Entry tags:

lucius/narcissa

Fic: The Family Way (Lucius/Narcissa)
To: peki
From: leni_jess


Title: The Family Way
Author: leni_jess
Recipient: peki
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Lucius/Narcissa
Summary: Malfoys require heirs. The Dark Lord requires dedicated followers. Everybody makes mistakes.
Genre: Drama, Romance
Disclaimer: These are Ms Rowling's characters; what they get up to here is mostly mine. I make no profit from this story.
Warnings: Mild D/s
Author's note: Thanks to my beta readers B, R and R! I hope, peki, you enjoy the story I wrote for you. (Everybody else enjoy, too!)

The Family Way


Lucius knocked, but did not wait for his wife to bid him enter. She was stirring, though the room was still dark; he used his wand to create a comfortably low Lumos.

Narcissa murmured his name sleepily.

"Wake up."

The tone of voice alone roused her.

He came to the side of the bed, though he did not sit; his torn robes were filthy, and he would discard them shortly. Her eyes flicked over him as she sat up.

He pushed back the left sleeves of his robes and shirt, and turned his arm so she could see the inside of the forearm. The flesh was discoloured, swollen by bruising and blistered by what might have been brief exposure to great heat, but the Dark Mark itself, the skull and snake, was pale, like an old scar.

He smiled at her coldly, even as she reached a cautious finger to touch him. She hissed at the heat she felt in his arm.

"My lord made a mistake."

Tartly, Narcissa said, "I hope it caused him some inconvenience too."

Her hands, as she urged him to sit beside her, were gentler than her voice. Lucius shed his robes and thankfully sat down. She took up her wand and used it to inspect his arm closely. After the baby's birth, Narcissa had decided she did not want to be wholly dependent on house-elves, or on mediwitches who did not always come immediately when summoned. While most of Draco's injuries that she examined were minor and self-inflicted, she had looked Lucius over more than once, when some Mudbloods or Muggles proved better able to resist a true wizard than their natural powers should permit.

He waited. His own healing skills were slight; something he ought to remedy.

"I can salve this, or Floo-call Healer Field – he knows better than to speak."

He shook his head. "You do it."

She summoned a creamy lotion and applied it; he breathed out unsteadily as the worst of the pain eased.

"The burns and the bruises should heal without trace. Why has the Mark changed, though, Lucius?"

"It was a very great mistake," he answered softly. "So great, it seems he is no longer with us. An hour ago it was more visible."

"It's fading. If he's gone, what is most urgent to do?"

"I did that after I got out of the ruins. Warned those who would have Apparated in to his summons – it was that caused the burns. Retrieved what I could of his most vital possessions. "

"And the body? Did you leave it for the Aurors?" She didn't seem to find the idea objectionable.

"There is no body," he said shortly.

Her eyebrows rose, but she shuddered a little, all the same. His fingers closed over hers for a moment, then he released them, wincing.

She had not been fond of Tom Riddle, though she had dutifully supported her husband, agreeing with him that the wizard who called himself Lord Voldemort might be the best hope of pureblood wizards of today.

"I couldn't get his wand, unfortunately. That rat Pettigrew seized it and was off in an instant."

She asked with soft severity, "How much did you do with your arm in that state, that painful?" Her concern was more for him than for his lost lord or his lord's ambitions.

"What I had to. I have as many of his magical lore books as I could find, some of his store of potions, a few objects. I don't know what all of them are for, Narcissa, so we must be very careful. I've warded them triply, and must think tomorrow if more needs to be done. Pettigrew must have made off with some of the library, too."

* * *

Residual pain kept him awake, but he needed the time to think.

This could mean disaster – the Ministry and especially the Aurors would be eager for reprisals, after the Death Eaters' activities of the last few years. However, if he could survive those revenges, the loss of his master was a great benefit for the Malfoy family, whatever proved to have caused the death of the Dark Lord. Lucius had every intention of blaming his master for as much as possible.

It was no thanks to Lord Voldemort that he had an heir. Narcissa had been luckier than her sisters.

Bellatrix's lack of children had twisted something in her, as if she punished the whole world for the results of her devotion, even as she refused to recognise that she had done it to herself. Perhaps she truly did not know why she had suffered all those miscarriages. Lucius at least admitted (though only to himself) he had been wrong to believe the Dark Lord pursued goals all purebloods should admire. The Dark Lord had pursued his own goals, utterly ignoring the needs of his followers.

Andromeda and her regrettable husband had paid heavily too, for all Andry had refused to serve. She still had her first child, that astonishing, repulsive little shape-changer, but she had lost her two boys. Lucius had never shared with Narcissa his suspicion that Bellatrix had personally ensured that loss, from jealousy, he was sure, even more than from zeal to erase the halfbloods whose existence shamed the Blacks.

