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( 1980 )
“Touch nothing.”
Lucius Malfoy, JKR.
I – Journal
II – Marcel (Scene Prelude)
III – Voice (Scene Interlude)
IV – Hist, Hark (Scene Climax)
V – Severus` Monologue
VI – Do Not Pass Go (Scene Aftermath)
I – Journal.
2nd February, 1980.
I have decided to write things down because certain aspects of my current life are troubling to me and Marcel has always told me that it is best to lay problems out on paper, for they are easily sorted that way and may also be filed. Due to the fact that I have a tendency to wander in my thoughts I have chosen to write en Anglais, for I shall concentrate better on the task at hand this way and shall be less likely to digress. Though I speak it quite perfectly writing in English is a horrible chore for me and I apologise profusely to the future-self who chances upon this, as I have little doubt this ledger shall be filled with the most terrible errors of grammar and punctuation.
I do not believe I have written anything in English since my days at Hogwarts as my first language was French though I was born in England. My mother however knew no French and at the time of my birth my father was so enraged with her (for various reasons) that he forbade any language save French be spoken in the household. It would thus be her punishment to watch her youngest son grow up but be unable to communicate with him, saving in gestures of the hand and face. I was only taught English after her death, and was still troubled by the oddities of the language when I entered school. Of course my memory is selective and I recall neither her death nor the learning of this language which now flows from my pen albeit haltingly.
But already I am digressing which I have promised myself not to do. So I will now approach the matters which so vex me and be plain about them.
The first of these matters is that of the Death Eaters. A mere few months ago I was certain that this war was ours for the winning but now I am not so sure. I have received word from Francoise and Italo Lestrange and their letters are grim. The revolution which I so confidently fought for in France is beginning to peeter out as Aurors and hit wizards close in and there have been many caught and killed simply because they dare to raise voice against the Ministry`s totalitarian views. I would of course go to their aid for I am well skilled in political manipulation and subterfuge but Marcel has forbidden it. He has told me that he fears for my safety and that it would be foolish indeed to walk into a lair when the lions are at large.
But I can not see how England is any better as even Marcel must hide now. A week before I came to London they raided his offices and though they found nothing (the prisoners they captured have since been released) they are still searching for him. It has been two months now and my brother remains officially on the run. Marcel blames spies in our midst for this and I am bound to agree with him for until the day of the raid the public regarded Marcel as a role model and an upstanding citizen and in no way tied to the dealings of the Dark Lord. It is fortunate then that we too have spies and we shall find the culprit soon enough.
This all may seem as if it were only a temporary set back but I have a bad feeling about it and for the first time I wish that I were not part of the rebellion. I am not saying of course that my philosophy has changed in the matters of mud-bloods and other impurities. What I mean is that I think this may all end badly and I do not want to be implicated for I have enough to deal with and it would be a great inconvenience for me if I were to be sent to prison. It is lucky then that few people know of my ties to the Dark Lord in this country and of course Narcissa tells anyone who comes to the door that she has no idea where either myself or my brother are but that she will take a message.
I am still living in my brother`s London apartment along with the boy and Narcissa and occasionally Frank Longbottom. The boy has been sent out to perform various tasks for Marcel and has also set himself up a laboratory in the study where he spends many hours playing with all variety of potions. He and Frank are most conversational which I find intolerable as I am discovering I do not like Frank Longbottom at all. He has a tendency to whine and ask stupid questions which of course I do not answer and I have cautioned the boy not to answer them as well. In order to remain safe we Death Eaters must be secretive about all things even amongst ourselves. Frank has a big mouth and I think he is not too careful with his words and he may well be a liability for us.
The boy says I am jealous which is an incredibly foolish presumption on his part. However we are still having sex regularly and I have begun to wonder if I might be homosexual. I wrote to Marcel to ask his opinion on this and he wrote back asking me if I was in love with the boy. I told him that I was unsure.
Do you fuck him with your eyes open? Marcel wrote.
No, I replied.
Do you kiss him or hold him?
No.
Do you think of someone else while you fuck him?
Yes, I wrote. Your wife.
This was partly a joke and partly not for I often think of Narcissa in a sexual fashion. Of course I would never dream of touching her for she is my brother`s wife and also she is no longer attractive to me from an intellectual perspective. When we were younger we were very close, possibly too close and I thought at that time I was passionately in love with her. She was very beautiful then and exceedingly clever and amusing to be with. Sadly now that she is older she has become depressed and I cannot stand people who are constantly unhappy, for I feel obliged to cheer them up or at least put them out of their misery. Yet on occasion I will come across her in the house and remember her as she was then, and suffer a terrible urge to kiss her which I must of course banish immediately from my mind.
Some days I will follow her about quietly and watch her and she will know that I am watching and pretend that she does not and we play small games of innocent flirtation this way. I have an odd feeling that she reminds me of someone and an even odder feeling that this someone is my mother. But I do not remember my mother at all so I do not know how this could be.
When Marcel finally wrote back to me in regard to the issue of my homosexuality he told me that I was probably not, and it was better this way for there was no remedy to such an affliction that he knew of. In an addendum he reminded me that if he were to die without a son to bear the family name it was my duty to procreate. I asked him if the Malfoy name could be carried by a bastard child and he responded with: Desperate times call for desperate measures. This is a phrase he particularly fancies and in this context I found it vaguely offensive and did not reply to him for some days.
Despite the assurances of my brother the boy continues to disturb me. Though I dislike him for his cynicism and occasional coarse language unbefitting of a child of his meager years the fact remains that the sensation of his hand on me is electric – he is charged with something which I cannot define and its power seizes through me and conducts itself to my cock. I encourage him to fight with me and hit me for in the aftermath of each strike I feel a strange release and also a vindication of my existence. The pain is real and thus causes me to feel real in turn. It also appears to provide me with a quick escape from the tumult of my brain which these days is causing me no end of trouble as I am hearing the Voice even louder than before. But I shall not speak further on that now in case it serves to encourage my condition.
The sex I enjoy but as I told Marcel I keep my eyes closed during and also after for I do not find the boy attractive to me in the slightest. He is such a strange creature and badly put together with too many sharp places. Since we have been here in the apartment he has grown even thinner and appears like a gaunt scarecrow with his bony limbs and greasy hair and hooked nose. In fact if I am to be completely honest I must say that I find him utterly vile and much displeasing to the eye.
Naturally I am too polite to say this but he on the other hand takes great pleasure in making mockery of my body. He told me once that I reminded him of a starving child like those seen on the Muggle billboards in the city, with thin legs and arms and a swollen belly. I do not have thin legs and arms and a swollen belly and thought this comparison to a Muggle was incredibly crass, and I told him so and further informed him that he would not bed with me that night. I am not ashamed to say I derived great pleasure from his subsequent apologies. He is a weak person as all compulsive people are and as I know and control his current obsession (i.e., me) I can manipulate him quite easily without incurring any severe losses on my part.
There are times though when I do feel something for him and while this may not be love it is possibly a derivative thereof. (Here I am speaking of times other than during sex for in the fit of passion I am completely beholden to him). I enjoy for instance those nights when he crawls under the blankets and wraps himself around my waist and his warmth causes me to feel stupidly pleased about nothing in particular. I mentioned this to Marcel and he told me wryly that I should find myself a cat or a dog or some other pet which would show me the same devotion and be rid of the boy.
I would have to housetrain them, I wrote back.
So housetrain them.
You forget that it would be your carpets the animal would soil, I wrote.
At this my brother changed my mind and told me I could keep the boy as my pet after all. And this is I suppose what the boy is to me and in turn what Narcissa is to Marcel. They are small and feeble things which amuse us for the moment but we will shed few tears if they are lost. They are enjoyable but replaceable and I bear this in mind during all my dealings with the boy.
I should also make note before I conclude my writing that the boy and I shall be meeting with Marcel on this coming Saturday. It will be only the second time the boy has come face to face with my brother and he is suitably excited for he like all other Death Eaters considers my brother a man removed but one step from god. He is desperate to tell Marcel how hard he has worked for the Cause (you can hear him capitalise the word), with his potions and his efforts in those raids he has played a small role in.
I have not told him the real reason for our rendezvous because I do not consider it any of his business.
-L. M.
II – Marcel (Scene Prelude)
The cemetery in Little Hangleton lay on the outskirts of the village, on a patch of land which sloped inexorably toward the North sea. On three sides it was ringed by hills, and beyond their heather-peaked crests a black mist rode the horizon, impenetrable by the sun. It was gloomy there, in the valley, unnaturally so – even for a graveyard. The smell of mildew and rotting seaweed tempered the air with an unpleasant musky perfume. Leafless trees spurted intermittently between the graves, spreading dark lace lattices on the ground; like spiderwebs, Severus thought, dully. The headstones themselves were rugged, their carved epitaphs eroded away until they were no more than slight ripples in the rock.
