What It Is To Burn,

[edwardjameson]

The sense of danger that had previously brought Edward out of the Narcissa-induced near-hypnotic he was in was long since forgotten. There was a smile, one he found almost impossible to read, before her mesmerizing lips opened to speak. He almost stopped breathing in anticipation of seeing them move, flowing over the sweetened words, caressing them as they left to meet with his ears. There was much disappointment when they closed again, and her face took on a thoughtful look. What was this? Hesitation? It was as unreadable as her smile and the soft features that adorned her face sapped his will to try to figure it out; he ended up staring at her instead. What else was there to do? He had all but surrendered his will to the girl. There was no more subliminal mental competition, just a little boy being played with by a goddess.

"Which one does it look like I am?" She...she wanted his opinion? Hurriedly, he attempted to think of something to say. Lovely time to blank out, Edward. Would she take offense to one or the other? She wasn't much like him, maybe she prized the idea of realism and saying she was anything but a realist would make her take her wand out again. Then again, perhaps all she longed for in life was a strong, semi-attractive male figure to recognize her for the dreamer she was and saying so was all it would take for her to throw her arms around his neck and confess her long-hidden love for one Edward Jameson. Okay, so those were the extremes and neither were likely to happen. Time to say something, Edward. Don't make yourself look a fool.

"What do you think...Edward?" His name escaped her lips and met him in a wave of energy, like suddenly the blood in his veins halted for just a moment, then returned to their cyclical trek throughout his body. Then he felt an electricity in his arm, tingles and chills, as her hand nearly touched his. It wasn't a physical connection, but like something was being channeled between them, or the blood in each of them longed so to meet that they pulled in a near-magnetic fashion. It almost escaped his attention that she had asked the question again. Forcing himself away from the daze that her voicing of his name was causing, not to mention her hand, he smiled at her. He decided to say dreamer. Alright, so in all honesty she seemed like a miserable realist, She seemed like the type to accept her fate as she was told it would be, the kind who valued stature and wealth above happiness and freedom. That's how she seemed, and yet Edward always had a sense that there was something else going on. Never enough to call her a dreamer, but there was an inkling. Like maybe she would one day grow tired of it all, like she would find one thing to prize above all and nothing could ever stop her from loving and adoring it, devoting her life to it, without care for that which she valued now. On impulse, Edward moved his hand closer to her's very slowly, and didn't stop until his fingertips lay across her knuckles.

Narcissa's touch was intoxicating. Her fingers were cold, as were his, but that seemed the natural state of things. If not cold, then what? He seemed to lose clarity of mind, her touch numbing most of his senses and slowing his thought process. In order to feel less pressured, he turned his gaze to their touching hands. Finally, he answered.

"Realist," he said.

Oh, piss it...

Mistake. Big one. His eyes stayed on the ground by their hands, unable to look up again until he heard what she had to say about it.

[Narcissa Black]

{The sky's still fire}

"Realist,"

He was being direct at least; even if the expression that followed his statement was one that told Narcissa that that wasn’t what he’d intended to answer at first. She had to hide her involuntary smile as she realized he was awaiting for her reaction. Really, what was the boy expecting? Some kind of thunderous and/or murderous reply? Her wand being drawn back out? She rolled her eyes, and thankfully, he was facing elsewhere, for she had to fix her expression. Normally, Narcissa was very good at keeping composed expressions, but Jameson had too much of a trying effect on her to be able to keep the façade for long. Merlin knew she was ready to rip his simple head off already. She could only imagine the aggravations that would be to her sanity later on. It just wasn’t a pretty picture. But straying away from the grotesque, Narcissa decided to focus on the present. And the fact that the little bugger had his hand touching hers. She looked down quickly at their touching hands, and openly sneered. It was a flash of twisting lips, over before you were even able to realize it had started, and once again, she was secretly grateful for his eyes being elsewhere.

Clearing her throat (which could be interpreted by disappointment if you didn’t know her well), she went on.

“Oh?” As far as effects went, used in tone of voices, Narcissa was a mistress. She knew what she was doing with that at least. Even if her initial plan was starting to sound a bit nonsensical to her. She’d follow through. She was stubborn enough to pull that off easily. She sounded surprised and almost disappointed. To fulfil the whole disappointment act, though, she had to do something else. Something that was good to, since it would stop the unwanted contact. Silently, she pulled her hand away, a wistful expression feeling her slate eyes. The color of them was a dead giveaway as to her mood, seeing they were only so dark when she was feeling relatively close to their adjective, but Jameson was too far gone to notice. Or perhaps he didn’t know that little tidbit of information about her. A relief for sure, since he didn’t know her so thoroughly so as to know what was going on behind her eyes and inside her mind, and also, that he was spot on. There was no better realist than Narcissa. If at all, she liked to name herself objective. She wasn’t one for illusions and petty distractions. What was real was there, and raw feelings could be spent on that. If not, perhaps it wasn’t worth it.

Those were the marked differences between the youngest Black sister and Andromeda. But it would be pretentious of her to say she knew enough of her to actually say the Ravenclaw sister spent her time with her head up in the clouds, because that wasn’t a fact. And as much as she’d like to badmouth her (as unclassy as it was), she wouldn’t. One, it was too off topic, and two, she liked to pretend she wouldn’t rub two sickles together for the likes of “Annie Black”. She almost sneered again, but caught herself in time again. She was supposed to be let down, not thinking about the only hideous part of her family. But there was Sirius too…Oh well. They were a pair of rotten fruits.

“Realists are condemned to see everything in black and white.”

But to her it was far from a condemnation. It made things easier, more discernable. More there. But she wasn’t about to go on and try to explain that to someone like Jameson. She could identify a lost cause when she saw one. Lost cause to her, of course. Perhaps other people could pick up the fragments and just try to piece him together. Just for the sake of trying. What did he mean? Absolutely nothing. How could he? He was in no standing point for her, and if he’d bothered to look closely enough, he would’ve seen the disdain she felt for him etched deeply in her eyes.

Deeply because she didn’t want it to be able to be recognized at first glance. There was a petty cause to win, after all. No matter how small and unimportant, it was her cause, and she wasn’t backing up. Funny how it had all surged out because either of them refused to leave. It was insignificant, now that she was deeply entrench in this battle that Edward was losing, unbeknownst to him. She smiled sadly at him, the ghost of what her real and honest smile could be, but there was no way he’d ever know that. Because he would never see her in a good mood. Not while he was in close proximity, he wasn’t.

“Good to know you have me in such a candid light, Jameson.”