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ishafelThis is--neither slash nor porn. Damn.
Summary: From A Brief History of the Malfoy Family . The night Lucius met Narcissa.
He knows, the minute he sees her: this is the girl he's going to marry. She's on the other side of the room, and all he can see is her back; black dress, pale shoulders, fine, straight blonde hair past her shoulders, unmarked arms, narrow waist and rounded hips. “Who is that?” he says, and Severus turns to look.
“Narcissa Black,” he says tiredly. “Slytherin, my year, Bellatrix's sister. Not your sort, at all.”
“My sort?” Lucius demands. “What exactly is that supposed to be?”
Severus smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Something is bothering him, Lucius knows. Tonight was meant to be a fact-finding mission—take Severus to Mandrake, get him very, very drunk, and get the truth out of him. But it's turned into something else entirely. “Lucius,” Snape says. “Let me quantify your last dozen girlfriends for you: thin, tall, dark, deranged. Bellatrix is your sort. Narcissa's three stone too heavy, four inches too short, and ten times too clever for you. Besides, you don't like blond girls, remember? Not enough contrast.”
“I like this girl,” Lucius says sullenly. Inwardly he's listing them off. Miriam, who'd had legs like a racehorse and blown up French Muslims; Kath, who'd been the best seeker the Cannons had ever had before she'd chucked everything to work with starving Africans; Isobel, who was a distant cousin, and had wanted him to hurt her in bed.
He has to admit Snape has a point. He doesn't like blonds. And, more importantly, with the mark on his arm: no decent woman who knows what it means will have him. Narcissa is the sister of a known Death Eater, but if Snape's right about her, that only makes her more likely to spit in his face. Still, he wants her.
He walks up behind her and touches her bare arm. Her skin is like velvet, soft under his fingers. She spins around so quickly that her hair touches his cheek. “Who are you?” she demands. There is no fear in her voice, but there is no anger, either. This is a woman who has never been treated with disrespect, who has no reason to hate a stranger simply for being male.
A part of Lucius hates her for it. He wants to sully her, wants to fuck her up against the wall in the dirty alley behind the club, bruise her white arms, bite her pink lips. He wants her to cringe, wants her to cry, wants to mark her as surely and as clearly as he has been marked.
He looks, across the dance floor, at Snape leaning against the wall, his drink in his hand and his eyes on the ground. He's ruined as surely as Lucius is, but he's never seemed to mind. His scars are as old as Lucius's, as deep: he keeps them as private as Lucius does. Snape is what Lucius has, what Lucius is. Snape is dark alleys, black robes, white masks, waking up in the morning not remembering what you did the night before.
Lucius wants nothing as much as he wants to wash the blood from his hands, as much as he wants to be someone else. He can't walk away from the mark, from the Dark Lord, but he can walk away from Snape. He can walk toward this girl.
“My name is Lucius,” he says. “Dance with me,” he says, and after a minute she gives him her hand.
Summary: From A Brief History of the Malfoy Family . The night Lucius met Narcissa.
He knows, the minute he sees her: this is the girl he's going to marry. She's on the other side of the room, and all he can see is her back; black dress, pale shoulders, fine, straight blonde hair past her shoulders, unmarked arms, narrow waist and rounded hips. “Who is that?” he says, and Severus turns to look.
“Narcissa Black,” he says tiredly. “Slytherin, my year, Bellatrix's sister. Not your sort, at all.”
“My sort?” Lucius demands. “What exactly is that supposed to be?”
Severus smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Something is bothering him, Lucius knows. Tonight was meant to be a fact-finding mission—take Severus to Mandrake, get him very, very drunk, and get the truth out of him. But it's turned into something else entirely. “Lucius,” Snape says. “Let me quantify your last dozen girlfriends for you: thin, tall, dark, deranged. Bellatrix is your sort. Narcissa's three stone too heavy, four inches too short, and ten times too clever for you. Besides, you don't like blond girls, remember? Not enough contrast.”
“I like this girl,” Lucius says sullenly. Inwardly he's listing them off. Miriam, who'd had legs like a racehorse and blown up French Muslims; Kath, who'd been the best seeker the Cannons had ever had before she'd chucked everything to work with starving Africans; Isobel, who was a distant cousin, and had wanted him to hurt her in bed.
He has to admit Snape has a point. He doesn't like blonds. And, more importantly, with the mark on his arm: no decent woman who knows what it means will have him. Narcissa is the sister of a known Death Eater, but if Snape's right about her, that only makes her more likely to spit in his face. Still, he wants her.
He walks up behind her and touches her bare arm. Her skin is like velvet, soft under his fingers. She spins around so quickly that her hair touches his cheek. “Who are you?” she demands. There is no fear in her voice, but there is no anger, either. This is a woman who has never been treated with disrespect, who has no reason to hate a stranger simply for being male.
A part of Lucius hates her for it. He wants to sully her, wants to fuck her up against the wall in the dirty alley behind the club, bruise her white arms, bite her pink lips. He wants her to cringe, wants her to cry, wants to mark her as surely and as clearly as he has been marked.
He looks, across the dance floor, at Snape leaning against the wall, his drink in his hand and his eyes on the ground. He's ruined as surely as Lucius is, but he's never seemed to mind. His scars are as old as Lucius's, as deep: he keeps them as private as Lucius does. Snape is what Lucius has, what Lucius is. Snape is dark alleys, black robes, white masks, waking up in the morning not remembering what you did the night before.
Lucius wants nothing as much as he wants to wash the blood from his hands, as much as he wants to be someone else. He can't walk away from the mark, from the Dark Lord, but he can walk away from Snape. He can walk toward this girl.
“My name is Lucius,” he says. “Dance with me,” he says, and after a minute she gives him her hand.