They had waited a full hour in the rain, Snape and Malfoy, barely sheltered in the lee of a gravel mausoleum. For the greater part of this time they had managed to keep themselves occupied. It was as they were walking toward the mausoleum`s arched frontage that Severus – his mind drifting with his gaze – noted with rising interest the way that Lucius` buttocks appeared, firm and slightly over-pronounced in the black silk of his trousers. At each motion they shifted seamlessly, as pert and delectable as a girl`s, and against them his long braid coiled winsomely, occasionally entangling itself between his legs. And when Lucius turned on the steps, delicately removing a stray strand from his cheek, Severus` powers of restraint crumbled completely.
He could lose himself like that – in a movement or a word. As he pressed Lucius` forehead against the gravel wall with one hand, grappling at the man`s shirt with the other, Severus felt a strange sensation of dislocation: it was as if he were operating his body from an external vantage. Beneath him Lucius gasped, launching into his customary series of childish ‘oh’s and ‘gosh’es as soon as Severus` fingers crept under the gauzy fabric of his top, and Severus held him and squeezed him and breathed heavily into the rain-struck muss of blonde hair.
“Who do you love?” he challenged, hoarsely.
The fine, manicured nails raked the walls. “..oh gosh my oh.”
“I thought as much.” He indulged a smirk, nipping Lucius` abdomen in a pinch of forefinger and thumb, and the Death Eater began to sob violently in response, spasms of such intensity that Severus was nearly bucked clear.
( Air.. air.. Who do you love?)
It was almost too easy. During his days of virginal speculation, Severus had never imagined that the act of sex could be so simple, so unrefined. But four days into their steamy, if improbable, relationship, he discovered exactly how effortlessly Lucius could be pleased. Lost in his own thoughts one night, Severus had been idly scrawling potion formulas onto the Death Eater`s silkily pliable stomach when he became gradually aware of the increased pitch of Lucius` breathing, the occasional whimpers which escaped the faintly trembling lips.
Prior to this point Severus had been under the impression the man was asleep. His curiosity piqued, he continued to stroke Lucius` body as one might stroke an animal – gently, kindly encouraging. It was as his middle finger started a series of quick penetrations to Lucius` navel that the blonde`s resolve finally cracked; sobbing and incoherent, he came to a painful, meager climax.
This discovery – that Lucius could orgasm readily at the barest of touches – had prompted all sorts of explorations. Through pursed lips he blew letters in cursive against the small of Lucius` back, learning by trial the delicate curve which defined the rising tenor of the man`s arousal. The thighs, too, Severus found particularly receptive to his ministrations; so were the inner arms and, on some occasions, the soles of Lucius` feet. When lusty and sex-hungry, Lucius` skin became glossed in nerve-endings, and the merest pressure was capable of pushing him to a weeping, trembling zenith.
“Sir. You`re drooling.” Severus` hoarse croak hid an immoderate measure of pride. His newfound ability to tug Lucius` strings, to perfectly predict the man`s responses and their strength, infused Severus with a sense of power that left him dizzy. His eyes were granted a lucidity reserved for the headiest moments, when the detail of a small drop of saliva spooling down Lucius` chin was so sharp he could lose himself in its completeness.
“..oh oh gosh me please oh oh my’ – words fueled by desperation spilled from the Death Eater`s mouth, a torrent of unlikely cries which rose steadily toward a crescendo. The soft stomach hitched inward with each breath, the muscles of the abdomen contracting.
Severus watched it all with a dispassionate clarity, each motion, each breath, affirming his conviction that his power was absolute.
“Shut up,” he said.
The metal lozenge of Lucius` zipper eluded Severus` straining fingers – but it was no matter. Between the trousers and Lucius` skin there was room enough to admit one thin hand. Twixt black silk and pale skin Severus slid, deftly maneuvering a finger along the crevasse of those ridiculously enticing buttocks. A small inquisitive probing brought Lucius to feverish tears; the man`s hands bunched convulsively at his sides and his chest shuddered breathlessly against the gravel of the mausoleum wall.
“Don`t – Lucius. Not. No.”
It was useless. It always was.
“Oh my gosh my oh I oh me gosh my oh oh oh please..”
Then a brief, apologetic silence elapsed before the resurgence of the blonde`s heavy sobs, Lucius` inarticulate whimpering providing an irregular melody to contrast the percussion of rain.
“..oh.. oh.”
Oh – oh - and out.
Now they stood under the frontage of the mausoleum, side by side but not quite touching. Lucius was smoking, apparently unashamed of the distraught spectacle he`d made of himself not so long before. Severus watched the man, quietly apprehensive. The Dark Mark on his inner arm felt tender, surged with that distinct, twinging pain which had burdened him sporadically since the day he`d received it. Despite the miserable weather, Severus had chosen to wear a sleeveless vest in order to keep the tattooed skin free from irritation. He shivered now, involuntarily, as a particularly harsh gust of wind picked up from across the tideless sea.
“Perhaps you should – contact him,” he offered, when the quietude became too much for him to bear. “Ask him if he`s coming.”
Lucius hissed out a stream of smoke between his teeth. “No doubt he came, saw our little display, and left,” he murmured. “So very – ah, spontaneous of you, I might add.”
“You liked it,” Severus protested. He felt his sense of power diminish. Without his hands pressed to Lucius` flesh, he had no centre of gravity with the man; he wobbled unsteadily between dignity and shame.
“Did I contest the issue?” Lucius sent the butt of his cigarette shimmering out into the rain with a flick of his fingers, and promptly lit another. “Marcel will be here,” he said, after a protracted, thoughtful pause. “However, if he has been delayed thus long – I don`t see why we – ah. Do you?”
It had taken Severus some time to become accustomed to Lucius` fashion of phrasing questions. There were volumes which Lucius chose to leave unsaid – thus opening every order and query to his audience`s interpretation. After fruitlessly scrutinizing the graveyard for any sign of movement, Severus shrugged his concession. “I suppose,” he said, testily. “I don`t exactly have anything better to do, do I?”
“You could go jump in the ocean, boy,” Lucius suggested.
“You could rub yourself off on a gravestone,” Severus replied, with an equal venom. “For all the pleasure I get, you might as well do so.”
“Don`t be foolish. You love it that you can move me. You`re a voyeur, my dear potions-boy, and a less than subtle one at that.” An attempt at a cheery smile foundered on Lucius` thin lips, and transformed into a smirk. One slim, pale finger extended to navigate the length of Severus` bicep, appreciative of the wiry muscle, the easy contour of the skin. “You love it that you can move me,” Lucius whispered again, as close as he dared to Severus` ear. “You enjoy watching, with those beady little eyes of yours..”
“Shut up.” The response came automatically, its speed of return belying the considerable amount of self-discipline Severus currently exerted. Lucius` words never failed to burn him deeply. If only Lucius wouldn`t speak, if only their communication were purely physical.. then, there would be no question of who curled in whose palm. But those vicious little teeth, that twisted mouth, that serpent`s tongue – oh, Severus thought, it would be so immensely satisfying to feel them all smear against his knuckles, to blur the words into an oblivion of bruises..
“Hit me. I dare you.”
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
“Fuck me. I dare you.”
“Shut. Up.”
“I dare you, boy..”
The violence, too, was easy – when provided with suitable encouragement. As Severus forced the Death Eater`s lithe body into yet another splay of submission, he caught a glimpse of the evident excitement in Lucius` gray eyes: a betrayal of the masochist`s euphoria. A sudden pang of shame overtook Severus. The Death Eater could manipulate him so easily it was embarrassing. Severus paused, plagued by a seeping doubt, as Lucius unfolded his thin arms into a martyr`s open embrace against the uneven, pebbled mausoleum wall.
“Will you?” whispered the Death Eater, and then, darker, huskier: “Won`t you?”
Severus strung his fingers into the depths of Lucius` lapels and held on. He found himself unable to look directly into Lucius` face, and instead of averting his head, he forced his vision to blur, until the silver-mirror eyes were eclipsed in a haziness as ethereal and intangible as the mists which veiled the surrounding hills. Then his lids fluttered closed, and nothing remained of the blonde but the heat of him, the moist of his halting breath and the union of their heartbeats.
With surprising agility, Lucius entangled a leg about Severus` waist, and they ground together insensibly for what seemed an aeon. Zeniths were neared, but never reached – tides of arousal fading and increasing until Severus felt a wetness on his lips and realised that beneath him, Lucius was weeping.
“..sir? Are you..” he mumbled, throatily, but the sound of another, unfamiliar voice interrupted him.
