James Potter is Summer.

Narcissa has known this from the beginning, from the first moment she spied him on Platform 9 ¾. The Potter boy – that's what Bella calls him, Andy too – is wild and free and untameable. He's a force to be reckoned with. He's a typhoon of energy that just goesgoesgoes without so much as a glance backwards. That first moment he was laughing and chatting with her cousin Sirius. His grin was lopsided and easy and everything that her entire life wasn't. He is Adonis with messy black hair and hazel eyes that burn like the stars overhead. He is just so perfectly Gryffindor it makes her chest ache.

James Potter is everything she craves, all bravery and chivalry and brash confidence and jarring inappropriateness.

And he is everything that Narcissa has been warned away from.

Mother says he's trouble, Father calls him blood-traitor. Bella rants and raves about things that shouldn't really be relevant but they are to her, so Cissy (so good so perfect so trapped and bored) must listen. Andy approves of him in that silent supportive way of hers. But Mother has warned her away from her middle sister, away from the chocolate eyes and comforting hugs and ideals that are so different from everything else that she's been force-fed in her menial existence.

Perfect pureblood princesses do not fall for the likes of Potters. Even those that burn.

So for a time, Narcissa plays the part. She listens to her parents and is Sorted into Slytherin

(even though the Hat said she would do so much better in Gryffindor with her cousin. Narcissa threatened to use him to clean a lavatory if so much as a "g" came out)

like a good little Black girl.

What she does not do is glance across the Great Hall at every opportunity trying to pick out a familiar head of unruly obsidian hair. She doesn't listen for his booming laugh, doesn't secretly smile at the obscene pranks he and the Marauders pull on her fellow housemates. She doesn't watch him out of the corner of her eye during Double Potion and wonder if he smells as good as he looks.

No, that would be creepy and silly and wrong.

She should focus on her studies, on schmoozing the other pureblooded suitors in her House with cold smirks and remarks calculated just so to hurt. Because Narcissa is a Slytherin and James is a Gryffindor and the two are like porcupine quills and heat. They do not mix. They explode in a painful conflagration and corrode away whatever is good between them. There is a reason the two power-houses of Hogwarts hate each other with such a passion. In actuality, Narcissa should hate this bonfire of a boy with hazel eyes.

But she doesn't.

He's too wonderfully bright and she can't make herself.

But she does try. She's so cold, and she craves the heat. The heat, however, is off-limits so maybe a little bit more cold can be the cure? There is a boy in Andy's year, two summers older, with steel-grey eyes and hair like platinum and a cold smirk that never fails to send a shudder down her spine. His name is Lucius Malfoy. He is everything her parents approve of, everything Bella shoves in her lap at each turn. Malfoy is the perfect Slytherin prince. He is a pureblood match with wealth and status and power, a cunning charmer that can slither his way out of any situation he finds himself in.

The faster Winter approaches, the more Narcissa craves the Summer.

She craves the feeling of slipping into a warm bath, the smell of fresh dew on a dark summer morning. She wants to feel cable-knit sweaters under her fingertips, smell cigarettes on overheated skin while everything scorches around her, wants to walk barefoot through a wheat field with a calloused hand holding onto hers tightly enough to bruise. Narcissa is standing barefoot in the snow; James is the fire to melt the ice around her.

James is firewhiskey laced with arsenic, firewhiskey she shouldn't want ever.

That is how Narcissa spends the first three years, stealing glances at a boy she shouldn't want even though she's dying. Never mind the fact that hypothermia is setting in and her bones are freezing solid. Her body shudders and shakes with a perpetual chill that she can never quite rid herself of. The blood in her veins is solidifying in a manner that is just so Slytherin it makes her want to shriek. Narcissa hides the cold with a well-placed mask of stone, holds her nose high and plays the part of perfect Slytherin princess even though she screams on the inside.

Because Narcissa is a damn good actress and she's freezing and so she takes the cold out on unsuspecting Gryffindors, Gryffindors with wide eyes and bonfire souls that spark and spit and spill hot tears. And this catches the attention of one Lucius Malfoy, who sneers in approval.

Maybe she can just freeze solid and it'll stop hurting quite so badly.

Fourth year steamrolls in and Narcissa wonders how she's still alive, why her body isn't stiff and blue and stark against the floors of her family estate. Lucius and Bella are in their sixth year and they've stayed the same. Bellatrix still cackles with barely-grasped sanity while Lucius just grins sardonically in the background. They have joined a group, a Dark Arts circle spoken of only in whispers, following a man so feared they dare not speak his name. They weave a tale of lies, these serpents that surround her.

Narcissa feels as though the serpent's tail is strangling her slowly. She idly wonders if there is a ring of bruising on her neck.

The common room smells of damp mildew, a chill drifting in from the lake overhead. And Narcissa, perfect little Slytherin princess that she is - with her ice-queen looks and cold façade – feels like the water has come crashing down around her ears. She is drowning.

Casually, Narcissa excuses herself from her current company and escapes to the lavatory to cry until her throat is raw. Don't these people know that lions serpents don't belong in gilded cages?

She can only pray that the Summer will come quickly.