Lucius had a Malfoy heir at last. With his line secure he could weather the Ministry's petty storm of righteousness, and perhaps at last he and Narcissa could give Draco the siblings he needed to keep him from feeling the centre of the universe. Lucius knew that feeling, and only his father's discipline had kept him from learning by experience rather than observation how treacherous a weakness it truly was.

His father would not have the opportunity to train Draco as rigorously as Lucius had been trained. After the first test – the child not even a year old! – Lucius had taken appropriate action, blest with the friendship of a potions master who had no more scruples than Lucius himself.

Now he was finally free of his father, Lucius could consider what might improve the lot of wizarding purebloods, and in particular the Malfoys, other than following a madman bent on immortality as well as absolute rule.

Content for the moment, he drifted into sleep.

* * *

If he had made mistakes in politics, at least his marriage had been no mistake. Another proof that even as recently as six years ago his late father had understood his needs as well as the family's, when he arranged it. Or maybe it had just been luck that he chose the youngest Black daughter for his heir. Narcissa, wiser than himself, had never shown her true face to her father-in-law.

Malfoys did not marry in haste, like Muggle tinkers, though at least true tinkers showed a respect for the old ways by jumping over the fire together to call the attention of magic to their union, to keep it holding fast.

Lucius and Narcissa therefore had had a six-month engagement before their wedding, conducted with all the elegance the Malfoys could summon, and all the extravagance the Blacks could ill afford. They bore the wait patiently, the elaborate preparations less patiently, and the frustration not well at all.

The wedding day was something of an anticlimax, each of them tired, irritable, and bored to screaming point, though they played their parts perfectly. Lucius's austere father smiled as broadly and fondly as Narcissa's parents. Even her sister seemed to soften as well as approve.

The wedding night was another matter. Practice tended to make for perfection.

Throughout their engagement each presented an aristocratic calm, and consciously looked beautiful together.

In private matters were different, though they had little privacy at first.

After Lucius first bedded his fiancée he had been pleased that she envisaged a next time; her initiation had not been simply a ritual of acceptance between them, a personal sealing of the contract. He also liked it that she was bold enough to ask. He had rapidly come around to the opinion that he didn't want a meek, obedient, passive wife, however convenient that might be.

Next time came soon enough, even with the increased supervision her parents provided now that everyone was committed. Lucius subdued his irritation at the unnecessary interference, knowing she shared it, and was no more anxious than he to wait until all official contracts were formalised.

One day she said gravely, "I have a duty to learn more about your home, your home country."

Lucius said in some amusement, "Our parents would think it too transparent for me to take you to Malfoy Manor alone."

Reflectively she replied, "Bella said once it's incredible what you can do in daylight, and have no one suspect, when you'd never get away with it after dark."

"I could show you more of Wiltshire. We could take a picnic out to the downs, away from the Muggles. No need to carry blankets or cushions."

She smiled back. They both had an excellent command of summoning charms.

"We could ride, if you like; my father keeps a good stable, and some of the horses should be suitable for you: spirited, but well-behaved."

"Horses?"

"Winged horses, of course, with the usual Disillusionment Charms," he confirmed. "Father's are mostly Granians, because he likes the speed, but he has Aethonans too. We don't want to be racing; this is a pleasure jaunt. He wouldn't approve my putting you up on one of his greys until he was assured you were quite safe, but you'd look well on one of the Aethonans. Would you like that?"

While they enjoyed the ride, and the superb meal, with light chilled white wine, they had a different purpose. Lucius was impatient to have her again, no longer expecting, as he had the first time, that his interest would primarily be in training her to please him. He thought she simply wanted to experience that intimacy, that thrill of enjoyment, once more, to assure herself it would happen again.

Lucius waited until some time after their meal, until his fiancée reclined against his shoulder, sighing gently, her eyes half closed. She wasn't really sleepy. No. She wanted what he wanted.

He brushed one hand lightly down the front of her robes, ending by flicking her skirts straight. Her breast arched into his hand, though anyone not paying careful attention might think she merely breathed more deeply. He accepted her repeated invitation, and brushed more firmly, feeling her nipple tightening under the fine cloth. Then he brought both hands to cup her breasts, bending his head so that he breathed warmly, moistly, into the tender flesh at the nape of her neck, half concealed by her hair. She shivered faintly. It was his turn to sigh.

He released her long enough to grasp his wand and strip her robes and riding boots away, ignoring the slender hands tugging at the fastenings of his.

He had intended to caress her until she was ready for him, then to take her, almost as gently as the first time, but his gaze caught and hung on what she wore beneath the elegant robes her mother had spent too much money on.

