The One - The Only

- Chapter Three -

THE ONE – THE ONLY

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks. Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.

SONG OF SOLOMON – King James Version

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In at least one respect Abraxas was perfectly right, of course. Lucius was a lazy student. In his case one could well say that talent and laziness were evenly balanced, resulting in slightly-above-average marks. The boy himself could not have cared less; it wasn't like he'd have to apply for a job one day, right? And those subjects that would have raised his interest were – sadly, deplorably really – banned from his own school. But there were lots of other things to do, Quidditch for instance, parties to attend, pretty girls to seduce.

Speaking of girls – he had found himself a new girlfriend before the start of term. This one was called Imogen, Imogen Vaisey of the Swansea Vaiseys. He had settled for blonde this time, with small, diminutive breasts. Nothing like the real thing. But, he kept reminding himself, if you can't have the real thing, you just ought to settle for the second best. That tenet left a stale taste – he was Lucius Malfoy after all! Nothing but the very best for him, eh? But what could he do? Nothing, nothing... And the bottom line was – Imogen would have to do until the next second best thing came along.

Predictably enough, Chloe was a little upset, to put it mildly. As an additional unfortunate circumstance, Imogen was her dorm-mate, causing a bit of a fuss between the two. Not that he minded. In fact, he found it rather amusing. What the heck was she thinking? She must know the exact details of the dumping by now, and still she assumed that she'd be better off eventually? How stupid could one person be? Among his pals he was a hero though. He was very popular anyway, because he was great at Quidditch, because the only thing his father had ever taught him was that well-aimed generosity never failed to do the trick, because he emanated an air of self-confidence and ease that was quite irresistible, and last but not least because he had had more girls than the rest of his mates put together. But the tale of his break-up with Chloe propelled his fame to so far unimaginable heights. The guys had never been more impressed.

There was one particular thing he had looked forward to going back to school – oh well – rather say that it was half heaven, half hell. Literally. He suffered and relished it at the same time. Each day had at least three special moments in store for him – breakfast, lunch and dinner – and it was by no means the food that elicited so much excitement. At breakfast, lunch and dinner he saw her. The real thing. The one girl he could never have and that he couldn't stop pining for, ever since the moment he had first set his eyes on her. Naturally, he had taken some time to understand this. Back then, three years ago, he had been a small kid really, strangely mesmerised by an unknown girl that had waited for her turn to be sorted into one of the Houses.

She had caught his eye at once; she must have caught anybody's eye and full attention. She had sat down on the stool; the Sorting Hat had slouched over her tiny shoulders and taken ages to sort her out. Back then, he could not have accounted for it, but all the time, he had crossed his fingers and prayed, 'Slytherin, let her be a Slytherin!' He had got his wish, but that was as lucky as he had ever got with her since.

She had the looks of an angel and the temper of a demon from hell. No, that wasn't right. As a matter of fact he admired her temper even more than her beauty. She was smart, smarter than anyone else he knew. She was quick-witted, in a way that could hurt more than curses. Most of all, she was perfectly independent. She cared for no one's opinion, not for fashion or gossip, Quidditch or peers or parties. He had not once seen her without a book, the only thing she ever did was reading. She was an excellent student, and even this did not appear to interest her the tiniest bit. He could have continued forever listing all her marvellous qualities, but to cut a long story short: Narcissa Black was the coolest witch he had ever met. She was so cool, in fact, that she wanted nothing to do with him. She hated him. Well, she basically hated everyone, but with him it was personal.

As soon as she had been a second year, he had plucked up all his courage and dared to ask her out to Hogsmeade, because he knew a secret way out of the school to circumvent the prohibition for younger students. She had been puzzled for a moment – he'd never forget her expression. She had critically appraised him, her sapphire blue eyes narrowed, her marble brow slightly furrowed, and then she had shrugged and smiled that incomparable smile. "Sure, why not."

For approximately five seconds, he had been in paradise. Dear Merlin, his heart racing, his breath caught, he had smiled, too, but then – then his mates had appeared on the scene, who had overheard the conversation. They had screeched and laughed and cackled, Marlon holding his belly for laughing so hard, and Yaxley had shouted, "Look, she's blushing! Awww! Got a little crush on him, have you, Black?"

The others had made comments of a similar kind, and Lucius had been so stumped that he hadn't managed to react immediately. Narcissa had reacted though. She had put on her iciest face, arched a brow and said coldly, "My, I hadn't yet figured what a total prat you are, Malfoy."

And thus she had turned on her heel and marched away, straight-backed, dauntless, proud. He had called after her, in a last desperate attempt, "Next weekend then?"

She had not turned around; she had merely raised her arm and made a gesture that had unmistakably answered the question instead. Directly after cursing the guys (which had been seen by old McGonagall and brought him three nights of detentions), he had rushed after her, he had tried to explain, to apologise, but she would not listen. She wouldn't even be in the same room with him. He had written her letters, which she hadn't opened but thrown at once into the next fireplace. He had even sprayed a huge graffiti in the Entrance Hall at night, spelling 'Narcissa, Forgive Me'. She had never seen it, because Filch, the useless caretaker, had caught him in the act and forced him to remove it – without magic! – only with a toothbrush, all through the night.