"Cissy? Narcissa, darling, what the hell are you doing in there? You're missing all the fun!" Of course Bella would think to find her despite the courteous dismissal.

The lie comes with all the smooth practice being a Black provides. "I'll be out in a minute, Bella. Just need to freshen up a bit."

In here, in a place where all the Houses convene, Narcissa thinks she can smell cinnamon and cigarette smoke and she wonders if that's how Summer will smell when it finally comes round.

For a time, Narcissa drowns herself in the wealth of knowledge that Hogwarts provides. She absorbs Transfiguration theories and the proper wand motions conducive to Charms. And – oh! – the wonderful wonderful art of Potions. An art that requires all her concentration and something she excels at because precision, the precision that she must have at all times is so valued here. Potions certainly isn't her favorite subject because James is in there. No; absolutely not at all, no sir-ee.

Quidditch matches are a dime-a-dozen here, but this is the last match of the season. It's Slytherin versus Gryffindor, the grudge match to end all others and she is obligated as a member of the fighting House of silver to attend.

Then it happens. It, the one thing she's been craving since she saw the beautiful burning dark-haired Potter prince on Platform 9 ¾. The air is so cold, crisp and foggy and misty and she can't hardly see two feet in front of her, much less watch the match. Everyone is roaring with sound, supersonic. But everything is crystalline at the same time. Narcissa can't help but silently cheer on James. Regulus might have been Slytherin, but he wasn't Siri, would never be the gregarious boy who used to be her protector (now all he does is torment her, but Cissa won't forget her favorite childhood hero).

And James Potter is better than that pureblood elitist git.

The match is swinging, back and forth and back again. Narcissa worries her bottom lip between her teeth as Gryffindor gains a tiny lead behind McKinnon. There is a flash of movement that catches her attention through the gloom, like a darting insect made of gold. There it is, the Snitch.

James sees it; she bears witness to the triumph and elation in his gaze.

Regulus has yet to turn around despite the screams.

Damn, James is good.

James blasts off at the speed of light and the stadium seems to blur together in a watercolor painting of sound. Victory is approaching the Gryffindor boy like a freight train. Then he looks up and Narcissa notices where he's headed and time. Fucking. STOPS.

James Potter is staring at her with all his beautiful bonfire Gryffindor glory. Those eyes are hazel and warm like whiskey and he's headed right for her. It's a heart-pounding show-stopper. He can't pull out not now, not with people screaming encouragements and taunts and insults and war-cries. This is what victory sounds like.

And Narcissa is rooting for the team that isn't hers.

"I knew you could do it," she whispers. Cissa doesn't know if he can hear her, doesn't even know if she wants him to hear her, but the admission makes her feel like her toes are finally beginning to thaw.

Then James crashes into the stands, right between her and Lucius (thank God). His hand has closed around the Snitch, that tiny insignificant little sphere that carries so much. McNair and Malfoy are kicking him, screaming insults that sound so foul it's un-fucking-believable right now. So Narcissa does what comes naturally.

She pulls James to his feet out of the squalor.

His arm automatically goes up. The stadium erupts. But all Narcissa can think of is how solid his body feels against hers, how he smells of butterbeer and cigarettes and warm fireplaces. There is sweat trying to mask that natural smell, but prim proper pureblood princess doesn't mind in the slightest. Because that sweat warms her to her toes and makes her feel alive again.

"Meet me in the third-floor corridor at midnight," she whispers, desperate, heart pounding in her chest even though on the outside she is a statue made of marble. Narcissa wants to hold on so badly, hold on for-fucking-ever but she can't and won't.

Bella is watching her like a hippogriff.

James nods almost imperceptibly, grips his broom and flies away to the ear-splitting roar of the crowd around them. Instinct warns Narcissa not to show the loss of his heat and warmth. Black instincts are rarely wrong so she listens.

The next few hours pass in a blur of Bella-rants and ice-cold stares, the sound of endless partying thumping in errant echoes around the castle. Narcissa thinks she can hear the familiar rhythm of her favorite Rolling Stones song (Mother would never everever approve of listening to Muggle music so she keeps this little quirk from everyone) thumping down from Gryffindor Tower and for the first time since the Sorting Hat cried "Slytherin!" there is hope on the horizon.

There is so much hope she is almost late. Ironic, no? Perfect little princess Narcissa, made of ice and glass and pureblood ideals nearly doesn't make it to the very meeting she so desperately craves. She feels like Cinderella, like the silent abuse handmaiden with gold-spun hair and bruised dreams dressed in an elegant gown bequeathed by a faery-god-somebody as the clock chimes midnight. It is cold. It is freezing, the windows open to let the October night breeze roll through with the spicy of pine-needles on its fingertips.

Narcissa steps out into the moonlight and James looks at her, smiles, and at once she's fallen in love all over again. Because James Potter is a bonfire soul. He is a star that shines brighter than any constellation any of her sisters or cousins could be named for. T'was the East, and James Potter was the sun, with his bright firewhiskey-hazel eyes and messy black hair and that damn lopsided grin that makes her iceheart melt at every damn turn.

