!” You’re brilliant. “Your notes on the Carthaginian conjuration symbols—”

“Keep your voice down,” Narcissa hissed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She shifted closer to the wall, a gentle grip on Lily’s elbow to bring her with her as she checked the corners for anyone who could have heard them. All Lily could think about was her hand on her elbow, which was getting warmer by the second. “You’re friends with Potter, aren’t you? Hasn’t he taught you to be discreet?”

Lily giggled, hiding it behind her hand, shaking her head. “Discreet? Potter? You must be mistaken. That boy doesn’t know how to hide his emotions if his life depended on it.”

“Like his crush on you?” Narcissa pointed out, an eyebrow arched. “Surely, you must have noticed it. He perks up like a meerkat whenever you enter the Great Hall.”

Lily blinked owlishly. Why does she… why does she know that? Her thoughts whirred within her, but the mention of Potter stumped it, her irritation for her classmate overshadowing everything else. She scowled. “It’s a joke. He doesn’t know what he likes yet, and finds it funny how annoyed I get by his incessant attention.” 

Narcissa stared at her with an unreadable expression. “You’re blind, then,” she said simply, her voice factual, “What would you do once you realise it’s an actual crush?”

“Nothing,” Lily deadpanned with a shrug. 

“What if it becomes a serious pursuit in the future?”

“I don’t like how he treats others,” Lily pointed out with a scowl. “That’s enough to deter me.”

Narcissa had a pensive look as Lily turned to lean against the wall. “Hmm. That’s… peculiar. I was sure he would grow into a heartthrob; his father was famously one. And his family name would greatly help his chances.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrowed as she tilted her head, a brief memory of Potter’s reaction towards Sev’s desire to join Slytherin resurfacing in her mind. She frowned. “Why does any of that matter if he’s a prick?”

The corner of Narcissa’s lips twitched upward, a small tick in her brow, a visible reaction Lily learned for whenever the blonde was thinking about something deeply. “It doesn’t.”

“I’m glad you agree, then,” Lily said as a small smile made its way across her lips. “Now… about the book.”

“You’ll return it on Thursday. Unmarked,” Narcissa said quickly as she slid the bag’s strap over her shoulder in one swift motion, in a grace Lily envied and admired.

“Of course,” Lily whispered. Then, impulsively: “Could we— maybe —go over the Sumerian sections together? If you have the time?”

Narcissa, in a lapse of her usual grace, whipped her head to look at Lily, her eyes wide. “You’ve… you have already reached the Sumerian section?”

Lily nodded. “I finished the book all at once.” She watched as Narcissa slowly digested the information, her mouth slightly agape. “Is that a no, then? I don’t want to intrude on the hospitality you have already shown me.”

Narcissa’s eyes flicked toward the doors of the library. For a heartbeat, Lily feared she had miscalculated—that this small kindness had been a fluke, not an opening. 

Then, so quietly Lily almost missed it: “Let’s go, before Filch starts his patrol.”

“Not worried about the prefects?”

“Never,” Narcissa said with a rare, wide smile, her eyes twinkling, an unspoken reason for her confidence inlaid in every movement and decision she made. With a hand around Lily’s wrist, she pulled the wide-eyed Gryffindor towards the Library door. “Ready?”

As Narcissa pushed the doors, Lily pressed the book to her chest, its weight solid as a promise.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

It was a quiet gesture, small to others, but it was everything to Lily.

Lily held her breath as her ballpoint pen hovered over a passage within ‘Magyckal Hieroglyphs and its Uses’ — its margins pristine, save for Narcissa’s elegant, loopy script. She kept to her word and made sure she made no mark on the beautifully annotated book, her notes written in the notebook she brought for self-study. 

“I don’t think this is right,” Lily pointed out, gesturing to the text with her pen , careful not to mark the page.

“Where? Show me.” Narcissa moved closer, her shoulder pressed warm against hers, closer than they had ever been before. Lily turned her pen around, using the cap to underline the text. The scent of bergamot and ink curled between them as the blonde tilted her head, her silken hair falling like a curtain, the tip of her quill pressed against her cheek. “You’re right,” Narcissa murmured with a small nod, surprising them both. “Borage does contradict this.”

A warmth spread through her chest, pleased that she wasn’t just gaining information in their interactions, but also brought out well-intended debates as well. 

Lily watched, entranced, as Narcissa’s delicate fingers slid her inkwell toward her— toward Lily —with deliberate care, making sure the ink didn’t spill as she did.

“Go on, then,” Narcissa whispered, “Correct it for me.”

The permission landed like a spell. Lily’s fingers trembled slightly as she uncapped her ballpoint pen, the first Muggle object Narcissa would have ever allowed to touch her things. The moment her ink met parchment— a bold underline beneath the flawed excerpt —she felt Narcissa quietly let out a long breath against her temple.

Not disapproval, but something Lily didn’t realise she craved from the blonde.

Approval.

Lily carefully wrote her correction in the margin, her bubble-like letters a stark contrast to Narcissa’s carefully calligraphed cursive. It said: 

“See Borage p.42—Carthaginian conjugation uses lunar phases, NOT solar!”

Lily dotted the ‘i’s with a tiny star, just because she could.

Narcissa let out a small laugh. “Must you doodle on academic texts?”

Yet, when Lily peeked at Narcissa, the Slytherin's lips were curved in something dangerously close to a smile. And later, when Lily flipped through the book, she would find every one of her stars carefully preserved —untouched by correcting charms— each one a silent acknowledgement:

You belong here, too. 

For the rest of the night, they exchanged corrections within the book, decorating the margins with a mix of Narcissa’s pretty script in black ink, and in Lily’s telltale green. 

Narcissa had added:

“Borage is correct. This author confused 3rd century Babylonian modifiers with—”

Lily didn't read the rest. She was too busy memorising the way Narcissa's eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the faint flush creeping up her neck as she realised Lily was staring.

“What is it?” Narcissa snapped, but there was no heat in her voice, just the pretty pink that dusted her cheeks.

Lily just smiled and pocketed her pen, a mischievous light in her eyes. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking how lucky I am to have my own personal hieroglyphic translator.”

The sound Narcissa made was halfway between a scoff and a laugh—a sound Lily had learned meant ‘I'm pleased but won't admit it’. Outside their pool of candlelight, the school stretched on, full of students who'd never notice the way Narcissa would tilt her body towards Lily, would nod, pleased, whenever she would bring up something faulty, or the way she would stare at Lily whenever she thought Lily was entranced by the book.

But Lily noticed.

And for now, that was enough.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

Days later, Lily was in the library, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she hovered around the table Narcissa frequented, a spot most people avoided like the plague.

In her hand, the ‘ Magical Hieroglyphs and its Uses’ felt heavier than any textbook had a right to be. One week of stolen library hours had rewritten the meaning of the book entirely. 

Now, when her fingers gently caressed the cover, her other hand supporting its spine, she didn't just feel the well-conditioned leather of the well-loved book, but the lingering memories of all their shared moments: the musky scent of ink drying on old parchment, the sound of rustling pages and pen scrawls, and memories of silken starlight hair and bright blue eyes occupy her mind—transfixed by the way her blues would sharpen with focus when debating some arcane grammatical point, brighter than any spellfire.

Two hours each evening. That's all they'd claimed. Yet somehow those minutes had become the axis around which Lily's world now turned.

A smile grew on her face as her eyes traced the fading gold title of the ‘Magical Hieroglyphs and its Uses’ —the book now with every margin filled not just with Narcissa's precise script, but Lily's own messy annotations curling around them like ivy.

Lily hesitated, then reached into her bag, feeling around for a book she had debated the whole night whether she should bring or not.

For the first book her parents had ever gotten her.

The Muggle paperback was dog-eared and coffee-stained, its cover depicting a lamppost in a snowy forest. Lily could remember the nights she would imagine herself in Lucy’s place (with Petunia as Edmund and Severus as Mr Tumnus) , discovering a magical world she would save. She smiled. 

Lily ran her thumb over the title— The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe —before tucking it between the pages of Narcissa’s leather-bound book. Her own annotations peppered the margins in telltale green ink:

“This reminds me of Platform 9¾!” was scrawled beside Narnia’s discovery.

“The White Witch is just like Filch—all smiles and cruelty,” was underlined three times, followed by a poorly-drawn doodle, and in a small scrawl, “And Mrs Norris is the dwarf she’s with.”

And on the final page, where Aslan returns:

“Some magic isn't made by spells, mixed in potions, or cast by wands. Some are just... coming home,” a drawing of a flower box lined the bottom of the page, filled with the plants that represented her family.

Lily continued to worry her lip. She had debated adding: “You could come home too,” but that invitation was too bold, even for her Gryffindor self. Instead, she'd charmed a single dried lily between the last pages, enchanted to emit soft golden light when opened.

“Looking for something, Lily?” Narcissa’s melodic voice chimed in, immediately snapping Lily out of her stupor. 

Lily nearly hexed the nearest bookshelf, her wand up and trained at it, which ended embarrassingly. Narcissa stood inches away from her wand’s tip, her eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly perfect way as she moved the wand aside. She didn’t even realise how the library had emptied out, and if the large clock by the front desk could be trusted, the other students had left for dinner. 

“The poor shelf,” the blonde said in a deadpan voice.

“Oh, har har, ” Lily replied with a roll of her eyes, returning her wand to her pocket, her cheeks growing warm. She cleared her throat. “And no,” she lied, “just returning your book. I feel like I exhausted everything I could learn from it.” 

Narcissa received the book, her fingers— pale and elegant —flipped the cover open, her breath catching as the enchanted lily’s glow illuminated her face. For a heartbeat, Lily saw it: the girl behind the ornate mask hand-crafted by the Black family, her eyes wide with wonder.

Then the moment passed. Narcissa flipped the cover shut, her eyes never leaving the cover, her fingers trailing the worn-out corners with a certain kind of care that made warmth spread throughout the Gryffindor’s chest.

“Muggle literature,” she said, voice carefully neutral, but Lily had grown to see behind the mask she kept up for everyone else in public. “How... quaint. ”

Yet, when she had turned to leave, Lily saw it—the unmistakable corner of the paperback tucked quickly into the leather satchel.

And the slightest upward twitch at the corner of her lips, blue eyes alight in delight.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

Deep within the Slytherin dormitory, the youngest daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black carefully drew the curtains of her canopied bed, spelling it shut, a foreign book—a muggle paperback— wedged under her pillow: another secret her housemates could never find out about.

She waited until her roommates had settled down, until the room was silent, the greenish light from the Black Lake casting wavering shadows across the room, before drawing Lily’s book from beneath her pillow and onto her lap. 

The lion, the witch, and the wardrobe… she thought to herself, her eyes caught by the second-mentioned name. Since when did they know about us? She wondered as her mind racked over recent crossover history, and all she could think of was what happened in the States, where intelligence and disobedience were grounds to die by fire. She had thought that with that regard for their kind, they would have avoided any mention of them. But… this? It seemed like they do like magic.

The cover felt foreign in her hands—soft where wizarding books were rigid, its pages thin as onion skin. She traced the illustration on the front with one finger: the lamppost glowing in perpetual winter. How odd, she thought, to paint magic so plainly.

Then, she flipped the cover open. 

A shower of golden light burst across her lap—Lily’s charmed flower’s petals fluttered slightly in the non-existent breeze. Her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat at the sight, quick and hummingbird-light. Narcissa inhaled sharply, glancing around, wary of getting caught, before hastily muttering a silencing charm.

The margins were a myriad of green ink, doodles, and chaos. Lily had underlined whole passages in deep-green ink— The colour of her eyes, her mind unhelpfully supplied—scrawling notes (just like ivy) in the blank spaces with arrows jabbing toward the text:

“This is EXACTLY like when I got my Hogwarts letter!!” was written beside the wardrobe’s discovery.

“C.S. Lewis clearly never met a Dementor,” scrawled next to the White Witch’s description with a doodle to match.

Narcissa’s lips twitched.

She turned a page and froze. There, wedged between chapters, was a folded parchment—a drawing : it was a crude but unmistakable sketch of her, seated at the library table, nose buried in Magyckal Hieroglyphs. The caption read: “The Ice Queen of Slytherin (who secretly likes peppermint toffees).”

A sound escaped her—something perilously close to a giggle. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

By the time she reached the final chapter, her chest ached strangely. Lily’s note beside Aslan’s return— “Some magic is just coming home” —had been circled three times, with a single addendum in smaller letters:

“P.S. Hogwarts is my wardrobe. You’re my lamppost.”

The flower’s glow intensified, warming her palms. Narcissa stared at it until her eyes burned.

Then, with trembling fingers, she carefully tore a blank strip from her Charms essay and wrote:

Dear Lily,

Your metaphors are as subtle as a Bludger to the skull. The White Witch’s reign ends at Chapter 17. Coincidentally, I’m free Saturday after Astronomy.

Narcissa

Narcissa tucked the note between the front cover and its title page, where she knew Lily would find it. With tender hands and a small smile on her face, she slipped the ever-glowing lily into her journal, tracing the petals with a tenderness she never knew she could exhibit before closing it shut.