He doubted very much if her mother had either purchased or sanctioned those. A camisole, a petticoat skirt fastened at her narrow waist, beneath that a decidedly French-looking ... garment. Modest in the areas they covered, but wonderfully immodest in what they revealed. None of them offering impediment to his eyes or his hands.

Drifts of mossy green silk and lace, pale and bright, made a delectable gift of her body. The skin of the delicate curve of her belly gleamed though the fine material, as did her breasts, rosy from his attentions, and the pale bush hiding the core of her. He looked down the smooth line of her thighs, admired her rounded knees, the silk so thin he could see the change in surface tension of the skin over the flesh of thigh and the bone of knee. He thought the slim feet in their paler green stockings deserved the worship of his touch as much as her reddened mouth and all the delights between.

For a moment he didn't know where to start, dismissing the crude male urge to tear it all away and make the sweet body beneath the veiling his at once. She was his already, in a far truer sense. The knowledge that she had worn this for him, worn it to entice and perhaps even astonish him, told him that he owed it to them both to use it to heighten their pleasure.

He ran a fingertip along the thin lace strap of the camisole, and a little further down her breast, before he retreated from its centre to follow the lace edging across her chest. She gave a little whimper of displeasure, that technical modesty depriving her of a more intimate touch. He smiled, and explored the garment further, finding the seams, running his fingers first down one side then down the other, before he flicked lightly at the hem and traced that across her belly. He felt her quiver. He edged the hem up, revealing her flesh, but instead of caressing that turned his attention to the petticoat, fingering its edge, pressing gently on the knot of its ribbon fastening just above her navel, allowing one finger to glide down into it, running it round the rim, expecting and pleased by her involuntary gasp.

At last he let his fingers go beneath the petticoat waistband, and felt her stomach hollow as she tried to make it possible for him to explore more deeply. He smoothed his hand over the gentle curves, marvelling at the resilience and tenderness of her. When he began to follow the line of one seam down belly and thigh, however, she whimpered again, on a rising note that told him she was finding it as hard to keep still for him as he was to limit himself to this delicate torment.

"I want it all, Narcissa. Every sigh and shudder and cry. Hold still and discover how much you can bear."

Her breath sobbed faintly, but obediently she lay as quiet as she could.

He went on teasing and arousing both of them until she turned in his arms, whispering fiercely, "Enough, Lucius!"

Her mouth fastened on his, her tongue pushing boldly between his lips, and teased in its turn. Only briefly. Lucius sucked on it, gripping her harder, shifting to allow her to lie between his legs, then gripping her with them, holding her captive, while one arm held her body close. He ground the palm of his free hand against one stiff nipple, feeling her gasp and flinch, loving the heat and the hardness. Then he took it between finger and thumb, rolling with a firmness just short of violence, relishing her gasps, not flinching himself when she bit his neck.

She was frantic now, he knew. If he was too, he had greater experience in bearing it, and wanted more. It was merely kindness to her that led him to strip off those pretty, useless, intoxicating pieces of silk.

He muttered, "I want you to wear these for me again, Cissy. Lift up – good."

He was determined not to tear her underclothing, but it was too difficult to be careful with the pieces as he removed them; he tossed them aside, letting them fall where they would. An impatient flick of his wand had his own remaining clothing lying in a heap a few feet away.

"Now, Lucius!" She was begging and demanding together; he loved it. If she had not spoken then it would have been him begging.

He moved between her spread thighs, briefly fingering her wet folds of flesh, opening her further, then slid between with glorious ease into her grasping warmth. Her legs came up to grip him, her heels dug into his arse, pressing him deeper into her, before she lifted impatiently, urging him further.

"Easy, Ciss; it's now, no more waiting."

He couldn't wait. He had teased her into abandon and himself into desperation, and plunged to his home, the place that was his and hers and theirs. After so long preparation, the moment they sought could not be long deferred. It was all Lucius could do to keep thrusting into her, feeling her body clenching around him at each stroke, until that stimulus brought her to what she wanted, what she prayed and sweated for. Then, at last, his own torment ended, and he spilled himself gratefully and generously into her.

For all Lucius liked his own way, he was well trained. Only a few moments passed before he lifted partially away from her, supporting himself on elbows and knees rather than on her slenderness, trying to moderate his breathing to regularity. He was reluctant to leave her until he must, so he watched her face, able now to appreciate the colour in her cheeks and on her temples, the swollen, bitten lips, the trickles of sweat away from the sockets of her eyes, the sweat-damp tangle of her hair, far longer than his own. After a little while her own panting breaths eased and her eyelids smoothed, the high colour of arousal fading.

