Chapter Text
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The plan had gone just swimmingly, up to the point the office door slammed open and the threshold was darkened by a very large, very forbidding silhouette.
Oh my god, Hermione thought, it's him. It's Lucius sodding Malfoy. Fuck fuck fuck. And she had really started to sweat.
"Narcissa, my dearest," the blond wizard drawled in a voice like brushed silk, sweeping elegantly through the dimly-lit chamber to join her. "What in the name of Salazar are you doing in here? Have we not a ballroom full of guests to attend?"
Her breath caught with relief. She had not been rumbled. Not yet. But she was elbow-deep in the top drawer of his office bureau, and she wasn't exactly sure how she was going to explain herself.
"Hello, Lucius," she said shakily, for he was always intimidating, even from a distance, and now—looming large from the shadows, devilishly handsome in his evening attire—he made her almost dizzy with fear. Fear...and something else, which she couldn't quite name, and was in no hurry to, either. "I was just. Um. I was looking for..." she swallowed nervously, "...something," she finished lamely.
She met his silver gaze in the gilt-framed mirror that hung above the bureau...and a deep crimson flush began from her neck and gradually spread over her face to the roots of her hair. I bet SHE never blushes like this, she thought wildly, wondering how it was possible that he could not see her panic and confusion within his wife's tilting sapphire eyes.
Lucius's mouth was curving into a very slow, very disconcerting smile. He closed in behind her, reaching around to extract her arms from the bureau with his large jewelled hands. Immediately her senses were flooded by a heady combination of scents—sweet, expensive cologne, the slightly bitter fumes of fine wine and cigars, and a darker, sharper accent of emphatic masculinity. "You've got the wrong drawer, Narcissa," he growled in her ear, and his warm breath on her skin sent unbidden tingles all over her body. Gently he closed the top drawer, and just as gently he slid open the one below it. "I believe these are what you're looking for, milady?"
Oh my holy...ohhhh shit. They were handcuffs. Actual handcuffs. What kind of man keeps handcuffs in his office? She had no time to give the question much thought because with one impossibly quick movement he had jerked both her arms behind her and cuffed her wrists—and that was when Hermione knew she was in deep trouble.
She simply froze. What could she say? Terribly sorry, Mr. Malfoy, there's been a bit of a mix-up. I've actually violated every Ministry law in the book by stupefying and impersonating your wife, infiltrating your home, and breaking into your office to conduct an unlawful search for incriminating evidence against you. A nauseating anxiety twisted her insides. He could have her arrested—there were several highly-decorated officers of the DMLE under this same roof at this very moment. She could lose everything: her job, her clean record, her very reputation. Or worse, he could blackmail her for the rest of her life.... No! To confess was simply not an option. Then again, what the hell was going to happen to her if she didn't?
"On second thoughts," the tall wizard was murmuring, his arms snaking around her and pulling her tightly against him, "I think the madding crowds may look after themselves for an hour or so."
She could feel...him through her flimsy dress, an alarming hot rigidity pressing into her tailbone. Then he suddenly spun her around and half-lifted, half-shoved her onto the edge of the bureau's satiny top, pinning her in place with a hard thrust of his hips. Unable to maintain her balance with her hands cuffed behind her, she would have fallen backward, but Lucius held her up with his right hand spanning the narrow of her back, his left supporting her nape beneath the sheet of her long smooth hair.
Hermione's heart thudded as his thumb caressed her throat. His hand was so large, it nearly encircled her entire neck. She could feel his gaze burning into her, but she could not—could not—meet it. "I've got a headache," she blurted out desperately. "Maybe we—could—later—"
"Oh no, my dear, I'm not in the mood to entertain your capricious little games," he cut her off hoarsely, his mouth suddenly very close to hers. "...not tonight."
Where the hell did I put my bag—my wand? she thought frantically. Then she remembered: she had left the little, beaded clutch on his massive desk in the middle of the room, her wand stowed safely away inside. Damn. "But—but, ah, I want to ch-change into something special, L-Lucius," she stammered. "Why don't you meet me in the bedroom in ten mi—"
Her words were cut off again, this time by his mouth. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was demanding and probing and deep and hard and hot, and she had never, never been kissed like that before in her life. When he released her lips she was giddy and breathless, her pulse racing like a rabbit's. "Oh," she couldn't help gasping.
His weight shifted and she nearly balked when she felt his warm hand slide past her knee, pushing her dress up and up until it was no more than a wreath of bunched silk at the top of her thighs. She began to wriggle furiously against him. "Stop it, Lucius, please!" she hissed, "I don't feel like—ahhh!"
With a swift, artful movement of his hand, he had tugged aside the inadequate barrier of lace underwear with his fingers, and she yelped as he began to stroke his thumb up and down her exposed cleft. MERLIN SAVE ME! She arced back, twisting against her restraints in helpless despair—no, helpless desperation—no, helpless pleasure, as he manoeuvred against her with subtle expertise, stooping down to catch her lips with his once more.