“Snape. Lucy.”
Severus snapped around, still holding Lucius` shirt in his hands. Two men stood on either side of a marble grave not more than ten feet away, one blonde, one dark haired, and both grim of expression. Physically they were worlds apart, but they wore the same drifting, voluminous robes, edged in silver.. the robes of the Death Eaters, Severus realised, to his sudden horror. He released Lucius and stepped swiftly away – though he was all too aware that it would be useless to try and conceal what they had been doing. All his chances of making a decent impression on Marcel had vanished; and Severus wondered, in an indistinct and disheartened way, if this had been Lucius` intent.
Marcel..
Beside his taller, dark haired compatriot, Marcel appeared small and compact: a precise, ordered person amidst this chaos of overgrown weeds and corroded stone. The two brothers possessed the same angular features, but Marcel`s were set in a broader countenance. If Lucius` flared nostrils and long profile could be considered equine, Marcel tended toward the bovine: his eyes were heavy, rounder, less prone to restlessness. There was a weariness about him which Lucius did not share; a weight of experience which flattened his shoulders, tautened his gut. Many years of civil war had creased Marcel`s face into premature wrinkles.
At Severus` evasive sideways movement Marcel sneered, a cruel twist of his lips which Severus recognised immediately. He`d seen Lucius use it before – in a mimicry of his brother so perfect that the real Marcel seemed somehow hollow now, a parody of a parody. The memory of Lucius` impersonations, however, did nothing to detract from the palpable animosity Severus beheld in Marcel`s unforgiving glare.
“I – I can explain –” Severus stuttered out.
“I believe he was intending to fuck me,” said Lucius, primly, from behind him. He was polishing his glasses delicately against the silken sleeve of his jacket, looking cool, collected, and a far cry from the panting, sobbing creature which had burrowed itself against Severus` body no more than a minute before. Raising his spectacles to the light, Lucius huffed on them experimentally, adding as he did so: “Via the nether passage, as it were.”
Severus was aghast. “Sir!” was all he could manage to say.
Marcel growled quietly; the darker haired man beside him hid a chuckle in a cough. “Don`t be crass, Lucy,” Marcel hissed. “At least not in my presence. I`ll not prevent you from degrading yourself, but I refuse to suffer the hearing of it.”
When the elder Malfoy spoke it was with a slight, yet audible drawl – not an affected accent. He had the habit of becoming tired of a sentence in the middle of it, so his vowels grew lazy and drooped into the consonants. Due to the way he talked and the way his eyes hung – heavy-lidded, underscored with the sleepless bruising of the insomniac – he looked permanently stoned.
To Marcel`s chastise Lucius made no immediate reply. Inspecting his glasses, and evidently satisfied with the results, he returned them to the bridge of his nose. “You were late,” he said, simply.
“I had business,” came the bladed response. “Are you ready?”
“I was,” said Lucius, shooting a wry glance in Severus` direction. The potions-boy quailed; utterly ashamed, he regarded the ground and the weeds that dared breach the skein of soil.
“My time, brother-mine,” said Marcel heatedly, “is a commodity and not, despite what you may erroneously believe, subject to your sexual whim. We are leaving now. And mind your young friend does not touch anything of import here. This place is a haven of portkeys. I shouldn`t much envy him if he were to accidentally transport himself to the Ministry offices – whilst wearing his brand so prominently.”
Severus gripped his bare upper arm. The others ignored him.
“Or perhaps Igor will be kind enough to play babysitter until we return,” Marcel continued, favouring the dark haired wizard with a glance. Igor nodded his assent. Not that it was necessary – it seemed that Marcel, like Lucius, suffered an idiosyncrasy of inquiry: he had a talent for phrasing orders as questions. Lifting his silver eyes to meet his brother`s identical ones, Marcel repeated: “Are you coming, Lucy?”
“Oui, Marcel,” Lucius murmured, sliding from the mausoleum wall. And as he passed the speechless and struggling Severus, he whispered a mocking addendum under his breath. “Toujours, avec toi.”
Severus spoke no French, but the wicked smile on Lucius` lips needed no translation. Balling his hands into fists at his sides, Severus watched in furious silence as the brothers Malfoy made their departure, stepping daintily through the long aisles of stone-marked graves.
*
Voldemort`s little errand boy..
Even from an early age, Marcel Malfoy had understood that his life was forfeit to greater things. He would serve as a spoke in the wheels, a cog in the combine; his triumphs would be those acknowledged by the whole. He had no wish to contest this destiny. It suited him to move within the shelter of a crowd, preferring to remain as anonymous as he could – though that, he was forced to acknowledge, had become steadily more difficult as the Death Eater`s notoriety spread.
As mere cog, his name was never bandied about in the circles of power and conflict. Great achievements, even those with his fingerprint on them, were never attributed to him. He did not make dramatic entrances or exits at parties. Angry fist-shaking by the weak-hearted and power-hungry was never directed at him personally. In recent days, the affronted had compiled lists; names of the damned, photos of blurred, squinting, glaring faces, warnings, calls to action. Most of the major players, an ambitious, flashy lot, had only now begun pained attempts to curtail their public and flamboyant affairs.
Marcel`s reticence had served him in good stead. For a full nine years he had remained safe, untouchable in his corporate world. The Dark Lord had tagged him as a ‘slippery’ creature, and whilst offended by the remark, Marcel did not debate its truth. He could laugh and smile and fawn and kill, all in the same breath.
Marcel found the art of deception both necessary and as easy as breathing. If Lucius` talent was for mimicry, then Marcel`s was for deceit. Fabrications and fallacies twisted his lips at every opportunity. He would lie convincingly at appropriate and inappropriate times; when it mattered and when it didn't. Truth was, after all, a commodity, a luxury. Most simply didn't have the resources to obtain it. Even those he loved were not exempt from his myths of duplicity – but long years of battle against phenomenal odds had reduced Marcel`s occasional twinges of conscience to a dull, niggling ache somewhere in the depths of his belly, a sensation he commonly mistook for mild indigestion.
Marcel had duties; in his line of work, personal affections were as much to be discouraged as personality itself.
In order of importance, Marcel Malfoy`s duties were:
1. To provide the Malfoy family with a heir.
2. To assist the Dark Lord without question.
3. To learn, to teach, to recruit.
4. To put on a brave face.
The latter three of these were simple. The first – originally appearing to be the easiest of the four – currently posed him a considerable problem. Naturally, his failures with Narcissa had not deterred Marcel from experimentation in other pastures. His relationship to his wife was distant (as he preferred it) and, if he were to be completely honest, Marcel would be forced to admit that he had no qualms whether she left or stayed. She was beautiful, loving and utterly useless. He could dismiss her with a signature. Had he discovered a woman who could bear his seed to term, Marcel would have divorced Narcissa long ago.
But his various journeys into the torrid world of adultery had borne no fruit. Being a realist by disposition, Marcel could only conclude from this that he was at fault. Attempts to remedy his condition had come, thus far, to naught. It was a base, physical problem – a repulsively Muggle problem – and not even the science of magic could cure him.
It was time, Marcel felt, to opt for drastic recourse.
Desperate times call for desperate measures..
( Air.. air.. )
He led his brother through the graveyard. Straggling a few steps behind, Lucius bunched his hands into his jacket pockets, gathering the garment up over his hips. The left side of his face was pinkened and flustered; gravel-bruised. When they came to a rough, lean-to shelter just beyond the circle of the cemetery fence, Marcel stopped and opened the door.
“In there?” Lucius asked, doubtfully.
“Of course.” Marcel crossed the threshold.
It was a shack, no more, no less – with the Aurors at large, it was best to play it safe and avoid using all but the most essential of magics. Inside, the lean-to was devoid of even the barest furnishing. The floor was made up of coarse, salt-weathered wooden beams, and the two broken windows on each side of the solitary room were covered with a patchwork of mis-hewn planks. Strains of light slanted through the cracks, forming an uneven trellis of pale lines on the ground. As Marcel moved, the timbers creaked a muted protest at his weight.
He heard a sick, wet thud behind him and turned. Lucius stood within the frame of the partly open door, his hand clamped about his shoulder, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.
“You really are ill, aren`t you?” said Marcel.
Lucius` lips curled back. “I did it on purpose.”
“That makes you even sicker.”
“I have a voice in my head that isn`t my own,” Lucius hissed, jerking the door closed as he stepped inside. Even when angry, his voice was tinged with an undertone of sarcasm. “A voice in my head that won`t shut up, and a predilection for pain which goes far, far beyond the norm. As far as I know, that makes me certifiably insane. Sick enough for you, mon frère? And I shan`t even begin to tell you about the things I see when I close my eyes..”
“What does it – what does he ask you for?” Marcel asked, quietly.