Outside the dungeon windows, the giant squid drifted past, its tentacles stirring the dark water—but Narcissa Black, for the first time in her life, didn’t feel the dungeon’s ever-present chill.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

The library was unusually quiet— she could see Madam Pince’s pleased smile from where she sat— that when Narcissa approached their table, she could hear every reaction as though they announced her arrival out loud: from Mary’s teacup clatter against its saucer, to Remus’ sharp inhale as he recognised the Black crest carved into the blonde’s ring.

Marlene’s chair screeched (Lily winced as Madam Pince dropped her head into her hands) as she stood, her braids swinging like whips. “What do you want, Snake? ” the last word said with vitriol. A part of Lily wanted to roll her eyes at the childish hatred stemming from ignorance, but kept her eyes on Narcissa as she got closer, no part of her wishing her gaze to stray.

Narcissa didn’t even glance at Marlene.

The blonde placed the book— The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe —in front of Lily with deliberate care. The cover was pristine, but Lily knew without opening it that the margins would be full of new annotations in that elegant, looping script she’d come to recognise instantly. A tingle ran down her spine as she imagined them later that same night, the book shared between the two of them in the middle of the library. 

“You forgot this,” Narcissa said coolly.

Lily’s heart hammered. The book hadn’t been forgotten—the two girls knew that. They shared a knowing glance as Lily gave Narcissa a small nod.

Marlene’s eyes flicked between them, her outrage faltering when she recognised the worn spine. “That’s—that’s your—”

My comfort book. The one I read after every fight with Petunia. The one I’ve never let anyone borrow. And, most importantly, the book I would have never forgotten deliberately. 

Narcissa turned to leave, but not before Lily saw it—the slightest twitch of her fingers against her robes, the telltale bulge of a small tin in her pocket.

Lily’s lips curved.

“Wait,” she called.

Narcissa paused.

Lily reached into her bag and pulled out the brass tin Narcissa had given her last week, after the first night Narcissa had the book, the one charmed to keep the peppermint toffees within, fresh. She slid it across the table toward Marlene, whose mouth hung open.

“Here,” Lily said lightly. “Try one. They’re surprisingly good.”

Marlene stared at the tin, then at Narcissa’s stiff shoulders, then back at Lily. The unspoken truth hung between them: This is a peace offering. From a Black .

Remus coughed into his hand—poorly disguising a laugh. Mary kicked him under the table.

Narcissa didn’t turn around, but Lily didn’t miss the way her steps slowed just slightly as she headed back to her table, unusually occupied by one other Slytherin. One with brown curls, and equally warm brown eyes. Andromeda Black; Narcissa’s sister. 

Marlene pried open the tin with exaggerated suspicion. “If these are poisoned, I’m haunting you, Evans.”

But when she popped a toffee into her mouth, her scowl softened.

“ …Merlin. That is disgustingly good.”

Lily grinned and flipped open the book. There, on the first page, in Narcissa’s flawless script:

“The lamppost burns brighter in winter. Saturday. Bring more metaphors.”

Beneath it, pressed between the pages—a single silver-green ribbon, charmed to always smell of peppermint.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

Lily was by the stone griffin in front of the library when Narcissa found her, her gaze on her feet as she repeatedly made a loop, her Gryffindor scarf twisted tight around her fingers—a nervous habit Narcissa had catalogued days ago. The visage sent an irritating pang through her ribs; an annoyingly familiar warmth spreading through her. She welcomed the feeling.

Pathetic, she scolded herself, even as her feet moved of their own accord, yearning to be closer to the Gryffindor like a magnet that had found its polar opposite.

“You're late,” Narcissa announced, her voice slicing through the torchlit corridor and past through Lily’s overthinking mind. 

Lily spun, the Narnia book clutched to her chest like a shield. She visibly relaxed at the sight of her, Narcissa tried to swallow down what the small motion meant. “It’s locked,” she said, tilting her head toward the library doors. “Madam Pince has Filch barring the doors like we’re smuggling dragon eggs.” Her cheeks were flushed—whether from running or arguing, Narcissa couldn’t tell.

Narcissa had expected this. Avery’s beady eyes had been tracking their study sessions for days, her quill scratching notes to Madam Pince about “suspicious inter-house fraternisation,” as though Lily wasn’t hanging out with the Snape kid regularly. It was only an issue because Narcissa was who she was: a Black. 

Narcissa scoffed at the thought. As if a barred door could stop me from hanging out with Lily someone I wish to be with.

“How tragic,” Narcissa drawled, a perfectly manicured eyebrow arching. “Shall I fetch you a handkerchief for your ruined academic ambitions?”

Lily’s pretty emerald eyes narrowed—good, there’s the fire—but then her shoulders slumped. “Guess we would have to reschedule this,” she exhaled, extending the book toward the blonde. 

Narcissa didn’t take it.

“Don’t be absurd.” She seized Lily’s wrist, ignoring the electric jolt that raced up her arm at the contact. It said everything about what she was starting to feel, but nothing about what she was to do about it. “The Astronomy Tower. There’s an alcove hidden behind a tapestry.”

Lily’s lips parted. “You want to—?”

“I want to finish correcting your atrocious transliteration of Akkadian verb forms,” Narcissa lied, already tugging her down the corridor, ignoring the way her heart beat in perfect symphony to their rushed pace. “... and possibly discuss with you the possibilities of C.S. Lewis being a squib.”

Lily’s laugh bounced off the stone walls, too loud, too bright, too Lily. Narcissa should have found it grating. She didn’t.

The alcove was smaller than Narcissa remembered—just a curved cavity between two arched windows, barely wide enough for the moth-eaten sofa someone had abandoned there generations ago, but deep enough that no one would know of the alcove when the tapestry— an ironic piece of art with a woman walking through a field of flowers— was drawn shut. Lily collapsed onto it with zero decorum, her hair fanning across the cushions like spilt ink, clouds of dust erupting into the air.

“This is perfect,” the ginger breathed, uncaring of the white that started to coat her robes. 

“It’s adequate,” Narcissa corrected, her hand fanning the dust away from her face, but she was already settling beside her, the Narnia book falling open across their laps. She would just have to clean the place before their next meeting. 

Lily leaned closer, her shoulder pressing against the blonde’s side, her warmth seeping through. “You missed a footnote on page 137,” she whispered, her breath ghosting over Narcissa’s cheek.

Narcissa inhaled sharply—lemongrass and parchment and something undeniably Lily. “I didn’t miss it,” she murmured, “I left it for you to find.”

A beat of silence. Then Lily’s pinky finger slid alongside Narcissa’s on the page, tentative as a first-year casting ‘Lumos.’

Neither of them pulled away.

High above, the stars wheeled in their ancient patterns, indifferent to the way Narcissa's pulse stuttered when Lily turned the page, her laughter soft as she discovered the new annotations Narcissa had left just for her.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

It was easy to fall into a routine when either girl could not find any part of them that wanted to turn the other away; when both girls couldn't find it in themselves not to want to see the other. 

Time bent itself around their hunger desire to be near one another.

It began with stolen moments— secret meetings in that forgotten alcove where the castle’s stones still remembered the echo of their first laughter. However, shortly, the universe appeared to shift, creating hours where none ought to be, distorting curfews and timelines to fit what neither could name aloud.

Their Hogwarts years unfolded in moments:

Midnight. The scratch of a quill and the glide of a ballpoint pen against parchment gave way to whispered debates that lasted until the moon bled silver through their alcove’s narrow window, pooling in the hollow of Lily’s collarbone and gilding the curve of Narcissa’s jaw. Lily’s muggle pen left emerald trails across Narcissa’s margins—corrections that became commentary under candlelight, then inside jokes, then something dangerously close to love letters of affection.

Dusk. In the blue hour before dawn, their alcove walls grew to become a living tapestry of their own making. Charcoal lilies bloomed between Narcissa’s precise rune sketches. Dried flowers pressed between book pages (lilies from Hogsmeade, narcissus from the greenhouse) marked their shared timeline. An odd assortment of fresh lilies and daffodils homed the vase they propped by the stone window, their white and yellow petals catching the soft light of the approaching sun, as the mixture of their scents blended with the breeze that oft-visited their alcove. A constellation map on the ceiling charted every night they had spent staring upward, fingers tangled under starfire.

Every damn day. Lily learned the unyielding weight of a Rosier heirloom quill, its dark, polished feather catching glints of gold in the afternoon sun, the ink glistening like spilt midnight across parchment. She learned of the sacred hush that settled over Narcissa when she worked on her schoolwork, a pocket of stillness lit only by the warm, honeyed light slanting through the alcove window. In turn, Narcissa memorised the cadence of Lily’s thoughts—the way she chewed her lower lip under the soft amber glow of reading lamps, the bright, almost wild flare of her nostrils when a spell finally bloomed correctly, framed by the pale silver shimmer of early evening light creeping through the corridors.

And through it all, the unbearable alchemy of proximity: shoulders brushing as they reached around the other in the tight space, the electric hush when their fingers lingered too long passing notes, Lily’s breath catching as her cheeks blossomed when Narcissa recited poetry in perfect French, Narcissa’s pulse stuttering when Lily absentmindedly twirled a lock of her hair around her pen.

No grand declarations. 

No labels. 

Just an intricate blend of a thousand shared breaths etching themselves into stone, a hundred half-finished sentences that needed no endings, and two girls learning, a couple of years too late, that some fires don’t burn out—

They crystallise.

Chapter Text

In her fourth year, Narcissa couldn’t swallow down what she felt for the younger. She let it grow unfettered until her affection bled through every action, every gaze, and in every moment she was with Lily. Even if Lily’s studying habits had continued to be one of the worst the Slytherin had ever seen, she stayed beside her until Lily asked her to leave.

She never did.

After leaving the Gryffindor to return a pile of books to their respective shelves, Narcissa found Lily slumped over a library table near midnight, her face half-buried in a mountain of parchment, her face pale in the moonlight, her pen still loosely gripped in ink-stained fingers. The sight sent twin spikes of irritation and concern through her chest.

Steam still curled from the Pepper Up potion Narcissa had forced into her hands twenty minutes prior, though the colour had only partially returned to her cheeks.

Narcissa frowned. Desaturation never suited human sunlight.

“This is what happens,” Narcissa sighed, tugging Lily’s pen away from her before it could mark across her unfinished Transfiguration essay, “when you substitute sleep for caffeine and stubbornness.”

Lily blinked up at her, eyes glassy with exhaustion. “M’fine,” she mumbled, reaching blindly for her abandoned teacup—only for Narcissa to vanish it with a flick of her wand. 

“You’re not fine. You’re a disaster.” Narcissa’s voice was sharp, but her hands were gentle as they manoeuvred Lily upright. “And you need to catch up on much-needed sleep in your dormitory room.”

Narcissa’s chest tightened. She’d noticed, of course. Noticed the way Lily’s laughter had grown sluggish in their late-night study sessions, the alarming frequency with which she dozed off in the middle of taking. Noticed, and brewed extra-strength Pepper Up with honey (just the way Lily liked it) , and feigned indifference when Lily stole her parchments. Noticed when Lily’s shoulders continued to hunch over as the moonlight caught the dark circles under her eyes—circles that had been deepening for weeks.

Through it all, Narcissa stayed by her side. 

Pathetic, she chided herself.

Yet when Lily lifted her head, resting her freckled cheek against her folded arms to gaze up with those devastating green eyes— Merlin, those eyes—Narcissa’s breath caught.

“Thanks for staying with me, Cissa.”

The words, raw and quiet, sent Narcissa’s heart racing like a plunge from a seeker in the midst of a stormy Quidditch game. 

She nodded, mute, her usual eloquence abandoning her. It was absurd. She, who could debate blood purity laws in her sleep, was rendered speechless by a Gryffindor’s gratitude.

Then, Lily bit her lip lightly, fluttering her lashes in a way that made her heart skip a beat. “But… could I have five more minutes? Pretty please?”

Narcissa playfully rolled her eyes as she said, “Absolutely not.”

“Fine…” Lily tried to stand, her knees buckling immediately. Narcissa was there in an instant, hands steadying Lily’s waist before she could think better of it. The contact burned— she burned—but Narcissa refused to pull away. Not when Lily leaned closer to her, not when her fingers instinctively clasped around Narcissa’s forearm, not when she offered that gentle, weary smile that made Narcissa’s heart beat in her ears.

Narcissa tightened her hold on the younger, ignoring how her traitorous heart jolted when Lily’s forehead brushed against her collarbone. “Three nights in a row, Lily. Even the portraits are starting to gossip.”

“You’re worse than Madam Pomfrey, and she’s just doing her job ,” Lily grumbled, even as she leaned closer.

“And you’re unbearable.” Narcissa adjusted her grip, ignoring the way her pulse stuttered when Lily’s fingers gripped her robes weakly. “Honestly, must I brew your common sense into a draught too?”

Despite her weary state, Lily gave her a lopsided, mischievous smile. “Would you?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Narcissa deadpanned, which brought out a tired giggle out of the redhead. 