"My beautiful Cissy," he murmured, and kissed those eyelids, one, then the other, gently but not lightly.

"If I am yours, you are mine," she whispered, and opened her eyes to meet his, no sensual vagueness in the gaze of either now. It was assertion and warning, and he bent his head in acceptance. They were matched.

"We two are one," he agreed.

* * *

It occurred to Lucius, he hoped not too late, that it would be valuable if Merlina, his lover since their school days, though not his only one, remained his friend and became friends with his wife. They might fight over him – he suspected Narcissa would not be a complaisant wife, especially if she saw real affection in his other liaisons – but he thought Merlina wanted to stay close, and might be generous enough to be helpful to another Slytherin woman.

Narcissa was extraordinarily sensible for a girl of nineteen, and would quickly see the use of attaching his former lovers to herself as well as to him.

Former lovers. What an odd thought. He had not previously considered that marriage, never mind betrothal, would cut off such relationships, certainly not the long, happy liaison with his best friend's sister. Yet now he had acknowledged that binding Narcissa to him had great importance, and that for now, at least, he rated that goal above any other.

The magic bound into their marriage contract ensured they would stay married, after all, and wizards had long lives. His parents had not loved, but until her early death his mother and his father had been friends and allies; now he wanted that for himself. Narcissa would make a superb ally when she had a little more experience. That sweet surface, and that unyielding core. It was quite rational to concentrate all his attention on his fiancée, and to do what he could to ensure his friends valued her too.

* * *

Lord Voldemort declined the invitation to attend the wedding. That was an enormous relief, though Lucius had no doubt his father would have assisted him past any awkward moments his master's arrogance created with the other guests. His lord had been demanding lately, although the activity he required seemed to have little result; perhaps he thought Lucius should not get married yet. He could have said so. That he did not relieved Lucius of the need to point out that his first duty was to his family. That would be worse than tactless; he hoped never to have to make that point. They would deal better once his lord accepted that truth.

* * *

Narcissa gained the experience he wanted her to have, and sorrow with it he would have spared her.

It surprised him how hard she took losing the first child, since its creation was simply part of meeting their obligations. Then he saw that she wanted to be more than the chatelaine of Malfoy Manor in his dead mother's place, more than his surrogate in estate governance when Lord Voldemort's demands prevented him from doing all his father expected, more than his lover. She wanted to be his wife as well as partner and deputy, and to her that meant raising children together.

He was not sorry to understand it; he saw now, much more clearly, how large a part his marriage played in his life. Once he had foolishly valued freedom to do as he chose; now he embraced his responsibilities as man, husband, and wizard. As soon as the mediwitch agreed it was acceptable, he asked Narcissa if she wanted to try again.

The first time Lucius had made it known he could expect an heir, the Dark Lord had become much more demanding. It was as if he had wanted Lucius's attention on him rather than on the child to come and all the Malfoy preoccupations that implied. Lucius had seen it, but had been inclined to be tolerant rather than to tell his master not to be childishly jealous. He had been willing to demonstrate his continuing, unaltered, loyalty.

After the shock of the second failure the mediwitch asked suspicious questions about heirs, though she did not say positively it was due to magical interference rather than natural problems.

Lucius had never believed his heir – a cousin of his father's – would risk his and his father's wrath, but then he had been ready to cater to Narcissa's anxiety, without mentioning that his own suspicions were rather different. After those inexplicable losses, Lucius feared his master felt no reciprocal toleration for his natural loyalty to his family and its well-being.

The third time, he erected the most stringent protective wards he and his father could together devise. Most importantly, he imposed absolute secrecy. He hardly needed to discourage Narcissa from leading her customary busy social life; she was prepared to sacrifice far more to keep this child.

As her third pregnancy developed beyond the point at which the first two had ended, Narcissa became obsessed with alternative methods of transportation.

So his father said. He could see her point. Apparation made her literally ill; Flooing was little better, and always carried the danger of a fall. Normally that would be embarrassing; now it might be dangerous. Lucius approved of her attitude. The thought of his wife on a broomstick, her usual poise and agility unbalanced by the weight of the child growing in her belly, disturbed him very much. He would have flatly forbidden it, but cautious enquiry proved he did not need to; she understood that danger. The mediwitch objected to winged horses; maybe ridiculous, but maybe not. Heirs were not as easily got as he had once thought.

He was not going to think about that. He still believed he should have been ashamed of weeping with her, not just the first time, but the second, despite his former determination to treat getting his wife pregnant as a duty he owed to his family. Now doing so was more like a pleasure he owed her and himself, and a defiance of fate – or his master.