( Air.. air.. )
“He wants to breathe,” said Lucius.
( Air.. air.. )
In the uncomfortable pause that followed Marcel turned aside, aware that if he were to push the conversation it might lead to an incrimination. He said instead: “The Dark Lord sends his regards.”
“I don`t care,” came the petulant reply. Noting Marcel`s faintly shocked expression, Lucius shrugged. “C`est la vérité,” he said. “It`s the truth. You won`t let me care. What point is there in a war for a soldier who must sit at home every day and – and do what? Sleep? Eat? Fuck? At least in France I had a purpose. Here I am excess baggage. I am defined only by relations to you and you in turn define me as nothing.”
“For your own good.” As he spoke, Marcel withdrew his wand, followed by a small, purple bottle, from the depths of his robes. Testing the wand`s length against his palm, the wood arced flexibly, then laid straight. Apparently satisfied by this, Marcel took to a careful examination of his bottle, ignoring Lucius` ramble.
“Better I die running than lying down,” Lucius retorted shamelessly. “Even the boy is allowed his freedom –”
“Turn around.”
( Air.. air.. )
The tip of Marcel`s ward burnt with a piercing white illumination, and Lucius closed his eyes. “The boy –” he began again.
“I said, turn around, Lucy.”
Marcel`s orders precluded autonomous thought. Yet Lucius managed to retain a subtle sense of shame; it could be seen manifest in the humiliated closure of his silver eyes. Reluctantly he acquiesced, biting back further demands and pleas. He hooked the tangle of his braid over his shoulder, bowing his head to expose the white skin of his nape. A few errant tendrils uncurled to his collar; Marcel brusquely tore them aside, thick fingered and brisk. As his brother`s hand clenched in readiness over the fragile bones of his shoulder, Lucius murmured bleakly: “It`s going to hurt, isn`t it.”
“No more than usual,” said his brother, diplomatically.
( Air.. air.. )
And Marcel`s wand slid like a needle into Lucius` brain.
III – Voice (Scene Interlude)
No.
No.
No.
The wand flared mercury-white.
Lucius..
Light.
Can`t.. Mustn`t..
No. No.
And it screamed out of him –
air air air air
god i shape fuck god father i air
breath god i no no no no no marcel
breathe can`t need
something like but not air quite
the same
as
life.
– and into the bottle which Marcel held.
IV – Hist, Hark (Scene Climax)
A rough shove – a warm hand.
“Sev..?”
Colours and vague shapes swam tantalisingly in and out of focus, the precise detail of their outlines indistinct. Automatically, Lucius fumbled for his glasses; they lay in his hand. His fingers were wrapped so tightly about the rectangular frames that he was surprised they hadn`t broken from the pressure. With difficulty he slipped them onto his nose – his hands were clumsy. It was almost like being drunk: he felt both nauseous and uninhibited. He was hot, sweating. He wanted to take his clothes off and lay down inside the boy`s chill body, and pull those sallow, wiry arms about his belly.
“Boy..” he called plaintively, and reached for the buttons of his shirt. Someone pulled his hands away before he could undress. He was caught firmly by his wrists, and all the squirming and wriggling he could manage in his weakened condition failed to break the hold.
“Lucy. Stop.”
Beneath him the floorboards were splintered and rough against his legs; needles of wood pierced his legs through the silk of his trousers. “Non. Jamais! Je sais..” he paused, and took a breath. “Marcel..?” he tried sheepishly.
“C`est ca. Parfait.”
The shape of his brother`s concerned face grew visible, fluttered away, and then returned. Lucius blinked. The back of his neck was raw, an ache comparable to the first agony of the Branding; he massaged it tentatively with his fingertips. “Was I out for long?” he asked softly, as Marcel hoisted him to his feet.
“A little while, yes.”
They leant together for a minute as Lucius regained his balance. By far the taller of the two, Lucius` long arms rested uncertainly around his brother`s neck, unwilling to relinquish his hold. Marcel`s body, bulkier, firm in the right places, made for a solid crutch.
“Thank you,” said Lucius, finally.
“I`m owed a favour,” said Marcel. His gray eyes were cool in their catalogue of his brother`s disrepair. One of the lessons of deceit, Marcel had learned, was the value of the truth when presented at precisely the correct moment. The clarity of it, sharp, cold, cleaner and more severe than even the most well-planned and vicious falsehoods, bit with a kind of finality and inevitability that made Marcel shiver a little in spite of himself.
While falsehoods could be pure pleasure, truth was a blade that cut both ways.
“Hah.” Lucius faltered, and withdrew. His nausea was now accompanied by vertigo – his vision, myopic at best, remained dizzyingly blurred when he tried to turn his head. But his head itself.. his head was marvelously clear. It felt almost vacant, as if those thousand terrors of confusion and doubt had been summarily vanquished. And perhaps they had. He touched his hands to his temples, attempting to recall exactly what had been troubling him when he arrived at the cemetery. He drew a blank. In fact, he had only the vaguest notion of why he had turned up at the cemetery in the first place.
The boy.. and the voice..
Voice?
“We need a heir.”
Marcel`s voice broke into his thoughts with a droll non sequitur. Lucius laughed – the sound was sickly, weak. “You need a heir,” he said petulantly, and spooled a wayward strand of hair about his fingers. “Oh, no. You need a heir, your father needs a heir. But me? I do not–”
“I intend that you have a child by Narcissa. She is well bred and – as I`m sure you will agree – not unappealing to look upon. I have prepared the necessary papers. Hopefully she will be impregnated before the conclusion of the month.”
“Hah. Impregnation..” the younger Malfoy grinned impishly. “..how delicious. I shall find that such a pleasure, after all, I do – I –”
And then Lucius realised with a start that his brother was serious.
He cut a comical figure, caught in the aspect of surprise without a ready persona to fall back on. His eyebrows climbed and then fell again, his mouth opened to respond, and then shut. He blinked rapidly. Marcel watched the expressions of shock, confusion, outrage, anger, and even a touch of fiery defiance play out on his brother's face with mild amusement.
“The issue is not open for debate. Naturally – if you deny me, I shall be forced to deny you..” and Marcel tapped the side of his head with the tip of his wand, and left the remainder of the threat mercifully unspoken.
“Marc..”
Lucius` head, so mercifully clear before, was suddenly inundated with a hundred clamoring protests, none of which he would ever dare articulate. He stared blankly at Marcel, and Marcel smiled back – calm, controlled, and utterly redoubtable.
“You don`t have a choice,” said Marcel Malfoy.
*
“Severus Snape, did you say? Marvelous. Marvelous name. And your friend – Lucy, was it? That is what Marcel called him, isn`t it? A strange name for a man, surely.. are they related? There is a certain, hah, ‘fearful symmetry’ – I`m sure you`ve noticed. The eyes, certainly. Of course, dear old Marc refuses to offer me details on anything beyond the most mundane affairs. To be honest, I think he`s far too uptight – too secretive. It seems strange the Dark Lord would entrust such a – dare I say it, slimy man with his confidence..”
“Slimy, sir,” Severus agreed.
“But one cannot be picky about one`s companions.. certainly not in these hard times. And these are hard times. I remember the old days, of course; though you wouldn`t, being far too young – you are eighteen, yes? I thought as much. I consider myself lucky, of course, to walk alongside the likes of Marcel Malfoy. Perhaps a little perturbed, for he is such strange company – silent. But he has it all up here.” Igor indicated his temple with a finger. “The names, the places. No wonder the Aurors are so determined to find him. A liability, I say; but the Dark Lord.. who knows his plans? Saving Marcel. Naturally. You said your name was Snape?”
“Yes, sir,” said Severus.
“Oh, yes. Snape. Wonderful. I do believe I have heard of you. Evan did speak well on your account – the potions boy, surely?”
It was remarkable how fast Lucius` demeaning nickname had spread through the various ranks of the Death Eaters. Potions boy – the alias rankled with Severus` pride. “Snape,” he affirmed, shortly. “I do have experience in potions. Sir.” He had learnt fast in Lucius` presence how to emphasise this last word so that it would be transformed into a slur. Pressing his tongue into the corner of his cheek, he inhaled a deep breath, surveying the horizon. The first of the evening`s stars had begun to prick the sky, tiny pinpoints of light all but lost in the blur of mist.
“Evan is, of course, an old friend – a dear man. He and I attended school together – Hogwarts. You were schooled there, I would assume? Marvelous. Yes, he has told me many things about you; though he did mention you were rather – how could I put it? Rather closed. Not altogether involved, is what I`m trying to say. Not – heart and soul. Though I suppose you have been warned not to speak, especially after that horrible business Marcel went through so very recently. Silence is a virtue, as they s–”
“You talk a lot, sir,” said Severus.