They took their time as they slowly made their way through the shadow-coated corridors, toward Gryffindor Tower, Narcissa’s arm a steady weight around Lily’s waist. Each step was torture—not due to Lily’s weight, but because of how her eyes held their own stars, the way her breath caught when she pressed close, the soft exhale as she rested her head on Narcissa’s shoulder.

It was maddening how her disloyal heart raced.

At the portrait hole, Narcissa forced herself to withdraw, clasping her hands behind her back to hide their trembling. Lily turned, her smile still drowsy but brighter now.

“Thanks for—”

“If you say ‘for caring,’ I’m hexing you.”

Lily grinned. “Thanks for bringing me back, then.”

Agatha’s— the Fat Lady’s real name, Lily once said—knowing smirk was unbearable.

Narcissa’s ears burned. “Goodnight, Lily,” she forced out before turning around, already dreading the long walk back to the dungeons. 

“Wait—”  

Narcissa turned back, a blonde eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

“Do you… Would you like to go on a walk with me?” Lily asked, voice thick with exhaustion but eyes alight.

Narcissa blinked. “You should be resting.” 

“I don’t want to head to bed tonight.” 

The admission hung between them, fragile as a cobweb but as heavy as an anchor, rooting her in place. Narcissa’s resolve crumbled.

“Very well,” she murmured, watching as Lily’s face lit up like the Great Hall at come Yuletide. 

“Just wait for a moment! I’ll just change out of my uniform.”

Narcissa 

When Lily reappeared moments later, clad in those horrendous red-and-gold pyjamas (of course) , Narcissa nearly scoffed but cleared her throat as Lily wrapped a matching scarf around Narcissa’s neck, much to the disdain of the blonde’s stuttering heart. 

A nervous smile bloomed across Lily’s lips, her cheeks a rosy pink, her emerald-green eyes vibrant in the flickering light from the torches that lined their school’s walls. But then— 

Then Lily offered her hand.

Palm up.

Waiting. 

Immediately, Narcissa’s every thought in her mind vanished, her mind blank.

“Should we go?”

Narcissa felt her head dip into a nod as she consciously willed herself to not notice the hand— or the blurring line that came with it —as she took a step forward, her mask working hard as she moved into place beside the Gryffindor. 

She didn’t need to. She knew she didn’t need to. 

Yet, as if guided by Mother Fate herself, she felt her arm reach out anyway, regardless of her warring thoughts, clearly entranced by Lily’s enchanting sight, before she slid her hand into Lily’s, their fingers threading together so naturally, it almost made Narcissa’s heart skip a beat. 

The smile that greeted her was brighter than any star her family was named after, the joy sparkling in those brilliant eyes leaving Narcissa breathless, weightless. Only one traitorous thought tethered her through her own turmoil.

Chérie … what have you done to me?

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

Narcissa pondered the subtle art of hand holding as Lily led her through the torchlit corridors of the castle, their laughter bouncing off of the cobblestone floors as curls of red and a curtain of platinum blonde whipped behind them, the scent of cherries, lemongrass, and the morning dew from the fields they frequently inhabit as they watched the sun rise (Lily’s), intertwined with bergamot, frankincense, and lavender (Narcissa’s) followed after them, but the blonde’s eyes were trained on their intertwined hands.

Once upon a time, she despised any kind of physical contact, and hand-holding fell under that umbrella. Its overall artistry was lost on her until she met Lily.

The very concept of being physically tethered to another person, vulnerable to their whims, subject to their pull—seemed absurd to her. Control was everything in the House of Black. In their house, control was a thing to be bartered, wielded, and strung over them as though it were a privilege and not a right. It had been taken from her and given back as a reward all throughout her childhood, and the idea of surrendering it had always made her skin prickle with something close to revulsion.  

Yet there she was.

Fingers interlaced with Lily’s. 

Joy bouncing off the castle walls in a harmony of giggles.

And Narcissa’s world had narrowed to a single, startling point of contact.  

Lily’s grip was warm. Certain. Her palm was rough, littered with scabbed-over scars from working in the gardens, scraped against Narcissa’s own annoyingly soft skin in a way that should have irritated the blonde. Ot didn’t. Instead, Narcissa found herself cataloguing the sensation: the press of each knuckle, the way Lily’s thumb absently traced the ridge of her wrist bone, the electric buzz that travelled up her arm like a poorly cast Tickling Charm.  

It was...  

What was it?

Then Lily turned to smile at her over her shoulder, freckles stark against her sun-flushed cheeks, and Narcissa understood with sudden, terrifying clarity:  

This wasn’t surrender.  

This was coming home.  

The castle’s grandeur—its towering arches and enchanted tapestries, the very stones steeped in centuries of magic—had always just been a promise of where she would understand her privilege, her duty, of how she would want nothing more than what her family and its legacy had to offer.  

Until now. 

Until Lily.   

The portraits lining Hogwarts’ corridors were usually delighted in raising the alarm— especially after curfew —but tonight, something peculiar happened. As Narcissa and Lily sprinted past, hands clasped and laughter muffled behind sleeves, the painted figures didn’t so much as twitch toward their frames’ edges to call for Filch. Instead, they pretended not to notice: the Fat Friar feigned a sudden interest in his goblet, Sir Cadogan dramatically turned to polish his sword, and even the usually nosy Mrs Norris (the painting, not the cat) busied herself with watering the… grass. Yet Narcissa, ever observant, caught it—the subtle quirk of lips hastily suppressed, the knowing glances exchanged between frames as she and Lily dashed by. It wasn’t just tolerance; it was complicity.  

For the first time, the castle’s ancient guardians had chosen, quite deliberately, to look the other way. 

Narcissa felt incredibly… grateful for them. She gave every passing portrait a small smile.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

Lily was so bloody tired of working twice as hard for half the result.

She watched as Marlene cast Avifors from across the Charms classroom—her golden braids whipping in delight as she effortlessly conjured a flock of golden canaries, their wings catching the sunlight like tiny mirrors as Professor Flitwick clapped his hands excitedly as “Ten points to Gryffindor!” spilt from his lips. 

No hesitation. 

No stuttered incantations. 

Just magic, flowing as easily as laughter from her friend’s lips, as her wrist confidently understood the wand movement needed for every spell Professor Flitwick asked of her. 

Of course, it came this naturally for you, Lily thought bitterly, grinding her teeth until her jaw ached. You have had access to magic even before you could walk. 

Then there was beady-eyed Avery with his stupidly expensive robes and his stupidly perfect inflexion of ancient spells he had never had to earn, as though Latin was his mother tongue. But with the money he seemingly threw around, she wouldn’t have been surprised if it was. Then, there was the way he would glance at her when she struggled, his dark eyes dripping with that infuriating pureblood pity that made her want to—

Her wand sparked violently, scorching her parchment. She immediately stamped out the small flame that erupted at its corner. 

“Problem, Mudblood? ” Mulciber sneered from the next table.

Lily’s knuckles whitened around her wand. She hated this. Hated how every slip-up felt like proof to them. Hated how sometimes— sometimes— she wondered if they were right.

As soon as the bell rang, she ignored her friends’ calls for her and charged down the castle halls, her robes billowing behind her. A part of her wanted to find the humour in how she resembled her dungeon-bat of a best friend at the moment, but the murmurs of ‘mudblood’ adhered to her relentlessly. She kicked a suit of armour for good measure, relishing in the metallic clang that resonated through the vacant corridor.

The alcove’s tapestry was pushed aside with unnecessary force, but there was no part of Lily that cared at the moment. She just needed to see the one person who could make her feel better. 

Narcissa glanced up from an Advanced Potions textbook, lifting one pale eyebrow in response to the interruption, but before she had a chance to say anything—probably some snarky remark regarding Gryffindor theatrics—Lily grabbed the book from her grasp and let it fall onto the sofa with a thud.

Then, without ceremony, she plopped onto the cushions and let her head fall into Narcissa’s lap.

A beat of silence.

Narcissa’s fingers hovered hesitantly above Lily’s wild curls before finally sinking into them with the care of someone dealing with unstable potion ingredients. “Did someone put a curse on your hairbrush today?” she drawled, while her fingers skillfully made soft circles on Lily’s scalp.

Lily emitted a growl that would fill a werewolf with pride. “Marlene perfected the Avifors Charm on her first attempt,” she whispered into Narcissa’s robes, her eyes screwed shut. “And Avery— eugh —simply gazed at his quill, and it began writing notes on its own.”

Narcissa hummed softly, her thumb gliding along the curve of Lily’s ear. “Well?”

“And I almost singed my eyebrows while attempting to light a damn candle!” Lily sighed, tilting her head back to scowl at Narcissa. “It isn’t fair.”

For once, Narcissa didn’t ridicule. Didn’t remind her of the esteemed witches' etiquette or the significance of accuracy. Gently, she ran her fingers through Lily’s hair and whispered, her voice quieter than the breeze that filtered through their alcove, “No. It isn’t.”

And somehow— against all odds —that caused the knot in Lily’s chest to unravel.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

“I’m not like them, aren’t I?” 

Lily’s voice was quiet as she laid her head on Narcissa’s lap, the blonde’s fingers still tangled in her fiery locks.

The words were stuck in Narcissa’s throat as she swallowed roughly, as though it was filled with honey, her gaze on the redhead unmoving—steadfast and inevitable, like stars bound by gravity in an eternal dance, locked in orbit. 

No, Lily was not like McKinnon, who had grown up only knowing magic, and most definitely not like Avery, who wielded the status of his blood like it was a weapon.

No. Lily was far more perilous.

Lily was dangerous in a way that unsettled Narcissa—she made her doubt things she had been taught to believe, disrupted her thoughts, made her hesitate in ways no one else did. Lily moved through the world with a certainty Narcissa had never possessed.

For the first time in her meticulously controlled existence, Narcissa fumbled.

Everything seemed to be different for Lily Evans. 

The realisation tasted like iron on her tongue.

“No…” Narcissa’s voice emerged softer than intended. She watched a shaft of afternoon light gild Lily’s stubborn jaw, the freckles beneath her eyes like constellations begging to be mapped. “No, you are most certainly not McKinnon or Avery,” she paused, willing herself to say something supportive, something that would help soothe the fire in the Gryffindor, “Nor do you have to be.” 

Then, with deliberate care, she gentled her tone to something almost tender: “You needn’t be anyone but who you are. You are brilliant. ”

The words lingered between them—an offering and a surrender all at once.

And if they made Narcissa’s pulse stutter like a snitch caught in her throat?

That was her secret to bear.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

The first note appeared on a seemingly normal Tuesday in Lily’s third year, tucked beneath the uneven leg of Table Seven in the Charms classroom.

Lily nearly missed it—just a corner of parchment peeking out like a shy tongue, the only reason that made her still at the sight of it was a drawing of a lily flower on the peeking corner, its stem winding around a lamppost. She pried it free when Flitwick’s back was turned.

To Lucy,

Your wand work on the Cleaning Charm was atrocious. Elbow higher. See diagram.

From your Lamppost ✿

A crude sketch filled the margin: a stick-figure Lily with proper posture, charmed to demonstrate the wand movement the blonde wanted her to mirror. 

Lily bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

When she retold the story of what happened in Charms class to Narcissa in their alcove, her seat in Charms class was a fleeting mention in the story. Yet, somehow, Narcissa had found a way to use it as another way to communicate with her.

For the first time, she didn’t swallow down the butterflies but let them free, let the flutter of their wings guide her fingers as she wrote a response, a wide grin stretched across her lips. 

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

Two days later, Narcissa found her reply beneath the same table, charmed to stick there until her fingers brushed it.

Dear Lamppost,

First and foremost, I actually can’t believe you called yourself that. That’s adorable.

Secondly, your diagram looks suspiciously like a flobberworm. If I’m this bad, why help?

Your Lucy ❀

The ink had smudged where Lily had hesitated before drawing the flower, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. There, right in the middle of the note, was the word ’adorable,’ and Narcissa— letting her admiration for the younger delude her —pretended it was meant for her and not the instance she called herself an inanimate object.

With a small smile on her face, she ripped off a page from her journal and dipped her quill in her inkwell. 

As the nib touched the parchment, she let her adoration bleed into it with the ink as she drew another lily, its stem curling around a lamppost, wondering if Lily would ever wonder why she drew it the way she did.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

The thing about crushes was that they came like a bullet—fast, unyielding, without any warning before it was too late. 

Its damage was instant. Catastrophic.

It struck Narcissa Black in her fourth year, in the midst of her Arithmancy class— of all the dull, tedious subjects , she thought with disdain—while she sat by the window, pretending to be engaged in numerical runes and magical constants. Outside, frost adhered to the windows like powdered sugar. Within, Narcissa was reflecting on another constant in her existence: freckles.

She had been contemplating freckles.

The freckles that decorated the skin of one Lily Evans.

To be more exact, the manner in which her freckles adorned her skin like stars— modest and subtly splendid —that deepened in the sunlight. The manner in which they vanished whenever she blushed—which occurred frequently, since Lily turned red about everything: when she answered correctly, when someone praised her, when Narcissa unintentionally (never unintentionally) touched her in the library aisles.