Clearly, he knew how to handle a woman. His touch was light and assured, no misguided prodding or painful jabs, simply caressing and insinuating, and ever-so-slowly applying pressure and depth until she was like wax in his hands, melting into an imperatively-building ecstasy, moaning against his mouth.
No, no, this cannot be happening! Her brain was a jumbled mess, her rational thought had been hijacked by pure sensation, and there was nothing to do but yield to its sweet demands. This can't be me, and—oh—oh—please tell me this is not Lucius Malfoy....
"You little vixen..." Lucius's voice was a low rasp in her ear. "Who have you been thinking about, to make you so wet?" And with the most exquisite precision, he pinched her with his perfectly-manicured nails. She cried out, her whole body bucking with the unexpected sting, but he was already stroking it away, a wicked curve touching his mouth. "Hmm?" he continued darkly. "Was it one of your pitiful, fawning gallery lapdogs, or one of those tedious braggarts from the club?"
He withdrew his supporting arm and instantly she fell backward, banging her head against the wall, her back arched awkwardly over her bound wrists—but she barely registered the discomfort, for he was applying both hands to her now, and she was emitting a series of mewling, panting cries....
He bent over her, his silver eyes locked on her face. "Tell me, Narcissa, who you're thinking about now."
"YOU!" she gasped out, "Oh—god—you—you-ah-ahhhhh!" A star-burst of pure ecstasy shattered over her, as her muscles clenched around fingers buried deeply inside her, and convulsed against others rubbing beautifully against her, and she had no idea who she was anymore, and she didn't care, and her whole world was dark and spinning and humming, and so was she....
When she finally opened her eyes (she hadn't realized she'd closed them) Lucius was gazing down at her, lynx-eyed and supremely triumphant, a self-satisfied smirk adorning his sharp features.
He pulled her up and off the bureau, holding her tightly against him until she gained her balance. She leaned limply against his broad expanse of chest, trying to harness her scattered thoughts into some semblance of rationality—but with little success. Surely this was all a dream. Surely she hadn't just succumbed to being pleasured by Lucius Malfoy, the man she detested above all others. Oh, no, no, no....
She straightened her trembling legs and shook her tumbled hair out of her eyes. Her wrists were chafing, and her shoulder joints aching. "Will you unlock me now, please?" she croaked weakly.
Lucius regarded her with amusement. "And why," he murmured, "should I want to do that?"
She stared up at him, bewildered, and quailed under the intensity of his gaze. His irises were gleaming with a fiery liquidity, like molten silver, and he looked... hungry. Like a hungry predator cornering its prey. Then she realized parts of him were still pressing rigidly into her, just as hard and hot as before – and it dawned on her that they had only just completed the overture. The symphony was yet to begin.
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry or scream or struggle, or just die. What would Narcissa do? she wondered desperately. She took a steadying breath and tried to assume an air of haughty disdain. "I am your wife, not one of your cheap harlots," she said as coldly as she could, cursing her quivering, shivering body. "And I don't appreciate you treating me like one."
He wound his hand in her hair, tugging it back so she was forced to arch against him. There was an edginess to his smile now. "You know my harlots are never cheap, my dear," he snarled softly. "And I will cease to treat you like one when you cease to behave like one."
Who ARE these people? Hermione thought frantically, as Lucius began to haul her inexorably over to his huge desk. What the hell kind of marriage do they have?
She experienced a thrill of hope at the sight of her bag lying on the far corner of the desk. If only she could persuade him to free her wrists.... "I think it high time we rejoined our guests," she persevered, her voice much too highly-pitched and thoroughly unconvincing. She could almost taste the futility of her words as she spoke them. "Really, Lucius, we ought to continue this later...."
He responded by shrugging off his robe, throwing it over the hard mahogany surface, then thrusting her face-down into it. The luxurious velvet was deep and warm and exuded an intoxicating, complex concentrate of his scent, making her head reel dizzily. The narrowness of her dress prevented him from parting her legs with his own, and she sensed rather than felt him reach into his waistcoat to extract his wand. "Divestio," he muttered, and suddenly she was aware of an intense feeling of vulnerability and exposure: her bare breasts squashed into the soft fabric, the warmth of his heavy hand between her shoulder blades, and the unbearably arousing sensation of expensive wool rubbing her thighs and pressing deliciously into the damp heat between her legs.
She watched helplessly as his right hand relinquished his wand, not two feet away from her. But would she even have snatched for it, if she could? She didn't actually know. In fact, it turned out she didn't know anything about herself anymore. Never in ten million years would she have imagined she would be stripped naked and bent over Lucius Malfoy's office desk, just about crying with anticipation of his touch.
She whimpered as he ran his palms over her hips and bottom. He was making shallow, teasing thrusts against her, and she found herself trying to propel her body back to meet them, to feel him.
I want him. The truth broke over her like a bursting dam, overwhelming, incontrovertible, irrefutable. I want him inside me.
As if reading her mind, there was a pause and Lucius's weight lifted momentarily off her. She quivered deliriously as she heard the clink of a buckle being unfastened, the creak of a leather belt loosening, the muted whir of a zip being unhurriedly opened. It made her almost swoon with frenzied, expectant desire.
