Sweet

She comes to you in the middle of the night, stroking along your arm, your hair, the way James does when he thinks you're sleeping.

"James?"

Her laugh is low, part amusement, part bitterness, and her hand rests in the valley between your hips and ribs as you're turned away from her. "Not quite."

Her voice makes you jump, and you turn over so fast the bedclothes tangle around your legs. Is that? It's hard to see for certain in the dark, but...yes. But...how? What does she want? The two of you haven't spoken since your days at Hogwarts. What the hell is she doing in your bedroom...never mind that, your bed, at...you squint at the clock...two in the morning?

"Narcissa? Narcissa Warrington? What are you doing in my bed? Don't you have, you know, a man you're supposed to be in bed with?"

She doesn't flinch, maintaining her expression of nonchalance as you try to stare her down. "Tell me Lily, Lily Evans, soon to be Lily Potter, don't I have the same question for you?"

Where is James, anyway?

"He probably just went out for a late-night ride or something. He does that. He'll--"

She laughs so hard she falls backward onto James's side of the bed. You sit up, turning to face her. That's not a laugh of humor, but one of cruel wisdom, of irony and taunting.

"What's so goddamn funny?" That's not quite the right question. She's not laughing at anything funny. She's laughing at you, isn't she? Or at James? What does she know?

"Sorry, Evans, but a late-night ride?"

"Yes. He used to take them all the time with Sirius when we were in school, not that you really care. Why is it funny?"

Her breathing slows to a normal rhythm and depth, with only a slight gasp of laughter here and there. "Sorry. Sorry. It's just...late-night ride."

And that's funny because? "Narcissa, the prepubescent sense of humor is getting really old. Either tell me what it is you came here for, or just leave. I'm not in the mood for giggles."

"James is out for a ride all right."

"Pardon?"

"Oh come off it, Evans. You can't tell me you don't know."

Your heart turns to lead in your chest. It stops beating, you swear, and your vision tunnels. Narcissa, Narcissa Warrington, soon to be Narcissa Malfoy, becomes the only thing in the room, her blonde hair a mess over James's pillow. Her face is split in a grin, but there are no good intentions in it.

"Humor me." It's as flat as you can make it, keeping the panic and suspicion out of your voice. It's true, isn't it? Oh God. It's just that you never thought otherwise because really, what else would he be out doing? Delusional, Lily. You're delusional.

"Our fiancés are fucking." The words are light but secure, and she doesn't break your gaze for a second.

"What?" She's got to be lying, but...no. This is your own damn fault. You were so stupid, so trustworthy, but there was all that pressure, and where else were you going to find a man like him? But Lucius? Lucius Malfoy? How? Why? James isn't... he's not...why is he doing this to you? It would almost be better if he were sleeping with Narcissa. "No."

"Yes. You heard me. Lucius is screwing James. On a regular basis. Mostly in the library. I've heard them, and sometimes I'll go in the next morning and there's ink spilled on the carpet, probably from--"

Your stomach reacts while your mind is still numb. Covering your mouth, you run for the bathroom and you're still kneeling over the toilet, head bent, when Narcissa comes in and holds your hair back. When you finish, she hands you a small cup. Mouthwash. It burns your tongue, and you feel like your throat has been turned inside out, but you rinse and spit and splash cold water on your face.

The mirror over the sink shows you a mess. Red hair, always too coarse and thick for your liking, eyes dulled, red, and puffy. Skin too blotchy, prone to breakouts and sunburn. Freckles. Ick. You're in a worn tee shirt and boxers of James's, and they hang off your body in a manner that's less than flattering. Narcissa appears over your shoulder, looking perfect as always. With one eye on your reflection, she pulls your hair back, and her whisper is little more than vapor in your ear.

"What are you going to do about it?"

Something in your inner ear vibrates at an unfamiliar frequency, and you shiver involuntarily against her. She holds you in place, forearms pressed to your sides.

"I...I don't know."

"I have a suggestion." She takes your hand and leads you back to the bedroom, helping you to get back into bed. The blankets are heavy and comforting, and you pull them up to your chin. You're exhausted, but you find you're fully awake as Narcissa slides into the bed, her body making your space under the covers just a little too warm. Her arm moves over your waist and her lips are on your shoulder, steaming the cotton of your shirt. "We could have a little fun of our own. A little...payback."

"Narcissa, no. I couldn't."

"Why not? Too good for me? Trying to protect your precious James?"

"It would...It wouldn't be right."

She snorts and pushes up your sleeve, kissing your arm. "Like what James is doing to you is right?"

She's got a point, doesn't she? But why? Why did James go to Lucius in the first place? Can you even allow yourself to care about that? No matter the reason, James, your fiancé, your partner, is...is letting Lucius Malfoy... You have a vision, a flash image of James beneath Lucius, his eyes closed and his knees drawn to his chest. Does he make that same sound, the moan deep in his throat that he makes when he enters you, like he's just crossed from cold reality into bliss?