Or how a specific freckle, located just beneath her jaw, showed itself only when she turned her head to chuckle. It was a recent find, one she came across in the Great Hall when Lily had tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled at something one of her friends mentioned. It was supposed to signify nothing.

However, it did not. Naturally, it did not.

She had chalked it up to mere aesthetic appreciation—after all, Narcissa noticed everything. But when she found herself thinking about the slope of Lily’s neck mid-calculation, her quill poised uselessly in the air, she realised she hadn’t solved a single equation in the last twenty minutes. All her mental theorems had collapsed into a single, horrifying variable: Lily.

“Oh no,” Narcissa murmured, her voice barely above a breath.

She sat upright, rigid with horror, the full scope of her betrayal to common sense crashing into her like a rogue Bludger. A few of her classmates gave her strange looks, but she didn’t care; their attention slid off her like water. The truth had bloomed behind her ribs like a cursed hex—slow and inescapable.

Memories assaulted her—Lily laughing in the corridor, wind in her hair as they ran through Hogwarts’ corridors at night, sweat glistening at her collarbone during their outings. Narcissa had tripped in front of her last week. Tripped. She didn’t trip. 

Since when does Narcissa Black trip?

She remembered with sudden, horrifying clarity the first time she’d noticed Lily’s the freckles—last summer, by the Black Lake, when Lily had emerged dripping from the water, her Muggle swimsuit clinging to her skin, her hair a wet tangle of fire. Narcissa had offered her towel with what she hoped was aristocratic indifference (it wasn’t) and then—

“You have something right there…” Her traitorous hand had reached out, thumb brushing Lily’s cheekbone. “Sand. Or something.”

Lily had blinked up at her, droplets clinging to her lashes, glittering like stars. “Or something,” she’d repeated, grinning.

Narcissa had wanted to strangle her. Or kiss her. Or both.

Now, in the safety of the classroom, her face burned.

This was why she had been staring at the back of Lily’s head in the Great Hall yesterday. This was why she had nearly hexed Mulciber when he’d called Lily a Mudblood last week. This was why she had Dobby search through multiple second-hand bookstores to find first editions of the Narnia books she wanted to give to Lily.

And still, all she could think about was the freckle. That cursed freckle.

Merlin.

Narcissa’s quill snapped between her fingers.

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could physically stop her heart from doing Wronski Feints. “This is it,” she whispered to herself, the image of Lily’s smile etched behind her eyelids. “This is the end of me.”

“Miss Black?” Professor Vector paused mid-lecture, arching a perfectly sceptical brow.

Narcissa didn’t miss a beat. “I’m dying,” she said flatly.

And, unfortunately, she meant it.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

Narcissa Black was going to die.

There was no other explanation. No rational reasoning, no escape clause tucked into the folds of her carefully curated logic. Just… doom. A ruinous revelation. The tea leaves said so. 

Well, technically, Professor Markham said so, her voice sickeningly gleeful as she hovered over Narcissa’s cup like a vulture, the smoke from the ever-lit incense of the Divination classroom fogged around her in a way that made her almost mystical. Bringing upon a sense of unearthly charm—borderline haunting visage—to the professor, which made a part of Narcissa feel like she might actually have the Sight. 

It could also just be the dizzying fumes of an unventilated room. Who knows. 

Narcissa had never put much stock in Divination.

Oh, she believed in the theory of it—how could she not, as a Rosier by blood? The family histories spoke of ancestors who had walked through dreams as easily as drawing breath, who had traced the threads of fate with their bare hands. But those gifts had always felt like relics in a museum: beautiful to admire, yet undeniably distant.

A gift she had no talent for.

Her mother had made sure that Narcissa knew that fact.

“You’ve got your father’s practical mind,” Druella had said once, inspecting Narcissa’s tea leaves with a disappointed sigh. “No visions in this cup, I’m afraid.” As if prophecy were a prize reserved for more interesting daughters. Narcissa had heard her cousins from the Rosier side of her family were gifted: one of Sight and one of Hearing—both a Seer in their own right.

However, her mother had made it clear from the start that the gift had skipped Narcissa. She was too ordinary, too composed, too dull to attract the favour of fate. The Sight was a privilege for the extraordinary, not for girls who preferred rules over dreams.

So Narcissa had learned to view Divination as a specialty—an art, not a science. Something real, perhaps, but not for her. She had dismissed it all—the crystal balls, the tarot cards, the scrying, the endless prattling about planetary alignments. Divination belonged to those with the luxury of uncertainty, not to girls who needed concrete answers.

Until today.

Until the leaves in her cup formed shapes too precise to ignore.

“A heart, see? Crossed by a dagger. Oh dear,” the professor chirped with the kind of mild, detached sympathy one reserved for a dying fanged geranium. “Emotional turbulence ahead. Possibly betrayal. Possibly… a broken heart.”

Heartbreak. Narcissa stared into the cloudy swirl at the bottom of her cup like it was a cursed mirror. She had never believed that the Fates had anything planned for her—until this very moment. At that moment, she gripped the edges of the porcelain as if it could secure her to the ground.

Because this wasn’t about some vague betrayal. No, this was about Lily Evans.

Do I have feelings for Lily Evans?

She had practically whispered it to the steam rising from her teacup, as though the magic might grant her an answer—or mercy. She hadn’t meant to think it, let alone feel it. But there Lily had been, seated two cushions over, cross-legged and radiant in the dusty afternoon light filtering through the Divination tower, hair a halo of auburn flame. Laughing, of all things. Tossing her head back and laughing at something Potter had said, and Narcissa had looked directly at her and felt something seize in her chest.

And now this.

“Signs point to yes,” the leaves seemed to say, as though ridiculing her.

Narcissa had bolted out of the doors the moment the bell rang, racing down the spiral staircase like a woman driven by fervour. Now she rested face-down on her bed, her satchel tossed carelessly on the floor, her immaculate dormitory curtains drawn tight to block the late afternoon sunlight and to keep any trace of dignity she still possessed within. 

She lay on her side as her hair fanned out atop her silk pillow, and glowered at the photo frame on her nightstand—enchanted to look like a photo of the Black sisters for any peering eyes, but to her, it showed a candid photo from Slughorn’s last party. 

Lily was in it, of course, standing beside Snape and grinning mid-toast, her emerald eyes staring straight through the lens, as though she could sense Narcissa’s stare. Lily’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, with smudges of glitter on her temple and at the high points of her cheeks. Narcissa had informed everyone that the photo being taken was due to Slughorn’s desire for captured memories. Nonetheless, she remembered how her thumb had trembled over the shutter button. Oh, how she desired to have had a photo taken of both of them that night, no matter how unrealistic the wish was. There was a small number of people who knew about them, and an even shorter list of those who were part of the Slug Club. 

Maybe someday we could, she hoped as she stared at the enchanted photo of Lily winking at her. 

“You think you’re so radiant, don’t you?” she spat at the photo with no heat, her voice cracking in its vulnerability, her eyes shining with starlight tears afraid to fall. “Think you’re clever and warm and wonderful and utterly impossible, and—” Her voice broke off with a groan as she dragged a pillow over her face. “You’re so beautiful,” she whimpered into the fabric, muffled and defeated. 

This was hell. Her own personal, Evans-shaped hell.

And Narcissa was absolutely, irrevocably, deliciously doomed.

──────── ‧🎕‧ ────────

Narcissa had always taken pride in her self-restraint—on the glacial control that made her a proper daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Yet, Lily Evans had a way of unravelling her like a poorly cast spell with ease.

It was captivating: magnetic. Literally.

Every glance she stole across the library table sent a jolt through her ribs, as if some invisible force had realigned every part of her to point only toward the redheaded Gryffindor. Lily’s laughter— radiant and unrestrained —pulled at Narcissa’s attention like a magnet to the north star. The manner in which her freckles reflected the candlelight, the way her quill tapped on her lower lip while she focused—every detail was yet another pull on an unstoppable force.

Narcissa’s fingers tightened around her quill. She ought to divert her gaze, to look away. She should remember the ironclad rules of propriety, the way her mother’s voice curled around words like ’discipline’ and ’decorum.’

However, Lily would then look up, her green eyes wrinkling at the edges, and—

Click.

Like two magnets snapping into alignment, Narcissa’s gaze locked onto hers. The world beyond them faded into irrelevance.

Narcissa couldn’t look away.

Lily held her attention like a magnetic field—silent, invisible, but undeniable in its pull. It wasn’t just her presence; it was the way she existed, like polarity reversed, drawing Narcissa in even when she knew she should resist.

Every glance from Lily sent a low hum through her chest, like static building under her skin, an ache of attraction that had nothing to do with touch and everything to do with force. She felt unmoored, iron filings to Lily’s magnet, orbiting her without choice, helpless to the gravity of her being.

It was maddening. It was inevitable. And Narcissa hated— truly despised —that she felt no desire to escape.

Somewhere, a book slipped from a shelf. Narcissa didn’t hear it. She was too busy drowning in orbit.

Chapter Text

The next note came with a vial of emerald-green ink tucked inside.

Because watching you mangle basic charms physically pains me. Use this—it won’t dent the parchment like that muggle pen you favour.

Lily used the ink to draw a frowning face beside her next attempt at the Levitation Charm. It wasn’t lost on her that the ink was in the colour she always preferred, or how it works well with refilling the pens she had on hand. Her heart fluttered in her throat.

Is this your idea of gratitude? Narcissa’s next note read. I should’ve let you embarrass yourself in front of Potter.

Lily’s reply was a single sentence: 

You were watching me?

The response took three days.

I watch everyone. It’s called having standards.

But the parchment was folded smaller than usual, edges creased from restless handling.

By mid-October, their correspondence had sprawled beyond corrections:

Why do you sit with those Gryffindor dunderheads? Pettigrew smells of stale pumpkin juice, and my idiot of a cousin chews his quills.

Lily’s answer appeared with a sprig of dried lavender pressed between the lines:

Same reason you pretend not to hear Mulciber’s blood-purist drivel. Survival.

Narcissa didn’t reply. But next Tuesday, Mulciber had ‘accidentally’ spilt ink over his own essay.

The final note before Christmas holidays was charmed to sing when opened—a tinny rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs. Narcissa nearly hexed it before recognising Lily’s messy scrawl:

Meet me at Table Seven after the Yule Ball. Bring more ink. I’ll bring the flobberworm illustrations.

Beneath, in letters so small Narcissa had to hold the parchment to the candlelight:

P.S. Wear green. It suits your eyes.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

The older they grew, the heavier the duties of a daughter of the House of Black weighed upon her shoulders.

The dining hall of Black Manor was a study in opulent silence—gilded cutlery gliding over fine china, candlelight dancing on gleaming mahogany, the occasional movement of silk as a sister shifted her position, each sister a perfect image of elite society. Narcissa remained seated with her back impeccably upright, her knife cutting through the venison jus with meticulous accuracy, while Druella Black’s voice wove through the atmosphere like smoke—dense, oppressive, suffocating.

“A daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” Druella intoned, her fingers curled around her wine glass, her rings clinking against it, “is valued by her… compliance with tradition. Our bloodline is our legacy, and it is your duty to uphold its purity.” 

’Your blood demands it,’ was unspoken, but everyone understood. Some revered in its meaning, while she swallowed it down with wine. 

Bellatrix was lounging in her chair like a panther—relaxed and intimidating, but the glint in her eyes and her grip on the knife demonstrated her readiness to strike at any time. Narcissa’s eldest sister smiled slyly into her cup. “Unfortunately, the same cannot be stated for mudbloods. No level of etiquette can erase the odour of commonness from them. Mudbloods polluting our corridors—it’s astonishing the castle hasn’t collapsed beneath the burden of their folly.”

A disgruntled churning began in the pits of her stomach. She gently placed her cutlery down, her appetite gone. 

Narcissa showed no visible reaction, pretending to lightly tap the corner of her lips with her napkin, yet beside her, Andromeda’s fork stilled mid-bite, her knuckles turning pale around the grip. The subtle tension in her sister’s stance was evident—a slight stiffening of her shoulders, a breath held for too long—but Narcissa noticed. She always noticed.

Narcissa tuned out the rest, her gaze fixed on her plate. When did Bellatrix’s words start curdling in her stomach? When did the sight of Andromeda’s quiet defiance cease to appear reckless and begin to feel... brave?

A few years ago, she might have agreed with Bellatrix. A few years ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice about the word mudblood slipping so casually into conversation.

However, at this moment—

Now, she thought of ink-stained fingers and dog-eared Muggle books, of laughter that resonated too sharply in nooks of the castle, of a Gryffindor who had somehow carved a space in her chest without permission.

When did it change?

Narcissa could not pinpoint the exact moment it did. There was no titular revelation, no grand epiphany—only a subtle, unavoidable change, like the quiet acceptance of a Muggle paperback book.

However, as Bellatrix sneered, spitting blood-purist drivel and Druella nodded approvingly, a proud glint in her eyes, Narcissa realised something with startling clarity:

I don’t regret it.

Narcissa let out a breath.

They are all wrong, and I don’t regret anything.

She took a sip of wine, her face a mask of cool indifference, and said nothing as she had mentally sided against blood purity and tradition. Narcissa said nothing as she mentally sided against her family.