Igor laughed. “I am known to be rather chatty, ye–”
“I rather wish you wouldn`t,” said Severus thinly. “Sir.”
“Oh. I see.”
Understandably taken aback by Severus` terse dismissal, Igor parted from him, heading toward the pithy shelter of the gravel mausoleum. Severus remained where he was, bristling with ripe indignation. The smarting epithet of ‘potions boy’ crested the peak of the veritable mountain of social humiliations he had accumulated in the space of a half hour. With his bare arms clasped over his chest to ward away the biting chill, Severus struggled vainly to maintain his cool. Beneath his austere facade, however, he was livid – his anger so palpable he could almost taste it, salty and blood-thick between his teeth.
In the days which had preceded this meeting, Severus had mused at length over the precise manner in which he would approach Marcel Malfoy. It was essential that he presented himself in such a way as to appear tough, trustworthy, intelligent and demure, without falling prey to the unctuous ingratiation common to the likes of Igor Karkaroff. Certainly, his accomplishments were substantial enough to warrant a certain pride of bearing. He was the youngest of the Death Eaters, after all, and possibly the most skilled in the science of potions. Marcel could not fail to be impressed by such remarkable genius in one so young – and perhaps, following a short, appraising conversation, Marcel would reward Severus with a promotion, or an invitation to lead a raid, or something which might warrant the trials and tribulations the boy had suffered in the company of Lucius..
That was how it was meant to happen.
Being caught rubbing up against Lucius like a bitch in heat, like a hapless adolescent clutching a sticky copy of ‘horny witches weekly’, was a long way from the making of an ideal impression.
He could blame Lucius for his unfortunate faux pas, and he would. Bastard, Severus thought, miserably. Unlovely, graceless bastard.. What kind of devil could transform in an instant from a quivering mass into perfectly pressed gentleman; and then, without the slightest pang of conscience, stare reprovingly down at the heavily breathing peasant beside him and add insult to the injury of disgrace..
It was pointless. Severus reprimanded himself: he should have known better, he should have kept his hands off Lucius and his perfectly proportioned backside. He chewed his thumbnail angrily, venting his anger on a torn cuticle.
A further half hour of gratuitous self depreciation later, Severus heard voices raised behind him. The Malfoy brothers had returned: Lucius was making his way through the graveyard towards him; Marcel had halted by Igor in the distance to strike up a stilted conversation. Severus was riled to note that Marcel failed to cast him a backwards glance.
So much for fraternité.
“Boy.. boy..” came Lucius` panted plea, the familiar drawl rising above the wail of the wind to interrupt Severus` thoughts. Staggering uneasily along the weed-ridden aisles of the cemetery, the younger Malfoy moved with all the graceless autonomy of a somnambulist. The usual precision of his gait was lost to a clumsy, dreamy stumbling, and the harsh words of reprove Severus had intended to blast the traitor with faltered on his lips. He watched, half shocked, half gratified, as Lucius clawed his way forward, like a swimmer struggling to best a rip in the tide.
“..Sev.”
A little more than a foot away, the blonde came to a jittering standstill. For a moment he wavered there, wholly confounded, and then inclined slowly from his waist, until his forehead pressed against Severus` shoulder. To complete the motion the edges of his jacket surrendered to the whip of the wind, and flared behind him in sable ripples. There was something direly comical inherent to Lucius` pathos, and Severus responded to it with grim derision; he patted the top of Lucius` head in the manner of one comforting a particularly woeful dog.
“Hello, sir,” said Severus.
“I want to die,” said Lucius, into Severus` neck.
“What a novel idea, sir,” said Severus. “You`ll be happy to know that I have just the potion for the job.”
“Asshole,” said Lucius. His breathing was ragged, and Severus, despite himself, experienced a twinge of concern. Curiously, he raised his gaze over Lucius` shuddering shoulders toward the place he`d last seen Marcel, but the two Death Eaters had vanished – apparating, no doubt, to a warmer refuge. Frowning, Severus returned to the leech-like creature sniveling into his lapels.
“What happened?” he asked. “Between you and Marcel, I mean.”
“Nothing,” said Lucius firmly. “I want – ah. To go home.”
“You`re not going to tell me anything?”
“No – no.”
“You suck, sir,” said Severus, and Lucius slurped at his neck agreeably, straining to find a firm purchase for his teeth. Gripping Lucius` thin shoulders, Severus pried the man off before he could sever an important artery. Suddenly limp and loose-boned in Severus` arms, Lucius` head lolled, a descending quiff of stray blonde hair faltering short of the bright eyes beneath. It appeared that the Death Eater was now playing the rag-doll: malleable, lifeless, utterly despondent – another attempt to coax a little sympathy from the aggrieved youth.
Pathetic, Severus thought, his feelings of compassion replaced by revulsion. “Snap out of it,” he ordered, aloud. Doe-eyed, Lucius blinked at him, stupefied as a rabbit. Then a lopsided smile resolved slowly on his lips; he tore away from the hands which supported him and began to straighten his clothing in the fastidious yet distracted fashion Severus knew only too well. Severus waited; and a minute later Lucius was pressed up against him once more, nudging and pushing and licking.
“We will – apparate?” came the tentative inquiry, a stutter issued so close to the flesh that the breath released served, in its hinted intimacy, to suggest all the wanton promises of a whore.
Severus clenched his teeth. “Yes, sir,” he grated.
“Hah. Yes. But. Ah – I cannot seem to find my wand..” Lucius murmured.
“Try your fucking pocket, sir.”
Abruptly Lucius withdrew, evidently irked by Severus` failure to rise to the bait. “I`m not stupid,” he snapped, delving a hand into the innards of his jacket. “Nor am I blind. And neither, let me add, is my brother. Really.. jumping on me like that..”
He vanished before Severus could reply.
*
The act of apparating was an instantaneous process – truly one of the most useful and efficient of everyday spells. Simply: one began in one place, and then, with the slightest step, appeared somewhere completely different with an ease analogous to that of stepping from one flagstone to another. But Lucius had always idly imagined that he could feel the weight of the atmosphere through which he traveled, and reveled in the brush of the cosmic wind which flushed against his face. In his mind, the miles he traversed were suspended between those two hypothetical flagstones, and he fancied he could feel the blast of their compressed air enveloping him.
There were breaths that exhausted him in their passage from his lungs, which reamed him in their virility. At such moments, caught in the limbo of supernatural transit, it seemed to Lucius as if time itself had been eliminated, and he existed within a universe which could not be measured by a temporal standard, but was instead quantified by the magnitude of each inhalation.
Air?
He concentrated on his breathing now in order to stay his mind from the contemplation of his brother`s commands, the empty and painful sensations ricocheting through his head, and the angry black eyed boy who would, inevitably, follow on his heels, sorely vexed and breathing heavily through his nose.
“I`d like to tell you, sir, that I find you repugnant,” the boy was saying, apparating a step behind him in the apartment`s hallway. “I expect that a special circle in hell is marked out just for slimy little bastards like you.”
“I am sure the devil shall see to it that we are let adjoining rooms,” replied Lucius briskly. Entering the lounge with the furious Severus dogging his heels, he dug into another pocket, removed the handful of crumpled legal papers Marcel had given him in the hut, and summarily disposed of them with a flick of his wrist. They skittered over the surface of the dining table, a flurry of flapping white and blue, and then vanished over the edge. He sucked thoughtfully on his fingers as he turned.
“You made a fool of me,” the boy snarled. “With Marcel. With that bloody – Kararoff, or whatever his name was. You didn`t have to say that. I – can`t believe you said that. My chances - you – you fucking –”
The pitch of the boy`s voice was offensive to Lucius; with an internal grimace he brushed past Severus and made for the staircase. “Sorry,” he said absently, his hand on the bolster.
“Sorry?” The boy blistered with anger, unable to believe his own ears.
“Yes. I`m sorry.”
“It`s not that fucking easy, sir..”
“I don`t know what to do, then. What would you like me to do?”
The boy withheld his counsel, sulking stiff-backed in Lucius` immediate wake. On another night Lucius might have taken pleasure out of jibing the boy into an emotional fever. Tonight, however, he restrained himself; reasoning that an outburst from the boy would prolong his wait for the senseless bliss of sex. At the top of the stairs his hands foundered on the door handle; he pushed it open and stepped in.
Formless, liquid moonlight spilled through the window of the spare room. At its centre, spot-lit, the double bed lay – its fresh blankets courtesy of the domestic occupations of his brother`s wife. Offering an apologetic shrug to the boy, Lucius sat down heavily on the pristine covers. His fingers pried at the buckle of his belt; he shook off his jacket in the same motion. The discarded clothing he folded neatly into the semblance of a pillow, and placed it neatly on the floor. Rising, he heard the bedsprings creak behind him; the mattress slanted to accommodate Severus` weight.
