Disclaimer: Nothing's mine but the plot!
Summary: It's just Evans.
"You’re in my way, Evans.”
A fourteen-year-old Narcissa Black stands with her arms folded over her chest as she leans lazily against a pillar. There’s a group of girls, her followers, which surround her, though it’s not nearly as large as Bella’s was. But Bella’s gone now; it’s Narcissa’s job to take her place.
“You’re not incompetent, Black,” the Gryffindor retorts coolly, flicking her violently red hair over her shoulder. “I’m sure you can plot a course to move around me if you really, really believe in yourself.”
The group of girls surrounding Narcissa lets out a collective gasp; how dare the mudblood talk back to Narcissa Black? But Narcissa actually finds it rather entertaining; she doesn’t really hate Evans.
Bella had, once, but Bella’s gone.
“Oh, but I’m sure I can’t,” Narcissa replies in what should have been an apologetic tone, but it comes out just as bored as before. “So I’m afraid you’ll have to finish your business,” she begins, pulling out her wand and flicking it lazily, immediately levitating all of the girl’s belongings, “elsewhere.”
One final flick of the wand and the bag goes flying down the hallway along with bottles of ink and a dozen scrolls. Useless scrolls, now, because those ink bottles really were rather fragile.
Evans shoots her a poisonous glare and Narcissa smirks in return, waving her French-manicured fingers after her as she chases after her things.
A year later, they’re sitting in Potions class together (because that Evans girl has always been advanced for her age, and Narcissa doesn’t really try because Blacks just don’t do that), and for the life of her Narcissa can’t remember the girl’s first name.
It’s silly, really, because it wouldn’t matter at all if the girl would just respond to Narcissa’s bored calls of “Evans,” but it seems she’s intent on being difficult. Finally Narcissa pulls her feet down from the edge of the stone table, the front two legs of the chair clattering to the floor and stands, blocking the girl’s view of their cauldron.
“You’re in my way, Black.”
Narcissa raises an eyebrow. “A Black is never in the way,” she says distantly. “Everyone else is simply in their path.” But she’s gotten off topic, now. “What’s your bloody name, then, if you’re going to be so particular?”
The girl sneers. “What, no Evans?”
“It would seem that you’re not answering to that at the moment,” Narcissa replies coolly, “and I am trying to tell you something.” She tries not to let her irritation show through, but she’s a Black, and she won’t be ignored.
“Figure it out, then, Black,” Evans says smartly, flicking her hair back over her shoulder in that annoyingly pompous manner like she does. Then, because the assignment’s finished (Narcissa supervised, of course), she bends down to grab her bag. As she lifts it into the air, her books crash to the floor, followed by about a dozen quills and some other…more personal items.
The room explodes into noise all at once. “Your bag’s ripped, Evans,” Narcissa quips, one fist propped beneath her cheek as she watches the girl frantically shove anything she could into the pockets of her robes. The Gryffindor’s head shoots up and she pins the Slytherin with a murderous glare before gathering all her books into her arms and fleeing the class. The Slytherins jeer at her, and Goyle blocks her way from the door. The girl glances around the room, but Slughorn’s left for some random thing or another.
Narcissa doesn’t know why she does what she does then. Perhaps it’s because she feels sorry for Evans, or maybe it’s simply because she can’t stand Goyle. It might even be something beyond that, but she refuses to think of that possibility.
Her upper lip curls into a sneer and she turns to Goyle, never adjusting her relaxed position. “Move, you great oaf,” she drawls, fixing him with an icy glare. The room goes deathly silent and Narcissa fears she’s made a terrible mistake, but of course she keeps her expression neutral.
The bulky boy gawks at her like she’s some kind of half-breed or worse, a mudblood, but he steps aside because no one argues with a Black. Evans darts through the newly-empty doorway without even a glance back, and Narcissa’s left to deal with the onslaught of questions by herself. But it’s nothing new. She’s a Black, after all.
Later that evening, sitting in the Slytherin common room with Lucius’s head in her lap as her group of followers adores her because she’d managed to twist the story so that she actually wasn’t helping Evans at all, Narcissa remembers the girl’s name.
It doesn’t suit her at all, Narcissa thinks, so she continues to refer to the girl as only Evans, and Evans continues to act like she’s above the world when really, she’s all tied around Narcissa’s little finger like the rest of them.
Yes, that’s it exactly.
It’s been two years since that day in Potions class, and they’ve never spoken of it again, but she thinks maybe that’s the day everything changed.
“You are being ridiculous, Evans,” Narcissa declares, leaning back against the headboard of her bed in the Head Girl’s suite because a Black deserved no less. “I will not.”
“Then I will not make love to you tonight,” Lily retorts hotly, pouting with her arms folded over her chest.
Narcissa groans and rolls her eyes, blowing a long stream of smoke from her lips as she lowers the cigarette (because Blacks are so elegant they’re allowed to be crude). Evans can be such a child sometimes. “It’s fucking, Evans,” she states, “don’t make it into something it’s not.”
Now the girl’s tone is curious. “Why not, Narcissa? Are you afraid?” Narcissa growls. A Black is afraid of nothing. “Are you afraid to give me your heart, Narcissa? Afraid I’ll break it?” she asks quietly after a moment. This causes a fire to spark inside of Narcissa; no one owns Narcissa Black’s heart but Narcissa Black.
“Fine,” Narcissa hisses through the smoke, ripping the cigarette from her mouth and smashing it down into the silver and green ashtray. Then she leans forward so her face is millimeters from the Gryffindor’s. “Lily.”
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Lily asks, sitting back and folding her arms over her chest. But there’s something wrong; she’s gloating but she’s not because she’s got that ‘I told you so’ smirk, but her eyes are sad…disappointed.
So Narcissa darts forward and closes the distance between their lips because she doesn’t want to deal with that.
Lily grimaces and shoves her back, but her eyes are normal again, the moment lost in the brief kiss. “You taste like cigarettes,” she mutters, wiping the back of her hand over her lips.
Something inside Narcissa growls at the sight of Lily wiping the kiss away, and she blames it to her ego and to the fact that Evans really seems to think she is capable of breaking a Black’s heart.
And it’s not because it secretly hurts when Evans doesn’t want her.
No, that’s not it at all.
Lily leaves the Head Girl’s room for the last time at three in the morning with a rather large reddish purplish mark adorning the hollow of her neck.
When the Prophet arrives years later to the Malfoy manor, Narcissa almost doesn’t react.
The picture’s black and white so really the people in it, smiling and laughing without a care in the world could be anyone at all. But secretly Narcissa knows exactly who it is in that picture; exactly who it is who’s smiling and laughing with the man she loved while Narcissa lays in bed with a man she’s never even liked.
She tells herself not to cry; it’s just Evans, after all.
Just Evans, who wouldn’t move out of Narcissa Black’s way.
Just Evans, who could have had Narcissa Black and chose James Potter instead.