Yet that evening, in the solitude of her room, she sat in front of her vanity mirror as she let her hair down. Blue eyes met blue as she gazed at her reflection, questioning when the girl in the mirror had turned into a stranger.

The Black family motto glared back at her from the tapestry above her bed: Toujours Pur. The words did not bring the pride that filled her when she was younger, it only brought an unyielding weight she resented. The decision to go against it settled deep inside her. 

She felt no regret. Only a quiet, terrifying certainty.

Her loyalty was decided. 

The Black family would call it betrayal.

Narcissa called it breathing for the first time.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

The moment her mother left her room, after another inspired monologue about Blood Supremacy and how they were lucky to be part of the ’superior’ race, Narcissa exhaled—a quiet, trembling breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding the whole night. The weight of the evening pressed against her ribs like a too-tight corset. 

Oh, how she missed the field by the Black Lake. From the fresh breeze that rustled the trees, the lush grass that tickled her neck as she lay on the grass next to a certain Gryffindor, to the green eyes amidst constellations of freckles and waves of fire. 

Lily It was her home.

Ever since she understood her feelings for the younger, it felt like her body had no reason to hide her feelings from herself. 

She missed Lily. That was for certain.

As though she were her younger self, her legs led her to the room by the end of the hallway, her eyes trained on the ornate doors, ignoring the sneers directed her way from the portraits that lined the dark corridor.

Narcissa hesitated, then knocked once before pushing it open.

Andromeda was sitting by her window, the moonlight painting her in silver and shadow, the panes of the window shadowing lines on her face, painting bars across her features. Just like a trapped bird in a gilded cage, her mind supplied. A letter—creased from too many readings—was clutched in her hand. Narcissa didn’t need to see the signature to know who it was from. The way Andromeda’s thumb traced the edge of the parchment, the softness in her eyes that never appeared at the dinner table— Ted Tonks.

Narcissa had known of her sister’s amore long before anyone had said a word—long before the hushed arguments, the slammed doors, or the stony silences at family dinners. It was in the way Andromeda began to carry herself: lighter, like the weight she’d always borne so quietly had shifted just enough to let joy in. Her laughter came easier, her eyes softer, her smiles no longer felt like careful masks but something real and uncontainable. She lingered in the gardens longer, humming songs she never used to like, and once, Narcissa had caught her staring out the window as if waiting for someone the world would never approve of—and glowing as though she didn’t care.

However, the dining table was a battlefield in the house of Black. Andromeda’s small defiance could change the game they silently played. 

“You’re getting sloppy,” Narcissa murmured, leaning against the doorframe, as she silently cast Silencio on the door. “If Trixie had seen—”

“But she didn’t.” Andromeda’s voice was steady, but her fingers wrung together atop the silk of her skirts. “You did.”

A beat of silence. Then, softer: “Why didn’t you mention anything?”

Narcissa crossed the room, her footfalls silent on the soft carpet. She sat beside her sister, their shoulders barely touching.

“Because I have been wondering,” she admitted, staring at her own reflection in the window—pale, poised, perfect , “when it starts feeling like a lie.”

Andromeda paused. “When what does?”

“All of it.” Narcissa’s fingers traced the Black crest embroidered on her sleeve. “The dinners. The lectures. The way Bella says mudblood like it’s nothing.” She met Andromeda’s gaze in their reflection. “When did it stop being nothing to you?”

Andromeda’s breath faltered. For a brief moment, Narcissa thought her sister might deny it. To retract the small offering of a heartfelt discussion. Then—

“His name is Ted,” she whispered, the name spilling out like a revelation: a confession in its own right. “He’s a Hufflepuff. A Muggle-born. And I—” Her voice broke. “I think I love him.”

The words hung between them, fragile as spun glass. Narcissa should have been shocked. Out to have flinched. 

Instead, she felt something unclench in her chest.

“There’s a girl,” she whispered, her voice so soft that she barely recognised it as her own. “A Gryffindor. With—” Red hair. Freckles. A laugh like sunlight. “—a terrible habit of annotating books with a green muggle pen.”

Andromeda turned to her, eyes wide. Then, slowly, she smiled—a real, aching thing. “Oh, Cissy.” Silence stretched between the two sisters, but for the first time in a while, a warmth filled the walls of their home. “Tell me about her.”

Narcissa looked away. “It doesn’t matter. Trixie mentioned a possible agreement with the Malfoys—”

“It does matter.” Andromeda caught her hand, squeezing tightly. “It matters more than any of their foolish, backwards traditions. Now, tell me.”

Narcissa’s breath caught. She had never spoken her name here, never mustered the courage to define the feeling swelling within her heart. However, Andromeda gazed at her with a sense of understanding—almost like complicity —and in that moment, the words flowed out in a waterfall of adoration.

“Lily is brilliant ,” Narcissa whispered. “Infuriating. Her handwriting curls like ivy in the margins when we annotate together, and she argues about everything and—” She swallowed. “And I think about her constantly.”

The admission floated between them, delicate yet weightless, like the fog that coated their gardens every morning.

Andromeda breathed out, long and slow. Then, with a crooked grin, she said, “Ted smells like broom polish and cheap tea. He laughs so loud it startles the portraits,” she reminisced, her eyes lit in tenderness before hardening, her resolution letting itself known as she said, “And I’d burn this house down for him.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened. What Andromeda felt was more than a crush—it was a vow.

For a brief time, no one said anything. Then, hesitantly, Andromeda reached out and squeezed her hand.

“We’re in a tough spot, aren’t we?” Narcissa murmured.

Andromeda’s grip tightened. “Worth it.”

In that quiet room, with their secrets laid bare between them, for the first time in her life, Narcissa Black allowed herself to imagine a different future.

One with red hair, freckles, and emerald eyes.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

The castle felt hollow without Lily.

Narcissa returned from Yule with snow still clinging to her boots and an ache between her ribs that had nothing to do with the winter chill. She sought for Lily in every corner of the castle. For the only source of solace she had. Yet, for the first few days of their return to the castle, she couldn’t seem to find the Gryffindor anywhere.

She checked their alcove first, the one aptly named ‘flowernook’ by Lily, filled with mountains of books separated by piles of ‘from the Black Library’ and ‘overdue Hogwarts Library books’, with Lily’s charcoal flowers still blooming between the stone cracks, but found only silence and the faint scent of the dried lilies and daffodils that were left on the windowsill. 

For three days, she searched:

The library, where Lily’s favourite table sat eerily vacant, filled with other students Narcissa couldn’t care less for. 

The greenhouses, where her laughter often startled the child-like Mandrakes. Narcissa ignored the red-faced couple in the corner of the glass-paned classroom and left, the door slamming shut behind her. 

Even the Gryffindor common room entrance, though Agatha raised a painted eyebrow at her loitering, only able to whisper that Lily Evans wasn’t within the dormitory when other students weren’t looking or listening in. 

Following two weeks of separation due to the Yule Holidays— after years of stolen nights where the castle itself seemed to bend time to accommodate them —Narcissa’s skin prickled with the wrongness of it. She refused to acknowledge how restless her nights were when another day passed without a flash of red hair.

Then, on the fourth night, she pushed open the alcove door to find—

Moonlight.

Lily was curled up on the moth-eaten sofa, her knees drawn up to her chest under a transfigured throw blanket, a book of runes open on her lap, her freckles like constellations against sleep-pale skin. The candlelight caught the copper in her hair, turning it molten.

As if she had never left. 

As if Narcissa’s chest hadn’t been cracking open like ice on the Black Lake.

Narcissa’s breath caught. It should have surprised her, this relief. 

It didn’t.

The blonde stilled in the entrance of their alcove, her grip on the strap of her leather satchel tightening as she let out a long breath, her body unconsciously relaxing at the sight of the other. “You’re here.” The words spilt out of her lips without hindrance, the mask hand-crafted by her family nowhere to be found as relief curled into the air. 

Emerald green eyes met pale blues, Lily’s pen stilling mid-annotation. “Well, you sound disappointed.” The Gryffindor tilted her head, waves of red spilling down her shoulder as her eyes lit with an emotion Narcissa was afraid to describe.

“I sound observant,” Narcissa stated as she stepped inside, letting the tapestry fall shut behind her. The alcove smelled of fresh lilies and daffodils, the vase by the windowsill refilled with fresh flowers, the sweetness of the scent telling of where they came from—the Evans’ family flower shop. “You didn’t come the past few nights.”

A flicker of something crossed Lily’s face—guilt? Hesitation?—before she dipped her head in a nod. “It’s… it’s my sister. There was a bit of trouble this past Christmas, and I wanted to stay for a couple of days to work it out before I left,” she confessed. A part of Narcissa bristled at the mention of Petunia, knowing how one person affected her Lily so deeply made her angry, especially with how she disagreed with everything that made the redhead happy. Lily then tapped her pen against the page. “But I kept up with the translations. See?”

Narcissa didn’t glance at the book. She was too busy cataloguing the shadows under Lily’s eyes, the way her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the page. The sight sent a spike of concern through her. 

“You’re exhausted,” she said flatly.

Lily laughed, but it lacked its usual brightness. It didn’t settle right within Narcissa’s chest. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

“What question?”

“The one you’ve been asking since I got here.” Lily tilted her head. “Did you miss this?”

Narcissa’s breath caught. She could lie. She should lie.

Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small, familiar tin. “Peppermint toffees,” she said, passing them to Lily, who readily accepted them with a knowing smile. “You’ve been using subpar wand polish. The willow of your wand would benefit from a protective layer of polymerised tung oil. It would help your wand resist wear, scratches, and moisture…” Her voice trailed off when a wide grin blossomed across Lily’s lips. “Why… why are you smiling?”

Lily’s gaze was soft as she reached for Narcissa’s hand, intertwining their fingers together, gently tugging her closer. The touch burned. Narcissa never realised how comforting sunfire could be. “That’s the worst ‘I missed you’ I have ever heard.”

Narcissa sniffed but let Lily drag her to sit beside her. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t say it.”

Yet when Lily’s head fell on Narcissa’s shoulders, her arm wrapping around the blonde’s waist as she did, all warm and familiar, Narcissa didn’t pull away. She couldn’t have, even if she tried. The way Lily fit against her side as though she was meant to be there all along felt effortless. 

As the night grew colder and the two girls huddled closer together, Narcissa let her traitorous heart speak, “I did miss you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper—more a confession than anything else. It slipped out like a secret she had no hope of keeping.

For a long moment, Lily said nothing. Then she shifted, tilting her face up, so close Narcissa could map every faint freckle across her nose in a constellation of their own, could see the exact instance a smile— small, aching, real —bloomed across her lips.

“I missed you too,” Lily breathed out, the tenderness in her voice directing a shiver up Narcissa’s spine.

Between them, the air became electric and unbearably delicate—just an action away from committing something her body yearned, something her heart desired, something irreversible.

Akin to the pull of polarising magnets, Narcissa felt herself leaning in without meaning to, pulled like a tide, like a star collapsing inward. But Lily only tightened her arm around Narcissa’s waist, resting her forehead against her shoulder with a contented sigh, grounding them both.

Narcissa’s eyes fluttered shut as she leaned against the Gryffindor, holding onto the moment like a fragile, precious thing in her chest, her whole body trembling with how much she wanted—and how much, for now, she could only feel.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

On the eve of the twenty-ninth, an hour before the clock struck twelve, she was escorted out of her dormitory room, shoved into an outfit Mary had prepared, and was now being dragged through the corridors by an up-to-no-good looking Marlene, and an equally fidgety Mary.

Something was off.

Lily knew it the moment she woke up that morning to find Mary already dressed in her robes, watching her with poorly concealed anticipation as Lily went about her morning routine. Knew it when Remus accidentally spilled ink on her robes to delay her leaving the common room (Remus never accidentally spills things) . Knew it when Mary was tasked to hold onto Lily in front of a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy teaching ballet to trolls as Marlene paced in front of a blank wall, a door growing from seemingly nothing . Knew it most of all when she entered the Room of Requirement that evening to find Narcissa Black standing stiffly between floating candles, her silver robes smudged with what looked suspiciously like wood stain.

Mary placed her in front of the Slytherin before moving to the wall, the ginger’s mouth agape as she tried to register what was happening. “You—” Lily’s voice caught. The room had transformed into a replica of their alcove, but grander, with charmed lilies blooming, floating above them, the ceiling enchanted to mimic the night sky. “You’re here,” Lily blurted, then immediately winced at her own lack of subtlety. 

Narcissa’s nose wrinkled as she huffed out a small laugh. “What an astute observation, Lily. Whatever could we do without it?” But there was no real bite to it. Instead, she tilted her head to the side, gesturing to the line of her friends with Sirius and James (annoyingly) sharing a bowl of popcorn at the tail end, all watching with excited smiles on their faces. “Your Gryffindor accomplices are appallingly easy to bribe with promises of annotated Charms texts,” she teased before she thrust a leather-bound journal with slightly uneven edges toward Lily, its cover embossed with delicate lilies intertwined with daffodils— narcissus, she corrected—flowers. “Happy birthday.”