“I won`t do it again,” he told the boy, who nestled behind him on all fours, his chin an inch shy of the nape of his neck.
“Right.”
“I won`t.”
“Right.”
“You possess a passable intellect and are – I believe, one of the youngest wizards to be accepted in service to Voldemort. I`m told you are a genius in your chosen field, and you appear smart enough to hold your own against most of the bastards who you – we associate with. Based on your merits, you deserve all the accolades you receive. It was decidedly wrong of me to make out that you were – less than what you are.”
“..passable intellect?” But this flattery appeared to have mollified the boy somewhat; his quarrel was offered half-heartedly. Folding himself about Lucius` body, Severus began to undress the man from behind, his attention engaged in the unbuttoning of Lucius` shirt. Behind his rectangular-rimmed glasses, Lucius` gaze panned the wall-paper, scanning the maroon relief of fleur-de-lys. His jaw jutted forwards; his narrow chest rose haltingly to meet the adjustments of the boy`s nimble fingers. Hosted in his lap, Lucius` wrists lay one atop the other, this meditative posture exposing the sallow underbelly of his forearms.
He sighed as Severus pulled the cloth free of his shoulders. “I think you are very clever,” he said. “How does that sound?”
“That sounds as if you`re fucking with me, sir.”
“No. I am organising my thoughts. I am unsure of things.” Lucius laughed, dryly. “You would think I would be used to it by now.” He rose from the bed for a moment to remove the packet of cigarettes he`d been sitting on from the back pocket of his trousers. Lighting one, he chose willfully not to acknowledge the irritated glare the boy fixed him with. “I think I am fond of you, Severus,” he said presently, on the drag of an inhale. “I would be – disappointed to lose you. You – are pleasing. I – the words are a little difficult.” He paused thoughtfully, and then, in an effort to explain, continued: “You must understand that I think en François. Every time I speak I must first translate the abstraction of thought into French and then translate again into English. There is a lot lost in the process. Sentiment. Sometimes I do not think I am quite as fluent as I would like to appear. I – I am digressing.”
“And I, sir, am waiting for the point.”
The boy was stripping, gracelessly – all elbows and knees and clumsy, hesitant jerkings. Lucius averted his eyes automatically. “Yes. The point,” he said. “How nicely you phrase it. What I wish to say to you is that I refuse to let you go.”
“Funny. I never knew I intended to leave.”
“Oh.” Lucius smiled, faintly abashed. He added, knowledgeably tapping his long nose with the side of his index, “You will.”
“Won`t.”
“Will.”
“Won`t,” Severus repeated stubbornly, feeling as foolish, no doubt, as he looked. Like a child stamping his foot insolently in the face of dispute, Lucius thought wryly.
“Will,” said Lucius. “I have intent to be married.”
Severus froze. His long fingers were furled tightly into the hem of the sheets – he`d been caught in the act of slithering underneath the covers. Now he held himself there, half concealed in maroon silk, bare-chested and rigid in shock. For a second or two he appeared ensconced in a mental battle: his teeth gritted as he fought between the conflicting impulses of fight and flight. To scream and beat Lucius down with his fists, or to simply dress and leave.. Lucius, who had experienced a similar and far more obtrusive dilemma less than an hour before, felt little sympathy for him.
“Well?” he prompted.
The boy retreated to the refuge of cynicism. “It`s customary to get down on one knee when you propose,” he said. His face was reddened by fury, but he did not seem inclined to run, or even to brawl, for that matter. A fine testament to the tenacious heart, Lucius thought, bemused; and then experienced a sudden, overwhelming urge to break into a smile. It was an urge quickly suppressed, however; and Lucius reminded himself – as Marcel had insisted he should in moments of inexplicable fondness – that the boy was expendable, exploitable, replaceable..
A pet, no more, no less.
Lucius hesitated, and stubbed out his cigarette butt on the bedside table, four inches short of the ashtray. “No,” he said aloud. “Not to you.”
“I think even someone of my ‘passable intellect’ could work that much out, sir,” the boy spat.
“Ah. Would that then be an example of that wonderful sarcasm of yours?”
“Yes. Yes it would.”
“It annoys me,” said Lucius. “Don`t do it again.”
The boy erupted. With the full force of his anger behind him he flung himself at Lucius, who, showing remarkable foresight, side-stepped neatly out of range. The murderous cry which shrieked from Severus` lips rapidly distorted into a wail, which was followed in quick succession by a thump, a grunt, and then a pained, muffled curse. Lucius stared down his nose at the boy, who`d landed spread-eagled on the floor in a clutter of sheets, his twitching fingers grappling with the air only millimeters away from Lucius` boots.
“..crap,” said Severus.
“Did you want – ah, a hand?” Lucius offered.
“You.. How fucking –”
“Sorry.”
“Don`t fucking start that sorry shit with me, Lucius. Don`t you fucking dare.”
“If you say so.” Lucius settled back onto the bed, sliding into the warm place Severus had vacated. Flushed and humiliated, the boy rose, unable to look Lucius in the eye.
“B-bastard,” he said, with feeling.
“It is not my choice,” said Lucius. He regarded the boy steadily, and willed himself not to laugh. “It is for – procreational purposes,” he explained. “It has been – ah. Settled in advance. I do not – want it.”
“But it pleases me to own things I do not need,” Severus mimicked in a sing song voice, snaring the sheets immodestly about his waist. “Isn`t that right, Malfoy? Isn`t that your little catchphrase? Your little bad-ass refrain. Admit it, you`re a glutton for attention. Which is surprising, really, given that whenever you actually receive it, you either pretend you`re five years old or you reject it outright..”
“Are you intending to leave?” Lucius interrupted him.
“No. I`m not sure. Maybe. No. What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
At the boy`s words an intense desire to smile rose again in Lucius. They were a peculiarity to him, these bouts of fleeting and inexplicable happiness; they were stupid and immature and unpredictable and utterly exasperating, and Lucius covered his face with his hands so that all traces of their passage across his features would remain secreted from the boy`s withering black-eyed glare. Apparently mistaking Lucius` retreat as a mark of distress, Severus relented. He returned to the man`s side, his presence once more heralded by the bedsprings and the skew of the mattress beneath Lucius` body.
His proximity was disagreeable, Lucius thought, with a faltering desperation. Disagreeable. He did not approve of their closeness any more than he approved of the static charge the brush of the boy`s fingers imparted along the ridge of his spine..
( A pet.
he told himself weakly.
No more.
No less.
The boy`s arms came around him, wiry, lithely muscled.
Lucius..
did you think..?
Can`t. Mustn`t.
No. No.
It was an epiphany of embrace –
need need need need
god i shape fuck god boy i need
breathe god i no no no no no marcel
want can`t need
something like but not quite
the same
as
love. )
– and Lucius held his breath for a long moment, praying for the redemption of an emotional numbness which he knew now would never come. His mouth tasted musky; the lenses of his glasses had fogged over. Involuntarily his body slid closer, drawn by the heat; his buttocks bobbed into the hollow of Severus` stomach. Over the dark rims of his spectacles he peered short-sightedly across his shoulder into the boy`s strained, tense face.
It was amazing, Lucius reflected, how much feeling the boy could project with those bitter black eyes. The feuds of love versus hate, lust versus repugnance, desperation versus dignity were all visible there, as clearly as if they had been written.
“We aren`t going to say it, are we?” he said softly, and the boy`s face twisted, stung. But he did not relinquish his hold, Lucius was gratified to discover, and offered only the mildest of verbal protests. “Shut up,” Severus mumbled, a despondent, futile plea, and squeezed Lucius tighter, the jagged edges of his bony body jutting into the smoothness of Lucius` pale skin.
Lucius giggled, and nudged promisingly against him. “You`re too proud,” he told the boy solemnly, and his fingers delved to his own crotch and tested the rising ridge of his arousal with tentative concern.
“Shut. Up.”
“And I am –” his palm slid the length of his erection, the draw of the material across his flesh coarse but not without its sensual merits. “I do not like saying things that – are not solid.”
“Shut. The fuck. Up.”
“We will just keep it to ourselves, then. A mutual understanding. Your – ah, secret. Is safe. Avec moi.”
“Shut..”
V – Severus` Monologue
..up!”