Instinctively she raised and tilted herself in readiness for him, and she heard him growl softly in response. He grasped one of her knees and pushed it up onto the desk, exposing her even more, and then he used his fingers to splay open her folds. She gasped at the first searing contact of his heavy, engorged member as he slicked himself in her dampness, running the swollen head up and down her cleft, making her writhe and squirm.
But he had not quite finished torturing her. "What do you say, Cissy?" His voice was both taunting and tantalizing.
Please. Please! PLEASE! "Please," she whispered faintly, panting.
"Please—what?"
"Please... um..." Could she really say it? "...Please f—f—"
He grasped a fistful of her hair and twisted her head back to meet his gaze. He loomed ascendantly over her, huge and menacing, like some avenging Saxon god. "Please—what?"
"Please f-f-fu—" Oh god, this was it, then, "—fuck me..."
Lucius's mouth curved into a victorious, pitiless smile. "With pleasure, milady." And with a sudden, savage lunge, he sheathed himself fully inside her.
A scream tore from her mouth, a strangled cry of pain and pressure and stretched overfullness—he was too, too big—oh, god did it hurt—but it was a wonderful hurt, such as she had never experienced before, not even her first time, which had been all pain and zero wonder.
Lucius looked pleased with the conflicting expressions on her face, and he drew out slowly, his eyes still riveted to hers, his hands wrapped deeply in her hair. His second thrust was as brutal as his first, and again she cried out in an ecstasy of agony, or an agony of ecstasy, wondering just how she was going to take it, how her body—or was it Narcissa's body? —was going to endure such an unrelenting battering without breaking into a thousand pieces....
Not only did she endure it, but somehow endurance turned into acquiescence, then acceptance...then absolute, helpless, incomprehensible pleasure....
For what seemed a suspended eternity he pounded into her at a measured, thudding pace, using her cuffed wrists for leverage and her long hair for control. The drag and the drive, the push and the pull, the fill and the void—to these undeniable forces she could only submit, and exult in the submission, no matter that he who unleashed them upon her was her greatest opponent and oldest foe. She could no longer think or understand, she could only feel. Him.
More than once he plastered himself heavily along her back to growl obscenities in her ear; more than once he pulled her roughly upwards to rove his hands over the soft flesh of her breasts, mercilessly pinching the sensitive tips until she was incoherently begging, though she didn't know what for.
At last. the muscles in his thighs tensed and his steady thrusts accelerated and intensified to a ferociously fast hammering. She was already emitting a high wailing noise, but it fragmented into broken cries as he reached down and applied two dexterous fingers to her parting, seeking out the small pulsating orb of over-stimulated nerves, manipulating her until she shuddered uncontrollably against him, sobbing rapturously, saturated by wave after wave of cresting and crashing ecstasy.
With a powerful shunt and a loud groan, Lucius climaxed into her throbbing passage, his essence spilling inside her, the thick viscosity slowing his final few strokes. He collapsed on top of her, panting heavily in her ear, his long hair falling about her like a snowy, silken shroud.
For a while they remained locked together, Hermione pinned down by Lucius's crushing weight, trying to catch her breath, her eyes wide and staring. She felt dazed, bruised, blissful and sated. And well and truly fu—
"My dear, that was most gratifying." Lucius's purring voice interrupted her thoughts, and she felt regret, actual regret, as he withdrew and lifted himself off her. "How delightfully responsive you were tonight...marvellously vocal...in fact, not at all yourself."
Her heart leaped into her throat at his subtly-accented words. Did he suspect? Did he somehow...know?
Lucius picked up his wand and she heard him briefly murmur an unlocking spell. The cuffs sprang open and he removed them from her bruised wrists, then helped her to her feet. She dared not meet his eyes as he adjusted his clothing and cleaned his robe, although somehow she knew he was smiling, and that his smile was a many-times-magnified version of the smug, triumphant smirk she had seen before.
He donned the velvet garment and moved leisurely over to the mirror, spending some moments using his wand to neaten his hair and re-starch his collar and neck-cloth, until he was once more as impeccable and immaculate as when he had first entered the chamber.
And then he simply left, stalking regally from the room, without a backward glance.
Hermione leaned feebly against the desk, still breathless, in a kind of shocked trance. She was trembling from head to toe, inside and out. What...the hell...just...happened?
Perhaps she stood there for a few minutes, perhaps for a lifetime. She had completely lost her grip on all sense of time and reality. The chiming of a wall-clock finally snapped her out of her reverie. Eleven o'clock, she thought and hurried over to the mirror. Any second now...
She watched, transfixed, as her porcelain-white skin took on a creamier tone, her flowing blonde tresses curled and darkened, her eyes resized and retinted, her doll-like mouth widened, her pretty pointed nose regained a more ordinary shape...and there she stood, her own familiar self once more....
...Only, she had the distinct feeling she would never, never truly recognize herself, ever again.