Lily let out a small gasp and flushed deeply at the unexpected gift as she took it carefully, running her fingers along the spine where the stitching wobbled in places. Then she saw them, a constellation of tiny white lines— marks across Narcissa’s usually flawless fingertips.

Click. 

“You... made this?” The words came out softer than intended.

Narcissa flexed her hands self-consciously. “Parchment-cutting charms refuse to cooperate with Black family embroidery spells. The conflict is... volatile.”

Lile didn’t think. She reached forward and caught Narcissa’s hands in hers, turning them palm-side up. Without saying anything, she pressed her lips to each white scar— one, two, three —feeling the subtle tremor in Narcissa’s hands, her breath hitching, but didn’t digest what it meant. That was something for her to ponder about in the future, not now, not when she had Narcissa right in front of her. 

“You idiot,” Lily murmured against her skin. “You absolute, ridiculous—”

Narcissa’s laugh was unsteady. “Why not say thank you like a normal person, Lily?” Bright red stained Narcissa’s cheeks, unfairly lovely. She greedily drank in the sight—if Narcissa had this kind of reaction to affection, then there was an awfully large number of things she could do to see the adorable sight again.

Lily pulled her into a hug instead, the journal pressed safely between them as she wound her arms around the blonde’s neck, struggling slightly as she never managed to catch up to Narcissa height-wise, but as soon as Narcissa’s arms circled her waist, she let out a long breath she didn’t realise she was holding. She breathed in Narcissa’s familiar scent— bergamot and frankincense and something uniquely her —and felt the lingering tension melt from the Slytherin’s shoulders.

After a moment, Lily leaned back. “What an idiot,” Lily reiterated, mumbling, but the word came out impossibly fond. “You could’ve just bought something.”

The tips of Narcissa’s ears were tinged pink. “Black heirlooms are inherited, not purchased. And this…” She glanced at the journal still cradled in Lily's hands. “This needed to be made.”

The air between them hummed with something heavy and unspoken as Lily traced the cover’s floral pattern again, her thumb brushing over the spot where their initials were hidden among the petals, connected by crawling ivy. The sight filled her up with a warmth she couldn’t explain.

“This is the best gift I have ever received…”

Marlene’s telltale theatrical gasp was heard, quickly followed by: “What about the Quidditch Cup tickets I gave you?”

“Marlene?”

“Yes?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“... Noted,” Marlene conceded, before muttering, “bossy little ginger,” under her breath.

And much to Narcissa’s amusement, a loud laugh escaping her lips, Lily flipped Marlene off.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

As the night came, so did its terrors.

Narcissa’s eyes fluttered shut, a long breath left her lips as her body started to relax slowly, sinking deeper into her silk sheets. Then, as though her mother were the devil on her shoulder, Druella’s voice called out from somewhere within her subconscious, drilling words into her.

“Your duty is to the family first, last, and always. Sentiment is for lesser beings.”

Narcissa shifted onto her side, her eyes screwed closed as she tucked her knees closer to her chest. Her sheets rustled as she pressed her pillow against her ear, as if it could drown out the unyielding criticisms that left her mother’s lips with mere down feathers. 

“Your blood is your legacy. Do not dilute it with weakness.”

The Slytherin jolted upright, her nails biting into her thighs hard enough to draw blood through the silk of her nightgown. “Enough,” she hissed into the darkness, knuckles pressing hard against her temples as if she could physically expel Druella’s phantom criticisms.

“A proper, pureblood witch does not question sound advice—she obeys. ”

“Shut up, mother,” Narcissa whispered, her voice embarrassingly close to a whimper as she desperately rapped her fingers against her temple. “Leave me be,” she pleaded, but to no avail.

Her mother's voice in her mind didn't yield, instead, it continued on with glimpses of Narcissa's childhood:

“You are not a child; you are a Black. Act like one.” Narcissa was four and had fallen on the gravel that led up to their home. Tears welled up in her eyes as the gravel dug into her tender knees. Young Narcissa turned to her mother for affection and a wish to have her injuries tended to, but was met with a disappointed glare. Andromeda ended up being the one to console her as Dobby meticulously picked every stone out of her wound. She learned to swallow her cries since then.

“The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black does not tolerate failure. Do not embarrass me.” Narcissa was six, her knuckles raw from her mother’s wooden ruler, unable to write as prettily as her sisters. She spent endless nights perfecting an elegant script until it was uncannily similar to her mother’s.

“I expect better, darling. The Rosiers never faltered.” Narcissa was eight when small bumps appeared at her temples, an allergic reaction to the French cream her Aunt Walburga gave her. With a hand on her daughter’s chin, Druella tilted Narcissa’s head up until she could see what had happened. With a frown, she muttered, “How common.” At age eight, Narcissa realised how important her appearance was to others’ perception of her. Since then, she had slipped her ‘Narcissa Black, daughter of Cygnus qnd Druella Black’ mask on and had kept it on since.

Then, her most recent visit home came to mind:

“A daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is valued by her compliance with tradition. Our bloodline is our legacy, and it is your duty to uphold its purity.” 

At the reminder of the topic and weight of the discussion that transgressed over dinner, then the conversation she had with her sister afterward, it felt like all the air was sucked out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe, her mother’s voice coiled around her throat like a noose. She desperately clawed at her throat, trying to gulp in air but failing.

With a silent prayer to the stars that her roommates were asleep, she drew her curtains open and hungrily lapped at the cold air that met her lips. The night air bit at her skin, her nightgown still damp with sweat, but she welcomed it. The cold was real. The sting of it was something she could control.

The dormitory room was quiet, save for the rustle of silk as her roommates shifted in bed, still sound asleep behind the curtains of their canopy beds. With her trembling hand pressed to her chest as though she could calm her heart through sheer force alone, she took a moment to breathe. A glance at the grandfather clock by the entrance of their dorm room notified her of how late it was: 3:49 am, nearly dawn.

The dream clung to her—Druella’s disappointed gaze, the sharp crack of a wooden ruler against Narcissa’s skin for some long-forgotten transgression, the endless litany of not enough, never enough.

The four-poster bed felt like a coffin.

She staggered to the window, casting Silencio to her roommates’ curtains before falling into the armchair that overlooked the Black Lake. Rippled moonlight painted her trembling hands silver, the same hands that had brewed flawless potions at seven, cast flawless curses at eleven— never flawless enough, according to the woman haunting her.

Then, unbidden— Lily.

The memory struck like a Patronus charm, filling her with warmth: Lily’s ink-stained fingers drumming absently on library tables, the rhythmic tap tap tap of her muggle pen against a book when she was lost in thought. Those rare nights Lily had fallen asleep mid-study, her head pillowed on open books, the soft sounds of her breathing drowning out decades of “Rosiers don’t slouch, Narcissa” and “A Black does not fraternise with—”

Narcissa exhaled sharply, pressing her forehead to the cold glass of the window, watching as the mermaids started to move about, their tails adding more ripples of silver.

She didn’t need Occlumency. She needed red hair and terrible puns and the particular way Lily’s nose scrunched when she laughed.

As dawn grew closer, Narcissa moved back to sit on the edge of her bed. Her fingers found the edge of her bedside table, where a single enchanted lily was pressed between parchment lay hidden in her journal. She didn’t take it out. Didn’t need to.

Just knowing it was there—that somewhere in this damned castle, someone saw her as Narcissa and not a Black —was enough.

By dawn, the crescent wounds on her thighs had scabbed over. She smoothed her skirt down, straightened her spine, and stepped out of her dorm room—every bit the perfect pureblood daughter she was raised to be.

Yet, the ghost of a smile lingered at her lips.

Tonight, she’d find their alcove.

Tonight, she would fall asleep within the arms of the only solace she knows of. 

Tonight, she would see Lily.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

To the rest of her family, knowing that her heart was displaced with another person was a sign of weakness. 

But to Narcissa, it felt like strength.

When Narcissa met up with Lily later that night, it felt as though the responsibilities of a daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black melted off like candle wax as soon as her eyes settled on her heart’s fiery locks, Lily’s eyes greeting hers with a bewitching familiarity and softness that made everything feel alright.

Bathed in the glow of enchanted candles (courtesy of Lily’s doing), the alcove greeted her with a warmth absent from her family home, coating the walls covered in runes with sketches of flowers crawling around them with a warm glow, a special blend of their namesake flowers staining the air. Narcissa slipped inside, her shoulders taut, the weight of the Black name pressing down on her shoulders. A flickering warmth was ever-present within the alcove, hidden behind a tapestry charmed with a Disillusionment charm, but it was Lily, with her gentle touches, loud laughter, and raucous Gryffindor energy, who truly made it feel like a sanctuary.

Lily was sitting on their couch, lounging against the far wall, a book— their copy of The Horse and His Boy, the newest instalment to the C.S. Lewis series that Narcissa miraculously managed to acquire—resting open on her lap, her familiar green-ink pen in hand. The well-loved book’s spine was cracked with use, the corners softened by shared hands, its margins filled with their commentary, and Narcissa knew without asking that Lily had reread their favourite parts while waiting. Guilt for being late for their nightly excursion twisted in her stomach, yet the moment Lily glanced up from their book, emerald greens meeting pale blues, something inside Narcissa cracked.

Lily didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Her arms opened, an unspoken invitation.

And Narcissa—proud, perfect Narcissa—stepped into them without hesitation.

The burdens of her name slowly dripped off of her, pooling at the feet of the moth-eaten couch as Lily’s fingers carded through Narcissa’s pale locks, her touch gentle but sure, leaving trails of ease in its wake. Narcissa buried her face in the crook of Lily’s neck, breathing in the scent of cherries and lemongrass, and for the first time in her life, she allowed herself to be held.

It was exhilarating, nerve-wracking, and humbling all at once. How all her troubles, all her insecurities, all her incapabilities could fall off as soon as Lily’s arms enveloped her. How the security of familiar arms, the quiet hum in Lily’s voice, the all-encompassing and transparent care Lily treated her with was all she needed to breathe again. Narcissa let herself be quiet, let her guard rest, let her body sag into Lily’s with a vulnerability she’d never dared show to anyone, not even to her own reflection.

Minutes flew by, maybe even hours—time seemed to blend in their shared silence where nothing needed to be said, nothing needed to be exchanged; they just understood one another with a familiarity borne from years of company and lingering touches. It took her time before she finally pulled back, but when she did, it felt as though the knot in her stomach unravelled, just enough for her to feel alive again. Lily’s thumb brushed gently against her cheek, brushing away a tear she wasn’t aware of. 

Tears… when was the last time I allowed myself to cry? Narcissa pondered, her thoughts freezing as Lily pressed a kiss on her temple. The simple action carving Narcissa’s realisation into stone.

“Tell me,” Lily whispered.

So, she did.

Every unreachable standard placed upon her, the life points planned for her to follow, and the mask she had worn since she was younger spilled from her lips, every confession making her feel lighter, almost weightless by the end. She voiced the expectations, the upcoming betrothal contract come her graduation from Hogwarts, the way her mother’s voice curled with delight and reverence around words like ‘purity’ and ‘legacy.’ Then, about the values she had been raised to believe and uphold, of the lies she had once swallowed without question, and the slow, quiet realisation that she no longer did, of how she regretted letting it grow within her to the lengths it did.

“I don’t know when it all changed,” Narcissa confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, “But I can’t— I won’t ,” she corrected, a vow settling in place. “I won’t pretend anymore.”

There was no dramatic pause, no grand declaration—only Lily’s hand slipping into hers, fingers gripping firmly, tethering her to the present, tethering her to Lily.

Lily’s voice was calm, a surety in her voice that Narcissa desperately grappled onto, as she said:

“You don’t have to.”

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

Lily had hoped that when she retired to the Gryffindor Common Room that evening, after being dropped off by Narcissa, she would have a peaceful night studying with her friends.

Oh, what a dangerous thing Hope was.

In her fourth year, Lily was in the middle of her Charms essay, her parchment was placed against the journal as she perched it atop the armrest, held steady by her other arm, when she was disrupted by a head of choppy, blonde hair that landed straight on her lap.

Marlene had dropped onto the couch with all the subtlety and grace of a Bludger to the head, sending a wave of motion which was met with a yelp from Mary, who now held her teacup away from her, and a sigh from the redhead, who kept her attention on her assignment. “So,” Marlene drawled, plucking the pen from Lily’s fingers and started twirling it through her fingers. “When were you going to tell me about you and Black?” she teasingly asked in a singsong manner, child-like.

Luckily for Lily, Marlene had chosen the time when the majority of Gryffindor were either in their rooms, studying in the privacy of their canopied beds, or the library, also studying. The only inhabitants in the Common Room were those who wanted to huddle closer to the fire, a small group of first years who were still free from too much academic burden, and the Gryffindors from her year, scattered about in various lounging positions. 