And since then, she had only gotten prettier, wittier, more excellent in each and every respect. There was no girl in this school remotely as pretty as Narcissa, was there? Blast it. Why the heck did he have such a selective taste? Unexpectedly, she had grown rather tall, and even in the unbecoming school robes, one could still tell that she had a great body, a body that promised to be as perfect as that face of hers. And what a face it was! If he hadn't found it beneath his dignity, he would have asked that Hufflepuff Mudblood that was dating her sister to draw her, even though no picture could ever capture those delicate features faithfully enough, those stunning dark blue eyes, the silkiness of her lashes, the velvet of her cheeks, the softness of those lush lips, the immaculate arch of her brows, the tower of ivory that was her neck... But he must not dwell on it, he kept reminding himself, it was no good. She hated him, and in turn, he was determined to hate her as well. All right, be careless, at least. All he needed was a bit more practise. She was a smart aleck after all, was she not? What was he supposed to do with a girl who knew just everything, and everything better than him?! What sort of relationship was it going to be, with a girl with more talent than he had?!

"Uhm..." Graham cleared his throat, looking uneasy. "Er, Lucius... I just thought you should know, but –"

He gave a little start. "What?"

"You're doing it again –"

"Doing what?"

He lowered his voice. "You're – staring – at her – again..."

"No, I'm not!"

He looked down at the chessboard, finding that this total moron Goyle had beaten him in only twelve moves without his notice, and in a sudden uproar of anger, he hurled the board into the fireplace.

"I'm sorry," Graham mumbled, twisting his face and getting up to summon the figures. Yeah – Lucius was sorry, too, although not for losing his temper. He felt entitled to lose his temper – being beaten by Goyle of all persons in chess – ridiculous!

He wasn't the only one with an awful crush on her; all the guys in school unanimously agreed that there was no other witch that could compare to her. His only luck was that she didn't want any of these blokes either. They had all asked her out, every single boy in Slytherin and Ravenclaw, everyone with a little boldness in Hufflepuff, and even half of the Gryffindors. She had always refused; actually she was quite famous for her snide rebukes.

One of the first ones had been Elias Yaxley, Lucius' very own dorm-mate. Gee, he had been frothing with rage, downright telling Yaxley what he'd do with him if he dared to approach her. Yaxley had been impressed, but not frightened enough not to give it a try nonetheless. In the middle of the Slytherin Common Room, he had boldly headed for her and put on his sleaziest smile. In that second, Lucius had had very violent fantasies, but he had called them off when witnessing Narcissa's reply.

Yaxley had coughed to raise her attention, but she hadn't looked up. "You should see Madam Pomfrey. Sounds like you've got yourself a serious case of bronchitis."

"What? Oh – er... I wondered if you've got any plans for the next weekend yet," Yaxley had said bravely.

"Yes."

Lucius had felt his tension slowly decrease. Yaxley wouldn't have any success there, so much had been clear – only the boy himself hadn't noticed yet.

"And the weekend after that? Or the Halloween Ball?"

"Get lost, Yaxley," she had simply said. Good girl.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that. You've got to give people a chance, Black!"

She had sighed, slowly straightened up and given him a very bored look. "So that's what I've got to do, you think?"

"Yes! Definitely! Look, you can't know how nice a bloke may be if you haven't given him a chance to prove it!"

"Ah, I see. And you are one of those nice blokes, right?"

"Indeed, you will see once you –"

"Get me right, Yaxley – I won't go out with you, no matter how much more you bother me. I haven't the faintest wish to find out anything about you; what I know so far is more than enough to convince me that I'd rather take the veil than spend only half an hour with you. Why don't you just spare your breath and pester some other girl?"

Yaxley had been deeply red by then, clenched his fists and spat, "You're ending up an old spinster, Black, which is all the better; I'd pity the poor lad who'd have to put up with you and your foul temper and –"

"For a nice bloke who wanted to ask me out thirty seconds ago still, that's an interesting statement, Yaxley. Doesn't really encourage any of the other girls round here to 'give you a chance', don't you agree? I suggest you reconsider your strategy and try it with a Hufflepuff next. I've heard they're not fussy."

Lucius had pulled himself together enough not to applaud and put on the most compassionate face he could muster when his mate had returned like a dog – beaten, growling, just waiting for a chance to bite. Served him right enough.

Now this was his first evening in Hogwarts after the holidays. Next to him Imogen, and five seats further down the aisle was Narcissa, lovely, gorgeous Narcissa. That wasn't prone to improve his opinion on his latest acquisition. Imogen chattered away, uninteresting stuff that he hardly listened to while unobtrusively squinting over. Blimey, she was goddamn gorgeous! Those cheekbones! The turn of her head!

"Lucius?"

"Hm?"

"Yes or no? Please, say yes! Pleeeaaase!"

Imogen smiled expectantly, and he racked his brains for what on earth she might have asked. "Sorry. What'd you say?"

Chloe, who sat nearby as well, sneered and snapped, "Get used to it, sweetie. He'll never listen to a single word you say!"

True. Admittedly. But that wasn't due to a bad memory. Though they never, never talked to each other, he had registered and memorised every word he had ever heard Narcissa utter. He could have written an entire book on her, on each of her gestures, her facial expressions, the rare occasions when she'd smile, how her voice would change between chill and casualty, indifference and commitment, mockery and contempt. He knew her face like the back of his hand, her finely chiselled cheeks and chin, the length of her lashes, the royalty of her nose, the soft curve of her rose petal lips. He knew each hair on her head; normally she'd tie it up, fastening it with an opal clasp, but sometimes, only sometimes, she'd let it fall over her shoulders and it would pour down like molten gold, shine like honey and ripe barley and amber and sand in the sunlight, sleek and shiny, waist-long silk. She was the very epitome of elegance and gracefulness, of composure and countenance. She would never raise her voice – and what a pleasant voice it was! – she never lost her temper, she always remained calm and controlled.

Narcissa was perfection itself, and he would have given his right arm, all his father's money, if only this sweetest of all creatures liked him just a little bit!

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