It`s a feeble plea, and you know already that he will not shut up, he will not cease his loathsome teasing. Those vicious little teeth, that twisted mouth, that serpent`s tongue.. and at the core of you something breaks, (the wooden obstinacy of your pride, perhaps), and you find yourself riding the livid tide of your anger and your fear. Jerking him to face you, your knitted fingers pummel his chest and he wails suddenly beneath you, his hands faltering away before they touch your skin. Lucius is always careful to guise the marks you give him under the cover of darkness, melting those blossoms of purple and red from his pale flesh with all manner of magical balms, but they flourish anew beneath the clawing of your nails. He is a fertile thing; he is ripe for a bleeding. His body is breathless for the redemption of your fist.
As he screams you feel a twist of self-hatred, but the emotion is nothing new to you – you who`ve hated yourself so long that it has become habit. You grip his shoulders and bang him against the bedpost; he is limp in your hands. Perhaps he understands that this is what he deserves; he has asked for it, in his betrayals, in his unspoken accusations and jibes. He can suffer no better punishment for his transgressions than that which you inflict now on the metre of his skin.
This is possibly the beginning of the end. In the heart of you, you know this. Circumstance dictates that you must share him; you are forced to acknowledge that the euphoria of power you have felt until this point has been a lie. His life, his world, is governed by a malignant external influence which you – sad, bumbling potions-boy – are incapable of surmounting. He is not yours. Though from the way he bears your blows, quietly now, without protest, you might suppose that he wishes he was.
Lucius` head hits the wall and he falls unconscious. His eyes roll back – you see the whites flutter to occlude the silver iris. He slides into your open arms and you tear him away by the train of his hair, because you cannot stand the touch of him, you will not bear it, you can not bear it. A moan parts his lips; he comes to, dizzy and faltering. You hate him; you despise him. He says, ..oh, god, and starts to cry.
Now his fingers are pressed to his temples; he rocks back and forward on his knees – to you, away from you – like some mortal pendulum. Those thin and bitter lips, so used to curling into a self satisfied smirk, quake miserably. His entire aspect is one of muted despair and that twist comes again, right in the gut of you, only this time it does not lead you to self depreciation but rather to a sudden and unexpected bout of compassion.
Sometimes you forget that not everything is smoke and mirrors. Sometimes the fear you see in his eyes isn`t part of the act – it`s a real, tangible emotion which surfaces in him, captured and reflected in those silver eyes. When afraid his face is blessed with a perverse semblance of innocence, a purity even he cannot replicate in his childish mimicry. Fear makes him human, just as pain makes him real. When he bleeds, when he bruises – only then is he wholly yours. And in the aftermath of your beating he trembles and moves inexorably to the comfort of your embrace.
You hold him. He kisses you, your neck and your collarbone and your chest, and the sharp corners of his glasses (one lens is fractured, you notice) dig into your ribs. He takes your hand and presses it, not over his heart but over his stomach, and in each outward push of his belly you feel him breathing.
Stop, he pants. My head hurts. You`re hurting my head.
You deserve it.
I deserve many things. What do you – ah, deserve, boy?
A little bloody respect wouldn`t go amiss for a start, you fucking shameless bastard.
I respect you. What you do to me. What you want to do to me.
I want to kill you.
Perhaps. But let`s start small, hm? And work our way – ah. Yes.
He licks your throat with the moist wafer of his tongue and then lets go. Laying down on the bed he presents himself to you, naked to the waist. His arms rest delicately on his thighs; he smoothes out the silken material, drawing it taut so you can see the swell of his cock in relief, a dark, promising pulse beneath the fabric. There has always been a beauty to him when viewed in the act of submission, you reflect. You may deny him dignity, you may deny him morality, you may deny him a capacity for love, but you cannot deny that he is beautiful. Spread out for you now, all tearful and hopeful and pleading, he is as desirable as a siren. You gratify him with the nubs of your fingertips, the snare of your hands on his thighs.
With a series of gentle nudges, you prompt him to splay himself face forwards on the blankets. The slightest tugs is all that is necessary to convince the glossy sheath of his trousers to noiselessly surrender the firm, pale buttocks beneath. Naked, Lucius removes his glasses and clasps his forehead in his open palms as you spread him, lick him, whetting that which is already moist with sweat. An anticipatory tremble quakes his shoulders; they shudder in sync with the sobs which pull from him in each gust of breath. You push against him brusquely and your erection, slippery with the lubricative salve of saliva, veers away along the slick crevice of his buttocks.
The comic potential of this event is not lost on Lucius: the pillows mute his mocking laughter. Releasing a frustrated grunt you rock back onto your heels. For a minute or two you torture his anus with your fingers, buying time to regain your dignity. Beneath you, Lucius moans and giggles in response and then orgasms accidentally. The thick splutter of semen clots the blankets directly below his chest; his testicles contract and his cock slumps flaccid against his thigh. You don`t notice, so preoccupied are you with repositioning yourself, and the sound of his ecstatic whimper is smothered in the pillows.
You drag Lucius` slim thighs further apart and probe again with your cock, slower this time. A further whimper from Lucius: a dull pain has accompanied your penetration, though sexual excess has robbed Lucius of the excruciating gratification of virginal agony. Your thin fingers cluster about the prominent bones of his hips, and reel themselves in the blonde length of his hair. You feed yourself to the snug heat of Lucius` body in increments, and Lucius clenches involuntarily at the reception of each new inch.
You are very quiet.
Quivering in your arms, Lucius registers absently that the dull pain has intensified to become a solid, molten inner-ache. The muscles of his thighs vibrate weakly and fleeting spasms of bliss tear down his nerves and into the bone where they splinter the marrow` pith. He briefly loses all sensation from his knees down as the head of your cock nestles up against his prostate. He whimpers again. You lower your hand and stroke a smooth sweat-slick path over the curve of his belly. Your touch is fond and surprisingly tender and conveys in silence the unspeakable sentiments neither you nor he will admit to harbouring.
Lucius starts to cry again - He is exactly seven years old and all this is happening for the first time, he is twenty eight and when he opens his mouth to moan the sound starts at a high, childish pitch and then wavers hesitantly before breaking to a lower note. You stay inside him and covet his body with your fingertips. You pad down the grooves of Lucius` ribs toward the slant of his waist.
Oh god, Lucius ventures timidly, and his voice is his own. Against his thigh his cock shifts uneasily and begins a second, ponderous ascent. He wrests one arm free of the pillows and grips it feverishly against his stomach and then your hand closes over his and together you encourage it to harden, faster firmer quicker and you buck accidentally and Lucius feels himself rip apart at the seams. He screams into the pillows. His fingers are soaked and sticky with precum and you thrust into him again, anointing bruises in blood. Lucius chokes and scrabbles vainly and you stop and stroke him.
Shut up, you say grimly, I`m making love to you.
Lucius sobs huskily and fails to reply.
VI – Do Not Pass Go (Scene Aftermath)
Severus was gone when Lucius awoke. He assumed correctly that Severus had business – with the simpleton Longbottom, no doubt. His body, deliciously sticky, still raged with coital aftershock. Pulling the mass of down-filled pillows alongside him into a clumsy semblance of a human form, he rolled on top of them and thrust into the pleasant squashiness of the feathers. His cock yielded a meager thread of semen, then sagged limply into its lifeless burrow. Dozily, Lucius stroked his thighs, his buttocks, his stomach, reconjuring the night`s adventure through the conduits of his fingers.
At half twelve in the afternoon he stumbled drunkenly from bed and into the en-suite`s shower. There, he lavished himself with scented foams and shampoos, and ventured out glistening with cleanliness. Appraising himself in the full length closet mirror, he found his reflection entirely to his liking. Experimentally applying his hands to his belly and anus, he watched with a fond fascination as penis thickened. He nudged himself against the mirror. The cold glass caused him to whimper involuntarily, and he looked up to find his own eyes staring back at him with an equal register of shock and arousal.
Something about this disturbed him – something he couldn`t quite put a finger on. His erection, however, remained true. Donning one of his brother`s silk dressing gowns, Lucius made for the door, wonderfully aware of the way the slithering material bobbed over and against his cock, forming a cool and delectable sheath.
The corridor outside the spare bedroom was a sea of hair. Shimmering golden tresses lay in irregular clumps on the red underlay, carpeting the hall like some perverse mimicry of the myth of breadcrumbs. They stuck to the hem of his gown and twined about his fingertips as he reached for the upper bolster of the staircase. Passing strands of it breezed against his face, and when he tore them away from his eyes he found they had the sheer consistency of spiderwebs. Lying at the base of the stairs was great clot of it, a matted mass like a bird`s nest. When he stepped on it the thing seemed to dissolve beneath his weight: the soles of his feet were too coarse to register the individual sensation of each fine thread.
By this stage he knew instinctively what had happened, and a shudder of dread weighted his shoulders.
Narcissa..