It had taken almost a full year since Narcissa and Lily started to consistently meet up before Marlene had relented on her stance on the Slytherin. It wasn’t Lily’s insistence that managed to shatter her friend’s perception of Narcissa, instead, it was Narcissa herself who broke Marlene’s cold demeanour with an invite to play Quidditch. When Narcissa figured out how Marlene folded for sweet treats and intel on various Quidditch Teams, she glided into an odd sort of friendship with her, to the point that Marlene would teasingly joke about Narcissa and Lily’s ‘friendship’ to Lily, resulting in Lily erupting into a flame-like state, bright and burning. It also didn’t help that she would make the same jokes even if Narcissa was in the room, the Slytherin would always watch the upcoming argument with amusement in her eyes.

Lily didn’t look up, carefully avoiding eye contact as she leaned into the cushions, having no energy to snatch her pen back from Marlene. “What about me and Narcissa?”

Marlene rolled her eyes playfully as she stopped tossing the pen in the air as she gestured vaguely. “You know… you know!”

Lily raised an eyebrow, an eerie replica of the Slytherin she spent all her free time with. “Since when did Marlene McKinnon start trying to be discreet? ”

Marlene scowled, flicking a finger on Lily’s forehead before she sat up. “Snarky, snarky Lily. You know what I mean!”

“Please,” Lily sighed. “Just say what you mean outright, Marlene. I don’t have the energy to decipher whatever you have in mind.”

“Alrighty then,” Marlene complied as she swung an arm behind Lily as she leaned deeper into the couch cushions. With a smirk on her face and a glint in her eyes, she asked, “Since when did you and Black make it official?”

Lily could feel the heat greet her cheeks and colour the tip of her ears as she shook her head, clearing her throat. For years, she had swallowed down how the possibility of such a relationship with Narcissa was a growing desire of hers that had sprouted ever since she realised she had a crush on the other in her first year. However, as she grew older, she was scared of hoping, of breaking her own heart when all she wanted to do was be around her Cissa. So, she took whatever the blonde would give her and pretended it was enough.

Even if she wanted to kiss her.

Even if she wanted to do what real couples do.

Even if she wanted to hold Narcissa’s hand and never let go.

Lily finally whispered, “We’re not dating. We’re just good friends.”

Courageous lion, indeed.

Marlene’s bark of laughter startled a first-year across the common room. “Good friends?” she repeated, voice dripping with disbelief. When Lily didn’t respond, Marlene’s eyes narrowed. “Lily… you’re joking, right?”

Lily’s stomach dropped. She stared down at her half-finished Charms essay, suddenly finding the loops of her handwriting fascinating, her mind subconsciously remembering how pretty Narcissa’s italicised script was— just like every part of her , Lily's mind unhelpfully supplied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marlene’s socked foot jabbed her thigh. Lily recoiled in disgust. “Oh, please. You and Black have been making heart eyes at each other for years. The entire Gryffindor Quidditch team has a betting pool on when you’ll finally snog.”

Lily tried to not be hung up on the usage of ‘when’ instead of ‘if’. She failed. Lily’s face scrunched up at the idea of so many people being interested in her love life, but she struggled to keep the smile off her face at the prospect that others were confident she even had a chance to date Narcissa. “Just friends, Marlene,” she said with an exhale. Even if I wanted more than that, her traitorous heart whispered.

Marlene’s teasing grin dropped, suddenly serious, her fingers massaging the bridge of her nose. “Let me get this straight. You’re just friends who... what? Stare at each other like tragic romance novel protagonists? Who sneak off together to Merlin-knows-where every night? Who—”

“Study,” Lily interrupted, cutting in, finally meeting Marlene’s gaze. “We study. Advanced Charms. It’s a very intense subject.”

Marlene’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk tugging at the left corner of her lips. “Oh, I bet it’s intense. So intense that your studies surpass years? Please. As if either of you lack any knowledge on the subject, both of you are at the top of your years.”

Lily felt her ears grow warm. “It is.”

Marlene dramatically exhaled. “Then explain why: one ,” Marlene started as she brought up her hand, a single, chipped-polished finger in the air. “Black sought out and hexed Mulciber until he had to go to the infirmary when he called you a—”

“That was about blood purity,” Lily said quickly. “It was simply her upholding good principles. Not—”

“—And why she always send you back here after your hangouts?”

“She’s just being nice!” she sputtered, unconvincingly if Marlene’s expressions were to go by. 

“—And,” Marlene continued, ticking off her fingers, “why she snuck books out of the highly esteemed Black library, just to lend them to—”

“She what?! ” Sirius’ shocked voice came from the other side of the room. “Cissy did what?”

“First of all! How do you even know about that?” Lily asked, her mouth agape and eyes wide. When she didn't get anything out of Marlene’s annoyingly proud face, she continued, “And! She said they have valuable texts I would need for OWLs—”

“—And!” The glint in Marlene's eyes grew brighter by the second. “Why you always return to the dorm room with a smile on your face and a pocket filled with peppermint toffees?”

Lily’s face was unbearably warm, but her stubborn, Gryffindor pride spoke up for her, “It’s perfectly normal for friends to share their sweets—!”

“—And why,” Marlene continued, smiling with a cheshire-like grin on her face, “you’re currently wearing her scarf?”

Lily’s hands flew to the silver and green scarf around her neck, unbudged since Narcissa wrapped it around her. “This is—it’s cold in here! She was just being—”

“Thoughtful? Protective? Hopelessly in love with you?” Marlene flopped back against the cushions with a groan. “ Merlin’s beard, Evans. Even the portraits are taking bets.” She turned her head to stare at Lily’s gobsmacked face with a shit-eating grin on hers. “So. When are you going to admit you’re absolutely gone for her?”

Oh.

Oh.

Lily opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Oh wow,” Marlene whispered as Lily’s face combusted, redder than the ginger locks that framed her cherubic face. “You’re even worse than I thought.”

From the fireplace, James spoke up, “I heard Hufflepuff’s team was planning to join our betting pool too. I don’t know how they found out, though.”

“I…” Sirius’ voice trailed off once Lily’s heated glare landed on him. 

“Go on.”

“Careful, Pads…” Peter whispered, a squeak leaving his lips when Lily turned to him. He held his hands up in surrender. “I did nothing! Promise!”

Sirius chanced a glance at Lily, wincing slightly as he forced out, “I may or may not have been the reason Hufflepuff’s team found out…”

Lily made a sound like a deflating balloon.

Marlene patted her knee. “Don’t worry. I’ve got five galleons riding on you cracking before our summer holidays.”

In a very small voice, Lily whispered: “... Do you think she knows I like her that way?”

Across the room, Mary choked on her tea, Remus groaned into his palms, and Sirius’ barking laughter ricocheted off the castle walls.

Marlene cackled. “Oh, sweetheart. The Bloody Baron knows.”

Chapter Text

The moment Narcissa’s fingers brushed against not one, but two parchments tucked beneath Table Seven, her stomach dropped like a snitch in freefall.

It wasn’t just the unexpected number—it was the weight, the difference in texture, the sudden wrongness of it that sent a jolt of ice through her. She reached beneath the polished oak desk, expecting the soft pull of a single familiar note, the kind folded with Lily’s particular chaos and crinkled edges, always left slightly smudged by the muggle pen she never relinquished. But instead, her hand met two very distinct forms of parchment—one light and thin, the other heavier, stiffer, and radiating something official .

She knew the first one instantly. Even before she unfolded it, she could feel the telltale indentations of Lily’s writing—a rushed, looping scrawl that left the paper subtly textured beneath Narcissa’s fingertips. It smelled faintly of ink and whatever lotion Lily always borrowed from Mary—coconut and citrus. Her heartbeat steadied just for a moment.

But then her fingers closed around the second parchment.

Thicker. Heavier. 

And stamped shut with a wax seal that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

Not red like Hogwarts’ seals, but blue . 

The House of Black’s wax seal was blue.

Narcissa hesitated, then carefully peeled it from the underside of the table, the sticking charm releasing with a soft hiss.

She didn't open it right away. 

Her eyes darted around the Charms classroom. Fifth years from Ravenclaw and Slytherin mingled with one another freely, the Hogwarts House of knowledge was the only one Slytherin truly respected enough when it came to their academic pursuits. Professor Flitwick was occupied, standing by the front of the room, watching as Nott perfected the Slowing charm: Arresto Momentum, before awarding their house five points for his flawless execution. Her other classmates were either watching the display of magic, were knee-deep in their books, or were conversing quietly.  

Still, Narcissa forced her expression into a composed mask, folded her shoulders inward, and lowered her eyes as if rereading something dull. Only then did she break the seal, her hands shaking just enough for her to resent it.

Her first thought was that someone had told her family. That somehow, despite all their precautions, their notes, their hidden meetings, someone who had a vendetta against her had noticed, and this— this was the reckoning. Her mother’s handwriting would be scathing, her aunt’s threats cutting, and the whole façade she’d spent years upholding would crumble.

But the unfamiliar crest pressed into the blue wax— a tiny hummingbird mid-flight —was all it took to quell her worries.

Not the House of Black’s sigil, not even the House of Rosier’s.

Unfamiliar. Which was its own kind of relief.

Below the seal, scrawled in a looping hand she knew well from margins of textbooks and quietly impressive duelling theory, was Flitwick’s unmistakable script:

Concordia duarum animarum, una voce cantata.

The harmony of two souls, sung in one voice.

Latin. Of course it was. Narcissa translated it instantly, the old lessons echoing in her head like incantations. Her pulse stuttered, then roared in her ears. The murmurs of the classroom faded to white noise as she opened the letter fully, the header formal and absurdly proper.

Professor Filius Flitwick’s Official Memorandum
To: Ms Flower & Ms Flower
Re: Academic Collaboration Approval

Having observed your remarkably consistent use of Table Seven for hypothetical scholarly discourse, I hereby grant you both special dispensation:

 

• Extended Library Access (Until 10 PM; Restricted Section privileges pending Ms (Blonde) Flower’s preliminary OWL-prep scores)

• Priority Seating at Table Seven (Now charmed against spillage & eavesdropping)

• Optional Saturday seminars on Advanced Non-Verbal Coordination

 

Good luck on this endeavour, Ms Flower and Ms Flower. If you ever have a question, you know where to find me (seeing as the notes were exchanged in my classroom). Good luck.

Sincerely,
Your Charming Professor

P.S. Should either of you require clarification on any form of… harmonisation... my office door recognises your knocks.

P.P.S. Ten points to Gryffindor for creativity. Ten to Slytherin for discretion.

The note trembled in her hands.

And then Lily’s parchment—the one she had momentarily forgotten—fluttered to the ground like a leaf caught in a draft, her grip having loosened entirely without her noticing.

She bent to retrieve it, her legs numb, her mind still reeling from Flitwick’s unspoken approval —the humour, the elegance of it. He knew , somehow, and he wasn’t condemning them.

She unfolded Lily’s parchment with reverence.

To my Lamppost,

Flitwick cornered me after Transfiguration. Turns out sticking charms leave ‘rainbow residue’ to trained eyes (who knew??). He made me demonstrate our ink-swapping technique and then cried actual tears about ‘youthful ingenuity.’

Meet me at the usual spot after your classes?

I’ve charmed a quill to transcribe his entire lecture on ‘mutual magical wavelengths’ (and maybe speak to Professor Flitwick about the charm~).

Your Lucy ❀

A choked laugh caught in Narcissa’s throat. Lamppost. Lucy. Mutual magical wavelengths. Merlin help her.

She traced the final flower drawn beneath Lily’s name, fingertips lingering over the ink, suddenly weightless and tethered all at once.

Something in her chest softened, loosened. As if, for the first time, the world was holding her gently.

She tucked both notes inside her book— The Magics of Sympathetic Connection —and began packing up slowly. Her next class could wait.

After all, she had somewhere to be.

Someone to meet.

Someone who had always seen her not as a Black, not as a Rosier’s daughter, but simply as Narcissa.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

Later that same day, Narcissa returned to the Charms classroom, the now-familiar hallway feeling strangely different under the weight of the parchments tucked tight against her chest. 

Despite the hours between her leaving the classroom then returning, her heart still hadn’t had the chance to completely settle down, fluttering as quickly as the hummingbird depicted in her Professor’s sigil. When she met up with Lily earlier, the two girls pored over the letter numerous times until its corners were worn in the privacy of their alcove. And after the mutual decision to meet in Professor Flitwick’s classroom in an hour, she dropped Lily off by the Gryffindor Tower’s entrance before heading to her dormitory to drop off her books. 

She headed back to the Charms classroom in a daze, unsure whether she had floated there or walked, and now she found herself slipping into the classroom silently, her gaze sweeping across the space with practised discretion.

Flitwick, ever the subtle dramatist, was helping a group of students by the front blackboard, humming— louder than necessary —an enthusiastic rendition of “Wedding March for the Flightless Fae.” Narcissa’s cheeks flushed deeper. She pressed the parchments harder to her chest, as if she could force the heat away, the edges of the professor’s memoranda crinkling slightly under her grip.

Narcissa’s gaze darted toward the students, trying to see if she knew any of them, except—

Her eyes slid past them like water off glass.

A Notice-Me-Not. And an advanced one at that.

Narcissa’s fingers tightened around her parchments. She should leave. Should return to the dungeons where the shadows knew better than to pry. But then—

A flash of fire in the sunlight.

Lily Evans.