He began to appreciate Narcissa's contention that wizarding law considered wizards far more than witches. A flying carpet might have been ideal: safe, comfortable, making no physical demands provided you were not troubled by heights. If you could put a Disillusionment Charm on a hippogriff or a winged horse (even if it had to be renewed daily), why not on a flying carpet? Abou Adhem's complaints about restraint of trade, that used to make him suppress yawns at Ministry receptions, began to make some sense. The Ministry was certainly not the only place that had deactivated flying carpets. Malfoy Manor had its share. Perhaps he would experiment.

Lucius Malfoy's wife should not be isolated in their home so long as it was not necessary for her safety.

After a few months, however, keeping the pregnancy secret to ensure his master could not interfere this time forced Narcissa to stay at home, and both of them to invent plausible reasons for her doing so. Reasons that would keep Bellatrix at bay – she was as likely to be jealous of her youngest sister's success in bearing a child as she had been of Andromeda's. Neither was prepared to risk Bella sharing their secret with her lord.

Winter illnesses served for a while, but not for long; Bellatrix was fond of Narcissa despite her potential for destructive envy, and too long-lasting an illness would attract her anxious care rather than repel her.

After that there was only so much a Disillusionment Charm would do for a woman past her fifth month. In the end they settled on a study retreat, though Lucius did reactivate a flying carpet that would enable Narcissa to make excursions for variety within the Manor grounds. She took up again the Arithmancy she had been remarkable for at Hogwarts. Even if her results were both obscure and ominous, she found it a more effective antidote to boredom than refurnishing the nursery for the second time, once she had overcome the foolish fear that her presumption in doing so might bring disaster yet again.

This child, the mediwitch said, was a boy, like Julian, their first lostling; he would require a different environment than the pathetic little lump he would have allowed her to name Cassiopeia.

Earlier, soon after the mediwitch confirmed his wife's pregnancy, and was warned to silence, which seemed not to surprise her at all, Lucius found Narcissa weeping in the empty nursery.

He knelt beside the nursing chair and put his arms around her. She turned her face into his shoulder, evidently struggling to control her tears.

"This one we'll keep safe," he promised, hoping he could do that, for once avoiding his master's spiteful efforts to have all of Lucius's attention.

"We will," she agreed, and the diamond core of her showed in her tone for a moment, even if she resumed sniffling almost at once.

"Not weeping for Cassy, Ciss? Or Julian? You should name this one too. Though a star name for a boy might be hard to find..."

She hiccupped. "I know what I'd call him, but I worry, Lucius. Would giving him a star name saddle him with my family's cursed luck?"

"Your family's not cursed." He was determined not to let her be irrational.

"No? Look at my cousins, Regulus dead in the Dark Lord's service," Lucius held his tongue about how Regulus died, "and Sirius, blood-traitor and running with the likes of the Potters; he's lucky your lord hasn't made an example of him already. Look at Andry, married to that pig-stubborn Muggle-born who won't give up the language of the shoddy home he was raised in. And that unnatural daughter of theirs! Look at Bella, leading her husband by his prick, and not one child to show for it."

Lucius put in, trying to lighten her mood, "Leading Rabastan by his prick too, I think."

She rewarded him with a watery chuckle. "All in the family," she murmured, "if not the family way. Neither brother any good to her. At least you and that Tonks man can get children. I just wish he wasn't doing it with my sister! You think I'm being silly, don't you." Lucius wisely held his tongue again. "Perhaps I am."

She sniffed hard, and fished in his robes pocket for a handkerchief.

"Lucius, I'd like to call this one Draco."

"Draco." He tasted it, then said, "The Serpent cluster. Or a dragon."

"You'd like a dragon, wouldn't you?"

Sly puss; she knew he would.

He straightened so that she was looking up to him. Despite the tear traces and the reddened eyelids she looked quite charming, her pale hair in enticing disarray, her expression unaccustomedly vulnerable.

His heart lurched. Or maybe it was just that his cock twitched. It had been a while. They had both wanted to be careful, with the hope of a child; there had been no pleasant games to enliven their bed.

Now, perhaps, they could have what he enjoyed and she had at first acceded to, then learned to enjoy also. It was safe, and would be safe for several months, provided he was careful in exercising his privileges.

"Cissy, come away to our bed. You've wept enough, submitted to what you could not avoid. Submit to me, now, and find freedom in it."

She smiled up at him, calmed, sweet, but knowing too. "You will never make a politician, Lucius," she told him.

"Too blunt about what I want, am I? But you understand me, and you're honest with me. You'll never say 'Yes' when you mean 'No'. And you never mean 'Maybe'."

"I can think of far more effective ways of keeping you on your toes."

He laughed. "I knew I did well to marry an intelligent woman."