You don't resist as she slides a hand under your shirt. You're curious and lost, and her hands are so much smaller, her touch so different from James's. You always had to tell James everything, from where to put his mouth to where and where not to use his tongue and his teeth. Narcissa knows. Her fingers fit perfectly over every inch of you. She lives your needs. Did she have to tell Lucius everything you had to tell James? Was there the awkwardness and the fumbling, and is there still the doubt years later when you want nothing more than just one night of not having to instruct James as to what you want, when you wish he'd take some initiative? "This is not Quidditch," you'd told him once. "Stop changing positions every fifteen seconds and let me enjoy it."

Her mouth is inches from yours now, and she's straddling you, hands on either side of your shoulders. This is wrong, and you know it. The division of right and wrong in your mind is turning red in the light of your want to do to James what he's done to you. Narcissa's hair falls forward, her face like the light at the end of the tunnel. "But I'm engaged!" you scream to no one. "I love James!"

You do, don't you?

The decision is yours...isn't it...and you reach behind her head with one hand and kiss her first. You've never been so terrified of anything in your life, and months later when you look back on the incident you remember that you never thought of James in that moment, wondering if he was as scared yet thrilled with Lucius as you were with Narcissa. You've never experienced anything so strange, or so perfect. And her taste, so sweet. You start to understand what they say about revenge.

Her mouth is so much smaller than James's, so much gentler, yet with more direction and strength and in a moment you know why she was a Slytherin because she is definitely manipulating the hell out of you but you really don't care. For once, your mind is completely focused on your partner, not wandering, wishing, wanting. She clears stray strands of hair off your face and begins to lift the hem of your shirt. Reflexively, you reach for her wrist to stop her and chastise yourself in the minute you do it. Narcissa is not going to care about the fact that you've hated your body for years: Breasts too large for the rest of your frame, hips and thighs that gain inches if you so much as look at a piece of cake, stretch marks left over from a phase of too much growth you hid with loose robes. You've hidden for so long, and to have someone unfamiliar so close is disconcerting.

"Lily, you're beautiful. Don't be scared."

Beautiful. When was the last time you heard James say that? He's called you his love, his sweetie, stroked your back and stayed up late talking to you, but called you beautiful? You can't remember. She kisses your cheek, your neck, and you relax your fingers and let her touch your stomach, cup your breast. Stay calm. There's a rush that makes you arch your upper back, a burn of anger at all the times James must have crawled back into bed, spent from a night at Lucius's but having the nerve to wrap his arm around you and rest his forehead against the back of your neck. In the heat, you reach for Narcissa's mouth with yours, and you let her...no, you don't let her do anything. It's not a matter of let. You're not sure exactly what you're supposed to do, but you're sure enough to let her lead, and to let her smile at you and touch your cheek and kiss your neck.

Together you lift your shirt over your head, and she smiles approvingly, moving to remove her nightgown. You love the way she kisses you, like the two of you have been doing this forever, and she doesn't part her lips too wide or end up licking your chin. She takes your lower lip into her mouth with her teeth, nibbling gently, and you want to pull her closer but instead reach around her back, catching a few strands of her hair in your fingers. It's sensory overload, how soft her skin is, amplified with your fear of being caught and the knowledge that you are not supposed to be doing this, here, with her. She's overwhelming, so much new to see and touch. You haven't been this close to another woman since you were weaned, and you can't help but compare yourself. Her body just seems so perfect, swelling where yours is flat and slender where you carry all your weight, pale skin luminous in the moonlight coming through the half-open blinds. As she half-rests on top of you, you reach to touch her hair. It's like spiderwebs, soft, yet it tangles easily in your hands and you have to concentrate for a minute to get out without pulling her hair.

"Lily," she whispers.

"Mmm?"

"Put your hands over your head."

Without question, you obey, and there's the swoop of guilt again. It only lasts for a second, pushed out of the way by Narcissa's hand sliding up your side, guiding your nipple to her tongue. You pull away in surprise, and you hear yourself gasp.

"Oh Lily, come on now. Relax. You can't tell me you didn't enjoy that."

Of course you can't. You're many things, but a liar is not one of them. You lie back into your pillows, arms tilted so you're holding your own wrists in your hands. Breathe. Close your eyes. Feel how the sheets under your skin are smooth, almost satiny, and you're warm without the covers even though the night is cold. When you open your eyes, you let your gaze roam over the curve of Narcissa's shoulders and arms. They're less defined than James's, but they look more inviting, more like something meant to be touched. She knows it, too. As you watch her, you know that this is someone in total control of everything in her life, up to and including you. She continues to lick and suck and tease, and you wonder briefly if this is the first time she's done this before deciding that it really doesn't matter. This isn't about her. This is about you. Narcissa asks you if you want her to stop and you tell her "no," and "no" becomes your answer for the rest of the night, except when your answer is "yes."

James is up early the next morning. You figure he probably never even bothered to go back to sleep when he came back from Lucius's last night. You stumble into the kitchen, and before you even open your mouth James has a cup of coffee in your hands. The steam clears your head, and you sit down at the table, watching him scramble eggs and make toast.

"I'm making breakfast, Lily."

"Oh," you reply, "how sweet of you."