She was standing in the dining room with her hands splayed against the table top, her gaze fixed on some distant, obscure point beyond the realm of the visible. She was immodestly naked, saving for her underwear – fresh, white, simple briefs. Her small breasts heaved slightly each time she drew breath; the nipples gleamed a soft pink against the marble pallor of her skin. The concave curve of her stomach hitched convulsively inward. About her face her jagged new haircut fanned out in wisps; she looked boyish and ethereal and mad.
Beautiful and untouchable, he thought – the way only the truly insane could ever be. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a glitter of silver amidst a pile of gold in the corner of the room. It appeared she had discarded the scissors at random after her impromptu restyling, and the tiny metal shears had since been sucked under by the knot of discarded blonde tresses.
“I preferred it long,” he said.
“So did I,” she said. “But what I want doesn`t matter.”
“I`ve been telling you that for years,” Lucius replied.
She shut her eyes and he walked around the table and stood behind her and watched and said nothing. His cock fought against the overhang of silk, still furiously aroused despite the grimness of his current situation. Thankful she could not see him, he parted his robe and slid his damp hands along the length of his erection. If he bent slightly from his knees he could aim himself at her cunt; for a brief second he imagined himself taking her – right there, right then, ripping through the meager cotton protection of her underpants and launching her onto the table. Her fingers would rip in futile passion against the tablecloth, and the assorted condiments and bottles that lay on its surface would tumble in about them, adding an eclectic variety of flavours to the zest of rape.
“You found the papers,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You shouldn`t have read them. I would have preferred to tell you – in person.”
“Thank you.”
He waited, holding his breath with one hand about his throat and the other about his cock.
“Women in Egypt did this,” she said, finally. “When their husbands died, they cut off their hair. So I am – it is all gone now.” Her face twisted, caught on an unnatural angle – part grimace, part winsome smile. “I was compelled,” she said. “It was – it is traditional.”
“I never knew you loved him,” he said, exhaling.
“No one in my family has ever been divorced before.”
“You know why, don`t you,” he said. “You understand – why he had to.”
“He was awful in bed,” she said. “I think he was frigid. The only time he managed to get an erection was when he was angry. The blood flowed from his head and into his penis. The reason we couldn`t have children – it wasn`t because he was infertile. It was because when he fucked me he would fuck me in blood.”
“I see.”
“I don`t think he cared for me. All he cared about was my womb. A heir. The night we were married he fell asleep. I lay there and looked at the ceiling and I wanted to suffocate him. I held the pillow in my hand. I bit it. I thought of you – I think. Maybe I will suffocate you on our wedding night. It will be revenge. On someone – I`m not sure who. These days I don`t think vengeance needs a reason.”
“No. Just a victim.”
“You were more passionate when you were younger,” she said softly, and seized the table cloth between her fingers. The drag of the material caused the various sauce bottles and shakers to clink together. “You made me shiver, sometimes. The things you would say.”
Her recollection served as an invitation. He ran his finger down her spine, and she wilted at his touch; her back arched, her shoulders fell forwards, and her nails knitted deeper into the cotton cloth. Pulling down her underwear, which fell away easily to shackle her thin ankles, he pressed his cock to her anus, contemplating in an idle fashion the idea of taking her from behind. His first push, however, and her subsequent yelp, informed him that she was far too tight to admit him. He bent his knees.
“I hear you every night,” she said. “You and the boy. You whimper and cry and he orders you about like some puffed up little Muggle general. And you let him, because you think giving him power will convince him to stay. I used to think the same thing. Marcel. I would – I would fawn to him. He would spit on me. I gave him power because he needed it, and because I needed to lose control. My hands – they were his. I was a fool. I`m not any longer.”
She was so thin that he could feel every bone of her body. Through the downy wisps of her pubic hair he discovered the entrance to her cunt and warmed it with his fingers. His other palm rested on the arch of her pelvis; he waited.
“He`ll leave you,” she said. “He`ll leave you because he thinks he owns you. He thinks he can discard you.”
“He loves me,” said Lucius.
“No. He loves to hate you. He loves to be able to hate you.” She mumbled a wordless entreaty and pushed her buttocks against his crotch. “He`s not gay, not really. Neither are you.”
“I`m just confused,” said Lucius.
“You aren`t gay. You`re simply a passive person. You like to sit back and let people take control of you. You like it to be out of your hands. Your deepest fantasy, your worst fear. He lets you live that out. He lets you pretend you are nothing and then makes you something. Marcel does the same. He – they – define you. It saves you the trouble of working things out yourself.”
“You`ve been listening at doors again.”
“I`ve been reading other people`s papers, too.”
“You are evil.” His tone was approving.
“It`s my prerogative,” she said. “I would not call it evil, though. I am merely jealous. I am a poor little rich girl who wants to be loved for something other than her ovaries.”
“We were – good together, weren`t we?” he said, and closed his eyes, sliding his index through the shallow slit of her labia.
( ..and then he is speeding back in time to recollect a teenage depression and the agony of worthlessness. At eleven years of age she is the focal point of his every fantasy, and each time he masturbates he envisions her face, loathsome in its ethereal, untouchable beauty. She was made for him, he thinks furiously – and she was promised to another. Their parents` understanding of matchmaking is limited to the necessity of pure-blood offspring, and ignores those weeping adolescent promises of lust and love.
There`s a feeling he gets about Narcissa that he can`t shake, the way you can`t shake a cold once it`s reached the chest. It isn`t an uneasiness, not exactly, but it manifests in the sudden clumsiness of his speech. Verbose by nature, his words will spool to a virtual standstill in her presence: diatribes of love and adoration leave his lips as orders, clumsy desires which make him wince in their inarticulacy. He`s felt this way before, of course, in the days preceding his departure to boarding school – an amalgam of anxiety and anticipation combined with an overwhelming irritation at his own failings, at her indisputable virtue.
She makes him lose control. She makes him justify that which cannot be justified. She makes him hate and want. She makes him make the first move, and laughs sweetly at his awkward flirtation while his face colours and his teeth jar into the meat of his tongue.
“You love me,” he tells her, that wintry day, with his scarf throttling him and his glasses fogged with frustrated tears he refuses to shed. “You love me, but in the end, you`ll marry him.”
She is eleven; he is fourteen, and Jean-Luc has already promised Marcel that he may have their dead mother`s engagement ring to woo his cautious and incredible child-bride.
“Some things you don`t get to question,” Lucius says. “There are things you have to accept; there are rules.”
There are rules, certainly – of two distinct categories. One is reserved for the pure, the other for bastard progeny.
“That`s not fair,” she tells him, with her hands on her hips, sulky and infantile and unmercilessly beautiful.
“Don`t fucking talk to me about fair,” he replies ardently; and to stay his hand from staining her flesh with the burn of a bruise he kisses her, her forehead, and leaves only the insubstantial weight of his lips to mark her as his.. )
“We were good together,” he repeated, with a greater confidence, and she laughed.
“Before you left me?” she asked. “Before I went mad? Before I was married to your brother?”
“All of the above.”
“We were wonderful.”
“We were alike.”
“Yes.”
“I forgot.”
“You forget a lot of things. You forget everything. I never do.”
“That must be painful for you.”
“It is a living hell.”
“Hell..”
“I want you to talk to me, the way you used to,” she said. “Do you remember that, at least? You would hold my hands under the table at the dinner tables. Both my hands, in one of yours. Around us everyone would be shouting, like the school kids they were, while we sat there quietly and calmly and pretended we couldn`t hear them. You would put your hand between my legs and then take it away and pretend you`d done it by accident. I was eleven and I thought it was funny, even if you didn`t laugh. We never did anything, but you would whisper things. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” he said, slowly.
“Then say it.”
“I want to bite you,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And then I`m going to fuck you.”
“I want to kill you,” Narcissa whispered. “I want to swallow you in my skin.”
They made love amidst condiments – a sticky affair. He, battering his way into her without the prelude of foreplay, thought of the boy in a distracted fashion – comparing the ecstasy of their sexual electricity to the fervour of this, his triumphant battle over a woman no one but he still desired; and realised with some surprise that the two were possessed of an equal merit. And she, fucked into an obscene submission on the tabletop, gorged with his pride and her indignity, screamed out those thousand deaths she wished upon his brother, his father, her parents, and their stupid, awful, horrible interference in the life she had never asked for. Her anger, palpable and livid as her curses, stung the air, and infused him with its molten current.
“I hate you,” she said.
“Hate me, then,” he replied.
When they were done he laid her out amongst the pepper shakers and sauce bottles and anointed her body with their spices. He slid on her and licked her and sucked her and she in turn came upon him and bit and chewed until he screamed and he drew blood and she drew blood and yanked out a clump of his hair while he stuck his tongue into her cunt and devoured her whole, their tangled limbs led to riot in the throes of softcore cannibalism.
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