He held out his hands to her; she took them and rose, leaning against him for a moment. On impulse he changed his hold and swung her up, one arm under her knees, the other wrapped securely behind her back. She didn't squeak or protest; her arms latched around his neck and she bit him, delicately, precisely, intentionally, on the side of his throat, just below the ruffles of his shirt.

Lucius swallowed and walked more rapidly towards their bedroom than he had meant to.

They undressed each other with swift hands, then Lucius reached into her hair and began removing the pins that still constrained some of the silky mass. When it was loose he ran his hands through it. She didn't free his hair from its ribbon; he knew she wanted to see his face.

He pulled the winter coverlet from the broad bed and stripped down the fine linen oversheet, before he tossed the pillows to the foot of the bed.

Narcissa moved onto the bed, lying on her back, arms loose at her sides, spreading her legs slightly, letting him look at her while he decided how he wanted her. He sat on the mattress and reached one hand to smooth over the slightly convex belly; in loose robes the child would not show for months yet, but he knew it was there, almost as intimately as she did. He felt her relax slightly at that acknowledgement that their two were three. No doubt later Draco would interfere with their pleasures, but not yet, though he would be considered in everything Lucius did.

"When you were carrying Julian, even though I'd named him, I didn't feel I knew him. Only three months, and I never did learn him, though I learned Cassy much better before we lost her. I'm going to know this one, Narcissa, as well as I know you."

"Will you mind, Lucius, if he's not a proper little flaxen Malfoy?"

"We're both very fair."

"And one of my sisters has hair as black as her heart, while the other is a traitor's red-brown. I carry all those colours within me."

He smiled wickedly. "If he's not the proper little Malfoy I'm entitled to expect, I know who to punish for it, then." He pointed out, "My mother's hair was black, as black as Bella's. He will be ours, Cissy, however we've made him."

She wriggled slightly under his hand, so he moved it up to press between her breasts before teasing the budded nipples. His other hand between her legs found her already damp. He didn't touch his own cock, though it had been affirming its interest for a while. They had a long way to go, much to enjoy, before either of them found release. There would be no more talking, just sensation.

She murmured soft approval of his touches, but she made no attempt to return them. He valued her passivity, her acceptance, on occasions like this, just as at other times he relished her eager participation.

Lucius urged her to kneel up; without needing to be told she put her hands behind her back, wrists touching. He summoned the broad velvet ribbons and wrapped them around her forearms from the elbows down, forcing them together slowly. She knelt very erect in the attempt to minimise the strain on her shoulders and upper arms.

He called up a separate, narrow ribbon, and fastened her thumbs together. She shuddered at the tiny additional binding, and he was satisfied.

At his imperative gesture she moved her knees as far apart as she could. He widened the space, shaking his head when she bit her lip. He took time, then, to run his hands over her, from braced shoulders to trembling thighs, and finished by running his fingers repeatedly over the wet petals between her legs, feeling the little nubbin in the heart of the flower swollen and ready.

He moved onto the mattress in front of her, knelt up so that their bodies were appropriately positioned, then pressed her head down, gently enough, but with no possibility of refusal. She opened her mouth for him and took the head of his cock, lips firmly enclosing it, tongue lapping broadly at the base. Her tongue tip flicked the sensitive notch below the head. Lucius gasped, unable to be silent, but managed to keep from gripping her and forcing her to take him more deeply. That would come. He did hold her shoulders to make sure she did not unbalance without the use of her hands, so perilously poised before him. She tickled and hummed, swallowed and licked, until he was wringing with sweat, feeling her sucking the drops of precome from his slit, knowing that she was teasing him as he would tease her. Later. Much later. Oh Merlin.

He stood it as long as he could, but he didn't want to come yet. It was her turn, so he drew back. It was agonising, to leave that hot wet knowledgeable mouth, but it had to be done.

Lucius allowed himself half a minute to regain some control, then lifted her head and licked himself from her lips, chasing into her mouth for the last drop of memory.

Then he helped her to lean forward, to rest her shoulders on the mattress, her head turned to one side, and all that glorious hair pushed out of her way so that she could breathe, and see him. She looked delightful in that position, the helplessly submissive shoulders, the pertly raised arse, the welcoming thighs waiting for him.

When he moved behind her she knew what he might intend, he could tell by her soft gasp. He maintained the suspense by using his wand silently to summon everything he wanted, laying it out where she could not see it.

He asked, "Do you want it with the oil to smooth its way, or will you lick my fingers?"

On a gasp she replied, "Please, the oil, Lucius!"

She still didn't like this much, though it wasn't new to her, but she would submit to it for him, and that pleased him quite as much as what he did.

