The Harpist (Kingsley/Narcissa)
Title: The Harpist
Disclaimer: Alas I do not own Harry Potter. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended on any company, author, or anything under this earth that you would like to sue me for.
Pairing: Kingsley/Narcissa
Summary: He's not any better; she plays him just the same.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 220
A/N: Set Post-war; written for hh_writersblock's rare pair challenge.
-x-
Fools.
They don't see it, they never see it.
She plays them like a master harpist, with the pluck of each string committing them to the rise of her star. She smiles and lowers her eyes, the consummate coquette, and they delude themselves into thinking she's beneath them. As she turns away, a mollifying smile, a vague excuse and goodbye as she goes to her next victim, they murmur and giggle with vitriol thinking themselves superior as they shoot sidelong glances.
But they do look. They can never turn away. Bodies angle to face her, wherever she is in the room. Her name is on their lips, her smile in their eyes, and she's successful. She's won.
He'd like to tell himself that he's better, stronger. He sees her game, recognizes it for what it is.
But he looks, and he always smiles back. He's every bit under her spell, he just suffers the knowledge of it.
Her eyes find his, some excuse, a smile, and she leaves her latest victims to glide towards him. Her fingers flex around the cut crystal glass in her hands, tensing for the next piece she'll play.
"Minister Shacklebolt, what a pleasure to have you attend my little party."
He kisses her hand, mindful of danger but helpless against it.
"Lady Malfoy, the pleasure's mine."
-x-
Feedback is always appreciated :)
Disclaimer: Alas I do not own Harry Potter. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended on any company, author, or anything under this earth that you would like to sue me for.
Pairing: Kingsley/Narcissa
Summary: He's not any better; she plays him just the same.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 220
A/N: Set Post-war; written for hh_writersblock's rare pair challenge.
-x-
Fools.
They don't see it, they never see it.
She plays them like a master harpist, with the pluck of each string committing them to the rise of her star. She smiles and lowers her eyes, the consummate coquette, and they delude themselves into thinking she's beneath them. As she turns away, a mollifying smile, a vague excuse and goodbye as she goes to her next victim, they murmur and giggle with vitriol thinking themselves superior as they shoot sidelong glances.
But they do look. They can never turn away. Bodies angle to face her, wherever she is in the room. Her name is on their lips, her smile in their eyes, and she's successful. She's won.
He'd like to tell himself that he's better, stronger. He sees her game, recognizes it for what it is.
But he looks, and he always smiles back. He's every bit under her spell, he just suffers the knowledge of it.
Her eyes find his, some excuse, a smile, and she leaves her latest victims to glide towards him. Her fingers flex around the cut crystal glass in her hands, tensing for the next piece she'll play.
"Minister Shacklebolt, what a pleasure to have you attend my little party."
He kisses her hand, mindful of danger but helpless against it.
"Lady Malfoy, the pleasure's mine."
-x-
Feedback is always appreciated :)