It has finally happened and Narcissa has fallen in love all over again even though Bella will kill her and Mother will disapprove and the Slytherin (stupidpointlessidioticnothers) logic dictates that this is really fucking stupid.

He's a Gryffindor, and things never end well between Lions and Snakes.

But Narcissa takes a breath anyway, steels her nerves and blurts, "I see you watching me."

No pre-empt. No bullshit. Sirius would have been very proud in that moment, she thinks (Sirius, who used to be her brother friend).

Shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly and replies, "Who doesn't want to watch you?"

She can smell him over the pine trees. It's a unique scent, a curious mix of cigarettes and butterbeer and the distinct aroma of cinnamon. She feels the ice that has plagued her since the Sorting Hat shrieked her demise begin to melt.

Narcissa steps forward, arms wrapped around her waist, and shudders as the wind blows over her hypothermic skin. James responds on autopilot, it seems, gathering her too-tiny frame against his lean chest as his arms wrap around her waist. They're a perfect fit like puzzle pieces. She nuzzles closer to the bonfire as warmth explodes and mutters something unintelligible about being cold. It's disgracefully improper, this situation.

She thinks it's fucking brilliant.

Because as much as she's been aching for the warmth of a bonfire, Narcissa Black comes to believe that her perfect Gryffindor prince craves the cold of an icy faerie.

Her pigment-drained hair brushes against James's strong chin. She's looking up into a pair of honey-warm hot-chocolate pigmented eyes, and her Prince Not-so-Charming leans down and captures her lips with his wind-chapped ones.

They taste like Guinness and cinnamon-bread and Rocky-Road ice cream.

Narcissa must have hit Elysium and Tir NaNog and Fólkvangr as her world exploded in a burst of contact and flame and color. She is spinning on a whirlwind, flying high just like she would if he were to take her for a spin on his broom. There is knowing now. This is wrong wrong and the stars have crossed in the heavens – just like Shakespearean Romeo and Juliet – but she doesn't even care. Doesn't give a flying fuck what those damn stars say. Stars have given her nothing but grief, just ask her sisters and her elder cousin. All that matters in this moment is she is warm. There is no chill, nothing making her nose and toes and fingers numb. Everything was soothing and perfect and damn wonderful.

James pulls away first and Narcissa almost cries out at the loss. But then he grins, that lopsided easy smile he's so known for only it's genuine and her heart feels like it could burst out of her chest. Dear sweet baby Jesus, this Marauder will be the death of her. But when he's here, holding her and looking at her with those eyes and that smile, death doesn't seem so very frightening anymore.

And so Narcissa smiles at him and it feels like emerging into the sunlight after an eternity of darkness. This is perfection, she thinks. Just maybe. A great perhaps that may or may not produce results but she'll be fucking damned if James Potter will slip through her fingers. She leans in close, clasping his wrists between her willowy fingers, and Narcissa is spiraling downwards through shattered nerves and an unreasonable love. There is a perfect perfume of butterbeer and woodfire and chocolate chip cookies floating about them like Amortencia. And for the first time, Narcissa feels like she's home.

James is strong and broad across the shoulders and tucks her into him like she's the most fragile thing in the world. Her head fits perfectly under his chin, and the cable-knit sweater that she assumes his mother sent feels like the most luxurious silk straight from Milan in the moment. Narcissa hums under her breath and revels in the way it vibrates on the still night air.

"I don't understand you," she whispers. Because, really she doesn't.

"I'll never be able to understand you," James responds.

But – for God's sake – do they really want to understand? Narcissa doesn't want to know the secrets hidden behind his thousand-watt grin and Gryffindor sunset eyes. She would much rather bask in his warmth and glow and revel in the fact that this is forbidden. So she laughs a laugh filled with broken glass and shattered ice-ideals and something in James's eyes breaks so quickly it makes her want to stuff the sound back down her throat.

"I've wanted you to see me since that first day on Platform 9 ¾," James confesses quietly.

Shock radiates through Narcissa and she answers, "I didn't think you saw me. I thought you were looking at Bella"

James shakes his shaggy dark head and smiles at her as though she's the most adorable thing he's ever seen. "Never: your psycho sister can't hold a candle to how beautiful you are."

Narcissa feels a blush warm her cheeks and knows that the essence of James, with his sparks and blazing glory, is seeping into her after all.

Because even though James is the Summer, Narcissa is the Winter.

They are antithesis, opposites, black on white and Yin on Yang.

This would be a wonderfully strange way to spend forever, Narcissa thinks idly. There would be no way any of her family would approve, nope, not even if James is a pureblood. She doesn't know what would happen, how the Fates would spin the future or how their small infinities would entwine. She can't see the hardships or the triumphs or the laughter or the tears. At this point caution is in the wind and her fucks are spent, so the stars can cross for all Narcissa Lyra Black cares.

All that matters is James Potter holding her tightly against his chest and the constellations twinkling outside the castle windows.

What a wonderfully fucked way to spend eternity.

Because Narcissa loves the Summer far more than she could ever love the Winter.

(And how do those apples taste, Lord Malfoy of Cruelty?)