He slicked his fingers liberally, petting and rubbing and pressing her little hole, delighting, as always, in the knowledge that eventually it would accept him. He worked the tiny ring of muscle open, then inserted one finger, slowly but probably not as slowly as she would have preferred. It was always difficult, when he did this, to refrain from taking advantage and using her hard, but that was for a victim, not a lover.

At last he had three fingers inside her, pressing steadily in, withdrawing, pressing in again, and could feel she was much more relaxed now, able to move on. A quick slide of his free hand from anus to clit confirmed that she was wetter than before. She trembled as he flicked the bud lightly. She might not like this, but it affected her positively, every time. His own excitement had levelled out; he could not have sustained this slow play in the state she had brought him to. Like this, though, he was able to enjoy his actions and her reactions. He would be ready for her, and more than ready, when it was time.

He picked up the fat plug with its mercifully narrower tip and slathered oil over all of it, then set it to her hole. She resisted for a moment, she always did; but then her muscles relaxed, not entirely a conscious decision, and he pressed forward. She whimpered a little as he thrust it in, and he smiled with pleasure, reaching under to flick that bud again in reward. Then he withdrew the plug slightly, before seating it fully again. After he did that several times, using touches to her clit to distract her a little, controlling his breathing as carefully as he controlled his hand movements, she began to moan softly at each stroke. Lucius breathed in time with his thrusts, as she was doing.

When she wailed he knew it was time, quite as much for him as for her. He left the plug deep inside her, and moved between her thighs, pushing her arse higher to make access easier. Then he gripped her hips, set himself to her dripping heart, and thrust.

Oh Merlin. His eyes closed, without his willing it, and he paused to contain the need to let go at once.

She made a sound he thought might be his name, and followed it with a little animal wail, totally helpless now, not from the bindings, but from her own need.

That spurred him on, and he began to move, fast, deep, stroking surely, slipping one hand around her to finger her clit, making sure she was not left behind, moving his other to her belly to hold her upright. She trembled and whimpered and clenched hard around him, her muscles driving him on. Lucius bent over her and fastened his teeth in her neck as if they were animals mating, and she wailed again, more loudly, in response. He was blinded by sweat and the strands of her hair and his plastered across his face. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered now but coming home, taking her and taken by her, going where they needed to go. She came a little before him, but his own need prevented him from enjoying fully the fluttering of her internal muscles around him, the mourning dove noises that came from her throat. Then he joined her in climax, and soon enough in satiety.

It was never an anticlimax releasing her from the velvet ties, easing the plug out of her body, turning her and helping her to lie straight, then settling beside her to hold her, loosely but warmly, feeling her making herself comfortable with little sighs and groans as her stressed muscles relaxed, feeling her hands on his body, his face, in his hair, petting and stroking in confirmation of her pleasure.

At last she murmured, "Lucius, that was so good. I don't know why I always make a fuss over it."

He laughed softly. "You don't care to be made to do anything, Cissy, not even to let go and enjoy yourself. I like that in you."

"Oh yes," she said more tartly, "you enjoy compelling me."

"I would not compel you," he responded, serious for a moment, "but you know that."

"Yes," she sighed. "Yes, I do. Before it's too late we must play another of your games. Just not today!"

"I expect to enjoy this one for some time yet."

She turned her head and licked the bite she had given him earlier. "And I. Also the next, and the next. Mmmm."

She stretched out against him, then cuddled close. Lucius knew she would sleep soon, as he would. No more tears, he hoped, just ease and pleasure and earthy joys to remember.

* * *

A deplorable combination of a delinquent house-elf, a wild kneazle and that flying carpet triggered an early birth. This went well, in the end; Draco was small but healthy. The mediwitch asserted that he could be nursed up to normal standard; by the time he reached the full nine months since his conception he was quite evidently tough, though he looked as fragile as ever. He was also quite a bit prettier.

Narcissa asserted she liked Draco better once he had a decent head of hair instead of the few fine blond locks on top of his head. Lucius observed, however, that her conduct towards the child had not changed. He refrained from taxing her with pretending to need a pretty son. Perhaps it was a device to lessen the chance of Bella's envy turning to destruction.

Now that enough time had passed that she was comfortable sharing his bed again Lucius was much less inclined to fret about her preoccupation with their child. She had never tried to prevent him from having his own share of touching and admiring the demanding little creature, a true Malfoy in that quite as much as in his looks.

* * *

After the birth, Voldemort became harder still to please. There was yet another incident with unearned Cruciatus. Lucius staggered home to his wife to be cleaned up and comforted, dealing with the understanding that Voldemort was doing this deliberately, punishing his success in getting an heir.