She was already seated at Table Seven, the table the ‘shared’ in shifts, impossibly radiant in the slanting afternoon light. Her fiery locks gilded by the golden light, eyes bright with constellations, grinning with the brilliance of a thousand burning suns. One hand rested casually on the tabletop; the other reached out and patted the empty seat beside her like she’d known Narcissa would come. Like she’d been waiting.

Narcissa Black, heir to twelve generations of pureblood decorum, involuntarily smiled back, her feet moving without permission.

She crossed the room on feet that felt barely tethered to the ground, and slipped into the seat beside Lily, careful not to let her shoulder brush the girl’s—though it took more restraint than she cared to admit.

“You’re early,” Narcissa accused, her voice carefully neutral despite the warmth creeping up her neck from being under Lily’s gaze.

Lily’s smile widened, her eyes turning into crescents. “And, you’re predictable.”

A beat. Then, because Narcissa had never been able to resist unravelling magical theory, she asked, “Why can I see you and not the others?”

Lily, clearly proud of herself, jutted her chin toward Flitwick, who was now conspicuously examining a set of enchanted teacups in front of faceless students. “Flitwick’s version of a Notice-Me-Not Charm. Responds to the caster’s subconscious desires about who should notice them.” A familiar glint of interest and curiosity sparked in Lily’s eyes. “It’s pretty brilliant, isn’t it?”

Narcissa raised a brow, the gears in her mind already turning. It… it sounds perfect for our alcove’s tapestry, she thought. “That’s... refined magic.”

“With a pinch of mischief.” Lily slid a parchment across the table—already filled with meticulous notes on the charm's mechanics—with a knowing look on her face. “I already asked him for the specifics. Figured you’d want the mechanics.”

Narcissa accepted it with a sound of faint approval, eyebrows arched as she scanned the page. “It’s like you read my mind.”

“Who’s to say I didn’t?” Lily wiggled her fingers, clearly joking. “Maybe I’ve got hidden talents, maybe even a knack for Legilimency.”

Narcissa allowed a faint smile to curve her lips. She knew it wasn’t true—she’d been trained in Occlumency since she could hold a wand. She would have felt it. No, Lily’s insight came not from magic but from attention. A kind of seeing that Narcissa wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of. The scoff escaped before Narcissa could stop it. “You couldn’t penetrate a first-year’s Occlumency shields.”

“Ouch.” Lily clutched her chest dramatically, but her eyes sparkled. “And here I thought Slytherins valued subtlety.”

Narcissa opened her mouth to retort—but nearly dropped the parchments she’d brought when Flitwick materialised at her elbow.

“Ah! You’ve discovered my little cantata charm,” Professor Flitwick chirped, hands clasped together, his eyes practically glowing.

Narcissa stiffened.

“I’ve been dying to use it for years,” he continued, oblivious to her alarm, “but most of my students aren’t quite so... creative with inter-classroom correspondence.” His tiny hand tapped the Latin inscription on the memorandum with the glee of someone pointing out a particularly clever pun. “A variation on Vanishing Cabinet principles. For letters, rather than bodies. Safer. Cleaner…” His voice trailed off for a moment before he quickly added, “and something I would encounter no issues with when taught to certain students.”

Lily’s head snapped up. Narcissa’s pulse stuttered.

He leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Of course, if I were you two, I would consider enchanting something more... personal.”

Narcissa blinked. “Personal?”

“Twin lockets, perhaps!” he said brightly, miming a delicate chain with his fingers. “Two pendants—gold, preferably, for conduction. Link them. Whisper the charm in perfect unison. No owls, no risk. Only trust.” He grinned like a magpie in a jewellery shop. “Imagine it. Whatever you place in one locket—poems, potion notes, declarations—” he gave a pointed, twinkling glance “—slips into the other instantly.”

Lily’s head snapped up so fast she nearly knocked her books from the table.

Narcissa’s face felt warm, even when the mask she had worn was twelve generations thick. Exchanging jewellery, especially matching pieces, had a certain connotation in pureblood society: courting. And judging by Lily’s reaction, the allusion wasn’t missed, and telling by the glint in their Professor’s eyes, it was said on purpose.

Ever the actor, Professor Flitwick continued as if nothing had happened, but his voice lowered just enough to count as a secret. “Of course, this sort of magic only works with a certain kind of resonance. Harmonic magic. Equal strength. Mutual trust.”

Narcissa’s heart thudded. A direct line. Immediate. Untouchable. It was dangerous and irresistible all at once.

“We’ll do it.” Lily was already halfway out of her seat, her knee knocking against Narcissa’s beneath the table. A spark. A promise.

Flitwick beamed. “I have solid gold lockets in my office. Excellent for—”

“Professor,” she hissed, mortified, her cheeks burning without her consent.

“Right, right!” He winked before bowing slightly, utterly unrepentant. “Tomorrow, after class, then. I’ll fetch the lockets. And Ms Black? Consider engraving them. For... aesthetic balance.” He winked and bustled off, leaving behind a stunned silence.

Narcissa was still frozen when Lily reached across the table and slid something small and familiar toward her.

Her quill.

Not just a quill— her quill. Not the Rosier heirloom quill, or the silver-tipped one, but the one Lily had gifted her from the prior Yule. The one with the peacock-feather fletching. The one she’d lost the week prior and quietly mourned. Its tip sparkled faintly, recently mended.

“You left this,” Lily murmured, voice casual—but her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I considered keeping it. It matches my eyes.”

Narcissa glared, but the look lacked bite. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yours could say Flobberworm,” Lily whispered, leaning in just enough to brush Narcissa’s shoulder.

The kick Narcissa delivered beneath the table was half-hearted, and they both knew it.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

When Narcissa slipped into the Charms classroom after holding the door open for Lily, she had to make a conscious effort to not ogle at the transformation the room had undergone to prepare for the ritual. 

The classroom had long since emptied, and even the last golden beams of sunset had faded into blue velvet. Their table was brought to the centre of the room, the rest of the chairs and tables vanished to Merlin-knows-where. It was surrounded by a circle of enchanted salt, lined with futhark runes that glittered from the glow of the floating candles above their heads. Lily must not have known what to do with her arms as she held onto the crook of Narcissa’s elbow, standing close to her. 

That’s what it was. 

Surely.

Flitwich emerged a moment later, probably notified by the door’s charm, holding a small, velvet-lined box like it was a sacred relic. “Come, come!” he beckoned them closer as he paused by the table. 

“This is quite a setup for enchanting a couple of lockets, Professor,” Lily joked, eyes bright, as the two girls stepped forward, making sure to not budge the well-made runes. 

“Quite inspiring, I would say,” Narcissa added, her eyes mirroring the stars in Lily’s eyes.

Professor Flitwick waved a dismissive hand as he placed the box on the table. “Never a bad time to set the mood, if you get what I mean.”

“Professor!” Lily groaned.

“Just a jest, just a jest. Now…” He gestured for the two of them to take a seat by their usual table, only continuing once they took a seat, “Solid gold, as promised,” he chirped, pushing the box between them. “Minimal enchantment—just enough to receive the charm and carry it. Simple, elegant. They’ll take your magic easily.”

Narcissa glanced inside. Two matching lockets. She tried to swallow down the flutter in her chest at the matching pieces. Oval, plain, unadorned—for now. A blank slate, much like the moment itself. She reached in and lifted one between careful fingers, cool metal warming quickly in her palm. Lily did the same, and their eyes met over the box.

Flitwick smiled, as if he had been waiting his entire career for this exact experiment. “Now, to start off with, you must place the necklace you had chosen around the neck of the other.”

They complied. “Is there any magical theory that backs this part up?” Narcissa asked, a blonde eyebrow arched.

“Oh, none!” Professor Flitwick said with a clap of his hands. “Just wanted to see the both of you do it.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed as Lily replied with a small laugh. “What’s next, Professor?”

“Now, lean forward, open the lockets, and face them toward each other and clasp them together. Ms Black’s left plate to Ms Evans’ right, and vice versa. If I remember right, the clasps should work nicely.”

Lily’s eyes twinkled as her and Narcissa’s fingers worked in unison. She kidded, “Now… is this one a necessary step, Professor?”

“Good question, Ms Evans! This one is entirely part of it,” he confirmed before he gestured toward the locket. He cleared his throat. “For the next part, the incantation requires synchronisation. Concordia duarum animarum, una voce cantata. You must speak it together, at the exact moment, while focusing on one another’s magical signature. Intent matters. Precision, yes, but harmony above all.”

Lily tilted her head toward Narcissa, a half-smile playing on her lips. “We’re fairly good at that.”

Narcissa arched her brow. “We are passable,” she replied, but her voice was softer than usual.

Professor Flitwick gave a theatrical bow and slipped away, muttering something about not wanting to “interrupt the resonance.” The door to his office clicked shut behind him.

And suddenly, they were alone.

Narcissa turned to face Lily fully, heart hammering against her ribs as she took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind before they tackle this endeavour. The interlocked lockets glowed.

“Are you ready?” she asked, her hand reaching for Lily’s before she even realised it was happening. Luckily for her, Lily captured her hand with hers, intertwining their fingers in one smooth motion. 

Lily nodded. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. “With you? Always.”

They held each other’s gaze—pale blues meeting emerald greens—and counted together under their breath.

Three... two... one.

“Concordia duarum animarum, una voce cantata.”

The spell left their lips in unison, the air around them humming in anticipation as threads of their magic followed their words—Narcissa’s magic presenting in a tendril of deep blue, while Lily’s was sunset orange—winding through the air like music came to life. The tendrils coiled around the interlocked lockets, pulsating once before they seeped into the metal.

For a heartbeat, everything went still.

Then—

Click.

Pulses of magic rippled from the point of connection, sending waves of magic through them as the lockets glowed golden briefly before fading into a soft warmth.

Narcissa felt it deep, as though it was under the skin, inside her bones—something shifting, syncing. Not just spellwork. Not just words.

Deep within her, she could sense Lily.

And Lily... could feel her too.

It wasn’t just emotion—it was clarity, an understanding. Strength. Affection wrapped in awe, tempered with mutual understanding. Narcissa reeled from it, but didn’t pull away. Couldn’t find it in herself to do so.

Lily blinked slowly, clearly overwhelmed, her eyes wide. “Did you feel that?”

Narcissa nodded, her voice temporarily gone. Her throat burned with something unspoken. Their magic had spoken first.

She watched as Lily moved to hold onto their interlocked lockets with her free hand before glancing up to catch Narcissa’s gaze. “Open them with me?”

“Of course.” Narcissa leaned closer and helped Lily unlatch the clasps. The lockets seemed to hesitate before letting go of the other. As she turned hers around, her mouth dropped open. Inside, there was no picture, no note—but a shimmer. A flicker of her own signature magic, gently echoing Narcissa’s. Their spell had created more than a bond—it had imprinted something alive.

“Professor Flitwick,” Lily said, voice trembling with awe, “really undersold that whole ‘harmony’ thing.”

Narcissa managed a soft sound, nearly resembling a laugh.

Then, almost to lighten the seriousness of the moment, Lily said, “So. Still thinking Flobberworm for the engraving? Because I was leaning toward supporting the title ‘Lady Dramatic of House Eyeliner’. ”

That earned her an eye roll and a very restrained shove.

However, Narcissa couldn’t stop herself from holding the locket with a certain kind of reverence. The issues it solved and the doors it would open for them felt limitless.

──────── ‧ 🎕 ‧ ────────

In that very same locket, nestled between the summer glow of the July sun— when Lily’s freckles had multiplied like constellations across her nose and Narcissa’s hair lightened as though kissed by the season —a letter arrived.

One afternoon, as cicadas sang in the gardens and Narcissa sat beneath the shade of her bedroom window,  a fan enchanted to flutter lightly beside her, she felt it—a gentle, familiar warmth against her chest. The locket pulsed softly, almost shyly. 

A letter had arrived.

Narcissa pulled the locket from under her dress’ collar, hidden from her family’s eyes, before gently unlocking its clasp with careful fingers.

Inside sat a small, folded square of parchment, a dried daffodil pressed into its wax seal, the colour of honey and sunlight. The seal cracked softly when she opened it, releasing the faintest scent of cherries and something unmistakably Lily.

In green, bulbous letters, it read:

To My Dearest Cissa,

I know that the relationship between us has never needed a label, never needed any confirmation aside from the affection and respect we uphold for one another. 

But I was wondering—

Would you like to go on a date with me?

Like a real one.

Just us. No textbooks. No parchments.

Just summer. And maybe ice cream.

(And me, trying not to stare too obviously.)

Meet me at the White Wyvern on the 22nd of July (and yes, I’m not taking no for an answer ♥︎). You’ll hate this—but I nicked a bottle of that elf-made wine you pretend not to adore (the one that tastes like ‘pear and poor decisions,’ as you so snootily put it). Come at eight, or I’ll drink it all myself and send you the cork as a trophy.

P.S. Don’t wear black. It’s July, not a funeral.

P.P.S. Fine. Wear black. You’ll still be the prettiest in the room.

Yours (possibly too daring, but I’m a Gryffindor for a reason),

Lily

──────── ‧ end of arc one ‧ ────────