With Love, || N.B.

𝑻𝒘𝒐

"Nora!" she cried tauntingly.

"I told you, Black, don't call me that!"

__________

Eleonora tries her best. She tries to love everyone--even those who have hissed "mudblood" under their breath as she passes by in the halls. 'They were taught that way' Eleonora tries to convince herself. 'They don't know any better.'

But that was a lie. They do know better. For God's sake, they're sixteen years old. By now, everyone has had the lecture of treating people with kindness. Everyone. More or less. And everyone--more or less--decides to listen. Perhaps it's the fear of what their parents and peers will think. That was usually it. They too didn't want to become an outcast.

So Eleonora ignores them. She talks to people who want to talk back and leaves the rest alone. If someone picks a fight, she doesn't pick back--unless they use physical force.

There was one instance in third year when a young Lucius Malfoy had started picking on her for everything--blood status, looks, and everything in between. She tried her best to ignore it, her friends trying to defend her, only for her to tell them it wasn't worth it. It wasn't until one day in the Great Hall, a few weeks later, that he put his hands on her, grabbing the collar of her black and merigold robes, refusing to let go. She slipped out of them, spinning on her heel and socking him in his nose, breaking it instantly.

Could she have used magic? Yes. Her wand was on her in her pocket, and one hex later he'd have bats flying out of his nose. But she always preferred to do things the traditional way, and a punch to the nose was just as efficient.

And that day--when Eleonora was sent out of lunch early to Professor Sprout, blood on her hands, a triumphant glow on her round face--was the day Narcissa Black finally looked her way.