Lucius could hardly help noticing that he was not the only one of the Dark Lord's followers to have succeeded in that. Robin Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and Jean-Paul Zabini all had children at last, though Robin's was a daughter and Jean-Paul's wife discarded him promptly; perhaps those previous five husbands had failed in their duty, but succeeding had not enabled Jean-Paul to keep either wife or child. Even Lucius's own minions, Goyle and Crabbe, had achieved sons; Merlin send they were brighter than their fathers.

No wonder the Dark Lord was being liberal with the Cruciatus Curse. His mind must have been elsewhere for all of them to have been so fortunate. Lucius had never shared his suspicions, nor his precautions, though it was true his fellows had been conspicuously silent about their expectations. Possibly they shared his dislike of Cruciatus.

And possibly Lucius's precautions had been unnecessary. Their lord had frequently been absent from early spring to midsummer. He had, of course, been silent on what he had been doing; no one would question him. When he was with his followers he often retreated into his library, encouraging them to choose their own targets among Mudbloods and blood traitors as well as the Aurors who opposed them at every turn. This did not prevent him from criticising their choices with painful ingenuity.

Lucius found the uncertainty and anxiety more and more oppressive, and his lord's increasingly frequent rants on the desirability of immortality profoundly disturbing. The Dark Lord said he wanted it for them all. In theory Lucius thought living for ever might be attractive, but he at least had no desire to live for ever if it required the sacrifices and transformations that the Dark Lord had submitted himself to since he had been the handsome, vicious lad Abraxas Malfoy had described.

Then came the night when the Potters' child, without even willing it, had dismissed Lord Voldemort from life, stripping his ambitions from him like cobwebs blasted by the wind.

Lucius sighed with relief, thanked Lily Potter (though never aloud), gritted his teeth and blanked his mind in Azkaban, patiently lied to the Ministry (dispensing donations to carefully selected good causes), and at last was able to begin study of his souvenirs of his late master. Some of the implications of those rants over the years suggested his lord had made plans even for death. Perhaps he had been mad, but perhaps he had been provident, too; Lucius had no desire to see him rise from oblivion.

Meeting the young Tom Riddle in the pages of his diary horrified him (far more than discovering his master had been one of the despised halfbloods, which evoked no more than a pained snort and a malicious comment to his wife). For a while that encounter dissuaded him completely from study, until Narcissa urged him softly to begin again.

"He was a schoolboy. An unpleasant one, your father made clear; so did my uncle Orion. You've seen it in him too. But he made mistakes. He needed guidance. If you could bring back that Tom Riddle, Lucius, mightn't you be able to lead him into better behaviour? Ensure that the Lord Voldemort we knew had no chance of revival?"

Lucius shook his head, involuntarily glancing out the window to where Draco and his own minions played with their toy brooms.

"I won't take that risk, Cissy. Not with Draco, not with you. He's our only one. Perhaps that was Voldemort's curse too – Robin's wife had another girl, but the rest of us... I will not bring that deceitful monster back, to rain down more destruction on even the best of wizardkind."

Several years later, however, he felt the Dark Mark quiver, then blacken and then begin at last to burn, and knew that Narcissa had been right: Tom Riddle should be controllable, where assuredly Lord Voldemort was not.

He took out the diary from its formidably warded hiding place and had several interesting conversations with young Tom, discussing their views of what was proper for the wizarding world. Tom seemed not to remember him very well from earlier years, which was both a concern and a relief. Lucius was not anxious for Tom to know how completely he was used (even if not controlled). Lucius would have liked to guide him every step of the way, but at some point he must turn Tom loose, trust him, however hard it would be, to hold to the purposes they still had in common. If Tom failed him at this first attempt, he should be much easier to dispose of than the man he had become fifty years and more later.

Tom would require a sacrifice, a life to commandeer. Lucius knew who could best donate a child for that purpose. If he had but the one child, his hereditary enemy, doubly despicable as a blood traitor, had sons and to spare. Foist the diary off on one of them – he would become constant company for Tom, and ultimately a vehicle, with no risk that his inherited opinions might turn Tom aside from his course.

Narcissa murmured, "Arthur has but the one daughter, Lucius. Mightn't she make an even more effective offering?"

Lucius considered that Draco might be safer if Tom assumed the daughter rather than, say, the youngest son, who shared his own son's classes. He smiled. It wouldn't be difficult to discover when that vulgar woman Arthur married intended to take their offspring to Diagon Alley for the next year's school supplies. He would set Tom onto Arthur's daughter and revel in his enemy's embarrassment and grief. A pleasant and effortless corollary to the delicate task of setting Tom loose on the world to restore it to its proper masters.

~~The End~~